Fields of Glory (48 page)

‘He said five hundred,’ Jack grumbled to Clip. ‘If there’s only five hundred,
I’m
a fucking 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 bloody 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 passed 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 passed 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 shore 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 bloody 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 fucking 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 God on our side.’

‘God? 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 assemble 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 bum 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 passage.

‘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 Crécy 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’ passage through the Red Sea when God 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-assured 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 passage 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 assemble his bow again.

‘What is it?’

‘Those men over at the left: horsemen. They’re riding back east.’

Berenger’s eyes were not so farseeing 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 assailed 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 impassable 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 bloody 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 passage across impossible, and they had reached this wood late in the afternoon. With plentiful supplies of firewood and space 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 Mass 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 reassuring. 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 passed Jack the oats and flour and watched him mix and shape the rough patties into balls. 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.