Hundred Years War: Fields Of Glory Part 34

Hugh shook his head. 'Not a good idea. Besides, the tide will go out with the dawn. The way would be difficult.'

'Is it guarded?' the Earl demanded.

'Yes. But so is everywhere else. At least at this ford the defence is not so strong.'

'How do you know?' Sir John said.

'I pa.s.sed it tonight. There were maybe five hundred French guarding it, no more.'

'Five hundred?' Sir John repeated. 'Sweet Jesu! If they know their business, with that sort of force they could hold us for hours while we tried to storm the river. And then their army could fall on our rear.'

'What do you think, my Lord Warwick?' the Prince asked once more.

'I still believe it is worth testing this out. Your father must question him. Let us see what he thinks.'

'An excellent idea. Take him to my father,' the Prince said to Berenger and Geoff. 'And meantime, have the vanguard prepare to leave. If this man tells the truth, he may become the richest fisherman on the coast!'

24 August Berenger was back with the vintaine shortly afterwards. When he found the men, they were all were chewing the dried, hard fish. It needed a day's soaking in water to make it softer, and the salt in it was enough to make a man want to drink for an hour, but for all that, it was food, and none of the men would turn their noses up at it. Berenger himself took a piece with grat.i.tude.

The army was ready to move, and his vintaine was detailed to go with the Prince's men as they followed the directions of Hugh the Yorkshireman.

He took them northwards through the marshes, where the carts and wagons became bogged down, and the men grew adept at liberating their wagons. It was long after midnight when at last Berenger saw the black ribbon of the water before them.

Already there were shouts from the opposite bank as they approached. With the noise of their pa.s.sage, it was no surprise that the French had been alerted, and the English troops stood with their weapons in their fists, eyeing the farther sh.o.r.e with misgivings. Crossing a river this broad while an enemy held the opposite bank and could keep up a steady fire was not a pleasant prospect.

'He said five hundred,' Jack grumbled to Clip. 'If there's only five hundred, I'm a f.u.c.king Yorkshireman too.'

Berenger grinned as he stared through the blackness. All he could see was the sparkle and flicker of hundreds of little fires.

'There're enough there for a hundred vintaines,' Jack went on. 'Maybe even more.'

Berenger grunted agreement. Christ's pain! This would prove a dark and b.l.o.o.d.y crossing if he was right.

'Did Hugh mean to trap us here, do you think, Frip?' Jack said in a low voice.

'No. But if we are trapped, what of it? We were trapped before, and the army is hot on our heels, so we're no worse off than before. We still have to cross that river.'

'Yes.' Jack was silent for a while, staring out over the turbulent waters. Then he said: 'If by fording here, we only win a few more days so what? We may die trying but we'll die here anyway if we don't. What the devil! I'm for it!'

Berenger felt a burst of hope flare in his heart. And then, he heard Clip's monotone.

'Aye, well, you know you'll all get killed?'

Berenger could have hugged him. The atmosphere lightened as though Clip's whining voice held a special magic all of its own.

They pa.s.sed a miserable night at the side of the river, feeling their feet sinking into the cold, muddy soil. Berenger tried to sit down, but in moments his backside was sodden, and rather than sit there, he walked about to keep warm. His bad ankle seemed to have seized at first, and he limped painfully, but it grew less troublesome. For some reason the night had grown chillier, and all the men were shivering badly before the sun rose.

It was their good fortune that the tide was at its lowest in the morning. As soon as the light was clear enough, Berenger saw French warriors form into three lines. It was plain that this small section was where the ford stood. And here the success or failure of the English army would be decided.

To the clamour of drums and horns, a hundred English archers were ordered forward. Walking with their bows over their heads to keep their strings dry, the men stepped into the river, full quivers on their backs. One humorous fellow complained it was so cold that his cods had shrunk to acorns, but for the most part they waded silently, until the waters were above their thighs.

Behind them on foot came a hundred heavily armed fighters under Sir Reginald de Cobham and the Earl of Northampton and, as the fighters pa.s.sed through the screen of archers, the bowmen began to loose their arrows. First one, then three, then more Frenchmen were struck as the arrows fell among them. Each bowman was firing as swiftly as only English archers could, and their bows were thrumming so loudly they almost drowned the shrieks and cries of the injured Frenchmen.

The Earl and Sir Reginald reached the other side unscathed and led their men up the bank, some floundering in the mud while others clambered on, only to be killed within yards of the sh.o.r.e by French crossbowmen. However, the Earl and the knight managed to reach the French, and a sharp fight began.

Meanwhile, more men were wading and splashing across the water. While the Earl and his fighters kept the French busy, the newcomers reinforced the bridgehead and began to push the French back.

There were over three thousand French fighters there to greet the English. Berenger could see them clearly from his vantage point on top of the archers' cart, but as a French fighter fell, there were no reserves. In comparison, the hundred English were soon two hundred, then three, and more and more were floundering through the water all the time. It was a fierce, bitter fight but within an hour of the first men reaching the French bank, it was over. The last of the French were racing away towards Abbeville, while more English crossed and widened their bridgehead, and at last the wagons and carts could be sent to join them.

