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pass by. But as we neared l’Ile de France and nosed about his nest a little, Philip began to rouse himself.
    The first sign we received that Philip had bestirred himself was an embassy from the pope. For over fifty years now, the pope has had his seat at Avignon, and for over fifty years, the English have mistrusted whether Peter’s successor still holds the keys. The rock upon which the church was built has sat in Rome for over a millennium, and it cannot be carted over the Alps like a cask of wine or a wheel of cheese. The removal of the papacy to France effected the removal of the pope’s independent judgment. Your French pope sits in the French king’s pocket, and this our king knows well enough. But though he might wish to, the English king cannot disregard the pope entirely; though his spiritual authority is dubious, his temporal authority is indisputable. An English king who disregarded the mandates of the pope would face the wrath of the Holy Roman Emperor as well as the wrath of France.
    Edward received the cardinals courteously and just as courteously refused their offers to broker a peace. Their embassage gained nothing for us but the delay of a day; but for Philip of Valois, this delay was a boon from heaven. Guessing our plan of cutting north, Philip set spurs into the sides of his royal army and reached Rouen before us.
    When our scouts realized Philip’s position, Edward ordered us to fall back. Our troops numbered just over fifteen thousand and Philip’s at least four times that many. The reports of the French strength began to dishearten our men, and the enthusiasm from the sack of Caen disappeared entirely. But although the men had fears, there was no talk of retreat the way we came. We had burned such a wide swath of land in Normandy that there would be no supplying our army on a return march. Only two pathways lay open to us. We could plunder Paris in Philip’s absence, or we could cross the river Somme and unite with our Flemish allies in Picardy.
    At first, His Majesty seemed to have settled on the former stratagem. With Philip patrolling the ramparts of Rouen, our army strode southwest, paving a highway of burned fields into Paris. The French army proved as mobile as our own, however, and we had no sooner reached Poissy, on the outskirts of Paris, than we received word that Philip had returned to his capital.
    To hunt a lion in his own lair is a dangerous undertaking for the hunter, and Edward was not unmindful of the perils. Paris could not be taken with Philip there. Choosing discretion as the better part of valor, we hurriedly crossed the Seine and went northward on winged feet. The prospect of uniting with our Flemish friends seemed more and more inviting. But Philip, by now, was accustomed to sniffing at our heels. The Seine was an easy stream for him to leap, and he brought his army northward, dogging our steps for ten days and sending challenge after challenge to bid us turn and fight.
    “ Think you we will engage the French?” I asked one night as I oiled Chandos’s cuirass after a long day’s ride.
    “ Aye,” said he, “there’s no shaking them. We’ll fight them soon enough, but when we do it will be in a place of our own choosing with the advantage on our side.”
    “ We had the advantage of the terrain in Poissy,” said I. “That’s where the first challenge came. Why didn’t His Majesty form battle lines there instead of waiting to wear out our men with these forced marches?”
    “ There’s more to having the advantage than terrain, boy,” said Chandos with a knowing grin.
    “ What else is there?” I asked.
    “ There’s the advantage of knowing you are in the right. That’s the advantage His Majesty seeks, and that’s why we do not turn to give battle. Not until the Somme is crossed. Then we know we have God’s favor—at least that’s what Bradwardine, the king’s chaplain claims.”
    “ But why should crossing the Somme matter so much?” demanded I.