Master of War (20 page)

Blackstone’s heart thumped. This passage was no place to draw his bow. He slung it across his back and unsheathed his long archer’s knife. Stepping slowly, placing his feet carefully on the cold floor, he followed where the light glinted on the bloodstains. They led to a side chamber, its entrance covered with heavy, embroidered drapes hung from a pole. He slowed his breathing, listening for any sound that might indicate immediate danger. Standing in front of where the drapes met he took out an arrow and slowly pushed it between the two hangings. He eased aside the one and took a half-step back, his grip tightening on the knife handle, ready to meet any attack.

What he saw was a boy, probably no more than nine or ten years old, who sat on the floor, his back against the bare chamber’s wall. The child sweated, hair matted to his forehead, dried blood and mud covered his hose and jupon that bore the coat of arms of the knight who defended the river crossing, Godemar du Fay. The boy’s breathing shuddered in fear and the dagger he held at arm’s length, pointing at Blackstone, shook noticeably. The child was defending a bare-headed knight who lay next to him. He’d taken a savage beating and was barely conscious. An arrow shaft had punched through his shoulder plates. The bones would be shattered, the pain excruciating. A wound in his side seeped dark blood below his breastplate. Blackstone realized his liver must have been punctured. The man, who looked to be in his early twenties, was in du Fay’s service, and the brave, shivering boy must have been his page. They were obviously survivors who had sought sanctuary with the countess. And they would be killed if Godfrey de Harcourt or his men saw them. De Harcourt had no need to ransom a wounded knight.

Blackstone glanced quickly behind him. One of the men-at-arms had passed by the end of the passage. Blackstone hesitated and then stepped into the chamber, closing the embroidered cloth behind him. The boy whimpered, tears welled in his eyes and the knife trembled even more violently. The knight whispered something, his eyes locked onto the English archer who approached, still holding the gutting knife. Blackstone stopped. If the boy lunged he might get in a lucky hit. Again the man whispered and this time Blackstone understood what he said.

‘Spare the boy,’ the wounded man asked.

Blackstone raised a hand and spoke gently to the terrified page. ‘I shall look at your lord’s wound,’ he said quietly, anxious not to be heard by anyone down the passage. Then he turned to the wounded man, saying, ‘I will not harm either of you. You have my word.’

He faced the boy and put a finger to his lips, then sheathed his knife. Open-handed he went down on one knee three feet from the boy. Blackstone kept his eyes on the boy’s, then eased forward, allowing him the chance to attack. The dagger was only inches from his face.

The French knight sighed a command and the boy reluctantly lowered the pointed blade. Blackstone dared not ease the man’s breastplate for fear that he would cry out, but the wound still seeped. There was nothing he could do about the arrow, its white fletching now saturated to a dark, sticky mass. The page had obviously tried to staunch the stomach wound, for a piece of fine linen was packed below the armour’s edge – the kind of fine linen a countess would have on her person. This wounded knight must have arrived only moments before de Harcourt and his men.

Blackstone tugged the linen further. It was soaked. He unslung his bow and loosened his own jupon, then rolled it and with great care eased it beneath the plate. The man grimaced but bore the pain in silence. The pressure from the rolled cloth would hold the wound a while longer.

The man nodded in thanks.

‘My lord,’ Blackstone said, barely above a whisper, ‘you are dying. I cannot help you. I cannot find you a priest and I cannot offer you any comfort. I will leave you now and hope the good lady of this place will soon be at your side.’

The knight nodded, reached out and touched Blackstone’s sleeve. Blackstone took his hand away with a gentle pressure, then placed it into those of his page. ‘Stay quietly with your brave master until we are gone. The lady will come for you,’ Blackstone said. He stood and picked up his bow. Godfrey de Harcourt had summoned his men to leave. The knight’s hushed voice was barely audible. ‘I shall ask God when I see Him to give you His blessing and pray someone will show mercy to you in your hour of need.’

‘No one will ever show me mercy,’ Blackstone said. ‘I’m an English archer.’

He checked that the passage was clear and stepped out, leaving the man to die.

