Fields of Glory

by Michael Jecks

‘For God and Saint Edward!’ his esquire shouted beside him.

  ‘Who?’ Sir John demanded.

  ‘Saint Edward,’ Richard Bakere repeated calmly.

  Sir John shook his head in disgust and turned back to the men coming to attack them. ‘If you must . . . Form up! Hold the line, no matter what! Hold the line!’

  Berenger coughed as the worst of the smoke curled lazily away. A swathe had been cut through the men racing towards them. While Archibald scurried with Ed to load another consignment of pebbles, Berenger bellowed at his men to return to the archers’ stands where their arrows awaited them. They only had a paltry number with them, for Donkey was entirely involved with Archibald. Once back to their positions, they took up their bows in earnest. Each shot must count.

  The men running up the hill were tired. They had marched for miles that day, encumbered with their heavy weapons, and now they were forced to charge uphill to attack the English in their impregnable position. Berenger nocked an arrow and drew back the string. The muscles in the back of his neck, his shoulder-blades, his upper arms, his belly – all were complaining at the fresh assault. He could still lift his bow and send arrows after his targets, but the strain of drawing a bow powerful enough to spear an arrow through an inch of oak was beginning to tell. It was a white-hot, searing agony that burned all his muscles without respite.

  ‘Draw! Loose!’

  The orders still came, and through the mists and smoke Berenger saw the French forces hurled to the ground as the arrows from around ten thousand archers took their toll. While their rate of fire had slowed from their peak, there were still four or five arrows rising into the air every minute from each of them: forty to fifty thousand arrows plunging down into the midst of the French army in an unremitting hail of death. The English stood safely distant, letting their arrows kill a hundred yards and more away.

  There came a thunderous bark, and again the men were blinded as Archibald’s great gonne fired. The sharper crackle of the smaller gonnes was almost a chattering compared with the vast bellow of that enormous maw. As it fired, Berenger saw French men before it slashed and dismembered before the smoke rolled thankfully before him and obliterated the sight. There was a hideous sound now: an insane keening from men, horses, dogs, which verily grated on the soul. It was a terrible, horrible sound, and Berenger grabbed arrows and loosed still faster, trying to block it from his ears.

  It was Jack who bellowed and pointed as the smoke cleared.

  A group of the French had split away from the main body, and fifty or more were rushing at the gonnes and Archibald. Berenger shouted to the nearer men to have them redirect their arrows, but it was too late.

  ‘With me!’ he roared, and ran for the gonnes.

  Archibald fired the charge and felt the ground shake as the great gonne leaped up in her bed.

  He adored this beast. She was the largest of the big gonnes, and had the power to slaughter at a great distance. If treated with consideration, she would perform her duty with reliable, deadly effect.

  Seeing Ed and Béatrice near the powder, he beckoned. They had to reload the gonne again. But the foolish boy was pointing and mouthing something. He could mouth all he liked, Archibald could hear only a dull ringing in his ears. ‘Get over here, you Donkey,’ he bawled. It was strange to be able to bellow at the top of his voice and hear almost nothing! He waved his arms to attract the boy’s attention.

  It was at the last moment that he finally realised Ed was shouting a warning about something behind him. He turned, the great iron pole in his fist still, and saw more than forty men rushing at him.

  ‘Christ’s cods!’ he managed, before hefting his makeshift weapon and facing them with determination.

  There was a contingent of archers near, and they loosed. Archibald saw three men flung aside as they caught the brunt of it, one of them hit by four arrows together. Another man was left on his feet and running, but with an arrow in his shoulder. And still they came on.

  ‘Come on, then, you whoreson deofols! I’m ready for you!’ he shouted, and hefted the pole over his head.

  Just then four more of the men fell, all with arrows in their chests. He turned to see Berenger and the vintaine, all sending arrows to the French, but it was too late, and soon the men were at them.

  Archibald brought the pole down on the head of the nearest, and it entirely crushed his head and helmet with its massive weight. The next man caught the spike at his throat, where it mashed flesh against his spine. He fell, choking for air. Then Archibald was holding the pole half-staff, half the pole between his two fists. He sent one end into a man’s face, used the bar between his hands to block a sword, and jabbed with the other end to knock senseless a man trying to grab for Ed.

  Berenger was fighting nearby, coolly despatching men with a sword in one hand, his long-bladed dagger in the other, blocking and stabbing with the speed of an adder in the sun. Geoff was fighting with skill and vigour, but then something happened that made Archibald blink in astonishment.

  A man had spotted Béatrice, and he rushed towards her, past Geoff. Archibald knew nothing of Geoff’s murder of his family, but he saw the anguish in Geoff’s face at that moment.

  For Geoff, in that split second he saw before him again the face of his wife: Sarra’s throat cut where he had killed her, the two boys dead beside her. A wave of revulsion washed through him, self-hatred at his actions that accursed night. He was nothing – a lustful, murderous brute at best. He remembered Gil, and the way he had stepped into the line ahead of the Donkey, and suddenly he saw why. Gil had been tired of this life, and more than ready for death.

