The Oriflamme was the symbol of France herself, the banner of her Kings. It was said that when the Oriflamme was raised against a foe, France must prevail. The Benedictines of St Denis guarded the banner with great care, for this was more a religious symbol than regal, but when war came, the King would go and fetch it. And now it was raised against the English.
Berenger had seen that flag once before, when the French raised it on the field of Crécy, only for them to be utterly defeated. Now he felt no trepidation to see it again. It had given the French no aid when they had needed it before. It would not help them now.
The battle advanced to the blaring of trumpets and horns, and a drum beat slowly. Gradually it straightened into a long line of men on foot, with a knot of household knights gathered about the figure of King John under the Oriflamme towards the middle. This would be a hard contest now. The English had been fighting all day, and arms and legs were already weary.
As he watched, he saw the pavisers dashing forwards with their great shields. Behind them crouched the crossbowmen. As soon as they were coming within range, English archers loosed their arrows, and Berenger saw them fall all around the shields. A few less cautious crossbowmen were hit and fell, but for the most part they huddled safely behind their defences, letting their bolts fly. Berenger saw a man-at-arms cough, falling back as though punched in the chest, and then stare at the bolt feathers protruding from his chest as he toppled over. Soon bolts were flying in a regular sequence, and men were being hit up and down the English line. However, most bolts went astray, or lost their power by penetrating the hedge, so that their speed was greatly reduced and their danger dissipated.
Grandarse appeared at his shoulder. ‘Frip, ye mad bastard, you’re supposed to be with the reserve, man! Get back up the hill! Take your men and get back to your position. If you see Hawkwood, tell him to go with you. I’ll be up there myself soon.’
Berenger nodded and, bellowing to his men, pulled them back to the place where they had stood before. He saw Hawkwood on the way, and then two other vinteners, and all returned to their positions on the knoll overlooking the field. The battle, from here, was hard to see, but Berenger found a vantage point on some rocks near the wood’s edge.
The French came closer. Berenger saw the archers on the flanks bending their bows, releasing their arrows in a regular cloud, but even as he watched, he saw archers gazing about them, ceasing to loose, and realised that they were running out of missiles. They had been fighting for hours already, and almost all their supplies were gone.
With a tremendous roar and clatter, the French reached the hedge and set upon their enemies. Berenger saw men grabbing pavises and hurling them at the hedge to give them something to clamber over, and then they were in among the English.
‘Dear God,’ he prayed, ‘preserve us from our enemies.’
He saw archers on the flanks running down to the fight, flinging aside their bows and drawing swords. He was about to join them when he felt Grandarse’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Not now, Frip. We’re to stay here until we’re called, man. We’re the reserve. We’re needed here. Don’t run off again.’
Archibald tried to cajole, he even tried to beg, but Béatrice refused to listen. She was going to stay and help serve the gonnes. Ed was as unhappy about it as Archibald, but there was little they could do, short of carrying her away bodily. When she decided her mind in that way, both knew that arguing was fruitless.
‘In that case, you had best get working,’ Archibald snapped at last.
The horns and drums were clear on the late afternoon air, and they could all sense the tension. There was a loud thundering of stamping boots, a rumble that Archibald could feel, he was sure, through his feet. The noise of thousands of men marching forward, some willingly, many unwilling but determined to do their part for their King. And the thin English line readied to repel them. Looking up at the Englishmen cradling their weapons behind the hedge, Archibald felt a pang of sadness. Most of them looked so weary already. They had the drained expressions of men who had toiled too hard, and who knew that this latest effort could be their last. Many would not live to see the sunset, he thought.
‘Master!’
Ed was pointing, and there, over the lip of the land, were the first of the French.
‘Dear God,’ Archibald prayed, ‘protect us, poor sinners though we be. Amen,’ and he crossed himself and bowed his head a moment. Then: ‘Turn that ribauldequin, you lazy shit for brains! Béatrice, get ready to reload!’ and he blew on his match.
