‘Kill the poleaxe first,’ Karyl said softly. The man carrying that weapon also had a shield, which meant he could not use the big hooked axe with full strength.
‘You want to die?’ the tall man shouted.
From somewhere to the north came the din of sudden frenzy: shouts, metal clashing, screams. The enemy must be making a frantic effort to pierce the line, Thomas thought, and he prayed the English and their Gascon allies held, then he could spare no thought for prayer because the huge man with the spiked morningstar was charging. He was charging straight at Thomas who, alone among the men-at-arms in the English line, wore no plate armour.
‘Saint Denis!’ the tall man bellowed.
And Saint Denis met Saint George.
Cardinal Bessières watched the battle from the French hill. He was mounted on a stout and patient horse, and wore his cardinal’s robes though, incongruously, he had a bascinet perched on his head. He was a few yards from King Jean, who was also mounted, though the cardinal noted that the king had discarded his spurs, which suggested that if he fought he would fight on foot. The king’s youngest son, Philippe, and the rest of the knights and men-at-arms were all dismounted. ‘What is happening, Your Majesty?’ the cardinal enquired.
The king was not entirely certain of the answer and he was irritated that the cardinal, with his ridiculous helmet, was staying so close. He did not like Bessières. The man was the son of a merchant, for God’s sake, but he had risen in the church and was now a Papal Legate and, the king knew, had hopes of becoming Pope. And perhaps Bessières would be a good choice because, despite his humble birth, the cardinal was fiercely supportive of the French monarchy and it never hurt to have God’s help, and so the king indulged him. ‘Our first battle is breaking the enemy.’ he explained.
‘God be praised,’ the cardinal said, then pointed to the Duke of Orléans’s banner, which flew above the second battle that waited in the shallow valley between the two hills. The duke had well over two thousand men-at-arms. They were on foot, but their horses were close behind their ranks in case they were needed to pursue a broken enemy. ‘Is there some reason,’ the cardinal asked, ‘why your brother is not advancing to do God’s business?’
The king nearly lost his temper. He was nervous. He had hoped that the dauphin’s battle would be sufficient to break the English, but it was evident that the fight was harder than anyone had expected. He had been assured that the enemy was weakened by hunger and thirst, but they were still fighting. Desperation, he supposed. ‘My brother will advance when he is ordered to advance,’ he said curtly.
‘It is a question of space,’ the Count of Ventadour intervened. He was a young man who was a favourite of the king, and he had sensed his monarch’s irritation and moved to spare him from any further tedious explanations.
‘Space?’ the cardinal asked.
‘The enemy, Your Eminence, has a strong position,’ the count said, pointing. ‘You see the hedge? It restricts us.’
‘Ah,’ the cardinal said as if he had only just noticed the hedge. ‘But why not advance all our strength?’
‘Because even a king or a cardinal cannot pour a quart into a pint pot, Your Eminence,’ the count said.
‘So break the pot,’ the cardinal suggested.
‘They are attempting to do just that, Your Eminence,’ the count said patiently.
It was difficult to determine what happened beyond the hedge. There was plainly fighting, but who was winning? There were still Frenchmen on the hedge’s western side, which suggested that they did not have space enough to fight on the farther side, or perhaps they were the fainthearts who did not want to risk their lives. A small trickle of wounded men retreated down the hill, and it seemed obvious to the cardinal that the French should send every man they had to put unbearable pressure on the enemy, but instead the king and his brother were waiting calmly, letting the dauphin’s troops do the work. Geoffrey de Charny, the royal standard bearer, was still holding the oriflamme aloft, indicating that no prisoners should be taken, and the cardinal understood enough to know that the great flag would fly until the enemy was broken. Only when that bright red pennant vanished could the French be confident that they had time to secure rich ransoms, and Bessières was frustrated that it still flew. King Jean, he thought, was being tentative. He had sent a third of his army to fight, but why not all? Yet he knew he could utter no criticism. When the next Pope was elected he needed King Jean’s influence.
