Aeton knew his position and his task. He lowered his head, shaking his mane, and increased his pace as the English began to charge. Sir John must merely maintain his seat and grip his lance. And then there was a ripple of light as the knights and esquires lowered their lance-points, and his too came down to point at a man hundreds of feet from him.
Sir John felt the old exultation, as though his entire being was thrilling with the glory of the moment.
But then a jolt hit him from his left. A man and horse had thundered into him. His lance was pushed from his target, and Aeton was slammed aside.
The charge was wrecked!
Berenger saw the disaster from his vantage point as he loosed his arrows.
A rank of Genoese archers riposted, and there was a rattle and crash as many English men-at-arms were felled. Horses reared and plunged, their riders clinging to them as the barbs of the quarrels stung. The Genoese were aiming for the brutes rather than the knights. Bring down their destriers, and the knights were helpless.
Sir John and his esquire were both at the fore as the English knights charged, and Berenger caught a glimpse of their lances dropping, ready to spit their enemies, but even as they did so, a man-at-arms behind them was hit in the breast. The quarrel stood out like an obscene splinter, and he tried to pull at it. It must have been enormously painful.
As he struggled with the foul missile, the rider’s horse drifted across the rest of the knights, crashed into Sir John’s steed, distracting Richard and knocking both men into the soldiers beside them. At the crucial moment, just as the charge was developing, the mass of horses and men that should have slammed into the enemy as a coherent, solid unit, was broken into a series of small groups that eddied about the French line like ripples of water cast against rock. Their gallop was ineffective, and they were forced to cast aside their lances and resort to war-hammers, axes and swords, hacking and beating at the men in the line, trying desperately to break through.
Then Berenger saw an opportunity. He discarded his bow and pulled out his sword. ‘To me! Archers! To me!’ he roared. And with that, he began running to the men struggling in the roadway.
Sir John wheeled and thundered on again.
He glimpsed a man ahead – a Frenchman in a garish red and green tunic, who was racing to meet him . . . and then the man was only yards away and Sir John felt an enormous punch at his right shoulder, and he was rocked back against the cantle. His spear was cracked along its length, and snapped, and he saw a brief burst of livid red as his spear embedded itself in the man’s breast.
As the second wave of French riders appeared in front of him, he tugged at his sword, hacking down at a hand that appeared too near to his saddle, and then at a face; more men were before him, and he clapped spurs to Aeton. The great brute reared, hooves flailing, and Sir John saw a man’s head crushed, while another took the full force of Aeton’s weight on his chest. The charger dropped again, and Sir John felt Aeton’s legs propel them forward into the press.
It was a grand mêlée, the sort of battle a knight would dream of. Men cut at each other, with barely space to wield their weapons. Some hewed without seeing more than a momentary glimpse of an enemy, and hoped their blows would not go astray. Others were heedless, striking friends and foe alike, driven by an insane rage against any who could dare stand against them. Some were petrified with horror and fear, beshitten, squealing within their visored helmets, while others sang with the pure joy of it. This was what men were born for: to fight and die.
Sir John had seen enough battles. He neither sang nor screamed. His sole purpose was to win through this battle and see the next. He rode from one place to another, using Aeton’s mass to blunder men aside, driving his enemies before him with his sword, or his war-hammer, if they came up on his left side.
Two ringing buffets hit his helmet, and he felt the metal slam against the thick, padded war-coif he wore beneath. The first blow nearly forced him from his saddle, the second was enough to knock his helmet crooked, but he ducked away and pushed it up again. When he turned, he saw that a Frenchman had been thrown from his horse by Richard. His esquire held up a fist in salute, before the two hurried towards a fresh enemy.
There was a knight beside him now, a man whom Sir John vaguely remembered – his arms were more easily brought to mind than his face – who suddenly erupted with blood. A crossbow bolt had slammed between the bars of his visor, and he fell to the ground, his armour clattering. His horse continued on, eyes wild and rolling, careless of his danger. The knight in front of Sir John – Sir Lawrence of Evesham, he recalled – reeled in his saddle, arms outstretched like a man crucified. An esquire rode past him on a charger, screaming as the blood pumped from a great wound in his neck, showering all in his path.