From his vantage point, Berenger saw the first waves pick up speed until they were running full tilt at the hedge. The English archers were there to back up the rest of the line of English fighters before the collision, but then Berenger saw the rippling of spears lowering as the French began to charge; there was a rattling crash as the two armies came together and Berenger saw the gleam of swords rising and falling, the evil metal showing oily and foul with blood, and he saw the blood spraying from a hundred vicious wounds, the men falling, a man here falling hard on his rump as if pushed, only to roll over, another running screaming from the press clutching a stump that squirted blood, another crawling with his bowels dragging a yard or more behind him, and Berenger swore to himself that he would never again come to war willingly, but would avoid it ever more.
There was a shout, and the archers prepared themselves as a small body of men appeared from the right, arguing and shouting, and the archers released the tension in their bows, letting the arrows point to the ground once more.
‘Grandarse! We need your men!’
Denisot lay on his back, panting after his exertions. He was aware of a movement of men around him, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Grandarse and his vintaines trotting off towards the woods. There, he saw Gaillarde once more, and thought how beautiful she looked, almost like an angel come down from Heaven, while all about was blood and horror.
He saw her face blanch, and there was a shout from the line of the battle. Denisot turned and saw that there was a fresh eruption of French fighters. They had broken through the line of English and were attacking them from the rear.
Only a few Englishmen had realised the danger, and were falling on the French. Denisot picked up his weapons with a weary resolution. They must all work to prevent this breakthrough turning into a catastrophe. It wouldn’t take much for the English to be persuaded to bolt, with the sudden shock of an assault from their rear. Already cries of alarm were going up, and as Denisot hefted his sword’s hilt and trotted to join the others, he saw Pierre and Felix throwing themselves into the fray. A pair of Frenchmen turned to battle with them, and as Denisot reached their side, he saw Felix push a man from his father’s side. Denisot’s sword slid into the man’s flank before he could recover and stab Felix.
It was a crushing, insane fight. Denisot was hemmed in on all sides. Before him an Englishman, at his left Felix and Pierre, to his right a lean, black-haired man, someone behind him, pushing. And a short way in front, the French.
The line was a confusion of noises. Shouting, screaming, the rattle of weapons hitting weapons or clanging off helmets, the stertorous breathing of men struggling to hold the line. The French had formed a mushroom: a stem pushed through the English line, and then turned to assail the rear of the English like a cap. But reinforcements were coming with every moment and adding to the numbers who stood with Denisot, and the French mushroom was being squeezed and forced to contract. Denisot set his shoulder at the back of the man in front, and shoved. There was a shriek somewhere in front, and Denisot looked up briefly to see a Frenchman who was being hacked about terribly by three men. Felix was one, and he swung a short sword with abandon, until the Frenchman fell underfoot. The next man was there, and Denisot saw Felix lift his sword and bring it down, lift it again, and then there was a cry, and when Denisot glanced to his side, he saw Pierre. Felix had brought his blade back too far, and the point had entered his father’s neck, slicing through to the bone. Even as Den
isot watched, Pierre fell to his knees.
Felix was unaware of the accident. He cut again and again, and his latest opponent fell; he stepped forward, and then he must have become aware that his father was no longer behind him. He glanced around, and saw his father lying on the floor. In that moment Denisot saw the raw misery on his face. Felix dropped his sword and was about to fall to his knees to help his father, when an axe cut into his neck. He toppled, already dead before his body hid his father’s from view.
Denisot felt little at that moment. His world was a sweating area of grim, relentless toil. He pushed, the man in front of him moved forward. There were more bellowed orders, and he pushed once more. There was a slippery sensation underfoot, and the unmistakable odour of blood and piss, and he was pushing again, when suddenly everything seemed to move about him. Like a drunken man in a world that was spinning around him, Denisot was vaguely aware of the men all about him, but all his concentration was focused on remaining upright. To fall in that mêlée could spell instant death.
The man before him was stabbed. He toppled and collapsed, and Denisot was just able to keep to his feet, but the haziness was all but engulfing him, and he could feel his legs wobbling. He had to keep on his feet.
