But the time passed swiftly. While the men waited, some, like Berenger, unstringing their bows again and storing their strings safely, a roar went up from the main body of the English army, and Berenger made out a figure on a white palfrey, sitting calmly before the army and chatting. Something in the man’s gestures caught his attention. And then, with a short, ‘Aw, shite!’ he recognised the fellow.
‘Vintaine, stand straight. Clip, try to look like you’re a brave, bold Englishman,’ he hissed.
‘Why?’ Clip demanded. He was filthy to his armpits after shovelling soil all morning, and aching all over from lifting the heavy barrels of the gonnes into place.
‘It’s the King,’ Berenger said.
‘Archers, are you ready for this?’ the King asked as he drew near the archers on the wing. ‘Grandarse, is that you? In God’s name, you will need a new belt soon! That one is too tight. Are your men eager? This will be a great day today, a glorious day. You know, I have ridden all over this land. It is my inheritance, and I always loved it. But this place I remembered, because I always felt it had a special significance for me. Here, I felt, I would prove that my country was as great as any – even France! We have been forced to bow the knee to France many times, but now it is we who are the stronger, and today we shall show it!
‘Hold your courage! Remember that our cause is just. If we were hated by God, we would not have crossed the Seine or the Somme. We would have been held there, like rats waiting for the dogs to come and kill us. There we would have met the French hungry, thirsty, and without hope. It was God Who gave us our miracle and allowed us to cross the river so that Despenser could fetch us food and drink. And now look at us! We have made our way to this glorious field where we shall win renown for ever. Because I say this to you: in years to come, men will discuss your exploits here. They will say that they wished that they had been here at your side. For what happens here today will go down in history as the greatest battle of Christendom. You will defeat a French army. After today, no man will believe again that the French chivalry is superior to English.
‘But remember: at all times, listen to your orders. Always remain in the ranks. Do not believe any feints by the enemy that are designed to tease you out from your positions in the battle. They will pretend to run in terror; do not give chase. They will fall back as though to retreat; let them. While we remain here, we are safe. Trust me: they cannot break us. Not here. So, friends, praise God, give Him your thanks, and eat a hearty meal. Before this day is out, we shall have won renown and glory, and in the future if any woman sees you, tell her you were here with me, and she will want to bed you immediately! Even you, Grandarse!’
There was a roar of delight at that, and several archers threw their hats in the air. As the handsome young King trotted back along the lines to chat to other soldiers, Berenger saw that the only archer not cheering was Geoff.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Aye, I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I just wish . . . oh, nothing.’
Berenger kept his eyes on the far hill. He stared at it as food arrived, thick stew that was slopped into their bowls and had to be scooped up with bread soaked in the gravy. He watched it as the food was taken away and women and boys with wineskins and jugs of ale wandered up and down the lines giving each man enough to keep them thirst-free. Many of them had to go and release their bladders afterwards, each receiving a curt, ‘Don’t leave the line again,’ as they shamefacedly returned.
He watched the French line as the vanguard grew and swelled from a thin sprinkle of men into a thick carpet of colours and gleaming armour. Instead of a few figures, there was one mass, like a tide of men that moved and rippled in the failing light, broadening and becoming amorphous as the shape changed, suddenly developing into recognisable units, before they were washed away by a following wave of horsemen and additional foot-soldiers.
‘Sweet Jesus, will you look at all that lot?’ Walt said, aghast at the sight.
‘Don’t say it, Clip,’ Jack growled.
‘What? What d’you think I’d say at the sight of that army?’ Clip’s face had paled as he took in the view. ‘By my faith, if the King’s right, and God gave us a miracle when we crossed that river, do you think He has any more to spare for us now?’
‘We could do with one,’ Geoff muttered. ‘What the devil does it matter though? Today is as good a day to die as any.’
