"The Duc is a friend of England this day," Matthew said.
"'Tis a miracle," said the prince. "God is surely on our side."
Many knights crossed themselves and muttered heartfelt thanks to their creator.
Not quite believing their good fortune, the English kept a wary eye on the retreating horses. Why had the Duc decided to flee? Had he been ordered to withdraw? Or was he reluctant to fight on foot in the manner more suited to a common soldier than a knight?
During the lull, archers retrieved arrows from the bodies of the fallen, fetched drinking water, straightened battered weapons, and tried for a measure of rest. Accompanied by Matthew and members of his bodyguard, Prince Edward rode down the hill. Moving among his troops, he tried to instill strength and purpose into his exhausted men.
From a ridge to the north, King Jean marched forward with his final battalion. Overhead flew the Oriflamme—the fork-tongued scarlet banner of the kings of France.
Jean breasted the rise, leading his battalion of ten thousand men. Matthew could actually feel the waves of terror that overcame the English, and the strength momentarily drained from his own limbs.
The enemy's silver body writhed toward them, the Oriflamme flicking overhead. Hours of daylight remained. Darkness would not cover the English, nor allow them any rest. Those nearest the shelter of Nouaille Wood began to desert.
"We are undone!" Lawrence Ravenne cried, giving voice to the fear of hundreds. "'Tis hopeless!"
Prince Edward, who had returned to the war council, turned on Ravenne with an expression that would cause the bravest warrior to shrink from his wrath. "You lie, miserable coward! How can you think that I, alive, might be conquered? While I have a breath in my body, 'tis blasphemy to say we are beaten."
Matthew could not blame Ravenne for expressing what so many were thinking. But when Matthew's gaze swung from his father's face to the faces of his father, Thomas Rendell, John Chandos, and the others on the war council, and to that of his prince, he saw only determination. Inside his armor, Matthew unconsciously squared his shoulders and a wave of confidence, if not joy, swept through him. How could anyone doubt men so supremely self-assured? Wasn't the prince the favored son of a golden father? Wasn't England herself a blessed nation?
The French neared.
Edward walked among his troops, cajoling, inspiring, cursing them back to order. "They cannot overcome us! Their numbers mean only that our glory will be greater. Are you Englishmen or French? Only the French run from the field. See how they fear us? 'Tis not I, but the Duc d'Orleans who slinks to the walls of Poitiers. You will not desert. If you dare try, I will slay you before you reach the woods."
Wave after endless wave of French crested the hill. Matthew felt the panic of his fellow soldiers as surely as he heard the cries of the dying, but no one dared run. With a raging Edward behind them and Jean le Bon before them, they were trapped.
Exhibiting a ferocity born of desperation, the English met the French.
Archers shot the last of their arrows.
Holding their shields over their heads, King Jean and his men marched on.
Once their quivers were emptied, some of the archers again tried to break and flee. But Edward stood behind them, flourishing his sword, berating, threatening, beating them back into order.
"Fight! They cannot win if we fight. Fight! Fight!" The prince's cries smashed against the English like a gauntleted fist.
The yeomen tore extra arrows from nearby bodies. When the men-at-arms' lances broke, they fought with splintered stubs. Knights who had broken their own weapons took spears and swords from the bodies of the dead.
Returning to the top of the hill, where the war council and reserves waited, Edward said, "Our men will break, I feel it. We must rally them before they all panic."
"What would you do, your grace?" William Hart asked.
"Attack. Jean will not expect an offensive maneuver, and cavalry still have an advantage over foot, no matter how badly we're outnumbered."
Edward instructed sixty men and one hundred archers to ride northwest, down a hidden track, through a hollow which came out behind the French. "Attack from behind. When you engage them, we shall attack from the front."
William turned to his son. "It would appear you are finally going into battle, lad. I have no doubt you will acquit yourself well enough this day to win your spurs."
Matthew managed a grin. "I might even win me a French king."
Swinging into his saddle, Prince Edward laughed. "Enjoy this moment. War is like a woman. The first is ever the most memorable." Edward then addressed his standard-bearer.
