Fields of Glory

by Michael Jecks

  The enemy were coming on still. There were perhaps a thousand of them, and from the way they approached, they were reluctant to come to blows. Not trained men-at-arms, then, like the group which had first appeared and killed his pony. These were likely local levies, or perhaps just men from about the plain who were distraught at the devastation inflicted on their lands. Albeit unused to war, their anger and despair were enough to make them a force to reckon with.

  ‘ARCHERS!’ Berenger recognised Grandarse’s stentorian bellow. ‘Hold your ground!’

  It was good advice. Some had considered moving forward to try to pick off the occasional Frenchman as they came into range, but by so doing they would weaken the force’s impact.

  Berenger’s blood was thundering in his head like a horse’s hooves in full gallop. His training told him that he was safe, for there were more archers appearing at his sides, and he knew that with so many bowmen, only a massive army could reach them . . . but still there was this dread anticipation of battle. He looked over to where his pony had been rolling, and saw that he was quite dead, his legs curved over his body. One eye appeared to stare at him reproachfully. The broken spear still projected from his breast, and the ground about him was black with his blood.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, and felt unaccountably sad. Tears threatened his eyes and he dashed them away irritably. It was nothing: a pony. He was only sad because it had been a comfortable little thing, and he would miss the brute’s broad back for the rest of the march.

  ‘Archers! Nock!’ Grandarse bawled.

  Berenger took the nearest arrow and flicked the dirt from the tip. These were bodkins: sharp, pointed arrows, designed to penetrate mail and leather and stab the body beneath. A prick from one of these would be enough to pin a man to his horse, or to the ground.

  ‘Archers! Draw!’

  The enemy were approaching quickly now. A few bolder spirits had egged on the rest to throw themselves on the invaders, and now men raced towards them, seven or eight on ponies, but the rest on foot, hurtling towards the English with savage determination.

  ‘Archers! LOOSE!’

  Berenger felt the jerk as the string snapped forward, and saw the arrow bend and twist as it leaped up, the fletchings catching the air and coming alive. He saw it rise as he reached for his second and nocked the horn to the string, and saw it plummet as he drew again, feeling his eyelashes catch the string as he blinked . . . and then that arrow was flying, and he was reaching for the next.

  An archer like Berenger could loose six arrows a minute easily. Three hundred men meant eighteen hundred arrows. And all those arrows would strike in the midst of the men coming towards them. Even as he watched, he saw the first arrows find their marks, and a rank of men disappeared. One moment they were running at full tilt, the next they were fallen. Unconsciously, the Frenchmen clumped together as their companions died, bunching up for comfort in the face of this hideous airborne onslaught, but by doing so, they made themselves into easy targets. The next flight of arrows slammed into them – and more men tumbled and fell. They gathered together again, and the next flight reduced their numbers yet further.

  Few Frenchmen succeeded in reaching the English. Those who did, exhausted by their long race, were easily overwhelmed and dispatched, and as Berenger stared out over the plain, he suddenly had the feeling that things would improve. They would win. They would return to England.

  But then the shrill cries and sobs reminded him of his duty, and he and the other men drew their long knives and went to end the suffering of the men on the field.

  Sir John was glad to be asked to go and test the defences.

  After the French militia had tried to bring the English to battle, the English army had been delayed once more, collecting arrows from the field, despatching the enemy wounded, and reforming their men into a line of march. If their intention had been to hold up the English, the French militia could hardly have succeeded more effectively, Sir John thought, but he kept the thought to himself.

  The army would continue to Airaines, the Earl of Warwick told him, but Sir John must ride north, to the Somme, and test the defences. It was vital that the English army found a means of crossing the river. They must not be constrained as they had been at the Seine, but must punch their way over and continue up to the county of Ponthieu.

  ‘Those lands were the King’s own until this damned war,’ Warwick said. ‘Once we are there, our situation will improve.’

  ‘Because of the people? You think we can win more men to the King’s flag?’ Sir John asked.

