Thomas kept quiet. He was imagining the French army strung along the Abbeville road. They would all know the English had stopped running, that they were waiting, and doubtless the French were hurrying in case they missed the battle. They had to be confident. He made the sign of the cross and Eleanor, sensing his fear, touched his arm.
'You will be all right,' she said.
'You too, my love.'
'You remember your promise to my father?' she asked.
Thomas nodded, but he could not persuade himself that he would see the lance of St George this day. This day was real, while the lance belonged to some mysterious world of which Thomas really wanted no part. Everyone else, he thought, cared passionately about the relic, and only he, who had as good a reason as any to discover the truth, was indifferent. He wished he had never seen the lance, he wished that the man who had called himself the Harlequin had never come to Hookton, but if the French had not landed, he thought, then he would not be carrying the black bow and would not be on this green hillside and would not have met Eleanor. You cannot turn your back on God, he told himself.
'If I see the lance,' he promised Eleanor, 'I shall fight for it.' That was his penance, though he still hoped he would not have to serve it.
They ate mouldy bread for their midday meal. The French were a dark mass on the far hill, too many to count now, and the first of their infantry had arrived. A spit of rain made those archers who had their strings dangling from a bowtip hurry to coil the cords and shelter them under helmets or hats, but the small rain passed. A wind stirred the grass.
And still the French came to the far hill. They were a horde, they had come to Crécy, and they had come for revenge.
Chapter 12
The English waited. Two of Skeat's archers played straw flutes, while the hobelars, who were helping to protect the guns on the army's flanks, sang songs of green woods and running streams. Some men danced the steps they would have used on a village green back home, others slept, many played dice, and all but the sleepers continually looked across the valley to the far hill crest that was thickening with men.
Jake had a linen-wrapped lump of beeswax that he handed round the archers so they could coat their bows. It was not necessary, just something to do. 'Where did you get the wax?' Thomas asked him.
'Stole it, of course, off some daft man-at-arms. Saddle — polish, I reckon.'
An argument developed over which wood made the best arrows. It was an old discussion, but it passed the time. Everyone knew ash made the best shafts, but some men liked to claim that birch or hornbeam, even oak, flew just as well. Alder, though heavy, was good for killing deer, but needed a heavy head and did not have the distance for battle.
Sam took one of his new arrows from his bag and showed everyone how warped the shaft was. 'Must be made of bloody blackthorn,' he complained bitterly. 'You could shoot that round a corner.'
'They don't make arrows like they used to,' Will Skeat said, and his archers jeered for it was an old complaint. 'It's true,' Skeat said. 'It's all hurry up and no craftsmanship these days. Who cares? The bastards get paid by the sheaf and the sheaves are sent to London and no one looks at them till they reach us, and what are we going to do? Just look at it!' He took the arrow from Sam and twisted it in his fingers. 'That's not a bloody goose feather! It's a goddamn sparrow feather. No bloody use for anything except scratching your arse.' He tossed the arrow back to Sam. 'No, a proper archer makes his own arrows.'
'I used to,' Thomas said.
'But you're a lazy bastard now, eh, Tom?' Skeat grinned, but the grin faded as he stared across the valley. 'Enough of the goddamn bastards,' he grumbled, looking at the gathering French, then he grimaced as a solitary raindrop splashed on his worn boots. 'I wish it would damn well rain and get it over with. It wants to. If it pisses on us when the bastards are attacking then we might as well run for home because the bows won't shoot.'
Eleanor sat beside Thomas and watched the far hill. There were at least as many men there as were in the English army now, and the French main battle was only just arriving. Mounted men-at-arms were spreading across the hill, organizing themselves into conrois. A conroi was the basic fighting unit for a knight or man-at-arms, and most had between a dozen and twenty men, but those who formed the bodyguards of the great lords were much larger. There were now so many horsemen on the far hilltop that some had to spill down the slope, which was turning into a spread of colour, for the men-at-arms were wearing surcoats embroidered with their lords' badges and the horses had gaudy trappers, while the French banners added more blue and red and yellow and green. Yet, despite the colours, the dull grey of steel and mail still predominated. In front of the horsemen were the first green and red jackets of the Genoese crossbowmen. There was only a handful of those bowmen, but more and more were streaming over the hill to join their comrades.
