Fields of Glory

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Sergeant, this toy is the King’s favourite for today. And the barrels are meat and wine to them, so leave me in peace. When I’ve dropped them off, I will send the wagon back to you. But I am not carrying them all the way from here.’

  The sergeant looked as though he was going to argue, but then there was a shout and two fellows in the line of men-at-arms marching to the front began jostling and fighting. After a sour look at Archibald, the sergeant spat a curse and then hurried to the squabbling men, bawling at them to stop.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Béatrice asked, staring.

  ‘Just soldiers having an argument,’ Archibald chuckled. ‘They aren’t allowed to fight – at least, not with each other!’

  They rumbled on until suddenly they were past the windmill and could take in the sweep of the land.

  The ridge ran along in a curve, like an inverted ‘U’, with perhaps a half-mile between the two arms. A line of men was forming. Archibald aimed the wagon between them as he drove it to the field where the English troops hoped to join battle.

  As they passed over the road, the wagon crashed over a stone, and the gynour swore as he was jolted to the side of his seat, throwing an anxious glance over his shoulder. Relieved, he blew out his cheeks.

  ‘Perhaps our King will mend the roads, too, once he is undisputed ruler of this land,’ he said under his breath as he used the reins to persuade the oxen to move.

  ‘Why do we go here?’ Béatrice asked.

  ‘Hey? Oh, the King knows his business, I suppose,’ he said, checking the position of the sun. ‘If you have to have a battle, this isn’t a bad place, is it?’

  It was a shallow rise, perhaps only twenty yards above the road itself, but as Archibald gazed about him, he realised that this was a perfect ground for fighting. He hoisted himself up on the wagon’s seat. At the top of the ridge the windmill made, a rallying point for the English. Before it, the land fell away in a shallow incline from the English ridge. On the right was the river, serving to protect that flank, and before them the land was clear and unobstructed all along the road. The road which would lead King Philippe to King Edward’s trap. From here he could observe the men being led in to form three long battles, one behind the other, across the ridge. There was shouting and roaring from the vinteners and centeners as they bullied and pushed their men into lines. Flags appeared as nobles had their banners thrust into the ground, and already the Earl of Warwick’s standard was held in place, and the positions of all the Lords were marked out by the time that the knights arrived, all on foot.

  This was not to be a cavalry battle; this was to be a battle fought on a strong defensive position, tempting the enemy to attack and be riven by English arrows and Archibald’s toys.

  The men were in their positions, and now the gynour had to do the same. He must work out the best place for his little crackers.

  Berenger swore as he marched up the hill towards the ridge. A series of greyish-yellow clouds had moved in, and a thick mizzle was in the air, blown with the wind.

  The vintaine had already given up their ponies to the urchin who was detailed to take them to the rear of the army, and now they were squelching their way over the damp ground to their positions. After giving them instructions on where they were supposed to be standing, Grandarse had hurried off to discuss the plans with Sir John, leaving the men to find their own way.

  When Berenger stopped and stared back the way they had come, he saw a thick straggle of men stretched all over the hillside, with numbers gradually forming under their lords’ banners, while more streamed towards the lines like iron filings inexorably drawn to a magnet.

  He and the men were situated at the far left wing of the front battle. This was a line of foot-soldiers with, to the fore, the heaviest armoured men of all, the knights, mingled with the remaining Welsh pikemen. Berenger could see Erbin and his men in the midst of the first battle.

  Behind this was a second battle, which could be thrown into the fight to support the front rank, and, held a little further back, a final reserve, with the wagons behind to form a solid defence against attack from the rear. Not that it would be easy for that to happen. Any assault would have to arrive from one of the two villages that stood at each side of the English lines, or come through the woods behind.

  Today, the strength of the English would lie in the skill of the archers, that much was clear. For the English had learned that, while knights on horseback could serve a great purpose in fast, fluid campaigns, when it came to a purely defensive battle, it was better to have the heavily armoured men in the front line with the other foot.

