by David Gilman
Guinot rolled onto his knees as Guillaume twisted away and darted forward, looking for Blackstone in the swarming field of colour and noise. Blurred images engaged in desperate fights to the death, sword pommels used as hammers, spiked maces piercing helmets and skulls, men kicking wildly in their death throes as other soldiers and horses trampled them. And all the time bellows of fear and threat as the trumpets blared their commands. Thirty of Blackstone’s men had followed him into the breach and, like a broadhead arrow, formed up around him. Fallen lances were raised, shield walls locked by half a dozen men at a time, shoulders tight, hunched, heads bowed, spears bristling, as men-at-arms wielded sword and axe at the head of the phalanx. Blackstone and Guillaume felt Guinot and Meulon behind them, bull-strong fighters there to push into the desperate attack.
The line held.
A rising tide of men suddenly appeared beyond Blackstone. The Earl of Suffolk’s archers had remained concealed in trenches and now rose to shoot into the trapped, desperate Frenchmen. Blackstone hunched onto one knee, shield high; others followed as a flight of arrows swarmed a hundred yards above their heads and smashed into armour and flesh.
The Gascons re-formed, surged past Blackstone and went in for the kill.
Blackstone spat, wiped blood from his eyes, turned to his men and looked across a jumbled field of hand-to-hand fighting. Lungs raw from effort he spat again, saw his men were still with him, fire burning behind their eyes. Elfred raised an arm in acknowledgement as the sixty-year-old Suffolk rode across their ranks, urging his men to re-form. Blackstone’s actions had saved him and his archers. The veteran knight called out to Blackstone and gestured wildly with his sword. Blackstone turned his men. The French King’s son had launched an attack against the hedgerow held by Killbere. Men gathered their strength, knowing that so far they had fought only a small detachment of the French army.
Despite the slaughter the French horsemen had held their own, their remarkable courage inspiring the following ranks who advanced in extended line on foot to the beat of drums and blaring trumpets. Fear sustained the Dauphin’s determination – not of cowardice, despite this being his first battle – but a fear of failing to prove himself to his father. Spurred on by the man at his shoulder, who saw where a bloodied Thomas Blackstone ran back and forth to seal any breach, he kept pace. Exhaustion must surely claim the English soon. Hours of hand-to-hand battle would weary the strongest defenders, but the Englishmen fought savagely. Some of their archers had barely any arrows left to shoot, but they ran into the fray with sword and knife.
Death strode at the Dauphin’s side – the dark disciple commanded by the French King to protect his son with his own life if necessary – a penance for allowing Blackstone to slip through their grasp in Paris. Protect the Dauphin. See he comes to no harm. See that he leaves the field with honour. And take whatever opportunity presents itself to kill the Englishman. Killing Blackstone could still yield riches and land, but de Marcy had no intention of sacrificing himself for a pimpled youth.
The Savage Priest urged on the eighteen year-old heir to the throne. ‘Blackstone is there, sire! He defends the hedgerow!’
The Dauphin recognized the pennons of Salisbury and Suffolk – the veteran Englishmen were as renowned as the great French marshals – but the Dauphin could see no flag bearing Blackstone’s coat of arms. Whatever the vile creature sent by his father wanted from this battle was of no concern to the Dauphin. The man had a demonic hatred within him. The boy was sweating, his lower lip trembled, the cacophony of war and the mayhem of slaughter making him cast about nervously this way and that as the narrow slit of his visor revealed the horror and butchery on the hillside before him. Sweat stung his eyes; his heart’s drumbeat competed with his rasping breath. Men of rank formed around him, praying to God that the boy did not falter and bring shame on them all.
‘He’s there! In their midst! We have him!’ de Marcy roared to his men around him.
He and the Dauphin would not be the first wave of men to breach the hedgerow, but the reward and good favour that would come from killing Thomas Blackstone would fire the blood of de Marcy’s routiers. Kill the scourge of France and claim glory and reward.
‘No mercy, sire! Remember that! Pas de quartier!’ yelled the Savage Priest, the spittle of desire thick on his tongue.
