by DAVID B. COE
Responding to the order with alacrity, men hurried forward with torches and thrust them into the nearest of the wood piles. Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Flames burst forth, burning brilliantly in the darkness. Down the beach, soldiers saw that the first signal fires had been lit and rushed to light the others, so that the blazes spread down the coastline one after the other, the firelight reflected in the coastal waters.
HE WAS PHILIP AUGUSTUS, leader of the mightiest army on earth, known for his ruthlessness and keen intelligence, and also for the grace of his court and his own elegance. After today he would be known as well as the Conqueror. He would be remembered in the same breath as William, who had sailed across the channel a hundred and thirty years before to defeat the English.
He didn't like having to rely on a man like Godfrey; he would have preferred to rely less on subterfuge and more on the might of his military. But Godfrey thought his plan would work, and Philip had chosen to believe him. Woe to the man if events proved him wrong.
He heard footsteps behind him, and turning saw that the captain was approaching him, navigating the deck with ease, his steps sure and confident, despite the motion of the vessel.
“Votre Majèste,” he said, pointing toward the English shore. “Les voílà les feux.” Your Majesty, the signal fires.
Staring across the churning black waters toward the English coast, Philip saw the fires burning along the distant beach like a string of diamonds gleaming in candlelight, their glow illuminating the pale cliffs beyond with a faint golden hue. Land at last, and the promise of an end to this slow torture on the swells of the Channel.
Philip faced the captain once more. “Commencez l'embarquement. Des que je pourrai descendre de ce miserable bateau, tu m'en informeras.” Begin landing. Tell me when I may get off this wretched boat.
The king turned away from the man and looked toward the shore once more. The fires gleamed in the night, beckoning to him. At last his invasion could begin. He looked left and right to admire his armada, which was anchored out here in the deep with his own ship. Four hundred vessels strong, some of them war ships bristling with cannons, others landing craft filled with soldiers. Even if John knew of his plans, he could not possibly summon an army to match Philip's. With this invasion, he could finally claim these isles for France. He smiled at the thought.
ROBIN, WILL, ALLAN, and Little John caught up with the barons and their army just after midday of the day they left Nottingham, and they rode the rest of the way southward with Baldwin and Fitzrobert. Robin wanted to go after Godfrey without delay, but the barons had agreed to meet up with King John's army at the White Horse, just west of London.
While traveling with the barons took them out of their way, Baldwin and Fitzrobert drove their men hard and rode through much of the night. They made good time. By midmorning the following day, they had ridden into a steep-walled valley of lush grasses. Robin looked around him, trying to get his bearings. He had seen the White Horse once before and so knew this country, though it had been many years since last he came. The White Horse itself was an immense and ancient chalk image of a horse that had been inscribed on the top of one of these hills, back before even the earliest written histories of England. It proved easy to find.
The image of the horse stood out starkly on the grass-covered hillside above them, the crushed chalk gleaming in the sunlight. Looking up, Robin patted the neck of his white charger, the horse that had carried King Richard's crown the first time Robin encountered Godfrey, the horse he had taken as his own the day Robert Loxley died. Robin had never been one to read omens in such things, but he couldn't help but feel that there was a portent in this, though for good or ill he couldn't say.
From a distance he spotted William Marshal sitting his horse beside the king. He rode toward the men. Before he reached them, Marshal saw him and cantered over to greet him, concern knotting his brow.
“What news of Walter and Nottingham?” he asked.
“Walter is dead, M'Lord,” Robin told him. “By Godfrey's hand.”
Marshal sagged in his saddle, a pained look in his pale eyes. He looked like he might ask more, but at that moment King John joined them, his face flushed, an exuberant smile on his handsome face.
“Gentlemen!” the king said. “We go to war! It is my first time. I shall lead.”
Marshal straightened and faced the king, his grief hidden, at least for the moment. Robin marveled at the change in him from one instant to the next.
John danced his horse for a moment, as if too excited to keep still. Then he was off, calling for them to ride with him.
Robin and Marshal exchanged a look and together they rode after the king.
With captains shouting orders and men scrambling to take their positions, the army marshaled quickly: the cavalry a thousand strong, and five hundred more men on foot. Within the hour they had set out southward toward Dover, where William Marshal's scouts expected the French invasion force to land.
For the rest of the day and all through the night, the riders crossed the English countryside at a steady canter, with King John, Robin, Marshal, and the barons at the fore. The foot soldiers jogged just behind them, silent save for the rhythmic beat of their footsteps and the clanking of their swords and armor. They encountered few people on the road, though they did occasionally see faces peering out at them from the doorway of a farmhouse or lamplit window. A gibbous moon carved through the night sky overhead, and a few clouds scudded past, briefly obscuring the stars.
Robin wasn't yet sure that he trusted this king, but he couldn't deny that John had rallied his army to the task at hand. He hoped they would be enough to hold off the French.
