‘At least each commander now knows where the other one is,’ Poulter remarked drily.
‘Aye, but the Prince’s first concern must be to prevent the French from cutting him off from Bordeaux,’ answered Eric Berowne, while Wulfstan and Charles caught each other’s eye and shrugged, thoroughly confused.
Action came at last. Late on a summer evening and very early the following morning the Prince led his troops up to a commanding position north of a Benedictine abbey, looking down to the Poitiers road, with their backs to the wood and divided into three columns: the right side was commanded by the Earl of Warwick, the left by Suffolk, while he himself with Sir John Chandos and the Count de Lusignan took command of the central column. Ten years before, King Edward III accompanied by his son, this same Prince aged sixteen, had used this tactic to conquer the French at Crécy, but this time the enemy was in full array before him, ready to attack. Wulfstan, Robert Poulter and Charles de Lusignan were among the men-at-arms in the central column, supporting the archers, and as dawn broke on that Sunday morning, a Dominican friar led them in a prayer for victory. Wulfstan bowed his head and prayed silently under his breath, begging that his courage might not fail him, and to die honourably if this should be his fate. Secretly, shamefully he felt afraid. What was happening in King John’s tent? Were they also praying that God would be on their side?
The sun rose upon the two opposing forces standing ready for the order to attack and be attacked, but then, incredibly as it seemed, there came yet another delay. A group of clerics on horseback came galloping into the space between the Prince’s and the King’s men, led by Cardinal de Perigord with a message from the Pope, ordering that the battle be delayed until sunrise on the following day, to avoid bloodshed on the sabbath. King John, in spite of protests from some of his leaders, agreed to the request, and his men were ordered to rest and spend the day in prayer. The Prince also agreed, for to him this was a valuable breathing space for his troops to dig ditches and strengthen barricades. That evening his Dominican friar led them in prayer again, and he addressed the men in a stirring speech of encouragement. Wulfstan was on foot, having tied Troilus to a tree, with the intention of offering him to the Benedictine Abbey after the battle. He wore a helmet and a hauberk, a tunic of chain mail that came halfway down his thighs, and carried a six-foot lance held horizontally as in the jousting tournaments, but instead of being blunted, it ended in a lethal two-edged blade.
On the Monday at sun-up the opposing forces faced one another, waiting for the signal to attack. Wulfstan stood with bated breath, and heard the shouted order from the French side, swelling to a roar of ‘For France and St Denys!’ as the heavy cavalry of the French thundered forward, led by the Constable of France and two Marshals, swords flashing and pennants flying. On the English side the Prince called, ‘Now!’ – and the archers drew back the strings of their longbows, took aim, and filled the air with arrows flying over and down upon the French cavalry, finding a target in men and horses. The latter reared up in terror, and refused to go forward; they turned back and stumbled, some falling upon their riders in huge confusion.
‘Now!’ called the Prince again, and a second wave of arrows whistled through the air. One of the Marshals was killed, likewise the Constable of France. Wulfstan watched one man fall after another, and then the Prince gave the order to advance. The middle column moved forward, yelling at the tops of their voices, ‘For England and St George!’ Wulfstan was carried forward and lost sight of Robert and Charles, though he thought he could see the Prince in his gleaming black armour riding ahead amidst the noise: the blaring horns and clarions, the thunder of hooves, the screams of wounded men and horses added up to a deafening din that robbed Wulfstan of any sense of direction on the field of battle. He clutched his lance and moved blindly forward, hardly knowing friend from foe.
A sudden blow on his helmet and a furious kick in the groin below his hauberk sent him staggering, bent double and clutching at his vital parts.
‘Damned English cur!’ was hissed in his ear. ‘By God, we’ll fill our ditches with your blood, damned sons of English whores!’ The hatred expressed in the words was almost as frightening as the physical assault. Wulfstan’s head whirled and the man’s curses sounded strangely in his ears, for he recognized the voice. He straightened himself up and held his lance upright, signifying that he had no wish to use it.
