Fields of Glory

by Michael Jecks

  But for all his dire words, when Berenger saw the Prince and Sir John with the Earl of Warwick, the three were laughing and making jests at each other’s expense. It could have been a show to keep the spirits of their men from flagging, but he somehow doubted it.

  He had a fresh little pony, whose rider had died at the river yesterday, and he jogged along with less discomfort than he had experienced the day before. Perhaps it was the sight of the cheerful party of war-leaders, perhaps it was Archibald’s conviction: whatever the reason, he felt happier than he had for days.

  To add to his good mood, Geoff had recovered enough to give up his place in the cart to another injured archer who was in greater need. While he refused to mount a pony, saying, ‘God gave me these legs for a reason,’ and walked along at the side of the others, Geoff seemed more at peace with himself than he had been for some weeks. His attitude towards Béatrice was now that of a man who accepted her place and importance in their team. He even, once, offered her a share of his food.

  It was late in the morning when they reached Oisemont, the local market town. Unfortunately, the people there were not willing to give it up to the English.

  ‘Oh, God’s teeth!’ Geoff said when he saw the gates.

  Before them, drawn up in irregular formation, stood the townspeople. A scratch force of all the young men of the area, clutching hedging and ditching tools fitted to long ash-poles, stood between the English and their city.

  ‘They’ll not survive above an hour,’ Jack said. ‘Silly shite-for-wits.’

  Berenger felt sympathy for the townspeople as the English men-at-arms gathered, chuckling and teasing each other about the sport they were about to enjoy. Esquires and valets tightened buckles and fixings, making sure all was ready for their encounter, but the knights could not treat this seriously. It was one thing to charge a line of French cavalry, and quite another to gallop at a force of fearful citizens from a market town who had neither the training nor the weapons to pose a challenge.

  At last, with many a humorous parting shot at the men all around, the Earl and his household, augmented by as many other knights as were gathered nearby, set off at a brisk trot. The rest of the army, without halting, continued on their way. There was no need for archers today. This was sport for the knights and nobles alone.

  Berenger saw Sir John as he passed. The old knight was the only one who was not affected by the light-hearted mood. He acknowledged Berenger, but rode on without smiling, tugging his visor down over his face.

  Sir John grimaced at the sight of the line of scrawny youths anxiously gripping homemade weapons, casting many a longing glance back towards the city gates and safety. He could see them all so clearly, and it made him wonder how his own folk would cope, were they to be thrown out before the gates at Exeter, or perhaps to hold a line before Crediton or Hatherleigh, while a force of French horse hurtled towards them. They would fare no better than these poor young fools.

  The charge began when they were a few tens of yards from the townsmen. There were no archers to speak of in Oisemont, no Genoese bowmen to break the charge and pick off riders from any distance. The few archers they did have were armed with lightweight hunting bows more suited to foxes or deer than men in armour. Sir John was hit by two arrows, but the thick barbed arrowheads made no impression on his steel.

  And then they were in. His lance’s first thrust caught two men, a young lad in front, who was speared through the breast, and the man behind, who was pierced in his groin. Both writhed and screamed as he tried to flick their bodies over his head, but their weight together was too much for the lance. After a moment’s bending, it suddenly snapped with a sound like a craky of war going off, and the two Oisemontians fell.

  The scenes were appalling: it was wholesale slaughter. Sir John’s sword flashing wetly with oily blood running along the blade, dripping from his gauntlet.

  He felt sick. Where was the honour in this assault on a group of men who were obviously used to nothing more ferocious than a brawl with their fists in a tavern? They had no experience of meeting steel and cavalry. The English were disciplined and trained. To attack men such as these was little better than murder.

  Sir John was ashamed as he lifted his sword and brought it down onto the head of a boy near him. The sword passed cleanly through his skull, shearing off the back of it, entire. On to the next, a fellow who could not yet have been twenty years old, who stood weeping with panic. He fell with Sir John’s sword in his face. Another boy, another slash, another mother’s lad dead. He was not a warrior today; he was a butcher.

