Fields of Glory

by Michael Jecks

  Later, Ed would recall that first view and think that no city of angels deserved the rage of the English as this city would suffer it.

  ‘What will happen?’ he asked Berenger.

  The vintener’s wound was considerably improved, and Grandarse, impressed, had hired the leech to be their own bone-setter and medical expert during their march. The fellow, Jacob, was not overly keen, but when he saw a little of Grandarse’s liberated wealth, his eyes grew round, and he exhibited more enthusiasm.

  Berenger shrugged without thinking and winced. ‘The King sent a messenger offering terms, but the city’s thrown him in prison. That’s not honourable: messengers are supposed to be secure. Especially him – the poor sod was an Augustinian. It’s not right to treat a monk like that.’

  Before the city walls, an army was forming. Ranks of men clad in drab tunics marched forward over the plain. Behind them came more, these with the symbols of their lords blazoned across their breasts, while their flags and banners fluttered gaily in the morning breeze.

  ‘It looks a bloody strong city,’ Geoff said doubtfully.

  ‘Aye, but the King knows his business, eh,’ Matt said. He was gazing at the fortifications with relish. ‘Aye, and think of the women in there!’

  ‘Are you so cunt-struck you can’t see how high the walls are?’ Clip demanded.

  ‘Or that it’s two cities,’ Berenger said. He rolled his shoulder again experimentally, then regretted it. ‘See? The nearer of the two is the old town, and behind it is the river, with a bridge to the new town beyond. That’s where the merchants and rich folk will have their houses: that’s where the money will be.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’ Ed asked.

  ‘It’s newer, boy. Only the rich can afford new houses.’ He pulled a face. ‘It’s a natural island, isn’t it? The rivers form a moat around that part of the city. Be a bastard to get to it, if not by the bridge.’

  ‘So we have to take the old town first and cross the river.’

  ‘That’s about it,’ Grandarse said. ‘One good thing: we can avoid that damned castle on our way. They say it was built by William the Bastard, and he built the abbeys in shame for what he did to the English. One for monks, one for nuns, just to pray for his stinking soul, the black-hearted git.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Clip said sarcastically. ‘We can avoid the castle. That’ll make life so much easier. So all we have to do is attack sheer walls and break into the town, kill everyone and get to the new town – job done. Yeah. Ye’ll all get slaughtered, you do understand that, don’t ye?’

  Grandarse and Geoff said simultaneously, ‘Shut up, Clip.’

  ‘Don’t come whining to me when you’re dead,’ he said, unruffled. ‘I’ve warned ye.’

  It was past noon before they had been bullied and shoved into battle formation, and now, with horns of archers on either flank, and the mass of infantry and knights in heavy battles in the middle, they began their slow march towards the town.

  ‘Ed, bring the arrow cart,’ Clip said. His bow was strung, and he walked along with a dozen shafts in his belt.

  The others were already moving ahead as Ed grabbed the cart’s handles. He knew that once the archers began to loose their weapons, he would be forced to run back and forth; he was already growing used to his role as Donkey for the vintaine.

  ‘They’re breaking!’ Grandarse roared suddenly. ‘Look at the cowardly bastards!’

  Ed peered around him, and sure enough, some of the men at the rear of the French lines were running back to the gates. First one or two, then a group of ten or more, and then an entire battle on the right took up their weapons and fled.

  ‘You’ve scared ’em already!’ Grandarse bellowed, and a ripple of laughter spread along his centaine.

  ‘Sod this!’ Matt cried. ‘We can get into the city right now, if we’re fast. Look at them run!’

  Berenger cast a quick look about at the men, swinging his arm to release the tension in his sore shoulder. ‘Hold!’ he ordered. ‘There could be an ambush. Keep with the army.’

  Geoff put his hand on Ed’s shoulder. ‘You stay back, boy,’ he muttered, and then said louder, ‘Frip, Matt’s right. If we hurry, we can overtake the last bastards. A few of us to attack the gate, while our archers hold back the defence, and we could take the city. It’s worth taking a chance, surely?’

