by David Gilman
The Prince of Wales shook his head. ‘But he makes a grave mistake. We are in defence and when he comes on foot he must labour uphill and through his dead. My lords, with God’s help we shall win this day. Tell us more, Gilbert. We are heavily outnumbered but we are already cheered.’
Killbere pointed out the lie of the land. The folding hillside supported a vineyard yielding to the marshland below; thickets lined the southern slopes where the English defensive line would stand and a broad hawthorn hedge ran across the face of the gentle hill.
‘They cannot outflank us, not with the forest at our back and the valley and marshland below us on our left flank. There are two gaps in that hedgerow, barely enough for a half dozen horses to get through. If they broke through there, then the fox’ll be among the chickens. They would get behind our lines. I’ll hold it, sire. Give me men-at-arms and a company of archers, and we’ll stop the bastards where they stand.’
‘William,’ the Prince said.
‘My lord.’ The Earl of Salisbury stepped forward.
‘You and Sir Gilbert hold the ground behind that hedgerow. Blackstone?’
Blackstone stepped closer to the inner sanctum of commanders.
‘You have served us well. Go to your archers and tell them they must hold their line. They must not falter, or the French will get behind us.’
‘They’re not my archers. They fall under the command of my Lords Oxford and Warwick,’ Blackstone answered, respectfully aware of the great Earls of England.
‘No matter. Say what must be said,’ the Prince told him. ‘And say it in language they understand.’
Blackstone bowed his head slightly. ‘And then? Where would you wish me to fight?’
‘Choose your own place. Keep what men you have with you. Strengthen our weaknesses. If there’s a breach, fill it.’
‘I will, my lord.’
Prince Edward stepped closer to the man who should have died from his wounds ten years earlier. ‘History makes us brothers, Thomas. Your common heart is more noble than most. Ride out as our champion and challenge the French to their faces. Let them know that a man of low birth can rise up by the grace of our King and be honoured for uncommon courage.’
Elfred and Will Longdon ran with their men into position along the slippery banks that rose up from the narrow river’s marshlands. Other captains and sergeants did the same until the mud-covered archers settled onto their haunches gasping for breath, waiting for final orders from their commanders. Their mouths were already parched from the lack of water, for the marshland offered no comfort to slake their thirst. Blackstone and Guillaume rode down the hill to where the men waited.
‘Thomas, what can you tell us? Are the French close? Do we attack or hold?’ Elfred asked.
Guillaume held the horses’ bridles as Blackstone went among the men.
‘Hold,’ Blackstone answered.
‘Sweet Jesus, we should be running for Bordeaux,’ one of the archers said. ‘I’d leave my plunder and good riddance to it. Plate and jewels are no good to me if I’m dead.’
‘Enough of that!’ Will Longdon shouted. ‘You were brave enough slitting throats in noblemen’s houses; well, now you earn your pay.’
Elfred swept a curve with his bow across the front of the gathered men. ‘And you’ll know it when them horses come galloping. You’ll piss your breeches and smell the stench of the man next to you, but you’ll stand your ground as archers have always done.’
‘You saw the lie of the land,’ Blackstone said. ‘We hold the high ground. They’ll come up from the far side of the plateau five hundred yards away. Then they’ll charge downhill and up to us. The hawthorn hedgerow across our position is where they’ll try and breach.’
‘Aye. Pray it’ll slow the bastards’ advance,’ Elfred said.
‘Salisbury is digging in his archers behind it, which means you have to hold here. When the French charge, our left flank is the weakest. They’ll pour through here and you have to stop them, or they’ll be at our backs. I’ll reinforce the breach.’
‘We’ve barely arrows to take but a few assaults, Thomas,’ said Elfred. ‘This needs to be over with before too long or we’ll have nothing.’
‘And I don’t even have enough spit to insult them before they kill me,’ Longdon said.