"Bear my banner straight toward Jean le Bon." Louder, "Advance, men, in the name of God and St. George!"
Trumpets sounded. Thrown back by the stone walls of Poitiers, wrote chroniclers, the ear-shattering blasts seemed to make the hills call out to the valleys and thunder crash in the clouds.
Edward's four hundred hit the French at a run. Matthew glimpsed the prince, surrounded by Frenchmen, his sword a silver blur. As one of several squires, Matthew's job was to protect Edward. In the beginning he was able to keep up, but the prince fought so fiercely, no man could match him. His padded jupon contained more arrows than spines on a hedgehog, but Edward attacked with indefatigable fury, mowing down anybody in his way, warding off blows as if he had a dozen eyes and a thousand arms.
Gripping his broadsword with both hands, Matthew stood in his stirrups and swung at the endless knights whose uplifted faces were hidden inside their bascinets. Deprived of their horses, the Frenchmen fell under Matthew's sword and mace as easily as ripened wheat before a peasant's scythe.
The battle passed its seventh hour; the sun edged toward its resting place. Matthew's heart roared in his ears, his breathing seared his lungs, and his sword arm swung with a will of its own. His father, wielding a mace with manic accuracy, fought near the prince. To Matthew's left rode Thomas Rendell, brandishing a war hammer, and Lawrence Ravenne, who abruptly crumpled from his saddle. Matthew did not try to reach his brother-in-law. His duty must be to Edward, no other man.
Slowly, inexorably, Prince Edward pushed toward the Oriflamme.
The French fought as desperately as the English, but their phalanx began to buckle under the onslaught of Edward's attack and the flank assault. Men grappled in hand-to-hand combat. Scarce able to lift their weapons, enemies staggered against each other. With their arrow supplies long since exhausted, the English archers emerged from behind hedges bearing swords, axes, looted household knives, and hammers. When those weapons were unavailable, they grabbed stones or attacked with their fists.
One by one, France's banners fell. Finally, the Oriflamme itself wavered and plunged to the ground. Knowing their cause was lost, one body of eight hundred French lancers galloped off the field without striking a blow.
Scarlet tinged the clouds as the sun hovered above the western horizon. Matthew's destrier, Roland, slipped and stumbled on a field of dismembered arms and legs, a field as slick as a frozen river with blood. The euphoria of battle had long ago given way to weariness, and Matthew found himself looking without emotion upon decapitated bodies—helms trailing the sinew that had once joined head to neck. He looked upon wounds laid bare to the bone, and brains spilling from smashed skulls. One French marshal, butted in the mouth, vomited forth his teeth; others trod upon their own entrails.
The noise of the battle diminished. The groans and cries of the dying reached such a cacophony Matthew began to feel unnerved. He saw Edward retreat from the field, and gratefully followed.
Jean le Bon and a small contingent remained, while the rest fled back toward their horses or Poitiers. English knights, led by William Hart, bore down upon the French king, whose black armor and white surcoat marked by fleur-de-lis made him easily recognizable. Surrounded by his wedge of bodyguards, Jean fought valiantly, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the battle was lost.
"Surrender yourself!" William commanded, pointing his swo
rd at the king's throat.
Jean's helm, once topped by a dazzling crest of plumes, was dented in a dozen places, and he bled from several head wounds. Removing his right gauntlet, he handed it to William.
The Battle of Poitiers was over.
A hush descended. Only the shouts of Englishmen pursuing the retreating French could be heard. The sun set over the jumble of bodies, glinted off armor, edged across faces frozen in death, and crept toward the hill where Matthew and Prince Edward and members of his bodyguard had gathered.
Thomas Rendell planted Edward's banner beside a bush so that returning soldiers would have a rallying point.
William Hart handed Prince Edward Jean's gauntlet. "Victory belongs to you, sire."
Edward's favored commander, John Chandos, put his arm around the prince who bowed his head, silently giving thanks to God. Though Edward's face was streaked with grime, Matthew thought his prince had never looked so... princely. Matthew bowed his head, too, but he couldn't pray, not yet. Exultation swept over him, replacing weariness. They had done the unbelievable, the impossible. Eight thousand Englishmen had triumphed over thirty thousand Frenchmen. No wonder God loved them!
