Hundred Years War: Fields Of Glory Part 37

There was a gathering rumble, a low roaring that came from thousands of French knights as each gave his battle cry from behind his visor. The noise rose as the knights came ever nearer, and Berenger could feel their charge through the soles of his feet. A crescendo of hoofbeats and screams, and the French slammed into them like a maul wielded by a giant. The English shields were up, and the array of spears did not waver. As the French came on, the horses were impaled and their riders thrown. Some lances penetrated, but only a small number of Englishmen were injured. Where Berenger stood, he could see the English lines rippling back and then springing forth again, their spears an impenetrable barrier.

A section of men was running up the slope now, more French men with armour and mail, coming to support their knights.

'Archers!' Granda.r.s.e's voice was hoa.r.s.e from shouting, and now he directed the men's arrows to the enemy scurrying towards them. A fresh storm of arrows sleeted down, and the a.s.sault failed; many were killed. It was carnage. The sound of wailing and sobbing came up to him, but Berenger hardened his heart.

'Fripper! Fripper!'

He turned to find Ed pulling at his jack. 'What are you doing here, boy?' he snarled. 'Get back to your position!'

'A cannon blew up, and killed three men. Archibald needs help, or his gonnes will be overrun!'

Berenger turned back to the battlefield. He made a quick decision. 'Jack, Geoff, Clip with me! Now!'

When the ma.s.sed rank of French hors.e.m.e.n crashed into the English pikes and spears, Sir John was hurled backwards and his spear snapped. A blow struck his bascinet and, still clutching the broken shaft in his fist, he found himself on his back, staring up at the sky.

It was curiously peaceful. Men's legs hurried past, but he couldn't see any faces. A loud booming was in his ears, and he felt as though his body was floating, drifting, a few inches above the ground. It was calm there, as though he could merely close his eyes and doze off into sleep, and no one would bother him.

Then all rushed back into his consciousness. Blaring of horns and the screams and shouts. He was lying in a foul mud that had been drenched in the blood of the dead and thickened with faeces and flesh. His stomach lurched, and he rolled onto all fours, consumed by revulsion. Clambering to his feet, he discarded the stump of his lance with disgust and grabbed his sword.

The Prince was still standing beneath his banner, but Sir John could see that Edward of Woodstock was heavily pressed. French knights had seen his banner and were hacking at the knights about him. A knight fell even as he watched, and Sir John pulled down his visor and hefted his sword. Giving a shrill war cry, he threw himself into the fray, bringing his sword down heavily onto a man's forearm. There was a dull crack, and he was sure he had broken a bone beneath the mail. A blade struck his helmet, and his head was brought down by the blow, but then he span around, his sword at belly-height, and punched out with all his strength when it was level with the man's belt. His blade met the rings of the man's mail, and broke some, but didn't penetrate the thick leather coat beneath. He pulled his sword free and attacked the man's neck. A raised forearm blocked him, but he changed the direction of his weapon and thrust again, left hand gripping the blade. He felt the mail give again, and at the third stab he pierced it, and felt the steel slide greasily into the man's stomach. Giving the blade a twist and shove, he kicked the man away even as he began to collapse.

Another man, another sword aimed at his head. He ducked and heard the blade whistle over him like a bird of prey. Sir John rammed his head forward, feeling the top of his helmet crash into the man's face, then he jerked his head up, catching the front of the man's bascinet with the point of his own before shoving the tip of his sword up and beneath the man's helmet. It cut the man's chin but missed the soft, vulnerable base of his jaw. Sir John pulled it free and jabbed at the man's neck with the length of his blade, trying to cut away at it, but the mail was too strong.

The man fell away, but now another was before him, and Sir John was forced to retreat under the press of French men-at-arms. He found that he was being pushed back onto the Prince's group, with more lances and swords facing them than ever. He brought his blade down on one lance, but two more pointed at him, prodding his breast and belly. His armour was not the newest, but his coat of plates was strong, thank G.o.d, and he was safe enough. A horse reared above them all, and a sword slammed down on another man, but then the arm wielding the sword was grabbed by the man holding the Prince's banner. The horseman was dragged from his mount, still trying to fight, and died on the ground as three men hacked and bludgeoned at him. One man thrust his misericorde into the eye-slots of his visor, and the body jerked and twisted, then sagged.