‘I’ll make sure they’re insulted before any of us die. Don’t break the line to take prisoners. Will, Elfred, you’ve to keep the men here. The French have a thirty-foot hill to crest; we’ll take them then. The moment the charge comes through, hold them as long as you can, and then run down this line here,’ Blackstone said, pointing out the route he wanted them to take across the river’s marshland onto the opposite side. ‘You’ll strike the horses more easily where they’re less protected from their armour; bring the men down, finish them with whatever you have: knives, swords – beat the bastards to death with river stones if you have to. Just kill them.’ Blackstone climbed back into the saddle so his voice would carry.
‘The Prince has commanded me to champion the army! I’ll face them as a common man, no different from any archer, and they’ll know our Prince insults them!’
The archers raised a cheer for one who came from their own ranks.
‘I’ll taunt the bastard! I’ll curse like a tavern whore and let him know that English and Welsh bowmen are waiting to kill him and every arrogant arse-wipe of a nobleman!’
The archers roared their approval.
Blackstone steadied his horse’s impatience. ‘They have a short memory, these French. They forget English archers have slaughtered them before, and will slaughter them again. And then the world will know that there is no greater army, no better men, none that can be defeated. Shall I tell him?’ he called.
Men shouted back, arms raised, teeth bared, as the blood surge lifted their voices in raucous chorus: ‘Aye! Aye!’
‘Let them come!’
‘Piss on him!’
‘We’ll make ten thousand widows today, Sir Thomas!’
Blackstone looked at the exhausted, ill-fed men. They were as ragged an army as he had ever seen. They would need guts and desperation to survive and win this day. He wheeled the horse, a final nod of acknowledgement to Elfred and Will Longdon: ‘Remember Crécy. We left too many friends rotting in those killing fields. Let’s punish these bastards once and for all.’
Blackstone rode out across the open ground as each army sent a champion to challenge anyone who would accept. It was a traditional formality before battle, a moment when men of both sides could gather their courage for the carnage that awaited them.
Guillaume watched his sworn lord ride towards the French army. The squire looked at the men gathered from the towns held by Blackstone as they sharpened their weapons, waiting for the chance to kill. Meulon and Gaillard, ferocious in looks as well as fighting, waited stoically. They turned to look at Guillaume and raised their spears. They and their men were ready. There would be plunder from the killing that could keep a man for the rest of his life. A third or more of the men were missing from those who had attacked the French rearguard. As so often with mercenaries, many had chased the wealth that fleeing noblemen represented.
‘Sir Thomas told me the archers have insufficient arrows. They won’t be able to stop the French this time. How many of our men remain?’ Guillaume asked.
‘Less than a hundred, Master Boudin,’ Guinot answered. ‘It’s enough. We can reinforce where we must.’
‘There’s no plunder till it’s over, Guinot. The marshals have already proclaimed the ordinance; no man must break the line. Make sure they understand.’
‘Aye, they understand. They’re keen for the killing to start. The quicker they kill the sooner they get to those worth something.’
The French champion sat astride his magnificent armoured war horse, covered in a gold and red decorated trapper that flapped gently in the morning breeze. The glorious figure that was the cream of French knighthood wore fitted armour and an emblazoned hawk on a crimson s
urcoat. He lifted the war helm from his head so he might be heard more clearly as the horse snuffled at the bit and its hooves pawed the ground. The French – even their horses seemed impatient to fight.
He was a knight of high rank, of that the English, Welsh and Gascons were left in no doubt. He raised his voice and extolled the virtue of his King’s cause, the glory that was France – that the day was already won – and that he as champion would strike the first blow. The first of many. And then his eloquence was drowned by a raucous jeering from the English ranks. He continued a moment longer, and then, as if realizing he faced a barbarian race, he replaced his helm and eased the great beast back into the front line.
Blackstone rode the bastard horse the breadth of the French ranks. It bore no fine trapper, its cinder-burnt coat speckled from hell’s fire; its misshapen head was lowered as if ready to charge into the brilliantly coloured ranks. To French eyes it bore a plain-clothed common knight, despised and feared, whose appearance as champion added insult and disrespect. To be goaded by such a lowly knight would lash French pride.
As always, Blackstone wore an open-faced bascinet so his enemy could see the scars of battle and readily identify him, whose shield bore the gripped sword: Defiant unto Death.