He must stay upright!
At his gonne, Archibald let fly with another trio of blasts and the smoke mercifully concealed the devastation wrought as his stones struck men, breaking into two or three shards of lethal, whining and spinning fragments. He had seen the effects before: the pieces of stone and scraps of snapped armour from his targets moving on and ripping into the men behind.
Béatrice mechanically sat before his gonne with her little rod covered in wet lamb’s wool. She was washing the barrels, and then she would pour powder into each and tamp it, set the fresh stone ball on top and ram that in too, just tight enough to make it fix in place.
He blew on his match and waited until she was away from the line of fire. She was squatting now before Ed’s gonne. A fresh group of Frenchmen were running to the front, and Archibald set off the first barrel. He saw the flames leap, and saw the front man’s face disappear, throwing the man backwards to join the bodies slaughtered by Archibald’s gonne. A moment later, the second barrel erupted and a pair of men went down. The third barrel – but there was no explosion.
‘Stop!’ he bellowed, but Béatrice was already in front of his gonne. And then with a spitting hiss, the barrel poured flame and smoke and its deadly missile into her.
Berenger waited but Grandarse waved an arm. ‘Here, quick, Frip!’
Before he knew what was happening, Berenger was being taken down to where the horses had been kept all that long day.
‘We charge with the Captal de Buch,’ Grandarse gasped after his unaccustomed rush. ‘Follow him if I fall, Frip, Hawk. You and your men must charge with him. You understand?’
‘You won’t fall,’ Berenger said.
Grandarse grinned, but Berenger could see his anxiety.
‘Aye, we’ll all get killed. You watch and see. We’ll all die,’ Clip said cheerfully.
‘Shut the fuck up!’ Saul snapped. ‘This is no time for jokes, man!’
‘Oh, aye?’ Clip said. ‘What are you going to do, you lanky piece of piss? Kill me? Too late! The Frenchies will do that for you!’
‘Shut up, Clip!’ Berenger shouted. ‘Archers? Keep tight. We’re going to ride around behind them and give them the shock of their lives. Ready?’
The Captal was already on his destrier, sixty men-at-arms trotting behind him, and he rode up now with his sword in his hand. He lifted it and set off at a fast trot, and Grandarse’s centaine followed behind the men in armour, up beyond the main plain and around the nearer hill, out of sight of anyone on the battlefield.
There was a wind in Berenger’s face and he was suddenly struck with the peacefulness of the land here. He saw a bird rising from the field on his right, and the smell in his nose was fresh and clean and wholesome. It was as if the battle had never taken place, as if the last hours had not truly existed, except as a malign dream on the edge of consciousness, but then the vision of peace and joy was destroyed as they rode around the hill and saw the battlefield before them. Berenger heard a shout, and they were riding more quickly, and then there was a sudden blast from a horn, and the English formation clapped spurs to their mounts and began to hurtle across the plain at full speed.
As the Captal bellowed his battle cry and galloped towards the French, the man at his side lifted the standard of St George, and it flew in the wind of their passage. Then, when they came closer, Berenger saw that a second charge had come about the bottom of the English line, and leading that charge he recognised the banner of Sir James Audley.
There was no time to register more. Berenger and the men were suddenly in among the French, scattering the men in the heavier armour so that they were sent sprawling in the mud and filth, while the foot soldiers were beaten about the head and slain where they stood, many of them not knowing where the blow had come from. Berenger brought down his sword on a youth, and felt the grim sadness at killing once more. At his side, he saw Clip attacking a Frenchman, but then another man sprang up behind Clip with a long billhook. Before he could shout to warn Clip, Grandarse rode alongside him and lopped the arm from the man. Grandarse turned to Clip with a look of satisfaction, but then Berenger saw that his Centener jerked and glared about him. A Frenchman had taken a spear and thrust it up, under the old man’s plate. Now the Frenchman shoved again, and Grandarse coughed blood. He tried to hack at his enemy, but the effort made him fall from his horse. All at once two men were stabbing at his face. Clip shouted something inarticulate, and turned his horse towards Grandarse’s killer, but even as he rode up, Berenger saw a man behind him cut the hamstrings of his horse, and Clip was tumbled to the ground. Before Berenger could move to help him, his throat was cut.
