Hundred Years War: Fields Of Glory Part 32

Even as he had the thought, a bolt whirred past his ear like a blackbird rocketing away from danger. That sound brought him to his senses. He stopped and studied the battlefield. There were more crossbowmen in the roadway now, to block any attempt at rescue. The rest of the French were determinedly heading for the Earl's men.

He heard a cough, and when he glanced to his side, he saw Roger gazing at a bolt's fletchings embedded in his chest. He looked at Berenger and choked, and a great gush of blood came from his mouth, and then he retched and collapsed, writhing.

Berenger stared in shock. Roger had always seemed impervious to the darts and blades of the enemy. Another bolt flew past.

'Swyve a goat, these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are getting serious!' Clip said.

It was enough to bring Berenger to his senses.

'Archers! Archers! To me! To me! Nock!'

He set his quiver on the ground and put arrow to string.

'Aim for the hors.e.m.e.n of the French. Take them in the back if you may! We have to support the Earl and his men!'

He stared to either side. 'Archers: draw!'

A man three further along from him gave a strangled cry and fell back, a bolt jutting from his brow.

'Archers: loose!'

A flurry of arrows rose into the air and plunged down towards the French, and before they could strike, a second wave was heading after them. Berenger drew his bow a third time, and another ma.s.s of wood and steel was launched on its way.

The arrows did their work. French men-at-arms suddenly found that their steel protection was punctured, or badly dented, by the hideous, hard points of arrows from behind. Berenger saw a man hit in the head who rode, his arm held high with a sword gripped in his fist, away from the fight, and continue until lost from sight. Another was struck in the neck, near the spine, and seemed to fly into a frenzy, his gauntleted hands reaching around with desperation to try to pluck the barb from him. Two English knights hacked at him until he fell. A third was. .h.i.t by two arrows in the lower back, and fell forwards over his horse's neck until a man with an axe beheaded him with two blows.

'With me!' Berenger shouted. With three arrows in his hand and a fourth on his string, he ran towards the Genoese. A man stood to aim his crossbow, but three arrows launched at him made him flinch, and his bolt flew high overhead. At his side, a second man took aim, but an arrow struck him in the eye and he was thrown to the ground. Then the Genoese took flight.

Berenger stopped, trying to control his breathing, and took aim at a large man with a flowing red beard. His helmet was open-faced, and he fought like a berserker of old, his sword leaping and dancing in his hand as he tried to belabour Sir John and the Earl. Berenger's arrow sprang forth and struck him in the throat, and he fell back with the point of the arrow protuding inches from the back of his helmet.

Jack was beside him again now, muttering, 'They don't pay us enough, Frip, f.u.c.k 'em!'

'Stop your moaning, you old git,' Berenger managed through gritted teeth as he held the string back, the point of his clothyard arrow aiming at a French man-at-arms who was riding towards the archers. He took a low aim, and saw it strike the man's horse in the breast. It managed only three more steps before its heart burst, and the steed crumpled to the ground, forelegs folding to the knees, and the brute's chin striking the roadway. There was a crack like a tree-limb breaking as the neck snapped, and the rider was hurled from the saddle to land in the dirt. He rose, shaking his head, but Clip was already at him, and his dagger went into the man's eye. He fell, legs kicking, blood spraying and smothering Clip, who swore and quickly dashed it away.

Berenger could see the French were wilting away. The Genoese crossbowmen had taken to their heels and were disappearing beyond the village, but even as they went, Berenger's glee was dispelled. More men on horseback were cantering towards them: men-at-arms, with their metal gleaming blue-black and silver, pennants fluttering from their spears. And with their arrival, the Genoese took heart again. He saw them turn, crouching to span their weapons, and then loading and aiming while protected behind walls.

'Frip, we can't take this place,' Jack panted at his side.

'We can't leave the knights!' Berenger responded.

'Then we'll all die,' Clip shouted. For once there was no whining edge to his voice, only determination. 'Frip, we have to get out of this!'

Berenger stood torn, but before he could decide, Granda.r.s.e appeared at his side. He had a long, raking cut on his arm, and he stood breathing stertorously as he studied the men struggling in the road before him. The dust rose, enveloping the scene, and only the clanging, crashing and bellowings of rage and agony could be heard.