He was also gauging the enemy’s strength, looking at the three divisions formed up one behind the other and whose numerous banners told him who commanded them. As he rode at a canter his eyes sought out the King’s standard in the third division; the fleur-de-lys was unfurled next to the fork-tongued Oriflamme. The French would be merciless and take no prisoners, they would not seek ransom, and the only life spared would be that of Prince Edward so that his humiliation, and that of the King of England, would be complete.
The undulating land rose and fell like ocean swells, giving the French some higher ground, but their advance would first take them downhill and then force them up the slopes to meet their enemy. Edward would not attack. The English were past masters of holding advantageous ground. They had learnt from years of fighting that if they waited long enough, refusing to be drawn, French arrogance and honour would destroy their opponents’ patience. Blackstone had no need to seek out the French marshals’ banners. Beneath them were armour-clad destriers – and as his eye swept across their numbers he gauged there to be nearly five hundred knights who would be used to smash the archers. He turned and looked back to the pitifully small army that clung to the hillside less than a mile away, its pennons so few in number compared to the French. Men-at-arms and common soldiers stood together, archers in a saw-toothed formation between the ranks, horses held in the rear, the fighting to be done on foot. He could see the gap in the hawthorn hedgerow where Killbere and Warwick would face a near-impossible task trying to stop the weight of a charge.
He faced the French. The royal standard fluttered next to the Oriflamme, the place where Blackstone must reach to kill the King, and the instrument of his torture, the Savage Priest.
Horses whinnied; men’s mail creaked in their leather strappings; the stiff breeze fluttered embroidered banners, making them crackle. Blackstone was close enough to see the eyes of the footsoldiers and whiskered faces of the marshal’s knights with visors raised, lances ready to tilt. He raised his voice so it would carry across the closed ranks.
‘King John! You hide behind men who will die for an unjust King. Remember my words at the Field of Mercy, where you butchered Jean de Harcourt, when I slew the traitor Guy de Ruymont? You are an ignoble king, a turd on the heel of an Englishman’s boot, and we will wipe our arses with your royal standard! Now I confirm my pledge: I will kill you and the twisted creature Gilles de Marcy you set against me and my family. Common men will slaughter your nobility and you will be condemned in disgrace. Today is when France dies with you. Send him to me! Send that whoreson to me and see how I kill him. And when he is butchered I will come for you!’
He wheeled his horse and galloped back to the English lines.
Behind him trumpets blared, French voices roared defiance and the thunder of iron-shod hooves rumbled across the hillside.
29
Two pageboys, no older than Henry, their brows creased in anxiety, ran forward to take his horse to the rear but it took another older man to help them bring the bastard horse under any sort of control. The French marshals’ charge was only a few hundred paces from the line.
Blackstone ran to Killbere, both men securing their sword’s blood knot onto their wrist.
‘Armoured horses! You won’t stop them. Do what you can. Listen for my command. Give way when I tell you!’
Killbere nodded, passing on the command as Blackstone took his place with Guillaume at his shoulder. Behind them Guinot waited with the men. Fifty paces to each side Meulon and Gaillard readied their men as the ground trembled. The mighty war horses thundered forwards, a terrifying assault that could break the resolve of the bravest men. French tactics had changed. Blocks of mounted knights, five hundred strong, charged the lines to shatter the vulnerable archers and then behind them ranks of soldiers on foot would march forward, their overwhelming odds crushing the English.
The earth shuddered beneath the weight of the charge, rippling through men’s bodies, reaching for their hearts. No matter their rank or birth, men snarled and cursed, prayed and swallowed their fear in anticipation of the shockwave that would strike them.
Perinne threw wide his arms and bellowed at the advancing horse: ‘Bastard French whoresons! Come on! Come on!’ Men raised their voices and jeered at the terrifying sight that came ever closer. He lifted his sword arm and gathered his shield, bracing his body, knowing that Blackstone would feint to one side and that he would then strike at the horseman’s blind side. Rolling thunder from the pounding hooves muted the trumpets and cries of command as a gathering rage tore from the Englishmen’s throats. Louder and louder they bellowed, forcing courage and hatred to pump strength into their arms.
