His worst fears soon came to pass. The rugged towers of Hode Castle were just visible on the horizon when banners appeared on the ridge. They quickly multiplied, accompanied by the rumble of men and horses on the march.
Hugh watched, almost paralysed with fear, as companies of mounted knights and sergeants advanced over the northern hills. They were followed by long lines of footsoldiers, peasant levies armed with bills and bows, marching to the steady throb of drums and pipes.
The hooded men cheered at the sight of their allies. “I told you to trust our chief!” yelled one, nudging his neighbour sharply with his elbow. “Didn’t I say he had a plan?”
“No, you didn’t,” the other replied caustically, grinning all the same.
Hugh wasn’t listening. He had spotted Sir John d’Eyvill, the man he feared above all others. The burly Yorkshire knight was unmistakable, riding at the head of his knights and men-at-arms. They formed the vanguard of the northern army, some two hundred men.
Chandos and his guards spurred forward to meet Sir John. They came together halfway across the golden sea of cornfields between their two forces. The horses trampled down the ripening corn, a nightmare for the serfs whose lives depended on the harvest.
Hugh was trapped in his own nightmare. In the deep forest of his mind, he heard the distant howls of hungry wolves. For years he had stayed one step ahead of the pack. Now he was marching straight into their jaws.
Perhaps it was best to turn and face them. Hugh choked down his fear and rode towards his nemesis.
14.
The rebel host stood in line of battle on the northern edge of the Vale of York. Their captains had chosen a fair open plain, bordered by gentle hills to the east and west, patches of forest to the rear. Their baggage was placed inside the trees for protection, guarded by a mounted reserve.
All was peaceful. The men stood in silence. They had breakfasted at dawn on bread and porridge, washed down with cupfuls of hot wine, and now waited. The only sound came from the neigh of horses, or the snap of bright banners and streamers in the breeze.
Sir John rode to the summit of the eastern ridge. From here he could look south, over the broad plains stretching all the way to York. He could also look over the army.
He was accompanied by his brother, Robert, and Sir James Chandos. John had little time for Chandos, whom he regarded as a vain oaf. No true knight, in his opinion, hid behind absurd nicknames. The Green Knight, the King of the North Wind! Such guises were fit for strolling players or common thieves, not a man of gentle birth and upbringing.
Chandos at least brought some useful men to the field. John was reluctantly impressed by the discipline of the hooded men, over three hundred archers in green mantles. They were stationed among the third and rear division of the infantry, next to Robert’s men of Sherwood.
“Well,” said John, “if either of you have any ideas, now is the time to share them.”
His companions were silent. As usual, Robert waited for another to speak first. Chandos looked critically over the army, his little mouth pursed, eyes narrowed in concentration.
“We could not have deployed our men any better,” he said firmly. “Or chosen a better place to fight. Infantry in three lines, horse on the flanks, a company in reserve. The woods and hills mean we cannot be outflanked, or attacked in the rear.”
He smiled thinly and rubbed his mailed hands together. “Yes. This is a fine spot to fight a defensive battle. If the enemy is fool enough to attack us here, they will break all their teeth.”
John was not surprised at the other man’s confidence. Chandos had drawn up the plan himself, and chosen the field of battle. He regarded his own judgement as infallible.
It was difficult to pick too many holes in his strategy. They had over four thousand men, mostly infantry with a few hundred horse. The best of these were the archers of Sherwood and Tickhill, along with three hundred infantry drawn from scattered northern garrisons. The rest were militia: raw, untrained peasants, servants, hawkers, bailiffs, foresters and village levies – every able-bodied man the d’Eyvills and their allies could scrape up from their estates.
The best of the men-at-arms on foot were placed in the front line. The rabble of militia formed the second line, while the third was made up of archers and crossbowmen. Mounted knights and sergeants were drawn up in two separate companies on the flanks.
John scratched his beard. “Curse this heat,” he muttered. “It turns the land bone-dry. In the winter months this plain is all bog. Now look at it. Hard as rock. Perfect for a charge of heavy horse.”
