After breakfast the English trooped onto the tourney field, a massive square outside the walls of Chalon, marked out by a fence of stakes. The fence was also supposed to keep back the spectators, though in practice violence often spilled out of the arena into the crowd. It wasn’t unknown for unpopular knights to be dragged from their horses and beaten half to death on the ground. Sometimes they were forced to flee for their lives with a mob of enraged peasants in hot pursuit.
Edward looked over the arena. All was as it should be. There was a roped-off area in one corner, where knights who had surrendered were held for ransom. A gaudily painted shelter had been set up on the western side of the arena. Noble ladies could sit here, above the teeming crowds, and watch the bloodsport unfold in comfort.
Eleanor was already seated there, surrounded by the ladies of her household. She wore her favourite blue, to offset her dark Castilian complexion, and a chaplet of white pearls on her brow. Edward blew her a kiss.
She’s already into the wine, he noted. Eleanor returned the kiss and drank deeply from a silver goblet. His beloved wife not only had a keen head for business, but also a head for strong drink that could put most men to shame.
As yet there wasn’t a Frenchman in sight. “They mean to make us wait,” snarled Baron Vescy. “Another insult. How many must we endure?”
Edward glanced fondly at the northerner. He was another hard, plain-spoken man, of the sort the king liked to have about him. Vescy was once his enemy, a diehard Montfortian who had led a dangerous revolt against the crown. Now he was one of Edward’s most trusted followers.
They all are, he thought, looking over his knights with fierce pride. These men had bled with him in the Holy Land, and the experience had forged an unbreakable bond between them. Few men ever went on crusade. Even fewer came back.
“Come, Othon,” said Edward. “If the French wish to delay we may as well use the time to our advantage.”
Othon de Grandson, a knight of Savoy and Edward’s closest friend, obediently followed his master onto the tourney field. The outskirts had started to fill with people, trickling in from the town and countryside. A few catcalls were thrown at Edward, who was bareheaded and wore a red surcoat displaying the pards of Anjou over his mail. He smiled at the insults, most of which were good-natured, and exchanged obscene gestures with a French peasant.
“Everyone loves the King of England,” he remarked. All the time he looked carefully over the arena. It was a flat square of earth, carefully swept clean for the tourney. Chalon lay to the north, next to the banks of the Marne. The river, wide and blue and sparkling, flowed past the north-west corner of the arena.
Edward urged his horse to the edge of the water. The Marne was deep, deeper than he had first thought, and the current strong and swift.
“There’s some good fishing here,” sighed Othon. “Reminds me of home. The mountains, the woods, little streams...”
“You will see Savoy again,” Edward replied absently. He looked back over his shoulder. His knights were gathered in the southern part of the arena, looking slightly lost. Most of them had dismounted and sent their horses to the rear, to be looked after by squires until the tourney started. No sense letting the beasts wilt. The sun had yet to climb to its summit, but the hill country of southern France already shimmered under a heat haze. Edward sweated freely under his layers of mail and leather. He was quite used to such discomfort. After the unbearable conditions of the Holy Land, this was like a cool bath.
Apart from the knights, he had brought back some eight hundred infantry from the east. Slingers, archers and spearmen. They were arranged in twenties and hundreds and led by experienced vintners. Unless the tourney degenerated into a full-scale battle – quite possible – their job was to stay back in reserve and watch the nobles beat each other to a pulp.
A plan started to form in Edward’s mind. “Our footsoldiers look in need of encouragement,” he said. “I think I’ll have a talk with them.”
It was near midday before the French started to arrive. They came pompously, a stream of knights and barons in brightly polished mail and richly decorated caparisons and saddlery. Some of the wealthiest were preceded by heralds on foot, blowing trumpets and reciting the glorious ancestry of their masters in loud voices. The noise and excitement grew ever more feverish. By noon the stalls were thronged with people; the air was full of laughter and shouting, touts laying odds on the fighters, pie-sellers flogging their indigestible wares, horns and the clash of cymbals and the squeal of pipes.
