The Lucifer Sanction (22 page)

Under the glowing light of the embers, Bell took
a mental snapshot of the two standing in a handshake
position; one French – the other English. She pondered
the stupidity of this war, of the one hundred years of bitter
conflict between each knight’s home-land. She thought of
her own times, of Afghanistan, of Israel,
we’ve made no
progress
, she thought,
some things never change.

CHAPTER TWENTY
Leap of Faith
September 19, 1356

On September 19, 1356, English forces under the
command of Edward Prince of Wales were about to deliver
the second of three devastating defeats on the French.

It began decades earlier when England and
France fought for control of ancestral held English fiefs
in Normandy and Guyenne. The struggle evolved into a
war over territory and the rule of France, a struggle that
spanned over one hundred years.

Edward’s forces enjoyed success in land and sea
battles, and in 1346 dealt a crippling blow to the French
at the Battle of Crécy. A peace treaty and the first major
outbreak of the pandemic slowed the war to a crawl
following Crécy, and in 1355 King Edward III resumed
England’s campaign against the French.

Edward divided his armies, hoping to keep the
French off guard, to keep them from massing their forces
in one location. As Henry, Duke of Lancaster, engaged the
French in Normandy, Edward laid siege to Calais.

Later to be known as the Black Prince, Edward was
to set out with his Anglo-Gascon army on a chevauchée,
a favored English tactic of the day, a strategy wreaking
havoc on French populace. A chevauchée consisted of
advancing English forces burning towns and crops and
looting anything of value, leaving French farmers without
crops and subsequently with no produce to sell, no way
to pay their taxes, and no taxes of course - meant no war
funding. It was a catch twenty-two for John, the French
king.

Raids by the English led French peasants to question the authority of their government - question its ability
to protect them, especially as there had been very little
opposition mounted by French forces to the English looting
and pillaging.

Outside the quite town of Poitiers the armies
gathered to do battle on September 19, 1356. Three of
Edward’s divisions dismounted in readiness, the forward
two under the command of the Earls of Salisbury and
Warwick. The backup reserve division was under Edward’s
command, while Jean de Grailly led a highly skilled group
of handpicked English cavalry.

The formation was typical of the battle plan
employed by the English in previous encounters. Their
infantry was so well equipped with longbows and was far
superior to the cumbersome French knights. The French,
unable to withstand a shower of rapidly fired English
arrows made easy targets, and this tactic set the scene for
the majority of English victories of the 14th century.

Blake’s eyes darted about, scanning the mass of
warriors, looking about as men scurried to take up positions.
The scene was terrifying as thousands of arrows rained
down on horsemen, soldiers falling, horses agonizing,
pin cushions with little to protect them from vertically
descending missiles.

“We’ve gotta figure out how . . .” No sooner had
Blake uttered the words than another onslaught of arrows
thumped into the ground around them

Nicholas leaped from his mount and shoved Blake
to the ground, quickly huddled over him with his shield
forming a shelter. Arrows bounced off as Dal quickly took
up a position alongside the pair. Blake shouted to Bell as she
chose took cover tightly pressed against a fallen charger, its
legs quivering as remnants of life messed with its nervous
system.

Nicholas gestured behind them. “We have the
woods to protect our backs,” he yelled. “The French can
only advance on us from . . .” and he pointed ahead then
off to his right.

