Fields of Glory

by Michael Jecks

  A flash from the third gonne, and a gust of brimstone-filled smoke . . . and he saw two more horses rearing and thrashing in their agony. Archibald stopped for a moment, brought back to the present by their pain, but then he saw a fresh rank of knights thundering up the hill towards the English lines, and he ordered his men to reload their gonnes, while he leaned down and rammed and cleaned and dried, preparing the next charge, aiming as the beasts headed towards them.

  Sir John waited, watching for the first of the French to reach the English lines, but none approached nearer than a few tens of yards. ‘Hold your places!’ he shouted as a couple of men-at-arms made as though to run at the wounded.

  Now those same knights who had treated their own crossbowmen with such cruelty were themselves slaughtered. Sir John saw the front row struck as though by an invisible rope: the foremost horses were killed at almost the same moment, plunging to the ground, while their riders were thrown or remained with their horses. Two men, he saw, lay trapped by their mounts’ dead bodies, a leg caught beneath the steed. But as more and more arrows fell among them, these two were soon dead, stabbed by many arrows.

  Another rank of horses and men were tumbled to the ground, then a third, and suddenly a mass of riders was making its way forward.

  ‘Hold the wall! Shields and lances! For God and England!’ he heard from all around, and he added his own, ‘For Saint Boniface!’ And then he added, ‘For King Edward and for England!’ And thrust the butt of his lance into the ground, pointing the tip at the enemy. He could hear the crackle of the banners overhead and feel the strange juddering in his legs. It was the ground, rebelling at the hoofbeats of thousands of horses. The very earth recoiled from the French attack.

  There was no time to aim his lance. Suddenly the knights and destriers were all too close, and in the blink of an eye, they were on him.

  It felt as though all those French lance-points were targeting his heart, his breast, his face. A matchless forest of steel-tipped lances were thrust towards him, but before any could reach him or the other men, the horses saw their danger. While many carried on, impaling themselves on the English weapons, many more reared or tried to run to one side or the other to avoid the bristling sharp steel points.

  They crashed into each other, causing mayhem amongst the French chivalry. One beast ran along the English line, deflecting many lances, until a lucky stab brought him down.

  Sir John felt his own lance pulled from his hand, and the butt was yanked from the soil and swiped at his legs, almost knocking him down. Before he could grab it again, three French men-at-arms appeared, their horses dead already, running at him.

  Sir John pulled his sword free and hefted its weight with relief. This was the sort of fight he had trained for: the sort of fight he was born for.

  They charged and were repelled, charged and were repelled, and still they kept coming. Berenger had counted six charges already, but once more the men and horses were gathering at the other end of the field, and now they were charging again.

  Archibald’s gonnes roared and spat flames and missiles like an array of dragons, while from the other flank still more clouds of smoke were thrown at the French, and each time a few men were forced to the ground, a few more horses were slain.

  There was an enormous cacophony of sound. Berenger felt a concussion at his ears, a searing flash of heat, and turned to see a bloom of flame. A figure was thrown high into the air, and the stench of brimstone was thick and cloying as wafts of greasy smoke rolled past them. Screams and shouts came from the edge of the archers’ post, where Archibald stood with his gonnes.

  Berenger let another arrow loose at the men approaching. More and more knights were thundering up the slope to the English lines. He saw a strange group: knights, and a nobleman wearing three white feathers, riding together. Even when first one and then a second knight were hit and fell from their mounts, their horses remained with the rest, and he realised that they were all tied together as a group, as though their leader feared that one or more might attempt to flee the battle. All rode straight for the Prince’s banner, and there was a moment when Berenger thought that they might succeed in punching through to him, but then there was a moment’s blindness as the fog from Archibald’s cannon rolled out, passing through them. They looked like wraiths in a mist, and then the smoke cleared and Berenger saw that the little party was dead. All had fallen before the English lines.