  Berenger chewed his lower lip, and looked over at Roger from the second vintaine, who was making a similar calculation. He came to a decision, and grinned.

  ‘Geoff, Clip, Jon – you come with me to the gates with Roger’s men. The rest of you, hold back and use your bows. Got it? Come on!’

  Geoff ran with his arms pumping up and down. Bolts hissed nearby, one passing so close he heard it buzzing through the air like an angry wasp, but then he was at the gate.

  He had a long knife and his sword in his hands, and as he reached the first of the French defenders, he stabbed the man through his jerkin and slashed at his throat. There was a cry, and he was past, staring only at the gates before him.

  Nothing else mattered to him at that moment. His entire being was fixed upon those gates. Thoughts of his wife, his children, everything else . . . were gone. There was only him, and the men running with him, although whether they were English or French, he didn’t care. All he cared about was the timbers and the men who stood over them. There were plenty of townspeople there, ready to slam the gates shut and shove the baulks of timber across in their slots to lock them. More men appeared on his right. One was panting and white-faced with fear, and Geoff realised this was no ally. The man made a half-hearted lunge with his sword, which Geoff knocked aside with ease, and then they were at the gate, and Geoff swung. He caught the man’s throat, just a little nick, but the fellow squealed like a pig and dropped his sword. Geoff swung again, back-handed, and the man’s throat was opened wide with a bubble of blood.

  Geoff felt the exultation of battle flood his soul. A thrilling in the heart, a stark clarity in his sight and in his thoughts, a perfection of existence that knew no limits.

  The gates began to close, and he thrust a shoulder at the nearest one. ‘Here! Quick! Give me a hand!’ he shouted at the top of his voice, and felt the timbers shake as three more men thudded into it. ‘Archers! Loose!’

  The gap between the two gates was shrinking, but with the sudden flight of arrows, someone must have panicked, for the gates moved a little. Then they stopped and, to the sound of bellowed commands from the other side, the gates inched shut by degrees.

  But more and more Englishmen were arriving. Geoff felt a man slam into his back, and could hear the grunts of the French who tried to hold the gates. ‘With me!’ he roared, and stamped a foot in time with his thrusts. ‘Now! One, two: NOW! One, two: NOW!’

  Almost imperceptibly the great timber gates began to creak and jerk back in time with his shout and the stamping, shoving mass of men at his side and behind him. There was a gap of inches, but now it grew to a foot, then two, and suddenly there was space for a man to enter.

  Berenger was at his side, heaving at the gates with all his might. ‘Archers! Aim through the gates!’

  There was a flurry of feathers, a scream cut short, and the gates moved wider. Geoff could see into the city now, and he took a deep breath and gave a bellow with the effort as he set both fists, still clutching his weapons, on the gates and shoved for all he was worth. There was a distinct movement, and he heard Berenger shriek something as the vintener sprang through the gap.

  ‘We’re in!’ Geoff screamed, and followed.

  With the first panicky orders and the rush of men to the gates, Béatrice felt the fear return, but no longer was she smothered by it as if choking beneath a blanket of horror. She had been attacked by priest, felon and friend, and she had won. She knew that there was no one she could trust, so the assault of a foreign army added little to her sense of aloneness and separation. She was cursed, and she would remain so.

  Alain she had discarded by the side of the r
oad, kicking his body into bushes. He had still been alive, slobbering and drooling like a dying hound, begging and weeping weakly as she set her face to the city, thinking that here she would at last be safe, but even as she approached the gates she saw the feverish preparations. They feared the English. Decades of peace had left the citizens complacent and now they worked to make good the ravages of time.

  Men scurried like slaves to repair broken walls, with hoists pulling up new stone. Carpenters worked on the old gates, while townspeople gathered wood to build palisades or dug new ditches outside the walls to strengthen their defences.

  At the gates, the guards tried to refuse her entry.

  ‘Please, I must come in,’ she said to the porter at the gate, an harassed young man with a helmet that was too large for him.

  ‘We don’t want anyone else in here, no extra mouths to feed. You carry on, go east. You’ll be safer there than here,’ he said, his pale eyes staring out at the land all about.

