‘We’d have noticed a deserter,’ Jack argued.
The fog had been bad, but now it was thinning slightly. Peering back through the mist Berenger could see the shape of a man. ‘There he is, the arse.’
He had lifted his reins to slap his beast’s rump, when he saw that the one man had become several. It must be the Yorkshiremen who had missed the muster at Richmond, he thought, and was about to say so to Jack, when something else caught his attention. There was something odd about the riders’ saddles and equipment. Perhaps Yorkshiremen rode in that loose manner, he thought . . . and then he saw a look of horror on the face of the two leading riders, and realised who they were. Raising his hands, he bellowed at the top of his voice: ‘Archers, string your bows!’ and with a quick blast on his horn to warn the rest of the army, he drew his sword and prepared to fight.
The Scottish army had found them.
Berenger was aware of Jack at his side, and wanted to tell him to get back with his command, but then he recalled that he himself was responsible for all the archers. He shouldn’t even be here!
As the first of the riders thundered towards him, Berenger ducked under the swinging blade aimed at his head. His own blow went wide, but then the second man was on him, a thickset, ginger-haired brute with bloodshot blue eyes and a heavy beard. He carried a war hammer and aimed it squarely at Berenger as his little horse sprang forward. Berenger spurred his pony to slide away to the left and heard the hammer head whistle as it flew past him – but then there was a third man before him, a young fellow, half Berenger’s age, with the dark hair and grey eyes of a Celt and a crazed smile on his face. He hefted his sword like a man cheering on a companion in a race.
Behind him, Berenger heard the first familiar cry: ‘ARCHERS! Archers, nock! ARCHERS! Archers, draw!’
Berenger had only a moment. As he approached this fresh enemy on his right, he lifted his sword blade high to block the lad’s and then, hauling on the reins, he stopped his own mount and brought his mailed fist down and slammed it into the fellow’s face with all his strength, feeling the satisfying snap as the nose and two teeth broke. And then, all at once, he felt a blow on his helmet. The world span, and he almost fell from his mount. He slumped – and then he heard a loud scream, and saw that Dogbreath had ridden to his side. He blinked, woozy and uncomprehending for a moment, while Dogbreath shrieked and whirled, crazed as a berserker of old, his sword and a dagger spinning and creating wild patterns in the occasional flashes as sunlight tried to force its way through the mists.
Then there was a scream of wild men, and two more Scottish warriors were galloping towards him. Berenger could only watch, the blood pounding in his veins as they approached, but before they could reach him, there was a fierce bellow of ‘Saint Denis!’ and Jean de Vervins thundered past. An arrow took the first Scot, and Jean rode straight for the other, his sword gleaming. It struck, and the Scot’s horse was rearing, blood pulsing from a great gash in its neck. Jean gave a short backhanded slash, and the rider disappeared.
Berenger saw him thrust and parry with another Scotsman, the blades moving so swiftly that Berenger couldn’t follow them, and then he seemed to come back to life. He saw that his sword lay on the ground near his pony’s hooves. He climbed down, picked it up and clambered back into the saddle, just as a mace was aimed at his head. He ducked, the mass of spikes missed him, and then he was seated again, and he gave a bellow to his men to call them back.
‘With me! Dogbreath, Sir Jean! With me!’
He saw Sir Jean de Vervins, who glanced back as though uncomprehending, but then he nodded and clapped spurs to his mount.
‘To the trees!’ Berenger yelled. Ahead, all he could see was a rippling line of silver, and he knew what that meant. A line of archers were drawing, and any moment, those sparkling points would hurtle upwards and towards them.
‘The trees!’ he roared again as he saw the sudden disappearance of the arrow-tips. They were flying already!
He lashed his horse, urging it to greater efforts, even as Sir Jean, crouching low, overhauled him and entered the little copse.
Berenger reached the trees as the first of the screams broke out behind him. Dogbreath was at his heels.
