Fields of Glory

by Michael Jecks

  Geoff heard him and threw him an enquiring glance.

  ‘I thought we were going to the south, to Guyenne,’ Berenger explained.

  ‘This isn’t?’

  ‘No. This is Normandy,’ Berenger said, keeping his eyes fixed on the country ahead. He was sure that any attack would come from either the village or the woods. Both areas would afford concealment to enemy forces gathering to confront them. ‘We weren’t at sea long enough for Guyenne.’

  As Berenger watched, more ships were beached. Four or five had disgorged troops, who had already grabbed their favourite weapons and trotted away towards the fishermen’s cottages. Just out to sea were more round-bellied cogs, their masts swaying like storm-tossed tree-tops in a forest. There were more vessels than Berenger could count: hundreds. It would take days to empty them all. He only hoped that their bows and arrows would be brought to them before they were on the receiving end of an attack.

  The beach looked frantic. Berenger remembered an evening once, when a fire took hold in a tavern. Drunken men hurtled about, grabbing buckets, pots, even coifs and hats, anything that would hold water to fight the fire.

  There was the same urgency here. Men went scurrying, some to establish forward pickets while others brought weapons. Haste was in every man’s heart; all were aware of the ever-present risk of attack. Some had tied ropes between two wagons, and soon fifteen horses were tethered there. Before long, a group of men-at-arms were mounted and ordered to scour the countryside for news of the French. A knight with light mail and a helm was commanding the men.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Ed asked. He had walked to Berenger’s side and now stood peering at the beach with him.

  ‘Earl Thomas of Warwick. He has command of the vanguard. Anything goes wrong with us here, it’s him you have to look to, to save us,’ Berenger said.

  It was good to see that Earl Thomas was already organising the men on the beach. If even a small enemy posse were to arrive now, while the majority of the men were still on board and those landed were without their weaponry, the day would go ill for the English. Berenger looked about, but could see no other bowmen yet, and that made him scowl. ‘Where are they all?’ he muttered.

  ‘Look! A spark! A spark!’ Jack Fletcher cried. ‘He’s managed to get a spark!’

  Clip looked up with a scowl. ‘If ye think you can do better—’ he began again, but before he could finish there came the drumming of hooves. A rider was galloping to the ships, lashing his mount, screaming a warning.

  ‘Fripper!’ Grandarse roared.

  Berenger stared at the woods from which the rider had appeared.

  ‘Shit! To arms!’

  Sir John was fretting at the delay and felt the thrill when the call to arms came, spitting into the sand and staring back towards the trees. Suddenly he heard shouting and saw the English scouting party sprinting back towards the ships, a motley group of French men-at-arms at their heels, spearing them as they ran.

  ‘Arms! To arms!’ he bawled, springing into the saddle. He could feel the excitement rippling through Aeton’s frame. ‘Come, old fellow,’ he muttered, grabbing for the reins.

  ‘Sir John, wait for me! My horse isn’t here!’ Richard Bakere called, alarmed at the thought his knight might ride off alone.

  ‘Do you think they’ll hang around for you?’ Sir John snarled.

  Richard nodded reluctantly, and passed up Sir John’s bascinet. ‘Can you not wait until—’

  ‘There is no time, man! If they charge the beach now, we’ll be hurled into the sea,’ Sir John rasped, shoving the helmet over his head and settling the mail-rings of the tippet about his shoulders. He pointed. ‘Lance! Quickly!’

  He threw a glance at the approaching French. Their line of horsemen were staring along the beach as though thunderstruck by the number of ships. Behind them was a large force of men on foot.

  Richard had run to the rack and passed his lord a long, stout lance.

  ‘Good. Now, remain here and organise a defence. Lances facing the enemies’ horses, yes? We will hold them off.’

  Already there was a screamed war-cry as another knight pounded up the beach towards their enemy. Sir John recognised the Marshal of England, the Earl of Warwick, lance and shield held aloft. The shield bore a bright red background, with a thick, horizontal gold bar, and three stars above and below.

  ‘Shield!’ Sir John shouted, and as soon as he had it, he spurred Aeton into a canter as the Marshal rode on a rounsey, not a charger towards the thickest part of the French forces.

  ‘Be damned to that!’ he swore. ‘You won’t have all the glory, Warwick!’

