The Grail Quest Books 1-3: Harlequin, Vagabond, Heretic

by Bernard Cornwell

  'Tell His Majesty that,' Sir Simon said spitefully.

  'I doubt he will listen to me.' The Harlequin heard the scorn, but did not rise to it. 'Not yet. When we have made our name, then he will listen.' He patted his horse's neck. 'I have only faced English arrows once, and then it was merely a single archer, but I saw an arrow go clean through a mail coat.'

  'I've seen an arrow go through two inches of oak,' Sir Simon said.

  'Three inches,' Henry Colley added. He, like Sir Simon, might have to face those arrows today, but he was still proud of what English weapons could do.

  'A dangerous weapon,' the Harlequin acknowledged, though in an unworried voice. He was ever unworried, always confident, perpetually calm, and that self-control irritated Sir Simon, though he was even more annoyed by the Harlequin's faintly hooded eyes which, he realized, reminded him of Thomas of Hookton. He had the same good looks, but at least Thomas of Hookton was dead, and that was one less archer to face this day. 'But archers can be beaten,' the Harlequin added.

  Sir Simon reflected that the Frenchman had faced one archer in his whole life, yet had already worked out how to beat them. 'How?'

  'You told me how,' the Harlequin reminded Sir Simon. 'You exhaust their arrows, of course. You send them lesser targets, let them kill peasants, fools and mercenaries for an hour or two, then release your main force. What we shall do,' he turned his horse away, 'is charge with the second line. It does not matter what orders we receive, we shall wait till the arrows are running out. Who wants to be killed by some dirty peasant? No glory there, Sir Simon.'

  That, Sir Simon acknowledged, was true enough. He followed the Harlequin to the further side of the beech wood where the squires and servants waited with the packhorses. Two messengers were sent back with news of the English dispositions while the rest dismounted and unsaddled their horses. There was time for men and beasts to rest and feed, time to don the battle armour and time for prayer.

  The Harlequin prayed frequently, embarrassing Sir Simon, who considered himself a good Christian but one who did not dangle his soul from God's apron strings. He said confession once or twice a year, went to Mass and bared his head when the Sacraments passed by, but otherwise he spared little thought for the pieties. The Harlequin, on the other hand, confided every day to God, though he rarely stepped into a church and had little time for priests. It was as though he had a private relationship with heaven, and that was both annoying and comforting to Sir Simon. It annoyed him because it seemed unmanly, and it comforted him because if God was of any use to a fighting man then it was on a day of battle.

  This day, though, seemed special for the Harlequin, for after going down on one knee and praying silently for a while, he stood and ordered his squire to bring him the lance. Sir Simon, wishing they could stop the pious foolery and eat instead, presumed that they were expected to arm themselves and sent Colley to fetch his own lance, but the Harlequin stopped him. 'Wait,' he ordered.

  The lances, wrapped in leather, were carried on a packhorse, but the Harlequin's squire fetched a separate lance, one that had travelled on its own horse and was wrapped in linen as well as leather. Sir Simon had assumed it was the Harlequin's personal weapon, but instead, when the linen was pulled from the shaft, he saw it was an ancient and warped spear made from a timber so old and dark that it would surely splinter if it was subjected to the smallest strain. The blade looked to be made of silver, which was foolish, for the metal was too weak to make a killing blade.

  Sir Simon grinned. 'You're not fighting with that!'

  'We are all fighting with that,' the Harlequin said and, to Sir Simon's surprise, the black-dressed man fell to his knees again. 'Down,' he instructed Sir Simon.

  Sir Simon knelt, feeling like a fool.

  'You are a good soldier, Sir Simon,' the Harlequin said. 'I have met few men who can handle weapons as you do and I can think of no man I would rather have fighting at my side, but there is more to fighting than swords and lances and arrows. You must think before you fight, and you must always pray, for if God is on your side then no man can beat you.'

  Sir Simon, obscurely aware that he was being criticized, made the sign of the cross. 'I pray,' he said defensively.

  'Then give thanks to God that we will carry that lance into battle.'

  'Why?'

  'Because it is the lance of St George, and the man who fights under the protection of that lance will be cradled in God's arms.'