The stench of horse sweat and men’s fear mingled. Blackstone stood ready, seeing in his mind’s eye Elfred’s commands to his archers. Arrows nocked, backs bent like bow staves, loosing the murderous flight of arrows through the air. In that moment he was standing with them, feeling the strain and discomfort of muscles hauling back the cord that few men could master. His brother would have been at his side, his friends sharing the same eagerness to bring down swathes of enemy before they could reach the lightly armed archers. It came back to him in a rush of memory – the blurred desperation of fighting forward to save his brother, the slashing desperation, ignoring injury and pain.
‘Stand ready!’ Killbere shouted, snatching Blackstone back to the thundering present.
The first volley of arrows shivered and fell from the sky. The horses kept coming, the armour deflecting the force of the yard-long missiles. Through their narrow visors French knights caught glimpses of upturned faces, teeth bared, screaming abuse, sword, lance and axe ready to strike.
And then they were upon them.
The first wave of wild-eyed horses faltered, reins hauled back by their riders as the men on the ground ducked and weaved, slashed and stabbed. Soldiers raised lances, three to a lance, bristling like a sapling copse, heaving their weight behind the steel-tipped ash poles. Horses screamed, their own body weight forcing them onto the razor-sharp blades. Guillaume sidestepped, half turned and brought his sword around in a low, savage sweep, catching the back of a horse’s leading leg. It screamed and lost its footing; the knight cursed and jabbed spurs into its flanks, but the weight of its armour and the severed tendon meant it could barely stumble a few more paces.
Man and horse fell. Guillaume quickly returned to Blackstone’s side as Gaillard rammed his spear into the Frenchman’s visor.
‘The horse!’ he screamed, wanting his men to butcher the beast to slow the advancing knights.
Men fell on the helpless creature, dancing clear of its thrashing hooves, and hacked through its neck armour. Blood pumped from severed arteries as Meulon swung an axe and severed the straps th
at held the saddle; and then the blade eviscerated the dying animal. The stench of blood and the animal’s final screams served to unsettle the war horses coming up the hill.
‘Gilbert!’ Blackstone yelled.
Killbere was hacking at a fallen French knight who had miraculously raised himself to his knees under the weight of his armour – and that was as far as he got, as Killbere used both hands to swing his blade left and right, severing the man’s raised arm and then butchering him. Killbere heard the shout above the roar and saw Blackstone run diagonally across the assault towards the saw-tooth positions of the archers.
The French charge had one desperate goal: slay the lightly armed men whose arrows could bring so many of their knights down. Some of the Gascons who protected the archers’ flank had been trampled, left floundering and broken. Horses pounded them underfoot, French lances rammed into them as the crushing weight of their charge broke the line.
Killbere ran forward to fill the gap left by Blackstone, who had skirmished forward to where Elfred was trying to reposition his men in a desperate attempt to retreat behind the next group of besieged English men-at-arms. The zigzag line that gave the archers protection also meant they were vulnerable if their protective flanks were broken. Easy killing for the French horsemen.
‘To me!’ Blackstone shouted above the cries and screams. Guinot had lumbered behind him, desperately sucking air, sweat blinding him, but still only yards behind. A horseman yanked his reins, hauling the strength of his horse into a sudden change of direction. Blackstone was barged down and moments away from being smashed by its iron-shod hooves. Guillaume threw himself at the knight, who swept down a chained flail that hit the squire’s back with a cruel impact. He fell, winded, twisting away as Guinot seized the off-balance knight. Grabbing his arm and belt, he hauled the cursing Frenchman to the ground, almost crushing himself as the knight fell half onto him. Guinot swore and bucked, but the man’s weight was too much. A raised mailed fist was about to smash into his unprotected face when Guillaume came behind the horseman, wrenched his visor free and stabbed his knife repeatedly into the void. The man’s gurgling scream was cut off suddenly by the squire’s savage attack.