Turning, he saw that the man he had punched lay on the ground, dazed, while all around, horses stamped and pawed the air, maddened by the sudden violence. And then there was a hideous pocking noise as arrows stabbed down from the heavens, followed by agonised shrieks. Horses whinnied, thrashing and rearing, and men cursed and wept as the clothyards pinned them to the ground, some receiving four in as many breaths. Men rolled feebly in the attempt to free themselves, one man crawling away sobbing as the shaft that had penetrated his belly snagged the ground beneath him.
More Scots were riding up now, and he heard Jack’s call: ‘Archers, nock! Archers, draw! Archers, loose!’
A whistle and whoosh of finest goose feathers, and it was like watching a scythe taking the tops off a field of barley. One moment, five men-at-arms were riding at full tilt towards the English, and the next, all were gone. The arrows had all found their mark, and a heavy arrowhead with a yard of ash behind it was enough to penetrate any mail at this range. Each rider had three or more strike simultaneously, and all were hurled from their steeds, one to be dragged away screaming, his foot entangled in the stirrup.
More had appeared: a fresh group of pikemen, with their captain on a great charger. A flight of arrows, and the destrier plunged to the ground, throwing his rider, who landed heavily on his head. Berenger could hear the crunch of breaking bones over the rattle of the armour. The men after him were cut down as they ran, groups of two, three or four surviving and trying to force their way onward, until only one remained. As a kindness, he was pierced by five arrows all at once and fell only a few yards from the line of archers.
Berenger waited for the next eruption of Scottish men, gripping his sword with a fist that now shook as though he had the ague. He stared at it with incomprehension for a while. It seemed curious that he should have this feeling now that the fighting was all over, but then a bleak reaction set in. He had acted like a fool, drawing steel against God alone knew how many men, while his own men needed his direction and support; he could have been slain in the first moments. It was pure good fortune that had kept him unhurt. Apart from anything else, an English arrow could have found him in that mêlée.
He thrust his sword back into its sheath and bellowed, ‘Don’t loose! Hold your arrows! Jack? It’s me, Berenger Fripper! I have Sir Jean de Vervins and Dogbreath with me!’ He waited until he heard Jack’s answering bellow, before urging his pony forward into the open once more.
The ground was littered with the wounded and dead, at least a hundred men all told. Some few lay with terrified eyes, contemplating the imminent sight of the angels of Heaven, but more squatted with fury in their eyes, watching the approaching English with hatred.
Archers had already unsheathed their long knives or swords and were moving among the dead and injured, stabbing all to make sure of them and despoiling them. More than one archer earned himself a new pair of boots that day, and several acquired a new sword or mace.
The man Berenger had knocked from his horse was on all fours, panting and spitting. When Berenger reached him, the fellow lifted his sword and waved it in his direction, but one eye was already closed, and the other was narrowed with the pain. Every movement must have cost him dear, Berenger thought.
‘Put it down, boy. You’ll get yourself killed.’
The lad peered at him, his sword slowly lowering. And then, through his mashed lips, he managed a hoarse, ‘Who are you?’
Berenger stared. It wasn’t that the boy had shown an interest in him. It was that he had not used the harsh, guttural language of the Scots.
The boy was French.
Henry Percy and Ralph Neville had been fascinated by the French youth when Berenger managed to bring him to them.
‘Set him down there,’ Neville said when Berenger r
eached him.
The boy had miraculously been missed by the arrows plunging into that small field in the mist, but with the blood and snot smearing his face he looked in a worse state than many of the men who had died.
‘What is your name?’ the Archbishop asked in French. All the nobles and most of the clerks were perfectly familiar with the language. He stood before a trestle table on which many papers lay. ‘You know that we can find out all we wish about you. Better to tell us now without forcing us to extract the information.’
‘I am Godefroi de Valmet,’ he answered after a moment. ‘I come from near Laon.’
‘I know the land there,’ the Archbishop said pleasantly. ‘It is good country for wine.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘What were you doing riding up on us? Did you mean to attack us?’
‘No, my lord. I was riding with William Douglas. We were on our way back to the main army after a reconnaissance.’