  Over the rattle of his armour, the noise of the battle, he became aware of another sound: a high ululation. At first he thought it could be the drawbridge, but there was none; then, perhaps a port-cullis, but that was not moving either. It was only later that he realised it was hundreds of women wailing to see their husbands, brothers and sons being slaughtered before their eyes.

  It was a ‘victory’, but it felt as much of a defeat as their doomed attempts to cross the Somme.

  By the middle of the afternoon, the army was on the move again, leaving a blackened graveyard where once Oisemont had stood. There had been few opportunities for plunder, but never mind that. Berenger and the others were glad to be leaving the place behind.

  The French were within a few miles, and the river was still two leagues to their north, but there were no bridges. Berenger had little doubt that their end would not be long in coming.

  He was happy that the men had enough flour for a cake a day each for the next three days, but after that they would be down to the same hard commons as the rest of the army.

  The ground was already turning to marsh. Those with no shoes were collecting leeches, and the men were fed up with the clouds of mosquitoes and flies that settled on them. As they marched, all Berenger could hear was the regular slapping as men tried to kill as many of the insects as possible, but as soon as one was killed, three more would settle, their bites driving men to distraction.

  They found some relief at night. In the wafts of clean-smelling woodsmoke from their fire, the mosquitoes retreated. Now, when Berenger looked about the faces of his men, he saw how grey and gaunt they were. If they could not find food soon there would be problems. Some soldiers, he heard, had resorted to cooking their boots. His vintaine was not forced to that indignity yet, but they were half-starved. There were few difficulties more likely to raise the spectre of mutiny than hunger. If the French kept them restricted to this land, bounded by the sea and the river, they would be in real trouble. There were fewer and fewer farms and no obvious stores to plunder. They would have to scavenge as best they might.

  Grandarse appeared in the middle watches, speaking softly. ‘Frip, you need to get off and scout around north. There are rumours of men moving about.’

  ‘Infantry?’

  ‘Could be. Watch yourself.’

  Berenger took Geoff, Clip and five more with him. Geoff was still sore from his wound, but he was more rested than the others after his rides in the wagon over the last days. Berenger’s ankle was bad but he could hobble fast. Clip was brought partly because Berenger wanted to prevent his whining too much at the other men and disturbing them, and partly because of a growing conviction that no matter who else might be injured or killed, Clip would remain immune. In any case, he was the king of all the scroungers in the King’s army. If there was any food within a ten-mile radius, Clip would sniff it out.

  ‘With me, friends,’ Berenger said, and they all walked off into the night.

  It was an overcast evening, with the moon no more than a blur behind the clouds, which was all to the good so far as Berenger was concerned. But while they could move without being seen, so could the enemy. The marshiness of the land was a disadvantage: every five to ten steps took them into a bog. The puddles were cold and foul-smelling, and there were stifled grunts and gasps as the men tripped or tumbled into the belching mud.

  Clip got the jitters when a flame came to lif
e over to his left, flickering pale blue. ‘What the . . .’ he began. ‘Is that a ghost?’

  Jack laughed quietly. ‘I hope so. It’s our Will o’ the Wisp come back to help us.’

  They covered perhaps a mile or more, moving with great caution. They made slow progress, but when scouting in this kind of light, Berenger knew it was always hard to discover where the enemy was. Geoff walked without comment apart from an occasional hiss of pain: Clip muttered the whole way.

  It was when they were within sight of a tiny copse that stood proud of the low-lying lands all about, that Clip stopped.

  Berenger held up a hand. He knew the other man’s every mood and movement, and this was not play-acting. Clip had sensed something in the woods ahead. When he hesitated like that, his eyes narrowed, his hook-like nose pointing and twitching like a greyhound’s scenting game, a man was advised to take note.

  Clip did not need to speak. He slowly brought up his arm, the hand flat like a blade, and pointed forward, then to the right. There was a narrow pathway there, and Berenger nodded. He motioned to Geoff to join him, and the two set off, stepping slowly so as not to make a sound. There were no twigs here, on this sodden ground, but Berenger was taking no risks. Geoff also stepped with exaggerated care.

