‘No, sire.’
Two more messengers came and the king pieced together an account of what had happened so far that morning. The messengers heaped praise on his eldest son, saying the dauphin had fought magnificently, stories that the king disbelieved but pretended to accept. What did seem true was that the English had indeed been weakened, but had kept their discipline and held their line intact. ‘They are stubborn, sire,’ one of the messengers said.
‘Ah yes, stubborn,’ the king said vaguely. He watched his eldest son’s troops come back down the far hill. They came slowly. They must have been weary because it had been a long fight. Most clashes of men-at-arms were over in minutes, but the two armies must have fought for at least an hour.
The king watched a wounded man limp up the hill, using a sword as a stave to support his weight. ‘My son is unwounded?’ he asked the messenger.
‘Yes, sire, thank God, sire.’
‘Thank God indeed,’ the king said, then beckoned to the Count of Ventadour. ‘Go to the dauphin,’ he ordered him, ‘and tell him he is to leave the field.’
‘Leave the field?’ The count was not certain he had heard correctly.
‘He is the heir. He has fought enough. He has proved his courage, and now he must be kept safe. Tell him he is to ride to Poitiers with his entourage. I shall join him there this evening.’
‘Yes, sire,’ the count said, and called for his horse. He knew he was being sent with the message because the dauphin would distrust such a command unless it was brought by a man close to the king. And the count decided the king was right. The heir to the throne must be kept safe.
‘And tell the Duke of Orléans to take up the fight,’ the king commanded.
‘He is to advance, sire?’
‘He is to advance, he is to fight and he is to win!’ the king said. He looked at his youngest son, just fourteen. ‘You will not leave with Charles,’ he said.
‘I don’t want to leave, Father!’
‘You will witness victory, Philippe.’
‘Shall we fight, Father?’ the boy asked eagerly.
‘Your uncle will fight next. We shall join him if we’re needed.’
‘I hope he needs us!’ Philippe said.
King Jean smiled. He did not want to deprive his youngest son of any of the day’s excitement, though he desperately wanted him kept safe. Perhaps, he thought, he would advance his three thousand men at the battle’s end to join in the destruction of the English. His men were among the finest knights and men-at-arms that France possessed, which was why they served in the king’s battle. ‘You will see some fighting,’ he promised his son, ‘but you must swear not to leave my side!’
‘I swear it, Father.’
The Count of Ventadour had ridden his horse through the mass of men commanded by the king’s brother. That was the shortest way to the dauphin. The king saw him deliver the message to the duke, then ride on to find the dauphin who was now halfway down the far slope. The English had not pursued him. They just waited behind the hedge, a sign, the king hoped, that they truly were weakened.
‘When the duke attacks,’ the king called to Marshal Clermont, ‘we will advance our battle to his present position.’
‘Yes, sire.’
The first hammer blow had weakened the English. Two more waited.
And then only one waited.
Because, as the king watched in disbelief, his brother decided to leave the field with the dauphin. The Duke of Orléans had not fought, his sword was unstained by enemy blood, yet he called for his horses and led his troops northwards. ‘What the devil?’ the king asked the morning air.
‘What in Christ’s name is he doing?’ Marshal Clermont asked.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ a man said.
‘He’s leaving!’
‘You fool!’ the king screamed at his brother, who was much too far away to hear. ‘You spavined fool, you coward! You cretinous bastard! You gutless turd!’ His face was red, spittle flying from his mouth. ‘Advance the banners!’ the king shouted. He dismounted and gave the reins of his horse to a groom. If his brother would not fight, then the king’s battle, the finest in the army, would have to decide the day. ‘Trumpets!’ the king shouted, still angrily. ‘Give me that damned axe! Sound the trumpets! Sound the advance! Forward!’
The trumpets sounded, the drums beat, and the oriflamme was carried towards the enemy.
‘What are they doing?’ The Prince of Wales had mounted his horse so that he could see the enemy better, and what he saw was worrying. The French second battle was going northwards. ‘They plan to attack our right flank?’ he suggested.