‘Léon!’ he gasped, ‘Léon Merand, my friend, don’t kill me. You saved my life at Sailly, remember? We are comrades from the Maison Duclair!’
‘So I thought then!’ came the contemptuous reply. ‘I was a fool among other fools, and forgot my true allegiance, to my shame. But now I’m vowed to defend the sacred soil of France to my last breath. Prepare to die, English worm!’
He lunged at Wulfstan with his sword, and instinctively Wulfstan deflected it with his lance, unable to believe this was really happening, for surely he was in the grip of a nightmare. Another swish of his lance knocked the sword from Merand’s hand, and with a skill learned at the Maison Duclair he thrust the point of the lance beneath Merand’s hauberk just beneath his right arm; he felt it meet flesh, and crying out aloud for God’s pardon, he pushed it with all his strength, sinking it into the chest to cut asunder heart and lungs.
Merand gave a sigh and sank to his knees, staring sightlessly at his erstwhile friend. Wulfstan groaned as if he were the victim, and would have knelt beside the body, had not another Frenchman attacked him with a battleaxe.
From then on it was hand-to-hand fighting. Wulfstan used his lance to knock the axe out of the man’s hand, and picked it up to use it against its owner, but the man disappeared into the crowd. All around Wulfstan there was bloodshed and death. Then he heard a voice above the chaos and confusion.
‘Wulfstan! Where have you been? We’ve got the French army on the run!’
It was Robert Poulter, blood-smeared but triumphant. ‘King John has retreated, and the Prince has won the day!’
Unable to take in this news, Wulfstan stumbled after him, back to the line of Saint-Pierre wood, where he found that on the Prince’s orders, the surviving men were carrying their dead and badly wounded to the camp at the edge of the wood, laying them under bushes and hedges, in the shade. From the dead they took their spears and swords to use again, and arrows were drawn from men’s bodies and their stricken horses. Somebody held a water-bottle to Wulfstan’s lips and told him that the Prince was high in his praises, but he hardly heard, so incredible, so horrible was the knowledge that he had killed a former friend. A great weariness came over his spirit, and he felt drained of all emotion as he stood among the dead and the injured in their death throes, and heard their pitiful groans all around him.
‘Mother – mother, are you there? Help me, dear mother.’
‘Damn them all to hell, French fiends – they’ve done for me. May Christ have mercy on my soul.’
‘Water! For the love of God, give me water!’
And then another voice he recognized, calling out, ‘My son, where are you? Have pity on your grieving father, show me where you’re lying. Oh, my son, my son, forgive me!’
This agonized plea was from the Count de Lusignan, seeking Charles who had never wanted to go to war again. It was one more tragedy among so many, and all Wulfstan could think of was his sister Ethelreda; how could he comfort her when there was no comfort to be found? It was a scene from hell. And the Battle of Poitiers was far from over yet.
A lull in the fighting had been mistaken for victory by the English. King John of France had indeed retreated, but was re-forming his army, calling upon reserve troops at Tours to join him at Poitiers. The English were unprepared for the sight of the French king advancing again, leading an augmented army of fresh men, pennants flying and bright armour shining. Helmets were donned again, and hauberks hastily pulled over tunics. Wulfstan saw the Prince in his black armour, sitting astride his horse, defying their approach, and at this moment a man blurted out, ‘Alas, we are overcome!’
The Prince rounded upon him in fury.
‘Liar! Coward! Never say we can be overcome as long as I live!’
So Wulfstan was again thrust into battle under the Prince’s command. No sooner had his column fallen into line than a volley of arrows from French crossbowmen darkened the sky. The English, short of arrows and desperately tired, seemed scarcely a match for the advancing horde, and Wulfstan saw the Prince exchanging words with the Earl of Warwick, who then led his column of archers and men-at-arms away from the field, to disappear down a gully and into the trees. Could they possibly be fleeing the field after such a declaration from the Prince? It must look like it to the French, thought Wulfstan, who again prepared himself for death, uttering a silent prayer for courage in defeat, and committing his soul and all of his friends to God’s judgement.