  The two vintaines were mingled with a thick group of archers, angled towards the field in front of them. On their right, the first battle of Englishmen stretched away into the distance, with the rest of the archers positioned on the opposite flank. Berenger could see them, all with their bows unstrung, just like himself and his own men. There was no point in letting the strings get wet: they would stretch and grow useless. Jack and the others had their strings tucked into their shirts or under their hats to keep them dry. Berenger had his wound up tightly and installed securely in his purse. The oiled leather would keep it dry for a long time.

  Still the men kept coming. Some were walking through the English lines, having delivered wagons and carts to the wagon camp behind the lines, and were looking for their own sections, while others were toiling up the hill in the wake of Berenger and his men. He watched the wagons, led by Archibald, trundling over the grass and taking up a position down to their left, at the farthest point of the archers. Soon Archibald had other gynours helping him to erect a three-legged, makeshift crane beside his wagon, while their assistants unloaded little carts like wheelbarrows. When the tripod was ready, Archibald supervised the emptying of the wagon. First, a large wooden trestle was lifted and eased over the side to lie on the ground. Archibald and two helpers levered it around until they were happy with its position.

  Next began the task of moving the cumbersome weight of his great gonne. Four assistants grabbed the ropes and began to haul. The tripod creaked and complained, but as they pulled, straining, the long tube appeared. Archibald gave directions for the massive tube to be set on the wooden frame.

  Berenger was distracted by Jack, who frowned up at the clouds, saing, ‘If there’s more poxy rain, we’ll be fucked this day, Berenger.’

  ‘You think so? Perhaps. But at least there’ll be a conclusion.’ Berenger glanced about him. ‘There’ll be no running away today, that is certain.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The men-at-arms and the knights, they’re all standing together. No horses, they’re all kept within the wagon park behind us. With the forest there, and the villages either side, it’ll be hard to run anywhere. And we won’t any of us make it to the sea, so, lads, here we are, and here we will stand.’

  ‘Here we’ll die, you mean,’ Clip said immediately. ‘Ye know, we’ll all get—’

  ‘Slaughtered – yeah, we know,’ Geoff snapped. ‘Now shut your gob and stop reminding us, you little git!’

  ‘Only trying to cheer you up,’ Clip beamed.

  ‘What – by telling us we’re all going to get killed?’ Jack said scornfully. ‘How’s that going to cheer us up?’

  ‘Well, could be worse,’ Clip said.

  ‘Shut up,’ Geoff said.

  ‘How exactly?’ Jack demanded.

  ‘We could be on board ship. Then we’d die feeling seasick and cold and wet. And get chucked overboard.’

  ‘Oh, give me strength!’ Geoff said. There was a spark of light in the distance. ‘God’s ballocks, what was that?’

  ‘Don’t blaspheme,’ Jack reprimanded him. ‘Not before a battle.’

  Geoff opened his mouth to argue back, but then he nodded. ‘You’re right. My apologies. I’ll say Pater Noster and ask for forgiveness.’

  It began to spit with rain.

  Geoff turned a face full of frustration to Clip. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’
>
  ‘Wasn’t me!’ said Clip. ‘It was you bellyaching again. God thought to give you something to complain about for once.’

  ‘You little . . .’

  Berenger shoved Clip out of the way before Geoff could grab him. ‘Enough! Clip, move to the left flank, Geoff, you to the right. No more bickering from either of you. I’ve had a bellyfull already.’

  A loud rumble came across the plains: thunder.

  ‘How long before it starts?’ Ed asked. He had delivered the oxen and wagon at the park behind the men and hurried to help the archers. He stood on tiptoe, peering past them.

  ‘Soon enough,’ Jack muttered.

  ‘Good to have you here, boy,’ Geoff said.

  Jack clapped him on the back as Berenger nodded. ‘Just bring the arrows as fast as you can today, Donkey. We will have need of speed. The rest of you, keep your bowstrings dry!’

