Son of the Morning (94 page)
Despenser’s banner was twenty yards away now when the giant loomed into view – massive in mail and helm, a huge sword in his hand, attended by eight winged gargoyles. The rain stopped, as sudden as it had come on.
‘Lord!’ Nergal called out to him.
‘What? You have him, Nergal? You have the Antichrist!’
‘Yes!’
Despenser strode forward, eating the ground between them. Dow trembled. A noise like a great wind. The English longbows had fired. Screams and shouts from the Genoese. The crossbowmen were dying.
‘This is he?’ said Despenser, jabbing a rotting finger at Dow.
‘Yes, lord.’
Despenser, his face eaten by rot, a walking corpse, stared down at Dow. ‘He is not as I imagined. I think you are wrong.’
‘No, lord, he was there with the old king. He invoked me in the name of his mother. It is him.’ More sounds like the wind, almost constant now. The screams were louder, shouting too. The crossbowmen had lost the encounter with the longbows and were running back into the French lines. A noble voice shouted a curse at them.
‘He’ll die, anyway,’ said Despenser, ‘I need Satan’s favour before this battle begins, Edward’s got legions of devils down there. Archers with blessed arrows too.’
‘The angels will take care of them,’ said Nergal.
‘And maybe us too,’ said Despenser. He sniffed. ‘They’ll probably just play in the lightning of this storm. Let’s hope so. You, sorcerer,’ he addressed Osbert.
‘Lord?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I am your sorcerer, lord.’
‘When did you last summon me a devil? I hear talk that you’ve been scrabbling behind my back. Talking treachery!’
‘No lord! The little cracks we have opened in the walls of Hell have been sealed. I have been lucky to achieve what I have.’ He gestured to Nergal.
‘You’ll summon me a devil within a week of this battle ending or you’ll die in as unpleasant a way as I can devise. At the moment I’m favouring crushing by pebbles – one extra a day for a year.’
‘That’s really unfair!’ said Osbert.
‘Don’t think you’ll avoid my devils in Hell, either,’ said Despenser. ‘If you think life’s unfair, you should try death!’
There was a disturbance at the front. The trumpets of Navarre had sounded and its knights charged, howling. The men and devils around Despenser were caught in the excitement and themselves charged down the hill, the gargoyles lumbering into the air with a terrible sound of stone on stone. Despenser pushed down the visor on his great helmet. ‘Now Satan, accept this offering and bring me victory!’ he shouted.
‘Can we not bargain?’ said the pardoner. He stood in front of Dow but Despenser’s sword swung at the young man.
‘Crikey!’ said the pardoner as he realised what was happening. The Sacred Heart shield jumped on his arm and turned Despenser’s blow aside perfectly.
Despenser screamed and hacked again but the shield had a life of its own, moving to catch the blow and save Dow again. ‘No!’ shouted Osbert. ‘This is entirely inappropriate, shield! Let him kill the boy!’
‘Now you’re going to die!’ yelled Despenser. He lifted his sword once more.
‘Get off me!’ said Osbert, poking forward the holy sword. Once more the shield took Despenser’s blow but the giant had leapt forward and the holy sword snagged in his coat of plates. His armour was nothing against the Heavenly blade and it went into his belly to the hilt.
‘That was a mistake, lord,’ said Osbert. ‘And I hope it will not affect your view of the good work I have done for you in the past nor the possibility of us working together in the future.’
‘I … I … I’m …’
If Despenser had any fine words then neither Dow nor Osbert ever heard them. Nergal swallowed his candle and in a demented roar breathed fire all over Osbert. Again the shield swung around, deflecting the flame. Dow felt light building inside him, an enormous energy that leaked from his eyes, from his mouth, from the scar on his chest.
‘Hang on, I didn’t attack you, don’t do this to me!’ screamed Nergal at Dow. ‘Satan! Satan! Take me hence!’ Nergal crossed himself and Dow erupted with light.
‘Can you persuade the French angels away?’ said Edward. His angel shone above Crecy wood, armoured and shielded, a spear in its hand. Edward looked out from the top of the windmill that stood above the battlefield, gazing up at the shining creature.
‘No. They wait to see the sacrifice of the French and then they will act.’