‘And our centre at the same time, sire,’ Sir Reginald Cobham, old in war, was watching the last French battle advance. This was the battle that flew the oriflamme and the royal standard. Sir Reginald leaned forward and slapped at a horsefly that had settled on his destrier’s neck. ‘Maybe someone over there has some sense at last?’
‘The Earl of Salisbury has archers?’ the prince asked.
‘Plenty, but does he have enough arrows?’
The prince grunted. A servant brought him a pitcher of wine diluted with water, but the prince shook his head. ‘Make sure every other man drinks before I do,’ he ordered in a voice loud enough to be heard thirty or forty paces away.
‘A carter brought ten barrels of water up the hill, sire,’ the Earl of Warwick said.
‘He did? Good man!’ The prince looked at a servant. ‘Find him! Give him a mark!’ The silver mark was a valuable coin. ‘No, give him two! They’re not very eager, are they?’ He was looking at the Duke of Orléans’s troops, whom he had presumed were about to attack the Earl of Salisbury’s men on the English right, but to his bemusement those enemy troops were heading even farther north. Some had mounted their horses, some walked, and some lingered in the valley’s bed as though uncertain what they should do. ‘Jean!’ the prince called. ‘My lord!’
Jean de Grailly, Captal de Buch, who had stayed close to the prince for much of the battle, nudged his horse closer. ‘Sire?’
‘What are those devils doing?’
‘A mounted attack?’ the captal suggested, but he sounded very uncertain. If the French did plan a charge of mounted knights then they were taking their horses a long way from the English line. Some had already vanished over the distant skyline. ‘Or perhaps they want to be first into the whorehouses of Poitiers?’ the captal suggested.
‘What sensible fellows they are,’ the prince said. He frowned, watching the receding troops. About half of the Duke of Orléans’s battle were going northwards, the other half had stayed where they were to be joined by the dauphin’s men who had already fought. Then some of those began to follow the Duke of Orléans’s banner northward. That banner, instead of being carried towards the right of the English line, was heading steadily north and westwards. ‘By God,’ the prince said in astonishment, ‘I do believe you’re right. They’re racing to get the best whores! Giddy-up, fellows!’ he shouted the encouragement towards the disappearing enemy, then patted his horse, ‘Not you, old fellow. You have to stay here.’ He looked back to the French king’s troops who were now advancing towards him. ‘He must be very confident,’ he said, ‘to send troops away?’
‘Or very foolish,’ the Earl of Warwick said.
There were a dozen horsemen about the prince. They were the wise men, the experienced men, their eyes creased from staring at distant enemies, their skin darkened by the sun, their armour scratched and dented, and their weapon hilts worn smooth from use. They had fought in Normandy, Brittany, Gascony, France, and Scotland, and they trusted each other, and, more importantly, the prince trusted them. ‘And to think,’ the prince said, ‘that this morning I was expecting to be a hostage.’
‘I’m sure Jean de Valois would accept the offer now, sire,’ the Earl of Warwick said, refusing to call Jean the King of France, a title claimed by Edward of England.
‘I don’t believe what I think I’m watching,’ the princ
e said. He was frowning at the retreating French troops, who really did seem to be leaving the battlefield, not just the dauphin’s tired men, but the Duke of Orléans’s fresh troops as well. Some had remained on the field, and those men were joining the king’s battle. ‘I suppose they think those fellows are sufficient.’ He pointed at the approaching men-at-arms. The king’s great standard, flamboyant in blue and gold, had reached the valley’s bottom and now the great spread of armoured men began to climb. ‘My lord,’ the prince turned to the captal, ‘you have horsemen?’
‘I have sixty men mounted, sire. The rest are in the line.’
‘Sixty,’ the prince said thoughtfully. He glanced back at the approaching French. Sixty was not enough. His battered army might have around the same number of men as the King of France’s approaching battle, but the enemy was fresh, the
prince’s men were tired, and he did not want to weaken his exhausted line by taking men-at-arms from the ranks. But then a happy thought occurred. ‘Take a hundred archers with you. All mounted.’