The men about the Prince were exhausted, but they fought on like those possessed. There was no time to see who was who, only to glimpse the weapon being thrust towards them and to counter it: cut at them, grab them and pull the opponent off-guard, stab at them, thrust one's sword's pommel into their faces, smash gauntleted fists into them, batter them with the cross of one's sword anything to keep them at bay a little longer.

The hand-to-hand combat raged within the dwindling number of men about the Prince.

And then the Prince was no longer there.

Sir John was so weary from the battle that he had to blink. The Prince was gone! He had fallen! The French were cheering, and their attack redoubled and even as Sir John felt the encroaching despair, he saw the Prince's banner fall, the material rippling as it was lowered to the ground like a kite in a feeble wind.

The sight gave him a fury that lent power to his arm. Shrieking like a demon of the moors, he fought with a renewed determination. If his Prince was dead, he would die on the same field. He hurled himself at his enemies, his sword now notched and dull, sending it crashing at faces and hands, at any limb or sign of weakness in mail or armour, and as he did so, he could hear the blood singing in his ears. A red fog enveloped him. All he saw was the man before him, then the next, and the next, and he fought like a berserker.

'For Saint Boniface!' he screamed.

A war hammer on a long pole slammed into his helmet with such force that the padded coif was crushed and he felt the metal crunch against his forehead. Blood washed into his eyes, and for a moment he could see nothing. He fell onto all fours and lifted his visor, wiping his face quickly, before trying to rise. A man's hand was on his back, and he felt a fresh blow that sent his senses reeling. It felt as though he was back aboard that d.a.m.ned ship when they landed from Portsmouth, the deck rolling beneath him and sending his gut into paroxysms. He waited for the next blow with fatalistic expectation.

'Sir John! Sir John get up!' cried a voice. With a sudden recognition he realised it belonged to Richard, his esquire.

'Help me!' he grunted, and Richard put a hand under his armpit, hauling him upright once more.

The battle had ebbed, and Sir John had time to gaze about him as he got his breath back. So many bodies lay all about him, there was scarcely room to move. Many were Frenchmen, who had died in this undignified huddle while still more clambered over their bodies to fight.

'Sir John, I hope you are well, sir?' came another familiar voice.

'My Lord, I thought you were with the fallen!' Sir John said as the Prince grinned at him.

Edward of Woodstock was leaning on his sword, his long hair over his eyes. He had thrown aside his helmet for the nonce, while he panted for breath. Blood streaming from a gash in his forehead gave him a ferocious air. He looked like a Lyme pirate, Sir John thought, and felt his heart go out to the lad.

'Me? That is villeiny-saying, Sir John! You think I would dare desert the field by dying?' He laughed. 'I am about as dead as you are! And you look marvellously well, old friend.'

'I am, my lord,' Sir John said. The Prince's banner stood above them again, Sir Thomas Daniel clinging to it like a drowning sailor gripping a spar, as though it was all that kept him upright. 'I thought I saw your banner fall, too. Was that a dream?'

'No, Sir John. My foolish bearer considered that I was about to be bested by the enemy, and allowed the banner to slip while he drew steel to help me, but I have instructed him to hold it aloft once more. I don't wish my father to grow concerned for my health.'

He laughed again, wiping blood from his brow. 'I won't have any man running to demand help. This is my victory!'

Sir John nodded and stared ahead again. The French were reforming. Down at the far side of the rolling valley, their knights were shouting encouragement at the men-at-arms and hors.e.m.e.n, urging and cajoling them to return to the fray.

'Christ's blood, here they come again,' he said.

Berenger and the men ran to where Archibald was struggling, red-faced, with a ma.s.sive iron spike, trying to roll his biggest gonne back onto the trestle where it had been set.

'Come on, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, gutless lurdan! What, do you defy G.o.d's representative? In G.o.d's name, I command that you obey, in nomine patris et . . .'

'What in Christ's heaven happened here?' Berenger demanded.

There were shards of metal all about the place. A great splinter had embedded itself in the side of the nearest cart, and there were many smouldering remains that looked much like parts of men.