Edward and his knights were now fully armed and mounted. They formed up into a solid phalanx, two ranks deep, in the southern part of the arena. Jeers and catcalls rained down on their heads, along with the occasional barrage of filth and rotten vegetables.
The king had long experience of tournaments. These people have come to see blood, he thought grimly. They will have an ocean of it, before the day is out.
His friend Othon kept a sharp eye on the French knights as they filed into the arena. Already their numbers had swelled to outmatch the English, and they kept on coming.
“I count three hundred and sixty-seven so far,” he said. “Almost two to one, and the Comte isn’t here yet.”
Edward gave a shrug. He knew the odds. The Comte d’Chalon would bring his own household knights, as many as fifty or more. To judge from the great mob of French horsemen crowding into the arena, he had summoned every hedge-knight and country baron in the district.
The French were also supported by hundreds of infantry. Edward watched these men, a motley crowd of sergeants on foot and peasant levies armed with billhooks, flails and every kind of rustic weapon. They massed on the flanks of the arena, ready to charge in support of the knights.
Or before them...
A shrill blast of trumpets heralded the arrival of the Comte. The trumpets were swiftly drowned in the roar of acclaim as his banner hove into view. Before it rode a godlike figure, tall and lithe in the saddle, his face hidden under a steel helm decorated with a pair of spreading antlers. The Comte’s surcoat was a rich crimson, his armour painted gold and polished to reflect the sun. A bundle of gold-painted leaves was loosely tied to the end of his red lance. They dripped down onto the heads of the crowd, who laughed and snatched at the leaves as they swirled about.
“Flashy bastard,” muttered Othon.
“He knows how to make an entrance,” said Edward. “And how to win the hearts of the people. Look.”
The Comte was followed by his household guard, fifty knights on high-stepping horses, scarcely less splendid than their lord. Beside them walked a double file of squires, scattering silver pennies from bowls. Savage fights broke out as people bit, punched and clawed at each other for the precious bits of treasure. One livre was enough to feed a poor family for a week.
This was all a distraction, and Edward knew it. He kept his eye on the Frenchmen already gathered in the arena, especially the footmen. The noise of the crowd was at fever pitch. People were baying for blood, like dogs starved of meat.
The Comte and his knights were in no hurry to enter the arena. They rode through the teeming crowds at a walk, their path littered with petals and bundles of flowers. Those Frenchmen already gathered in the arena were ready to begin. The knights had gathered into a tightly packed phalanx, boot to boot, four ranks deep. On their flanks the infantrymen edged forwards, slingers and bowmen to the fore.
Now for it.
Edward laced on his helm and lifted his lance high into the air. Inside his steel shell, the noise of the crowd echoed like distant thunder. His vision was restricted to a narrow bar.
All of a sudden, bugles rang out among the French infantry. They roared and streamed forward to attack. The knights in the centre remained still, while the Comte and his men had yet to enter the arena.
“Treachery!” Othon’s voice screamed above the din. The mounted knights should have charged first, with the infantry held in reserve. Tourneys were, after all, affairs for gentlemen.
The Comte d’Chalon was not a gentleman. He had planned this well in advance. His footsoldiers would go in first and swamp Edward’s knights, cut their girths and drag them from their saddles. Then the French chivalry would charge in and complete the rout.
Edward, no slouch in laying ambushes himself, had guessed the Comte’s intention. Before the French archers bent their bows, he brought his lance down as the signal to counterattack.
Horns blew among his own infantry. The men in the front ranks kneeled to make space for the bowmen and slingers, who unleashed a storm of missiles. Arrows and stones tore into the French infantry. Caught by surprise, their charge staggered to a halt. A few were killed outright, others bled and writhed on the ground.
“Charge! No mercy, no mercy!”
The roars of English vintners filled the air as they led their men forward. Edward watched in grim satisfaction as his footsoldiers stormed into the demoralised French. Axes swung, billhooks carved into flesh, spears stabbed, blood flowed like wine.