“By all means, if the king’s men wish to impale their fine horses on stakes,” Chandos replied tartly. John smirked at the other man’s tone. The Green Knight bridled at the slightest hint of criticism.
It was true the rebels had erected some apology for a chevaux de frise in front of their lines, to guard against enemy cavalry. Trees were cut in haste from the nearby woods and made into a ragged fence of stakes, sharpened at both ends and roped together. John thought it might stand up to one reasonably determined charge, assuming the royalists were fool enough to throw their knights at a wall of points.
We need more men, he thought. More knights and men-at-arms especially. True, some of the minor nobility of the northern counties had rallied to the rebel cause. Others had stayed away or joined the royalists. Earl Ferrers was still in Derbyshire, mustering his tenants and loyal supporters at Peveril.
Ferrers moved too slowly. Everything was too slow. John much preferred raids and skirmishes to pitched battles. If he was in command, the rebels would avoid battle and draw the royalists much further north, burning the land as they went, driving away livestock and peasants. Force the enemy to march through a lifeless, blackened wasteland until their supplies ran out. Once they withdrew, hungry and demoralised, then was the time to attack.
He shrugged his armoured shoulders. Chandos outranked him, and it was impossible to argue with the man anyway. Whatever happened, he was welcome to the glory or the blame. John had his own interests to look after.
“They’re coming,” said Robert. He had dismounted and stood at the edge of the summit, peering south.
John shaded his own eyes to look. “I can’t see a damn thing,” he muttered. “You’ve got eyes like a hawk, brother.”
“I tell you they’re coming,” Robert added in the same flat voice. “And fast. Look there.”
He pointed into the middle distance. John strained his eyes until they ached. Gradually the yellow shimmer hanging over the Vale of York, which he took to be a heat haze, coalesced into a rolling cloud of dust. The thump of distant drums reached his ears.
John’s mouth went dry. He grabbed his flask and took a long swallow of watered wine.
“Make ready, my friends,” he said. “Hell is coming.”
They scattered to their posts. John took command of the cavalry on the left, Chandos the right, while Robert joined his Sherwood archers. They were barely in place before the first batailles of royalist horse cantered onto the field. Four hundred mailed lancers divided into conrois of five to ten each, the royal standard waving proudly in the middle of the front rank.
John willed them to attack. “Ride onto the stakes, you fools,” he muttered to himself. The youngest knights were usually placed in the van of an army. Rash hotheads, looking for glory and ransoms. They were often impossible to control, with a tendency to put their brainless heads down and charge the nearest enemy in sight.
To John’s dismay, these men were on a tight rein. They slowed to a trot and then calmly separated into two divisions, which flowed left and right to leave a wide space in the middle of the field. This was soon filled by a second bataille of horse, riding at a stately pace while the drums beat and the big columns of infantry brought up the rear.
John picked out the standards of the royal captains. Prince Edmund of Lancaster, Roger Mortimer of Wigmore, and Reynold Grey. Of these he feared Grey the most. He was a man after John’s own heart, a
brave and expert captain of light horse. They had crossed swords, once, at a ford on the outskirts of London in the closing weeks of the last war. John wished he had killed the man then.
He didn’t like the odds. Three to one, more than he had reckoned for. John beckoned at his cousin, Adam d’Eyvill, who served him for a squire.
“Go to Robert,” he quietly ordered the lad. “Tell him to make ready. When I give the signal, he knows what to do.”
“At once, lord,” replied Adam, who swung his pony about and sped off to the rear.
The royalists wasted no time. Their infantry were quickly arranged into three lines, just like the rebels, with the best men at the front. John’s doubts grew as he watched the enemy deploy. There was little disorder or confusion in their ranks, and the footsoldiers marched into position with impressive discipline. This was a stark contrast to most of the rebel militia, who had to be flogged and bullied into line.
Prince Edmund and his friends know their business, he thought. Curse them.