A cheer sounded from the English centre and Thomas leaned forward to see that archers were scrambling to their feet. His first thought was that the French must have attacked, but there were no enemy horsemen and no arrows flew.
'Up!' Will Skeat shouted suddenly. 'On your feet!'
'What is it?' Jake asked.
Thomas saw the horsemen then. Not Frenchmen, but a dozen Englishmen who rode along the face of the waiting battleline, carefully keeping their horses away from the archers' pits. Three of the horsemen were carrying banners, and one of those flags was a huge standard showing the lilies and the leopards framed in gold. 'It's the King,' a man said, and Skeat's archers began to cheer.
The King stopped and spoke with the men in the centre of the line, then trotted on towards the English right. His escort was mounted on big destriers, but the King rode a grey mare. He wore his bright surcoat, but had hung his crowned helmet from his saddle pommel and so was bare-headed. His royal standard, all red, gold and blue, led the flags, while behind it was the King's personal badge of the flaming sun rising, while the third, which provoked the loudest cheer, was an extravagantly long pennant which showed the fire-spewing dragon of Wessex. It was the flag of England, of the men who had fought the Conqueror, and the Conqueror's descendant now flew it to show that he was of England like the men who cheered him as he rode the grey horse.
He stopped close to Will Skeat's men and raised a white staff to silence the cheers. The archers had pulled off their helmets and some had gone on one knee. The King still looked young, and his hair and beard were as gold as the rising sun on his standard.
'I am grateful,' he began in a voice so hoarse that he paused and started again. 'I am grateful that you are here.' That started the cheering again and Thomas, who was cheering with the others, did not even reflect on what choice they had been given. The King raised the white staff for silence. 'The French, as you see, have decided to join us! Perhaps they are lonely.' It was not a great joke, but it prompted roars of laughter that turned to jeers for the enemy. The King smiled as he waited for the shouts to subside. 'We came here,' he then called, 'only to procure the rights and lands and privileges that are ours by the laws of man and of God. My cousin of France challenges us, and in so doing he defies God.' The men were silent now, listening carefully. The destriers of the King's escort were pawing the ground, but not a man moved. 'God will not endure Philip of France's impudence,' the King went on. 'He will punish France, and you,' he cast a hand to indicate the archers, 'will be His instrument. God is with you, and I promise you, I swear to you before God and on my own life, that I will not leave this field till the last man of my army has marched from here. We stay on this hill together and we fight here together and we shall win together for God, for St George and for England!'
The cheers began again and the King smiled and nodded, then turned as the Earl of Northampton strode from the line. The King leaned down in his saddle and listened to the Earl for a moment, then straightened and smiled again. 'Is there a Master Skeat here?'
Skeat immediately reddened, but did not confess his presence. The Earl was grinning, the King waited,
then a score of archers pointed at their leader. 'He's here!'
'Come here!' the King commanded sternly.
Will Skeat looked embarrassed as he threaded through the bowmen and approached the King's horse where he went on one knee. The King drew his ruby-hilted sword and touched it on Skeat's shoulder. 'We are told you are one of our best soldiers, so from henceforth you will be Sir William Skeat.'
The archers shouted even louder. Will Skeat, Sir William now, stayed on his knees as the King spurred on to give the same speech to the last men in the line and to those who manned the guns in the circle of farm carts. The Earl of Northampton, who had plainly been responsible for Skeat's knighthood, raised him up and led him back to his cheering men, and Skeat was still blushing as his archers clapped him on the back.
'Bloody nonsense,' he said to Thomas.
'You deserve it, Will,' Thomas said, then grinned, 'Sir William.'
'Just have to pay more bloody tax, won't I?' Skeat said, but he looked pleased anyway. Then he frowned as a drop of rain splashed on his bare forehead. 'Bowstrings!' he shouted.
Most of the men were still sheltering their strings, but a handful had to coil the cords as the rain began to fall more heavily. One of the Earl's men-at-arms came to the archers, shouting that the women were to go back beyond the crest. 'You heard him!' Will Skeat called. 'Women to the baggage!'