He heard the Prince give a tremendous shout: ‘Let us go forth – you shall never see me turn back! Advance in the name of God and St George!’
Wulfstan, a foot soldier, was swept forward on the tide of battle, as likely to be killed by his own comrades as by the enemy in the chaos of this black Monday. He fought with sword and lance, spurred on by the thought of Charles de Lusignan, his friend and brother-in-law, lying dead somewhere on this bloody field. Separated from his friends, breathless and ready to drop in sheer exhaustion, he suddenly looked up to see his Prince, who from this day would be known as the Black Prince by friend and foe, sitting up astride his black steed, and looking ahead with an expression of undisguised relief. Wulfstan followed his gaze, and saw what the Prince had been waiting for: a glint of steel emerging from the west side of the wood. It was the Earl of Warwick with his longbow archers, who had turned a half-circle and now came up behind the French. He gave his men the signal to fire their murderous arrows, and Wulfstan stared up at them, weapons of fearful destruction, recalling what Monseigneur Duclair had said: that the Englishmen’s use of the huge, clumsy-looking longbows which stood on the ground, double the span of the crossbow, had won for them the Battle of Crécy ten years before. The crossbow might be light, easily carried and easily fired, but the longbow, its bowstring drawn back by a well-practised hand, shot heavier, deadlier arrows with an impact to knock a man off his horse and fell him to the ground. Wulfstan grabbed his lance to continue to attack the French, but the field was thinning. The King’s army was now being attacked from the front and the rear, and his men, demoralized by the two-pronged assault, were beginning to quit the field in increasing numbers. The end of the battle was in sight, and Wulfstan stood on bloodstained heathland, his heart pounding, his breath coming in rapid gasps, his mouth dry; there were no more Frenchmen left to attack.
It was evening. The Prince removed his helmet, and wiped his face; his standard-bearer helped him to take off his black armour, and from now on he would be known as Edward, the Black Prince. He set his banner in the top of a tree, and gathered his knights and commanding officers around him as they returned from the battlefield. Wine was brought forth on a tray.
The field was strewn with bodies of men and horses, and a roll call showed that though the French had come to the battle with much higher numbers, they had lost many more than the English and Gascons. Twenty dukes and counts lay dead, and hundreds more men-at-arms. But there was one important name absent from the list of dead and captured: the vanquished King John II of France. The Prince ordered the Earl of Warwick to take two officers with him to go out and seek for news of the king, who was said to have his fourteen-year-old son with him. If they found him alive, they were told to escort him back to the Prince’s tent, and to show him every courtesy befitting an anointed king.
Red-eyed with exhaustion, Wulfstan stood on the field of death, thankful at least that he had not brought Troilus into such mayhem. When he became aware of raucous voices some hundred yards away, he turned to see a ring of English soldiers of the lower sort, yelling at a man who was valiantly defending himself with a battleaxe while a young boy cowered beside his horse. Wearied and bloodied as he was, Wulfstan saw that this was no ordinary French soldier, but a strong, fine-featured man, intent on fighting to his last breath rather than give himself up to these rowdy assailants, though he and the boy would inevitably be killed.
‘Grab his axe, and club the old ruffian over the skull with it!’ shouted one of them.
‘No, lads, don’t kill ’im!’ yelled another. ‘He’s more use to us alive! He’s worth a king’s ransom, ain’t he? Come on, grab hold of ’im an’ tie ’im up with the boy!’
A king’s ransom? In a flash Wulfstan realized that this was the beleaguered King John II of France, the enemy of England and the Black Prince, but worthy of a more dignified end than to be clubbed to death by this rabble, or tied up like a felon. And the boy must be fourteen-year-old Prince Philippe. Something must be done, and there was only Wulfstan to do it. He stepped forward, pointing his blooded lance at the mob.
