Fields of Glory (19 page)

A sickening crunch, and a man near Berenger disappeared as a rock crushed him. More bolts flew, and then he saw a great mass of French troops holding a barricade. Even as Berenger rallied the
men to move forward, another flight of bolts struck the front rank. They fell, and he had to step over the squirming, shrieking mass of their bodies to get to the enemy.

‘For the King! For England!’ he bellowed, and then he was trying to force his way forward.

But in the narrow streets, it was impossible to move. And as rocks and heavy bricks were hurled upon them from above, Berenger realised that this was a trap he could not escape.

Sir John de Sully was with the Earl of Warwick when the messenger rode up from the King.

‘The King asks that you pull those archers from the gates, my Lord,’ he gasped. ‘He fears to lose too many. Can you urge them to retreat?’

Warwick was already bowing to the Prince. ‘By your leave?’

‘Yes, go – and hurry,’ Edward of Woodstock said.

‘Sir John, with me,’ Warwick snapped, and the two hurried to their horses. They mounted and gathered their esquires and rode at a gallop down to the gate of the city, where they
pushed their way inside.

It was mayhem. A thick crush of men, and Sir John wielded his sword as spears were thrust at him and Aeton, but in the press, it was impossible to aim accurately and the assaults failed.

He bellowed at the top of his voice for the men to pull back, but it was impossible to make those at the front of the heaving mass of slashing, hacking men hear him. He pressed forward with the
men-at-arms, but in so doing, they were all soon engulfed by the battle. Barricades had been erected, and now the French were standing and making a furious defence at them. From his saddle, Sir
John could see the southern gate which led to the bridge and gave entry to the suburbs.

Swords rose and fell, stabbing, parrying and cutting at an enemy that seemed to grow by the minute. A lance snagged at his coat of plates, and he cut at it, uninjured. At every moment, more
Frenchmen were arriving – and when some fell, more took their places. Although he saw Genoese crossbowmen, they were wielding their weapons as hammers. He hoped that they were out of
bolts.

It was just as the Earl of Warwick had the horns blow for retreat that Sir John saw six English archers hurrying along the edge of the buildings. They held torches, and flung them into the
timbers and carts blocking the road. One bounced off, but the others began to ignite the barricades. A number of the French immediately set to throwing water on the flames, but as they ran to the
river with buckets, they weakened the defence.

There was an unearthly scream, and as he peered over the heads of the men in the mêlée, Sir John saw a Frenchman leap from the top of one of the fired buildings. He fell, still
shrieking, and landed on three English soldiers. The French gave a roar of defiance, but even as they did so, a small contingent of archers outflanked the barricades. Arrows fell in among them, and
with the extra Englishmen rushing to join the fray, the balance tipped.

His orders were to withdraw the archers, but Sir John saw the opportunity and seized it. He leaped from Aeton and rushed the barricades, sword in hand. With a cry of
‘For England, for
Saint Boniface!’
he sprang over the collapsing defences and began to attack the men behind. The Earl of Warwick was at his side, and the two were joined by more archers, pushing the
French back through the streets.

That was when Sir John saw before him the looming inner face of the wall and the gatehouse.

‘To the bridge!’ he roared, and heard the cry taken up on all sides.

‘To the bridge!’

Sir John fought with a cold deliberation. There was little enough space in the narrow streets: a man must block each blow aimed at him, while shoving and forcing the defenders
back.

Frenchmen tripped and fell, to be stabbed where they lay; men had their weapons fall from their hands as the blows of their assailants beat upon their heads, their arms, their shoulders. The men
fought in a mixture of human excrement and urine, blood and offal, all mingling with the filth of the roadway to make a slippery, foul mud.

Sir John glanced about him and saw that the Earl was heavily pressed, but even as he sought to run to his aid, Sir Richard Talbot rushed to help. The Earl was soon relieved, and the French
forced back by the fury of Talbot’s attack. In an instant more men followed him, and the enemy soldiers threatening Sir John were encircled. They fought on until the last man was cut down.
None asked for quarter.