Some of the women wept, but Eleanor just clung to Thomas for a moment. 'Live,' she said simply, then walked away through the rain, passing the Prince of Wales who, with six other mounted men, was riding to his place among the men-at-arms behind Will Skeat's archers. The Prince had decided to fight on horseback so he could see over the heads of the dismounted men and, to mark his arrival, his banner which was bigger than any other on the right of the field was loosed to the heavy downpour.
Thomas could no longer see across the valley because wide curtains of heavy grey rain were sweeping from the north and obscuring the air. There was nothing to do but sit and wait while the leather backing of his mail became cold and clammy. He hunched miserably, staring into the greyness, knowing that no bow could draw properly till this downpour ended.
'What they should do,' said Father Hobbe, who sat beside Thomas, 'is charge now.'
'They couldn't find their way in this muck, father,' Thomas said. He saw the priest had a bow and an arrow bag, but no other battle equipment. 'You should get some mail,' he said, 'or at least a padded jacket.'
'I'm armoured by the faith, my son.'
'Where's your bowstrings?' Thomas asked, for the priest had neither helmet nor cap.
'I looped them round my… well, never mind. It has to be good for something other than pissing, eh? And it's dry down there.' Father Hobbe seemed indecently cheerful. 'I've been walking the lines, Tom, and looking for your lance. It's not here.'
'Hardly goddamn surprising,' Thomas said. 'I never thought it would be.'
Father Hobbe ignored the blasphemy. 'And I had a chat with Father Pryke. Do you know him?'
'No,' Thomas said curtly. The rain was pouring off the front of his helmet onto the broken bridge of his nose. 'How the hell would I know Father Pryke?'
Father Hobbe was not deterred by Thomas's surliness. 'He's confessor to the King and a great man. He'll be a bishop one day soon. I asked him about the Vexilles.' Father Hobbe paused, but Thomas said nothing. 'He remembers the family,' the priest went on. 'He says they had lands in Cheshire, but they supported the Mortimers at the beginning of the King's reign so they were outlawed. He said something else. They were always reckoned pious, but their bishop suspected they had strange ideas. A touch of gnosticism.'
'Cathars,' Thomas said.
'It seems likely, doesn't it?'
'And if it's a pious family,' Thomas said, 'then I probably don't belong. Isn't that good news?'
'You can't escape, Thomas,' Father Hobbe said softly. His usually wild hair was plastered close to his skull by the rain. 'You promised your father. You accepted the penance.'
Thomas shook his head angrily. 'There are a score of bastards here, father,' he indicated the archers crouching under the rain's lash, 'who've murdered more men than I have. Go and harrow their souls and leave mine alone.'
Father Hobbe shook his head. 'You've been chosen, Thomas, and I'm your conscience. It occurs to me, see, that if the Vexilles supported Mortimer then they can't love our king. If they'll be anywhere today, it'll be over there.' He nodded towards the valley's far side, which was still blotted out by the pelting rain.
'Then they'll live for another day, won't they?' Thomas said.
Father Hobbe frowned. 'You think we're going to lose?' he asked sternly. 'No!'
Thomas shivered. 'It must be getting late in the afternoon, father. If they don't attack now they'll wait till morning. That'll give them a whole day to slaughter us.'
'Ah, Thomas! How God loves you.'
Thomas said nothing to that, but he was thinking that all he wanted was to be an archer, to become Sir Thomas of Hookton as Will had just become Sir William. He was happy serving the King and did not need a heavenly lord to take him into weird battles against dark lords. 'Let me give you some advice, father,' he said.
'It's always welcome, Tom.'
'First bastard that drops, get his helmet and mail. Look after yourself.'
Father Hobbe clapped Thomas's back. 'God is on our side. You heard the King say as much.' He stood and went to talk with other men, and Thomas sat by himself and saw that the rain was lessening at last. He could see the far trees again, see the colours of the French banners and surcoats, and now he could see a mass of red and green crossbowmen at the other side of the valley. They were going nowhere, he reckoned, for a crossbow string was as susceptible to the damp as any other. 'It'll be tomorrow,' he called down to Jake. 'We'll do it all again tomorrow.'
