But the circle closed, and the Occitans were too well-trained to lose another man. De Vrailly took a blow and then another, and had to stumble back, baulked of his prey—the Occitan banner.

De Vrailly saw the red-and-blue liveried crossbowmen moving at the edge of his vision, limited as it was by his own visor. He gritted his teeth and turned and clanked back to where Du Corse sat on a fresh horse.

“You cannot do this,” he said.

Du Corse spat. “I can, my lord, and I will. I need lose no more knights.”

“We are the better men.” De Vrailly was enraged. “By God, ser knights, do you doubt this?”

Du Corse shook his head. “Not in the least, my good de Vrailly. But in this case—these men are like assassins. They have drunk wine or taken opium or something like it. They intend to fight to the death. I see no reason to give them any more of my knights.”

De Vrailly looked up at the new marshal. “I was against this surprise attack. And look, Marshal. It was no surprise. The Occitan prince was warned, and he has slipped away—leaving a handful of very brave men to die.”

“A foolish choice.” Du Corse was resentful. He might have said, amateurish.

De Vrailly spat. “As God is my witness, my lord, you have erred grievously in this. And the Prince of Occitan left these men to lure us to shame. Shame! I say, he left a few good knights to prove that we were base. And par Dieu, monsieur, so we have proved ourselves to be.”

“The Occitan prince’s cause has been found wanting on the field of battle,” Du Corse said. “That is all.”

“Let me take my squires,” de Vrailly pleaded. “Let me fight them. Man to man. One to one. Until we have killed or taken them. We will—Deus Veult. I know it.”

Du Corse motioned at the captain of his crossbowmen. “Monsieur de Vrailly, you may have a very different fight tomorrow.” He nodded. “We cannot have you exhausted for the Queen’s trial.” He pointed at de Vrailly’s foot. “You are wounded. I insist you retire.”

The crossbowmen were just thirty yards from the tight circle of Occitan knights. The Occitans saw them, but at first refused to believe it.

As the crossbowmen—most of them Albans—spanned their heavy arbalests, the Occitans called insults.

Clear in the cool spring air, one accented jibe carried to Du Corse. “These are the Gallish knights of whom our fathers told us?”

One of the Occitans had a wine cup from somewhere. He held it aloft, his visor up, and he laughed and drank.

The Occitans began to sing. They were big men, but men who trained in singing as well as in fighting, and their voices rose in a polyphony.