  He raked his spurs along Aeton’s flanks. His excitement and enthusiasm was communicated to his great destrier, and Aeton bunched his muscles and launched himself forward, his head low as he stretched out. Sir John felt the wind in his hair and heard its roar in his ears, the drumming of hooves on the sandy soil, felt his cloak tugging at his throat as it snapped in the wind, and sheer exhilaration flamed along his spine. This was the life!

  ‘FOR SAINT BONIFACE, AND FOR ENGLAND!’ he roared, and with his left hand he snapped his visor down. He couched his lance ready for the first impact and bent lower, while beneath him, Aeton hurled them into battle.

  Fortunately, Berenger’s men were experienced. As he stood and took stock, they grabbed swords and axes, and Geoff took up a long spear.

  Pelting by, the messenger threw sand in all directions, making Wisp swear and spit. Geoff clenched his fist, shaking it impotently, shouting abuse at him: ‘You son of a Winchester goose! May your tarse shrivel, may you—’

  ‘Geoff, the enemy’s that way,’ Berenger reminded him, pointing.

  ‘God’s cods!’ Wisp said hoarsely. The thin scattering of trees had given protection to the Frenchmen who were now making their way into the open ground. ‘Look at ’em all!’

  Berenger was scowling, assessing the risk. Perhaps four or five hundred men on foot had appeared, and Frenchmen-at-arms on horseback were forming up, ready to charge. It would not take much to push the English back into the sea, if these were trained and warlike enough. They had gathered quickly, just as Berenger had feared, and more were joining them by the minute. Gleams of sunlight flashed on steel.

  Geoff belched and wiped at his mouth, demanding, ‘Where are our bows?’

  Matt was pensively scratching his beard. ‘Horse and foot? I could do with a lance or bill, me.’

  ‘Our weapons are all on the ship still,’ Berenger grated. All they had with them were their personal weapons, swords and daggers. It was enough to make a man howl in despair. He had a hollow feeling in his belly, although it was at least partly explained by hours of throwing up on the ship. Still, it was a sensation he knew only too well. He was always afflicted with this when battle approached. ‘How many are there, Geoff?’

  ‘I count two, maybe three hundred men-at-arms on horse, and hundreds on foot. Perhaps a thousand?’

  ‘Aye, well, have ye seen the Frenchies in battle? Mad, the lot of them,’ Clip said, and dropped his hone back beneath his shirt, spitting into the sand. ‘Bugger it: ye’ll all be slaughtered. Me too.’

  ‘Shut it, Clip.’ Berenger drew his sword and gave the blade a cursory glance. He ran it along the sleeve of his padded jerkin and pulled a face when he saw it grew wetter than before. Still, he was their leader. ‘Come on, lads.’

  Grandarse had joined them, and now he shouted orders.

  ‘Berenger, you hold this line: Clip, run to the ship with the boy and bring us spears, bows, arrows – anything you can get your hands on. See if there are any more men who can support us. We’ll soon be overrun against a force that size.’

  While he strode along the beach bellowing to other captains, Berenger jerked his head at his men. ‘Go on, you idle goats, you heard him! And Clip: hurry! I don’t want to die waiting for you to get back!’

  Grandarse had brought a second vintaine with him, and now Berenger cajoled and bullied the men into two lines on the si
de of the hillock. More men were gathering and he had them join the lines to create a wall of men. There was no time to dig holes to make the enemies’ horses stumble, and in the absence of pallisades or hurdles they would have to hold their ground as best they could.

  There was no muttering amongst the men. The English were used to fighting and gripped their weapons stoically. Only Grandarse, when he returned, showed any emotion, appearing to take the arrival of the enemy as a personal affront. Berenger eyed his men closely, assessing their temper. Geoff alone looked distracted, seemingly by young Ed as much as the enemy. It made Berenger wonder if Geoff was still boat-sick, or whether there was something else troubling him. He had been quiet before boarding, he recalled.

  Grandarse loudly deprecated the temerity of the French in arriving before he could have weapons readied and men brought to their support.

  ‘Sons of whores,’ he grumbled. ‘Look at ’em! Sodding about like they have all the time in the world, just because they caught us out here with our hosen down, the bastards.’