  She followed his gaze and saw the smoke again. So many fires! There was a curtain of smoke, and when it was drawn, they would see the English. It was enough to send a shiver of fear through her. ‘I have no man,’ she pleaded.

  ‘It makes no difference. You must go – but be quick. You’ve heard what these English devils do to women? It’s horrible,’ the man said.

  ‘Wait, please, sir,’ she begged.

  But only when she brought out the old woman’s purse did he finally offer her space on the floor in his own home.

  That was two days ago now. This morning the English had arrived, and the dread of what was to come settled over the city as tight as a winding sheet. Men and women huddled together for comfort, but she walked alone. This was divine vengeance, brought down upon her countrymen by a just God. He was punishing the people who conspired to see her father slain, who sought to rape and rob her. They deserved their fate.

  The Count of Eu and the Lord of Tancarville had brought men to supplement the town’s guard, and a force of Genoese crossbowmen were already lined up on the walls staring bleakly over the marshy lands before the town. Men-at-arms waited at street corners, looking up at the walls, wondering when the clash would come, and in their eyes she saw the fear of death.

  She couldn’t bear the wait, knowing that soon the English would arrive and the slaughter would begin. This delay, this anticipation, was oppressive. She longed for it to end. In the attack she knew she must die, but she welcomed the peace that would come after death.

  There was a shout from above: three men in armour were bellowing down to the men at the road. A sense of certainty overwhelmed her: this was the end of the city. She turned and began to walk towards the bridge to the Îsle St-Jean, the island behind the walled town, past townsfolk filled with panic. The walls wouldn’t hold the English. They were too fragile.

  All knew it. They saw the mustered English: a vast number of men, a wave of blood and bone that would engulf Caen, drowning all within.

  The Count’s men-at-arms fell back, withdrawing from the walls and gates, and the townspeople were already hurrying along towards the Porte St-Pierre, the last gate before the bridge over the River Odon and the Îsle St-Jean.

  At first it was an orderly retreat, then it became an urgent mob. Finally, as the men at the north gate began to call for help and the first English arrows lanced down on the poorly protected soldiers on the walls, it became a frantic stampede. A woman fell, a babe in her arms, and was trampled by men clad in heavy mail, who ignored her screams for help in their maddened race to get to the island and safety.

  Béatrice watched the men pounding past and she felt the certainty assail her like a leaden maul: that way led to death.

  A door was open. She entered a little house. There was a chamber over the fireplace, behind the chimney. She climbed into it, and concealed herself behind the flue. Shivering, she looked about her, drew her knees to her chin, and waited.

  After a little while, tears began to fall. Only later did she realise she was mourning the imminent loss of her life.

  Berenger saw a bearded face as he hurtled through the gap, and slashed at it. His sword carved a red gash along the man’s eye and cheek, and he fell away, but Berenger was already turning to stab at the men heaving the gate closed. There were so many, he couldn’t kill them all. He felt a shove, and realised Geoff was at his side. The two hacked and cut and, unable to defend themselves while holding the gate, the French fell away. The timbers slammed back against the wall of the gatehouse. Caught between wall and gate, a man gave a short cry as he was crushed, but Clip slipped a knife into his breast and he was silent.

  Berenger and Geoff ran along the street behind the men from the gate. There was a horrible whistling in the air, and both ducked, but the men behind were too slow, and the quarrels found their marks. Berenger ran forward, leading fifteen. Roger was at the far side of the street, and more archers were pouring into the city through the same gate. A cry, and Berenger turned to see one of them clutching at a bolt stuck in his throat, the point protruding from his spine. He fell, feet kicking in his death-throes.

  A sickening crunch, and a man near Berenger disappeared as a rock crushed him. More bolts flew, and then he saw a great mass of French troops holding a barricade. Even as Berenger rallied the men to move forward, another flight of bolts struck the front rank. They fell, and he had to step over the squirming, shrieking mass of their bodies to get to the enemy.

  ‘For the King! For England!’ he bellowed, and then he was trying to force his way forward.