The obscene fantasy continued. A man stood on the ground before him, shaking his arm with futile horror. The forearm and hand were missing, and with every flail, blood was spattered onto the men about him. Sir John shoved his sword at a face, but even as he felt his blade clash uselessly on the side of the fellow’s helmet, missing the flesh completely, he felt the resounding crash as a war-hammer cracked against the back of his own helmet. He almost fell from Aeton, but had just enough will to keep his place in the saddle; and then Aeton kicked, and when he glanced, Sir John saw that the great destrier’s hooves had caught a man’s thigh and the flank of his horse, crushing them. The French man-at-arms was slumped from shock and agony, and Sir John could see the greyish-white bone protruding from his hosen.
With his head pounding, Sir John roared his defiance, and spurred Aeton into the press once more.
The Earl and his bodyguard had found a weak point and were exploiting it. Berenger made straight for them, the breath burning his throat. His lungs were on fire, and his legs were wooden and clumsy from marching and lack of food. Before he was halfway there, his foot skidded on a patch of loose pebbles, and he nearly fell, jarring his ankle. After that, he had to move more slowly as a stabbing pain rose into his calf.
It was the delay that saved his life. When he looked again at the front line, disaster had struck.
The archers had streamed off ahead of him, and he was hobbling after them, when he saw them race back towards him. Some had their bows with them still, and these few halted and began to fire. Others threw theirs aside and simply fled.
The French had unleashed a wave of their own cavalry. Most thundered at the English men-at-arms, but a large number were making straight for the despised archers, and as he stared, dumbstruck, he saw men flung up into the air, screaming, their arms and legs moving like strange, inhuman creatures.
He saw one lad, the tip of a lance sprouting from his cotte; he beat at it with his hands like a maid slapping away a wasp. The knight who had impaled him flicked his wrist to free his weapon, and the boy was thrown into the crowd like a piece of carrion.
Berenger saw no more. Here in the open, the men were unprotected, and he bitterly regretted his urge to support the Earl and Sir John. Turning, he tried to make his way back to his bow, but he was stumbling now, and knew he would fail. His ankle was too painful, and the French destriers were gaining too quickly.
‘Here!’
It was Jack. Before Berenger could argue, the sturdy archer grabbed his sword arm and pulled it about his own neck. His other arm went around Berenger’s waist, and he half-supported, half-carried the vintener back up the hill. As they were stumbling on, the sound of drumming hooves came to them.
A ditch gaped at the side of the roadway. Jack dived into it, pulling Berenger with him. The two scurried farther along the ditch, and the men-at-arms at their heels missed them, cantering on, laughing and jeering as they went, killing only the easier targets in the road before them.
The two men were up and hurrying again as soon as the French had passed. Berenger saw the place where they had left the cart and hobbled over to it, grabbing a fresh bow stave and looping a new string to it. With a strung bow, he felt more confident.
Ja
ck had his own bow in his hands, and he snatched up a sheaf of arrows as Berenger gazed about them.
‘Frip!’ Jack shouted, pointing.
The French had turned and spotted them, and were already cantering back towards them. Berenger counted some two and twenty, and although three were knights, the others were men-at-arms in lighter armour. ‘Leave the knights. Kill the others,’ he grated, then nocked and drew. He loosed, and saw with satisfaction the arrow strike a man squarely in the breast. The man slumped, but the rest still came on. Other archers had joined the two of them now, and there were five, then six arrows striking at a time. A pair of horses on the right fell, while a third went berserk, whirling, trying to escape a barbed arrow embedded in its breast, and then the remaining men were almost upon them.