The French army had stood impotently across the ford, the river being too high to contemplate a crossing. They waited for two tides to come and go before deciding that the English-held shore could not be assaulted. They had no choice but to retreat as far as Abbeville, cross the river and gain the northern bank to pursue Edward. What was obvious to everyone on the English side, from noble lord to common stable lad, was that the French army, recognized as the finest fighting force in Europe, was at least twice as large as Edward’s.

The English reinforcements and supplies that should have been on ships from England, and waiting at Le Crotoy, had not even left their home port. The raiding party ransacked the town and surrounding countryside. At least the army would eat, but they would do battle with the weapons and men they had. A messenger brought news from Sir Hugh Hastings and the Flemish army. They had pushed south from France’s northern border, but their attacks on the French fortified towns had failed and they had retreated into Flanders. The two armies could not join up; Edward was on his own. He marched his army eastwards through the county of Ponthieu, moving into the oak and beech trees of the vast forest of Crécy-en-Ponthieu, slipping out of sight of King Philip’s army, which, with de Harcourt’s brother and nephew, was less than ten miles away.

There would soon be no choice. The English would have to stand and fight.

‘Thomas. Sir Gilbert wants you,’ Will Longdon said as he picked his way through the trees. The army had camped in the forest for the night along the ridge between Crécy and the hamlet of Wadicourt. The dawn’s chill crept into the aching muscles of the battle-weary men. Blackstone rolled out of his blanket, hunched his shoulders against the damp forest air, yawned and stretched out the stiffness. Richard still slept as he always had done, resting his cheek on his hands like a child.

‘Where?’

‘Hundred yards. That way. Edge of the forest.’

Blackstone nodded. ‘D’you have food?’

‘A piece of mutton from what Despenser’s men foraged yesterday.’

‘Will you stay with Richard until I’m back? Give him something to eat. We got little from the supplies.’

‘Course I will. Here.’ He offered a palm-sized piece of wrapped meat. Blackstone took a small bite and swilled it down with a mouthful of wine. He rubbed his eyes and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. He slung his bow and fastened his belt. The bristles on his face itched. The two men nodded at each other in farewell.

‘Thomas.’

Blackstone turned.

‘Say yes,’ Longdon said and without further explanation settled himself into his friend’s still-warm blanket.

Blackstone picked his way through the forest past hundreds of huddled men, the smell of their stale sweat mingling with the horses’ musky odour, and caught sight of a horseman through the trees. He sighted from tree to tree, working his vision deeper into the forest. It was the King and his nobles edging their horses through the forest. Was the King leaving his troops? Perhaps at last he had decided to call a truce. Blackstone felt a flutter of panic: God knows the men were worn down with fatigue, but they were in good spirits. They had beaten the French twice when outnumbered. If Edward called a truce they would be going home; to return to the hamlet and the life he had had with his brother. The memory of that place followed him as he made his way down the slope. Could he ever return home, even if given the choice? His father’s war bow had been the archer’s inheritance that poured strength into his arm every time he drew it. The warrior’s spirit, his father had once told him, lives on in his deeds and the weapons he cherished. But what of his duty towards Richard that had been bequeathed him? The boy had fought at his shoulder, even carrying Sir Gilbert to safety. Perhaps Richard was the better soldier after all. If there was a truce could he stay? Would a common man ever be allowed to see such a girl as Christiana again? She wasn’t nobility, unlike the family she served. If she was ever to be more than a simple desire, what would happen to his brother? There was something else his father had told him: A man’s duty only ended in death.

He found Sir Gilbert with Elfred, the knight’s horse already saddled.

‘You sleep like the dead,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘Dreaming of the girl, were you?’

‘I was too tired to dream of anything,’ Blackstone answered.

‘Tiredness is a soldier’s pay. Elfred said you fought well at the river.’

‘We all did,’ Blackstone answered.

‘Aye, but you served me at Poissy with that shooting of yours. And you’ve a good eye for what’s what. I always thought you had.’

Blackstone didn’t know what he was supposed to say. ‘I see the King and the earls are riding out, Sir Gilbert. Are we moving on?’

Sir Gilbert climbed awkwardly into the saddle, barely able to hide the grimace of pain from his wounds. ‘Shall I tell the King his archer Thomas Blackstone is concerned?’

‘It was just a thought, Sir Gilbert.’