Bell turned to Dal. “I wish I’d gone to Brantôme
with Maurice, it’s such a peaceful place.”
Dal thought about it for a minute. “I’d like to see
that.” He let the image go and gazed at reality. “We’ve gotta
get out of here.”
It was their last peaceful exchange. The two forward divisions of English formed wide columns of foot
soldiers, flanked by bowmen and archers filling the skies
with English arrows that pelted down on screaming French
forces, striking them from both front and sides - forcing the
charging French into a funnel formation.
They crowded onto each other in panic, sheltering
from the aerial onslaught. Crammed as they were, shoulder
to shoulder, they had no room to swing their weapons and
absolutely no room to raise their crossbows.
Numbering in excess of twenty thousand, the
French moved forward like ants streaming endlessly
toward Edwards archers who stood up to the onslaught.
They responded to the French attack by firing an arrow
every eight seconds.
Blake pointed at the charging forces and called to
Sir Nicholas, “We haven’t a chance – they outnumber us
three to one.”
The leading French division under the command
of Clermont and Audrehem was made up of two small
groups, each consisting of two hundred and fifty riders.
The remainder dismounted and fought on foot. This was
not their forte and the tactic would prove fateful.
The Duke of Normandy meanwhile led the second,
third, and fourth divisions, along with the Duke of Orleans
and the French King respectively. The Black Prince made a
bold and unexpected decision as the French trudged across
the field toward the English ranks. He ordered his army
out from behind the hedge, raised his sword, and made a
howling shout. “No Prisoners!”
Blake and Dal stood, and each gave a bewildered
look to Nicholas. There was a long pause and Bell moved
quickly to the knight’s side. “Why are we leaving this area?”
Bell asked. “We’re safe here, the hedge is protecting us.”
Dal added, “We’ve gotta stay back, we sure as hell
don’t need to be involved in this.”
Bell nodded as all four dropped low and flurries of
arrows flew by, zapping over their heads and into the trees
to their rear.
A French rider shot by, precariously hanging in the
saddle, and Blake watched as Nicholas leaped to his feet
and made a thrust at the man, sending him tumbling into a
pile of fallen bowmen. He watched the horse bolt down the
field, hurdling the fallen until it too fell prey to a thunder
of arrows, its legs giving way as it crashed to the ground,
quivering. Dead.
Blake caught the indecision on Nicholas’s face as
he wiped blood from his sword. Dal wiped a blood-splatter
from his tunic. He took in the scale of annihilation that
encircled him. “It looks like there’s four French to each
Englishman lying around us.” He grimaced, squatted below
a large French shield and shouted to Bell, “How far to that
place! What’s it called – Brantôme?”
Mansfield pointed at the French who were now
drawing nearer than any point of the battle. “Brantôme
lies beyond our reach. Our position behind this hedge is
more suited for fighting their mounted troops.” He pointed
his sword northward. “They have dismounted and are
advancing on foot. They can penetrate the marsh and will
be through this hedge within minutes.” He gestured to Bell
and Dal. “You cannot stay here like cowering children.”
Knowing the French intended to attack his archers
with massed cavalry, Edward ordered each archer to carve
an eight foot long stake into a sharply pointed end and to
drive the stakes into the ground at an angle that would
impale a charging horse. The air was darkened by another
surge of arrows ripping across the sky. They produced a
deafening noise as missiles rained down on the French
lines. They fired ten flights each minute and by the time
the first landed, another flight was air born. The French
cavalry charged amidst the noise of confused Frenchmen
and injured animals, followed closely by the first line of
dismounted men-at-arms. It took almost a full minute for
French horsemen to cover the distance to the English lines,
enough time for a further four volleys of arrows to rain
down on the advancing French.
The French charge was severely undermanned as it
was caught by the ferocity of the English assault. Unable to
flank the archers they’d no choice other than a predictable
frontal assault.
They didn’t see the stakes.
Those who survived the arrows were impaled as
their mounts crashed headlong into the thicket of spikes.
Survivors, now retreating in disarray were cut down
by further volleys of English arrows. Horses crazed and
uncontrollable and with no space to maneuver caused havoc
as they crashed into their own advancing footmen. To add
further disarray to the French advance, their cavalry charge
was severely hindered by marshland. As the distance closed,
the trajectory of the English arrows lowered, allowing for
the use of arrows fixed with Bodkin points designed to
penetrate armor. Bowmen were now firing directly at their
targets.
As the field narrowed to one hundred and fifty
yards, the French forces became compacted by those on
the flanks who’d shied away from the hail of arrows. Fallen
French presented obstacles to those advancing and by the
time they’d arrived at the English line there was insufficient
room to fight freely.
The English pressed forward, easily cutting through
their attackers. A tumbling effect developed. The French
were pushed from behind as their front lines were forced
back onto their own men. As their line spilled out towards
the English archers, the archers downed their bows and
grabbed swords, axes and other weapons, including those
dropped by the French. As one or two attacked the French
men-at-arms, a third maneuvered behind and slashed at
parts least protected by armor. Exhausted knights were
easily dispatched by a blade thrust through the grills of a
faceplate or a gap in the armor.
The slightly injured were unable to rise through
exhaustion as the weight of armor holding them in muddied
ground. They were trampled underfoot by the forward surge
of their own forces now advancing from the rear.
The English rushed headlong over the last few
yards. The disorderly French line’s artillery had been
reduced to a position of impotence by lack of a clear field
of fire. French archers and crossbowmen, clearly outclassed
by the faster, longer and more accurate rate of fire of the
English longbow, were pushed out of position by their own
retreating men-at-arms. By the time the French had reached
the English line they’d lost all momentum.
Nicholas, Blake, Bell, and Dal moved with compulsion through the foray despite the threatening clouds
crowding the skies above Poitiers. The echo of clashing
swords continued to shatter the air like a thousand
blacksmiths beating on anvils. The fog quickly thickened
as the panicking French crossbowmen, now depleted of
arrows, ran blindly through the white shroud.
Horses lost their footing in blood-drenched mud as
they stumbled to hurdle bodies of slain soldiers lying piled
three and four high. Charging English knights thrashed
with broadswords as their breastplates became splattered
with blood, pieces of flesh and sinew.

