Fields of Glory (52 page)

‘What the fuck are they playing at?’ Grandarse snarled. He had come to join the men, and stood with a great bow clutched in his fist, staring down at the men struggling to cross the
plain. ‘Why don’t they return our fire?’

‘Their strings are wet and won’t hold the tension. They can’t reach us with their bolts,’ Berenger said. He let fly, and watched his own and the other arrows rise, stoop
– and plummet. Men were struck in the breast and the head. Two, he saw, ran screaming, with arrows in their bodies that they could not reach. Their shrieks of agony came clearly on the
wind.

‘So much the better,’ Grandarse said with satisfaction. He took his own bow and sent an arrow hurtling towards them. ‘I like being safe when the enemy approaches!’

Berenger nodded, but his own, unspoken sympathy lay with the hapless men out there. He had been on the receiving end of enemy bolts and arrows far too often not to feel some compassion.

‘They’re retreating! Sweet angels of mercy, they’re pulling back!’ Grandarse roared, and Berenger could see it too. The crossbowmen had taken enough. They were streaming
back towards the bulk of the French cavalry, leaving in disorder, men taking out their knives and cutting their crossbows, throwing the expensive weapons away, already made useless, before the
English could take them, and then running pell-mell for their own lines.

‘Thanks be to God!’ someone muttered, and when Berenger looked, he realised it was Ed. The Donkey was staring at them with tears in his eyes.

‘They’re bolting like bloody rabbits! They’ve had enough, and they’re bolting!’ a man shouted, and Sir John threw him a sour look.

‘A few thousand crossbowmen leave the field, and you think that’s a cause for celebration?’ he said. ‘There are plenty more waiting there in the wings.’

‘We’re going to win this battle,’ another man said, and lifted his sword defiantly. ‘Hey! We’re here, France! If you think you can push us away, come and try
it!’

Sir John gritted his teeth. It was fools like this who caused wars – fools like this who lost wars. ‘Hold your tongues and hold your lines!’ he commanded. ‘That was only
the first essay. Now will come the onslaught.’

‘
Onslaught
, old man?’ There was a rude laugh from behind him. ‘They’re already knocked back. One more little effort and we’ll have the field.’

‘Don’t be a whore-swyving fool,’ Sir John snarled. ‘Look!’

The others turned and saw what Sir John had witnessed: as the crossbowmen fled, the horsemen in the first ranks spurred their mounts and charged down the farther hillside, straight into the
running soldiers, and when they ran them down, it was no accident. As though blaming them for their inadequacy in bringing the English to their knees, the riders slashed and cut at the crossbowmen.
Almost as many were hacked down as had been slain by the English arrows.

It was a bloodbath. The French knights had taken no more notice of the crossbowmen than they would of their enemies, slaying them with lance or sword or riding them down and trampling them. The
poor fellows were caught between the hammer of their own knights, and the anvil of the English archers. To remain was to die, but to attempt to flee was to be killed by their own comrades. They
fell in their hundreds, their bodies crushed into the mud by the knights on their huge destriers.

‘Hold the line! Prepare to receive horses!’ Sir John roared. He gripped his lance more tightly, setting the butt in the ground and gripping it tightly. ‘Steady!
Steady!
’

Archibald darted from his gonne to those nearby, assessing the angles of fire and glancing up at the horses now thundering towards the English lines. He peered along the length
of his barrel and as the horses began to come closer, closer. Grabbing his match, he blew on the smouldering cord until it glowed bright and white. And then, when the leading horse was almost in
front of his barrel, he stood back and thrust the lighted match into the powder-hole of the gonne.

There was a vast belch of flame that engulfed the whole battlefield in stark horror. As the roar died away, all was obscured by a thick, grey-white smoke. The gynour’s breath was sucked
from him, and his ears felt as if water had been thrown into them: he had gone deaf. Choking fumes were blown into his face, and he shook his head, blinking, as he tried to see what his shot had
achieved. As all cleared, he saw three horses thrashing, two riders stumbling towards the English lines, and one knight, dazed by the blast, walking in little circles that were leading him towards
the archers. Three clothyard arrows found him.

Archibald moved to the next barrel while another man attacked the still-smoking barrel with a swab drenched in water. The next gonne sprang into the air as Archibald danced away, sending more
flames to deal death to the French. His heart was also dancing, with excitement and – yes, with joy. There was nothing like this sensation, dealing death with the skill of a master-of-arms.
He could kill and maim scores with his toys: this was the way to fight – with utter impunity.