  There was another massive charge building. It was the greatest collection of men he had ever seen, and his belly gave a lurch. Then three Frenchmen sprang forward, calling on their peers to ride with them. Suddenly, the whole line was moving: thousands of the noblest-born, best-trained warriors of Europe, mounted on the highest-quality destriers, first trotting, then beginning to canter, then lowering their heads and thundering at full gallop towards the centre of the English line. Berenger saw the English sergeants and vinteners rallying their men. He glimpsed the Earl of Warwick raising his massive sword over his head and shrieking his defiance, while nearby, Sir John de Sully was awaiting the enemy with a cool demeanour as though deciding which man he should aim his lance at first.

  ‘ARCHERS! LOAD! ARCHERS LOOSE!’ he heard, and aimed at a great black-armoured knight with a red surcoat. The arrow struck at the top of the man’s shoulder and bounced away, and he rode on without injury.

  There was a gathering rumble, a low roaring that came from thousands of French knights as each gave his battle cry from behind his visor. The noise rose as the knights came ever nearer, and Berenger could feel their charge through the soles of his feet. A crescendo of hoofbeats and screams, and the French slammed into them like a maul wielded by a giant. The English shields were up, and the array of spears did not waver. As the French came on, the horses were impaled and their riders thrown. Some lances penetrated, but only a small number of Englishmen were injured. Where Berenger stood, he could see the English lines rippling back and then springing forth again, their spears an impenetrable barrier.

  A section of men was running up the slope now, more French men with armour and mail, coming to support their knights.

  ‘Archers!’ Grandarse’s voice was hoarse from shouting, and now he directed the men’s arrows to the enemy scurrying towards them. A fresh storm of arrows sleeted down, and the assault failed; many were killed. It was carnage. The sound of wailing and sobbing came up to him, but Berenger hardened his heart.

  ‘Fripper! Fripper!’

  He turned to find Ed pulling at his jack. ‘What are you doing here, boy?’ he snarled. ‘Get back to your position!’

  ‘A cannon blew up, and killed three men. Archibald needs help, or his gonnes will be overrun!’

  Berenger turned back to the battlefield. He made a quick decision. ‘Jack, Geoff, Clip – with me! Now!’

  When the massed rank of French horsemen crashed into the English pikes and spears, Sir John was hurled backwards and his spear snapped. A blow struck his bascinet and, still clutching the broken shaft in his fist, he found himself on his back, staring up at the sky.

  It was curiously peaceful. Men’s legs hurried past, but he couldn’t see any faces. A loud booming was in his ears, and he felt as though his body was floating, drifting, a few inches above the ground. It was calm there, as though he could merely close his eyes and doze off into sleep, and no one would bother him.

  Then all rushed back into his consciousness. Blaring of horns and the screams and shouts. He was lying in a foul mud that had been drenched in the blood of the dead and thickened with faeces and flesh. His stomach lurched, and he rolled onto all fours, consumed by revulsion. Clambering to his feet, he discarded the stump of his lance with disgust and grabbed his sword.

  The Prince was still standing beneath his banner, but Sir John could see that Edward of Woodstock was heavily pressed. French knights had seen his banner and were hacking at the knights about him. A knight fell even as he watched, and Sir John pulled down his visor and hefted his sword. Giving a shrill war cry, he thr
ew himself into the fray, bringing his sword down heavily onto a man’s forearm. There was a dull crack, and he was sure he had broken a bone beneath the mail. A blade struck his helmet, and his head was brought down by the blow, but then he span around, his sword at belly-height, and punched out with all his strength when it was level with the man’s belt. His blade met the rings of the man’s mail, and broke some, but didn’t penetrate the thick leather coat beneath. He pulled his sword free and attacked the man’s neck. A raised forearm blocked him, but he changed the direction of his weapon and thrust again, left hand gripping the blade. He felt the mail give again, and at the third stab he pierced it, and felt the steel slide greasily into the man’s stomach. Giving the blade a twist and shove, he kicked the man away even as he began to collapse.