  ‘Perhaps some, although I wouldn’t trust any of the locals that much. You can never tell how a peasant’s mind will work. No, I was thinking more that we know that territory. There are places where we can use the land to our advantage.’

  ‘I see.’

  The Earl nodded. ‘The King used to own Ponthieu, and he has ridden over it, as have his advisers. We all know it. There are plenty of places where we can take on a French army many times the size of ours and utterly destroy it. It’s been the idea all along, to harry the French and Philippe until he felt compelled to do something to remove us and our threat. We wanted him to chase us up here and into Ponthieu. Our only concern is that he may have already managed to leap beyond us. If he has, and he’s blocked our path into the north,’ the Earl said, his face grim, ‘then we shall find the next days rather more exciting than we had hoped.’

  Now, taking with him a party of six men-at-arms, Richard, and three vintaines of archers, Sir John was riding to the Somme.

  ‘Where do we ride first?’ his esquire asked.

  ‘Due north. There was a bridge there, I think. Then we look for other crossings, whether bridges or fords, and gain an impression of the defences, such as they are.’

  ‘And if the defences are strong?’

  Sir John didn’t answer.

  They rode on and found the bridge – or where it had stood. It had been destroyed in recent days, and would not be easy to rebuild. The pilings had been removed, so another attempt to throw a tree over the waters would fail.

  Riding westwards, following the line of the river, Sir John began to appreciate the immensity of the task before them. The Somme, it appeared, was impassable. It would have taken all the engineers in the army weeks to construct a bridge strong enough to let them all over, and as for fords, they were a forlorn hope. Nowhere were the waters shallow enough to allow the horses over, let alone the wagons and special weaponry.

  The knight thought of his old manors at Iddesleigh and Rookford and wished he was there now. His wife would be working in the dairy at this time of day, making the most of the cool room to leave the cheeses to settle. He could see her in his mind’s eye, lifting the heavy buckets and filling the pans, or stirring the curds, bending backwards to ease the strain after churning the butter.

  He should be there with her. This journey was a fool’s errand. A man of Sir John’s age ought to be at his manor, enjoying the twilight of his life, not putting his life in peril.

  When this chevauchée was ended, he vowed, he would return and never leave his shores again. But for now, he had to concentrate on surviving. It was very likely that he would not make it back to England. And that belief began to grow stronger as they rode on.

  Most bridges they came across had been systematically destroyed, bar a few – but those all had many men guarding them. At two bridges there were fortified towns, and their strong encircling walls stood between the army and the bridges. It would require enormous resources to lay siege to them before anyone could cross the bridges behind. And if there was one asset which the English army lacked, it was time. The longer they were held here, without escape, the more likely it was that the French would be able to impose a stranglehold on all provisions, water and other necessities. The army would be bottled up, with the river on one side, the sea on the other, and no hope of escape.

  This was futile. They were all doomed.

  It was dark when they returned to the
army at Airaines and reported to the Earl of Warwick.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  They were standing in the hall of a great house commandeered by the Royal Family, and the Prince was present, his advisers all about him; however, the thicker cluster of men stood about the other man: the King.

  The King smiled, nodding encouragingly to the knight. ‘Sir John, I know you have been busily scouting the river for us. Tell us your conclusions.’

  The Prince and his household looked on hopefully, while the King maintained his steady gaze.

  ‘Your Royal Highness, my Lords, we rode to the bridge at Long, north of here, and thence took the road westwards to Abbeville and beyond. Every undefendable bridge is thrown down and destroyed. The smaller ones are guarded by large forces that would make any passage enormously difficult. Abbeville and Amiens are well guarded, with French soldiers installed. Both have walls as strong as any fortress, and enough men and provisions to hold them for longer than we could spend investing them.’

  ‘It is as I feared, then. The French reached the river before us,’ the King said heavily.

  ‘I fear so, my Lord. We carried on in the hope of finding another place to cross. I had thought that there could be a ford farther up towards the estuary, but my hopes were dashed.’

  ‘Do you mean to say that we cannot cross the river?’