  Sir Simon stared at the lance, which had been laid reverently on the grass. There had been a few times in his life, usually when he was half drunk, when he would glimpse something of the mysteries of God. He

  had once been reduced to tears by a fierce Dominican, though the effect had not lasted beyond his next visit to a tavern, and he had felt shrunken the first time he had stepped into a cathedral and seen the whole vault dimly lit by candles, but such moments were few, infrequent and unwelcome. Yet now, suddenly, the mystery of Christ reached down to touch his heart. He stared at the lance and did not see a tawdry old weapon tricked with an impractical silver blade, but a thing of God-given power. It had been given by Heaven to make men on earth invincible, and Sir Simon was astonished to feel tears prick at his eyes.

  'My family brought it from the Holy Land,' the Harlequin said, 'and they claimed that men who fought under the lance's protection could not be defeated, but that was not true. They were beaten, but when all their allies died, when the very fires of hell were lit to burn their followers to death, they lived. They left France and took the lance with them, but my uncle stole it and concealed it from us. Then I found it, and now it will give its blessings to our battle.'

  Sir Simon said nothing. He just gazed at the weapon with a look close to awe.

  Henry Colley, untouched by the moment's fervour, picked his nose.

  'The world,' the Harlequin said, 'is rotting. The Church is corrupt and kings are weak. We have it in our power, Sir Simon, to make a new world, loved by God, but to do it we must destroy the old. We must take power ourselves, then give the power to God. That is why we fight.'

  Henry Colley thought the Frenchman was plain crazy, but Sir Simon had an enraptured expression.

  Tell me,' the Harlequin looked at Sir Simon, 'what is the battle flag of the English King?'

  The dragon banner,' Sir Simon said.

  The Harlequin offered one his rare smiles. 'Is that not an omen?' he asked, then paused. 'I shall tell you what will happen this day,' he went on. The King of France will come and he will be impatient and he will attack. The day will go badly for us. The English will jeer us because we cannot break them, but then we shall carry the lance into battle and you will see God turn the fight. We shall snatch victory from failure. You will take the English King's son as a prisoner and maybe we will even capture Edward himself, and our reward will be Philip of Valois's favour. That is why we fight, Sir Simon — for the King's favour, because that favour means power, riches and land. You will share that wealth, but only so long as you understand that we shall use our power to purge the rot from Christendom. We shall be a scourge against the wicked.'

  Mad as a brush, Henry Colley thought. Daft as lights. He watched as the Harlequin stood and went to a pack-horse's pannier from which he took a square of cloth which, unfolded, proved to be a red banner on which a strange beast with horns, tusks and claws reared on its hind legs while clasping a cup in its forepaws.

  'This is my family's banner,' the Harlequin said, tying the flag to the lance's long silver head with black ribbons, 'and for many years, Sir Simon, this banner was forbidden in France because its owners had fought against the King and against the Church. Our lands were wasted and our castle is still slighted, but today we shall be heroes and this banner will be back in favour.' He rolled the flag about the lance-head so that the yale was hidden. Today,' he said fervently, 'my family is resurrected.'

  'What is your family?' Sir Simon asked.

  'My name is Guy Vexille,' the Harlequin admitted, 'and I am the Cou
nt of Astarac'

  Sir Simon had never heard of Astarac, but he was pleased to learn that his master was a proper nobleman and, to signify his obedience, he held his praying hands towards Guy Vexille in homage. 'I will not disappoint you, my lord,' Sir Simon said with an unaccustomed humility.

  'God will not disappoint us today,' Guy Vexille said. He took Sir Simon's hands in his own. Today,' he raised his voice to speak to all his knights, 'we shall destroy England.'

  For he had the lance.

  And the royal army of France was coming.

  And the English had offered themselves for slaughter.

  —«»—«»—«»—

  'Arrows,' Will Skeat said. He was standing at the wood's edge beside a pile of sheaves unloaded from a wagon, but suddenly paused. 'Good God.' He was staring at Thomas. 'Looks like a rat got your hair.' He frowned. 'Suits you, though. You look grown up at long last. Arrows!' he said again. 'Don't waste them.' He tossed the sheaves one by one to the archers. 'It looks like a lot, but most of you godforsaken lepers have never been in a proper battle and battles swallow arrows like whores swallowing — Good morning, Father Hobbe!'