They were at the bridge! Sir John hadn’t expected to reach it so quickly, but as he ran after Talbot, he realised that they were running beneath the arch of the gatehouse. There was a
little door, on which men were pounding with sword pommels and axes. French noblemen had rushed inside at the last moment, and the archers knew the value of a nobleman’s ransom.

Sir John didn’t care. Standing beyond the gates, he saw a man’s face, one of those from the vintaine, and then he saw Berenger too, wielding his sword with economy and accuracy.

The French on the bridge were fighting with the determination borne of despair. None wanted to give up: they would fight to the very last man.

Then he saw Welshmen pouring into the roadway
behind
the French. They were rushing along the bridge, and the French didn’t see their danger until it was too late and they were
hemmed in. Some tried to surrender, but were cut to pieces where they stood. The others fought on with grim resolve. They knew that there would be no prisoners taken today.

Berenger had fought all the way here, with Geoff roaring and slashing beside him, while Clip seemed to be possessed by a frenzy, spinning and striking like a berserker. Will
the Wisp was to his right, wielding his sword and dagger with lunatic disregard for his own safety.

The French were demoralised. They had expected to keep the English from their city. Their enemy’s sudden advance had shocked the citizens. Driven back, they fell over themselves to get to
the South Gate, and once there, their mistake was clear. They were attempting to hold the gates closed with timbers and the strength of their men, when the Welsh fell upon their rear.

Sodden from wading across the river, the Welsh fought with all their hearts, and the French defenders died not knowing which way to turn on the bridge’s tight-packed street.

Amidst the French fleeing or dying on the road before him, Berenger moved forward. With Geoff on one side, and Clip, Will and Jon close behind, he made his way across the bridge and into the
streets beyond.

Houses rose high overhead, some with jetties almost touching. There were shops and stalls here, and the English must fight whilst avoiding the dead and dying and the loose stones that lay
about.

The road ahead was blocked by a rampart of carts, boxes, barrels and anything else that could be collected. This barrier had been thrown together in panic as the English approached, and here the
fighting was brutal: a hand-to-hand combat that moved back and forth as men clung to each other, stabbing at any exposed body part, hacking with swords, knives and daggers. The injured must remain
standing, for the crush was so tight that those who fell were soon trampled to death.

Berenger grappled with a heavy-set warrior wielding an axe, and when the man fell, Berenger felt himself tumble forward also, in a welter of other men. The French barrier had collapsed, and
their defence with it. As soon as he was up again, Berenger bellowed his rallying cry.

In only a short time they were in the island town. The defenders melted away, and Berenger found himself panting in a road full of bodies. There was a moment’s calm as he bent, resting his
fists on his thighs, gazing about him.

His vintaine was all around him, while the fighting ahead mainly involved Welshmen throwing themselves into the fray, and fighting fearlessly. Occasionally a whistle and hiss would betray a
passing crossbow quarrel, some of which found their mark in hapless victims further along the roadway.

A stone was thrown from a house, crushing a man’s head, and a roar of defiance went up from the French. As he watched, Berenger saw a group of seven Genoese rise, all with spanned
crossbows. They fired a volley into the Welsh, and so close were they that almost all their missiles passed through their targets and injured more men behind.

‘’Ware the stone!’ Berenger heard, and Will shoved him in the back. He stumbled, only just avoiding a large rock which crashed into the ground where he had been standing.
Looking up, he saw two Frenchmen with a steel bar at the topmost level of the house, on the parapet of the wall, levering away the stones to send them tumbling onto the English below. A cold dread
entered his bowels.

‘Archers! Aloft!’ he commanded.

Clip was quickest, and his first arrow took the nearer man under his chin. The fellow’s head snapped up, and he danced on the dangerous wall for a moment, then dropped down. Before his
body hit the ground, the second man was pierced by three more arrows, and he disappeared.