‘Get off him, you knaves, leave him to be judged by the Prince! Leave him alone, I say, or feel this metal in your guts!’
They turned to look at him, recognizing an officer but not inclined to obey.
‘Who d’ye think you are, a bloody Frenchman? You ain’t ’avin’ ’im, he’s ours!’
There was no time to bandy words. Wulfstan charged straight at the defiant men, who got out of the way of his lance, but were not in a mood to obey him. Turning quickly, Wulfstan aimed his lance horizontally at a big fellow who seemed to be a ringleader of sorts. The man jumped aside with an oath, and roared at one of the others, who stealthily came up behind Wulfstan with a battleaxe, bringing it down on his left shoulder in a tremendous blow, accompanied by a sickening crack of bone which caused Wulfstan to cry out and reel backwards, unable to get his breath. The men jeered as he staggered and clutched at his left shoulder, groaning like an animal in pain.
‘Told yer to stay out of it, serves yer right!’ the big fellow shouted, but some of them looked alarmed. This was an officer, and there might be trouble when his injury was known.
‘Come on, lads, run for it! He won’t know who we are!’ A few of them made off with speed, but three or four stayed to take grim vengeance on the interfering fool who had spoiled their sport.
‘Let’s shut ’im up once and for all!’ he heard through a flaming red cloud of pain. ‘Don’t leave ’im alive to tell what he’s seen – finish ’im off, and then tie up the ol’ king and his boy, and take ’em to the Prince an’ claim our share o’ the ransom money!’
They advanced towards him, brandishing knives and axes; he was helpless to save himself, and for the third time that day Wulfstan prepared for death.
That was the moment when the Earl of Warwick rode up with two men-at-arms, sent by the Black Prince to seek out the French king if he was still on the field of battle. As soon as they saw the earl and heard his shout, Wulfstan’s tormentors fled, leaving him half-fainting. One of the officers came to assist him, while Warwick approached the king.
‘I come from Prince Edward of England, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘Be assured that he wishes you no ill.’ He then invited the king to remount his horse, calling on Wulfstan to follow them, his right arm over the shoulders of the man assisting him, his left hanging down uselessly at his side. Adjusting his pace to Wulfstan’s, Warwick led the defeated French king with his son to the Prince’s tent, where he was received with the respect due to a fallen foe who had fought valiantly. The Prince bowed before an anointed king, and called for wine to offer him and his son, and also to Wulfstan who sipped it in spite of the searing pain. He was never more impressed by the Prince’s chivalry than now, for showing courage in battle and magnanimity in victory.
After exchanging words with the Earl of Warwick, the Prince came over to speak to Wulfstan, commending his actions and ordering a surgeon to examine the broken shoulder. When the left arm was straightened out, Wulfstan screamed in agony, but after it had been firmly bandaged to his body, the pain was slightly more bearable. This having been done, the Prince rose, took his sword from its
sheath and ordered Wulfstan, assisted by the surgeon, to go down on his knees. What was this? Was he about to be executed? He bowed his head, and felt the sword lightly touch his right shoulder, broadside on.
The Prince spoke. ‘Arise, Sir Wulfstan Wynstede, noble knight of Poitiers field!’
Even the excruciating pain could not detract from such an honour from the Black Prince, and having been helped to his feet, Wulfstan bowed deeply. He then asked for permission to return to his camp where the dead and wounded English had been left before the second phase of the battle had begun. The Prince at once ordered an escort for him, as walking wounded, and on his arrival he was jubilantly greeted by Sir John Chandos and Robert Poulter with the news that Charles de Lusignan had been found alive on the battlefield, though badly wounded and likely to lose his right leg. The Count would have embraced Wulfstan in his joy at his son’s survival, but checked himself on seeing the bandage and the young man’s deathly pallor. Charles, though weak from blood loss was still able to whisper his sympathy, and the news of the knighthood, told by Wulfstan’s escort, was greeted by a cheer from Robert Poulter.
Every Noble Knight Page 8