The Dauphin nodded vigorously, found his courage and was swept along as they surged forward, caught in the wave of killing, ready to believe that God favoured only them. Men-at-arms funnelled into the gap; the clash of steel and cries of Saint George! were matched by the full-blooded determination of the French, who countered the English and Gascons with triumphant roars of Saint Denis! The hedgerow’s gap funnelled men as they forced their way through, but the weight of the French attack was bolstered by a determination to reclaim lost honour and rid themselves of the English forever. Defeat the English on this field of battle and Gascony would be seized; capture the Prince of Wales and surrender and humiliation would be complete. Not even these barbaric Englishmen could outfight such odds that favoured the French.
And for those who served the Savage Priest, Blackstone’s head on a pole guaranteed them wealth and all the towns he held. And de Marcy would wear the mantle of legend.
The assault surged uphill and began to push through into Killbere’s ranks. He steeled himself, bracing for the charge as men-at-arms supported him, spears raised and lances ready to impale those who poured through the gap. Frenchmen went down but their armour snapped most of the shafts and the sheer weight of numbers began to smother the defenders.
Killbere slashed upwards at a French knight, vicious cuts that wounded and maimed, then ducked from shield and lance as men bent low to hack the fetlocks of those horses that still survived. Tumbling horses screamed, French knights were crushed or beaten by poleaxe and mace, but it was a tide that could not be stopped.
Blackstone and his men stood their ground fifty paces back, ready to take the assault head on once Killbere pulled back. ‘Give way, Killbere!’ he shouted. ‘Yield ground! Let them come to us!’
But the clamour of battle drowned his voice. Before he could shout another warning, Guillaume ran forward to carry his master’s command, cutting at men until he reached Killbere’s shoulder. Blackstone felt a sudden grip of panic: the sight of his squire fighting forward stabbed at his conscience, reminding him of a lost brother in the chaos of another battle.
He saw Guillaume’s head tilt, unheard words screamed at Sir Gilbert, who gave one final slashing arc with his sword that severed a Frenchman’s arm. The man’s shock carried him forward until another drove a battleaxe with such force it cut through his armour. So deep was the strike the Englishman could not extricate his axe, and his attempt to do so cost him his life as a French sword pierced his throat.
The hedge’s gap funnelled the armoured knights as English swords and axes struck into the heaving mass. The English could not withstand the weight of the attack. Blackstone whirled, slashing at the first of the knights, who lost control of his panic-stricken horse. Guinot lunged at the horse’s eyes with his sword, blinding it. Impervious to its screams, he and Blackstone jumped clear of the lashing hooves. A wounded horse served the defenders as it ran in agony back among the French. Guinot ground his sword into the knight’s shoulder between his armour, forcing it through bone and flesh, and heaved his weight onto the man’s chest to stop him writhing, as Blackstone kicked the man’s visor and thrust his sword into his face.
Too many! They were far outnumbered by men on foot and horse. The swirling mass surged this way and that. Men spat broken teeth and clung to severed limbs. Time slowed down – moments of intensity swallowed hours and men’s lives. Somewhere amidst the bobbing helmets Blackstone saw the Dauphin’s shield raised in defence and for a heart-clutching moment thought he saw the figure of the Savage Priest, a brief flash of light that showed men gasping for breath behind the jostling mêlée. A visor raised, air sucked into burning lungs – and then the visors closed, s
houlders bent to the task of forging a gap through. There was a shield of men around the Dauphin, but some were breaking forward, fighting ferociously.
Blackstone and his men held the ground. They needed a stronger defensive line. The English sold their lives dearly, leaving the dead and dying to slow the stumbling French knights. Lungs heaving, Blackstone and the others readied themselves to stand fast against the armoured men who snarled and roared their way forward. French drummers hammered out a throbbing rhythm driving on their soldiers as trumpets blared a discordant cacophony.
Blackstone’s men braced for the impact, crouched, shields forward, sword and axe half-raised, eyes intent on the man each would kill first. The French faltered as they struggled across the dead and dying but then gained momentum as more of them poured through the breached hedge’s gap. They half wheeled, as if on command, and came directly towards Blackstone and his beleaguered men. In that moment he knew their defence could not hold. He looked at the blood-streaked men at his side – Guillaume, Killbere, Meulon, Gaillard, Guinot, Perinne, his sword arm low ready to strike up and geld the first knight to reach his blade – each of them with eyes locked onto their enemy, teeth bared, intent to slaughter.
