by C. B. Hanley
John scratched his head under the filthy cap. ‘You might be right.’
A thud sounded next to them on the deck: Stephen, jumping down from the rigging that was fastened to the ship’s side rail. He grinned. ‘They’ll probably think that too, but we’re far more manoeuvrable. Watch and learn.’ He hurried to join a group of other sailors who were doing something to some other ropes, shouting back over his shoulder. ‘And remember what I said about the wind!’
Edwin tensed, his strung bow in one hand and the other hovering over the quiver at his belt. He also had his dagger, but nothing else, and no armour. But the knights and the armoured sergeants, they’d do the bulk of the hand-to-hand fighting, wouldn’t they? If they were anything like the ones he knew, they’d certainly want it that way. But it was no use wondering. He was in God’s hands now and there was nothing he could do except deal with events as they happened. He forced out a breath and tried to stop his hands from shaking.
He was right about one thing: they were going to pass behind the French fleet. Their ship was second in the line, behind that of Hubert de Burgh, and they were heading south-east and into the wind. It was strong and Edwin had to screw up his eyes as it pummelled his face. That meant that they were slow and laboured in the water. The French fleet was now almost directly ahead, passing from right to left as it sailed northwards up the coast. They had the wind at a sort of diagonal angle to them, so they were making better speed. Oh Lord. They’ll escape us, they’ll reach London, they’ll march north.
As his ship continued on its course Edwin saw the vessel that was at the back of the French fleet. It was the largest of the enemy and was flying many flags and carrying a great number of brightly coloured knights. The command vessel, surely, although if that were true then why wasn’t it at the front?
The answer to that was immediately obvious, even to someone who knew as little of the sea as Edwin. The French ship was so low in the water that it was wallowing through the waves like a pig in mud. What could they possibly have on board to make it do that?
Nigel must have had the same thought. ‘Horses, maybe? All those knights won’t want to be walking when they land.’
Edwin looked more closely, straining his eyes. ‘And what’s all that wood stacked up there?’ He was reminded of something he’d seen at Lincoln. ‘Are those pieces of a siege engine?’
‘Looks like it. Long beam, a sling there, look.’ Nigel turned to John. ‘What do you reckon, a trebuchet? We saw some of them in France before.’
John nodded. ‘Seems like it. Better get that sent to the bottom before it can land and cause trouble. But that wouldn’t account for all that extra weight.’ He scanned the great ship. ‘There’s just too many of them, I think. If he’s the one in charge’ – he pointed to a bright figure standing on the high part of the deck towards the front of the ship, who seemed to be issuing instructions to someone more drab – ‘then they’ll all have wanted to be on the same ship as him. Makes them feel important.’
That seemed logical, and his theory was proved correct, in Edwin’s mind at least, when howls started to sound from the sailors on his own ship: the drab figure had been recognised as Eustace the Monk himself. It would seem that many of the crew had suffered at his hands.
But they were going to get away! Both Hubert de Burgh’s ship and their own were past the French now, heading out to sea.
And then, at a word from the ship’s captain, there was a sudden frenzy of activity, sailors swarming everywhere … an unexpected lurch that threw Edwin and his companions to one side. They had turned around.
Edwin staggered and tried to re-orient himself. The sun was … yes. They had turned almost back on themselves, and now they had the wind directly behind them so the ship leaped forward at a great speed, the sail filling fit to burst. They were heading directly for the French command ship, and gaining.
The sailors cheered and John gave a whoop. ‘To the rail now, lads, and arrows ready!’
Edwin followed the crowd and planted his feet to steady himself. They were going to reach the enemy first; Hubert de Burgh’s ship, which had been in front of them on the way out, had overshot and was having some difficulty in turning. What had Stephen said about being more manoeuvrable?
The gap was closing. Edwin’s heart was beating faster. This was it. He pulled a first arrow out of his quiver. Would he be able to do it? To kill again? He had taken two lives in the past few months, and he had done both almost without thinking, as a reaction to an extreme situation. Would this be the same?
