Defiant Unto Death (46 page)

When Blackstone went down again beneath a flurry of powerful blows, covered by his battered shield, Guillaume and Guinot and a dozen others forced their way forward to encircle his body in defence. Killbere reached down, heaved Blackstone to his feet and the fighting went on relentlessly. Blackstone and Killbere's men finally closed the breach. Along the English front line the dead lay heaped and the wounded writhed, but no one stepped forward to end their suffering.

And then, mercifully, after hours of slaughter, the French advance faltered.

Killbere raised his visor, gasping for air. Blackstone sucked lungfuls into his heaving chest. Both, like those around them, were soaked in sweat and blood. It was a strange, unsettling near-silence that lay across them. Distant shouts and muted cries were as clear as bird calls.

‘We need water,' Guillaume said, pulling free his bascinet, wiping a blood-smeared hand across his face, his body trembling from exhaustion.

‘There is none. Not here,' Blackstone said. He pointed with his sword towards the enemy. ‘They've got the water. If we want it, that's where we have to go.'

‘Merciful God,' Killbere said. ‘We've stopped them. We stopped the bastards.' He laughed and looked at the survivors around him; most were on their knees, exhausted by the combat. Killbere stayed upright, leaning on his sword. French trumpets sounded across the narrow valley. In the distance they could see there were banners leaving the field.

‘The Dauphin,' Blackstone said.

‘Bastard's taking his men …' said Killbere, watching the King's eldest son disappear behind the massed troops of the other French divisions.

‘No … King's taking him out of harm's way …' said Blackstone, his parched mouth making it difficult to speak. His eyes searching for the man he thought he had seen.

‘No! Look! Goddammit, Thomas, they're running for home!'

Other banners and pennons followed the Dauphin's. ‘The Duke of Orléans takes Poitiers and Anjou with him! Their whole second line has gone!' Killbere grinned and roared with others as the sense of victory swept the English lines. Hundreds of men broke ranks and ran forward, knifing the badly wounded, pulling knights' jewel-encrusted belts from their bodies, scavenging for plunder among the fallen. Voices of command went up and down the line.

‘Stand fast! Stand fast. Commanders!'

Blackstone added his voice: ‘Men! Back in line. They're not finished yet.'

Meulon and Perinne grabbed men's tunics, hauling them back into line as Gaillard prodded others with the blunt end of his spear shaft. The respite they felt was quickly dashed.

The trumpets' cacophony blared again, this time to a different sound. The English had fought only a small segment of the French army. The King himself now advanced, bringing thousands of fresh troops with him.

Blackstone's gaze settled on the wall of pavisers, the huge shields protecting the Genoese crossbowmen that came behind them.

‘Sweet Jesus, Thomas. I fear it's the end,' said Killbere.

The Oriflamme advanced, wavering above the mass of bodies, bringing the promise of death without mercy ever closer to the English ranks, whose resolve began to falter as the fresh troops steadily came on, their drums and trumpets heralding victory.

‘Killbere, say something. Speak to the men,' Blackstone said wearily.

‘I'm too damned tired,' Killbere admitted.

The moment was saved by Prince Edward, his mail coif pulled free from his fair hair as he rode bareheaded along the lines, his royal standard flying so all would know him, and with it the billowing cross of Saint George. The lions of England and the lilies of France emblazoned on shield and surcoat smudged the grey sky as the war horse bore him across the ranks of his beleaguered men. Edward raised his sword and miraculously the French trumpets fell silent for a few moments and in that eerie peace the Prince's voice carried clearly across the hillside.

‘Yet still they offer themselves for slaughter. They march onto our swords. We must grant them their desire. Let the river take their blood to the sea so that if God ever gives fish the power of speech – they will speak in French!'

Men's laughter broke the spell of exhaustion.

‘They will have no victory while I am alive! I do not command cowards! We are a nation of men who cannot be conquered by these French. They are already broken, they already flee – it is their final act of desperation. Stand fast and be ready for victory!'

