Fields of Glory (45 page)

There were two main forces, one flag neither recognised, while the second was familiar to both of them.

‘John of Hainault! I’d like to get my hands round his throat, the back-sliding, dishonest, treacherous git,’ Grandarse said with feeling.

Berenger couldn’t disagree. John of Hainault had been the King’s ally until recently, but there was no honour in the man’s soul. He would go wherever he thought he would gain
the most. And right now, that was with the French.

In the course of their march, more men-at-arms had joined the English, and now there were over a hundred knights and esquires riding with the archers. It was good to see so many with them, but
viewing the men ranged against them, Berenger felt his belly contract. It was his own, personal premonition of disaster.

Sir John de Sully listened as the Earl discussed with his captains how best to force the French from their path. In the end, the Earl’s view prevailed. The archers were
placed in two triangular formations on either side of the road, and they were ordered to begin loosing their missiles as soon as the men-at-arms were ready.

Sitting in the saddle with his back resting against the cantle, Sir John eyed the enemy shrewdly. ‘Easy, Aeton,’ he said, patting the beast’s neck. ‘Not long
now.’

There were so many of them! Too many. Men-at-arms of all ranks waited on horseback, while before them stood foot-soldiers armed with pikes, lances and bills. They would be able to defend
themselves without trouble. There was a slightly weaker point in the line over to the right, he noticed, where the English might be able to charge through . . . but even as he thought this, more
packed the space.

Usually, he would aim to charge, force a way through, and cause havoc behind their lines. A few knights ranging widely behind an army could quickly destroy what confidence that force originally
held. But today, to break through that rigid-looking line would be almost impossible.

He let his eyes move over the men at either side, wondering how their courage would hold.

It was a simple fact that Englishmen were better trained and tested in war. That did not mean that the French were not equally bold and courageous, only that the English could sometimes perform
prodigious feats of arms against overwhelming odds. All had heard of the brilliant efforts of men like Sir Walter Manny and Sir Thomas Dagworth. No one could be in any doubt as to the worth of
Englishmen in war, but that did not mean that they were invincible. The French possessed more knights, more men-at-arms, more foot-soldiers and more weapons than the English. And the English were
tired. They had been marching for weeks already, and with few provisions over recent miles, while the French could rely on every town or city for resupply.

It was not a comforting thought.

There was a horn blast, taken up by many others. Sir John gripped his lance, staring up at the strong shaft, assessing its strength. If the wood was strong, with a straight grain, the weapon
would do.

A second blast, and the first men began to move off down the hill. The shallow gradient would give them no great advantage, but every element that could support them must be used.

The Earl had picked his position with skill – a sweeping plain leading to the French cavalry, with no woods or hedges in which to conceal crossbowmen or an ambush. With luck, they would
have a clear ride to the French. There they could fight, and in an open battle, Sir John was content to think that an Englishman against three French were reasonable odds. The English had a hotter
fire in the belly than their enemies.

‘Forward!’ the cries came, and his mount was already trotting. He held Aeton back. As ever, it was vital that all should ride as a single force, striking their targets in one
massive, shattering pack.

The enemy were moving too, men and horses jogging gently up to meet the English. A dusty mist rose from their hooves. The ground here was, for once, dry and unaffected by the marshland that
soaked so much of this land. Sir John was glad of that. He detested marshland and bog. It was disturbing to riders and horses alike. A charger crossing a mire could stumble or fall very easily.

This was no time to worry about how the beasts would cope with the ground, he chided himself. His attention must be fixed entirely on the charge and making sure that his team worked well with
the rest of the knights and esquires. He cast one quick, final glance round to make sure that Richard was on his station, a little behind and to Sir John’s left, protecting his flank, while
Simon was there a few yards behind, riding the second destrier in case Aeton was killed or injured in the initial press.

But that was all he had time for – and then they were riding for the French.

Sir John could feel the great muscles coiling in Aeton’s back and thighs, and the sense of power that exuded from the charger’s body was thrilling. The air was in his face, and there
was a ripple and crack from the flags and pennants as the men rode, and a metallic rasp as a coat of plates moved against a mail shirt. All the sounds of an army moving into battle mingled in his
mind and were soon drowned out by the steady thundering of hooves beating at the ground in a threnody for the dead.

Aeton knew his position and his task. He lowered his head, shaking his mane, and increased his pace as the English began to charge. Sir John must merely maintain his seat and grip his lance. And
then there was a ripple of light as the knights and esquires lowered their lance-points, and his too came down to point at a man hundreds of feet from him.

Sir John felt the old exultation, as though his entire being was thrilling with the glory of the moment.

But then a jolt hit him from his left. A man and horse had thundered into him. His lance was pushed from his target, and Aeton was slammed aside.

The charge was wrecked!

Berenger saw the disaster from his vantage point as he loosed his arrows.

A rank of Genoese archers riposted, and there was a rattle and crash as many English men-at-arms were felled. Horses reared and plunged, their riders clinging to them as the barbs of the
quarrels stung. The Genoese were aiming for the brutes rather than the knights. Bring down their destriers, and the knights were helpless.