  ‘The land becomes ever more marshy, with patches of sedge and reed and treacherous sands. It is possible that there is somewhere nearer the sea where we may cross, but I saw no sign of anywhere suitable. If we could pass through Longpré, or perhaps Fontaine-sur-Somme, we might be able to reach the river, but any such passage would be hard-fought. There is no doubt that the French are determined to keep us here.’

  ‘And that is no surprise. We are trapped. The river before us, the sea behind us, and the army of the French approaching. Philippe will know that we have run short of food. Without supplies, our men will grow weak. Without an escape, this will be our grave. But take heart!’ the King said. ‘God is with us. We shall cross this river.’

  ‘I do not see where,’ Sir John said quietly.

  ‘Neither do I, Sir John. But there is a crossing – there must be. All we need to do is find it.’

  22 August

  Before dawn Berenger saw Grandarse appear, lumbering through the cool mists like a misshapen goblin from a nightmare. His face was twisted into a scowl, and Berenger could see his mouth moving as he muttered dark imprecations.

  ‘All right, where are the lads?’ he said as he came closer.

  ‘Standing ready,’ Berenger answered. ‘What is it?’

  Grandarse gave him a look from beneath beetling brows. ‘They’ll be glad to know we have a nice new job.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘We have to cross the river, right? But because we took our ballocking time to get here, the mother-swyving French reached it first,’ Grandarse explained. ‘They have men at every crossing from here to bloody Dover!’

  Berenger listened as Grandarse told him of Sir John’s ride. ‘It’ll be a fight, then,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll have to try to get through the buggers, over the bridge, and out to the plains beyond. If we don’t, we know what’ll happen.’

  There was no need for him to elaborate. All soldiers knew what the outcome would be for an army squeezed against natural obstacles by an implacable and more numerous enemy.

  ‘Is there nowhere we could fight them around here?’ Berenger asked hopefully.

  ‘No. The King is desperate to cross the river. This is the last place he wants to fight his battle,’ Grandarse said.

  Berenger felt his hope dashed like a wave against rocks, and he turned away bitterly. ‘I see.’

  Clip had overheard them, and this was his cue. ‘Sweet Jesus!’ he burst out. ‘He told us the whole point of coming here was to fucking fight! He believed in his cause so strongly, he brought the biggest army he’s ever mustered, with the sole intention of forcing the French to come and attack us, didn’t he? What was the fucking point of it if, as soon as they are near, we turn and run? We were demanding our battle all the way to Paris, and since then we’ve done everything we could to avoid it. They offered to fight us outside Paris, and he brought us all the way up to here. Now we have the French at our tail, we should turn, like a boar held at bay, and show our tusks!’

  ‘Run at them to be spitted on the hunter’s lance, you reckon, Clip?’ Grandarse snarled. ‘Get your brain working, man! You have it stuck in your arse from what you’re saying. You think we should fight them here? Look about you! See the reeds, the flat marshes? There’s no stable ground for a fight. Aye, the King wants his battle, but not here, not just outside Paris, nor anywhere else when he’s not perfectly certain of the land. He has places in mind only a day or two’s march from here.’

  ‘Huh!’ Clip said grumpily. ‘I’m thinking this was just another quick dash to France to win booty, and he never meant to force the French to battle. I’ve seen little enough fighting spirit.’

  ‘You keep your mouth shut!’ Grandarse hissed, and Clip sullenly moved away.

  When he was gone, Grandarse turned to Berenger. ‘Get a grip on your lads, Frip. If they hear Clip moaning on like this, they’ll lose heart – and men without hope don’t win wars. Remember that! If you want to get back to England safe and well, the only way you’ll do it is by keeping up the spirits of your boys. Don’t let them whine and bellyache.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Berenger said. About him figures were moving in the wreaths of mist. ‘What now?’

  ‘We are the most proficient team, Frip, didn’t you know?’ Grandarse said with a sour leer. ‘Who else would Sir John and the Earl of Warwick ask for when they need scouts? We’re to be the first to go and force the crossing. It’ll be glory all the way for us, man!’