  And in that moment, Geoff made a decision. He cut wildly at the man heading for Béatrice. It was a lucky blow, and the man collapsed. Béatrice stood stock still, staring at her attacker in shock, while Geoff thrust at him until he was dead. And then Geoff stared at Béatrice, panting, and he smiled at her – a smile of great sweetness – before, with a roar of rage, he threw himself into the fray.

  Hacking and slashing without elegance or care, he killed four and continued on into the midst of the men, his blade whirling with mad abandon in the fading light. His sword slammed into the face of one man, then came down dully on the helmet of a second, before piercing a man’s visor, the blood spurting from the grille. As that man fell, Geoff put his head back and screamed in glee and fury before launching himself like an Angel of Death upon the rest of the French.

  He was an awesome sight, but even as Archibald cast himself on the next man, he saw the three who closed in on Geoff. Two held his sword at bay while the third went behind him and stabbed at the back of his neck, between helmet and mail. The blade sank in deeply, and Geoff howled like a baited bear, turning to his adversary, but even as he lifted his sword to kill his assailant, the other two set about him. His fist was taken off at the wrist, a sword entered him from beneath the armpit, and Geoff fell to his knees, his head down, the blood scarring the grass all about him.

  ‘No!’ Archibald shouted and slammed his pole into another man, attempting to reach Geoff, but it was too late. The next time he saw the archer, Geoff’s face was pressed into the bloody mud of the field.

  That was when Archibald felt someone grip his shoulder, and he found Berenger at his side, staring before them at the field.

  The French who were alive still were fleeing. There were no more attacks.

  The space before Sir John and the other men was suddenly clear, and for a moment he thought his eyes had failed. He felt he could not trust his senses, and he stood panting for a while as the noise of battle receded all about him. Raising his visor once again, he took a deep breath as he stared about.

  As the last men straggled or limped away, the field was a scene of unremitting carnage. Horses stood whimpering, while others thrashed about in agony on the grass. Horses with their rich caparisons smothered in gore, men in armour, in jerkins or mail, were all thrown hither and thither, as if a giant had stumbled upon them and had stamped and beaten
them all to death. It was a vision of Hell. Here and there, an arm waved or a flag fluttered in the breeze, and on the still air coughs, sobs and cries for Maman could be heard. A horse floundered in the mess, trying to climb to his feet, but his hooves were entangled in his own intestines.

  ‘Horses!’ Sir John called, and through the ranks behind, he saw the reserves parting to allow the horses through. The first was that of a knight who lay at Sir John’s feet, but a man-at-arms took it willingly and mounted before Sir John’s horse had arrived.

  ‘Sir John!’ his esquire said, and presented him with Aeton.

  ‘Very good,’ Sir John said, and mounted stiffly. His muscles burned, but he would not miss the last episode of the battle, and as he sat on the tall saddle, he found some of his weariness falling away. His legs were gripping the beast beneath him as usual, and he felt the great muscles move, the enormous chest inflate and sink again, and it was as though his life-force was renewed by the sensation. When he gripped his sword, it felt entirely natural.

  This was his destiny.

  ‘After them!’

  Berenger roared until he was hoarse as the English knights thundered past, the destriers’ hooves throwing up massive clods of earth and grass. They could all see the French forces halt at the sight of the English racing down from both flanks. Suddenly, there was mayhem out there.

  ‘Go on! Go on!’ Jack was screaming excitedly at the top of his voice, waving his hands high over his head.

  In the distance, Berenger could see the Oriflamme waving. Suddenly, he saw it dip and disappear. The French infantry were turning and fleeing the English knights. He could see Sir John’s banner, and those of Warwick, Cobham, Burghersh and Dagworth, all galloping towards the terrified French.

  ‘Their King’s fled the field!’ someone shouted. ‘He’s bolted!’

  Berenger didn’t know if that was true or not, but the Oriflamme was gone, and the collection of men about it had also disappeared.

  Twilight was overwhelming the field as the English knights pounded after their foe. Screams came across the still evening air as they speared more of the enemy, and Berenger could see the line of English knights and men-at-arms breasting the far hill and then disappearing over the farther side in their pursuit.

  With a blossoming of flame, the windmill behind the English lines caught fire. It would serve to mark the English army for returning soldiers.

  Exhausted, the archers squatted or lay where they had fought. Berenger craved a cup or two of wine, but there was nothing here. He sat, his back to one of Archibald’s gonnes and stared at the field, to where Geoff’s body lay.

  ‘Are you injured?’

  He looked up to see Béatrice. ‘No, maid. Are you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘All this, does it help you?’ he asked, tired to his very soul.

  ‘All the men in France cannot bring back my father or my family,’ she said. ‘It’s all gone. I have nothing.’

  Berenger nodded. ‘Nor have I,’ he said. ‘I lost my family long ago.’

  She sat beside him, and they leaned together from mutual understanding. It was completely dark when he felt her sobbing gently.

