Fields of Glory

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Come on, Clip,’ Jack called. ‘Aren’t you going to remind us that we’ll all die?’

  ‘Aye, well,’ Clip said. He looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Clip?’ Jack went on. ‘If you don’t curse us, you old shit, we’ll blame you when things go wrong.’

  But Clip said nothing. Berenger felt his elation dissipate like morning mist as the other men exchanged glances and began to chew at their lips or fiddle with their kit. They were all growing convinced that Clip’s attitude was prophetic. If he didn’t dare complain about their death, it was for good reason.

  ‘Come on, boys!’ Berenger said. Jack and a couple of men rallied, but others remained looking nervous, their eyes hooded.

  Three men in armour trotted forward. They passed around the edge of a couple of cottages, and the rest of the men watched them in anticipation, all praying that the way to the bridge was clear and safe.

  But as they were passing the last cottage, they suddenly stopped. One horse reared, and the second man drew his sword and began to charge, while the third wheeled round and rode back at full gallop.

  He didn’t make it. As he pelted past the houses, there was a flurry of movement. He was crouched low over his mount’s neck, but that was not enough to save him. The men all saw the explosion of blood from his mouth. A crossbow bolt had hit him low in the back, and must have ridden through his mail and up into his breast. He clung on desperately, then slowly rolled from his horse. Of the other two, nothing could be seen, but their disappearance was enough warning.

  ‘Archers! Forward!’ Sir John shouted, and Berenger looked to either side at his men. They were all glowering, including Clip.

  ‘Keep close, lads,’ Berenger said. ‘Remember, shoot fast and shoot well. Donkey, you need to hurry, understand me? Just keep bringing fresh arrows, no matter what. Right, boys, here we go!’

  He clapped spurs to his new pony, a sturdy little brute with an evil temper, and the whole mass of archers rode down to join the Earl and his household. Sir John was there, but he broke away from the Earl to join his archers, his esquire at his side.

  ‘Don’t worry about them, Fripper,’ he said. ‘These look to me like Genoese or some other mercenaries. If you scare them with your arrows, we can win through them!’

  There was a suppressed excitement about him as he spoke, and Berenger felt his own spirits lift. The knight’s enthusiasm was infectious. The men stood stringing bows, while boys came to take the reins and lead the horses away.

  Ahead of them, the men of the village had decided that the need for concealment was past. Dozens of crossbowmen darted out and sheltered behind the great pavise shields gripped in place by their companions. Behind them, ranks of spearmen stood clumped in reluctant, uneven lines, and behind them, the men-at-arms sat on their horses, the great beasts pawing at the ground, eager for the battle to begin.

  Each English archer had a quiver, which they set on the ground before them. All strung their bows and stood ready, while Donkey and Béatrice brought the cart nearer and began to dispense arrows. Sir John and Richard Bakere remained on horseback and cajoled and bullied succeeding groups of archers into their positions, leaving a good space between them, through which the men-at-arms could ride.

  ‘Archers, are you ready?’ Sir John roared. ‘Nock arrows!’

  There was a ripple of movement. Berenger felt the smooth click as his arrow was attached to the string.

  ‘Archers, draw!’

  The familiar tension tugging at his back muscles, shoulder muscles, belly muscles. The taut almost-pain at the base of his neck as the string came back and tickled his eyelashes. He felt the strain of the bow in his left hand, felt the urgent keenness of the arrow to be released. The point of the arrow, sleek, black, gleaming silver where it had been sharpened, was aimed up at a cloud, over the cottage some hundred and fifty yards away.

  ‘Loose!’

  The release ran through Berenger’s body, from both arms to his back, along his spine. The bow gave a lurch, and the arrow sped on its way, and as he watched its path, he saw the hundreds of identical arrows leaping up into the sky on all sides, their passage marked by a low sound like a strong wind in a forest. He grabbed another arrow and fitted it to the string, drew and loosed, and again, and again. The noise of fletchings taking to the air was all about him, the thrumming as each string slipped from its tab filled his ears until all he could sense was the noise of their launch and flight.

