There was a raised arm from the Captal, and then all the men were plunging into the woods.
All at once it was dark. There were cries and the crack of whips over to their left, but they could see nothing of the rest of the column. Only the sounds, the occasional crackle of a sapling being broken down, the rumble of the wagons’ wheels thundering over rocks and roots, the crackle and rustle of brambles and bushes being trampled into the mire.
Berenger and the men continued onwards. So limited was the line of sight, that even Berenger could see the trees at the edge of their vision. Beyond was a blur of tree trunks and thick vegetation. It felt at every pace that the trees were creeping closer and closer, as if they were sentient and determined to squash these intruders.
Usually Berenger would not be prey to such superstitions, but here in the woods it was easy to be struck by atavistic terrors, when any tree could conceal a Genoese archer or French man-at-arms with a hundred bowmen at his command. And still there was no stream.
Berenger had to snap at Imbert and Baz, who were engaged in a loud argument about the quality of French wine compared to good English Bordeaux (Baz hated both) and tell them to be silent.
He was very thirsty. The dust and warm weather were making him sweat in his thick, padded gambeson. The feeling of thickness in his throat was more due to the grit he had inhaled, and he could do with refilling his bottle as soon as possible. There had been no opportunity to refill it on the march, and now he looked about him for a stream running through the woods with increasing urgency but no success.
His men were making more and more noise as they went, but it was the noise of horses: rattles and clinks of chains, the creak of leather, the snapping of twigs and occasional whinnies or blowing of nostrils. At each sound, Berenger cringed, and he felt his back stiffen as if in preparation for a crossbow bolt or slingshot, but there was nothing. After the first mile, he began to relax a little. After the second, he was able to ride without ducking at every loud crack of a breaking branch, and by the third he was comfortable enough.
They had travelled four to five miles when he had a sudden shock. The trees began to thin, and through them he could see the sky at last. They were nearing the edge of the wood.
‘Hawkwood, take the left,’ Grandarse said. ‘Frip, we’re at the edge. You need to send someone to the Captal to warn him. Then you come with me. We’ll go and protect the right flank from attack that side.’
‘Yes, Centener. We should have more men.’
‘Will two more vintaines be enough?’
Berenger nodded and soon they had disposed the men. Now Berenger took his men to join the force of some fifty dismounted archers. Taking their bows in hand, their arrows in their belts, he led them to the thick vegetation that grew at the edge of the trees. He crouched, signalling to the others to do the same, and peered ahead, aware all the while of Grandarse’s stertorous breathing behind him. There was no sign of man nor beast on the road. He beckoned Robin and had him gaze along the road. Berenger looked at him, and was about to signal to the men to join him, when Robin grabbed his sleeve and shook his head.
‘There are at least five hundred of them, sir,’ Robin said. ‘At the edge of the woods, I could see them. It looks like they’re beginning to settle for the night.’
‘Where do they come from?’
‘I saw many flags, but I don’t know what they mean,’ Robin admitted. ‘I don’t know the heraldry of France.’
The Captal de Buch peered at him from those shrewd little eyes for a moment longer, before turning to Berenger. ‘You?’
‘You can trust Robin. He’s never been wrong before.’
‘I see. In that case, we shall attack. Gentlemen, we are evenly matched in numbers, but we have the weapons and the hearts of Guyenne. Ready yourselves.’
‘Guyenne? More bleeding England,’ Berenger heard Grandarse mutter as he hurried back to his own men, who grabbed additional arrows from their cart. As he looked along his own vintaine, Berenger could see the different emotions displayed. Robin was standing almost stock-still, head slightly back, gazing into the distance as he calmed himself, his fingers running along the fletchings of his arrows; Baz was fretfully working at the laces tying his hosen, as though they might fall in a fight and embarrass or entangle him; Imbert was thoughtfully swiping his sharpening stone up and down his sword in a meditative manner, as though he was considering the hordes of men whom he would slay; Clip was swearing to himself in a steady monotone.
‘What is it, Clip?’ Berenger asked.
‘Ach, we’re all going to die. What’s the point moaning? We’re all going to be killed.’
Berenger heard Saul mutter, ‘Shut up, Clip,’ and grinned.
For himself, he was aware of a fretfulness. There was an anxiety that would not leave him. Perhaps it was the atmosphere here in among the trees, or the thirst that was raging in his throat, but for some reason he felt as though his hearing and his sight were more keen than ever before. He felt as though he was soon to die, and that his body and soul were not ready yet.
‘Holy Father,’ he began, but then stopped. He had no idea how to frame a question or request of God. It was impossible to know how to start. In truth, the only prayer he knew was the Pater Noster, after long familiarisation. He was about to start reciting it, but then lifted the Infirmarer’s crucifix to his lips and kissed it. Just then, Grandarse farted and pointed forward with a grin.
‘They’re over there, lads! Let’s go and get stuck into them!’
With a crash and roar from two hundred voices, the Gascons spurred their great mounts forward. Berenger and his men darted across the road and waited while the Captal de Buch and his men-at-arms thundered along the track.
