by David Gilman
‘No one will ever show me mercy,’ Blackstone said. ‘I’m an English archer.’
He checked that the passage was clear and stepped out, leaving the man to die.
The French army had stood impotently across the ford, the river being too high to contemplate a crossing. They waited for two tides to come and go before deciding that the English-held shore could not be assaulted. They had no choice but to retreat as far as Abbeville, cross the river and gain the northern bank to pursue Edward. What was obvious to everyone on the English side, from noble lord to common stable lad, was that the French army, recognized as the finest fighting force in Europe, was at least twice as large as Edward’s.
The English reinforcements and supplies that should have been on ships from England, and waiting at Le Crotoy, had not even left their home port. The raiding party ransacked the town and surrounding countryside. At least the army would eat, but they would do battle with the weapons and men they had. A messenger brought news from Sir Hugh Hastings and the Flemish army. They had pushed south from France’s northern border, but their attacks on the French fortified towns had failed and they had retreated into Flanders. The two armies could not join up; Edward was on his own. He marched his army eastwards through the county of Ponthieu, moving into the oak and beech trees of the vast forest of Crécy-en-Ponthieu, slipping out of sight of King Philip’s army, which, with de Harcourt’s brother and nephew, was less than ten miles away.
There would soon be no choice. The English would have to stand and fight.
‘Thomas. Sir Gilbert wants you,’ Will Longdon said as he picked his way through the trees. The army had camped in the forest for the night along the ridge between Crécy and the hamlet of Wadicourt. The dawn’s chill crept into the aching muscles of the battle-weary men. Blackstone rolled out of his blanket, hunched his shoulders against the damp forest air, yawned and stretched out the stiffness. Richard still slept as he always had done, resting his cheek on his hands like a child.
‘Where?’
‘Hundred yards. That way. Edge of the forest.’
Blackstone nodded. ‘D’you have food?’
‘A piece of mutton from what Despenser’s men foraged yesterday.’
‘Will you stay with Richard until I’m back? Give him something to eat. We got little from the supplies.’
‘Course I will. Here.’ He offered a palm-sized piece of wrapped meat. Blackstone took a small bite and swilled it down with a mouthful of wine. He rubbed his eyes and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. He slung his bow and fastened his belt. The bristles on his face itched. The two men nodded at each other in farewell.
‘Thomas.’
Blackstone turned.
‘Say yes,’ Longdon said and without further explanation settled himself into his friend’s still-warm blanket.
Blackstone picked his way through the forest past hundreds of huddled men, the smell of their stale sweat mingling with the horses’ musky odour, and caught sight of a horseman through the trees. He sighted from tree to tree, working his vision deeper into the forest. It was the King and his nobles edging their horses through the forest. Was the King leaving his troops? Perhaps at last he had decided to call a truce. Blackstone felt a flutter of panic: God knows the men were worn down with fatigue, but they were in good spirits. They had beaten the French twice when outnumbered. If Edward called a truce they would be going home; to return to the hamlet and the life he had had with his brother. The memory of that place followed him as he made his way down the slope. Could he ever return home, even if given the choice? His father’s war bow had been the archer’s inheritance that poured strength into his arm every time he drew it. The warrior’s spirit, his father had once told him, lives on in his deeds and the weapons he cherished. But what of his duty towards Richard that had been bequeathed him? The boy had fought at his shoulder, even carrying Sir Gilbert to safety. Perhaps Richard was the better soldier after all. If there was a truce could he stay? Would a common man ever be allowed to see such a girl as Christiana again? She wasn’t nobility, unlike the family she served. If she was ever to be more than a simple desire, what would happen to his brother? There was something else his father had told him: A man’s duty only ended in death.
He found Sir Gilbert with Elfred, the knight’s horse already saddled.
‘You sleep like the dead,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘Dreaming of the girl, were you?’
‘I was too tired to dream of anything,’ Blackstone answered.