Blackstone turned to face the bristling surge of colour, ready to die, as surely they must against these fresh troops. And then, in the midst of the attackers, Blackstone saw the Dauphin’s standard and next to it the Savage Priest’s black-tongued pennon. Blackstone’s shock quickly passed, flushed away by the urge to kill. De Marcy had come for him!
Raising Wolf Sword he hurled himself forward.
A heartbeat behind him the line of men followed. In the bellowing noise of attack a battle cry soared above the tumult and was quickly taken up.
Défiant à la mort! Défiant à la mort!
Defiant unto Death!
Defiant!
The Savage Priest barged and hacked his way towards the gap. Fleeting glimpses of his men before him showed where Blackstone might be. Blood-splattered coats of arms – griffin, eagle, dove and flower – swarmed across his narrow vision. He helped kill those who fell within the protected circle that enveloped the Dauphin. It would be suicide to strike out alone from the royal bodyguard. He was as protected as the Dauphin. He had sworn to the King to use his mercenaries to carve a path forward – but the closer he stayed to the Dauphin’s shoulder, the less risk there was to his own safety. His men made progress as they clambered over writhing Englishmen – gaining ground towards Blackstone, who stood shoulder to shoulder with others as they took the fight to their enemy. De Marcy’s strength coursed through him. Blackstone! His blood-red shields held the English line.
‘Push on! Forward! We have him! Keep on!’ he yelled, his determination carrying the Dauphin with him.
French men-at-arms sucked the strength from the English defenders as the French mounted knights gained ground, but then God’s curse shattered de Marcy’s hope as their own horsemen jostled the French aside. Men stumbled and were barged out of the way.
Blackstone and his men fought closer together, Killbere and Gaillard, Meulon and Perinne side by side. Guinot had found an old tree stump and pressed his back into it for support. Axe and shield fought mace and sword. Like a heaving bull Guinot stood his ground. Defence was his strength and he would yield no further. Blackstone heard someone muttering a constant litany: God is mercy! God is mercy!
Guillaume shielded Blackstone as his sworn lord half turned. They had clawed back the lost ground and held the breach, but the situation was desperate; the Dauphin’s attack was gaining ground and there were still thousands of fresh troops waiting under the French King’s command.
Blackstone looked back to the narrow riverbank. Elfred and his archers had moved across the marsh as they had been instructed. There were still enough arrows left to seek out the horses’ unprotected rumps. Now the animals were struck time and again, their back legs faltering, giving way to pain and injury and throwing their riders onto English and Gascon swords. Blackstone’s men went at their enemy, their savagery fuelled by fear and charged with lust.
The Savage Priest was a visceral creature who felt the tide of events turn. They were being slowed by the Englishmen’s renewed efforts and the Dauphin was tiring. Blackstone was still too far back to be reached. Thirty or more of de Marcy’s men had gone down beneath the English blades and the horsemen still hindered the attack. The English shuffled and then strode downhill, forcing the advance to falter. Brawling, cursing men closed in, hampering the French knights that had broken through. Wounded horses created confusion, scattering men, trampling fallen knights underfoot.
The Savage Priest grabbed the Dauphin’s arm, wrestled with the boy’s uncertainty as he tried to twist free, but the killer’s strength was the greater.
‘Back, sire! They’ll take you! Back!’ de Marcy insisted. He would find no sanctuary if he failed to bring the King’s son out of harm’s way. If Blackstone survived the fight and the English won there was no gain for de Marcy. He yelled again at the Dauphin. Greater and nobler knights heard the cry and pushed de Marcy aside as they hustled the boy away.
Blackstone saw the retreat. De Marcy was escaping! Killbere and Salisbury’s men fought at the breach. Blackstone and his men closed it with a relentless savagery. Those who had broken through were trapped behind the English lines, caught in the marshlands and slaughtered by English arrows. Blackstone soon lost sight of the Dauphin’s pennon. He knew the opportunity was lost.