Trumpets screamed, and the first battalion of royalist foot started to move forward. Lines of skirmishers, slingers and crossbows, went ahead of the great mass of bills, swords and spears. They unleashed their missiles, a hail of stones and bolts, and punched holes in the rebel line.
“Loose!”
The order sounded from the rear of the rebel lines. Seconds later the sky darkened with a storm of arrows, loosed by the archers of Sherwood and Tickhill. The shafts fell among the royalist skirmishers and the phalanx of infantry tramping behind. Men went down, gaps opened here and there in the enemy ranks. It made no difference. The gaps were quickly closed, and the great tide of bodies continued to roll forward. The royal standards rose in defiance, men roared their war-songs, and trumpets and bugles screamed.
John held his breath. The royalist infantry broke ranks and charged, surging through the ragged line of stakes to close with the rebels. A great shout rippled back and forth across the field.
“Stand,” John muttered under his breath. “Stand fast, you clods.”
The crushing weight of the charge drove the rebel foot backwards. They retreated a spear’s length, their line buckling under the sheer weight of bodies hurled against it. John chewed his lower lip as he watched the carnage. Deadly bills rose and fell, carving through mail, leather and flesh. Spears jabbed; swords clashed; men clawed and tore and bit each other. The crush in the front lines was unbearable. Men and dying men were held upright by the sheer press of bodies around them. The wounded were either trampled to a pulp, or tried to crawl away to safety through the legs of their comrades.
“Hold!” roared the vintners in the rebel line, beating at their men with clubs. “Hold fast – no retreat! No surrender! You will stand or die!”
All the while the missiles continued to fall. The rebel archers shot over the heads of the men in front, so their shafts fell like deadly rain among the packed ranks of enemy foot. Prince Edmund had recalled his own missile troops and dispersed them on the edges of the battle, where they could shoot into the flanks of the rebel infantry.
John feared the rebel line would break. Hope rose in his breast when their retreat slowly ground to a halt. Fighting with desperate courage, the soldiers of the first line refused to yield another step.
“Now!” John roared. “Now is the time, Chandos!”
His voice was lost in the ear-splitting din of battle. He turned in the saddle to look for Chandos, or any sign of the second line moving up in support. The militia were still rooted to the spot, even with the fight raging a few yards ahead of them. Nobody was giving orders. No messengers came galloping up from the rear.
John was faced with several choices. He could lead his knights into the exposed flank of the royalist foot. That might push them back, but the battalions of royalist cavalry were yet to engage. If they charged, his men would be overwhelmed and scattered.
Or he could take command of the militia and order them to attack. How many would obey? Perhaps half. The rest were not his men, and only obeyed their lords.
As he dithered, the front line of rebel foot started to waver again. The royalists had thrown in reserves to add fresh momentum to their assault. Against such relentless pressure, even the bravest could not stand for long. Men started to peel away from the rear ranks and flee, casting aside their weapons and shields. They ran straight into the militia, a deathblow to their fragile morale. Most of them were peasants, not soldiers, with little training or experience of war.
Panic, the death of any army, spread through the rebel host. The twin lines of infantry shuddered and cracked, like a dam coming apart at the seams. A shout of triumph erupted from thousands of royalist throats.
John made his choice. He turned to his standard bearer.
“Give the signal!” he bellowed. The knight stood upright in his stirrups and held the banner high. Once, twice, thrice.
This was the signal for his brother, Robert, to get the men of Sherwood off the field. John’s knights would cover their retreat.
There was no shame in fleeing from a lost battle. The real shame, in John’s eyes, lay in allowing oneself to be killed or captured. It meant deserting their allies, of course, but that couldn’t be helped. Something had to be salvaged from defeat, and family came first.
He swung his destrier about and spurred into a gallop. His knights and squires flooded after him. They rode straight past Chandos, sitting at the head of his useless reserve like a stuffed green dummy. Tears streamed down his face as he stared in slack-jawed horror at the wreck of his army.
So much for the King of the North Wind, thought John. The man’s nerve was shot; the rebel cause in the north lay in ruins. All gambled and lost on a single battle.