‘Tiredness is a soldier’s pay. Elfred said you fought well at the river.’
‘We all did,’ Blackstone answered.
‘Aye, but you served me at Poissy with that shooting of yours. And you’ve a good eye for what’s what. I always thought you had.’
Blackstone didn’t know what he was supposed to say. ‘I see the King and the earls are riding out, Sir Gilbert. Are we moving on?’
Sir Gilbert climbed awkwardly into the saddle, barely able to hide the grimace of pain from his wounds. ‘Shall I tell the King his archer Thomas Blackstone is concerned?’
‘It was just a thought, Sir Gilbert.’
‘That’s what you do, Thomas, you think. I told Lord Marldon as much, but I didn’t know you had the courage to overcome it. Too much thinking can get in the way of a soldier’s life. I’ve tried to avoid it wherever I can. Roger Oakley died at the crossing.’
Blackstone nodded. ‘I saw him fall. He led us well.’
‘And he’s probably leading the devil a merry dance now. The King’s waiting. I’m late. Elfred, tell him.’ He urged the horse away to join the retinue whose rich colours moved through the forest until they disappeared from view among the trees.
‘Our lads are mostly farmers’ boys and craftsmen, but they’ve not shied away from what’s been asked of them. They’re as good a company of archers as I’ve seen,’ Elfred said.
‘They’ve got their tails up now. Even John Weston’s saying we’ve fought their best and won,’ Blackstone said.
‘He’s right, but it’s not over yet, Thomas. We’re not running no more. The King’s picked his spot, the French scouts were on that hill at first light.’
‘We’re to fight here?’
Elfred nodded. ‘Centenars are bringing their archers out of the woods, soon as the captains tell us where the marshals want us. They’ve gone with the King to see the ground.’
Blackstone let the information sink in. He gazed across the hillside. The woods would form a good defence at their rear. A series of long-abandoned radaillons – steep, contoured cultivation terraces – offered protection to the army’s left. The undulating ground would funnel the enemy around and into the centre. Pick your ground, is what Sir Gilbert had told him: choosing where you fight can make the difference between winning and losing. The French would be forced to attack uphill through the gap that the forest and hillside presented.
‘It’s a good place, Elfred.’
‘I’ll be sure to let the King know you approve.’
Blackstone smiled. ‘I want my breakfast, what do you want with me?’
‘There’s to be no reinforcements. Hastings has lost the north. A messenger came after the crossing. It’s us and the King; we’re what’s got to stop the French, and Thomas, none of these lads, except for some of the older hands like John and Will, have ever seen a heavy cavalry charge. It’s something that can crack the strongest man’s courage,’ Elfred told him, biting into a stale oatcake. He passed the other half to Blackstone, who took it gratefully.
‘They’ll stand their ground. They won’t let their fear grip them. They haven’t so far,’ Blackstone said.
‘I’ve spoken to the men and they agree with me that you should be my ventenar. The twenty men you’ll command have all spoken in your favour, except your brother who’ll go where you go. Sir Gilbert’s given the decision his blessing.’
Blackstone swallowed the dry biscuit.
‘Following someone like you and Master Oakley was what I did. That�
��s all,’ he said.
‘Up to you, lad. If you don’t want the responsibility, you say so now.’
‘What about Will Longdon, or John or any of the others?’
‘Lot of the old hands don’t want other men’s lives depending on their decisions. We fight for each other, but commanding men is a different thing altogether.’
‘I’ve a lot to learn still,’ Blackstone said, the weight of the decision lying heavily on him.
‘And there’s them around who’ll still show you what’s necessary. You think of Nicholas Bray, Roger and Sir Gilbert – you learnt from them and I hope from me since you’ve been here.’
‘I have, Elfred.’
‘Well, then. What do I tell Sir Gilbert?’