  But in the narrow streets, it was impossible to move. And as rocks and heavy bricks were hurled upon them from above, Berenger realised that this was a trap he could not escape.

  Sir John de Sully was with the Earl of Warwick when the messenger rode up from the King.

  ‘The King asks that you pull those archers from the gates, my Lord,’ he gasped. ‘He fears to lose too many. Can you urge them to retreat?’

  Warwick was already bowing to the Prince. ‘By your leave?’

  ‘Yes, go – and hurry,’ Edward of Woodstock said.

  ‘Sir John, with me,’ Warwick snapped, and the two hurried to their horses. They mounted and gathered their esquires and rode at a gallop down to the gate of the city, where they pushed their way inside.

  It was mayhem. A thick crush of men, and Sir John wielded his sword as spears were thrust at him and Aeton, but in the press, it was impossible to aim accurately and the assaults failed.

  He bellowed at the top of his voice for the men to pull back, but it was impossible to make those at the front of the heaving mass of slashing, hacking men hear him. He pressed forward with the men-at-arms, but in so doing, they were all soon engulfed by the battle. Barricades had been erected, and now the French were standing and making a furious defence at them. From his saddle, Sir John could see the southern gate which led to the bridge and gave entry to the suburbs.

  Swords rose and fell, stabbing, parrying and cutting at an enemy that seemed to grow by the minute. A lance snagged at his coat of plates, and he cut at it, uninjured. At every moment, more Frenchmen were arriving – and when some fell, more took their places. Although he saw Genoese crossbowmen, they were wielding their weapons as hammers. He hoped that they were out of bolts.

  It was just as the Earl of Warwick had the horns blow for retreat that Sir John saw six English archers hurrying along the edge of the buildings. They held torches, and flung them into the timbers and carts blocking the road. One bounced off, but the others began to ignite the barricades. A number of the French immediately set to throwing water on the flames, but as they ran to the river with buckets, they weakened the defence.

  There was an unearthly scream, and as he peered over the heads of the men in the mêlée, Sir John saw a Frenchman leap from the top of one of the fired buildings. He fell, still shrieking, and landed on three English soldiers. The French gave a roar of defiance, but even as they did so, a small contingent of archers outflanked the barricades. Arrow
s fell in among them, and with the extra Englishmen rushing to join the fray, the balance tipped.

  His orders were to withdraw the archers, but Sir John saw the opportunity and seized it. He leaped from Aeton and rushed the barricades, sword in hand. With a cry of ‘For England, for Saint Boniface!’ he sprang over the collapsing defences and began to attack the men behind. The Earl of Warwick was at his side, and the two were joined by more archers, pushing the French back through the streets.

  That was when Sir John saw before him the looming inner face of the wall and the gatehouse.

  ‘To the bridge!’ he roared, and heard the cry taken up on all sides.

  ‘To the bridge!’

  Sir John fought with a cold deliberation. There was little enough space in the narrow streets: a man must block each blow aimed at him, while shoving and forcing the defenders back.

  Frenchmen tripped and fell, to be stabbed where they lay; men had their weapons fall from their hands as the blows of their assailants beat upon their heads, their arms, their shoulders. The men fought in a mixture of human excrement and urine, blood and offal, all mingling with the filth of the roadway to make a slippery, foul mud.

  Sir John glanced about him and saw that the Earl was heavily pressed, but even as he sought to run to his aid, Sir Richard Talbot rushed to help. The Earl was soon relieved, and the French forced back by the fury of Talbot’s attack. In an instant more men followed him, and the enemy soldiers threatening Sir John were encircled. They fought on until the last man was cut down. None asked for quarter.

  They were at the bridge! Sir John hadn’t expected to reach it so quickly, but as he ran after Talbot, he realised that they were running beneath the arch of the gatehouse. There was a little door, on which men were pounding with sword pommels and axes. French noblemen had rushed inside at the last moment, and the archers knew the value of a nobleman’s ransom.

  Sir John didn’t care. Standing beyond the gates, he saw a man’s face, one of those from the vintaine, and then he saw Berenger too, wielding his sword with economy and accuracy.