Gardner Hunter peered into the hoard of sword
swinging madmen and fought the urge to waste a single
shot from his two clips. His fingers felt the Sig as he stayed
low alongside a quivering horse, its body pricked by a
dozen arrows. He looked about at the battle, at carnage
some one hundred yards from his position.

Hunter’s progress was hindered by a French soldier
as he stumbled about in a final attempt to escape the routing.
The soldier raised his eyes at the man in English colors and
made a lunge as Hunter whipped the sword from his belt,
sidestepped and drove the blade into the man’s stomach.

Blake swung his axe at a mounted soldier and
missed. The Frenchman slammed into Blake. He tumbled
to the ground hard and grabbed a nearby shield and held it
over his head. Bell quickly retrieved a lance, swung it about,
struck the rider’s head and dislodged him from the saddle.
He landed alongside Blake who rolled away anticipating
the soldier’s continued attack – but the Frenchman’s glare
was lifeless – dead eyes staring at the dark sky - mouth
agape – blood trickling from a small hole in his forehead.

Blake shouted as another French knight raised his
sword behind Dal who lifted an arm to block the sword
and as he cowered in readiness for the blow a neat hole
appeared in the knight’s temple and he collapsed forward
across Dal’s feet and he was very dead.

Moreau and Campion scrambled through the
marshland landscape. Moreau’s eyes zapped about confused
at the sudden commotion to the rear of them. English
soldiers stumbling over the fallen and indiscriminately
jabbed broadswords at men lying impaled with arrows.

Moreau scrambled, fell, rolled onto his stomach,
came to rest eye to eye with a wounded French archer, who
seeing the Englishman, resurrected himself made a death
lunge toward Moreau. Dom rolled away, muddied and
covered in what he thought to be sinew and pieces of flesh.
Mine
, he thought. He gave his body a frantic once over,
realized the blood and whatever had belonged to a horse, or
perhaps another soldier. Knowing he suffered no wounds
gave him renewed vigor and with that thought he sprinted
away from the horrific bloodbath. Campion turned, looked
about, and with one foot still firmly on a swordsman’s
chest, plunged his blade into the Frenchman and quickly
darted off in Moreau’s direction.

Dom Moreau sprint slowed to a stumbling pace.
He seemed dazed, moving forward partly blinded by
fear, partly panic. He covered his moves with his shield;
bumping away men engaged in hand to hand struggles as
he edged his way through the mêlée with disregard for
uniform or allegiance. Colors were now too concealed
by blood to differentiate English from French. Campion
followed Moreau’s movement across the field, and after a
hundred yards realized his own strength was waning.