Blackstone and Killbere were no different from the thousands of men who raised their weapons and gave voice in answer to their Prince's command. And the closer the fleur-de-lys came, the sooner Blackstone could have his revenge. The French trumpets called the advance for the great swathe of men to move forward.

And the French King whom Blackstone had sworn to kill, marched with them.

English and Welsh archers shot their final volleys into the French flanks, but their lack of arrows meant the enemy came ever closer until finally they reached the English lines. For the first time the archers could not kill enough of their enemy to stop a full assault.

Cries of ‘
Pas de quartier!
No mercy! No mercy!' echoed across the French ranks as the English went down beneath the weight of their assault, butchered where they fell. The Oriflamme would burn their souls in hell. No prisoners were taken. Every man who opposed the King of France would die.

‘Elfred! Will! Here! With me!' Blackstone screamed. The French were upon them. Their sheaves empty, archers threw down their bows and armed themselves with sword and dagger and threw themselves forward. Some hurled stones and then wrestled the French to the ground where, like a pack of wolves, they savaged their victims to death. The horror showed no sign of ending.

English defiance took hold and broke the French into fragmented groups so that they were attacked and killed from all sides. And they in turn were granted no mercy. Meulon and Gaillard formed shield walls – a few men standing shoulder to shoulder – to deflect attacks on the archers. Guillaume was swallowed by the thrashing blows around him, but Blackstone was helpless to reach him, constrained by the weight of men eager to lay claim to killing the scar-faced knight. Killbere and Guinot smashed their way through and then Guillaume was once again on his feet. Brief, unnatural lulls as men died, retreated or, through exhaustion, simply stopped fighting, gave vital moments of rest. Blackstone could see the French King's standard still flying, but there were hundreds of men between him and the man he had vowed to kill.

‘Sir Thomas!' Perinne shouted, pointing across the tangled conflict. The flag of Saint George was being carried around the French left flank. They were English horsemen. Edward had sent Jean de Grailly and a mounted unit to outflank the French and attack their rear. Now a different fear gripped Blackstone. No matter how few the horsemen, they could cut through French ranks and reach the King. Blackstone's prize could be taken from him. He turned back. In the distance behind his own lines he saw English banners where other men-at-arms ran for their horses. Prince Edward was gambling on the outcome of the battle by taking men from the line for a mounted attack.

Blackstone ran for his horse. Guinot was with him, both men's lungs heaving from the effort.

‘Stay with the shield wall!' Blackstone yelled at him.

‘Never, Sir Thomas! Not today! Not now!' The old soldier glared, daring his sworn lord to deny him a chance to strike at the heart of the enemy. Blackstone had promised him a fight and he meant to have his day.

Blackstone knew it too. He nodded. English trumpets sounded, sending the Prince's defiance rolling like a thunderstorm through the forest.

Men stayed locked in the death struggles of the battle; others were galloping down the hill's contour. Blackstone and Guinot led a group of men who caught up with them, and they in turn joined others. A gathering wave of violence swept downhill as men-at-arms hurtled pell-mell into the French. The attack struck their rear and flanks, and as English and Gascon infantry surged against them, they began to break. The French army fought for every inch of blood-soaked ground. English knights were pulled from the saddle, French lances, cut to five-foot lengths for ground fighting, speared men and horses.

Blackstone's bastard horse trampled men underfoot, its adrenaline giving it irresistible power. He abandoned any hope of restraining it; lathered in sweat, teeth bared and nostrils flared, it smashed anyone in its path – a path that led to the French King's standard. Blackstone brandished Wolf Sword. The banner was sixty yards away, surrounded by knights fighting hard to keep it aloft. Where was the King? A bodyguard of men wearing black armour and white surcoats marked with fleurs-de-lys surrounded the flags. The King was hidden among these men, wearing the same surcoat. They yielded to no one and no English knight could break their position. One French knight fought ferociously with a battleaxe.

Blackstone heard Guinot's voice rise over the noise of the fighting. ‘The standard! Seize it! Take it down!'