‘Your Eminence?’ the Count of Ventadour broke into the cardinal’s thoughts.
‘My son?’ the cardinal responded grandly.
‘May I?’ The count reached up towards the cheap-looking blade that the cardinal held.
‘With reverence, my son,’ the cardinal said.
The count touched la Malice, closed his eyes, and prayed. ‘There will be victory,’ he said when his prayer was finished.
‘It is God’s will,’ the cardinal said.
Thirty paces away from the cardinal, the Count of Labrouillade stood in the ranks of the king’s men. He was sweating. He wore linen underclothes and above those a close-fitting leather jerkin and a pair of trews. A mail coat covered the leather, and strapped over the mail was a full suit of plate armour. He needed to piss. The wine he had been drinking all night was swelling his bladder, but he feared that if he released that pressure then his bowels would release as well. His belly was sour. Christ, he thought, but let the dauphin win this quickly! And why was it taking so long? He shifted his weight from foot to foot. At least the Duke of Orléans would be the next into battle. The Count of Labrouillade had paid gold to Marshal Clermont to have himself and his men-at-arms posted to the king’s battle, the last battle, and he fervently prayed that the king’s three thousand men would not be needed. And why were they fighting on foot? Everyone knew that a nobleman fought on horseback! Yet some damned Scotsman had persuaded the king to fight on foot as the English did. If the English and the Scots wanted to fight like peasants that was their business, but a noble of France should be in the saddle! How could a man run away if he was on foot? Labrouillade groaned.
‘My lord?’ His standard bearer thought the count had spoken.
‘Be quiet,’ Labrouillade said, then sighed with relief as he pissed. The urine soaked warm down his legs and dripped from under the steel-plated skirt that protected his groin. He clenched his bowels and, blessedly, stayed clean. He looked to his right to see that the oriflamme still flew, and he prayed for the moment when it would be furled and his men could be released to find Roland de Verrec, who had sent his insulting and threatening message with the man whose horse he had killed in full view of the French army. The count had vowed to do to Roland what he had done to the impudent Villon. He would geld him for his treachery. That prospect consoled the count. ‘Messengers,’ someone said, and he looked towards the distant fighting and saw that two horsemen were riding back across the valley. They brought news, he thought, and prayed that it was good and that he would not have to fight, but merely take prisoners.
Sculley, the frightening Scotsman, walked past Labrouillade, who thought he resembled a creature from nightmare. Blood had soaked his jupon so that the red heart of Douglas looked as though it had burst. There was blood on his gauntlets and on the vambraces that covered his forearms. His visor was up. He gave the count a feral look, then stalked on towards the cardinal.
‘I want the magic sword,’ Sculley said to the cardinal.
‘What is the animal saying?’ the cardinal asked Father Marchant, who was mounted on a mare that stood close behind Bessières’s horse. Sculley had spoken in English and even if the cardinal had understood that language he would never have penetrated the Scotsman’s accent.
‘What is it?’ Father Marchant asked Sculley.
‘Tell your man to give me the magic sword!’
‘La Malice?’
‘Give it to me! The bastards have hurt my lord and I’m going to kill the bastards!’ He spat the words out, glaring at the car
dinal as though he wanted to begin his revenge by slicing open Bessières’s huge stomach. ‘That archer,’ Sculley went on, ‘he’s a dead man. I watched the bastard! Shooting at my lord when he was on the ground! Just give me the magic sword!’
‘Your Eminence,’ Father Marchant spoke in French again, ‘the creature wants la Malice. He expresses a desire to slaughter the enemy.’
‘Thank God someone does,’ the cardinal said. He had been wondering which man might best use the relic, but it seemed the man had chosen for him. He glanced at the Scotsman and shuddered at the crudity of his appearance, then he smiled, sketched a blessing, and gave the sword to Sculley.
And somewhere a trumpet called.