As the first faint glimmerings of dawn began to appear on the eastern horizon, Robin caught the scent of salt water riding the breeze. He looked up into the dawn sky and saw gulls wheeling overhead.
Glancing back at Will, Allan, and Little John, he grinned.
They nodded in return, all of them looking eager to get off their horses and take up their weapons.
PHILIP'S SHIPS WERE still on the water as the eastern sky over Dover began to brighten with the pinks and blues and pale yellows of dawn. Sitting his horse, Godfrey could see the vessels clearly now, and he could not help but be impressed with the size of the French fleet. They were slow, though. Too damned slow. If he thought it would have helped, he would have swam out to the ships and pulled them to shore himself.
The landing craft—ugly, flat-bottomed scows— bristled with oars and battle pikes, like hedgehogs floating on the swells. Crossbowmen stood at the squared bows, looking over the raised wooden ramps toward shore, their weapons ready, lest the English appear. Given how the ships rose and fell and rocked on the swells, though, Godfrey wasn't sure how the bowmen would manage to hit anything if they had to fire. Fortunately, there had not yet been any sign of King John's army.
The boats approached the shore steadily, all of them moving in tandem, the men on sweeps rowing with precision. They hadn't yet been taken by the incoming tide, but they were close to the foaming waters. Once they got that far, the Channel might do the rest.
Some of the craft held horses, and even from this distance Godfrey could see that the animals were struggling against their riders and grooms, no doubt panicked by the motion of the ships. Some of the creatures had started to buck and lunge. If the vessels didn't make land soon, soldiers would be trampled by their own mounts.
French soldiers on the beach near Godfrey called to their fellow soldiers, urging them on. Godfrey thought that their shouts of encouragement were sounding increasingly apprehensive.
And he could see why. With every minute that passed, Godfrey's initial faith in the French fleet dwindled. They were approaching fast enough, but for all their purported skill on the water, they appeared to be at the mercy of the tide. The first of the landing craft reached the surf break only to be turned to the side by the current. Almost immediately, a wave hit the vessel broadside, nearly overturning it. The craft teetere
d on its edge; horses skidded across the deck, crushing men against the side, and several armored men fell out of the craft and into the surf. Then the ship fell hard, back onto its flat bottom. Had the water been any deeper, the men thrown from the craft would have been lost, dragged under by their chain mail. As it was, the water was shallow enough that they were able to stand.
The men who had been tossed overboard by the tide straggled ashore, plodding heavily through the surf and sand, water pouring from their chain mail as they emerged from the Channel.
The landing craft finally came to a stop at water's edge, half askew, its hull grinding loudly against the sand. The landing gate flopped open and the war horses—huge, armored, panicked beyond control— lunged toward the opening, lashing out with their hooves, kicking the walls of the ship, each other, and any men in their way. A groom, who had been standing too close to the gate, was trampled as the beasts poured out of the ship and onto land. Cavalry men grabbed at the reins, trying to calm the creatures, or at least hold them back. Some succeeded in doing so; others were dragged onto shore.
In the moments that followed, Godfrey saw several other landing vessels make it onto the beach. Their gates dropped open and men and horses began to disembark. For a short while, it seemed quite orderly. But then more vessels came in, carried by the surf, uncontrolled. A few of these slammed into the ships that had landed ahead of them and were still disgorging soldiers. Men and animals were thrown from both vessels. Some were able to get their feet under them and continue on toward the shore. Others flailed in the water, or cried out in pain. A few didn't move or make a sound.
STANDING AT THE prow of his flagship, King Philip watched, disconcerted, as his men made their way onto Dover Beach. This was not the well-coordinated landing he had envisioned as he and Godfrey planned the invasion.
He wanted to dismiss what he saw as a trifle, a momentary lapse in what would be a glorious battle. But he couldn't help wondering if it was more. If his men couldn't even make landfall without falling out of their ships and being crushed by their horses, how would they fight the English army? Were they on the verge of a disaster?
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
Riding alongside Marshal, Robin could hear the surf pounding. The dawn air was heavy with brine here, and the cries of gulls echoed all around them. They cantered up a rise and, reaching the top, saw in the distance Dover Beach and the waters of the English Channel. A line of bonfires burned on the sand, and dark ships approached the coast.
Reining his mount to a halt, King John stared down at the scene before them. “That's a lot of French,” he said. Robin thought he heard a note of doubt in the man's voice. “What's to be done?”
Robin pointed toward the cliffs overlooking the beach. “Archers to the cliffs,” he said.
Marshal nodded, adding, “And cavalry to the beach.”
Robin spurred his mount forward again, calling for the archers to follow him, and heard Marshal call to the cavalry.
“An excellent plan!” King John called, riding after them.