They stared as the vast army formed into regular columns and the banners were brought forward. And then Berenger noticed a strange thing. None of the units and formations were stable. All were drifting forward like ships without anchors, as though they were impelled by an invisible tide. He frowned, patting his purse in brief reminder that there his bowstring lay, before peering more closely. ‘They aren’t stopping, are they?’
‘I don’t think they can, Frip.’ Jack was gazing ahead raptly. ‘The men behind are still marching, so those in front cannot halt. They’re being pushed onward.’
Berenger nodded. Such a vast army of men would be impossible to direct. The English army itself was hard to command, and messages must be relayed at speed by riders to coordinate the army’s march. The French army was many times larger, and seemed incapable of halting.
And their march seemed inexorable.
Sir John took a deep breath at the sight of the French troops rippling over the top of the ridge before him descending the slope towards the lower ground. To attack, they had to ride up the slope and into the teeth of the English archers. Yet still they kept coming. Men by the thousand, with the sun glinting from their spear-tips, making their helmets and mail glitter, and giving the red of their banners a demonic glow.
Dimly, on the afternoon air, the shouts of the French marshals could be heard, calling on their army to halt. The front rows of foot-soldiers and men-at-arms did stop, and some knights dismounted, but then they all rippled forward again, just as the waters of a river in flood would lap and then press on, reaching ever further.
‘Richard, today we shall have our battle,’ Sir John said, without looking at his esquire.
‘God be with you, Sir John.’
‘And you, Richard. Let us pray He will not look away from us this day.’
Sir John had been surprised to see the King’s new banner. It was so unlike anything the English had seen before. Usually they fought under the King’s own arms. And then Sir John saw that a vast banner was flying over the heads of the French, and understood: the Oriflamme of St Denis, the great crimson flag of the French kings since Charlemagne, was here. The two kings were setting their flags against each other as much as their armies. Their symbols of authority and confidence in God’s support were there for all to see, fluttering gently in the breeze over their heads. Both claimed support from the same God and fought in His name, but only one could win today.
There were shouts along the English lines – defiance from some, jeers and insults from others – both intended to keep up their spirits, Sir John knew. He eyed the knights and men-at-arms who were near him: war-hardened men with the cold, indifferent eyes of professionals who knew themselves and their abilities. Behind them, the black-haired skirmishers and knife-men from Wales stood eagerly licking their lips and fiddling with their long daggers, gripping their pikes. There was an atmosphere of expectation now, not fear. Men ostentatiously took out their swords and studied the edges as if thinking they could have become blunted in the last few minutes, or adjusted thongs and strapping, tightening them in preparation.
Gradually a hush settled on the men. Sir John saw one man begin to convulse and then push through his companions to vomit on the grasses in front of them. He wasn’t insulted or laughed at, however, but received encouraging comments and smiles. Two men patted him on the back as he returned to his post.
Sir John had none of that nausea. Only the old, familiar tension in his belly – and a slight feeling of doubt. In the lists he knew his position, he knew that the beast under him was reliable. He and Aeton together we
re an unstoppable force that could pass through any number of enemies, and to be waiting here without the reassuring bulk of Aeton beneath him, felt both strange and disquieting.
The French continued to advance.
‘Sir John, do you see the people there on the roadway?’
Richard was pointing, and now Sir John saw a large number of people waving and egging the French on.
‘So they have an audience for our defeat, do they?’ Sir John said coolly. Somehow the sight of so many men and women determined to witness the destruction of the English was sufficient to calm him. His tension left him, and he eyed the approaching army with detached interest. ‘They are proceeding in good order.’
‘Crossbowmen to the fore. Genoese.’
‘Yes, Richard. Soon they must stop and reorganise themselves into fighting formation. At present they are still in marching order.’
Even as he spoke, the first pattering of rain tinkled on the men’s armour. A burst of lightning seared across the clouds, and a moment or two later the crackle of thunder was deafening. Sir John turned his face to the skies and closed his eyes, letting the cooling water strike his face and run down his cheeks. It was refreshing, and he wondered whether he would be one of those who would never again, after this day, feel the rain upon his face.
