He covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out the clash of arms and the screams of wounded men, and closed his eyes so he would not see the ground churned into bloody mud by the combatants’ feet. When the Black Prince had called for men to fight the French, Curterne had been proud to rally, retrieving the old sword from under his bed in Down St Mary, and selling his family’s silver to purchase armour and a horse. Brave men made their fortunes in war, and Curterne intended to return home wealthy. But the campaign had been a misery of torrential rain, burning heat, scant supplies and disease. And now the Black Prince was trapped at Poitiers by a French force far stronger than his own. Curterne scrambled away when a pair of desperate skirmishers came too close, and raised his sword to protect himself. When they had gone, he gazed at the weapon’s tempered steel blade and its dog-headed cross, hating it for making him think he could be a warrior when he had known all his life that he was nothing of the kind.
