Hundred Years War: Fields Of Glory Part 12

'Why do you think that?' Ed asked.

'It's newer, boy. Only the rich can afford new houses.' He pulled a face. 'It's a natural island, isn't it? The rivers form a moat around that part of the city. Be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d to get to it, if not by the bridge.'

'So we have to take the old town first and cross the river.'

'That's about it,' Granda.r.s.e said. 'One good thing: we can avoid that d.a.m.ned castle on our way. They say it was built by William the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and he built the abbeys in shame for what he did to the English. One for monks, one for nuns, just to pray for his stinking soul, the black-hearted git.'

'Yeah,' Clip said sarcastically. 'We can avoid the castle. That'll make life so much easier. So all we have to do is attack sheer walls and break into the town, kill everyone and get to the new town job done. Yeah. Ye'll all get slaughtered, you do understand that, don't ye?'

Granda.r.s.e and Geoff said simultaneously, 'Shut up, Clip.'

'Don't come whining to me when you're dead,' he said, unruffled. 'I've warned ye.'

It was past noon before they had been bullied and shoved into battle formation, and now, with horns of archers on either flank, and the ma.s.s of infantry and knights in heavy battles in the middle, they began their slow march towards the town.

'Ed, bring the arrow cart,' Clip said. His bow was strung, and he walked along with a dozen shafts in his belt.

The others were already moving ahead as Ed grabbed the cart's handles. He knew that once the archers began to loose their weapons, he would be forced to run back and forth; he was already growing used to his role as Donkey for the vintaine.

'They're breaking!' Granda.r.s.e roared suddenly. 'Look at the cowardly b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!'

Ed peered around him, and sure enough, some of the men at the rear of the French lines were running back to the gates. First one or two, then a group of ten or more, and then an entire battle on the right took up their weapons and fled.

'You've scared 'em already!' Granda.r.s.e bellowed, and a ripple of laughter spread along his centaine.

'Sod this!' Matt cried. 'We can get into the city right now, if we're fast. Look at them run!'

Berenger cast a quick look about at the men, swinging his arm to release the tension in his sore shoulder. 'Hold!' he ordered. 'There could be an ambush. Keep with the army.'

Geoff put his hand on Ed's shoulder. 'You stay back, boy,' he muttered, and then said louder, 'Frip, Matt's right. If we hurry, we can overtake the last b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. A few of us to attack the gate, while our archers hold back the defence, and we could take the city. It's worth taking a chance, surely?'

Berenger chewed his lower lip, and looked over at Roger from the second vintaine, who was making a similar calculation. He came to a decision, and grinned.

'Geoff, Clip, Jon you come with me to the gates with Roger's men. The rest of you, hold back and use your bows. Got it? Come on!'

Geoff ran with his arms pumping up and down. Bolts hissed nearby, one pa.s.sing so close he heard it buzzing through the air like an angry wasp, but then he was at the gate.

He had a long knife and his sword in his hands, and as he reached the first of the French defenders, he stabbed the man through his jerkin and slashed at his throat. There was a cry, and he was past, staring only at the gates before him.

Nothing else mattered to him at that moment. His entire being was fixed upon those gates. Thoughts of his wife, his children, everything else . . . were gone. There was only him, and the men running with him, although whether they were English or French, he didn't care. All he cared about was the timbers and the men who stood over them. There were plenty of townspeople there, ready to slam the gates shut and shove the baulks of timber across in their slots to lock them. More men appeared on his right. One was panting and white-faced with fear, and Geoff realised this was no ally. The man made a half-hearted lunge with his sword, which Geoff knocked aside with ease, and then they were at the gate, and Geoff swung. He caught the man's throat, just a little nick, but the fellow squealed like a pig and dropped his sword. Geoff swung again, back-handed, and the man's throat was opened wide with a bubble of blood.

Geoff felt the exultation of battle flood his soul. A thrilling in the heart, a stark clarity in his sight and in his thoughts, a perfection of existence that knew no limits.

