The Grail Quest Books 1-3: Harlequin, Vagabond, Heretic (43 page)

'How many arrows do we have?' he asked every man in earshot.

'Twelve hundred sheaves,' the Bishop of Durham said.

'Two carts full,' the Earl of Warwick answered.

'Eight hundred and sixty sheaves,' the Earl of Northampton said.

There was silence for a while. 'The men have some themselves?' the King asked.

'Perhaps a sheaf apiece,' the Earl of Northampton said gloomily.

'It will just have to be enough,' the King said bleakly. He would have liked twice as many arrows, but then he would have liked a lot of things. He could have wished for twice as many men and a hill twice as steep and an enemy led by a man twice as nervous as Philip of Valois who, God knows, was nervous enough anyway, but it was no good wishing. He had to fight and win. He frowned at the southern end of the ridge where it fell away to the village of Crécy. That would be the easiest place for the French to attack, and the closest too, which meant the fight would be hard there. 'Guns, William,' he said to the Earl of Northampton.

'Guns, sire?'

'We'll have the guns on the flanks. Bloody things have to be useful some time!'

'We could roll the things down the hill, sire, perhaps? Maybe crush a man or two?'

The King laughed and rode on. 'Looks like rain.'

'It should hold off a while,' the Earl of Warwick answered. 'And the French may hold off too, sire.'

'You think they won't come, William?'

The Earl shook his head. 'They'll come, sire, but it'll take them time.
A lot of time.
We might see their vanguard by noon, but their rearguard will still be crossing the bridge in Abbeville. I'll wager they'll wait till tomorrow morning to make a fight.'

'Today or tomorrow,' the King said carelessly, 'it's all the same.'

'We could march on,' the Earl of Warwick suggested.

'And find a better hill?' The King smiled. He was younger and less experienced than many of the earls, but he was also the King and so the decision must rest with him. He was, in truth, filled with doubts, but knew that he must look confident. He would fight here. He said as much and said it firmly.

'We fight here,' the King said again, staring up the slope. He was imagining his army there, seeing it as the French would see it, and he knew his suspicion was right that the lowest part of the ridge, close to Crécy, would be the dangerous ground. That would be his right flank, close under the mill. 'My son will command on the right,' he said, pointing, 'and you, William, will be with him.'

'I will, sire,' the Earl of Northampton agreed.

'And you, my lord, on the left,' the King said to the Earl of Warwick. 'We shall make our line two-thirds of the way up the hill with archers in front and on the flanks.'

'And you, sire?' the Earl of Warwick asked.

'I shall be at the mill,' the King said, then urged his horse up the hill. He dismounted two-thirds of the way up the slope and waited for a squire to take the mare's reins,
then
he began the morning's real work. He paced along the hill, marking places by prodding the turf with his white staff and instructing the lords who accompanied him that their men would be here, or there, and those lords sent men to summon their commanders so that when the army marched to the long green slope they would know where to go.

'Bring the banners here,' the King ordered, 'and
place
them where the men are to assemble.'

He kept his army in the three battles that had marched all the way from Normandy. Two, the largest, would make a long, thick line of men-at-arms stretching across the upper reaches of the slope. 'They'll fight on foot,' the King ordered, confirming what every man had expected though one or two of the younger lords still groaned for there was more honour to be gained by fighting from horseback. But Edward cared more about victory than honour. He knew only too well that if his men-at-arms were mounted then the fools would make a charge as soon as the French attacked and his battle would degenerate into a brawl at the hill's foot that the French must win because they had the advantage of numbers. But if his men were on foot then they could not make a crazed charge against horsemen, but must wait behind their shields to be attacked. 'The horses are to be kept at the rear, beyond the ridge,' he commanded. He himself would command the third and smallest battle on the ridge's summit where it would be a reserve.

'You will stay with me, my lord bishop,' the King told the Bishop of Durham.

The bishop, armoured from nape to toes and carrying a massive spiked mace, bridled. 'You'll deny me a chance to break French heads, sire?'