  'You'll spare me a sheaf, Will?'

  'Don't waste it on sinners, father,' Will said, throwing a bundle to the priest. 'Kill some God-fearing Frenchmen.'

  'There's no such thing, Will. They're all spawn of Satan.'

  Thomas emptied a sheaf into his arrow bag and tucked another into his belt. He had a pair of bowcords in his helmet, safe from the rain that threatened. A smith had come to the archers' encampment and had hammered the nicks from their swords, axes, knives and billhooks, then sharpened the blades with his stones. The smith, who had been wandering the army, said the King had ridden north to look for a battlefield, but he himself reckoned the French would not come that day. 'It's a lot of sweat for nothing,' he had grumbled as he smoothed a stone down Thomas's sword. 'This is French work,' he said, peering at the long blade.

  'From Caen.'

  'You could sell this for a penny or two,' the praise was grudging, 'good steel. Old, of course, but good.'

  Now, with their arrows replenished, the archers placed their belongings into a wagon that would join the rest of the army's baggage and one man, who was sick in his belly, would guard it through the day while a second invalid would stand sentry on the archers' horses. Will Skeat ordered the wagon away, then cast an eye over his assembled archers. 'The bastards are coming,' he growled, 'if not today, then tomorrow, and there are more of them than there are of us, and they ain't hungry and they've all got boots and they think their shit smells of roses because they're bloody Frenchmen, but they die just like anyone else. Shoot their horses and you'll live to see sundown. And remember, they ain't got proper archers so they're going to lose. It ain't difficult to understand. Keep your heads, aim at the horses, don't waste shafts and listen for orders. Let's go, boys.'

  They waded the shallow river, one of the many bands of archers who emerged from the trees to file into the village of Crécy where knights were pacing up and down, then stamping their feet and calling on squires or pages to tighten a strap or loosen a buckle to make their armour comfortable. Bunches of horses, tied bridle to bridle, were being led to the back of the hill where, with the army's women, children and baggage, they would stay inside a ring of wagons. The Prince of Wales, armoured from the waist down, was eating a green apple beside the church and he nodded distractedly when Skeat's men respectfully pulled off their helmets. There was no sign of Jeanette, and Thomas wondered if she had fled on her own, then decided he did not care.

  Eleanor walked beside him. She touched his arrow bag. 'Do you have enough arrows?'

  'Depends how many Frenchmen come,' Thomas said.

  'How many Englishmen are there?' Rumour said the army had eight thousand men now, half of them archers, and Thomas reckoned that was probably about right. He gave that figure to Eleanor, who frowned. 'And how many Frenchmen?' she asked.

  'The good Lord knows,' Thomas said, but he reckoned it had to be far more than eight thousand, a lot more, but he could do nothing about that now and so he tried to forget the disparity in numbers as the archers climbed towards the windmill.

  They crossed the crest to see the long forward slope, and for an instant Thomas had the impression that a great fair was just beginning. Gaudy flags dotted the hill and bands of men wandered between them, and all it needed was some dancing bears and a few jugglers and it would have looked just like the Dorchester fair.

  Will Skeat had stopped to search for the Earl of Northampton's banner, then spotted it on the right of the slope, straight down from the mill. He led the men down and a man-at-arms showed them the sticks marking the spot where the archers would fight. 'And the Earl wants horse-pits dug,' the man-at-arms said.

  'You heard him!' Will Skeat shouted. 'Get digging!'

  Eleanor helped Thomas make the pits. The soil was thick and they used knives to loosen the earth that they scooped out with their hands.

  'Why do you dig pits?' Eleanor asked.

  'To trip the horses,' Thomas said, kicking the excavated earth away before starting another hole. All along the face of the hill archers were making similar small pits a score of paces in front of their positions. The enemy horsemen might charge at the full gallop, but the pits would check them. They could get through, but only slowly, and the impetus of their charge would be broken and while they tried to thread the treacherous holes they would be under attack from archers.