To start with he wouldn’t need to find out. At this extreme range all he would be able to do was shoot high in the air and aim in the general direction of the enemy ship, with no specific target. The real test would come later.
‘Nock!’
‘Draw!’
‘Loose!’
The flight of arrows went singing into the air, the wind helping it on its way. Some fell short; others reached the ship but they were almost spent and did little damage. But by the time everyone nocked a second arrow, they were closer.
Edwin tried to get himself into some kind of rhythm, but it was difficult with the target ship moving up and down and the ground bucking under his feet. He was shooting successfully – in that the arrows had left the bow and joined the rest of the flight – but he wasn’t sure he’d hit anything. He didn’t want to know.
His attention was distracted by a man further down the line who had rigged up some kind of sling and was attempting to throw a pot of lime. It splashed into the water well short of the French ship, and Edwin heard someone curse the man for wasting the stuff. Edwin looked at the crate. Some of the powder was in pots but there were also some more simple balls where it had been wrapped in a twist of fabric and tied off. He looked at the arrow in his hand.
‘John!’ He had to shout several times before he could get John’s attention; he’d stopped shouting orders for each volley now and was just concentrating on his own efforts. He was barely looking down at the quiver as he reached for each successive arrow, knowing exactly where to put his hand from long years of experience, and drawing smoothly time after time.
Eventually Edwin got through to him.
‘What?’
‘The lime! The balls – can we shoot them?’
‘Can we …? Wait.’ John left his place in the line and strode to pick up one of the fabric twists. He weighed it in his hand. ‘Maybe if –’
‘Stop!’ Edwin put out his hand. ‘Turn around so it’s downwind of you before you do anything.’
John faced out to sea again, riding the movement of the ship. The French vessel was now no more than a hundred yards away and the men on it were readying themselves for combat. He took an arrow. ‘No … bodkin will just slide out again …’ he replaced it in his quiver and selected a different one, with a larger triangular broadhead. He held the lime away from him, over the rail, as he pushed the sharp arrowhead with care through the fabric of the bag and twisted it. He gave it a slight shake. It held.
He shrugged. ‘Here goes.’ He nocked, drew back the string, and released.
Encumbered by the extra weight, the arrow did not fly as true as his others had done, but it traced an arc into the blue sky before landing squarely on the deck of the French ship. The bag burst, spraying powder at all those nearby. Even at this distance and upwind, the cries of alarm and pain could be heard.
Cheers sounded from their own ship and men jostled around the crate. Within a few moments many more of the poisonous shafts were on their way.
They were now only some twenty yards from the ship. They would hit it somewhere near the back, at an angle, and soon.
Along with the other archers Edwin found himself being pulled back away from the ship’s rail as armed men took their place, ready to board and start the fight as soon as they were able. The enemy deck was full of staggering, choking, screaming men barely visible among the white clouds, the lime driving into their eyes as they sought to stand into the wind in
order to face the oncoming enemy.
There was a crash and a judder as the two ships struck. Sailors, light on their feet, leaped across with ropes to lash the vessels together, and as soon as the gap was firmly sealed the horde of heavy, armed, jagged, yelling men poured over.
Edwin stood on the deck, catching his breath as he watched. The earl, unmistakeable in his blue and yellow checks, was safely over. So were Sir Roger and Sir Hugh, the former putting one foot on the rail and jumping to land on light feet, despite his armour, and the latter clambering over more heavily. And the tall helmeted figure behind them could only be Martin. God and St Bartholomew keep them all safe this day.
But there was no time to rest. The clash of weapons and the first screams of the wounded and dying had hardly started when John and Nigel were urging their fellows over too. ‘Quickly now, and then get up somewhere high. Pick them off as you can. Go!’