  They were almost around the trees when there came a squawk of fear. Suddenly the woods seemed alive, and Berenger and Geoff stood stock-still, wondering whether they should rush forward or remain where they were. Their task was to capture a local, ideally, or to find out where enemy movements were, but not to engage with stronger forces. There was no advantage in getting killed.

  Berenger heard a bellow, and recognised the voices of his men. They were spread out in a screen to beat their prey forward. And then Berenger saw the figures: stalk-like shapes running towards him in the murk.

  Geoff bent, hiding among the rushes, and Berenger copied him. Soon, there came a flurry of splashing and swearing, and Geoff sprang up. A scream of terror, and Geoff grabbed his man and threw him to the ground. At the same time Berenger saw a man appear in front of him, a tall, lanky fellow with a shock of thick hair and a beard. Berenger launched himself at the fellow.

  ‘Ooh, Booger!’ he heard, just as his shoulder connected with the man’s waist and brought him down. ‘Booger!’

  Berenger and Geoff marched their two captives to the trees, where Clip and the others were enthusiastically rummaging through their belongings. ‘Look at this, Frip!’ Clip said. ‘A basket of fish, most of it smoked.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Berenger demanded of the man he had caught.

  ‘Moi? Je ne . . .’

  ‘If you’re French I’m a Saracen,’ Berenger growled. ‘Frenchmen don’t cry “bugger” when they’re caught.’

  The man peered back at him in the gloom. Although there was no light to see his expression, Berenger was sure that there was a calculating gleam in his eyes. ‘Who are you, then?’ the man asked.

  ‘You know who we are. Are you a deserter? The King has a quick way with deserters.’

  ‘Booger that! I’m no soldier – I’m a fisherman. I married a maid from Oisemont and I live here.’

  ‘Why are you out here, then?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m a fisherman. We were out at sea yesterday, and couldn’t get past you lot, so we decided to wait a bit. And while we were about it, we brought the spare fish from our store before you people stole the lot. I’ve a family to feed,’ he added with a note of reproof.

  ‘We’ve got an army to feed,’ Berenger said without sympathy. ‘You’ll have to take us to your stores.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘You’ll find you can,’ Berenger told him. ‘Once I start breaking your fingers and toes, for instance.’

  The man tilted his head to one side. ‘I could be more useful if you leave me in one piece.’

  ‘How so?’

  There was a flash of teeth.

  ‘You want to cross the river, don’t you? Well, I can show you where and how.’

  Sir John eyed the fellow without enthusiasm. ‘He could be leading us straight into a trap, my Lord.’

  ‘He could,’ the Prince agreed. Edward of Woodstock beckoned, and Berenger and Geoff brought the man nearer. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Hugh of York.’

  ‘You are a Yorkshireman?’

  ‘Born and raised, as God’s my witness,’ Hugh said.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I’ve already said. I married a local maid, and I’ve been living here for nigh on ten years. I’m a fisherman, and I can ply my trade wherever I want. This land appealed to me.’

  ‘You say you know a crossing place?’

  ‘It’s easily forded at low tide. Then the water is up to your knees, no higher. But leave it to high tide, and you’ll drown.’

  The Prince looked at the others. ‘Well?’

  The Earl of Warwick shrugged. ‘I dare say it is worth the attempt.’

  ‘Would we be able to cross in the dark?’ the Prince asked.

  Hugh shook his head. ‘Not a good idea. Besides, the tide will go out with the dawn. The way would be difficult.’

  ‘Is it guarded?’ the Earl demanded.

  ‘Yes. But so is everywhere else. At least at this ford the defence is not so strong.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Sir John said.

  ‘I passed it tonight. There were maybe five hundred French guarding it, no more.’

  ‘Five hundred?’ Sir John repeated. ‘Sweet Jesu! If they know their business, with that sort of force they could hold us for hours while we tried to storm the river. And then their army could fall on our rear.’