Edward crossed himself. Thank God Philip had detoured to Abbeville on the way there. There had been time to dig pits in front of the archers to trip the incoming horses, to choose the best defensive position on top of the hill, to set the bombards, for whatever good they would do, to bless the arrows of the archers and the swords of the men-at-arms.
But he was sure Philip had reinforced at Abbeville – the black bat standard of Jaime of Majorca was visible, the white and red lions of blind King John of Luxembourg, the black and yellow chevron of Hainault, the arms of Savoy and of many German princes. How many in total? Maybe thirty thousand – among them six or seven thousand men-at-arms – largely mounted – and a similar number of crossbowmen. Outnumbered three, maybe four to one, similarly in angels. And what of devils? He had his division of pig-men devils, a flight of gargoyles, about twenty flaming devils and a crack squad of leopard men under Lord Sloth. The rest had got strung out across the country, absorbed in plunder, been burned by angels or fallen foul of raiding parties of Philip’s stoneskins.
‘Come one, come all,’ said Cobham. Edward concentrated on the angel.
‘Will you act for us?’ Lord Sloth stared up at the angel, his mane clanking.
‘I will talk to them awhile.’
‘Can you burn some Frenchmen?’
‘What good will that do? Four angels oppose us. If they see the French dying they will be quicker to act.’
‘Can you keep away the devils?’
‘The devils punish for God. Any who die by their hand are ordained to do so by Him on high.’
‘He has five divisions of them. We have two.’
‘Jophiel of Navarre seems unconvinced of the holy right of the French king.’
‘Can you draw it to our side?’
‘No. But it may argue with our brethren to see more evidence of piety, a greater willingness to sacrifice. How much blood will be needed before they will act?’
‘Get it to make that argument. And if you can, get it to tell its men to charge us. We need an early charge from the enemy.’
‘You are king.’ The angel sparkled above the wood and stretched out its hands. The angels on the cloud above the French army stretched out theirs too. Edward guessed they were communicating.
He remembered the tales of Bannockburn where his father had fought the Scots. There the angels had wanted to see a great sacrifice of men before they would act, but they dithered so long that, by the time they deemed enough English blood had been spilled, the battle had been lost and they decided God had made His position clear. But at Bannockburn a large force of Englishmen had been defeated by a smaller Scottish army by provoking an early charge from the English horse. That was the model he’d use.
‘Get the devils in the line to goad them too,’ said Edward.
‘I will lead,’ said Sloth.
‘Good,’ said Edward, ‘but don’t goad them for too long. They have more devils and more angels than us. Taunt the line and retreat. And you, angel, can you make it rain?’
‘I am the rain.’
‘Is that a yes or a no?’ Edward’s patience with angels was thin at the best of times, without having to listen to these nonsensical statements.
‘Yes.’
‘Then do. They’re the ones who have to move, we’ll be staying still. Let’s see it slippery for them. Give it a while for the Genoese crossbows to get a soaking, then get into them.’
Edward watched as Lord Sloth mustered his leopard men. The rain started to pour and Edward couldn’t help laughing. Fifteen years of chapel building, of prayer and donations to monasteries, of attempted crusades and reckless war he’d given God. What did he get for it? A rain shower.
The French army was still spilling from the road through the woods, fanning out across the field. There were a lot of them – banners of every description. He saw a huge figure towering over the wagons and the horses. That, he thought, must be Despenser. Around him swarmed smoke devils and above him a flight of gargoyles. He ordered the Drago unfolded to ensnare them. Who would attack first? The devils must guess that the English arrows would be blessed. Best soften up the line with crossbow fire before attacking. Through the driving rain, almost exactly as the thought crossed his mind, he saw the Genoese coming forward. No shields. He turned to Cobham.
‘Fire only unblessed arrows at the crossbows. The devils can charge in under our own arrow fire.’
‘Very good.’