Blackstone led his company of archers down the centre of the battle lines as the English banners and pennons were raised. The marshals placed a thousand archers at either flank, forming them up into a triangular wedge that shielded each side of the men-at-arms and knights. The archers would have first contact with the French, their arrows killing and driving the attackers into the centre – the killing ground. Blackstone and his company joined the hundred archers sent between the ranks to loose their arrows directly into the faces of the heavy cavalry when they charged.
Blackstone and his men dug pits a foot square and a foot deep to make the great destriers stumble.
‘I saw you boys do that at Morlaix in ’forty-two,’ a Welsh spearman said as he sat sharpening his spearhead. ‘Crippled the horses, brought them down lovely it did. Had them French bastards falling arse over tit. You could hear their bones breaking like corn being ground in milling stones. Lovely sound. Meant they didn’t struggle much when we stuck them like flailing pigs.’ The Welshman spat and went back to his sharpening, the men with him nodding in agreement.
‘Aye, well, I was at Morlaix and you’re the same lazy Welsh bastards now that you were then. Instead of sitting on your arse you could lend a hand,’ Will Longdon told them as he dug another pit-trap, cutting turf and scraping the hole with his long knife.
‘No, no, we wouldn’t want to stop a skilled man like yourself from doing what he does best. And when you’ve done that you could dig us fighting men a shit pit,’ the spearman said. The Welshmen laughed but the humour did not touch the archers.
‘We’re digging them just deep enough so we can bury you bastard bog rats after the horses trample you into the ground, ’cause that’ll be as much as there is left of you,’ John Weston said, and spat a globule that landed dangerously close to the Welshman’s feet.
The spear flicked quickly and Weston found the killing end of the spear shaft hovering close to his throat.
‘You have to be careful in a battle. Easy to get taken down by your own side,’ the Welshman said, his voice low with intent. ‘We bog rats have seen that happen before.’
John Weston didn’t give a damn and stayed where he was, with the spear point quivering close to his neck, as the others watched the standoff. ‘Then count yourself lucky that the back of your skull’s too thick for a bodkin-tipped arrow to pierce.’
One of the other Welshmen joined in. ‘Lad’s got a point there, Daffyd. Take more than an Englishman’s arrow to get between your ears.’
The spear leveller drew it back, the rumble of agreement and laughter among the Welshmen easing the tension.
The archers went back to digging but the surly Welshman had kept his eye on Weston, a look that Blackstone realized might turn to something more when the mayhem of close-quarter battle engulfed them all. He wiped the dirt from his hands across his jacket.
‘My father was a bowman, he said he’d learnt how to pull his war bow from a Welsh archer. So, when the French come, we’ll bring them down and you finish them. That seems a fair bargain,’ he said, looking at the Welshman.
The act of conciliation was not lost on the Welshman and the belligerent spearman nodded but then his eyes locked onto the medallion that had come free from Blackstone’s jacket and the truce melted away.
‘You stole that?’ he said.
Blackstone took it in his fingers and tucked it away. ‘A Welsh archer gave it to me at Caen.’
The other Welshmen had heard and now took an interest in Blackstone himself.
‘A Welshman wouldn’t give that away. Not to a bastard Englishman and Christian. Not that,’ one of the others said. ‘He’d have to be a dead man for you to have it.’
Blackstone looked at them; his company of archers had stopped digging and stood behind him. If there was trouble to be had they were willing to finish it.
‘He was dying. I helped him. If any of you know a Welshman by the name Gruffydd ap Madoc he’ll tell you. If you don’t, then I don’t care what you think.’
‘Gruffydd ap Madoc? He’ll vouch for you?’
Conciliation had passed. It was time to stand his ground. ‘Repeat his name often enough and perhaps you’ll remember it. Ask him,’ Blackstone said. ‘I’ve work to do.’ He turned his back on the scowling Welshman and looked at his men. His men. Their loyalty was already being tested. Richard stood full square, knife in hand, understanding the belligerent looks. Will Longdon, John Weston, the others, none of them took their eyes from the Welshmen.