The wind rushing in his ears, Robin knotted the reins in his fist and checked the hang of his sword with his other hand. For the moment, their grievances with the Throne were forgotten. The French had come to England. They would drive the invaders from their shores or die in the attempt. For now, nothing else mattered.
As the English forces reached the headland, Robin split off from Marshal and the rest, signaling to the army's mounted archers—four hundred men strong— that they should follow him onto the top of the cliff. He dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse, keeping the animal at a full run. And the archers followed, riding along the cliff's edge until they were above the French landing area on the beach.
THE TIDE WAS rising. A wave swept over what was left of the bonfire nearest to Godfrey, sending a plume of vapor into the morning air, and tugging the charred logs, a few of them briefly still aflame, out into the Channel.
The French had finally figured out the current. More landing craft scraped up onto the beach, their gates opening to allow men and horses to file off the vessels and onto the sand. There they immediately began to form up with the same quiet efficiency Godfrey had observed in Adhemar's men during their march through the English countryside. And none too soon. Somehow King John had come, leading an army far larger than anything Godfrey had expected. There was supposed to be civil war. John was supposed to be under attack by his own people. Instead he was here. Godfrey could only assume that Loxley and Marshal were to blame.
PHILIP HAD HOPED that his men would have time to establish a position before being challenged by John's army. Clearly that was not to be. The captain of his flagship stood beside him, pointing toward the English cavalry, which had appeared at the far end of the beach. Its riders were arraying themselves for a charge on the French lines.
But Philip's eye was drawn elsewhere. For at that moment, the golden glow of the rising sun struck the cliffs, as if Midas himself had reached down from heaven and touched the stone. And what that light revealed made the king's stomach heave. Hundreds of riders had steered their mounts onto the top of the promontory, all of them bearing longbows. These men quickly arrayed themselves along the cliff's edge directly over his army, while the cavalry started forward.
It would be a slaughter.
“Mon dieu…” The king whispered. My God.
THE ARCHERS LEAPED from their mounts and lined themselves along the edge of the crag, their bows held ready. Robin remained on his horse, where the men could see him. Looking down on the French, he saw that they were aware of him and his men, but utterly helpless to do anything about them.
He raised his hand and the English archers nocked arrows, drew back their bowstrings, and aimed skyward, judging the arc of the shot, the distance to the enemy below. Then he swept his hand down and the men released their arrows as one, the thrumming of their bows making the air around them sing, as if a thousand harps had been plucked at once. Robin rode across the front of his army, watching as the arrows climbed into the pale sky and, reaching their zenith, seemed to pause briefly above the earth, before beginning their steep, deadly plummet toward the French army.
A moment later, screams from below rent the false calm of the morning. Men fell with arrows buried in their chests, their heads, their throats. And already Robin had signaled for his archers to aim and fire again.
The thrum of the bows, the deathly, expectant silence, and then more cries from below. Robin's men shaped a terrible rhythm, a counterpoint to the steady crash of the waves. The song of war.
AT THE BASE of the cliffs, below the archers, all was tumult and carnage. Dead men were sprawled on the beach, their blood staining the sand. Those who yet survived scrambled for cover, holding shields over their heads to protect themselves.
At the same time, the English cavalry at the far end of the strand had started their charge, war cries on their lips, swords held ready.
Godfrey wheeled his horse back and forth, marking the progress of the charge, watching death rain down on the French soldiers, astonished at how quickly all his planning had been undone.
One last volley flew from the archers on the cliff, and then the soldiers there remounted and swept down toward the beach, with Loxley leading them. The men continued to loose their arrows, until the charging cavalry smashed into the French lines. In moments Loxley's soldiers would join the fight with their compatriots, crushing the French between them. Those of Philip's men who hadn't been killed by the archers would die on the edge of an English sword.
More landing craft continued to wash up onto the beach, but Godfrey didn't think they carried enough soldiers to turn the tide of this battle.
The fight spilled into the surf, men struggling with their footing in the shifting sand as they hacked at one another with swords. Within moments, the tidal sand and the pale foam of the breakers were stained red. Men and horses whirled in confusion and panic, parrying blows, lunging at enemy soldiers, falling at th
e water's edge with blood blossoming from their wounds.
As waves continued to hammer at the shore, landing craft were tossed forward, crushing men both living and dead. Horses fell, arrows embedded in their necks and flanks. Some men were simply dragged under the water by the weight of their armor, unable to find their footing as the surf surged and retreated.
Seawater mingled with ever more blood. Bodies rolled in the waves and were tossed onto the sand like seashells.
THE TWO HALVES of the English cavalry battered the French army like tidal waves, rolling over the invaders with the sound of summer thunder, leaving death and mayhem in their wake. Before long Robin had fought his way to William Marshal's side. Fitzrobert was there, too, and they were quickly joined by King John. All of their swords were bloodied, but the king watched the center of the battle avidly, clearly itching to plunge in.