He was too far ahead for Blackstone to guard him and Guinot was unhorsed; he swept aside lesser men and plunged forward on foot towards the King's standard and the Oriflamme
.
His mace struck the helmet from the axeman's head. It was the King. The blow rocked him, but he steadied himself as the bodyguard of black-armoured men rallied and slew the aggressor. Blackstone watched helplessly as Guinot went down under a flurry of blows, beaten and stabbed to death, not knowing that he had almost slain the French King. The bareheaded monarch bled from a head wound, but still swung the axe, scything a deadly arc.

Two Frenchmen ran at Blackstone, their lances ramming his shield. The force of his own horse's forward momentum threw him from the saddle. In an instant his back slammed down, but luck was with him. He fell onto bodies that broke his fall, and the men who tried to press home their attack stumbled on the corpses. Blackstone's shield took the first blow, its impact lessened by their poor footing. He rammed the first man with the shield's rim, catching his chin and seeing the jaw shatter and teeth vomit through the blood. The second man was already too close to turn his blade against so he bore the pain of the mace that glanced from helmet to shoulder and back-handed him with Wolf Sword's pommel. It crunched against the man's temple, which dented like a cracking egg. His eyes rolled, his knees buckled, and Blackstone knew he was already dead.

An opening appeared before him in a broken line of fighting men. Thirty paces away the bareheaded axeman turned and gazed directly at him. The King of France recognized the man sworn to kill him. Ranks closed, but the English were there in force. The knight grasping the Oriflamme went down under a vicious attack he had no hope of countering. The sacred battle flag toppled. Blackstone was clawing his way forward, heart pounding, ears deafened by screams and shouts, his eyes locked on his prey. Snared in the scattered sounds an Englishman's voice called:
Yield! Yield, sire! Yield! The day is ours!

French knights lowered their weapons.

Twenty paces
.

The King had one hand on a young man's shoulder: his youngest son. There was no need for him to die. King John's courage could not be questioned. He had fought to the end.

Ten paces
.

He turned and saw Blackstone pushing his way forward, then offered his gauntlet to a knight.

The King had surrendered.

Five
.

Englishmen turned and faced a grunting, scar-faced knight, sword raised, ready to strike. The old warrior Cobham was at the King's side with Warwick. He yelled to Blackstone, sword arm gesturing, a look of panic on his face – but the words could not penetrate Blackstone's rage. The King of France took a step backward, a protective arm around his son, as several English knights grappled with Thomas Blackstone, throwing him to the ground, pressing him into the blood-drenched soil. Blackstone could do no more. He offered no further resistance. His blood-smeared blade lay next to his face, still held by the blood knot on his wrist, and the swordsmith's mark, the running wolf, etched on his soul as indelibly as it was on the hardened steel.

In the distance the abbey's bells rang out the midday call to prayer. The battle had lasted more than seven hours.

Men left the field to treat their wounds, to find food and water and then sleep away the fatigue that the battle had exacted upon them all. Scavengers from nearby villagers went among the fallen and stripped whatever of value they could find. The thousands of soldiers and men-at-arms who lay dead were left to rot. Only the noblemen's bodies were recovered and laid to rest in nearby cemeteries. The English Prince and the King of France dined in the royal pavilion as others haggled over the ransoms to be paid by the captured nobles. The prisoners would have to be kept at their captor's expense until the money was paid, and that could take years. Better that a price was agreed and the Frenchman released with the promise not to bear arms until his debt was paid. The fortunate few who had captured men of great rank sold their prisoners to the Prince, who would make a handsome profit when the ransoms were eventually settled.

Killbere trudged back to where Blackstone waited. His horse had been injured, but he had sewn its wound and dressed it with salve and, provided the beast was not asked to ride hard for a few days, it would heal. A war horse was a great expense and its well-being was vital for a knight left with nothing but that and his skill as a fighter. The only glimmer of satisfaction Blackstone could rescue from his failure was that he and his horse had survived.

Killbere made his way through the lines to the marshlands where Blackstone sat using the shallow water to bathe the deep bruises and welts from the blows he had taken. Guillaume smeared the same horse salve across his master's back where wounds had broken the skin.