Bucy had given his undivided loyalty to the Dauphin, as he was then, as he tried to rule France during his father’s imprisonment in England. However, the elder statesman never revealed his feelings. Inscrutability was the key to holding onto whatever influence he had. He had wavered in his loyalty to the old King when Jean had weakened and the Dauphin had shown that he had a mind like a mantrap. Bucy had chosen well. Like the astute lawyer that he was, he saw the strengths and weaknesses of those around him. And now the calculating lawyer in him warned him to tread carefully. Charles, the sickly youth, had grown into an equally illness-ravaged, twenty-six-year-old man. He was no soldier. He could not even ride a horse. But despite his weakened body he had a general’s strategic mind. It was rumoured that the loss of his hair and fingernails was due to him being poisoned as a boy by the King of Navarre. Victory at Cocherel had finally rid the nation of any threat from the odious Navarre and his attempt to claim the crown. But bad news always followed good.

‘Sire?’ said Bucy.

King Charles V gazed at the elder statesman with a tolerance that bordered on affection. Bucy had made his choice to support him when he was Dauphin rather than the King who had not wanted war, a man burdened by the English treaties, a monarch who suffered personal humiliation eight years before when he was captured by the Prince of Wales at Poitiers. Edward of Woodstock now held the duchy of an enlarged territory in Aquitaine and resided in Bordeaux, one of the great cities of France. His very presence taunted the nation. Bucy, the man before him, reflected the past as clearly as a mirror.

‘Sire,’ Bucy repeated. ‘Heralds came from Brittany with news of Charles of Blois.’

‘What?’ said the King, his reverie broken by Bucy’s comment.

‘Brittany, sire. Charles of Blois.’

‘Yes?’ Irritability already looming. ‘You intend to keep us in suspense?’

‘I regret to tell you, highness, that Lord Charles is dead. He has lost Brittany.’

Bucy waited for an outburst. There was none. Only the King’s eyes betrayed his sense of loss.

‘Where did he fight?’

‘Auray, sire.’

The King frowned. ‘Auray?’

‘A small town on the Brittany coast, sire,’ Bucy added quickly. ‘It was under siege by John de Montfort, a vital port for the duchy.’

Charles nodded. ‘We understood Blois’s forces outnumbered those of John de Montfort.’

‘So they inform us.’

‘And yet he lost.’

‘Sir John Chandos took command, sire. Had it been otherwise de Montfort would have failed – I am sure of it.’

‘Chandos. Yes. We can see how he had the skill. A pity. De Montfort? Did he survive the battle?’

‘Yes.’