‘They aren’t stopping yet,’ his esquire noted.
‘They will,’ Sir John said confidently, keeping his face to the sky.
A whim made him glance to the left, towards his archers. He saw them standing with their bows unstrung and nodded to himself. A good idea to keep their strings dry. But the crossbowmen in the plain before him were not so fortunate. This was more than a light shower, and their bows were all bent. It took a great effort to restring a heavy crossbow.
The rain was now falling in torrents, like a mass of grey pebbles smashing down on the field – and suddenly the field was hidden, as if a veil had been dropped over it. Sir John called to the men nearest: ‘Be vigilant! The French may try to attack in the mists. Hold hard!’
He listened keenly, but there was nothing, only a clattering as drops as large as peas slammed against helmets, shields, armour. In moments the men-at-arms’ tunics were soaked through. With the sides of his helmet giving him a strange sensation of being enclosed, imprisoned, it was hard for Sir John to make sense of the noises he could hear. A scream from the right made him turn, alarmed, but there was no other call. Later he heard that a man had been kicked by a destrier and had his leg shattered.
And then the rain was gone. The skies cleared again, and a warm, rich odour of damp soil rose to the aged knight’s nostrils as the sun sprang out and illuminated the land. He took his sword’s hilt and wiped it with a piece of tunic that was already so wet that it could achieve nothing, but he didn’t notice. Gripping his sword again, he stared as the first of the men before him began once more to make their way forward.
‘For God and Saint Boniface!’ he shouted, and raised his sword high.
Berenger and the men hunched their shoulders and peered through the thick rain, and then, when the downpour moved on, they saw the crossbowmen ahead of them.
‘Archers! String your bows!’ Berenger bellowed at the top of his voice, fumbling in his purse and grabbing his own cord. He snatched up an arrow and nocked it to the string, prepared to draw.
Watching, he felt his heart stop as the crossbowmen knelt and discharged their weapons. Most were aiming at the front rank of men-at-arms, but some were aiming at the archers, and Berenger had the feeling that a bolt there had been made for him and him alone. He felt the breath stop in his lungs, and saw the dark shadow rising against the sky as thousands of bolts flew. And then, to his astonishment, all the bolts fell harmlessly to earth many yards short of the English lines.
A roar came from behind him, and he heard ‘Draw!’ Pulling the string and pushing away the bow, he leaned back, bending his right leg and lifting the arrow to the sky until the string touched his cheekbone and the arrow rested at the side of his face.
‘LOOSE!’
It was a sound like no other: like a hundred thousand starlings flying past, like ten thousand whips whirling about a man’s head. He felt the jolt of release in his left arm drawing him forward and rocking him on his broadly planted feet, but then there was the quick grab for the next arrow. Nock, draw, loose; nock, draw, loose – a constant, steady routine that dulled the senses. But it was essential work. Occasionally he glimpsed the battlefield, and when he did, he saw many corpses. The arrows the English sent up were so numerous that, when they fell, few could survive.
‘LOOSE!’
As the arrows flew, a hundred and fifty thousand in every minute, they darkened the sky, as if another stormcloud was lying overhead and blotting out the sun. Surely those receiving this terrible tempest must feel that God had deserted them.
The crossbowmen still advanced, stolidly spanning and reloading their weapons, but more and more were felled. Already their numbers were reduced by a quarter, and as the next flight of arrows sheeted into them, Berenger felt a savage joy mingled with pity for the men who were out there, with no protection whatsoever.
‘What the fuck are they playing at?’ Grandarse snarled. He had come to join the men, and stood with a great bow clutched in his fist, staring down at the men struggling to cross the plain. ‘Why don’t they return our fire?’
‘Their strings are wet and won’t hold the tension. They can’t reach us with their bolts,’ Berenger said. He let fly, and watched his own and the other arrows rise, stoop – and plummet. Men were struck in the breast and the head. Two, he saw, ran screaming, with arrows in their bodies that they could not reach. Their shrieks of agony came clearly on the wind.