A final burst of sunset bathed the battlefield, its rays shining brighter than the blood from countless wounds. Radiant streamers reflected the gaping throats that grinned up at the sky. Injured knights crawled toward the woods. Englishmen captured nobles for ransom, or raced toward the richly accoutered French tents for plunder.
Edward raised his head. His gaze touched upon his troops, then settled on Matthew. "You fought well, lad, as boldly as any knight."
Surprised by Edward's attention, Matthew could only murmur, "Thank you, sire."
Removing his sword, Edward motioned to Matthew and several other squires. "Come forward and kneel. This day you have truly earned your spurs."
Matthew tried to stifle the grin that spread across his face. His dream of being knighted on the battlefield was about to be realized. Wait until he told Harry.
Harry! God's teeth! Harry would weep and chastise him for breaking his word.
You ask too much, Harry. After you understand, you will not begrudge me this honor.
"Come, Matthew," Edward said. "You shall be first."
Edward stretched forth his sword with William Hart behind him. Even through the smears of dirt on his face, even in the fading light, William's eyes shown with pride–and love.
Matthew's heart twisted. Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. "I cannot, sire. I swore to wait for my brother."
Always impressed by vows and other such chivalric gestures, Edward nodded, said, "So be it," and moved to the next. Matthew stood stiff and straight as the other squires knelt to accept their knighthood. Shutting out the words of the oath, shutting out the disbelief on his father's face, he closed his eyes rather than watch Prince Edward touch each shoulder with his sword.
Aye, Harry, you asked almost more than I can bear.
Matt had kept his word, as a knight must. So why did he feel such bleakness? Even though he'd proven himself to be a man this day, Matthew found himself very close to crying.
Chapter 10
Ravennesfield, 1357
Alf leaned his weight against Margery as they left their cottage for the Crown and Sceptre. Villagers had been welcoming home yeomen from Poitiers, and Alf had participated in the celebration by drinking even more than usual.
Margery had heard soldiers regale admiring crowds with tales of the battle, over and over and over again. Their parrot-like voices especially lauded the Black Prince, whose exploits had achieved legendary status. Earlier this afternoon, Robert Wytbread's son, Robert the Younger, had returned to a hero's welcome with a sack of booty slung across his shoulder and a proud grin creasing his plain face.
More than a week had passed since Prince Edward had docked at Sandwich. Now he and his knights were making a triumphant procession toward London. At every village and alehouse the prince had been met by cheering multitudes, anxious to welcome England's champion and glimpse his royal prisoner, Jean le Bon, who was being ransomed for four million ecus.
Even Ravennesfield, so isolated from most events, was eager for every scrap of information. Not for the first time, Margery felt estranged from her fellow villagers with their talk of glory and victory and courageous deeds. To her, death was death, and the rest was just words, hollow as a reed. She imagined the corpses of all the young men, strewn upon the French plains like discarded sacks of grain. Men who had given their lives for the honor of a class that despised them. Sweet Jesu! How could people be so stupid?
Alf stumbled, then clutched at her. Struggling to conceal her impatience, Margery waited for him to regain his balance. She hated Alf's smell, his incoherent mutterings, the pressure of his body against her shoulder, the manner in which he jolted her so that her teeth clicked together. She hated the feel of his rough woolen mantle against her cheek, rubbing her skin raw.
For some reason, the returning yeomen had put Alf in an even fouler mood than usual. "Donna walk so fast," he grumbled. "Wot's yer hurry?" He stumbled and pitched forward. Fearing he might drag her along, Margery did not attempt to catch him.
"Jesu," he muttered, fumbling for her outstretched hand. "The world 'tis spinning."
Margery bit back a caustic reply. Once they reached the inn, she would ask Kate the Alewife to let him sleep on the floor until morning.
Alf's arm closed over her shoulder and he pulled himself up. As they turned on High Street, Margery released a heavy sigh. If only I could leave Ravennesfield.