'Sod this,' he muttered. Then: 'Frip, get your men back. This we cannot win.'

They withdrew to a hamlet halfway back to the main army, where the men rested and sat to patch their wounds. Of the archers, a quarter had been injured, although only fifteen had died. A little while after the last of the archers had slumped to the ground, Berenger heard cantering horses and turned to see the remaining English men-at-arms riding towards them, a body of French knights in hot pursuit.

'Archers!' he shouted, and gathered together three vintaines. They waited until their men-at-arms were safe, and then released four flights of arrows. Seven men fell not to rise again, and three more were punctured, the arrows punching through their armour and when the French saw the archers standing at the ridge, they gave up on the chase, turning and riding away.

'I owe you and your men a debt of grat.i.tude,' the Earl said, eyeing the retreating French. His face and armour were bespattered with blood, but he appeared uninjured. 'They bested us, d.a.m.n their souls! They bested us well.'

'So we cannot take the bridge here?' Granda.r.s.e said.

'They have too many men, and reserves. It would drain our army to force a path. No, we shall find a better crossing-point. Pont-Remy is supposed to have a good bridge. We shall try that. Gather your men.'

'Aye, sir. Berenger? You've complained about your manpower. Take Roger's vintaine and mix it with yours.'

The town of Pont-Remy was less than two leagues away, and the archers wearily remounted and followed the Somme's banks.

Berenger found himself riding beside Granda.r.s.e.

'Well?' his centener asked. 'How are the men?'

'They'll cope.'

'Will you, Frip?'

'I'll be fine. You've known me long enough.'

'Aye. And you've known me, you daft b.u.g.g.e.r. Doesn't mean you won't see me start to complain soon. This whole campaign's gone to c.o.c.k.'

'We'll get through it.'

'Will we? I wish I had your faith.'

Berenger stared at him. It was the first time he had heard Granda.r.s.e make a negative comment, and it was crushing. He had tried to keep his spirits up, but if Granda.r.s.e himself considered their position hopeless, there was nothing more to say.

Approaching the town, they saw the forces ranged against them.

'Sweet Jesus!' Granda.r.s.e grunted. 'Did I not tell you, Frip? How in G.o.d's name can we pit ourselves against an enormous host like that, eh?'

There were two main forces, one flag neither recognised, while the second was familiar to both of them.

'John of Hainault! I'd like to get my hands round his throat, the back-sliding, dishonest, treacherous git,' Granda.r.s.e said with feeling.

Berenger couldn't disagree. John of Hainault had been the King's ally until recently, but there was no honour in the man's soul. He would go wherever he thought he would gain the most. And right now, that was with the French.

In the course of their march, more men-at-arms had joined the English, and now there were over a hundred knights and esquires riding with the archers. It was good to see so many with them, but viewing the men ranged against them, Berenger felt his belly contract. It was his own, personal premonition of disaster.

Sir John de Sully listened as the Earl discussed with his captains how best to force the French from their path. In the end, the Earl's view prevailed. The archers were placed in two triangular formations on either side of the road, and they were ordered to begin loosing their missiles as soon as the men-at-arms were ready.

Sitting in the saddle with his back resting against the cantle, Sir John eyed the enemy shrewdly. 'Easy, Aeton,' he said, patting the beast's neck. 'Not long now.'

There were so many of them! Too many. Men-at-arms of all ranks waited on horseback, while before them stood foot-soldiers armed with pikes, lances and bills. They would be able to defend themselves without trouble. There was a slightly weaker point in the line over to the right, he noticed, where the English might be able to charge through . . . but even as he thought this, more packed the s.p.a.ce.

Usually, he would aim to charge, force a way through, and cause havoc behind their lines. A few knights ranging widely behind an army could quickly destroy what confidence that force originally held. But today, to break through that rigid-looking line would be almost impossible.

He let his eyes move over the men at either side, wondering how their courage would hold.

It was a simple fact that Englishmen were better trained and tested in war. That did not mean that the French were not equally bold and courageous, only that the English could sometimes perform prodigious feats of arms against overwhelming odds. All had heard of the brilliant efforts of men like Sir Walter Manny and Sir Thomas Dagworth. No one could be in any doubt as to the worth of Englishmen in war, but that did not mean that they were invincible. The French possessed more knights, more men-at-arms, more foot-soldiers and more weapons than the English. And the English were tired. They had been marching for weeks already, and with few provisions over recent miles, while the French could rely on every town or city for resupply.