Edwin was carried along in the rush, over the rail, on to the heaving enemy ship, and into the battle.
Peter was playing with his toy knight. Up and down, up and down it rode, engaged on a heroic quest. And, of course, the knight had a boy with him, sharing in his adventures. They were going to go on a crusade together, to fight the devil and to see the fabulous wealth of the East, where the sun always shone and the streets were made of gold.
He was waiting for Dickon to come back, and then they were going to take some food to Sir Hugh’s grooms, over at the picket, and look after Sir Roger’s horse. He would want it when he came back, and Peter was determined to make sure it was well fed and that its coat was brushed until it shone. His lord would be proud of him.
Dickon skipped back into the camp area and Alf reached for a parcel of food. ‘It’s just bread and cheese, some dried meat – not much point cooking properly for so few of us. But we’ll get the fire going and make sure there’s something in the pot for later, in case they all get back before dark.’
He was in the act of handing over the pack when he stopped, his body stiffening. ‘Listen.’
Peter heard it too. Shouts in the distance, the sound of metal clashing on metal. The neighing of frightened horses.
Alf was angry. ‘Bastards. While the fighting men are away.’ He turned to Dickon, his face grim. ‘Fetch me my cleaver. And then hide, both of you.’
Peter watched as Dickon rummaged about in the stores wagon and then came back with the large, square blade. Yesterday Alf had hacked right through a leg of pork with it, bone and all.
Alf tested the edge with his thumb. More cries and the sound of fighting could be heard, louder now. He looked about him. ‘Not the wagon or the tent – they’ll search those for anything they can steal. Try and find a hole in the hedge, or a tree to climb. They might – they might leave you if they’re only after thieving.’ He didn’t sound convinced.
Peter looked at Dickon. Dickon just stared at Alf, who grew more urgent. ‘Quickly now. Run!’
A shake of the head. ‘No.’
‘You do as you’re told!’
Dickon’s voice was firm. ‘No, Father. You brought me with you so we could stay together, so I’m not leaving you.’
‘But you’re all I’ve got! I have to keep you safe!’ Alf was starting to panic, his voice sounding agonised as he tried to push Dickon away.
‘And you’re all I’ve got. I’m staying right here.’
‘But —’
‘No.’
With a cry of desperation, Alf gave up. ‘Dear God, you sound just like your …’ He glanced at Peter. ‘Never mind.’
He had a look of resignation in his eyes. Peter knew it well; he’d worn it himself often enough. It was the look you had when you’d tried everything you could to get out of an unjustified beating, and then realised there was nothing you could do so you’d better just brace yourself and take what was coming.
Alf was talking to him now. ‘And I suppose it’s no use telling you, either?’
Peter shook his head and drew his knife. His eyes met Dickon’s. ‘I have to look after you. My lord taught me that.’
He could see the surprise. ‘Why?’
‘Because you’re my friend. And because … well, you know why.’
Dickon nodded, slowly, and looked up at Alf. ‘I didn’t tell him, honest.’
Alf’s face was sad now, and he sighed. ‘All right. Too late for anything else, anyway.’ He laid his hand briefly on each of their heads and then took a step so he was in front of them, steadying himself with care. Peter could see his broad back, his good leg and his wooden one standing firm as he sought to do the last thing a father could for his beloved child. Peter thought of Sir Roger, far away on the sea, fighting his own enemies with determination and bravery; he raised his chin and gripped the knife harder.
Alf looked over his shoulder. ‘Courage, then. We’ll all stand together.’
The screams and the clash of weapons came closer.
Martin felt himself yelling as he followed the earl and the knights over on to the enemy ship. He had no idea what the words were, but the very act of shouting helped him as he charged on.
His first and most important task must be to track and protect his lord; anything else relating to his own safety or anyone else’s must be suppressed. Given the restricted vision afforded by the eye-slits in his helm, that meant that he needed to keep the earl more or less directly in front of him.