'They loaded it with too much powder, the b.i.t.c.h-clout deofols!' Archibald said with contempt. 'And then had the temerity to leave a powder keg open nearby, if you can believe it! Now are you going to help me get this d.a.m.ned lump of metal facing the enemy or not? I asked for your help, not for you to come and gawp!'

In a short time Berenger and the men were using great iron bars to roll the enormous bulk of the cannon back into the bed created for it. As it b.u.t.ted up to the timbers set in the ground, Archibald began bellowing at the bemused archers, pointing to a long rod with rags wrapped about one end sitting in a leather bucket. 'Fripper, grab that, man, bring it here! That's right,' he said, shoving the wet rags home into the barrel. He twisted and fiddled with it, then pulled it out again. Another rod with a blackened and filthy sheepskin wrapped about it lay on the gra.s.s nearby, and Archibald took it up and rammed that home. 'Ed!'

The Donkey was already at his side, his face red and sweaty, with streaks where perspiration had cut through the soot on his cheeks and brow. He held a long pole with a rounded copper shovel like a cylinder cut in half at the end, which was filled with coa.r.s.e grains of Archibald's black powder. Archibald took it from him and gently inserted it into the barrel, turning the rod over so that the powder was all deposited in the barrel. He shoved a wooden plug after it, and poked it home with the back of the powder-scoop, before taking up a linen bag of stones and placing it in the tube. It too was pushed up to rest against the plug.

'Where are they, Donkey?' he rasped as he hurried to the opposite end of the gonne. He blew at the touch-hole's little dent, and took a small amount of powder from the flask under his shirt, tipping it into the dent and cupping his hand over it to stop it blowing away.

'They are coming now.'

'Very well. Stand back, the lot of you!' Archibald roared, and peered along the length of his barrel.

'Donkey, the match.'

Ed picked up the cord and blew on it carefully. Berenger saw the end begin to glow like coals in a fire, and when it was a brilliant red, Ed pa.s.sed it to Archibald.

The gynour took it up, blew on it once more, and peered down the length of the barrel as he did so, aiming the tube at his enemy, his eyes narrowed. As the first of the enemy appeared through the mist, he held the match just above the touch-hole, waiting. When there were a hundred men visible, he touched the vent.

There was a deafening roar and a belch of smoke that almost, but not quite, concealed the vast purple and scarlet flames. An ochre-yellow tinge to the smoke made it look like poison, and then it was gone, and a thick, black fume washed past the men, carrying the unmistakable stench of brimstone.

Sir John irritably jerked away from the hands that tried to help him, and returned to his place in the line. 'I'm not a cripple! Leave me alone. There are men who need help, but I'm not one.'

His esquire returned with him and stood silently at his side as they stared down at the enemy. The French were running up the hill towards them again, many thousands, all on foot, and Sir John grasped a lance from the ground at his feet, sheathing his sword. 'One last push, men one last push! For G.o.d and Saint Boniface!'

'For G.o.d and Saint Edward!' his esquire shouted beside him.

'Who?' Sir John demanded.

'Saint Edward,' Richard Bakere repeated calmly.

Sir John shook his head in disgust and turned back to the men coming to attack them. 'If you must . . . Form up! Hold the line, no matter what! Hold the line!'

Berenger coughed as the worst of the smoke curled lazily away. A swathe had been cut through the men racing towards them. While Archibald scurried with Ed to load another consignment of pebbles, Berenger bellowed at his men to return to the archers' stands where their arrows awaited them. They only had a paltry number with them, for Donkey was entirely involved with Archibald. Once back to their positions, they took up their bows in earnest. Each shot must count.

The men running up the hill were tired. They had marched for miles that day, enc.u.mbered with their heavy weapons, and now they were forced to charge uphill to attack the English in their impregnable position. Berenger nocked an arrow and drew back the string. The muscles in the back of his neck, his shoulder-blades, his upper arms, his belly all were complaining at the fresh a.s.sault. He could still lift his bow and send arrows after his targets, but the strain of drawing a bow powerful enough to spear an arrow through an inch of oak was beginning to tell. It was a white-hot, searing agony that burned all his muscles without respite.

'Draw! Loose!'