'I shall let you weary God with your prayers instead,' the King said, and his lords laughed. 'And our archers,' the King went on, 'will be here, and here, and here.' He was pacing the turf and ramming the white staff into the grass every few paces. He would cover his line with archers, and mass more at the two flanks. The archers, Edward knew, were his one advantage. Their long, white-fledged arrows would do murder in this place that invited the enemy horsemen into the glorious charge. 'Here,' he stepped on and gouged the turf again, 'and here.'

'You want pits, sire?' the Earl of Northampton asked.

'As many as you like, William,' the King said. The archers, once they were gathered in their groups all along the face of the line, would be told to dig pits in the turf some yards down the slope. The pits did not have to be large, just big enough to break a horse's leg if it did not see the hole. Make enough pits and the charge must be slowed and thrown into disarray. 'And here,' the King had reached the southern end of the ridge, 'we'll park some empty wagons. Put half the guns here, and the other half at the other end. And I want more archers here.'

'If we've any left,' the Earl of Warwick grumbled.

'Wagons?' the Earl of Northampton asked.

'Can't charge a horse across a line of wagons, William,' the King said cheerfully, then beckoned his horse forward and, because his plate armour was so heavy, two pages had to half lift and half push him into the saddle. It meant an undignified scramble, but once he was settled in the saddle he looked back along the ridge that was no longer empty, but was dotted with the first banners showing where men would assemble. In an hour or two, he thought, his whole army would be here to lure the French into the archers' arrows. He wiped the earth from the butt of the staff,
then
spurred his horse towards Crécy. 'Let's see if there's any food,' he said.

The first flags fluttered on the empty ridge. The sky pressed grey across distant fields and woods. Rain fell to the north and the wind felt cold. The eastern road, along which the French must come, was deserted still. The priests prayed.

Take pity on us, O Lord, in Thy great mercy, take pity on us.

—«»—«»—«»—

The man who called himself the Harlequin was in the woods on the hill that lay to the east of the ridge that ran between Crécy and Wadicourt. He had left Abbeville in the middle of the night, forcing the sentries to open the northern gate, and he had led his men through the dark with the help of an Abbeville priest who knew the local roads. Then, hidden by beeches, he had watched the King of England ride and
walk
the far ridge. Now the King was gone, but the green turf was speckled with banners and the first English troops were straggling up from the village. 'They expect us to fight here,' he remarked.

'It's as good a place as any,' Sir Simon Jekyll observed grumpily. He did not like being roused in the middle of the night. He knew that the strange black-clad man who called himself the Harlequin had offered to be a scout for the French army, but he had not thought that all the Harlequin's followers would be expected to miss their breakfast and grope through a black and empty countryside for six cold hours.

'It is a ridiculous place to fight,' the Harlequin responded. 'They will line that hill with archers and we will have to ride straight into their points. What we should do is go round their flank.' He pointed to the north.

'Tell His Majesty that,' Sir Simon said spitefully.

'I doubt he will listen to me.' The Harlequin heard the scorn, but did not rise to it. 'Not yet. When we have made our name, then he will listen.' He patted his horse's neck. 'I have only faced English arrows once, and then it was merely a single archer, but I saw an arrow go clean through a mail coat.'

'I've seen an arrow go through two inches of oak,' Sir Simon said.

'Three inches,' Henry Colley added. He, like Sir Simon, might have to face those arrows today, but he was still proud of what English weapons could do.

'A dangerous weapon,' the Harlequin acknowledged, though in an unworried voice. He was ever unworried, always confident, perpetually calm, and that self-control irritated Sir Simon, though he was even more annoyed by the Harlequin's faintly hooded eyes which, he realized, reminded him of Thomas of Hookton. He had the same good looks, but at least Thomas of Hookton was dead, and that was one less archer to face this day. 'But archers can be beaten,' the Harlequin added.

Sir Simon reflected that the Frenchman had faced one archer in his whole life, yet had already worked out how to beat them.
'How?'

'You told me how,' the Harlequin reminded Sir Simon. 'You exhaust their arrows, of course. You send them lesser targets, let them kill peasants, fools and mercenaries for an hour or two,
then
release your main force. What we shall do,' he turned his horse away, 'is charge with the second line. It does not matter what orders we receive, we shall wait till the arrows are running out. Who wants to be killed by some dirty peasant? No glory there, Sir Simon.'