The defence held and the archers dug in behind the screen loosed their final volleys into the French lines. The hedgerow served the English better than another thousand men. The French had been forced to fight their way through to grapple with the Englishmen, and those who were not killed by arrows fought the English who stood in ranks trading blows, toe to toe, with an overwhelming enemy who could gain no further ground. Axe and mace smashed bone and tore limbs. Men were eviscerated and lay in cloying mud as others trampled their entrails. Blackstone reached Killbere and the two men fought side by side, each covering the other, while Guillaume and Guinot formed the flanks of a fighting wedge that thrust like a spear into the body of attacking Frenchmen. The battle was fought by pockets of men fighting hand to hand. Each victory pushed beaten attackers down into the mud as the English held.
When Blackstone went down again beneath a flurry of powerful blows, covered by his battered shield, Guillaume and Guinot and a dozen others forced their way forward to encircle his body in defence. Killbere reached down, heaved Blackstone to his feet and the fighting went on relentlessly. Blackstone and Killbere’s men finally closed the breach. Along the English front line the dead lay heaped and the wounded writhed, but no one stepped forward to end their suffering.
And then, mercifully, after hours of slaughter, the French advance faltered.
Killbere raised his visor, gasping for air. Blackstone sucked lungfuls into his heaving chest. Both, like those around them, were soaked in sweat and blood. It was a strange, unsettling near-silence that lay across them. Distant shouts and muted cries were as clear as bird calls.
‘We need water,’ Guillaume said, pulling free his bascinet, wiping a blood-smeared hand across his face, his body trembling from exhaustion.
‘There is none. Not here,’ Blackstone said. He pointed with his sword towards the enemy. ‘They’ve got the water. If we want it, that’s where we have to go.’
‘Merciful God,’ Killbere said. ‘We’ve stopped them. We stopped the bastards.’ He laughed and looked at the survivors around him; most were on their knees, exhausted by the combat. Killbere stayed upright, leaning on his sword. French trumpets sounded across the narrow valley. In the distance they could see there were banners leaving the field.
‘The Dauphin,’ Blackstone said.
‘Bastard’s taking his men …’ said Killbere, watching the King’s eldest son disappear behind the massed troops of the other French divisions.
‘No … King’s taking him out of harm’s way …’ said Blac
kstone, his parched mouth making it difficult to speak. His eyes searching for the man he thought he had seen.
‘No! Look! Goddammit, Thomas, they’re running for home!’
Other banners and pennons followed the Dauphin’s. ‘The Duke of Orléans takes Poitiers and Anjou with him! Their whole second line has gone!’ Killbere grinned and roared with others as the sense of victory swept the English lines. Hundreds of men broke ranks and ran forward, knifing the badly wounded, pulling knights’ jewel-encrusted belts from their bodies, scavenging for plunder among the fallen. Voices of command went up and down the line.
‘Stand fast! Stand fast. Commanders!’
Blackstone added his voice: ‘Men! Back in line. They’re not finished yet.’
Meulon and Perinne grabbed men’s tunics, hauling them back into line as Gaillard prodded others with the blunt end of his spear shaft. The respite they felt was quickly dashed.
The trumpets’ cacophony blared again, this time to a different sound. The English had fought only a small segment of the French army. The King himself now advanced, bringing thousands of fresh troops with him.
Blackstone’s gaze settled on the wall of pavisers, the huge shields protecting the Genoese crossbowmen that came behind them.
‘Sweet Jesus, Thomas. I fear it’s the end,’ said Killbere.
The Oriflamme advanced, wavering above the mass of bodies, bringing the promise of death without mercy ever closer to the English ranks, whose resolve began to falter as the fresh troops steadily came on, their drums and trumpets heralding victory.
‘Killbere, say something. Speak to the men,’ Blackstone said wearily.
‘I’m too damned tired,’ Killbere admitted.
The moment was saved by Prince Edward, his mail coif pulled free from his fair hair as he rode bareheaded along the lines, his royal standard flying so all would know him, and with it the billowing cross of Saint George. The lions of England and the lilies of France emblazoned on shield and surcoat smudged the grey sky as the war horse bore him across the ranks of his beleaguered men. Edward raised his sword and miraculously the French trumpets fell silent for a few moments and in that eerie peace the Prince’s voice carried clearly across the hillside.