  ‘Archers! To me!’

  Suddenly there was the rattle and thunder of horses cantering, and Berenger turned to see that the Earl and his household were pounding towards the village.

  Grandarse was roaring now: ‘Come on, boys! You going to leave the knights and esquires to take all the glory! Berenger, Roger, follow me! Let’s get our own!’

  He began to lurch off down the hill after the men-at-arms, and Berenger picked up his quiver and slung it over his shoulder as he set off after the old warrior, waving to his men. ‘Come on, Clip. Jack, get a move on!’

  The crossbowmen were withdrawing already, and the Earl and his men were almost at the lance-men. But then the line of foot-soldiers parted, and the French horsemen sprang through.

  Berenger ran now. His bow and quiver were held to him under his left hand, while his right reached for his long dagger’s hilt. It should be knife-work from here, he thought, but even as he did so, the trap was sprung.

  Where before there had been thirty or more men-at-arms on horseback on the French side, now he saw a fresh body of knights and esquires appear from between the houses. It was a second, stronger party designed, Berenger suddenly realised, to cut off the Earl and his men.

  Even as he had the thought, a bolt whirred past his ear like a blackbird rocketing away from danger. That sound brought him to his senses. He stopped and studied the battlefield. There were more crossbowmen in the roadway now, to block any attempt at rescue. The rest of the French were determinedly heading for the Earl’s men.

  He heard a cough, and when he glanced to his side, he saw Roger gazing at a bolt’s fletchings embedded in his chest. He looked at Berenger and choked, and a great gush of blood came from his mouth, and then he retched and collapsed, writhing.

  Berenger stared in shock. Roger had always seemed impervious to the darts and blades of the enemy. Another bolt flew past.

  ‘Swyve a goat, these bastards are getting serious!’ Clip said.

  It was enough to bring Berenger to his senses.

  ‘Archers! Archers! To me! To me! Nock!’

  He set his quiver on the ground and put arrow to string.

  ‘Aim for the horsemen of the French. Take them in the back if you may! We have to support the Earl and his men!’

  He stared to either side. ‘Archers: draw!’

  A man three further along from him gave a strangled cry and fell back, a bolt jutting from his brow.

  ‘Archers: loose!’

  A flurry of arrows rose into the air and plunged down towards the French, and before they could strike, a second wave was heading after them. Berenger drew his bow a third time, and another mass of wood and steel was launched on its way.

  The arrows did their work. French men-at-arms suddenly found that their steel protection was punctured, or badly dented, by the hideous, hard points of arrows from behind. Berenger saw a man hit in the head who rode, his arm held high with a sword gripped in his fist, away from the fight, and continue until lost from sight. Another was struck in the neck, near the spine, and seemed to fly into a frenzy, his gauntleted hands reaching around with desperation to try to pluck the barb from him. Two English knights hacked at him until he fell. A third was hit by two arrows in the lower back, and fell forwards over his horse’s neck until a man with an axe beheaded him with two blows.

  ‘With me!’ Berenger shouted. With three arrows in his hand and a fourth on his string, he ran towards the Genoese. A man stood to aim his crossbow, but three arrows launched at him made him flinch, and his bolt flew high overhead. At
his side, a second man took aim, but an arrow struck him in the eye and he was thrown to the ground. Then the Genoese took flight.

  Berenger stopped, trying to control his breathing, and took aim at a large man with a flowing red beard. His helmet was open-faced, and he fought like a berserker of old, his sword leaping and dancing in his hand as he tried to belabour Sir John and the Earl. Berenger’s arrow sprang forth and struck him in the throat, and he fell back with the point of the arrow protuding inches from the back of his helmet.

  Jack was beside him again now, muttering, ‘They don’t pay us enough, Frip, fuck ’em!’