The gates began to close, and he thrust a shoulder at the nearest one. 'Here! Quick! Give me a hand!' he shouted at the top of his voice, and felt the timbers shake as three more men thudded into it. 'Archers! Loose!'

The gap between the two gates was shrinking, but with the sudden flight of arrows, someone must have panicked, for the gates moved a little. Then they stopped and, to the sound of bellowed commands from the other side, the gates inched shut by degrees.

But more and more Englishmen were arriving. Geoff felt a man slam into his back, and could hear the grunts of the French who tried to hold the gates. 'With me!' he roared, and stamped a foot in time with his thrusts. 'Now! One, two: NOW! One, two: NOW!'

Almost imperceptibly the great timber gates began to creak and jerk back in time with his shout and the stamping, shoving ma.s.s of men at his side and behind him. There was a gap of inches, but now it grew to a foot, then two, and suddenly there was s.p.a.ce for a man to enter.

Berenger was at his side, heaving at the gates with all his might. 'Archers! Aim through the gates!'

There was a flurry of feathers, a scream cut short, and the gates moved wider. Geoff could see into the city now, and he took a deep breath and gave a bellow with the effort as he set both fists, still clutching his weapons, on the gates and shoved for all he was worth. There was a distinct movement, and he heard Berenger shriek something as the vintener sprang through the gap.

'We're in!' Geoff screamed, and followed.

With the first panicky orders and the rush of men to the gates, Beatrice felt the fear return, but no longer was she smothered by it as if choking beneath a blanket of horror. She had been attacked by priest, felon and friend, and she had won. She knew that there was no one she could trust, so the a.s.sault of a foreign army added little to her sense of aloneness and separation. She was cursed, and she would remain so.

Alain she had discarded by the side of the road, kicking his body into bushes. He had still been alive, s...o...b..ring and drooling like a dying hound, begging and weeping weakly as she set her face to the city, thinking that here she would at last be safe, but even as she approached the gates she saw the feverish preparations. They feared the English. Decades of peace had left the citizens complacent and now they worked to make good the ravages of time.

Men scurried like slaves to repair broken walls, with hoists pulling up new stone. Carpenters worked on the old gates, while townspeople gathered wood to build palisades or dug new ditches outside the walls to strengthen their defences.

At the gates, the guards tried to refuse her entry.

'Please, I must come in,' she said to the porter at the gate, an hara.s.sed young man with a helmet that was too large for him.

'We don't want anyone else in here, no extra mouths to feed. You carry on, go east. You'll be safer there than here,' he said, his pale eyes staring out at the land all about.

She followed his gaze and saw the smoke again. So many fires! There was a curtain of smoke, and when it was drawn, they would see the English. It was enough to send a shiver of fear through her. 'I have no man,' she pleaded.

'It makes no difference. You must go but be quick. You've heard what these English devils do to women? It's horrible,' the man said.

'Wait, please, sir,' she begged.

But only when she brought out the old woman's purse did he finally offer her s.p.a.ce on the floor in his own home.

That was two days ago now. This morning the English had arrived, and the dread of what was to come settled over the city as tight as a winding sheet. Men and women huddled together for comfort, but she walked alone. This was divine vengeance, brought down upon her countrymen by a just G.o.d. He was punishing the people who conspired to see her father slain, who sought to rape and rob her. They deserved their fate.

The Count of Eu and the Lord of Tancarville had brought men to supplement the town's guard, and a force of Genoese crossbowmen were already lined up on the walls staring bleakly over the marshy lands before the town. Men-at-arms waited at street corners, looking up at the walls, wondering when the clash would come, and in their eyes she saw the fear of death.

She couldn't bear the wait, knowing that soon the English would arrive and the slaughter would begin. This delay, this antic.i.p.ation, was oppressive. She longed for it to end. In the attack she knew she must die, but she welcomed the peace that would come after death.

There was a shout from above: three men in armour were bellowing down to the men at the road. A sense of certainty overwhelmed her: this was the end of the city. She turned and began to walk towards the bridge to the sle St-Jean, the island behind the walled town, past townsfolk filled with panic. The walls wouldn't hold the English. They were too fragile.