‘That’s what you do, Thomas, you think. I told Lord Marldon as much, but I didn’t know you had the courage to overcome it. Too much thinking can get in the way of a soldier’s life. I’ve tried to avoid it wherever I can. Roger Oakley died at the crossing.’

Blackstone nodded. ‘I saw him fall. He led us well.’

‘And he’s probably leading the devil a merry dance now. The King’s waiting. I’m late. Elfred, tell him.’ He urged the horse away to join the retinue whose rich colours moved through the forest until they disappeared from view among the trees.

‘Our lads are mostly farmers’ boys and craftsmen, but they’ve not shied away from what’s been asked of them. They’re as good a company of archers as I’ve seen,’ Elfred said.

‘They’ve got their tails up now. Even John Weston’s saying we’ve fought their best and won,’ Blackstone said.

‘He’s right, but it’s not over yet, Thomas. We’re not running no more. The King’s picked his spot, the French scouts were on that hill at first light.’

‘We’re to fight here?’

Elfred nodded. ‘Centenars are bringing their archers out of the woods, soon as the captains tell us where the marshals want us. They’ve gone with the King to see the ground.’

Blackstone let the information sink in. He gazed across the hillside. The woods would form a good defence at their rear. A series of long-abandoned
radaillons
– steep, contoured cultivation terraces – offered protection to the army’s left. The undulating ground would funnel the enemy around and into the centre. Pick your ground, is what Sir Gilbert had told him: choosing where you fight can make the difference between winning and losing. The French would be forced to attack uphill through the gap that the forest and hillside presented.

‘It’s a good place, Elfred.’

‘I’ll be sure to let the King know you approve.’

Blackstone smiled. ‘I want my breakfast, what do you want with me?’

‘There’s to be no reinforcements. Hastings has lost the north. A messenger came after the crossing. It’s us and the King; we’re what’s got to stop the French, and Thomas, none of these lads, except for some of the older hands like John and Will, have ever seen a heavy cavalry charge. It’s something that can crack the strongest man’s courage,’ Elfred told him, biting into a stale oatcake. He passed the other half to Blackstone, who took it gratefully.

‘They’ll stand their ground. They won’t let their fear grip them. They haven’t so far,’ Blackstone said.

‘I’ve spoken to the men and they agree with me that you should be my ventenar. The twenty men you’ll command have all spoken in your favour, except your brother who’ll go where you go. Sir Gilbert’s given the decision his blessing.’

Blackstone swallowed the dry biscuit.

‘Following someone like you and Master Oakley was what I did. That’s all,’ he said.

‘Up to you, lad. If you don’t want the responsibility, you say so now.’

‘What about Will Longdon, or John or any of the others?’

‘Lot of the old hands don’t want other men’s lives depending on their decisions. We fight for each other, but commanding men is a different thing altogether.’

‘I’ve a lot to learn still,’ Blackstone said, the weight of the decision lying heavily on him.

‘And there’s them around who’ll still show you what’s necessary. You think of Nicholas Bray, Roger and Sir Gilbert – you learnt from them and I hope from me since you’ve been here.’

‘I have, Elfred.’

‘Well, then. What do I tell Sir Gilbert?’

Blackstone led his company of archers down the centre of the battle lines as the English banners and pennons were raised. The marshals placed a thousand archers at either flank, forming them up into a triangular wedge that shielded each side of the men-at-arms and knights. The archers would have first contact with the French, their arrows killing and driving the attackers into the centre – the killing ground. Blackstone and his company joined the hundred archers sent between the ranks to loose their arrows directly into the faces of the heavy cavalry when they charged.

Blackstone and his men dug pits a foot square and a foot deep to make the great destriers stumble.

‘I saw you boys do that at Morlaix in ’forty-two,’ a Welsh spearman said as he sat sharpening his spearhead. ‘Crippled the horses, brought them down lovely it did. Had them French bastards falling arse over tit. You could hear their bones breaking like corn being ground in milling stones. Lovely sound. Meant they didn’t struggle much when we stuck them like flailing pigs.’ The Welshman spat and went back to his sharpening, the men with him nodding in agreement.

‘Aye, well, I was at Morlaix and you’re the same lazy Welsh bastards now that you were then. Instead of sitting on your arse you could lend a hand,’ Will Longdon told them as he dug another pit-trap, cutting turf and scraping the hole with his long knife.