A flash from the third gonne, and a gust of brimstone-filled smoke . . . and he saw two more horses rearing and thrashing in their agony. Archibald stopped for a moment, brought back to the
present by their pain, but then he saw a fresh rank of knights thundering up the hill towards the English lines, and he ordered his men to reload their gonnes, while he leaned down and rammed and
cleaned and dried, preparing the next charge, aiming as the beasts headed towards them.

Sir John waited, watching for the first of the French to reach the English lines, but none approached nearer than a few tens of yards. ‘Hold your places!’ he
shouted as a couple of men-at-arms made as though to run at the wounded.

Now those same knights who had treated their own crossbowmen with such cruelty were themselves slaughtered. Sir John saw the front row struck as though by an invisible rope: the foremost horses
were killed at almost the same moment, plunging to the ground, while their riders were thrown or remained with their horses. Two men, he saw, lay trapped by their mounts’ dead bodies, a leg
caught beneath the steed. But as more and more arrows fell among them, these two were soon dead, stabbed by many arrows.

Another rank of horses and men were tumbled to the ground, then a third, and suddenly a mass of riders was making its way forward.

‘Hold the wall! Shields and lances! For God and England!’ he heard from all around, and he added his own, ‘For Saint Boniface!’ And then he added, ‘For King Edward
and for England!’ And thrust the butt of his lance into the ground, pointing the tip at the enemy. He could hear the crackle of the banners overhead and feel the strange juddering in his
legs. It was the ground, rebelling at the hoofbeats of thousands of horses. The very earth recoiled from the French attack.

There was no time to aim his lance. Suddenly the knights and destriers were all too close, and in the blink of an eye, they were on him.

It felt as though all those French lance-points were targeting his heart, his breast, his face. A matchless forest of steel-tipped lances were thrust towards him, but before any could reach him
or the other men, the horses saw their danger. While many carried on, impaling themselves on the English weapons, many more reared or tried to run to one side or the other to avoid the bristling
sharp steel points.

They crashed into each other, causing mayhem amongst the French chivalry. One beast ran along the English line, deflecting many lances, until a lucky stab brought him down.

Sir John felt his own lance pulled from his hand, and the butt was yanked from the soil and swiped at his legs, almost knocking him down. Before he could grab it again, three French men-at-arms
appeared, their horses dead already, running at him.

Sir John pulled his sword free and hefted its weight with relief. This was the sort of fight he had trained for: the sort of fight he was born for.

They charged and were repelled, charged and were repelled, and still they kept coming. Berenger had counted six charges already, but once more the men and horses were gathering
at the other end of the field, and now they were charging again.

Archibald’s gonnes roared and spat flames and missiles like an array of dragons, while from the other flank still more clouds of smoke were thrown at the French, and each time a few men
were forced to the ground, a few more horses were slain.

There was an enormous cacophony of sound. Berenger felt a concussion at his ears, a searing flash of heat, and turned to see a bloom of flame. A figure was thrown high into the air, and the
stench of brimstone was thick and cloying as wafts of greasy smoke rolled past them. Screams and shouts came from the edge of the archers’ post, where Archibald stood with his gonnes.

Berenger let another arrow loose at the men approaching. More and more knights were thundering up the slope to the English lines. He saw a strange group: knights, and a nobleman wearing three
white feathers, riding together. Even when first one and then a second knight were hit and fell from their mounts, their horses remained with the rest, and he realised that they were all tied
together as a group, as though their leader feared that one or more might attempt to flee the battle. All rode straight for the Prince’s banner, and there was a moment when Berenger thought
that they might succeed in punching through to him, but then there was a moment’s blindness as the fog from Archibald’s cannon rolled out, passing through them. They looked like wraiths
in a mist, and then the smoke cleared and Berenger saw that the little party was dead. All had fallen before the English lines.

There was another massive charge building. It was the greatest collection of men he had ever seen, and his belly gave a lurch. Then three Frenchmen sprang forward, calling on their peers to ride
with them. Suddenly, the whole line was moving: thousands of the noblest-born, best-trained warriors of Europe, mounted on the highest-quality destriers, first trotting, then beginning to canter,
then lowering their heads and thundering at full gallop towards the centre of the English line. Berenger saw the English sergeants and vinteners rallying their men. He glimpsed the Earl of Warwick
raising his massive sword over his head and shrieking his defiance, while nearby, Sir John de Sully was awaiting the enemy with a cool demeanour as though deciding which man he should aim his lance
at first.

‘ARCHERS! LOAD! ARCHERS LOOSE!’
he heard, and aimed at a great black-armoured knight with a red surcoat. The arrow struck at the top of the man’s shoulder and bounced
away, and he rode on without injury.

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!’
Grandarse’s voice was hoarse 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 assault 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 massed rank of French horsemen 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.