‘So much the better,’ Grandarse said with satisfaction. He took his own bow and sent an arrow hurtling towards them. ‘I like being safe when the enemy approaches!’
Berenger nodded, but his own, unspoken sympathy lay with the hapless men out there. He had been on the receiving end of enemy bolts and arrows far too often not to feel some compassion.
‘They’re retreating! Sweet angels of mercy, they’re pulling back!’ Grandarse roared, and Berenger could see it too. The crossbowmen had taken enough. They were streaming back towards the bulk of the French cavalry, leaving in disorder, men taking out their knives and cutting their crossbows, throwing the expensive weapons away, already made useless, before the English could take them, and then running pell-mell for their own lines.
‘Thanks be to God!’ someone muttered, and when Berenger looked, he realised it was Ed. The Donkey was staring at them with tears in his eyes.
‘They’re bolting like bloody rabbits! They’ve had enough, and they’re bolting!’ a man shouted, and Sir John threw him a sour look.
‘A few thousand crossbowmen leave the field, and you think that’s a cause for celebration?’ he said. ‘There are plenty more waiting there in the wings.’
‘We’re going to win this battle,’ another man said, and lifted his sword defiantly. ‘Hey! We’re here, France! If you think you can push us away, come and try it!’
Sir John gritted his teeth. It was fools like this who caused wars – fools like this who lost wars. ‘Hold your tongues and hold your lines!’ he commanded. ‘That was only the first essay. Now will come the onslaught.’
‘Onslaught, old man?’ There was a rude laugh from behind him. ‘They’re already knocked back. One more little effort and we’ll have the field.’
‘Don’t be a whore-swyving fool,’ Sir John snarled. ‘Look!’
The others turned and saw what Sir John had witnessed: as the crossbowmen fled, the horsemen in the first ranks spurred their mounts and charged down the farther hillside, straight into the running soldiers, and when they ran them down, it was no accident. As though blaming them for their inadequacy in bringing the English to their knees, the riders slashed and cut at the crossbowmen. Almost as many were hacked down as had been slain by the English arrows.
It was a
bloodbath. The French knights had taken no more notice of the crossbowmen than they would of their enemies, slaying them with lance or sword or riding them down and trampling them. The poor fellows were caught between the hammer of their own knights, and the anvil of the English archers. To remain was to die, but to attempt to flee was to be killed by their own comrades. They fell in their hundreds, their bodies crushed into the mud by the knights on their huge destriers.
‘Hold the line! Prepare to receive horses!’ Sir John roared. He gripped his lance more tightly, setting the butt in the ground and gripping it tightly. ‘Steady! Steady!’
Archibald darted from his gonne to those nearby, assessing the angles of fire and glancing up at the horses now thundering towards the English lines. He peered along the length of his barrel and as the horses began to come closer, closer. Grabbing his match, he blew on the smouldering cord until it glowed bright and white. And then, when the leading horse was almost in front of his barrel, he stood back and thrust the lighted match into the powder-hole of the gonne.
There was a vast belch of flame that engulfed the whole battlefield in stark horror. As the roar died away, all was obscured by a thick, grey-white smoke. The gynour’s breath was sucked from him, and his ears felt as if water had been thrown into them: he had gone deaf. Choking fumes were blown into his face, and he shook his head, blinking, as he tried to see what his shot had achieved. As all cleared, he saw three horses thrashing, two riders stumbling towards the English lines, and one knight, dazed by the blast, walking in little circles that were leading him towards the archers. Three clothyard arrows found him.
Archibald moved to the next barrel while another man attacked the still-smoking barrel with a swab drenched in water. The next gonne sprang into the air as Archibald danced away, sending more flames to deal death to the French. His heart was also dancing, with excitement and – yes, with joy. There was nothing like this sensation, dealing death with the skill of a master-of-arms. He could kill and maim scores with his toys: this was the way to fight – with utter impunity.
Fields of Glory Page 37