All knew it. They saw the mustered English: a vast number of men, a wave of blood and bone that would engulf Caen, drowning all within.

The Count's men-at-arms fell back, withdrawing from the walls and gates, and the townspeople were already hurrying along towards the Porte St-Pierre, the last gate before the bridge over the River Odon and the sle St-Jean.

At first it was an orderly retreat, then it became an urgent mob. Finally, as the men at the north gate began to call for help and the first English arrows lanced down on the poorly protected soldiers on the walls, it became a frantic stampede. A woman fell, a babe in her arms, and was trampled by men clad in heavy mail, who ignored her screams for help in their maddened race to get to the island and safety.

Beatrice watched the men pounding past and she felt the certainty a.s.sail her like a leaden maul: that way led to death.

A door was open. She entered a little house. There was a chamber over the fireplace, behind the chimney. She climbed into it, and concealed herself behind the flue. Shivering, she looked about her, drew her knees to her chin, and waited.

After a little while, tears began to fall. Only later did she realise she was mourning the imminent loss of her life.

Berenger saw a bearded face as he hurtled through the gap, and slashed at it. His sword carved a red gash along the man's eye and cheek, and he fell away, but Berenger was already turning to stab at the men heaving the gate closed. There were so many, he couldn't kill them all. He felt a shove, and realised Geoff was at his side. The two hacked and cut and, unable to defend themselves while holding the gate, the French fell away. The timbers slammed back against the wall of the gatehouse. Caught between wall and gate, a man gave a short cry as he was crushed, but Clip slipped a knife into his breast and he was silent.

Berenger and Geoff ran along the street behind the men from the gate. There was a horrible whistling in the air, and both ducked, but the men behind were too slow, and the quarrels found their marks. Berenger ran forward, leading fifteen. Roger was at the far side of the street, and more archers were pouring into the city through the same gate. A cry, and Berenger turned to see one of them clutching at a bolt stuck in his throat, the point protruding from his spine. He fell, feet kicking in his death-throes.

A sickening crunch, and a man near Berenger disappeared as a rock crushed him. More bolts flew, and then he saw a great ma.s.s of French troops holding a barricade. Even as Berenger rallied the men to move forward, another flight of bolts struck the front rank. They fell, and he had to step over the squirming, shrieking ma.s.s of their bodies to get to the enemy.

'For the King! For England!' he bellowed, and then he was trying to force his way forward.

But in the narrow streets, it was impossible to move. And as rocks and heavy bricks were hurled upon them from above, Berenger realised that this was a trap he could not escape.

Sir John de Sully was with the Earl of Warwick when the messenger rode up from the King.

'The King asks that you pull those archers from the gates, my Lord,' he gasped. 'He fears to lose too many. Can you urge them to retreat?'

Warwick was already bowing to the Prince. 'By your leave?'

'Yes, go and hurry,' Edward of Woodstock said.

'Sir John, with me,' Warwick snapped, and the two hurried to their horses. They mounted and gathered their esquires and rode at a gallop down to the gate of the city, where they pushed their way inside.

It was mayhem. A thick crush of men, and Sir John wielded his sword as spears were thrust at him and Aeton, but in the press, it was impossible to aim accurately and the a.s.saults failed.

He bellowed at the top of his voice for the men to pull back, but it was impossible to make those at the front of the heaving ma.s.s of slashing, hacking men hear him. He pressed forward with the men-at-arms, but in so doing, they were all soon engulfed by the battle. Barricades had been erected, and now the French were standing and making a furious defence at them. From his saddle, Sir John could see the southern gate which led to the bridge and gave entry to the suburbs.

Swords rose and fell, stabbing, parrying and cutting at an enemy that seemed to grow by the minute. A lance snagged at his coat of plates, and he cut at it, uninjured. At every moment, more Frenchmen were arriving and when some fell, more took their places. Although he saw Genoese crossbowmen, they were wielding their weapons as hammers. He hoped that they were out of bolts.