The Prince of Wales appeared in the English front line, his bright flag, the largest on the English side, behind and above him, and the French responded with a roar as they renewed their attack, but the English matched the war shout and surged forward themselves. Shield met shield with a crash, the weapons fell and thrust, and it was the English who forged ahead. The men trusted to guard the Prince of Wales were among the most experienced and savage in all the army. They had fought a score of battles, from Crécy to minor skirmishes, and they fought with cold-blooded ruthlessness. The two Frenchmen closest to the prince were felled instantly. Neither was killed. One was half stunned by a mace blow, and he collapsed to his knees, and the other took an axe blow to his right elbow that shattered the bone and left him weaponless. He was dragged backwards by his companions, and that rearward movement spread to the neighbouring Frenchmen. The half-stunned man tried to stand, but the prince kicked him backwards onto the ground and trod on his armoured wrist. ‘Finish him,’ he said to the man behind him, who used a steel-shod foot to push up the fallen man’s visor and rammed down with a sword point. Blood sprayed on the prince.
‘Give me room!’ the prince bellowed. He stepped forward and swung the axe, feeling the impact jar up his arms as the blade chopped into a man’s waist. He wrenched the axe free and thrust it forward. The haft was topped with a steel spike that dented the wounded man’s breastplate, but did not pierce it. That man staggered, and the prince took another step forward and sliced the heavy weapon at the enemy’s neck where the sharp blade went through the mail aventail that he wore beneath his helmet to cover his neck and shoulders. The man staggered and the prince kicked him backwards and swung at another enemy. He was fighting without a visor and he could plainly see Charles, the dauphin, not ten paces away. ‘Come and fight me!’ he bellowed in French. ‘You and me! Charles! Come and fight!’
The dauphin, so thin and awkward, did not bother to answer. He saw the Prince of Wales beat a man down with his axe, and saw a Frenchman plunge a shortened lance that ripped open the prince’s jupon. Beneath the jupon the prince’s cuirass was sculpted with his coat of arms. The lance thrust again and the prince slashed the axe down onto his assailant’s shoulder. The dauphin saw the big blade bite through the armour and saw the blood spray sudden and bright. ‘Back, Your Highness,’ one of the dauphin’s guards said. That guardian could see that the enemy prince was determined to fight his way through to the heir to the French throne. That could not happen. And the English were fighting like demons, so it might happen if he did not act. ‘Back, Your Highness,’ he said again, and this time pulled the dauphin away.
The dauphin was speechless. He had surprised himself by how little fear he had felt once the battle began. True, he was well guarded and the men charged with his safety were all brutally efficient fighters, but the dauphin had tried to do his best. He had thrust a sword hard at an enemy knight and thought he had hurt the man. Most of all he had been fascinated. He had observed the battle with an intelligent eye and, though he was appalled at the butchery, he found it intriguing. It was a stupid way to decide great matters, he thought, for the decision was surely a lottery once the brawling began. There had to be a cleverer way to defeat the enemy?
‘Back, sire!’ a man bellowed at him, and the dauphin allowed himself to be drawn back through the gap in the hedge. How long had they been fighting? he wondered. It seemed like minutes, but now he saw that the sun was high above the trees and so it must have been at least an hour! ‘Time flies,’ he said.
‘Did you speak, sire?’ a man shouted.
‘I said time flies!’
‘Christ Jesus,’ the man said. He watched the Prince of Wales, who was standing cocksure above the men he had beaten down with his bloodied axe.
The prince shook the axe at the retreating enemy. ‘Come back!’ he bellowed.
‘He’s a fool,’ the dauphin said in puzzlement.
‘Sire?’
‘I said he’s a fool!’
‘A fighting fool,’ the man said in grudging admiration.
‘He’s enjoying this,’ the dauphin said.
‘Why wouldn’t he, sire?’
‘Only a fool could enjoy it. To a fool this is paradise, and he’s wallowing in idiocy.’