They had come to a farmstead in the trees, and now the men were pounding along the track at a fast canter; as they approached the French, they spurred their destriers to the gallop as the horns blew, and their gay lance-pennons dipped in unison as the men couched them for the first clash.
It was a slaughter. The French had been settling for the evening, preparing their cooking fires and pots, and had never thought that the English could appear behind them. The idea of passing through the forest had not occurred to them, and to suddenly be confronted with a glittering array of lance-points threw the entire camp into confusion. Men scattered wildly, struck with terror, throwing down pots and pans in their mad rush, while only a few tried to rally and grabbed swords or lances for their defence.
‘Archers! Ready!’ Berenger bellowed, and the archers moved with him to follow the men-at-arms.
There were three wealthy noblemen who had moved to join each other and stood now with a handful of squires and sergeants, all gripping swords and preparing to sell their lives dearly. Behind them Berenger could see men running. Already a number were lying dead, trampled or stabbed and flung aside.
‘Nock!’ he called. There were others moving up already. It would be useful to have some archers held in reserve to avert a fresh attack.
‘Frip, you’re joking, aren’t you?’ Clip said. ‘There’re good hostages up there! Look, there’s no one else coming!’
Berenger was about to argue, but as he looked about, he could see Clip was right. ‘Men! Take what you can!’
A bolt hurtled past Berenger’s ear, and he was startled into a run, the others with him.
Clip had been right. The other archers and men-at-arms were already congregating around small knots of men, some risking their own lives, throwing themselves onto the richer, better armoured men in the hope of winning a valuable prize, while those with more common sense and foresight fetched stones or ropes, and tripped or stunned their victims to make them safe.
Not all the French were worthwhile catches. The peasants, grooms and others were of little or no importance and thus pointless prisoners. Those who submitted might be fortunate and left alive. All those who challenged the Gascons were put to death as swiftly as possible, with an arrow or two from close range, or simply over
whelmed by numbers and stabbed when down.
Berenger headed for a knot of soldiers about a bearded man in a thick padded coat. He was roaring at his tormentors, a hand-and-a-half sword in his hands, which he whirled about before him and behind as the men advanced. Berenger pushed the men aside, taking off his gambeson as he walked, and then wrapped it swiftly about his left arm. When the man’s sword next passed before him, Berenger took hold of his arm, pulled, and held the man’s sword against his protected arm as he threw the man bodily over his shoulder and onto the ground. ‘Yield!’
‘Not to a damned peasant!’ the man spat. Berenger nodded understandingly, and then slammed his elbow into the man’s face with as much force as he could muster. He felt the man’s nose break, and in the momentary peace, he wrenched the sword from his hands and held it at the man’s throat. ‘Fuck you!’ he said.
He had an argument with two of the men who had been ringing his captive about, but he knelt on the man’s back and bound his hands with a cord, ignoring the complaints and commentary about his ancestry. ‘Grandarse! You want a share?’
The older man walked to him, kicking and shoving the arguing men aside as he came, and agreed to share in a third of the value of the man. With his agreement, Berenger rose and helped Grandarse lead their prisoner away.
‘Well?’ Grandarse said.
‘He was a knight,’ Berenger said. ‘With luck he’ll bring in some money.’
‘Aye, not a bad day’s work,’ Grandarse said.
He was lying on his side near their fire. The English had taken the booty and prisoners and left the farmstead to the dead, retreating back deep into the forest, and now with a strong party of sentries surrounding their camp, the English were resting after their labours.
‘Not bad at all. We killed or captured some two hundred and fifty, and there were two Counts in among the prisoners, as well as another important French courtier. There will be some fortunes made today.’
‘All to the good. And hopefully, tomorrow we will be away from here before the Frenchies notice. Ach! I love this life,’ Grandarse said with satisfaction, rolling over. ‘Just as a man thinks all is going to shite, we catch some French monkeys and get the chance of a decent night’s sleep.’
Berenger nodded, but he had one thought uppermost in his mind just now: the whole vintaine needed water. He and others had looted the French camp for whatever they could find, but now he was thirsty again. With luck they would find water on the morrow.
They ate biscuits and some meat they had liberated from the French camp, and a few of the men were already snoring when a boy came through the trees. He was wearing the particoloured hosen and tunic of a King’s Messenger, and every so often would call out. ‘Centener? Centener?’
‘Aye, boy, I’m here,’ Grandarse grumbled, rolling over until he was sitting up again. ‘What is it, lad?’
‘You are to have your men ready before dawn, Centener. The captured French have told us where the French army is to be found, and we expect to fight them tomorrow.’
Grandarse cast a look at Berenger. ‘Ballocks! Into the fire again, Frip.’
Sunday 18 September
They were clear of the woods before sunrise. All the men were aware that this could be the day that they met the French army at last, and the usual noise and ribald comments on each other’s cleanliness, appearance and ability to fight were notably lacking. Many of the men were nervous; not scared, after so many long miles of marching, but feeling that anxiety that fills a man’s belly and makes his hunger dissipate.
Other vintaines had been sent to scout, leaving Berenger and his men in the main column, a short distance in front of the Prince and his knights.