After the rout came the slaughter. Before nightfall thousands of commoners would lie dead, their bodies scattered across the plain like so many butchered animals. Prince Edmund was not an especially bloodthirsty man, but some of the men under his command were strangers to mercy. Mortimer and Grey would insist on drowning the rebellion in blood.
John cursed himself for a fool. He should never have got involved in this ill-starred revolt. Greed, and fear of Earl Ferrers, drove him to it. Now all he could do was stage a fighting retreat to Hode Hill. Once he was safe in his castle, John could offer terms to the royalists. Bargain his way out of trouble, as he always did.
First he had to get there. Hoofbeats sounded behind him, the wild yells of royalist horsemen.
John turned, sword in hand, to face his doom.
15.
Béarn, Gascony
“So the little rat has gone squeaking to King Philip? Let him come before me, and I’ll grind his neck under my heel!”
Edward picked up the neat pile of documents on the table and hurled them on the grass. He was briefly tempted to roll on the ground and chew them to bits with his teeth, as his ancestor Henry FitzEmpress was said to have done in a rage.
He managed to restrain himself. Edward preferred to cut a more dignified figure and intimidate others with the awesomeness of his royal wrath. Scrambling about on the floor with a mouthful of parchment would impress nobody.
The clerk who had brought the news from Paris shrank before him. “There...there is more, lord king,” he stammered. “Lord Gaston has called you a liar and a traitor before the French parlement, and...and...”
“Go on,” said Edward in a dangerous voice.
“He...he challenged you to trial by combat, lord king. Before the King of France and a great crowd of nobles and justices.”
The English king took several deep breaths. He was aware of his courtiers watching him. Trusted men, who had followed him to the ends of the earth and back. Othon Grandson, John de Vescy, Roger Clifford. His Lusignan uncle, William Valence. The clever Italian lawyer, Francesco Accursi. Then there was Master James of St George, a military engineer of rare genius Edward had recruited in Savoy.
They were all gathered in the royal pavilion, a magnificent affair of red and gold silk, lar
ge enough to feast fifty men. The air inside the pavilion was stifling. Outside the king’s army sweltered in the heat of August. Their tents covered the fair rolling plains of Béarn inside the duchy of Gascony in southwest France.
The army lay encamped before a thick belt of woodland, the forest of Saint-Boues, wedged between green hills. Southward, the hills steadily climbed to the Pyrenees, a mighty wall of blue mountains that separated the kingdoms of France and Castile. The jagged white tips of the highest peaks glittered in the sun, like so many gigantic spears thrusting into the sky.
Deep inside the forest, three white towers rose above the trees. This was the fortress of Gaston, viscount of Béarn. After a difficult campaign lasting several months, Edward finally had Gaston cornered inside his last stronghold. Or so the king had thought.
“My friends,” he said, controlling his anger with difficulty. “I have often relied on your advice, and now ask for it again. Gaston has escaped our trap and scuttled away to Paris, where he seeks to humiliate me in public.”
He spread his hands. “So. Advise me. How should I respond?”
The lawyer, Francesco, gave a polite little cough. “If you please, lord king,” he said in his carefully modulated tones, “we need only wait, and allow Gaston enough rope to hang himself. He is your vassal, and no vassal can challenge his liege lord to single combat. King Philip is a wise and reasonable man. He will never sanction it.
“Indeed,” he went on, wagging his head. “I suspect His Majesty of France will be outraged at the Gascon’s presumption. The French are very strict on protocol. A vicomte challenging a king, indeed! Where might it end?”
Edward balled his fists. The Italian spoke sense, as ever, and no man possessed a more comprehensive knowledge of the laws and customs of every realm in Christendom. That was why Edward hired his services in the Holy Land.
Even so, the king was sorely tempted to accept Gaston’s ridiculous challenge. It would be most gratifying to treat him the same way Edward had treated the Comte de Chalon. He tingled at the thought of carving his enemy limb from limb before beating out his brains. Such as they were. It would also act as a useful warning to the French not to meddle with Edward of England.
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