The man in charge of the dauphin’s guards thought the eighteen-year-old prince was mad and he felt a surge of anger that he was trusted with the life of this pale-faced, hollow-chested weakling with his short legs and long arms, and now, it seemed, with a brain made of soft cheese. A prince should look like a prince, like the Prince of Wales. The Frenchman hated to admit it, but the enemy prince looked like a proper ruler in his broad-chested blood-spattered glory. He looked like a real warrior, not like this pale shred of an excuse for a man. But the pale shred was the dauphin, and so the man kept his voice respectful. ‘We must send messengers to your father,’ he said, ‘to the king.’
‘I know who my father is.’
‘We must request him to send more men, sire.’
‘Do so,’ the dauphin said, ‘but make sure he sends his most foolish fools.’
‘Fools, sire?’
‘Send the messengers! Do it now!’
So the French sent for help.
The huge man with the morningstar rushed at Thomas, while his companions, one with the flail and the other with an axe, charged with him. They bellowed their challenges as they came. Thomas was flanked by Karyl and by Arnaldus, hardened men both, one German, one Gascon, and Karyl faced the man with the poleaxe, while Arnaldus was challenged by the steel-faced man with the war-flail.
Thomas still carried the shortened lance. He dropped it.
The morningstar swung. Thomas, looking up, saw drops of blood being flicked from its spikes as it seared through the sky. He himself had no weapon now, so he just stepped forward, inside the swing, and put his archer’s arms around the tall man and squeezed as he lifted.
Arnaldus had taken the flail’s blow on his shield. Now, with his right hand, he chopped the axe down on his assailant’s leg. Karyl had followed Thomas’s example and stepped inside the poleaxe’s long swing and rammed his mace into his enemy’s groin. He rammed it again. Thomas heard a squeal. He was holding onto his enemy. The flail scraped down his back, tearing mail and leather. More Frenchmen were coming, but so were more Hellequin. The man with the poleaxe was bent double, and that was an invitation to Karyl, who took it gratefully. He held his mace close to its head, shortening the swing, and slammed it onto the nape of the Frenchman’s neck. Once, twice, and the man went down in silence, and Karyl drew a dagger and prised up the lower rim of the breastplate worn by the huge man clasped in Thomas’s arms. Karyl slid the dagger up under the man’s ribs.
‘Jesus! Jesus!’ the man screamed. Thomas tightened the embrace. The big man should have let go of the morningstar and tried to break Thomas’s neck, but he stubbornly held the weapon as Karyl wriggled his long, thin blade, and the man screamed louder. Thomas smelt shit. He was squeezing as hard as he could and Karyl thrust the dagger again, ramming it up under the breastplate’s edge so that his bloodied gauntlet vanished under the steel and into the mangled mail and wool.
‘You can drop him now,’ Karyl said.
The man fell heavily. He was jerking, gasping.
‘Poor bastard,’ Karyl said.
‘Should have known better.’ He picked up his mace, put a foot on the squirming man’s chest and slammed the mace down hard onto his helmet. ‘Good luck in hell,’ Karyl said. ‘Say hello to the devil for us.’
The French were pulling back. Step by step, watching their enemy, but going back along the hedge or else trying to force a way through the tangling brambles. The English and Gascons did not follow. Men on horseback behind the line were bellowing at them. ‘Keep the line! No pursuit! Let them go!’
The temptation was to pursue the French and capture rich prisoners, but such a pursuit would break the line open, and if the French had failed to do that with steel then the English would not do it to themselves with greed. They stayed in line.
‘You should try fighting with a weapon,’ Karyl said to Thomas, amused.
Thomas was dry-mouthed. He could hardly speak, but as the French went, so the women from the English baggage came with wineskins filled with river-water. There was not enough for everyone to slake their thirst, but men drank what they could.
And trumpets sounded in the valley.
The enemy was coming again.
The first messenger to reach the king was dusty. Sweat had made channels through the dust on his face. His horse was white with sweat. He dismounted and knelt. ‘My liege,’ he said, ‘the prince your son requests reinforcements.’
The king was gazing at the far hill. He could see the English banners through the widest gap in the hedge. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘The enemy is weakened, sire. Very weakened.’
‘But not broken.’
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