  ‘Stop your moaning, you old git,’ Berenger managed through gritted teeth as he held the string back, the point of his clothyard arrow aiming at a French man-at-arms who was riding towards the archers. He took a low aim, and saw it strike the man’s horse in the breast. It managed only three more steps before its heart burst, and the steed crumpled to the ground, forelegs folding to the knees, and the brute’s chin striking the roadway. There was a crack like a tree-limb breaking as the neck snapped, and the rider was hurled from the saddle to land in the dirt. He rose, shaking his head, but Clip was already at him, and his dagger went into the man’s eye. He fell, legs kicking, blood spraying and smothering Clip, who swore and quickly dashed it away.

  Berenger could see the French were wilting away. The Genoese crossbowmen had taken to their heels and were disappearing beyond the village, but even as they went, Berenger’s glee was dispelled. More men on horseback were cantering towards them: men-at-arms, with their metal gleaming blue-black and silver, pennants fluttering from their spears. And with their arrival, the Genoese took heart again. He saw them turn, crouching to span their weapons, and then loading and aiming while protected behind walls.

  ‘Frip, we can’t take this place,’ Jack panted at his side.

  ‘We can’t leave the knights!’ Berenger responded.

  ‘Then we’ll all die,’ Clip shouted. For once there was no whining edge to his voice, only determination. ‘Frip, we have to get out of this!’

  Berenger stood torn, but before he could decide, Grandarse appeared at his side. He had a long, raking cut on his arm, and he stood breathing stertorously as he studied the men struggling in the road before him. The dust rose, enveloping the scene, and only the clanging, crashing and bellowings of rage and agony could be heard.

  ‘Sod this,’ he muttered. Then: ‘Frip, get your men back. This we cannot win.’

  They withdrew to a hamlet halfway back to the main army, where the men rested and sat to patch their wounds. Of the archers, a quarter had been injured, although only fifteen had died. A little while after the last of the archers had slumped to the ground, Berenger heard cantering horses and turned to see the remaining English men-at-arms riding towards them, a body of French knights in hot pursuit.

  ‘Archers!’ he shouted, and gathered together three vintaines. They waited until their men-at-arms were safe, and then released four flights of arrows. Seven men fell not to rise again, and three more were punctured, the arrows punching through their armour – and when the French saw the archers standing at the ridge, they gave up on the chase, turning and riding away.

  ‘I owe you and your men a debt of gratitude,’ the Earl said, eyeing the retreating French. His face and armour were bespattered with blood, but he appeared uninjured. ‘They bested us, damn their souls! They bested us well.’

  ‘So we cannot take the bridge here?’ Grandarse said.

  ‘They have too many men, and reserves. It would drain our army to force a path. No, we shall find a better crossing-point. Pont-Rémy is supposed to have a good bridge. We shall try that. Gather your men.’

  ‘Aye, sir. Berenger? You’ve complained about your manpower. Take Roger’s vintaine and mix it with yours.’

  The town of Pont-Rémy was less than two leagues away, and the archers wearily remounted and followed the Somme’s banks.

  Berenger found himself riding beside Grandarse.

  ‘Well?’ his centener asked. ‘How are the men?’

  ‘They’ll cope.’

  ‘Will you, Frip?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. You’ve known me long enough.’

  ‘Aye. And you’ve known me, you daft bugger. Doesn’t mean you won’t see me start to complain soon. This whole campaign’s gone to cock.’

  ‘We’ll get through it.’

  ‘Will we? I wish I had your faith.’

  Berenger stared at him. It was the first time he had heard Grandarse make a negative comment, and it was crushing. He had tried to keep his spirits up, but if Grandarse himself considered their position hopeless, there was nothing more to say.

  Approaching the town, they saw the forces ranged against them.

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ Grandarse grunted. ‘Did I not tell you, Frip? How in God’s name can we pit ourselves against an enormous host like that, eh?’

  There were two main forces, one flag neither recognised, while the second was familiar to both of them.

  ‘John of Hainault! I’d like to get my hands round his throat, the back-sliding, dishonest, treacherous git,’ Grandarse said with feeling.