‘Will: get more arrows. Send the Donkey,’ Berenger said tersely, and Will was gone, haring back through the streets as Berenger ducked into a doorway.

There was a regular clatter of rocks and stones now, and when Berenger peered from his hiding place, he saw a Welsh spearman hit by a rock. It crushed his head like a ripe cherry, shearing away
arm and shoulder. A second caught a man at his hip, and he fell, roaring with pain and disbelief. More crossbow bolts came flying down the street at belly-height, and Berenger saw two men thrown to
the ground.

Will was not gone for long. He rushed to Berenger’s side and ducked in, another quarrel missing him by mere inches.

‘Donkey’s fetching them,’ he gasped.

‘Good. We need to clear these bastard Genoese dogs,’ Berenger snarled.

Will nodded, but he couldn’t shoot from here without exposing himself. As another bolt hissed past, he took a deep breath and threw himself over to the other side of the road, slamming
into a doorway. From there he steadied his bow, an arrow nocked ready. There was a zip as a bolt hurtled past Berenger’s face and struck the doorframe.

For an instant, his heart stopped. Then he yelled, ‘Will someone please get that bastard?’

There was a flurry of arrows, and he heard screams. Peering from his doorway he saw two Genoese squirming in agony on the ground, while another lay dead beside them. Shouting, Berenger leaped
from his cover and pelted along the road. At a flash of movement, he ducked behind some barrels. He saw Clip and Will darting from the road as a flight of bolts hissed by. One man fell back against
the men behind him, a bolt impaling him through his mail shirt. He fell to his rump, mouth moving uselessly as he stared at the bolt, before his eyes rolled up and he died.

‘Heads down!’ Berenger bawled at the top of his voice, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Crossbows up there!’

Will was in a doorway and already had his bow ready. With his back to the wall, he bent his bow, peering for a target. At a movement, he loosed, and Berenger turned to see it fly, a flat
trajectory, and strike a man in the skull at the barricade. He went down with the arrow embedded, the fletchings projecting like a decorated splinter.

Behind Will, behind a pillar, Clip was grinning evilly as he peered down the length of another arrow. A man moved, Clip loosed his arrow, and the man fell with a shrill shriek, the cloth-yard in
the small of his back. Then the Genoese bowmen stood again. Berenger ducked back into the doorway

That was when he saw Ed running forward, his arms filled with sheaves of arrows.

‘No, Donkey, stop!’ he shouted, rising.

He saw Clip loose again, saw Will aiming – and then Will turned and saw the Donkey. He span, arms wide in warning, and Berenger was sure he heard Will’s voice . . . and then three
bolts struck Will, one after the other, in his buttock, his kidney, and one in his neck, and Will toppled to the ground, blood gushing from his mouth and nose.

Berenger stared, appalled. Will had been his friend for years. Berenger couldn’t believe he was dead, killed by a Genoese shit of a mercenary. A mist of raw fury came down over him, and
Berenger began to run, heedless of the bolts and stones flung at him. He clambered up the rampart and at the top he fought with a concentrated rage that brooked no impediment. A man before him cut
at Berenger with frantic despair, but Berenger caught his blade on his sword’s cross, dragged it down, punched him with his left fist, and shoved quickly with the blade. It sliced deep into
the man’s thigh, and he fell; another man was before him, and he held his sword like a man holding a snake, but Berenger’s cut took off his hand and wrist; another man was behind him,
and this one flew at him with a flurry of cuts like a whirling dancer – but a Welsh spearman behind Berenger stabbed at him, and the man fell with the blood pumping from his throat.

Berenger was over the rampart now, and killing, killing all the way. He kicked and punched, parried and cut, and when he reached a Genoese bowman, he took the man’s head off in one sweep
of his sword. All the way, he heard the wails and cries of terror as the English pursued the French through the streets. None had thought the English would reach this far, and there were no more
barricades, no defences of any kind. Utterly lost, the defenders ran hither and thither, chased by laughing men brandishing spears, swords, long knives or even clubs. The slaughter continued long
into the evening.