  ‘What do you think, my Lord Warwick?’ the Prince asked once more.

  ‘I still believe it is worth testing this out. Your father must question him. Let us see what he thinks.’

  ‘An excellent idea. Take him to my father,’ the Prince said to Berenger and Geoff. ‘And meantime, have the vanguard prepare to leave. If this man tells the truth, he may become the richest fisherman on the coast!’

  24 August

  Berenger was back with the vintaine shortly afterwards. When he found the men, they were all were chewing the dried, hard fish. It needed a day’s soaking in water to make it softer, and the salt in it was enough to make a man want to drink for an hour, but for all that, it was food, and none of the men would turn their noses up at it. Berenger himself took a piece with gratitude.

  The army was ready to move, and his vintaine was detailed to go with the Prince’s men as they followed the directions of Hugh the Yorkshireman.

  He took them northwards through the marshes, where the carts and wagons became bogged down, and the men grew adept at liberating their wagons. It was long after midnight when at last Berenger saw the black ribbon of the water before them.

  Already there were shouts from the opposite bank as they approached. With the noise of their passage, it was no surprise that the French had been alerted, and the English troops stood with their weapons in their fists, eyeing the farther shore with misgivings. Crossing a river this broad while an enemy held the opposite bank and could keep up a steady fire was not a pleasant prospect.

  ‘He said five hundred,’ Jack grumbled to Clip. ‘If there’s only five hundred, I’m a fucking Yorkshireman too.’

  Berenger grinned as he stared through the blackness. All he could see was the sparkle and flicker of hundreds of little fires.

  ‘There’re enough there for a hundred vintaines,’ Jack went on. ‘Maybe even more.’

  Berenger grunted agreement. Christ’s pain! This would prove a dark and bloody crossing if he was right.

  ‘Did Hugh mean to trap us here, do you think, Frip?’ Jack said in a low voice.

  ‘No. But if we are trapped, what of it? We were trapped before, and the army is hot on our heels, so we’re no worse off than before. We still have to cross that river.’

  ‘Yes.’ Jack was silent for a while, staring out over the turbulent waters. Then he said: �
��If by fording here, we only win a few more days – so what? We may die trying – but we’ll die here anyway if we don’t. What the devil! I’m for it!’

  Berenger felt a burst of hope flare in his heart. And then, he heard Clip’s monotone.

  ‘Aye, well, you know you’ll all get killed?’

  Berenger could have hugged him. The atmosphere lightened as though Clip’s whining voice held a special magic all of its own.

  They passed a miserable night at the side of the river, feeling their feet sinking into the cold, muddy soil. Berenger tried to sit down, but in moments his backside was sodden, and rather than sit there, he walked about to keep warm. His bad ankle seemed to have seized at first, and he limped painfully, but it grew less troublesome. For some reason the night had grown chillier, and all the men were shivering badly before the sun rose.

  It was their good fortune that the tide was at its lowest in the morning. As soon as the light was clear enough, Berenger saw French warriors form into three lines. It was plain that this small section was where the ford stood. And here the success or failure of the English army would be decided.

  To the clamour of drums and horns, a hundred English archers were ordered forward. Walking with their bows over their heads to keep their strings dry, the men stepped into the river, full quivers on their backs. One humorous fellow complained it was so cold that his cods had shrunk to acorns, but for the most part they waded silently, until the waters were above their thighs.

  Behind them on foot came a hundred heavily armed fighters under Sir Reginald de Cobham and the Earl of Northampton and, as the fighters passed through the screen of archers, the bowmen began to loose their arrows. First one, then three, then more Frenchmen were struck as the arrows fell among them. Each bowman was firing as swiftly as only English archers could, and their bows were thrumming so loudly they almost drowned the shrieks and cries of the injured Frenchmen.

  The Earl and Sir Reginald reached the other side unscathed and led their men up the bank, some floundering in the mud while others clambered on, only to be killed within yards of the shore by French crossbowmen. However, the Earl and the knight managed to reach the French, and a sharp fight began.