At the last moment, Berenger managed to hit the man nearest him. The arrow flew straight and true, piercing the armour at his right shoulder, and with a screech of pain, the man dropped his lance. He aimed his mount at Berenger, but even as he did so, the ground moved beneath Berenger’s feet. He thought there was a landslide or some fresh catastrophe, for it felt as though the earth itself was rejecting the men squabbling on its soil. And then a great roar came from behind him, and he felt the wash as destriers galloped past.
It was the remainder of the English. They had fought their way free from the encircling French forces, and while they were much depleted, they were full of a killing rage. Returning to the archers, they saw the small number of French knights and sprang at them like wolves on a herd of deer.
Berenger saw Sir John ride straight at a man-at-arms, his sword out. He passed by the French lance-tip with negligent disdain and shoved his sword-point in under the man’s chin. There was a moment when it looked as though the sword must be jerked from his grasp, but then he wrenched it free as he passed his opponent, and a gout of blood erupted from the man’s throat. The latter’s lance fell from his hands as he lifted them to his wound as though to stem the flow. He rode on, past Berenger, only to fall a few yards further on.
The rest of the French fought on doggedly, and the English were too exhausted to keep them at bay. Before long, the adversaries were parted and the French rode off with many a cat-call and jeer.
‘You know what? I don’t think we’ll cross here after all,’ Jack said.
23 August
The two vintaines were not mingled yet. Roger’s men obeyed their orders, but the two groups of men still sat huddled quietly about their own fires.
No one was of a mood to joke or bicker for once, which was the proof, had Berenger needed it, that their morale was low. It was rare enough to see an archer quiet at evening time, but now, as they all began to stir in the early dawn light, he was aware of a profound dismay amongst them.
It was not fear: rather, it was the realisation that their chances of escaping the French net were growing ever more remote. While none of them admitted to being scared, that was not to say that they didn’t appreciate the gravity of their position. With the main French army approaching, they must escape over the Somme or die. And all attempts had failed. Apart from the two in which Berenger and his men had participated, there had been two more, one at Longpré and another at Fontaine; there too, the English army had run into larger forces and been pushed back. At each confrontation the English had suffered considerable losses, and after the last attempt, the order had gone out to cease trying. The army could not afford to lose any more men.
‘We’ve no chance,’ Clip said. He was hunched down in front of the fire as usual, holding his hands to the flames and staring morosely into the embers. ‘I thought when we came to the King’s own territories, the people would welcome us. They all said the folks here were fond of him, didn’t they? And what do we get? Grateful thanks from the people, offers of food, and their prettiest daughters? Not bloody likely. No instead we get a lance up our arse.’
Berenger snorted, tightening a strip of linen about his sore ankle. It was already feeling a lot better, but he would be limping for days. ‘Apart from you, Clip – as usual,’ he said bitterly.
It was true enough. Clip was the only man amongst them who was uninjured after their attacks the day before. Even Jack had taken a stab in his thigh from an unhorsed Frenchman.
‘Some of us know where to put our feet,’ Clip retorted scornfully. ‘You’d do well to remember that, Frip.’
‘He’s right,’ Luke said. ‘What were they thinking of, bringing us all the way up here?’
‘Quiet!’ Berenger said. He glared as a large, bulky figure approached.
‘What were they thinking of?’ Archibald repeated, amused. He walked to their circle, his eyes on their fire, and stood there, his smile twisting his magnificent moustache. ‘They were thinking how to win, that’s what they were thinking. They wanted the French King to be so humiliated by our march over his lands and territories, by the sight of the fires and devastation, by the daily news of how you lot laid waste to all his manors, that he would be forced to set off after us. It worked, didn’t it? And now, our King is looking for the best place to settle this once and for all.’
‘To see his army cut to pieces, I suppose,’ Jack sneered. ‘Look at the fucking state of us! It’s all right for the King and his friends to be captured and ransomed. They will be safe enough. But what about us? There’s no money in ransom for ordinary churls like us. We’ll all be beheaded or hanged, or used for target practice by the Genoese. It’s one thing to gamble when you aren’t risking your own life.’