‘Can you find your way to the main army?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it commanded by the King of Scotland – David Bruce?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where does he intend to attack next?’
A flare of animation lit the lad’s face. ‘He rides to Durham to take it. He has a huge army: two thousand knights and fifteen thousand footsoldiers!’
‘So many?’ Percy said, but there was no wonder in his tone, only satisfaction. ‘This will be a victory worth recording, then.’
Godefroi stared at him. ‘You cannot win! You have only a fraction of his men. Yours are all about Calais.’ This last with a blaze of enthusiasm.
‘Aye, well, we will show ye what English blood and bone can do,’ the Earl said imperturbably.
‘You will have to call men from Calais if you want to save your land. We are come to lay waste all the country as far as London.’
‘Ye won’t pass us.’
‘You do not realise your danger,’ Godefroi said with contempt.
‘There’s only one thing ye need worry about. I swear, if ye go into battle against us, ye will die. Our army is a match for anything to come out of Scotland.’
‘You should be measured for your coffin.’
Percy smiled easily. ‘We’ll see. After the battle, I’ll return home to me wife. Ye’ll be sad to see the Scottish crushed.’
The Archbishop held up his hand. ‘This is havering. God Himself with His saints will decide the battle. Just as He did at Crécy.’ He studied Godefroi for a moment. ‘You will ride back to your main army with a message. I will send a herald with you, and you will deliver the herald to the King of Scotland. We shall await his answer.’
After the fellow had been hurried away, the Archbishop looked about him. ‘Well?’
Percy snorted. ‘Yon little prickle has scarcely more than the sense he was born wi’. But no matter. It’s enough. The lad confirmed what Jean de Vervins told us. We know the size of the fight now.’
‘Aye,’ Neville agreed. ‘But we have to show we have the right of it.’
‘Yes,’ the Archbishop nodded. ‘We have to ask them to leave the country and cease in their depredations, otherwise we shall be forced to bring them to battle.’
Berenger felt his mouth falling open. ‘But why? Shouldn’t we just bring them to battle now?’
‘Och, we can no’ do that, Captain,’ Percy said. ‘This is the March. We have the right of it, but to go at ’em without the courtesies could make us look like we were in the wrong.’
‘How can that be? They’re in England, stealing and killing!’
‘Don’t concern ye’sel’. This way’ll make it neat and proper, that’s all ye need to worry about.’
A herald arrived, and the Archbishop and Sir Henry gave him the form of words. In a moment or two he was out and running for a horse.
Percy turned to Berenger. ‘Ye did well to form the archers and hold back Douglas’s men.’
The Archbishop grunted. ‘And now we’ll all have to do as well. The army will march with the Sheriff of Yorkshire on the left flank, I will take the middle battle, and you, my Lord Percy, will take the right. We will march to the town now, and when we find a suitable location, we will attack these sons of dogs. And may God grant us the victory we deserve against these insolent invaders.’
Berenger left the pavilion shortly after that. Outside, he saw the herald pulling on gloves with a distracted air, while a groom of ten or eleven years hurried to fetch him a horse. Berenger was sorry for the man. He could imagine what was passing through his mind. It was nothing to do with the actual message that he was to deliver – that would be memorised already. No, it was the thought of the reception he might expect. The Scottish King had a reputation for chivalry and being honourable, but he was, when all was said and done, a warrior at the head of some of the most barbaric fighters known to Christendom. It would be no surprise if some of the more hot-headed amongst them thought it would be amusing to send back their own message in explicit form, by returning the herald’s head in a sack, or perhaps every part of his body disassembled in a barrel of salt.
‘Your horse, sir,’ the groom said, but when Berenger looked up, the boy was not bringing the herald’s mount. This was the mount for Godefroi.
The Frenchman stood with his mouth pressed into the vambrace protecting his forearm. The coolness of the metal against his damaged lips must have been soothing. Seeing Berenger, he drew his lips away and stood haughtily.
‘I’m sorry about your teeth,’ Berenger said.