  It was only when the entire army had been standing in their positions for two hours of the sun or more that the bannerets and barons rode to their men. Berenger watched as Grandarse and Sir John cantered down towards them from the windmill where the King had his command position. From there, the highest point of the whole area, he had an unrivalled view.

  The cavalcade rode to the front of the archers, and Sir John trotted to the farthest extreme of the English lines. He remained astride his horse, pulling his bascinet from his head, and his hair shone grey as steel in the grim light. Shoving his helmet under his arm, he surveyed the men before him.

  ‘Archers! This is your position for the fight to come! From here, you can see the dip in the ground clearly. The French will approach us from there, to the east, and we think it is likely that they will hurry towards us and meet us here today. We hope so. You have the day to prepare and take your ease; the French will arrive after marching for miles. Are you happy with your positions? Memorise your posts here, all of you. As soon as you hear the horns, you must be here, ready to throw yourselves into battle. You must hurry back here, no matter what you have been doing: no matter that you are standing with your hosen around your ankles, whether you are stirring a pottage or whoring with one of the army wives, you must return, grab your weapons and prepare to fight to the last.’

  He cast an eye over the men before him. ‘You are English archers. You have the skill and the weapons to put the fear of God and His Saints into the French. God willing, we shall win this battle. But God makes demands of all of us. You must all go to Mass and ask Him for His help during the battle to come, and then you must give Him all the help you can. Before then, and starting right now, I want to see the whole of the field in front of our lines pocked with holes: one foot square and one foot deep. Where there is a flat, clear space, I want you to savage it. If you can’t measure that accurately – I mean you, Master Clip – just dig a short ditch. We must make the land intolerable for horses before they arrive. If the field has the same aspect as a paddock full of rabbit holes, they will not be able to charge us for risk of breaking their chargers’ legs. Now, make sure you know where your rallying banners lie; make sure you know by whom you stand. Remember: this is where you must return when the French appear. And I say again: you must return with all speed.’

  He looked at them again, this time shooting a glance at Berenger. Then he jerked his head in a gesture of beckoning, and trotted a short way down the grassy plain.

  Berenger rode over to him as the men began to break out of their rigid lines and gather up mattocks and spades. ‘Sir John?’

  ‘Berenger, I have a task for you and your men.’ The knight dismounted and passed the reins to a groom, who led Aeton back to the horse-lines. ‘Bring the vintaine. Your friend Archibald is in need of aid.’

  ‘Him?’ Berenger asked. Looking to where Archibald had a number of gynours running around as he bellowed at them. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s his equipment – it’s the Devil’s fire, so far as I am concerned,’ Sir John said, his lip twisted in distaste. ‘I dislike the things. That damned powder burns so fiercely, it can ignite if you only strike it with a steel and flint. Damn it to hell, the odour afterwards makes you think you’ve been snatched away by the Devil. But it makes a crack so loud, it will put terror into the heart of the bravest destrier, or so they say.’ His voice and his manner betrayed his doubts. ‘Archibald needs more pairs of hands, and he has asked if you can give him assistance.’

  ‘We will help him so far as we may,’ Berenger promised.

  ‘Good. I put you under his command for now. Keep your bows nearby, and remember: keep your bowstrings dry!’

  Ed laboured like a slave that day. When he wasn’t carrying Archibald’s small but heavy barrels, or helping push carts into position, he was set to fetching food and water for the men.

  It was ceaseless work, but it had the advantage that he was still at the front with her.

  Béatrice was like a woman possessed. She almost ran as she carried the little bags filled with stone and metal balls, and tossed her head scorefully when Clip moaned about working too hard.

  The whole vintaine, such as it now was, stayed there all morning while the English army dug their little pits all over the field, until there were only the holes with piles beside where the soil had been dumped. Men still wandered about, some sergeants and a knight or two, pointing to any areas where the ground could do with another assault. Some patches showed as little green islands, but they were few and far between. Mostly the ground was pitted as though a massive fork had been jabbed into the soil by an infuriated giant.