It was just as the Earl of Warwick had the horns blow for retreat that Sir John saw six English archers hurrying along the edge of the buildings. They held torches, and flung them into the timbers and carts blocking the road. One bounced off, but the others began to ignite the barricades. A number of the French immediately set to throwing water on the flames, but as they ran to the river with buckets, they weakened the defence.

There was an unearthly scream, and as he peered over the heads of the men in the mlee, Sir John saw a Frenchman leap from the top of one of the fired buildings. He fell, still shrieking, and landed on three English soldiers. The French gave a roar of defiance, but even as they did so, a small contingent of archers outflanked the barricades. Arrows fell in among them, and with the extra Englishmen rushing to join the fray, the balance tipped.

His orders were to withdraw the archers, but Sir John saw the opportunity and seized it. He leaped from Aeton and rushed the barricades, sword in hand. With a cry of 'For England, for Saint Boniface!' he sprang over the collapsing defences and began to attack the men behind. The Earl of Warwick was at his side, and the two were joined by more archers, pushing the French back through the streets.

That was when Sir John saw before him the looming inner face of the wall and the gatehouse.

'To the bridge!' he roared, and heard the cry taken up on all sides.

'To the bridge!'

Sir John fought with a cold deliberation. There was little enough s.p.a.ce in the narrow streets: a man must block each blow aimed at him, while shoving and forcing the defenders back.

Frenchmen tripped and fell, to be stabbed where they lay; men had their weapons fall from their hands as the blows of their a.s.sailants beat upon their heads, their arms, their shoulders. The men fought in a mixture of human excrement and urine, blood and offal, all mingling with the filth of the roadway to make a slippery, foul mud.

Sir John glanced about him and saw that the Earl was heavily pressed, but even as he sought to run to his aid, Sir Richard Talbot rushed to help. The Earl was soon relieved, and the French forced back by the fury of Talbot's attack. In an instant more men followed him, and the enemy soldiers threatening Sir John were encircled. They fought on until the last man was cut down. None asked for quarter.

They were at the bridge! Sir John hadn't expected to reach it so quickly, but as he ran after Talbot, he realised that they were running beneath the arch of the gatehouse. There was a little door, on which men were pounding with sword pommels and axes. French n.o.blemen had rushed inside at the last moment, and the archers knew the value of a n.o.bleman's ransom.

Sir John didn't care. Standing beyond the gates, he saw a man's face, one of those from the vintaine, and then he saw Berenger too, wielding his sword with economy and accuracy.

The French on the bridge were fighting with the determination borne of despair. None wanted to give up: they would fight to the very last man.

Then he saw Welshmen pouring into the roadway behind the French. They were rushing along the bridge, and the French didn't see their danger until it was too late and they were hemmed in. Some tried to surrender, but were cut to pieces where they stood. The others fought on with grim resolve. They knew that there would be no prisoners taken today.

Berenger had fought all the way here, with Geoff roaring and slashing beside him, while Clip seemed to be possessed by a frenzy, spinning and striking like a berserker. Will the Wisp was to his right, wielding his sword and dagger with lunatic disregard for his own safety.

The French were demoralised. They had expected to keep the English from their city. Their enemy's sudden advance had shocked the citizens. Driven back, they fell over themselves to get to the South Gate, and once there, their mistake was clear. They were attempting to hold the gates closed with timbers and the strength of their men, when the Welsh fell upon their rear.

Sodden from wading across the river, the Welsh fought with all their hearts, and the French defenders died not knowing which way to turn on the bridge's tight-packed street.

Amidst the French fleeing or dying on the road before him, Berenger moved forward. With Geoff on one side, and Clip, Will and Jon close behind, he made his way across the bridge and into the streets beyond.

Houses rose high overhead, some with jetties almost touching. There were shops and stalls here, and the English must fight whilst avoiding the dead and dying and the loose stones that lay about.

The road ahead was blocked by a rampart of carts, boxes, barrels and anything else that could be collected. This barrier had been thrown together in panic as the English approached, and here the fighting was brutal: a hand-to-hand combat that moved back and forth as men clung to each other, stabbing at any exposed body part, hacking with swords, knives and daggers. The injured must remain standing, for the crush was so tight that those who fell were soon trampled to death.