'Let's hope the sun shines,' Jake said.
The wind brought the last drops of rain from the north. It was late. Thomas stood, stretched and stamped his feet. A day wasted, he thought, and a hungry night ahead.
And tomorrow his first real battle.
—«»—«»—«»—
An excited group of mounted men had gathered about the French King, who was still a half-mile from the hill where the largest part of his army had gathered. There were at least two thousand men-at-arms in the rearguard who were still marching, but those who had reached the valley hugely outnumbered the waiting English.
'Two to one, sire!' Charles, the Count of Alençon and the King's younger brother, said vehemently. Like the rest of the horsemen his surcoat was soaking and the dye in its badge had run into the white linen. His helmet was beaded with water. 'We must kill them now!' the Count insisted.
But Philip of Valois's instinct was to wait. It would be wise, he thought, to let his whole army gather, to make a proper reconnaissance and then attack next morning, but he was also aware that his companions, especially his brother, thought him cautious. They even believed him to be timid for he had avoided battle with the English before, and even to propose waiting a mere day might make them think he had no stomach for the highest business of kings. He still ventured the proposal, suggesting that the victory would be all the more complete if it was just delayed by one day.
'And if you wait,' Alençon said scathingly, 'Edward will slip away in the night and tomorrow we'll face an empty hill.'
'They're cold, wet, hungry and ready to be slaughtered,' the Duke of Lorraine insisted.
'And if they don't leave, sire,' the Count of Flanders warned, 'they'll have more time to dig trenches and holes.'
And the signs are good,' John of Hainault, a close companion of the King and the Lord of Beaumont, added.
'The signs?' the King asked.
John of Hainault gestured for a man in a black cloak to step forward. The man, who had a long white beard, bowed low. 'The sun, sire,' he said, 'is in conjunction with Mercury and opposite Saturn. Best of all, noble sire, Mars is in the house of Virgo. It spells victory, and could not
be more propitious.'
And how much gold, Philip wondered, had been paid to the astrologer to come up with that prophecy, yet he was also tempted by it. He thought it unwise to do anything without a horoscope and wondered where his own astrologer was. Probably still on the Abbeville road.
'Go now!' Alençon urged his brother.
Guy Vexille, the Count of Astarac, pushed his horse into the throng surrounding the King. He saw a green-and-red-jacketed crossbowman, evidently the commander of the Genoese, and spoke to him in Italian. 'Has the rain affected the strings?'
'Badly,' Carlo Grimaldi, the Genoese leader, admitted. Crossbow strings could not be unstrung like the cords of ordinary bows for the tension in the cords was too great and so the men had simply tried to shelter their weapons under their inadequate coats. 'We should wait till tomorrow,' Grimaldi insisted, 'we can't advance without pavises.'
'What's he saying?' Alençon demanded.
The Count of Astarac translated for His Majesty's benefit, and the King, pale and long-faced, frowned when he heard that the crossbowmen's long shields that protected them from the enemy's arrows while they reloaded their cumbersome weapons had still not arrived. 'How long will they be?' he asked plaintively, but no one knew. 'Why didn't they travel with the bowmen?' he demanded, but again no one had an answer. 'Who are you?' the King finally asked the Count.
'Astarac, sire,' Guy Vexille said.
'Ah.' It was plain the King had no idea who or what Astarac was, nor did he recognize Vexille's shield that bore the simple symbol of the cross, but Vexille's horse and armour were both expensive and so the King did not dispute the man's right to offer advice. 'And you say the bows won't draw?'
'Of course they'll draw!' the Count of Alençon man interrupted. 'The damned Genoese don't want to fight. Bastard Genoese.' He spat. 'The English bows will be just as wet,' he added.
'The crossbows will be weakened, sire,' Vexille explained carefully, ignoring the hostility of the King's younger brother. 'The bows will draw, but they won't have their full range or force.'
The Grail Quest Books 1-3: Harlequin, Vagabond, Heretic Page 34