  'There,' Eleanor said, pointing, and Thomas looked up to see a group of horsemen on the far hill crest. The first Frenchmen had arrived and were staring across the valley to where the English army slowly assembled under the banners.

  'Be hours yet,' Thomas said. Those Frenchmen, he guessed, were the vanguard who had been sent ahead to find the enemy, while the main French army would still be marching from Abbeville. The crossbowmen, who would surely lead the attack, would all be on foot.

  Off to Thomas's right, where the slope fell away to the river and the village, a makeshift fortress of empty wagons was being made. The carts were parked close together to form a barrier against horsemen and between them were guns. These were not the guns that had failed to break CaenCastle, but were much smaller.

  'Ribalds,' Will Skeat said to Thomas.

  'Ribalds?'

  'That's what they're called, ribalds.' He led Thomas and Eleanor along the slope to look at the guns, which were strange bundles of iron tubes. Gunners were stirring the powder, while others were undoing bundles of garros, the long arrow-like iron missiles that were rammed into the tubes. Some of the ribalds had eight barrels, some seven and a few only four. 'Useless bloody things,' Skeat spat, 'but they might frighten the horses.' He nodded a greeting to the archers who were digging pits ahead of the ribalds. The guns were thick here -Thomas counted thirty-four and others were being dragged into place — but they still needed the protection of bowmen.

  Skeat leaned on a wagon and stared at the far hill. It was not warm, but he was sweating. 'Are you ill?' Thomas asked.

  'Guts are churning a bit,' Skeat admitted, 'but nothing to make a song and dance about.' There were about four hundred French horsemen on the far hill now, and others were appearing from the trees. 'It might not happen,' Skeat said quietly.

  'The battle?'

  'Philip of France is jumpy,' Skeat said. 'He's got a knack of marching up to battle, then deciding he'd rather be frolicking at home. That's what I hear. Nervous bastard.' He shrugged. 'But if he thinks he's got a chance today, Tom, it's going to be nasty.'

  Thomas smiled. 'The pits? The archers?'

  'Don't be a bloody fool, boy,' Skeat retorted. 'Not every pit breaks a leg and not every arrow strikes true. We might stop the first charge and maybe the second, but they'll still keep coming and in the end they'll get through. There's just too many of the bastards. They'll be on top of us, Tom, and it'll be up to the men-at-arms to give them a hammering. Just keep your head, boy, and remember it's the men-at-arms who do
the close-quarter work. If the bastards get past the pits then take your bow back, wait for a target and stay alive. And if we lose?' He shrugged. 'Leg it for the forest and hide there.'

  'What is he saying?' Eleanor asked.

  'That it should be easy work today.'

  'You are a bad liar, Thomas.'

  'Just too many of them,' Skeat said, almost to himself. 'Tommy Dugdale faced worse odds down in Brittany, Tom, but he had plenty of arrows. We're short.'

  'We're going to be all right, Will.'

  'Aye, well. Maybe.' Skeat pushed himself off the wagon. 'You two go ahead. I need a quiet place for a second.'

  Thomas and Eleanor walked back north. The English line was forming now, the scattered flags being swamped by men-at-arms who were forming into blocks. Archers stood ahead of each formation while marshals, armed with white staffs, made sure there were gaps in the line through which the archers could escape if the horsemen came too close. Bundles of lances had been fetched from the village and were being issued to the men-at-arms in the front rank for, if the French did get past the pits and the arrows, the lances would have to be used as pikes.

  By mid-morning the whole army was assembled on the hill. It looked far bigger than it really was because so many women had stayed with their men and now sat on the grass or else lay and slept. A fitful sun came and went, racing shadows across the valley. The pits were dug and the guns loaded. Perhaps a thousand Frenchmen watched from the far hill, but none ventured down the slope. 'At least it's better than marching,' Jake said; 'gives us a chance for a rest, eh?'

  'Be an easy day,' Sam reckoned. He nodded at the far hill. 'Not many of the bastards, eh?'

  'That's only the vanguard, you daft bastard,' Jake said.

  'There are more coming?' Sam sounded genuinely surprised.

  'Every goddamn bastard in France is coming,' Jake said.