  Another man, another sword aimed at his head. He ducked and heard the blade whistle over him like a bird of prey. Sir John rammed his head forward, feeling the top of his helmet crash into the man’s face, then he jerked his head up, catching the front of the man’s bascinet with the point of his own before shoving the tip of his sword up and beneath the man’s helmet. It cut the man’s chin but missed the soft, vulnerable base of his jaw. Sir John pulled it free and jabbed at the man’s neck with the length of his blade, trying to cut away at it, but the mail was too strong.

  The man fell away, but now another was before him, and Sir John was forced to retreat under the press of French men-at-arms. He found that he was being pushed back onto the Prince’s group, with more lances and swords facing them than ever. He brought his blade down on one lance, but two more pointed at him, prodding his breast and belly. His armour was not the newest, but his coat of plates was strong, thank God, and he was safe enough. A horse reared above them all, and a sword slammed down on another man, but then the arm wielding the sword was grabbed by the man holding the Prince’s banner. The horseman was dragged from his mount, still trying to fight, and died on the ground as three men hacked and bludgeoned at him. One man thrust his misericorde into the eye-slots of his visor, and the body jerked and twisted, then sagged.

  The men about the Prince were exhausted, but they fought on like those possessed. There was no time to see who was who, only to glimpse the weapon being thrust towards them and to counter it: cut at them, grab them and pull the opponent off-guard, stab at them, thrust one’s sword’s pommel into their faces, smash gauntleted fists into them, batter them with the cross of one’s sword – anything – to keep them at bay a little longer.

  The hand-to-hand combat raged within the dwindling number of men about the Prince.

  And then the Prince was no longer there.

  Sir John was so weary from the battle that he had to blink. The Prince was gone! He had fallen! The French were cheering, and their attack redoubled – and even as Sir John felt the encroaching despair, he saw the Prince’s banner fall, the material rippling as it was lowered to the ground like a kite in a feeble wind.

  The sight gave him a fury that lent power to his arm. Shrieking like a demon of the moors, he fought with a renewed determination. If his Prince was dead, he would die on the same field. He hurled himself at his enemies, his sword now notched and dull, sending it crashing at faces and hands, at any limb or sign of weakness in mail or armour, and as he did so, he could hear the blood singing in his ears. A red fog enveloped him. All he saw was the man before him, then the next, and the next, and he fought like a berserker.

  ‘For Saint Boniface!’ he screamed.

  A war hammer on a long pole slammed into his helmet with such force that the padded coif was crushed and he felt the metal crunch against his forehead. Blood washed into his eyes, and for a moment he could see nothing. He fell onto all fours and lifted his visor, wiping his face quickly, before trying to rise. A man’s hand was on his back, and he felt a fresh blow that sent his senses reeling. It felt as though he was back aboard that damned ship when they landed from Portsmouth, the deck rolling beneath him and sending his gut into paroxysms. He waited for the next blow with fatalistic expectation.

  ‘Sir John! Sir John – get up!’ cried a voice. With a sudden recognition he realised it belonged to Richard, his esquire.

  ‘Help me!’ he grunted, and Richard put a hand under his armpit, hauling him upright once more.

  The battle had ebbed, and Sir John had time to gaze about him as he got his breath back. So many bodies lay all about him, there was scarcely room to move. Many were Frenchmen, who had died in this undignified huddle while still more clambered over their bodies to fight.

  ‘Sir John, I hope you are well, sir?’ came another familiar voice.

  ‘My Lord, I thought you were with the fallen!’ Sir John said as the Prince grinned at him.

  Edward of Woodstock was leaning on his sword, his long hair over his eyes. He had thrown aside his helmet for the nonce, while he panted for breath. Blood streaming from a gash in his forehead gave him a ferocious air. He looked like a Lyme pirate, Sir John thought, and felt his heart go out to the lad.

  ‘Me? That is villeiny-saying, Sir John! You think I would dare desert the field by dying?’ He laughed. ‘I am about as dead as you are! And you look marvellously well, old friend.’

  ‘I am, my lord,’ Sir John said. The Prince’s banner stood above them again, Sir Thomas Daniel clinging to it like a drowning sailor gripping a spar, as though it was all that kept him upright. ‘I thought I saw your banner fall, too. Was that a dream?’