Berenger grappled with a heavy-set warrior wielding an axe, and when the man fell, Berenger felt himself tumble forward also, in a welter of other men. The French barrier had collapsed, and their defence with it. As soon as he was up again, Berenger bellowed his rallying cry.

In only a short time they were in the island town. The defenders melted away, and Berenger found himself panting in a road full of bodies. There was a moment's calm as he bent, resting his fists on his thighs, gazing about him.

His vintaine was all around him, while the fighting ahead mainly involved Welshmen throwing themselves into the fray, and fighting fearlessly. Occasionally a whistle and hiss would betray a pa.s.sing crossbow quarrel, some of which found their mark in hapless victims further along the roadway.

A stone was thrown from a house, crushing a man's head, and a roar of defiance went up from the French. As he watched, Berenger saw a group of seven Genoese rise, all with spanned crossbows. They fired a volley into the Welsh, and so close were they that almost all their missiles pa.s.sed through their targets and injured more men behind.

''Ware the stone!' Berenger heard, and Will shoved him in the back. He stumbled, only just avoiding a large rock which crashed into the ground where he had been standing. Looking up, he saw two Frenchmen with a steel bar at the topmost level of the house, on the parapet of the wall, levering away the stones to send them tumbling onto the English below. A cold dread entered his bowels.

'Archers! Aloft!' he commanded.

Clip was quickest, and his first arrow took the nearer man under his chin. The fellow's head snapped up, and he danced on the dangerous wall for a moment, then dropped down. Before his body hit the ground, the second man was pierced by three more arrows, and he disappeared.

'Will: get more arrows. Send the Donkey,' Berenger said tersely, and Will was gone, haring back through the streets as Berenger ducked into a doorway.

There was a regular clatter of rocks and stones now, and when Berenger peered from his hiding place, he saw a Welsh spearman hit by a rock. It crushed his head like a ripe cherry, shearing away arm and shoulder. A second caught a man at his hip, and he fell, roaring with pain and disbelief. More crossbow bolts came flying down the street at belly-height, and Berenger saw two men thrown to the ground.

Will was not gone for long. He rushed to Berenger's side and ducked in, another quarrel missing him by mere inches.

'Donkey's fetching them,' he gasped.

'Good. We need to clear these b.a.s.t.a.r.d Genoese dogs,' Berenger snarled.

Will nodded, but he couldn't shoot from here without exposing himself. As another bolt hissed past, he took a deep breath and threw himself over to the other side of the road, slamming into a doorway. From there he steadied his bow, an arrow nocked ready. There was a zip as a bolt hurtled past Berenger's face and struck the doorframe.

For an instant, his heart stopped. Then he yelled, 'Will someone please get that b.a.s.t.a.r.d?'

There was a flurry of arrows, and he heard screams. Peering from his doorway he saw two Genoese squirming in agony on the ground, while another lay dead beside them. Shouting, Berenger leaped from his cover and pelted along the road. At a flash of movement, he ducked behind some barrels. He saw Clip and Will darting from the road as a flight of bolts hissed by. One man fell back against the men behind him, a bolt impaling him through his mail shirt. He fell to his rump, mouth moving uselessly as he stared at the bolt, before his eyes rolled up and he died.

'Heads down!' Berenger bawled at the top of his voice, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. 'Crossbows up there!'

Will was in a doorway and already had his bow ready. With his back to the wall, he bent his bow, peering for a target. At a movement, he loosed, and Berenger turned to see it fly, a flat trajectory, and strike a man in the skull at the barricade. He went down with the arrow embedded, the fletchings projecting like a decorated splinter.

Behind Will, behind a pillar, Clip was grinning evilly as he peered down the length of another arrow. A man moved, Clip loosed his arrow, and the man fell with a shrill shriek, the cloth-yard in the small of his back. Then the Genoese bowmen stood again. Berenger ducked back into the doorway That was when he saw Ed running forward, his arms filled with sheaves of arrows.

'No, Donkey, stop!' he shouted, rising.