‘NO!’
Berenger roared with horror, with dismay and fierce hatred, and slashed wildly. He knew nothing from that moment but a red, irrational hatred. He missed both men, but saw Dogbreath and Fulk kill them both. It was not enough. In his rage, Berenger set his horse at the thickest group of French fighters, and urged his horse towards it. He still gripped his sword, and now he beat with it at the first men he came to. There was a knot of knights battling, and he rode to them, slamming his sword at them with a desperate fury, trying to break through their armour, then stabbing where the metal plates joined, trying to reach the man beneath, but without luck. He saw a French fighter without armour and rode to him, his blade sinking into the man’s shoulder, and saw another man who fought with a pair of archers. Berenger brought his pommel on the man’s head and felt the bones shatter under the blow. He was about to ride back, when Fulk appeared and caught his bridle.
‘Frip, you’ve done enough.’
The blood lust had not left him. ‘You saw what they did to Grandarse? They killed Clip, too!’ And that was when he felt the fury leave him, and his soul was taken instead with an inconsolable grief. Clip, the cheery predictor of all their deaths. In all the years Berenger had known him, that whining voice had assured him that they would all die, and yet no one would have believed that it would be Clip himself who would be killed. All knew that somehow he was impregnable. Yet now he was dead.
He felt the tears start.
But the battle was not yet over.
As the men-at-arms rode past Archibald, he paid them no attention. All he knew was an overwhelming emptiness.
He had known Béatrice for ten years, ever since Berenger had asked him to protect her, and she had been an invaluable companion. Her knowledge of powders, her dedication, and her easy manner with him and Ed had endeared her to him. He felt as if his own daughter had been taken from him.
He picked up her shattered body and carried her gently to the wagon. There, he set her down amid the powder kegs and covered her face with a shred of cloth. It was filthy, but it would serve. She would feel humiliated to be left with her face exposed, h
e knew.
‘Archibald . . .’ Ed began, but Archibald busied himself making Béatrice comfortable. It was important, he knew. He had to leave her comfortable.
‘Master?’ Ed said.
Archibald was consumed with a rage that passed through him like a fire. He felt cleansed by the purity of his hatred for all the French. He took up his axe from the wagon and began walking to the battle, Ed anxiously scurrying in his wake.
A French man-at-arms saw him and lifted his sword, but Archibald batted it aside and brought his axe down two-handed on his head. The axe embedded itself in the steel and when he jerked it away, the helmet came with the axe-head, the man-at-arms falling dead with a huge gash in his padded coif through which the blood leaked.
Archibald didn’t notice. He didn’t care. He stalked forward, ignoring the men on horseback and the huddles of men rolling on the ground, until he came to the main battle, and there he pulled the helmet from his axe and gripped it in his left hand like a great metal glove. He saw a pair of archers battling with a French esquire, and slammed the helmet into the back of the man’s head. He fell, and Archibald found himself facing two Genoese bowmen with long swords. He slammed his axe-head down on one and stepped on it, smashing his steel glove into the man’s face, before facing the second man and aiming it at his face too. The man held up an arm to defend himself, but the steel of the ruined helmet was heavier than his arm, and there was an audible snap as the bones of his arm were shattered, and then Archibald swung the axe again and the man was down. Archibald walked on and a man blocked his path, a tall man with the build of a giant. He lifted a sword and Archibald stepped up, inside his reach, batting his sword-hand away, moving his grip on the axe, and shoving it hard into the man’s throat. There was no spike, but the sudden slamming effect of two pounds of steel with all Archibald’s weight behind it broke his windpipe, crushing it against his spine, and the man collapsed retching, desperately fighting for air.
Blood of the Innocents Page 46