The middle of the arena was a surging mass of bodies. For a few moments the vicious brawl swung to and fro. The French still had the advantage of numbers, but the English were driven by rage and had the edge in skill and experience. These men were veterans of the Holy Land and the civil wars in England. Their opponents were French peasants drafted into service, probably in action for the first time.
Edward raised and lowered his lance again. At his signal thirty knights burst from the left flank of the English phalanx and galloped into the heaving scrum of fighting men. They were led by the bulky figure of Robert de Bruce, a fearsome Scottish lord. Bruce laid about him with his axe, scattering blood and brains over the soil of the arena.
“Drive them to the river!” he roared. His hoarse voice rose above the chaos like a war-horn.
The English infantry surged again and broke the ranks of the French, who took to their heels. They fled in panic, herded like sheep by Bruce’s knights towards the banks of the Marne. With the English footmen snapping at their heels, the fugitives had no choice but to take their chance in the rushing waters. Those who tried to surrender were butchered on the spot.
Within moments the river ran red. The crowd howled in dismay as they watched their countrymen died, either slaughtered on the riverbank or drowned in the fast-flowing current. Meanwhile Bruce turned about and led his knights back to the king’s banner.
They returned just in time. Trumpets squalled as the French knights booted in their spurs and charged. Edward and his men couched their lances and galloped to meet them. The thunder of hoofs swelled to fill the air as the two sides rushed together. Lances shattered. Shields broke, swords flashed into being. Helms were split, bright blood gushed from shattered mail, screams rang out as men and horses tumbled to earth.
Edward had been trained to this from an early age. He kept his seat easily, guiding his destrier with his knees. His long arms gave him a natural advantage other most men, and he handled a sword with sinuous dexterity.
Two French knights went down under his blade. Another broke his shield with a mace. In response Edward unleashed a hammer blow that knocked the Frenchman over his cantle. The stricken knight’s horse veered away, neighing in fright, and vanished among the swirling eddies of dust and bodies.
Othon kept to Edward’s side, as did the king’s household knights. The red and gold standard of England flew bravely above the throng, attracting Frenchmen like bees to honey.
“Take the banner!” was the cry. “The banner and the king – bring them down!”
The ranks of fighters before Edward suddenly parted, swept aside by a massive golden figure on a horse with crimson barding. The Comte d’Chalon himself drove straight at the king, smashing aside those household knights that flung themselves in his path.
Edward welcomed the encounter. “Mine!” he shouted at Othon before the Savoyard could put himself between his master and the Comte. Othon heard the cry and drew back.
The king and the count joined battle. Edward saw a pair of blue eyes glitter inside the golden helm as they traded sword blows. At first he fought on the defensive to gauge his opponent’s skill. The Comte was strong, and almost as tall as Edward, but there was no finesse to his swordplay. He hacked and chopped like a butcher in a foul mood, hoping to beat Edward down by main force.
He was also impatient. After a few minutes he cast away his sword, spurred closer and threw his weight against Edward. His arm snaked about the king’s neck and started to choke him.
“What are you trying to do?” Edward rasped at the golden helm. “Do you think you can take me?”
“Most surely,” hissed the Comte’s muffled voice. “I will have both you and your horse, and parade you in a cart through the streets of Chalon.”
Enraged by this, Edward pulled himself upwards and struck the Comte’s destrier with the flat of his blade. The animal screeched and reared onto her haunches, almost throwing his rider. Yelling in fright, the Comte clung onto Edward’s neck. For a few moments they were locked in a tight embrace as the English king rained blows on his opponent’s helm. His sword cut into one of the Comte’s ridiculous antlers and chopped it clean off.
At last the Comte’s strength failed and he slid to the ground. Edward left his opponent lying in a heap and spurred out of the fight. His bodyguards formed a wall around him while he got his breath back. He unlaced his helm with trembling fingers and tore it off to wipe the sweat from his eyes.