  Berenger couldn’t disagree. John of Hainault had been the King’s ally until recently, but there was no honour in the man’s soul. He would go wherever he thought he would gain the most. And right now, that was with the French.

  In the course of their march, more men-at-arms had joined the English, and now there were over a hundred knights and esquires riding with the archers. It was good to see so many with them, but viewing the men ranged against them, Berenger felt his belly contract. It was his own, personal premonition of disaster.

  Sir John de Sully listened as the Earl discussed with his captains how best to force the French from their path. In the end, the Earl’s view prevailed. The archers were placed in two triangular formations on either side of the road, and they were ordered to begin loosing their missiles as soon as the men-at-arms were ready.

  Sitting in the saddle with his back resting against the cantle, Sir John eyed the enemy shrewdly. ‘Easy, Aeton,’ he said, patting the beast’s neck. ‘Not long now.’

  There were so many of them! Too many. Men-at-arms of all ranks waited on horseback, while before them stood foot-soldiers armed with pikes, lances and bills. They would be able to defend themselves without trouble. There was a slightly weaker point in the line over to the right, he noticed, where the English might be able to charge through . . . but even as he thought this, more packed the space.

  Usually, he would aim to charge, force a way through, and cause havoc behind their lines. A few knights ranging widely behind an army could quickly destroy what confidence that force originally held. But today, to break through that rigid-looking line would be almost impossible.

  He let his eyes move over the men at either side, wondering how their courage would hold.

  It was a simple fact that Englishmen were better trained and tested in war. That did not mean that the French were not equally bold and courageous, only that the English could sometimes perform prodigious feats of arms against overwhelming odds. All had heard of the brilliant efforts of men like Sir Walter Manny and Sir Thomas Dagworth. No one could be in any doubt as to the worth of Englishmen in war, but that did not mean that they were invincible. The French possessed more knights, more men-at-arms, more foot-soldiers and more weapons than the English. And the English were tired. They had been marching for weeks already, and with few provisions over recent miles, while the French could rely on every town or city for resupply.

  It was not a comforting thought.

  There was a horn blast, taken up by many others. Sir John gripped his lance, staring up at the strong shaft, assessing its strength. If the wood was strong, with a straight grain, the weapon would do.

  A second blast, and the first men began to move off down the hill. The shallow gradient would give them no great advantage, but every element that could support them must be used.

  The Ea
rl had picked his position with skill – a sweeping plain leading to the French cavalry, with no woods or hedges in which to conceal crossbowmen or an ambush. With luck, they would have a clear ride to the French. There they could fight, and in an open battle, Sir John was content to think that an Englishman against three French were reasonable odds. The English had a hotter fire in the belly than their enemies.

  ‘Forward!’ the cries came, and his mount was already trotting. He held Aeton back. As ever, it was vital that all should ride as a single force, striking their targets in one massive, shattering pack.

  The enemy were moving too, men and horses jogging gently up to meet the English. A dusty mist rose from their hooves. The ground here was, for once, dry and unaffected by the marshland that soaked so much of this land. Sir John was glad of that. He detested marshland and bog. It was disturbing to riders and horses alike. A charger crossing a mire could stumble or fall very easily.

  This was no time to worry about how the beasts would cope with the ground, he chided himself. His attention must be fixed entirely on the charge and making sure that his team worked well with the rest of the knights and esquires. He cast one quick, final glance round to make sure that Richard was on his station, a little behind and to Sir John’s left, protecting his flank, while Simon was there a few yards behind, riding the second destrier in case Aeton was killed or injured in the initial press.

  But that was all he had time for – and then they were riding for the French.

  Sir John could feel the great muscles coiling in Aeton’s back and thighs, and the sense of power that exuded from the charger’s body was thrilling. The air was in his face, and there was a ripple and crack from the flags and pennants as the men rode, and a metallic rasp as a coat of plates moved against a mail shirt. All the sounds of an army moving into battle mingled in his mind and were soon drowned out by the steady thundering of hooves beating at the ground in a threnody for the dead.