  ‘Yes, lookit them,’ Clip moaned. ‘Bloody hundreds! We’ll all get slaughtered here.’

  Matt sniffed. ‘Ach, stop your whining, Clip. They’ve got sod-all discipline, eh?’

  Satisfied with his vintaine’s mood, Berenger grinned to himself.

  There was a series of roared commands from the beach, and Berenger turned to see Sir John, his own captain and the commander of two hundred men, galloping past to join the Earl of Warwick’s vanguard. Berenger felt a flare of pride at the sight. So few, yet all were riding to meet a force many times their own size.

  Geoff gave a hoarse roar of encouragement, and the rest of the men waved fists or weapons as Warwick gave an incoherent scream, couched his lance and charged. A moment later, the men behind him also thundered into the French, and Berenger saw one Frenchman lifted into the air, spitted on a lance, to be thrown down behind the Earl. There was a clash of weapons, shouts and cries, and Berenger could see little through the dust and sand that was thrown into the air by the impact of the attack.

  ‘UP!’ Grandarse commanded over the sound of battle. ‘FORWARD!’

  ‘Christ’s pain,’ Berenger heard Matt mutter, but the vintaine began to walk steadily to the battle.

  They possessed few weapons, but the French weren’t to know that. Berenger marched forward with his eyes moving about the woods and fields before them, searching for the appearance of new forces, fearing this was a ruse to entrap the English.

  As his destrier brought him closer, Sir John de Sully felt his spirits soar: even as the great horse’s hooves pounded at the soil, his heart beat faster and faster, and he could have sung with joy to be in battle again. This was life! He felt as though his soul was with the angels!

  Old age be damned!

  His mind was completely focused. It was ever the way for him that, as he approached the enemy, he saw only that which was directly before him. Now two Frenchmen were in his sight-line, one with a steel helm, one with a leather cap, and neither of any importance. He set himself at them, his lance-point wavering, but as he closed he chose steel-cap, and his lance-point fixed on his target. Nearer, nearer . . . and he saw the dark eyes narrow in shock, then the man tried to draw aside, but too late, and Sir John’s lance trembled in his fist as the point buried itself in the man’s breast.

  There was a scream, and as Sir John thundered on, his progress so swift that it took only a flick of his wrist and the dying Frenchman, still spitted like a pig, was lifted high overhead to fall behind. His lance freed, reeking of the blood and shit that dripped down the shaft, Sir John set his mount at another man, spurring Aeton onwards. This man wore a steel bascinet and mail, but before he could close with him the fellow had set his own horse at the Earl.

  Frustrated, Sir John snarled and searched for another opponent, but then realised that three men were making for him. He couched lance as Aeton reared, and charged again. This time his lance-point struck a shield, and the point became embedded. The shock snapped it away, sprinkling the shield with faeces and blood. Sir John swung the lance’s stump at the second man; it slammed into his upper arm, but not forcefully enough to do more than bruise. Sir John threw it at the man’s head in disgust and drew his sword. Now the third knight – a heavy-set brute with a thick, bristling beard – was barging forward, shrieking a war cry, his mouth wide open when Sir John’s lucky stab caught him full in the face. His smile was turned to blood, and he spat teeth from his ravaged mouth.

  Sir John turned to the first man again, who fought with savage determination, although the two-foot splinter sprouting from his shield must have made it horribly unwieldy. Sir John beat at him, keeping him between Aeton and the third man-at-arms, but it seemed nothing he could do would knock him from his mount. Sir John decided to change tactic. He withdrew his horse a little, and then urged Aeton on again, riding for the head of the man’s horse. The beast was shoved aside, and Sir John hacked at its rider with two vicious sweeps right, before bringing his sword down onto the horse’s skull. It collapsed instantly, and Sir John rode over the man on the ground to get back to the last attacker – but he had given up and was riding away, back into the shelter of the trees.

  Sir John had to fight to control Aeton, who was raring to continue the battle. At last he managed to soothe the brute, patting his neck until the bloodlust left him, and he stood shivering, whickering as his rage cooled.

  Looking down, Sir John saw that one of Aeton’s great hooves had landed on the last man’s face, and while he seemed to stare back at the knight with his remaining eye, the other side of his face had been mangled and stamped by the brute’s horseshoe.