It was not a comforting thought.

There was a horn blast, taken up by many others. Sir John gripped his lance, staring up at the strong shaft, a.s.sessing its strength. If the wood was strong, with a straight grain, the weapon would do.

A second blast, and the first men began to move off down the hill. The shallow gradient would give them no great advantage, but every element that could support them must be used.

The Earl had picked his position with skill a sweeping plain leading to the French cavalry, with no woods or hedges in which to conceal crossbowmen or an ambush. With luck, they would have a clear ride to the French. There they could fight, and in an open battle, Sir John was content to think that an Englishman against three French were reasonable odds. The English had a hotter fire in the belly than their enemies.

'Forward!' the cries came, and his mount was already trotting. He held Aeton back. As ever, it was vital that all should ride as a single force, striking their targets in one ma.s.sive, shattering pack.

The enemy were moving too, men and horses jogging gently up to meet the English. A dusty mist rose from their hooves. The ground here was, for once, dry and unaffected by the marshland that soaked so much of this land. Sir John was glad of that. He detested marshland and bog. It was disturbing to riders and horses alike. A charger crossing a mire could stumble or fall very easily.

This was no time to worry about how the beasts would cope with the ground, he chided himself. His attention must be fixed entirely on the charge and making sure that his team worked well with the rest of the knights and esquires. He cast one quick, final glance round to make sure that Richard was on his station, a little behind and to Sir John's left, protecting his flank, while Simon was there a few yards behind, riding the second destrier in case Aeton was killed or injured in the initial press.

But that was all he had time for and then they were riding for the French.

Sir John could feel the great muscles coiling in Aeton's back and thighs, and the sense of power that exuded from the charger's body was thrilling. The air was in his face, and there was a ripple and crack from the flags and pennants as the men rode, and a metallic rasp as a coat of plates moved against a mail shirt. All the sounds of an army moving into battle mingled in his mind and were soon drowned out by the steady thundering of hooves beating at the ground in a threnody for the dead.

Aeton knew his position and his task. He lowered his head, shaking his mane, and increased his pace as the English began to charge. Sir John must merely maintain his seat and grip his lance. And then there was a ripple of light as the knights and esquires lowered their lance-points, and his too came down to point at a man hundreds of feet from him.

Sir John felt the old exultation, as though his entire being was thrilling with the glory of the moment.

But then a jolt hit him from his left. A man and horse had thundered into him. His lance was pushed from his target, and Aeton was slammed aside.

The charge was wrecked!

Berenger saw the disaster from his vantage point as he loosed his arrows.

A rank of Genoese archers riposted, and there was a rattle and crash as many English men-at-arms were felled. Horses reared and plunged, their riders clinging to them as the barbs of the quarrels stung. The Genoese were aiming for the brutes rather than the knights. Bring down their destriers, and the knights were helpless.

Sir John and his esquire were both at the fore as the English knights charged, and Berenger caught a glimpse of their lances dropping, ready to spit their enemies, but even as they did so, a man-at-arms behind them was. .h.i.t in the breast. The quarrel stood out like an obscene splinter, and he tried to pull at it. It must have been enormously painful.

As he struggled with the foul missile, the rider's horse drifted across the rest of the knights, crashed into Sir John's steed, distracting Richard and knocking both men into the soldiers beside them. At the crucial moment, just as the charge was developing, the ma.s.s of horses and men that should have slammed into the enemy as a coherent, solid unit, was broken into a series of small groups that eddied about the French line like ripples of water cast against rock. Their gallop was ineffective, and they were forced to cast aside their lances and resort to war-hammers, axes and swords, hacking and beating at the men in the line, trying desperately to break through.

Then Berenger saw an opportunity. He discarded his bow and pulled out his sword. 'To me! Archers! To me!' he roared. And with that, he began running to the men struggling in the roadway.

Sir John wheeled and thundered on again.