The vintaine had tried to keep all noise to a minimum, so as to avoid warning the French soldiery, and made their way with caution. Berenger was pleased to see the great abbey nestling in the hills and trees. The tower stood out proudly, and he could hear the Benedictines in their church. It would have stopped their music, had they realised how close by the English were marching, he thought, but then he was taken by another sound, and he dropped from his horse quickly, running to the chuckling river and filling his leather bottle before cupping his hands and drinking his fill. It was against the rules, but just now he didn’t care. He was not going to ignore the cardinal rule of a soldier, making sure that he had sufficient water.
He was not alone. Many other English archers and fighters who had likewise suffered a thirsty night were also there, their horses alongside them. It was good, Berenger reflected as he rose, dripping, to be full and have an appetite for meats satisfied, but it was a better feeling by far to have been thirsty, and to be able to drink until replete.
They continued past the abbey and along a curling road shaded by great trees on either side, until they came to a point where the road fell down to the river, and then rose up a hill on the farther side. This road they kept to, in a long, ragged column of men, horses and wagons, and they were riding up the hill when there came the clattering of hoofs and a man bellowing for space. He rode at the gallop straight towards Berenger, and hurtled past them on a horse that looked already blown, as though it had run a hard race.
They would soon learn why.
They marched on, and soon on their left there was a vast, thick hawthorn hedge. There were occasional breaks in the hedge, but for the most part it made a good, all-but-impregnable barrier to horses and men. Berenger nodded to himself. This was a good defensive position, he thought, and then he came to a gap and could look out. The sight made him pause. Up before the English, ranged along a hill in the plain between Poitiers and Savigny-Levescaut, was the entire French army.
‘God’s teeth, Frip!’ Grandarse said when they caught sight of them. ‘There must be fifteen thousand of them!’
Berenger could see the dark mass of glittering metal and gleaming flags. Banners moved in the wind, and the colours of the tunics and tabards was startlingly bright in the early morning sun. ‘Robin, how many are there?’ he asked.
‘From here, I wouldn’t want to guess, Frip. But I can see at least eighty banners. They must have every nobleman in France up there.’
‘Eighty?’ Clip said.
‘There’s a lot of money on that hill,’ Dogbreath said.
Saul sighed. ‘Do you never think of anything else?’
‘Aye,’ Clip responded. ‘Death. We’ll all get killed here, you see if we don’t.’
‘Shut up, Clip,’ Robin, Fripper and Fulk said.
The Prince had no intention of attacking an army placed in so strong a position. Instead he had the men form up on the hilltop where they stood, just a little north of Nouaille. It was not a bad position. To their left, the land fell away to the little river, the Miosson. Although the hill was not steep, it was severe enough to slow a galloping destrier or wind a battle of men trying to charge up it. To guard this, the Prince placed his first battle with the Earls of Oxford and Warwick in command. On the right he placed the Earl of Salisbury, while he himself took the centre. Berenger and the rest of Grandarse’s centaine were sent to the rear as a fighting reserve, along with three other centaines. From there they could be called to any point where they were needed.
It was a fortunate location. There was a slight knoll, and from the top Berenger and his men could see forward over the heads of the English troops before them. This was farming country, and there were many pastures, vineyards and woods. Before the English was a thick hawthorn hedge, no doubt placed there as a barrier to animals trying to escape their pasture, while behind them was the forbidding darkness of the Nouaillé woods. To the left were the marshes of the river, deep and impossible to cross for men and horses in armour.
‘This is where we’ll fight them, then,’ Berenger said. He touched the crucifix.
‘Aye, and it’ll be a bugger of a battle,’ Grandarse said grimly.
The men-at-arms were already dismounted. Spears were catching the sunlight, where the men were preparing to use them, butted on th
e ground, to deter cavalry, and men were moving about in front of the hedge with picks and shovels, digging one foot square holes to frustrate any charge.
Berenger could not help but think, as he stared across the hill, that this was a good place to be forced to fight. It would serve the English very well.
But before they could fight, they had some visitors.
The wagons clattered and creaked over the rough ground, but the oxen pulled with a will, and Ed led them down to the River Miosson at the ford, then up the pasture and fields to the brow of the hill. On his right was the thick forest of Nouaillé, and he glanced at it with approval. It would be hard for anyone to launch an attack through that.
A herald rode to them and addressed Archibald. ‘Master Gynour, this will be our place for the battle. I am asked, could you take your gonnes down there, to the far left flank?’
Archibald followed his pointing finger. Here there was a great barrier of thorns and thick boughs, and as the ground fell away towards the river, which looped nearer, giving the English a shorter line to defend, he could see a small contingent of archers preparing the ground for defence.
‘Aye, I can do that.’
‘Good. From there you can harry the flank of any men sent to attack us, and protect our line.’
Archibald nodded and turned the wagon to the loop of the river, but it was soon obvious that the land here was not ideal. It was marshy and the ground was treacherous. However, it meant that the archers had their own defence. Archibald took his own position a little further up the hill, where the ground was at least solid. With the archers to his left and the beginning of the English line on his right, he felt sure that his precious gonnes would be safe enough.
Blood of the Innocents Page 41