That, Sir Simon acknowledged, was true enough. He followed the Harlequin to the further side of the beech wood where the squires and servants waited with the packhorses. Two messengers were sent back with news of the English dispositions while the rest dismounted and unsaddled their horses. There was time for men and beasts to rest and feed, time to don the battle armour and time for prayer.

The Harlequin prayed frequently, embarrassing Sir Simon, who considered himself a good Christian but one who did not dangle his soul from God's apron strings. He said confession once or twice a year, went to Mass and bared his head when the Sacraments passed by, but otherwise he spared little thought for the pieties. The Harlequin, on the other hand, confided every day to God, though he rarely stepped into a church and had little time for priests. It was as though he had a private relationship with heaven, and that was both annoying and comforting to Sir Simon. It annoyed him because it seemed unmanly, and it comforted him because if God was of any use to a fighting man then it was on a day of battle.

This day, though, seemed special for the Harlequin, for after going down on one knee and praying silently for a while, he stood and ordered his squire to bring him the lance. Sir Simon, wishing they could stop the pious foolery and eat instead, presumed that they were expected to arm themselves and sent Colley to fetch his own lance, but the Harlequin stopped him. 'Wait,' he ordered.

The lances, wrapped in leather, were carried on a packhorse, but the Harlequin's squire fetched a separate lance, one that had travelled on its own horse and was wrapped in linen as well as leather. Sir Simon had assumed it was the Harlequin's personal weapon, but instead, when the linen was pulled from the shaft, he saw it was an ancient and warped spear made from a timber so old and dark that it would surely splinter if it was subjected to the smallest strain. The blade looked to be made of silver, which was foolish, for the metal was too weak to
make a killing
blade.

Sir Simon grinned. 'You're not fighting with that!'

'We are all fighting with that,' the Harlequin said and, to Sir Simon's surprise, the black-dressed man fell to his knees again. 'Down,' he instructed Sir Simon.

Sir Simon knelt, feeling like a fool.

'You are a good soldier, Sir Simon,' the Harlequin said. 'I have met few men who can handle weapons as you do and I can think of no man I would rather have fighting at my side, but there is more to fighting than swords and lances and arrows. You must think before you fight, and you must always pray, for if God is on your side then no man can beat you.'

Sir Simon, obscurely aware that he was being criticized, made the sign of the cross. 'I pray,' he said defensively.

'Then give thanks to God that we will carry that lance into battle.'

'Why?'

'Because it is the lance of St George, and the man who fights under the protection of that lance will be cradled in God's arms.'

Sir Simon stared at the lance, which had been laid reverently on the grass. There had been a few times in his life, usually when he was half drunk, when he would glimpse something of the mysteries of God. He

had
once been reduced to tears by a fierce Dominican, though the effect had not lasted beyond his next visit to a tavern, and he had felt shrunken the first time he had stepped into a cathedral and seen the whole vault dimly lit by candles, but such moments were few, infrequent and unwelcome. Yet now, suddenly, the mystery of Christ reached down to touch his heart. He stared at the lance and did not see a tawdry old weapon tricked with an impractical silver blade, but a thing of God-given power. It had been given by Heaven to make men on earth invincible, and Sir Simon was astonished to feel tears prick at his eyes.

'My family brought it from the Holy Land,' the Harlequin said, 'and they claimed that men who fought under the lance's protection could not be defeated, but that was not true. They were beaten, but when all their allies died, when the very fires of hell were lit to burn their followers to death, they lived. They left France and took the lance with them, but my uncle stole it and concealed it from us. Then I found it, and now it will give its blessings to our battle.'

Sir Simon said nothing. He just gazed at the weapon with a look close to awe.

Henry Colley, untouched by the moment's fervour, picked his nose.

'The world,' the Harlequin said, 'is rotting. The Church is corrupt and kings are weak. We have it in our power, Sir
Simon,
to make a new world, loved by God, but to do it we must destroy the old. We must take power ourselves,
then
give the power to God. That is why we fight.'