‘Pick up your bows. We’re done here,’ Blackstone said.
‘What would an Englishman know of a pagan talisman?’ the spearman asked, and as Blackstone turned, the spearhead pressed against his chest.
He half raised an arm, stopping the archers from making any aggressive moves. Soldiers, when they fought each other, be the grievance perceived or real, would not stop until someone lay dead. And soon after someone else would swing from the end of a rope.
He stared down the Welshman. ‘It’s Arianrhod. Goddess of the Silver Wheel. She protects you in this life and then carries you across to the next. He gave it to me with his blessing. And you’re as close as you’re going to be to seeing if she can help you.’
Before the man could do or say anything, there was a flurry in the ranks as men were pushed aside. A figure, obscured by the others, cuffed the Welshman to the ground. Blackstone recognized the white-haired fighter from the battle for Caen.
‘He’s pig-shit ignorant, Thomas Blackstone. He fell from his sow-mother’s belly into a ditch and has been trying to crawl out of it ever since. Are these your men?’
‘They are, Gruffydd ap Madoc.’
He scowled. ‘I’m not surprised. They look rougher than a thistle-eating hog’s arse.’
The Welshmen laughed and a moment later so did the archers. Gruffydd enveloped Blackstone in a bearhug, and then punched him on the arm. Blackstone managed not to grimace in pain.
‘Are we to have your archers in our ranks?’
‘Between you and the men-at-arms.’
Gruffydd turned to his wild-looking men. ‘Treat these boys with courtesy if you want them to leave you some French to kill.’ He kicked the fallen man who had stayed down. ‘And you would do well to remember that Arianrhod has her arms around this fellow. I will see you again, young Thomas Blackstone.’
‘And I you.’
Gruffydd nodded at Blackstone and turned back to deploying his men. For a moment Blackstone felt a pang of fear, though less for himself, it seemed, than for those French who were yet to die at the hands of fierce Welsh spearmen, battle-hungry knights and the most lethal of killers on the battlefield, the archers.
10
By midday the English army had formed up on the hill slope with the woods of Crécy at their back and the town nearby to the south-east. The windmill on top of the ridge served as the King’s headquarters and he settled his division there, a place where his standard would be flown for all to see. On the forward slope were two battalions, comprising a mixture of infantry and dismounted cavalry. The battles across northern France had depleted the King’s army. There were only about four thousand surviving archers – a thousand to be deployed on each flank and two thousand at the rear in reserve with the King. The forward and
most dangerous edge of the battleground was held by the vanguard under the Prince, and with him stood the great names of English nobility, their surcoats, shields, banners and pennons declaring to the enemy that they were the prize for any ambitious French knight. Warwick, Northampton, Cobham, Audley, Stafford and Holland – men who had led by example and fought with a tireless zeal to engage and kill their enemy and who were fired with the knowledge that they would be pursued no longer. They knew no quarter would be given and that knowledge only strengthened their determination to be the ones doing the killing. The marshals of the army, Warwick and de Harcourt, gave captains their orders. War horses were removed to the rear as knights prepared to fight on foot. Hobelars and Welsh spearmen held the centre ground with the men-at-arms, and Blackstone’s archers were among them, less than one hundred paces from the Prince himself. They were the added force in place to keep any surge of Frenchmen from reaching the boy Prince. When the French swung from the south through the folding land the vanguard would be the first to take the full attack. Northampton’s division was to the Prince’s left and slightly back: added protection should the French be foolish enough to try to attack from the marshier ground at the bottom of the hill. The preparations were made. The King ordered his men to rest and eat whatever food was left to them. He wanted them strong when the enemy came at them. There was nothing more to do but wait.
The men sat on the ground. Richard Blackstone lay on his back watching a cloud change shape, tracing its contortions with his finger. Men ate whatever food they had been given. The muggy August heat threatened rain, and sweat trickled down their backs. Blackstone was pleased he wore no armour.