Berenger watched with frank astonishment. 'How did we do that?' he wondered.

'There's only one explanation,' Jack said. He snorted. 'We were a b.l.o.o.d.y sight more desperate than them.'

And so they were. Later, as Berenger stood on the north bank of the Somme and stared about him, he saw the last of the English forces cross the river, and then, a scant mile away to the south, he spotted a pennant. Beckoning Clip to him, he demanded, 'What is it? What can you see?'

'The French,' Clip droned. 'We're all going to get slaughtered now. It's the whole f.u.c.king French army, Frip.'

Berenger frowned at him. 'Are you serious? You're scared of them?'

Clip gawped at him. 'Aren't you?'

Berenger looked down at the river. It was already much deeper. 'The tide's in, Clip. No one's going to cross that today! We've been saved.'

'Are you sure?'

Berenger nodded, and then he began to laugh.

'You know what, Clip?' he chuckled. 'I reckon we really are going to win. I think we really do have G.o.d on our side.'

'G.o.d? Nah, it was Wisp!'

25 August It was the day after their crossing, and Berenger stood with the rest of the vintaine, watching the French army a.s.semble on the opposite bank.

'We've been on duty all night, Frip. Can't they find someone else to take over?' Clip whined. 'I need my sleep, me.'

'Shut up.'

'He's right,' Geoff said. Berenger hadn't expected him to support Clip, and looked at him with curiosity. 'Frip, they ought to have someone replace us by now. Look, most of the army's resting back there, isn't it? But we still get the b.u.m jobs.'

They had cause for complaint. Since crossing, the vintaine had been told to remain on guard. But not alone. All along the bank, English lines stood waiting for the French to cross. Everyone was convinced that they would. Only the turn of the tide had prevented their immediate pa.s.sage.

'How are you, Fripper?' Sir John had joined him.

Berenger nodded towards the farther bank. 'While they are over there, I'm happy.'

'We made it.'

'They can still cross the river, just as we did.'

'No. They fear attacking us on this kind of ground. We can hurry north and they won't hinder us.' He looked at Berenger. 'You reminded me of our journey here many years ago. I think you were right. The fields outside Crecy will serve us admirably well.'

'Provided they don't force their way over.'

'As you say. Do you not think it is a miracle?'

The priests had declared their escape to be a miracle, like that of the Jews' pa.s.sage through the Red Sea when G.o.d held back the waters, only releasing the torrent when the Egyptians pursued them.

'Miracle?' Berenger chuckled. 'I see it more as making masterly use of that fisherman Hugh, and taking the opportunity that presented itself. If the advance guard had failed to push the French from the bank, the army would already be destroyed. All our skills at fighting would not have availed us against the French.'

'That is why the King has split our army.'

The main bulk was here to protect the crossing, but a large force under Hugh Despenser had been sent to the coast to seize all the provisions he could find. Bread, cattle, pigs everything edible must be gathered for the army. This while Berenger and the others were left behind, feet sinking into the mud and sand, bows unstrung, strings held next to the skin to keep them dry against the threatened drizzle from the dark skies.

'Keep a close eye on the enemy, Frip,' Sir John advised as he left. 'We don't want any surprises.'

Ed had returned to them, ready to bring them the arrows they would need if the French began to cross.

Now he asked. 'Do you think they'll come, Frip?'

The youth had grown in the last weeks. He was leaner, more self-a.s.sured than the puny lad whom Berenger had found bleeding in the Portsmouth gutter. His eyes were more intent, as though they could see things that ordinary men could not. But the edge of lunacy that had characterised his appearance and manner in those early weeks was gone. In its place was a steadiness and reserve. Perhaps they would make something of the boy after all.

The vintener gave him an honest reply. 'They will have to try. If they don't attempt the river, they will have to travel miles eastwards, to cross by a bridge. And a bridge is a narrow pa.s.sage at the best of times. We were able to cross with speed. On a bridge, they'll manage one cart or wagon abreast: we travelled two or three wagons abreast.'

'So they only wait for the tide?'

'I expect so. Then life will suddenly get very exciting.'

He didn't mention his greater fear: that French cavalry had already crossed the river by the bridge. That idea gnawed at him. The notion that at any moment a strong party of French cavalry might appear over the nearer horizon and charge into their flank, was one that brought him out in a cold sweat. If it were to happen before Despenser returned with his men, the English would be torn apart.

But for now, to his relief, there was no sign that the French had their main force on this side of the river.

'Berenger!'

His attention snapped to Jack, who stood warily staring over the waters. His hand was inside his chemise, and that was enough to put Berenger on the alert. Jack was gripping his bow-string, ready to a.s.semble his bow again.

'What is it?'

'Those men over at the left: hors.e.m.e.n. They're riding back east.'

Berenger's eyes were not so fa.r.s.eeing as Jack's, but he could make out a strong party of men-at-arms riding away from the main French forces. 'I see them.'

'Is that what they are doing?' the Donkey asked. There was a slight quiver in his voice, as though he was a.s.sailed by sudden fear. 'They're riding round to the bridge to attack us?'