  ‘No, Sir John. My foolish bearer considered that I was about to be bested by the enemy, and allowed the banner to slip while he drew steel to help me, but I have instructed him to hold it aloft once more. I don’t wish my father to grow concerned for my health.’

  He laughed again, wiping blood from his brow. ‘I won’t have any man running to demand help. This is my victory!’

  Sir John nodded and stared ahead again. The French were reforming. Down at the far side of the rolling valley, their knights were shouting encouragement at the men-at-arms and horsemen, urging and cajoling them to return to the fray.

  ‘Christ’s blood, here they come again,’ he said.

  Berenger and the men ran to where Archibald was struggling, red-faced, with a massive iron spike, trying to roll his biggest gonne back onto the trestle where it had been set.

  ‘Come on, you bastard, gutless lurdan! What, do you defy God’s representative? In God’s name, I command that you obey, in nomine patris et . . .’

  ‘What in Christ’s heaven happened here?’ Berenger demanded.

  There were shards of metal all about the place. A great splinter had embedded itself in the side of the nearest cart, and there were many smouldering remains that looked much like parts of men.

  ‘They loaded it with too much powder, the bitch-clout deofols!’ Archibald said with contempt. ‘And then had the temerity to leave a powder keg open nearby, if you can believe it! Now are you going to help me get this damned lump of metal facing the enemy or not? I asked for your help, not for you to come and gawp!’

  In a short time Berenger and the men were using great iron bars to roll the enormous bulk of the cannon back into the bed created for it. As it butted up to the timbers set in the ground, Archibald began bellowing at the bemused archers, pointing to a long rod with rags wrapped about one end sitting in a leather bucket. ‘Fripper, grab that, man, bring it here! That’s right,’ he said, shoving the wet rags home into the barrel. He twisted and fiddled with it, then pulled it out again. Another rod with a blackened and filthy sheepskin wrapped about it lay on the grass nearby, and Archibald took it up and rammed that home. ‘Ed!’

  The Donkey was already at his side, his face red and sweaty, with streaks where perspiration had cut through the soot on his cheeks and brow. He held a long pole with a rounded copper shovel like a cylinder cut in half at the end, which was filled with coarse grains of Archibald’s black powder. Archibald took it from him and gently inserted it into the barrel, turning the rod over so that the powder was all deposited in the barrel. He shov
ed a wooden plug after it, and poked it home with the back of the powder-scoop, before taking up a linen bag of stones and placing it in the tube. It too was pushed up to rest against the plug.

  ‘Where are they, Donkey?’ he rasped as he hurried to the opposite end of the gonne. He blew at the touch-hole’s little dent, and took a small amount of powder from the flask under his shirt, tipping it into the dent and cupping his hand over it to stop it blowing away.

  ‘They are coming now.’

  ‘Very well. Stand back, the lot of you!’ Archibald roared, and peered along the length of his barrel.

  ‘Donkey, the match.’

  Ed picked up the cord and blew on it carefully. Berenger saw the end begin to glow like coals in a fire, and when it was a brilliant red, Ed passed it to Archibald.

  The gynour took it up, blew on it once more, and peered down the length of the barrel as he did so, aiming the tube at his enemy, his eyes narrowed. As the first of the enemy appeared through the mist, he held the match just above the touch-hole, waiting. When there were a hundred men visible, he touched the vent.

  There was a deafening roar and a belch of smoke that almost, but not quite, concealed the vast purple and scarlet flames. An ochre-yellow tinge to the smoke made it look like poison, and then it was gone, and a thick, black fume washed past the men, carrying the unmistakable stench of brimstone.

  Sir John irritably jerked away from the hands that tried to help him, and returned to his place in the line. ‘I’m not a cripple! Leave me alone. There are men who need help, but I’m not one.’

  His esquire returned with him and stood silently at his side as they stared down at the enemy. The French were running up the hill towards them again, many thousands, all on foot, and Sir John grasped a lance from the ground at his feet, sheathing his sword. ‘One last push, men – one last push! For God and Saint Boniface!’