‘Sire?’ the Earl of Warwick asked, wondering what the prince was thinking.
‘They plan to strike us hard,’ the prince said, ‘so let’s see how they like being struck themselves?’ He turned back to the captal. ‘Let them engage us first, my lord, then strike from the rear.’
The captal was smiling. It was not a pleasant smile. ‘I need an English flag, sire.’
‘So they know who’s killing them?’
‘So your archers don’t use our horses for target practice, sire.’
‘My God,’ Warwick said, ‘you’re going to charge an army with a hundred and sixty men!’
‘No, we’re going to slaughter an army,’ the prince said, ‘with the help of God, Saint George, and Gascony!’ The prince leaned from the saddle and clasped the captal’s hand. ‘Go with God, my lord, and fight like the devil.’
‘Even the devil doesn’t fight like a Gascon, sire.’
The prince laughed.
He smelt victory.
Sixteen
Roland de Verrec had spent the battle on horseback. He would have felt uncomfortable fighting on foot, not because he had no skills at such combat, but because he had no close friends in the battle line. Men fought in pairs or in groups, united by kinship or friendship, and sworn to each other’s defence. Roland de Verrec had no kin in this army, and his friendships were tenuous, and besides, he wanted to find his enemy. When the French had first burst through the gaps in the hedge to drive the English line backwards, Roland had searched the banners for the green horse of Labrouillade and had not seen it. So he had stood his destrier close to the Prince of Wales, though not so close that he would be noticed, and he had gazed through the hedge’s widest gap trying to find the green horse among the two battles waiting to attack, and still he had not spied it. That was hardly surprising. The waiting battles were flamboyant with banners, flags, and pennants and there was little wind to spread them, so little wind that the man holding the oriflamme was waving it from side to side so it would be noticed. That pennant was a ripple of bright red that was drawing ever closer to the English hill.
Robbie had joined him. The Scotsman, like Roland, was friendless in this army. It was true that he counted Thomas as a friend, but that friendship was marked by generosity on one side and ingratitude on the other, and Robbie felt shamed. In time the friendship could be mended, but for now Robbie did not think Thomas would trust him as a neighbour in battle and so, like Roland, he had watched the fight from behind the line. He had watched the English take the French charge, stop it, and repel it. He had heard the misery of battle, the screams of men being mangled by steel; he had watched the French try again and again to break the line and seen them lose heart. They had retreated. They left bodies behind, more bodies than the English, many more, but then it was always easier to defend. The English had to hold their line. Men who were reluctant to fight had small choice but to stay with their neighbours; they did not need to step forward and initiate battle, but the French had to advance. The more timid would hang back, leaving the bravest to fight, which meant the bravest were often isolated, set upon by half a dozen defenders, and it had been the French who had suffered most through their bravery. Now it would all start again.
‘What happens now?’ Roland asked suddenly.
Robbie gazed at the approaching French. ‘They come, they fight, who knows?’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ Roland said. He too watched the approaching French. ‘They saved their best to last,’ he added.
‘Their best?’
Roland could see some of the banners now because the standard bearers were waving them to and fro. ‘Ventadour,’ he said, ‘Dammartin, Brienne, Eu, Bourbon, Pommiers. And the royal standard too.’
‘So what did you mean?’
‘I mean what happens after the battle?’
‘You marry Bertille.’
‘With God’s help, yes.’ Roland said, touching the blue silk scarf at his neck. ‘And you?’
Robbie shrugged. ‘I stay with Thomas, I think.’
‘You won’t go home?’
‘I doubt there’ll be a welcome for me in Liddesdale, not any more. I’ll have to make a new home.’
Roland nodded. He still watched the approaching battle. ‘And I shall have to make my peace with France,’ he said wistfully.
Robbie patted the neck of his horse, a piebald destrier that had been a gift from Thomas. ‘I thought your lands were in Gascony?’
‘They are.’
‘Then do homage to the Prince of Wales. He’ll restore your lands.’