  Sir John studied the body dispassionately.

  There would be many more dead, he knew, before this campaign was over.

  ‘Stay with me, lads!’ Berenger warned while he and the vintaine slowly advanced. ‘We’re here to guard the landing, not to go chasing off like hounds after a hare. Hold the line!’

  Jack gave a chuckle. ‘We’re well out of it, I reckon. Getting in the middle of a bunch of hairy-arsed horsemen is one sure way to get your skull broken.’

  ‘Aye, and I don’t like the thought of running after ’em. If you want a hound, get a hound,’ Wisp added.

  A few of the French had tried to coordinate their own charges against the English, but as more and more English knights charged up the beach, the Frenchmen despaired. The foot-soldiers had already mostly fled: those who hadn’t lay dead or injured. When only twenty-odd men on horseback remained to contest the landing, it was obvious that the English must prevail. The French faltered, and then, as one body, galloped away.

  Two men-at-arms clapped spurs to their beasts to chase after the fleeing enemy, but the Earl ordered them at the top of his voice, ‘No! Stay here with the army!’ Then, seeing Grandarse, he indicated the bodies. ‘Make sure all are dead, and keep a close eye on those trees.’

  Grandarse looked at Berenger, who nodded and pulled out his knife. ‘Come, boys. We have work to do.’

  Ed and Clip rejoined the vintaine as the men were wiping their weapons clean of enemy blood. Berenger watched them approach and snarled, ‘You took your time.’

  ‘Scared we’d leave you, Frip?’ Clip grinned. ‘Wouldn’t do that to him, would we, boy? You know you can trust me.’

  For a moment Berenger was gripped by the urge to grab Clip by the throat and punch him – but it passed. It was the reaction. He hated slaying the injured. Some were so badly hurt that they barely moved as his knife sliced across their throats, or into their hearts or brains – but there had been two today who had looked up with eyes like puppies’ as he delivered them from their pain.

  It reminded him of helping the warrener when he was a boy: catching rabbits and killing them swiftly, releasing them from pain. Except here, the men were surrounded by the odours of battle: the metallic smell of blood, the midden-smell of opened bowels. Having to step through and kneel in the stinking puddles where men had pissed and s
hat themselves, getting filth on his fists and legs . . . he hated that part of a battle: the final butchery.

  And Clip hadn’t deserted them. He had come back – if slowly.

  Clip’s levity faded as he cast a look behind Berenger and understood. ‘Sorry, Frip. We were as fast as possible.’

  ‘Next time, get a move on. If you don’t, I’ll throw you to the enemy myself.’ The vintener looked over them. ‘Where are the weapons?’

  ‘Right there,’ Clip said, pointing with his chin. On the hillock where they had been standing, Berenger could see a low handcart with a stack of bowstaves and arrows on it.

  ‘Good. Light the fire.’

  Clip smiled thinly. ‘Maybe Ed would be better? He’s quick with his tinder.’

  ‘Do as you’re told,’ Berenger snapped.

  Clip shrugged and went on, his usual whine forgotten: ‘Ed here makes a good sumpter. He brought most of them. He was in a hurry to get here and see the bodies.’

  Berenger cast an eye over the boy as he wiped blood from his hand. ‘Why, lad? Haven’t you seen enough dead men already?’

  No one could get to the age of twelve without seeing a dead man: a grandparent, a friend, a felon – death was all too common. But Ed wasn’t listening. His gaze moved intently over the figures.

  ‘You all right there, Ed?’ Berenger said.

  Ed wore an expression of such savagery that Berenger was shocked. He had never before seen a look like that in one so young. He shot a glance over at Grandarse, but the centener was bellowing at Geoff and two others to get their fingers out and didn’t notice.

  ‘Ed – what is it?’ Berenger said more forcefully.

  ‘Nothing,’ Ed replied with a little sigh. He turned and strode away, but now he was no anxious young boy with a head permanently bowed in submission. He looked more like a man.

  A killer.

  It was dark already when Béatrice Pouillet shut the door to the henhouse behind the cottage. The foolish creatures were making a din as they bickered on their perches. She could imagine them pushing at each other, the lowest in the pecking order forced against the walls, the matronly leader waggling her tail feathers and making herself comfortable.