  Ed slumped on the ground as the battlefield began to empty. Only the bodies remained. So many bodies! Already men were walking about the dead and dying, giving a merciful killing stab where it was needed, and robbing the rest.

  ‘Come on, lads,’ Jack called. ‘Ed, you too. There should be rich pickings here today!’

  Ed was still walking as though in a trance as he followed slowly. A man lay at his feet, an older man with a grizzled beard and bright blue eyes set in a sun-browned face. In his breast was a trio of arrows, but there was no pain in his features, and no blood marred them. He might have been dozing in the sun. And next to him was a boy, perhaps only Ed’s age, with his arm cut away and an expression of utter terror on his face.

  ‘Could have been you, eh, brat?’ Erbin said. He had come up behind Ed, and now stood watching him, his knife in his hand.

  Ed had no words for him. He stood staring, too numbed to flee or fight.

  ‘You bore yourself well. You’ve seen a great battle today,’ Erbin said. He motioned to the bodies before them. ‘A greater battle than most will see in their lives.’

  ‘I have seen enough.’

  ‘Really?’ Erbin chuckled. ‘I doubt it. War gets into a man’s blood.’

  ‘Like you, you mean? Well, I don’t want to be like you! Robbing a boy who had bought me ale.’

  ‘You bought us ale and we drank it, boy. But we thought you would clear off afterwards. It didn’t occur to me that you’d come here. Nor that you’d invent stories about us.’

  ‘What stories? You robbed me outside the tavern that night in Portsmouth. You broke my teeth.’

  ‘That’s what Tyler said you’d been saying about us,’ Erbin spat. He grabbed Ed’s jack and pulled him close. ‘Listen here! I don’t know who beat you, but we stayed in the tavern that night and embarked the following morning. We didn’t follow you – we didn’t attack you. Why you want to spread malicious stories about me and the men, I don’t know, but you had better stop, if you don’t want to be left dangling from a rope again.’

  ‘What do you mean “Tyler said”?’

  ‘He told us you’d been telling lies – blaming me and the boys for robberies and things. We aren’t thieves, boy. And when someone calls us names like that, we’ll give him something to complain about.’

  ‘When did he tell you this?’ Ed asked, a terrible suspicion forming.

  ‘Ages ago. How should I know? Just stop spreading your lies.’

  Ed didn’t speak. In his mind, he was remembering that night in the alley, when a tall, dark figure had punched him in the face and taken his purse. And then he looked back at the short figure of Erbin.

  Tyler was walking among the dead. He stopped at a body and started tugging at a ring. When he looked up and saw Ed staring at him, he smiled and waved. And Ed knew who had attacked him.

  ‘I’ll have my revenge,’ he swore to himself. ‘Oh yes, you churl. I’ll have my revenge on you.’

  Berenger walked about the field with a sense of awe. Men were picking trinkets from among the bodies, like so many carrion birds at a midden. It was no surprise that a man would never eat a crow after witnessing the result of a battle, but to see men robbing the dead and injured was to see them at their bestial worst.

  Archibald stood bawling at some men to clear a path about his gonnes so that he could bring his wagon up to replenish his stores of powder and shot, but while guards and others tried to explain that the King wished for all the army to stand on the ground, Archibald could hear nothing said to him. His ears were ringing as though inside a church bell while the clapper struck.

  Berenger left him to his argument, and stood a short way off, gazing over the field.

  He had never seen so many bodies in one place. He saw one knight still sitting in his saddle on top of a second horse and rider. All four were pricked with a profusion of arrows. The stench of death was overpowering.

  This, then, was the path he had chosen. To live and to die in dealing death. Berenger was transfixed, overwhelmed by the thought that so many souls could be snuffed out in a single afternoon.

  ‘A grim sight, eh, Frip?’ Grandarse had joined Berenger and now stood, hoicking his belt about his waist. From one shoulder dangled a wineskin. ‘But I’ll not deny that I’m glad it’s them sprawled in the shit, and not us, eh?’

  Berenger nodded.

  ‘There’ll be more all around here. The knights will have a merry hunt this night and tomorrow,’ Grandarse added comfortably.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Berenger muttered.

  ‘Now? Man, the King already knows where the worst pirates are, doesn’t he? We’ll be heading for Calais, to burn their ships and punish the populace for their behaviour. And then, when we’ve done that, we’ll head for home. Aye, I’d reckon,’ he added, pulling the stopper from his
wineskin and drinking deeply, ‘we’ll be home by autumn – Christmas definitely. And then we’ll be lauded from one end of the kingdom to the other for our glorious victory.’

  He lowered the skin and passed it to Berenger. ‘Sup this, Vintener,’ he said, his mood sombre now. ‘And in the future, when all the churls in a tavern are falling over themselves to buy you a drink to celebrate this glory, be grateful that you will never again have to see butchery on this scale. Never, ever again. Christ Jesus, I swear that the French King must accept our King’s right! If ever God gave proof of His support, it was today. I doubt we’ll ever see a victory like this again in our lifetimes.’

  ‘In God’s name, let us pray that you are right,’ Berenger said, and he drank deeply of the wine.