Roland shook his head. ‘I’m French,’ he said, ‘and I will ask France’s forgiveness.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose it will cost money, but anything is possible with money.’
‘Just make sure you kill him quickly,’ Robbie said. ‘I’ll help you.’
Roland did not respond at once. He had seen a flash of green in the enemy ranks and was watching the place. Was it a green horse? ‘Quickly?’ he asked after a while, still staring. ‘Did you think I would torment Labrouillade to death?’ He sounded offended. ‘He might deserve torment, but his death will be quick.’
‘I mean kill him before he has a chance to surrender.’
Roland at last turned from the approaching French. His visor was lifted and he was frowning. ‘Surrender?’
‘Labrouillade’s worth a fortune,’ Robbie said. ‘If the battle goes badly for him he’ll surrender. He’d much rather pay a ransom than be buried. Wouldn’t you?’
‘My God,’ Roland said. He had never thought of that possibility, but it was so obvious! He had dreamed of freeing Bertille with the sword, but Robbie was right. Labrouillade would never fight. He would yield.
‘So kill him very quickly,’ Robbie said. ‘Don’t give him a chance to say anything. Get in fast, ignore his pleas for mercy, and kill him.’ He paused, watching Roland, who had looked back to the advancing enemy. ‘If he’s even there,’ Robbie added.
‘He’s there,’ Roland said bitterly. He had seen the green horse now. It was on the left of the French line at the back of the king’s battle. Somehow he would need to cut his way through that line if he was ever to free Bertille, and he knew that would be hopeless. He would have to kill too many men, and even if he succeeded he would give Labrouillade far too much time to see his death approaching. Robbie was right, he needed to do the killing fast and he did not see how that could be done.
And just then there was a crash of hooves. He turned and saw horsemen assembling beneath the trees and he guessed they were readying to make a charge. ‘I need a lance,’ he said.
‘We need two lances!’ Robbie said.
They turned their horses and went to find lances.
The Count of Labrouillade tripped on something. He still had his visor lifted, but it was difficult to look down because his helmet’s lower rim, which covered his jaw, grated on his mail aventail and against the top of his thick breastplate, but he caught a glimpse
of a discarded mace, smeared with blood and human hair. His bowels lurched. There was more blood on the ground, evidently left by a wounded man limping or crawling back from the first assault on the English line. He slowed his pace, making certain he was at the very back of the king’s battle. The drums were close behind him, the drummers making a huge, ear-pummelling noise as their clubbed sticks thumped on the stretched goatskins. Armour clinked. The count was soaked in sweat; it was running down his face and stinging his eyes. He was tired from the long walk down from the flat hilltop and it was worse now because he was going gently uphill, every step an effort, his leg muscles nothing but ache, and his stomach was churning while his bowels had turned to water. He stumbled on a trampled vine, but managed to keep his footing. Trumpets called.
‘No arrows!’ someone shouted.
‘The bastards have run out of arrows!’
‘You can keep your visors up!’ another man called, and just then an arrow flashed in from the left, slashing down into the ranks and glancing off a vambrace to bury its bodkin point in the earth. More arrows came, and all through the French ranks men fumbled to close their visors. The sound of arrows striking armour was like metal hail. A drummer was hit and he fell back, his vast drum on top of his bleeding stomach as he threw up a mixture of vomit and blood.
‘Oh God,’ the Count of Labrouillade moaned. The wine slopped in his belly. He felt sick. So many men had drunk their way to courage and now the wine was sour, and he stumbled as he struggled onwards. He could see almost nothing through the narrow slits of his visor. All he wanted was to keep his bowels closed and for this hell to be over. Pray God that the enthusiastic fools at the front of the attack surged through the English line and killed the enemy fools. With any luck he would take a prisoner worth a large ransom, but in truth he did not really care. He just wanted this to be finished.
The arrows dwindled. The archers on the right of the English line had only a handful left, and most of them discarded their bows and picked up poleaxes or maces, then watched the enemy close on the hedge.
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