  ‘Ballocks,’ Berenger muttered.

  ‘Why us? Doesn’t the King have any other poor buggers he doesn’t like?’ Jon Furrier said.

  They were crouched on the ground nearby as Berenger, on one knee, told them the news.

  ‘We’ll all get killed this day,’ Clip said with a twisted grin, and for the first time, Berenger wondered if he was speaking from conviction.

  ‘We won’t all get killed. You can, Clip, you thieving scrote,’ Berenger said, ‘but I’m going to get back. And when I reach home, I’ll have a bag full of French gold to buy myself a little cottage, and I’ll sit back while my woman cooks for me and brews the best ale in Warwick. I’m sure of one bloody thing, lads, and that is that I am not going to lie in French soil. I shall be going back – and so will the rest of you, if you’re careful.’

  ‘How do we do that?’ Jon demanded. ‘At the front, we’ll be cut down like saplings.’

  ‘We’ll do what we do best, my friend. We’ll fight side-by-side, and we’ll protect each other. I’ll get the Donkey back to help us. With him to bring us more arrows, we can keep up a steady fire against any enemy. Perhaps we can draw them to attack us, and use our bows to hold them off?’

  ‘We can try,’ Clip said, ‘but they’d only do that if they were fools, and so far, Frip, they haven’t shown much stupidity, have they? They’ve not risked their men in all-out attacks like we want. Not once. This French King knows his way around a fight.’

  ‘Aye, the King may, but his men down here may not. Who knows but that the man at the bridge here isn’t some long-headed fool with no understanding of combat? Remember how we took St-Lô? Who would have thought we could have stormed the place so quickly? Half a day and it was ours, wasn’t it? If they’d held the gates against us, we’d not have done that so quickly or so well, but because the townspeople were scared and pulled back to the island, we took it. We can do the same here.’

  ‘Aye, Frip. So long as the defenders have an idiot in charge like those at St-Lô,’ Jon observed drily.

  ‘Let’s hope they do then. Right, lads, the main thing is, keep together, look after each other, don’t panic, and we’ll all make i
t home.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ sighed Clip.

  It was deeply unsettling when he didn’t repeat his usual whining warning. That was the moment when Berenger knew that Clip really believed they would all die. Looking at the rest of his surviving vintaine, Berenger could see that they all had the same thought.

  The village was called Hangest-sur-Somme, Berenger heard later. A scruffy little collection of cottages and small houses at the side of the river amidst the marshes and reeds. Behind it, the grey, broad mass of the river made its sluggish progress towards the sea. If Berenger could, he would willingly have stolen a boat to escape to the sea. No matter what Grandarse said, he reckoned the chevauchée was in its last hours. The might of the French army was out there somewhere, whether to the north or due east, he didn’t know, but he was certain now, no matter what he said to the vintaine, that their raid was ending.

  They approached Hangest with the Earl of Warwick on his horse, a collection of men-at-arms all about him, while the archers plodded along behind, Grandarse in the lead. Berenger and Roger’s men were to be in the front rank: ‘Aye, same as usual,’ as Clip grumbled.

  ‘You scared of ’em?’ Tyler sneered.

  Berenger glanced at Roger. If he’d had his way, Tyler would have been punished for his looting when Gil was hanged, but for now all the archers were needed. Still, when he had an opportunity, Berenger vowed to himself that he would see Tyler pay the debt.

  As they drew nearer to the village, the bridge came into full view, and they rode towards it with a stirring of hope.

  ‘Have they forgotten this one, Frip?’ Clip asked.

  ‘No,’ Berenger said, but even he felt optimistic. So far, whenever there had been a danger of their being caught in the open by the French, they had somehow managed to salvage a miracle. Perhaps the French had indeed forgotten this one bridge. If so, they could quickly storm across and form a defensive position on the other bank, just as they had before crossing the Seine, and then the rest of the army could join them. It was a delicious thought. He could almost taste the sweet glory of victory in his mouth.