The orders still came, and through the mists and smoke Berenger saw the French forces hurled to the ground as the arrows from around ten thousand archers took their toll. While their rate of fire had slowed from their peak, there were still four or five arrows rising into the air every minute from each of them: forty to fifty thousand arrows plunging down into the midst of the French army in an unremitting hail of death. The English stood safely distant, letting their arrows kill a hundred yards and more away.

There came a thunderous bark, and again the men were blinded as Archibald's great gonne fired. The sharper crackle of the smaller gonnes was almost a chattering compared with the vast bellow of that enormous maw. As it fired, Berenger saw French men before it slashed and dismembered before the smoke rolled thankfully before him and obliterated the sight. There was a hideous sound now: an insane keening from men, horses, dogs, which verily grated on the soul. It was a terrible, horrible sound, and Berenger grabbed arrows and loosed still faster, trying to block it from his ears.

It was Jack who bellowed and pointed as the smoke cleared.

A group of the French had split away from the main body, and fifty or more were rushing at the gonnes and Archibald. Berenger shouted to the nearer men to have them redirect their arrows, but it was too late.

'With me!' he roared, and ran for the gonnes.

Archibald fired the charge and felt the ground shake as the great gonne leaped up in her bed.

He adored this beast. She was the largest of the big gonnes, and had the power to slaughter at a great distance. If treated with consideration, she would perform her duty with reliable, deadly effect.

Seeing Ed and Beatrice near the powder, he beckoned. They had to reload the gonne again. But the foolish boy was pointing and mouthing something. He could mouth all he liked, Archibald could hear only a dull ringing in his ears. 'Get over here, you Donkey,' he bawled. It was strange to be able to bellow at the top of his voice and hear almost nothing! He waved his arms to attract the boy's attention.

It was at the last moment that he finally realised Ed was shouting a warning about something behind him. He turned, the great iron pole in his fist still, and saw more than forty men rushing at him.

'Christ's cods!' he managed, before hefting his makeshift weapon and facing them with determination.

There was a contingent of archers near, and they loosed. Archibald saw three men flung aside as they caught the brunt of it, one of them hit by four arrows together. Another man was left on his feet and running, but with an arrow in his shoulder. And still they came on.

'Come on, then, you wh.o.r.eson deofols! I'm ready for you!' he shouted, and hefted the pole over his head.

Just then four more of the men fell, all with arrows in their chests. He turned to see Berenger and the vintaine, all sending arrows to the French, but it was too late, and soon the men were at them.

Archibald brought the pole down on the head of the nearest, and it entirely crushed his head and helmet with its ma.s.sive weight. The next man caught the spike at his throat, where it mashed flesh against his spine. He fell, choking for air. Then Archibald was holding the pole half-staff, half the pole between his two fists. He sent one end into a man's face, used the bar between his hands to block a sword, and jabbed with the other end to knock senseless a man trying to grab for Ed.

Berenger was fighting nearby, coolly despatching men with a sword in one hand, his long-bladed dagger in the other, blocking and stabbing with the speed of an adder in the sun. Geoff was fighting with skill and vigour, but then something happened that made Archibald blink in astonishment.

A man had spotted Beatrice, and he rushed towards her, past Geoff. Archibald knew nothing of Geoff's murder of his family, but he saw the anguish in Geoff's face at that moment.

For Geoff, in that split second he saw before him again the face of his wife: Sarra's throat cut where he had killed her, the two boys dead beside her. A wave of revulsion washed through him, self-hatred at his actions that accursed night. He was nothing a l.u.s.tful, murderous brute at best. He remembered Gil, and the way he had stepped into the line ahead of the Donkey, and suddenly he saw why. Gil had been tired of this life, and more than ready for death.

And in that moment, Geoff made a decision. He cut wildly at the man heading for Beatrice. It was a lucky blow, and the man collapsed. Beatrice stood stock still, staring at her attacker in shock, while Geoff thrust at him until he was dead. And then Geoff stared at Beatrice, panting, and he smiled at her a smile of great sweetness before, with a roar of rage, he threw himself into the fray.

Hacking and slashing without elegance or care, he killed four and continued on into the midst of the men, his blade whirling with mad abandon in the fading light. His sword slammed into the face of one man, then came down dully on the helmet of a second, before piercing a man's visor, the blood spurting from the grille. As that man fell, Geoff put his head back and screamed in glee and fury before launching himself like an Angel of Death upon the rest of the French.