What he saw filled him anger. The French had slain many of his men, as if they were at war rather than tourney. They made no effort to take ransoms, but cut down his outnumbered knights and trampled them to death on the ground. Surrounded on all sides, the English knights had fragmented into groups, fighting back to back against tides of mounted horsemen. The French charged again and again, withdrawing only to rally and drive home another brutal assault.
The arena was strewn with crushed and broken bodies, men twitching feebly in their death throes. One English knight, his legs broken, tried to crawl into the crowd. This was a terrible mistake, as he was set upon and beaten to a pulp by some laughing peasants with clubs.
Edward could see only one hope of victory. His infantry, having won their fight, had withdrawn to watch the battle play out. The king tucked his helm underarm and galloped towards them, followed by his guard.
“Attack!” he roared at his footsoldiers. “No prisoners – spare none you set eyes on, and do the same to them as they are doing to us!”
His men took up the cry and flooded into the melee. It was usually forbidden for commoners to slay noblemen in tourneys, but this custom no longer applied. The French had broken the rules, and would now reap the consequences.
Edward hung back and watched as his veteran footsoldiers tore into the French knights, savagely attacking them everywhere. They gutted the bellies of horses, cut their girths and brought the riders crashing to the ground. The fallen French knights begged for mercy and got none, beaten and stabbed where they lay.
The king spotted his rival, the Comte, who had been lifted back onto a horse. He and the remainder of his household were in the thick of the fight, struggling to hold their ground against the wild rush of English infantry. His golden helm, battered and mutilated, was clearly visible.
“Time to fell the stag,” Edward muttered. He put on his helm and galloped straight at his enemy. Fighting men scattered from his path, English and French, or were ridden down.
The Comte sensed his danger and turned, sword in hand, to meet the vengeful king. Edward’s first blow severed the mail on his right shoulder and opened a deep gash. Bright blood spurted into the air. Still he fought gamely on, eyes narrowed behind the slit of his visor as he defended himself with hopeless courage.
“Yield!” Edward shouted. “Yield, or I’ll kill you here and now! Ransoms be damned!”
“Never!” the other man rasped. Edward continued to pound at him, smashing down his feeble guard. More blood streamed down the Comte’s arms and leg
s. He could barely lift his sword now. Still Edward hacked through his armour, opening one cut after another.
The sight and smell of so much blood filled the king’s nostrils and woke the beast inside him. It was always there, a caged leopard, always hungry, always pawing at the bars. In his youth Edward had struggled to control the beast, allowed it to hurt those who displeased him. He had it under better control now, save when blades clashed and blood flowed...
“Lord king!” Othon’s voice cut through the red mist. The voice of reason. Edward ignored him and unleashed another shattering blow at the Comte’s helm. His blade bit deep, left another dent in the battered golden casque. The Frenchman reeled in the saddle, one foot dangling loose from its stirrup, head bowed. Blood dripped through the breathing-holes of his helm.
“No, lord king. Spare him!”
Othon again. Edward lifted his sword again, closed his eyes and made a great effort. He could not deliberately slay a nobleman in combat, even if the man was a treacherous weasel who had broken the rules of tourney. The whole of Christendom would look down on Edward, the pope would be furious, it might even lead to war with France: the Comte d’Chalon was, after all, the French king’s vassal. Edward’s reputation, so hard-won on crusade, would be left in tatters. And Eleanor was watching. She idolised her husband as the best knight in the world. Edward would rather die than lose her worship.
All in all, it was no way to start a new reign. Much as the Comte deserved a sword in the throat, he must be allowed to live.
Edward could still humiliate him. He contemptuously flicked the Comte’s sword from his hand.
“You will yield,” he hissed. “But not to me. You don’t deserve to yield to a king.”
He looked around. The fighting had died down a little, as the combatants broke off their private duels to watch the combat between the leaders. Amongst the swirling dust and red mist, Edward picked out a man on foot. One of his vintners, a hard-faced English peasant with part of his jaw missing, sliced away by a Saracen blade outside Acre.
The Hooded Men Page 12