Sir John and his esquire were both at the fore as the English knights charged, and Berenger caught a glimpse of their lances dropping, ready to spit their enemies, but even as they did so, a
man-at-arms behind them was hit in the breast. The quarrel stood out like an obscene splinter, and he tried to pull at it. It must have been enormously painful.

As he struggled with the foul missile, the rider’s horse drifted across the rest of the knights, crashed into Sir John’s steed, distracting Richard and knocking both men into the
soldiers beside them. At the crucial moment, just as the charge was developing, the mass of horses and men that should have slammed into the enemy as a coherent, solid unit, was broken into a
series of small groups that eddied about the French line like ripples of water cast against rock. Their gallop was ineffective, and they were forced to cast aside their lances and resort to
war-hammers, axes and swords, hacking and beating at the men in the line, trying desperately to break through.

Then Berenger saw an opportunity. He discarded his bow and pulled out his sword.
‘To me! Archers! To me!’
he roared. And with that, he began running to the men struggling in
the roadway.

Sir John wheeled and thundered on again.

He glimpsed a man ahead – a Frenchman in a garish red and green tunic, who was racing to meet him . . . and then the man was only yards away and Sir John felt an enormous punch at his
right shoulder, and he was rocked back against the cantle. His spear was cracked along its length, and snapped, and he saw a brief burst of livid red as his spear embedded itself in the man’s
breast.

As the second wave of French riders appeared in front of him, he tugged at his sword, hacking down at a hand that appeared too near to his saddle, and then at a face; more men were before him,
and he clapped spurs to Aeton. The great brute reared, hooves flailing, and Sir John saw a man’s head crushed, while another took the full force of Aeton’s weight on his chest. The
charger dropped again, and Sir John felt Aeton’s legs propel them forward into the press.

It was a grand mêlée, the sort of battle a knight would dream of. Men cut at each other, with barely space to wield their weapons. Some hewed without seeing more than a momentary
glimpse of an enemy, and hoped their blows would not go astray. Others were heedless, striking friends and foe alike, driven by an insane rage against any who could dare stand against them. Some
were petrified with horror and fear, beshitten, squealing within their visored helmets, while others sang with the pure joy of it. This was what men were born for: to fight and die.

Sir John had seen enough battles. He neither sang nor screamed. His sole purpose was to win through this battle and see the next. He rode from one place to another, using Aeton’s mass to
blunder men aside, driving his enemies before him with his sword, or his war-hammer, if they came up on his left side.

Two ringing buffets hit his helmet, and he felt the metal slam against the thick, padded war-coif he wore beneath. The first blow nearly forced him from his saddle, the second was enough to
knock his helmet crooked, but he ducked away and pushed it up again. When he turned, he saw that a Frenchman had been thrown from his horse by Richard. His esquire held up a fist in salute, before
the two hurried towards a fresh enemy.

There was a knight beside him now, a man whom Sir John vaguely remembered – his arms were more easily brought to mind than his face – who suddenly erupted with blood. A crossbow bolt
had slammed between the bars of his visor, and he fell to the ground, his armour clattering. His horse continued on, eyes wild and rolling, careless of his danger. The knight in front of Sir John
– Sir Lawrence of Evesham, he recalled – reeled in his saddle, arms outstretched like a man crucified. An esquire rode past him on a charger, screaming as the blood pumped from a great
wound in his neck, showering all in his path.

The obscene fantasy continued. A man stood on the ground before him, shaking his arm with futile horror. The forearm and hand were missing, and with every flail, blood was spattered onto the men
about him. Sir John shoved his sword at a face, but even as he felt his blade clash uselessly on the side of the fellow’s helmet, missing the flesh completely, he felt the resounding crash as
a war-hammer cracked against the back of his own helmet. He almost fell from Aeton, but had just enough will to keep his place in the saddle; and then Aeton kicked, and when he glanced, Sir John
saw that the great destrier’s hooves had caught a man’s thigh and the flank of his horse, crushing them. The French man-at-arms was slumped from shock and agony, and Sir John could see
the greyish-white bone protruding from his hosen.

With his head pounding, Sir John roared his defiance, and spurred Aeton into the press once more.

The Earl and his bodyguard had found a weak point and were exploiting it. Berenger made straight for them, the breath burning his throat. His lungs were on fire, and his legs
were wooden and clumsy from marching and lack of food. Before he was halfway there, his foot skidded on a patch of loose pebbles, and he nearly fell, jarring his ankle. After that, he had to move
more slowly as a stabbing pain rose into his calf.

It was the delay that saved his life. When he looked again at the front line, disaster had struck.

The archers had streamed off ahead of him, and he was hobbling after them, when he saw them race back towards him. Some had their bows with them still, and these few halted and began to fire.
Others threw theirs aside and simply fled.

The French had unleashed a wave of their own cavalry. Most thundered at the English men-at-arms, but a large number were making straight for the despised archers, and as he stared, dumbstruck,
he saw men flung up into the air, screaming, their arms and legs moving like strange, inhuman creatures.