He glimpsed a man ahead a Frenchman in a garish red and green tunic, who was racing to meet him . . . and then the man was only yards away and Sir John felt an enormous punch at his right shoulder, and he was rocked back against the cantle. His spear was cracked along its length, and snapped, and he saw a brief burst of livid red as his spear embedded itself in the man's breast.

As the second wave of French riders appeared in front of him, he tugged at his sword, hacking down at a hand that appeared too near to his saddle, and then at a face; more men were before him, and he clapped spurs to Aeton. The great brute reared, hooves flailing, and Sir John saw a man's head crushed, while another took the full force of Aeton's weight on his chest. The charger dropped again, and Sir John felt Aeton's legs propel them forward into the press.

It was a grand mlee, the sort of battle a knight would dream of. Men cut at each other, with barely s.p.a.ce to wield their weapons. Some hewed without seeing more than a momentary glimpse of an enemy, and hoped their blows would not go astray. Others were heedless, striking friends and foe alike, driven by an insane rage against any who could dare stand against them. Some were petrified with horror and fear, bes.h.i.tten, squealing within their visored helmets, while others sang with the pure joy of it. This was what men were born for: to fight and die.

Sir John had seen enough battles. He neither sang nor screamed. His sole purpose was to win through this battle and see the next. He rode from one place to another, using Aeton's ma.s.s to blunder men aside, driving his enemies before him with his sword, or his war-hammer, if they came up on his left side.

Two ringing buffets. .h.i.t his helmet, and he felt the metal slam against the thick, padded war-coif he wore beneath. The first blow nearly forced him from his saddle, the second was enough to knock his helmet crooked, but he ducked away and pushed it up again. When he turned, he saw that a Frenchman had been thrown from his horse by Richard. His esquire held up a fist in salute, before the two hurried towards a fresh enemy.

There was a knight beside him now, a man whom Sir John vaguely remembered his arms were more easily brought to mind than his face who suddenly erupted with blood. A crossbow bolt had slammed between the bars of his visor, and he fell to the ground, his armour clattering. His horse continued on, eyes wild and rolling, careless of his danger. The knight in front of Sir John Sir Lawrence of Evesham, he recalled reeled in his saddle, arms outstretched like a man crucified. An esquire rode past him on a charger, screaming as the blood pumped from a great wound in his neck, showering all in his path.

The obscene fantasy continued. A man stood on the ground before him, shaking his arm with futile horror. The forearm and hand were missing, and with every flail, blood was spattered onto the men about him. Sir John shoved his sword at a face, but even as he felt his blade clash uselessly on the side of the fellow's helmet, missing the flesh completely, he felt the resounding crash as a war-hammer cracked against the back of his own helmet. He almost fell from Aeton, but had just enough will to keep his place in the saddle; and then Aeton kicked, and when he glanced, Sir John saw that the great destrier's hooves had caught a man's thigh and the flank of his horse, crushing them. The French man-at-arms was slumped from shock and agony, and Sir John could see the greyish-white bone protruding from his hosen.

With his head pounding, Sir John roared his defiance, and spurred Aeton into the press once more.

The Earl and his bodyguard had found a weak point and were exploiting it. Berenger made straight for them, the breath burning his throat. His lungs were on fire, and his legs were wooden and clumsy from marching and lack of food. Before he was halfway there, his foot skidded on a patch of loose pebbles, and he nearly fell, jarring his ankle. After that, he had to move more slowly as a stabbing pain rose into his calf.

It was the delay that saved his life. When he looked again at the front line, disaster had struck.

The archers had streamed off ahead of him, and he was hobbling after them, when he saw them race back towards him. Some had their bows with them still, and these few halted and began to fire. Others threw theirs aside and simply fled.

The French had unleashed a wave of their own cavalry. Most thundered at the English men-at-arms, but a large number were making straight for the despised archers, and as he stared, dumbstruck, he saw men flung up into the air, screaming, their arms and legs moving like strange, inhuman creatures.

He saw one lad, the tip of a lance sprouting from his cotte; he beat at it with his hands like a maid slapping away a wasp. The knight who had impaled him flicked his wrist to free his weapon, and the boy was thrown into the crowd like a piece of carrion.