Berenger made a quick calculation. The tide was coming in again now, so soon the waters would be impa.s.sable once more. It wouldn't take the french forces that long to ride to the first bridge, cross it and return to the English camp, but no doubt they were being ordered to find additional men to bring with them. That would take about twelve hours clear, he estimated.

'Frip? There are more going. Look, over there!' Jack was pointing again, and now a smile was breaking out over his face.

Berenger stared, and as he did so, a sense of relief washed through his very soul.

'They're going!' he said happily. 'They're b.l.o.o.d.y going!'

26 August The blare of trumpets woke Berenger with a start, and he muttered to himself as he threw off his blanket and stood stamping his feet in the cold air. There had been a time when he would always have woken before the dawn and before even the earliest heralds could draw breath to blow their horns. Not so now. Too many weeks of marching, fighting for survival, nights without sleep and the dread of being caught by the French had taken the edge off his early rising.

They had waited last afternoon until the French were all gone, and then only a small contingent was left to watch over the ford while the army packed and prepared. The King had them all moving as the tide rose and made a pa.s.sage across impossible, and they had reached this wood late in the afternoon. With plentiful supplies of firewood and s.p.a.ce for all to lie down, the men had spent their first comfortable night for some time. The wagons were lashed together to prevent a surprise attack from their enemy, with the horses and ponies herded inside, and then the men settled, seeing to their weapons and armour, and many taking Ma.s.s from the priests.

Berenger slapped his arms about his torso in an attempt to urge some blood into his fingers, and blew on them as he eyed his vintaine. Their losses had brought the originally undermanned unit to below half its strength. Although he now had Roger's men with his own, the addition of Tyler was not rea.s.suring. The man was untrustworthy.

As he kicked Clip, Berenger brought back to mind all those who had died. The smiling faces, the cheerful souls, the grim ones, the thoughtful, the angry. The man who screamed in rage when he ran to battle, the men who stood back, watching for a suitable target, those who grabbed the nearest woman, those who preferred to visit the church and bow their heads while outside their English comrades ran amok. So many had died in the last years of fighting. Too many to recall all their names, he realised to his shame. No, it was only that he was tired. Too tired.

He waited until the chuntering Clip had taken sticks and tinder and set about making a fire. Berenger had a little flour left, and he had bought some oats from a Welshman. The different teams were more than happy to swap or sell their provisions now that Despenser had returned with herds of cattle and swine and carts filled with other stores from le Crotoy, which he had sacked.

There was a lot of complaining as usual, but nothing serious. Compared with the concerns he had heard while they were stuck on the other bank of the river a few days ago, even Clip's nasally-voiced grumbles were a pleasure to hear. All was well in their world.

Berenger pa.s.sed Jack the oats and flour and watched him mix and shape the rough patties into b.a.l.l.s. There was a thick grey smoke rising from the fire now, and Clip blew on the embers until his face was purple, while the others supplied a running commentary.

'I could have been fed and watered by now, if I was at home. Up on the hills, if you don't get yoursel' out of your bed and ready, the foxes will have had all the lambs.'

'Don't blow it like that, man! You'll blow it out! Breathe on it gently.'

'Clip, if you stick your a.r.s.e in the air like that, Geoff will be after you. He couldn't resist a backside like that.'

'You'd know, Granda.r.s.e!'

'Blow this side now, you lurdan! No! Round here!'

'You want to blow on it yourself, Jack feel free,' Clip snapped, sitting up, his face black with soot and ash from a gust of wind. 'I'll put my feet up while you get the fire going.'

'Oh, aye. You go and rest, you lazy deofol,' Jack said without rancour. 'We'll get the fire going, and then, since I've made your cake, I'll eat that too. Yes, you laze around while we do all the work as usual.'

'Work? You idle sods don't know the meaning of the word!'

'What does it matter? "Ye'll all be dead soon. They'll slaughter you."' There was a general guffaw.

Berenger sighed happily. While his men were taking the rise out of each other, he was content.

When the fire was burning well, Jack produced a griddle-iron from the cart and hung it from a tripod of sticks. Each man set his little patties on the hot surface and waited eagerly for them to cook.

Berenger took his and broke it open to release the steam before eating. It was good to feel the food in his belly, warming and filling at the same time. He took his sword and began to whet it with his stone, preparing for whatever the day should bring. He had a strong premonition that there would be a need for a good, sharp weapon soon.

The command to decamp came as the men were finishing their oaten cakes and gulping down beer liberated from a little farm Clip had found. Called to their feet, they moved in the slouching manner Berenger recognised so well. It was always the way of the English to pretend to a careless disobedience that they would never exhibit on the battlefield. Or not often, he amended.

For all their posturing, the men were quickly packed. While many esquires and heralds were still hurrying from tent to sumpter horse, Berenger's men were ready and waiting.

'Takes a lot longer for n.o.bles to get their s.h.i.t together, don't it?' Clip sniped. 'Why don't they wake those sods up first, and leave us to get our rest?'

'You need more beauty sleep, that's for certain,' Berenger grunted.

'At least my face isn't past improvement,' Clip countered. 'Not that it matters. We'll all be killed soon. All of us slaughtered.'