  ‘What good will these things do?’ Clip nagged as he rolled another barrel of powder up behind the great tube.

  ‘You will be surprised,’ Archibald said. He was squinting down the length of his gonne. ‘You see this? When I set a spark to the hole at the back of the gonne here, it will stab flame and thunder at the victim. Those,’ he went on, pointing to the three large tubes being set up nearby, ‘those will hurl numbers of little balls of stone or steel darts straight at the enemy, and cut them down. Just you wait! You will see the first Christian battle making full use of this wonderful new invention. When these little crackers go off, the French will run for their lives!’

  Ed pondered that as he helped dig trenches behind the other two gonnes. The latter were made of long steel bars that had been heated and hammered together. The individual staves were reinforced by more steel bands bound around them and holding them into their shape, like long steel barrels. Ed and the gynours had to dig deep to set three lengths of timber behind each barrel. Archibald kept talking about the barrels leaping into the air when they fired: these timbers were set to provide a firm support to stop them bucking and moving backwards. Ropes were laid over them and tethered to great metal spikes thrust into the ground on either side until Ed could not imagine how they could possibly move. They were too securely fastened. Even a kick from a destrier wouldn’t shift them.

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Archibald said contentedly. ‘And never stand behind the gonnes when they launch their missiles or you will be crushed like a beetle. They leap like salmon!’

  Ed had a ball in his hand, weighing it. It was enormously heavy, and at four inches in diameter, he wondered how it could be thrown with any great power. He would find it difficult to hurl it more than fifteen paces.

  ‘And now,’ Archibald concluded, ‘we are ready. Any French whorseson who tries to come here and assail the archers in flank will wish he had never been born.’

  The men were called back to their position at the braying of trumpets, and Berenger and the others hared back over the grass. Most of the other archers were already waiting, sitting on their shields against the damp of the grass, some gazing longingly to the west, thinking of their homes, while others stared at the ground as if wondering what it would feel like to be buried there.

  Berenger stood bellowing at the others, urging them to greater speed. He fumbled and almost dropped his bowstring, slipping the noose over the top, fitting the knot to the bottom, then bending th
e bow and sliding the topmost noose into its grooves. The bow was ready.

  ‘String your bows!’ he yelled, looking up and down his line of men. They were already nocking arrows and gazing about them, alert for a target. On the opposite hill a trio of horsemen could be seen racing hell for leather towards the English lines.

  ‘Archers! Hold!’ Berenger roared. ‘They’re ours, men. Our scouts.’

  Now more figures appeared, pursuing the English scouts. There were five of them, and from the way their armour sparkled, they must have been men-at-arms. They reined in and stared at the army massed before them, two turning and haring away while the remaining three sat calmly observing the English dispositions.

  Berenger relaxed. These were the forerunners of the French army, but the main force was not near enough for a sudden charge. Not yet.

  But as he waited, their own scouts cantered back to the English lines.

  ‘Are they far?’ he cried as they raced past.

  ‘One league, no more!’ one man cried, and was gone.

  ‘Three miles, men,’ Berenger called unnecessarily. ‘Give them another hour of the day and they’ll be swarming all over that side of the field.’

  ‘So long as they stay there!’ Jack called.

  Ed was nearby, and Berenger saw his pale features. ‘Don’t worry, boy. Stick to your duties and you’ll be all right.’

  There was a ripple of sound and then laughter. As Berenger turned and stared, he saw that a new banner had been unfurled in the English lines: a massive red flag with a golden dragon set upon it.

  ‘What in God’s name is that?’ Geoff muttered.

  ‘It looks as if the King’s had a new flag made,’ Berenger said.

  Geoff sniffed. ‘Very nice, I’m sure. But a silken dragon isn’t going to win this battle for us. We need a couple of real ones.’

  Berenger watched the shadows. It was closer to an hour and a half before the first of the vanguard of the French appeared over the ridge ahead.