Berenger saw no more. Here in the open, the men were unprotected, and he bitterly regretted his urge to support the Earl and Sir John. Turning, he tried to make his way back to his bow, but he was stumbling now, and knew he would fail. His ankle was too painful, and the French destriers were gaining too quickly.

'Here!'

It was Jack. Before Berenger could argue, the st.u.r.dy archer grabbed his sword arm and pulled it about his own neck. His other arm went around Berenger's waist, and he half-supported, half-carried the vintener back up the hill. As they were stumbling on, the sound of drumming hooves came to them.

A ditch gaped at the side of the roadway. Jack dived into it, pulling Berenger with him. The two scurried farther along the ditch, and the men-at-arms at their heels missed them, cantering on, laughing and jeering as they went, killing only the easier targets in the road before them.

The two men were up and hurrying again as soon as the French had pa.s.sed. Berenger saw the place where they had left the cart and hobbled over to it, grabbing a fresh bow stave and looping a new string to it. With a strung bow, he felt more confident.

Jack had his own bow in his hands, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed up a sheaf of arrows as Berenger gazed about them.

'Frip!' Jack shouted, pointing.

The French had turned and spotted them, and were already cantering back towards them. Berenger counted some two and twenty, and although three were knights, the others were men-at-arms in lighter armour. 'Leave the knights. Kill the others,' he grated, then nocked and drew. He loosed, and saw with satisfaction the arrow strike a man squarely in the breast. The man slumped, but the rest still came on. Other archers had joined the two of them now, and there were five, then six arrows striking at a time. A pair of horses on the right fell, while a third went berserk, whirling, trying to escape a barbed arrow embedded in its breast, and then the remaining men were almost upon them.

At the last moment, Berenger managed to hit the man nearest him. The arrow flew straight and true, piercing the armour at his right shoulder, and with a screech of pain, the man dropped his lance. He aimed his mount at Berenger, but even as he did so, the ground moved beneath Berenger's feet. He thought there was a landslide or some fresh catastrophe, for it felt as though the earth itself was rejecting the men squabbling on its soil. And then a great roar came from behind him, and he felt the wash as destriers galloped past.

It was the remainder of the English. They had fought their way free from the encircling French forces, and while they were much depleted, they were full of a killing rage. Returning to the archers, they saw the small number of French knights and sprang at them like wolves on a herd of deer.

Berenger saw Sir John ride straight at a man-at-arms, his sword out. He pa.s.sed by the French lance-tip with negligent disdain and shoved his sword-point in under the man's chin. There was a moment when it looked as though the sword must be jerked from his grasp, but then he wrenched it free as he pa.s.sed his opponent, and a gout of blood erupted from the man's throat. The latter's lance fell from his hands as he lifted them to his wound as though to stem the flow. He rode on, past Berenger, only to fall a few yards further on.

The rest of the French fought on doggedly, and the English were too exhausted to keep them at bay. Before long, the adversaries were parted and the French rode off with many a cat-call and jeer.

'You know what? I don't think we'll cross here after all,' Jack said.

23 August The two vintaines were not mingled yet. Roger's men obeyed their orders, but the two groups of men still sat huddled quietly about their own fires.

No one was of a mood to joke or bicker for once, which was the proof, had Berenger needed it, that their morale was low. It was rare enough to see an archer quiet at evening time, but now, as they all began to stir in the early dawn light, he was aware of a profound dismay amongst them.

It was not fear: rather, it was the realisation that their chances of escaping the French net were growing ever more remote. While none of them admitted to being scared, that was not to say that they didn't appreciate the gravity of their position. With the main French army approaching, they must escape over the Somme or die. And all attempts had failed. Apart from the two in which Berenger and his men had partic.i.p.ated, there had been two more, one at Longpre and another at Fontaine; there too, the English army had run into larger forces and been pushed back. At each confrontation the English had suffered considerable losses, and after the last attempt, the order had gone out to cease trying. The army could not afford to lose any more men.

'We've no chance,' Clip said. He was hunched down in front of the fire as usual, holding his hands to the flames and staring morosely into the embers. 'I thought when we came to the King's own territories, the people would welcome us. They all said the folks here were fond of him, didn't they? And what do we get? Grateful thanks from the people, offers of food, and their prettiest daughters? Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely. No instead we get a lance up our a.r.s.e.'