There he was. And what a sight! Martin spent almost every waking moment – and most of his sleeping ones – in the earl’s presence, and he had become accustomed to seeing him as a figure of authority, of justice, of power wielded with the flick of a finger or a wax seal. He had, of course, also seen his lord in training, but somehow he had forgotten that as well as an earl, he was also a knight. And what a combatant he was proving to be today; if he hadn’t been in the middle of the battle himself, Martin could have sat back and simply admired.
Despite the weight of his armour, the earl had cleared the lashedtogether rails easily. Those on the enemy ship were unsteady on their feet, seemingly disoriented, which Martin put down to the clouds of white powder blowing into their faces. Nevertheless, no fewer than three armed knights made straight for the earl as he crossed, doubtless hoping to catch him while he was still off balance.
But the earl saw them coming. He used one of them to break his fall as he jumped from the rail, managing to twist in the air so he kicked out and landed on the man, bowling him over in the process. As he crouched and regained his balance he aimed a welltimed thrust at the second, using his low position to slide his sword in under his opponent’s shield and hauberk. The sword came away bloodied and the man cried out and fell back.
The earl was now back on his feet and trading blows with the third assailant. Belatedly, Martin remembered his instructions about prisoners. The man who had taken the sword blow was bleeding copiously from his wound, which must be in the thigh or groin area, so he wasn’t a great bet – he’d be dead before the fighting was over. The first knight seemed only dazed; he was in no particular state to defend himself, and others were now closing in on him. The earl would not be pleased at losing such a prize when he’d been there first, so Martin drove forward, shield first, forcing lesser men out the way. The knight was wearing a proper great helm not dissimilar to his own, which would have plenty of padding underneath, so Martin took the simplest path: he walloped his sword into the back of the knight’s head as he tried to rise. That knocked him flat again, allowing Martin to drop his shield, grab a fistful of his surcoat and drag him at swordpoint back out of harm’s way – and away from any other grasping hands.
There were supposed to be words to say, proper words, but he couldn’t remember what any of them were. Besides, between him trying to shout through his helm and the other trying to hear through his, not much of it would get through. So he just yelled the earl’s name and rank as loudly as he could and pushed his captive backwards into the waiting arms of a group of the earl’s men, who took his sword and bundled him back towards
the other ship.
The shield was hanging awkwardly from the guige around his neck, so Martin took a moment to push his left arm back through the enarmes and settle his grip before he stepped into the fray again. More men were coming at him now, lightly armed sergeants and unarmoured sailors as well as proper combatants. He swatted them out the way while he tried with his limited vision to see the earl.
There he was, thank God, just despatching the third of his attackers after what had evidently been more of a fight. This would be no prisoner, though. As the knight yielded and stepped backwards, his foot hit the fallen body of a sailor and he tripped; he blundered back into the ship’s rail and, unbalanced and top-heavy in his armour, fell backwards into the water. His despairing cry floated up to Martin before it was cut off short.
They were winning. Weren’t they? The earl was driving forward, Sir Roger was over there fencing with a French knight, and Sir Hugh was barrelling through opponents as he roared like an angry bull, his sword arm rising and falling as he hacked his way through the press at the earl’s shoulder. But the supply of knights and combatants on this ship seemed to be endless – where were they all coming from?
Crouched behind his shield while he continued to slash and thrust with his sword, Martin came to the realisation that he was now standing still as he fought, as was the earl up ahead. Their progress was slowing against the mass of opponents, and they were becoming mired. Soon they would be completely surrounded.
Edwin’s feet hit the deck of the enemy ship and he tried to regain his balance as the men around him poured forward into the crowded and hellish space. He had his bow with him but there was just too much confusion – he didn’t want to shoot for fear he would hit someone on his own side.
But he must keep pressing forward. To turn and go back would mean facing into the wind, with the lime still flying around. To be blinded by that would be to invite death, with all these blades flashing around him.