Increasingly, while working the fields, she would gaze at the horizon, as if there she could view England's great cities. She imagined working for a brewer, a baker, or a book binder, though she knew that was an absurd, hopeless dream. Should she step one foot off Lord Ravenne's property, she would be a fugitive bondwoman, subject to fines, imprisonment, even death.
A shame that Lawrence Ravenne hadn't died in France, but perhaps 'twas true what Thurold had once said. Perhaps it was impossible to kill something worthless.
Still, when Margery saw the pilgrims on the road heading toward Ely Cathedral, she longed to join them. Life was moving away from this decaying village and she wanted to move away with it.
Suddenly, she glimpsed a shape in the doorway opposite them. At first she thought it might be a cat or rat scavenging amidst the refuse, but it was far too large. Margery halted, bringing Alf to a swaying stop. Heart thumping wildly against her bodice, she peered into the shadows. Only last month, Walt the Miller had been discovered near here with his throat slashed. The murderer had not been found. In truth, he had not been sought. Violence was too commonplace nowadays.
"Is someone there?" she asked, her free hand resting on the dagger she carried at her waist.
A huge figure stepped from the shadows. "Let me take him from you," the man said. Margery noticed a second smaller man behind him. "He is a heavy burden for such a slight maid."
The shorter man stepped closer. She noted he was dressed in a yeoman's uniform and his face, while young, looked unusually hard.
"Hey, old man, do ye not remember your own son? And ye, Stick-Legs, not an embrace for a returning hero?"
"Thurold?" His voice was not Thurold's, nor did he look as she remembered. And yet his cocksure air... "You are dead," she whispered. "Lawrence Ravenne killed you."
Thurold laughed before wrapping her in his strong, wiry arms. "'Twould take more than that bumbling ass to fool me. I freed meself 'ere the even was out and hid in the fens."
"Then why did you not come back for me?" she wanted to ask, though that was just one of a jumble of questions befuddling her brain. She stared at him. Thurold, alive and walking beside her!
Thurold slipped an arm around her waist and guided her forward to follow the stranger and Alf, who had settled trustingly against his massive chest.
"John Ball," said Thurold, with a nod toward the man. "John be a hedge priest–a priest without a parish. We been t
ravelling together."
John Ball turned around at mention of his name and gave Margery a courteous nod. Ball was perhaps thirty years old, with brown eyes set beneath thick black brows, and a beard that was already turning gray. A striking man, she mused, and not only because of his bulk. As he guided Alf, he whistled a melodic tune she did not recognize.
Upon entering the Crown and Sceptre, John Ball settled Alf beside Margery at a table and joined the crowd gathered round Robert the Younger, who was regaling his rapt audience with yet another version of the Battle of Poitiers.
After Kate the Alewife poured him an ale, Thurold gave Margery a shortened version of the past eight years and his absence. "I did na want to leave you but I had no choice. I made me way to London where I found employment with a goldsmith who didna ask an overabundance of questions. When I lived there for a year and a day I was a free man. But I did na dare return to Ravennesfield, not with Ravenne about and crimes, real or imagined, upon me head. Then the French campaigns came along, and King Edward promised pardons to all who took part. So I hied me to France."
Thurold poured himself a second measure of ale. "I met the hedge priest upon my return."
In the flames from the hearth fire Margery studied her stepbrother. Now she could believe Thurold truly sat before her. The small bright eyes, jutting jaw, the quick decisive movements, the self-sufficient air were all as she remembered.
"My heart is full." Tentatively, Margery reached out to touch his arm, as if to verify he was actual flesh and blood. Thurold captured her hand, squeezed it and they both laughed, as if sharing some private merriment.
Alf Watson beckoned to Kate the Alewife, who was opening the spigot on a cask of ale. John Ball hovered nearby, a commanding, though quiet presence, seemingly content merely to observe. Margery's gaze kept drifting to the hedge priest, trying to gauge more about him, as if his face and form might reveal important secrets.
Brom the Reeve approached their table. After giving Thurold a drunken hug, he said, "We been speakin' about Prince Edward. God be praised for our good prince's victory. Peyters be the grandest hour in England's history, as well ye know, Thurold, for you was there."
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