He was an awesome sight, but even as Archibald cast himself on the next man, he saw the three who closed in on Geoff. Two held his sword at bay while the third went behind him and stabbed at the back of his neck, between helmet and mail. The blade sank in deeply, and Geoff howled like a baited bear, turning to his adversary, but even as he lifted his sword to kill his a.s.sailant, the other two set about him. His fist was taken off at the wrist, a sword entered him from beneath the armpit, and Geoff fell to his knees, his head down, the blood scarring the gra.s.s all about him.

'No!' Archibald shouted and slammed his pole into another man, attempting to reach Geoff, but it was too late. The next time he saw the archer, Geoff's face was pressed into the b.l.o.o.d.y mud of the field.

That was when Archibald felt someone grip his shoulder, and he found Berenger at his side, staring before them at the field.

The French who were alive still were fleeing. There were no more attacks.

The s.p.a.ce before Sir John and the other men was suddenly clear, and for a moment he thought his eyes had failed. He felt he could not trust his senses, and he stood panting for a while as the noise of battle receded all about him. Raising his visor once again, he took a deep breath as he stared about.

As the last men straggled or limped away, the field was a scene of unremitting carnage. Horses stood whimpering, while others thrashed about in agony on the gra.s.s. Horses with their rich caparisons smothered in gore, men in armour, in jerkins or mail, were all thrown hither and thither, as if a giant had stumbled upon them and had stamped and beaten them all to death. It was a vision of h.e.l.l. Here and there, an arm waved or a flag fluttered in the breeze, and on the still air coughs, sobs and cries for Maman could be heard. A horse floundered in the mess, trying to climb to his feet, but his hooves were entangled in his own intestines.

'Horses!' Sir John called, and through the ranks behind, he saw the reserves parting to allow the horses through. The first was that of a knight who lay at Sir John's feet, but a man-at-arms took it willingly and mounted before Sir John's horse had arrived.

'Sir John!' his esquire said, and presented him with Aeton.

'Very good,' Sir John said, and mounted stiffly. His muscles burned, but he would not miss the last episode of the battle, and as he sat on the tall saddle, he found some of his weariness falling away. His legs were gripping the beast beneath him as usual, and he felt the great muscles move, the enormous chest inflate and sink again, and it was as though his life-force was renewed by the sensation. When he gripped his sword, it felt entirely natural.

This was his destiny.

'After them!'

Berenger roared until he was hoa.r.s.e as the English knights thundered past, the destriers' hooves throwing up ma.s.sive clods of earth and gra.s.s. They could all see the French forces halt at the sight of the English racing down from both flanks. Suddenly, there was mayhem out there.

'Go on! Go on!' Jack was screaming excitedly at the top of his voice, waving his hands high over his head.

In the distance, Berenger could see the Oriflamme waving. Suddenly, he saw it dip and disappear. The French infantry were turning and fleeing the English knights. He could see Sir John's banner, and those of Warwick, Cobham, Burghersh and Dagworth, all galloping towards the terrified French.

'Their King's fled the field!' someone shouted. 'He's bolted!'

Berenger didn't know if that was true or not, but the Oriflamme was gone, and the collection of men about it had also disappeared.

Twilight was overwhelming the field as the English knights pounded after their foe. Screams came across the still evening air as they speared more of the enemy, and Berenger could see the line of English knights and men-at-arms breasting the far hill and then disappearing over the farther side in their pursuit.

With a blossoming of flame, the windmill behind the English lines caught fire. It would serve to mark the English army for returning soldiers.

Exhausted, the archers squatted or lay where they had fought. Berenger craved a cup or two of wine, but there was nothing here. He sat, his back to one of Archibald's gonnes and stared at the field, to where Geoff's body lay.

'Are you injured?'

He looked up to see Beatrice. 'No, maid. Are you?'

She shook her head.

'All this, does it help you?' he asked, tired to his very soul.

'All the men in France cannot bring back my father or my family,' she said. 'It's all gone. I have nothing.'

Berenger nodded. 'Nor have I,' he said. 'I lost my family long ago.'

She sat beside him, and they leaned together from mutual understanding. It was completely dark when he felt her sobbing gently.