‘I will live, which is better than some can say,’ Godefroi replied. His voice was muffled from his damaged mouth, but he unbent so far as to duck his head as though in appreciation of the comment, although his face did not ease its rigidity.
‘Why are you here?’ Berenger asked.
‘I am an esquire. It is my place to fight for my King no matter where he sends me.’
‘You were sent here, then? Were you on the ships?’
Godefroi glanced at him. ‘What ships?’
Berenger explained about the ships he had seen in the mouth of the river.
‘Ah, yes. We brought good French armour and swords for our Scottish friends. King David was glad of them,’ Godefroi said with a note of pride. ‘I was responsible for bringing them and for asking King David to enter England.’
‘To distract King Edward and force him to send men back here.’
‘Of course. He will have to do so.’
‘I don’t think you understand the balance of power here,’ Berenger said.
He could not help but admire the martial spirit of this French esquire. Godefroi was very similar to young warriors the world over. He was so convinced of his own ability and strength that he paid little attention to the merits of others. He was young and keen and he felt his cause was just – and since his cause was just, he thought his comrades would be as filled with warrior-like ardour. But Berenger knew only too well that ardour alone was not enough. Supplies were important, and the support of companions, but the most important aspect for any army was the training of its men. And England had been training for war every year since Edward III took his throne.
‘Balance of power?’ the Frenchman said scornfully. ‘We know more than you could imagine!’
‘You know what happened at Crécy?’
‘A rabble of Genoese bowmen failed us. They turned and ran, to their shame, and in so doing, they spoiled the charge of French chivalry so that many knights and men were injured or killed.’
‘No. The Genoese were failed by their bowstrings. When their strings became wet, their bolts would not reach the English lines, but our bows could reach far beyond them. They were horribly pricked by our arrows, and then ridden down by the front line of your knights. And those same knights were slain before they could strike a single blow.’
‘So you say. But the battle was a matter of good luck. We shall see who will win the battle for Durham.’
As the herald’s groom appeared, Godefroi mo
unted his horse and waited politely for the herald. Then the two rode off into the gathering gloom.
Berenger watched him go with a feeling of sadness. He rather liked the fellow, but he had a strong presentiment that he would not speak to the young esquire again.
‘I fucking knew it. They brought us all this way just to throw us in the front line again,’ Clip whinged.
‘Shut up, Clip,’ Jack said.
‘We’ll all get killed.’
‘Shut up, Clip.’ That was Saint Lawrence.
‘I’m only young, me. I don’t need all this walking and fighting,’ Clip grumbled.
‘Clip?’ Aletaster said. ‘Shut up.’
‘I’m just telling the truth, that we’re all going to—’
‘Oi!’ The Pardoner stopped and stared at him. ‘If you don’t shut up, I’m going to sit on your head until you do. And I have a magnificent fart brewing, Clip: when I let rip, you’ll suffer, so bloody shut up!’
‘I was only saying.’
‘Shut up!’
Berenger had placed himself and his old vintaine near the middle of the archers on the right wing. He listened with half an ear, noting that his vintaine showed no signs of concern at the coming battle, while the newer men’s anxiety was apparent in their voices or their silence. For all present knew that battle was inevitable and inescapable.
He pulled off his dented helmet and rubbed the swelling on his scalp. It hurt like a bad burn, and although the local barber had offered to bleed him, he had refused. He needed all the concentration he could muster for the coming fight.
After the skirmish yesterday, the herald had been sent to the Scots, where he received a reply both curt and brief. Once the Scottish had heard from his French victim, King David would be sure to want to attack. The idea of taking on a force only one third or one quarter the size of his own would appeal to any warrior. Certainty of victory counted more than notions of chivalry. Chivalry was for knights – a series of rules so that the rich and brave could expect to buy back their lives, were they to be captured. Berenger had no doubts about his own fate if he was captured by the Scots. It would involve a blade and he would have his bleeding at last. Well, he reflected, it would at least take away the pain of his head wound.
Blood on the Sand Page 16