‘Be still, Jack,’ Berenger said.
‘No, let him speak,’ Archibald said, unruffled. He was still smiling. ‘Master, you should know that your King and his advisers take your health and fitness very seriously. He knows that without your being able to draw a bow, he will never win France. And he desires France more than anything else in his life.’
‘Well he won’t have it, not unless he finds us food and a fresh crossing over the river.’
‘It’s only a river,’ Archibald said with confidence. ‘There will be a way.’
‘Even if do we find a crossing,’ Clip put in grimly, ‘do you really think the French will let us over? We’ll be cut to pieces on both sides of the water, and no one will survive.’
‘Does he ever stop his whining?’ Archibald enquired mildly to Berenger.
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘He must be a trial to you.’
‘Hey!’ Clip objected. ‘You may think this is a matter for jesting, Master Gynour, but we stand to die here. So unless you can make use of your friend the Devil and sort out a miracle to rescue us, I think you should start to plan for meeting your friend face to face.’
‘You think I am a friend of the Devil?’
‘Everyone says so. It’s obvious.’
Archibald eyed him very coldly and seriously for a moment. The other members of the vintaine looked away.
‘Clip, just be quiet,’ Berenger said. He was unsettled. There was something odd about this large gynour with his calm self-possession even now, in the face of the odds ranged against them. ‘He didn’t mean it,’ he added to Archibald.
‘Oh yes, he did,’ Archibald said. He stared at all the men in turn. ‘And so he should, because it’s not a story I have ever bothered to contest. But if I was a friend to the Devil and prayed to Him, I would be scorched by touching a cross, wouldn’t I?’ He pulled from beneath his chemise a battered little cross of wood. At its side, dangling from the same thong, was a pilgrim badge: a pewter shell for St James of Compostela. He kissed them. ‘You see, fool? I am as much a Christian as you. But there are some arts which men can learn without too much effort, and I have learned much about my powders. So, if you want to believe that I am a crazed worshipper of the Devil, you carry on.’
‘He is a fool, Gynour,’ Berenger said. With his good foot he poked at Clip, who fell over with a muttered curse. ‘Sit by our fire, and take some food with us. We have some flour.’
‘Flour?’ The gynour’s smile returned. ‘
I would be glad of a little. Do you have salt?’
Berenger was about to shake his head when he saw Archibald pull a small leather purse from under his chemise. ‘Do you keep all your belongings in there?’
‘My cross, my badge, my salt and my tinder.’
Berenger nodded to Oliver, who took flour from their communal bag, one handful per man, and placed it in the wooden bowl. He added water sparingly, and mixed it together with a little of the salt. Soon he had a thick dough, which he moulded into one ball per man, and squashed flat. Each man took one and set his upon a stone at the fireside. They all waited and watched in companionable silence, turning their little cakes every so often, until each was cooked to the satisfaction of the owner and gradually withdrawn from the heat to cool.
The gynour took his and held it between his hands while still piping hot. Looking up at Berenger, he nodded. ‘I’m most grateful to you, my son,’ he said. ‘It is not common for me to receive such a welcome.’
‘There are few who wouldn’t welcome companionship just now,’ Berenger said. He grinned without humour. ‘Perhaps we won’t have many more such opportunities.’
‘Oh yes, we will.’ Archibald held up the scallop-shell. ‘You think Saint James would desert us just when we need his help to cross a river? Have faith, my friend. Have faith. Saint James will carry us over.’
Berenger shook his head. ‘I wish I had your faith. For, by my mother’s soul, I believe we will die here.’
It was still early when the warning horns blew, and the army was ordered to march once more.
‘What is it now?’ Berenger demanded of Grandarse, who appeared just as the first mists were beginning to disperse.
‘You want to complain? Speak to the French! The bastards almost caught the King at breaking his fast. He and his officers had to leave their meals, so don’t expect them to be in a good and friendly frame of mind when you see them.’
Fields of Glory Page 33