The Genoese kept coming, the English army hurling insults through the rain, a few idiots loosing too early, their arrows falling short. One hundred and fifty paces, Edward knew, was the distance the crossbows would try to engage – at the limit of the longbow’s power but well within their own range, sheltering behind their great shields to fire in turns at an impressive rate. But they had no shields. And in this weather, with wet strings, firing uphill and … The angel lit up behind him, bright as the sunset. Yes! Now they would have to fire into the light and a crossbowman depended much more on aim than a longbow. The longbows dropped their arrows at a distance in a swarm. The crossbowman picked his target.
Lord Sloth and his leopard men were astride their horses. They rode them not for speed but for protection. If the crossbowmen had blessed their quarrels then the horse offered a formidable shield to the devils as they poured in. Behind them stood ranks of pig-headed devils – the 20
th
Legion of Henochia. Behind them winged gargoyles clattered and chattered, ready to go. Edward was glad of such troops. They knew how to take an order.
Now they would need to. The crossbowmen formed up in scuttling ranks – impressive to see such trained troops at their work. He signalled to his bannerman and he lowered the banner. It was the sign for the archers to fire. They did. Ten volleys and the crossbowmen were buckling. Another five and they were in flight. Edward’s bannerman held the banner aloft and a flight of gargoyles went cawing to the fight, Lord Sloth and his devils underneath them snarling for blood. Sloth caught a crossbowman and tore off his head but the French knights charged into the arrow storm. Devils were impervious to the arrows, as were the men in their armour, but the horses suffered and died dreadfully. One horse tried to charge Sloth down but he picked it up, rider and all, and hurled it into the air.
A flash from the French lines, an unbearable bright light. Had an angel materialised? No, but for some reason the French devils chattered and screamed, panicking, pushing out through their mounted men-at-arms. Shoved and jostled by loping stretched men, by dogmen and burning devils, the horsemen had no option but to charge.
Masses of French horse came down on the English devils. A lance went clean through a leopard, a sword hacked off a swooping gargoyle’s wing as it tried to rip the Count of Foix from his mount. It travelled a little way before spinning wildly and crashing hard into the mud where a French lance ran it through.
Arrows fell in black sheets, horses screamed and fell beneath the knights. In the mud, those who could stand fought the devils – the ones with blessed weapons standing a chance, the others not.
Osbert got the boy up onto a cart. The devil had vanished when the great light had burst out of Dow and the battle had gone wild but now Dow was unconscious. God knew what was happening down that hill. Osbert, had he ever imagined a battle, thought of it as orderly lines of knights and men-at-arms charging and retreating in a disciplined way. This was chaos, people running everywhere, every direction, friend indistinguishable from enemy. Had the French been over run, had they done the over running? Men were coming back who looked like French men-at-arms, crossbowmen were being trampled by other mounted knights who streamed into the battle but did the English have crossbowmen? Devils tangled in the skies – the buzzing night-born men clashing with stoneskins, swarms of insect devils swooping down on the leopard men. He knew only one thing – he was off.
What a mess! Osbert drove the cart as best he could away from the site of the mêlée.
It had been chaos. Light from the boy, light all around, Despenser staggering backward with his hands to his face; a great cry that the English were attacking and the line of knights lurched forward, some in battle order, some pouring in from the lane that had brought them there. Who had started the attack? Osbert had heard ‘Navarre! Navarre.’ The explosion from the middle of the French camp had been enough to send its men-at-arms crazy and they had spurred their mounts into the fight.
It poured with rain, there was a dreadful screaming from down the hill and then the cart had got stuck up against a ditch. How can you lose your way out of a field? In the panic, Osbert had managed it.
He had to get the boy away. He would fetch a good price from someone. First, he had to make it to the English, and the English had to make it through the day. He looked up at the angels. They were gazing out over the battlefield. When they decided the French had lost enough men to have proved their commitment, they would wade in. Across the rainy valley he could see another light – a shifting green and blue. The English angels? He put his hand to his eyes. Yes, he could see a giant face shining from behind a rain cloud, turning the air around it to stained glass.
Get out, get out! What to do? Christ’s fat balls! Men were coming back up the hill, or something like men. The Genoese, arrows sprouting from their arms and legs, caught in the thick padding of their gambesons – so many hedgehogs running back through the lines.
‘Navarre! Navarre!’ Cavalry charged through them, spinning them around, trampling them down. Oh God. Osbert looked up – the angels were still gazing down.