Master of War (21 page)

‘No, no, we wouldn’t want to stop a skilled man like yourself from doing what he does best. And when you’ve done that you could dig us fighting men a shit pit,’ the spearman said. The Welsh­men laughed but the humour did not touch the archers.

‘We’re digging them just deep enough so we can bury you bastard bog rats after the horses trample you into the ground, ’cause that’ll be as much as there is left of you,’ John Weston said, and spat a globule that landed dangerously close to the Welshman’s feet.

The spear flicked quickly and Weston found the killing end of the spear shaft hovering close to his throat.

‘You have to be careful in a battle. Easy to get taken down by your own side,’ the Welshman said, his voice low with intent. ‘We
bog rats
have seen that happen before.’

John Weston didn’t give a damn and stayed where he was, with the spear point quivering close to his neck, as the others watched the standoff. ‘Then count yourself lucky that the back of your skull’s too thick for a bodkin-tipped arrow to pierce.’

One of the other Welshmen joined in. ‘Lad’s got a point there, Daffyd. Take more than an Englishman’s arrow to get between your ears.’

The spear leveller drew it back, the rumble of agreement and laughter among the Welshmen easing the tension.

The archers went back to digging but the surly Welshman had kept his eye on Weston, a look that Blackstone realized might turn to something more when the mayhem of close-quarter battle engulfed them all. He wiped the dirt from his hands across his jacket.

‘My father was a bowman, he said he’d learnt how to pull his war bow from a Welsh archer. So, when the French come, we’ll bring them down and you finish them. That seems a fair bargain,’ he said, looking at the Welshman.

The act of conciliation was not lost on the Welshman and the belligerent spearman nodded but then his eyes locked onto the medallion that had come free from Blackstone’s jacket and the truce melted away.

‘You stole that?’ he said.

Blackstone took it in his fingers and tucked it away. ‘A Welsh archer gave it to me at Caen.’

The other Welshmen had heard and now took an interest in Blackstone himself.

‘A Welshman wouldn’t give that away. Not to a bastard Englishman and Christian. Not that,’ one of the others said. ‘He’d have to be a dead man for you to have it.’

Blackstone looked at them; his company of archers had stopped digging and stood behind him. If there was trouble to be had they were willing to finish it.

‘He was dying. I helped him. If any of you know a Welshman by the name Gruffydd ap Madoc he’ll tell you. If you don’t, then I don’t care what you think.’

‘Gruffydd ap Madoc? He’ll vouch for you?’

Conciliation had passed. It was time to stand his ground. ‘Repeat his name often enough and perhaps you’ll remember it. Ask him,’ Blackstone said. ‘I’ve work to do.’ He turned his back on the scowl­ing Welshman and looked at his men.
His
men. Their loyalty was already being tested. Richard stood full square, knife in hand, understanding the belligerent looks. Will Longdon, John Weston, the others, none of them took their eyes from the Welshmen.

‘Pick up your bows. We’re done here,’ Blackstone said.

‘What would an Englishman know of a pagan talisman?’ the spearman asked, and as Blackstone turned, the spearhead pressed against his chest.

He half raised an arm, stopping the archers from making any aggressive moves. Soldiers, when they fought each other, be the grievance perceived or real, would not stop until someone lay dead. And soon after someone else would swing from the end of a rope.

He stared down the Welshman. ‘It’s Arianrhod. Goddess of the Silver Wheel. She protects you in this life and then carries you across to the next. He gave it to me with his blessing. And you’re as close as you’re going to be to seeing if she can help you.’

Before the man could do or say anything, there was a flurry in the ranks as men were pushed aside. A figure, obscured by the others, cuffed the Welshman to the ground. Blackstone recognized the white-haired fighter from the battle for Caen.

‘He’s pig-shit ignorant, Thomas Blackstone. He fell from his sow-mother’s belly into a ditch and has been trying to crawl out of it ever since. Are these your men?’

‘They are, Gruffydd ap Madoc.’

He scowled. ‘I’m not surprised. They look rougher than a thistle-eating hog’s arse.’

The Welshmen laughed and a moment later so did the archers. Gruffydd enveloped Blackstone in a bearhug, and then punched him on the arm. Blackstone managed not to grimace in pain.

‘Are we to have your archers in our ranks?’

‘Between you and the men-at-arms.’

Gruffydd turned to his wild-looking men. ‘Treat these boys with courtesy if you want them to leave you some French to kill.’ He kicked the fallen man who had stayed down. ‘And you would do well to remember that Arianrhod has her arms around this fellow. I will see you again, young Thomas Blackstone.’

‘And I you.’

Gruffydd nodded at Blackstone and turned back to deploying his men. For a moment Blackstone felt a pang of fear, though less for himself, it seemed, than for those French who were yet to die at the hands of fierce Welsh spearmen, battle-hungry knights and the most lethal of killers on the battlefield, the archers.

By midday the English army had formed up on the hill slope with the woods of Crécy at their back and the town nearby to the south-east. The windmill on top of the ridge served as the King’s headquarters and he settled his division there, a place where his standard would be flown for all to see. On the forward slope were two battalions, comprising a mixture of infantry and dismounted cavalry. The battles across northern France had depleted the King’s army. There were only about four thousand surviving archers – a thousand to be deployed on each flank and two thousand at the rear in reserve with the King. The forward and most dangerous edge of the battleground was held by the vanguard under the Prince, and with him stood the great names of English nobility, their surcoats, shields, banners and pennons declaring to the enemy that they were the prize for any ambitious French knight. Warwick, Northampton, Cobham, Audley, Stafford and Holland – men who had led by example and fought with a tireless zeal to engage and kill their enemy and who were fired with the knowledge that they would be pursued no longer. They knew no quarter would be given and that knowledge only strengthened their determination to be the ones doing the killing. The marshals of the army, Warwick and de Harcourt, gave captains their orders. War horses were removed to the rear as knights prepared to fight on foot. Hobelars and Welsh spearmen held the centre ground with the men-at-arms, and Blackstone’s archers were among them, less than one hun­dred paces from the Prince himself. They were the added force in place to keep any surge of Frenchmen from reaching the boy Prince. When the French swung from the south through the folding land the vanguard would be the first to take the full attack. Northampton’s division was to the Prince’s left and slightly back: added protection should the French be foolish enough to try to attack from the marshier ground at the bottom of the hill. The preparations were made. The King ordered his men to rest and eat whatever food was left to them. He wanted them strong when the enemy came at them. There was nothing more to do but wait.

The men sat on the ground. Richard Blackstone lay on his back watching a cloud change shape, tracing its contortions with his finger. Men ate whatever food they had been given. The muggy August heat threatened rain, and sweat trickled down their backs. Blackstone was pleased he wore no armour.

‘They won’t come now. Too late in the day,’ Will Longdon said as he checked the fletchings, fingering each arrow, and then, like the others, pressing its point into the ground, making a small forest of ash and goose feather. Each archer had been given two sheaves and each sheaf was twenty-four arrows. These men could loose a dozen arrows and more every minute. Thirty thousand arrows would fall from the clouding sky in the first two minutes of the attack. The carnage would be terrifying and no matter how Blackstone tried to imagine it, he could not. He had never seen an army stand and fight.

‘They’ll be wanting food and a bed for the night and then the Kings’ll parlay and decide on a time tomorrow, which suits me, because I could eat a donkey,’ Weston grumbled and smoothed a hand along the bend of his bow stave, seeming to derive comfort from it.

‘They’ll come,’ one of the Welshmen said. ‘They can’t wait to finish us off. Then they’ll bedroll and eat.’

‘Aye, they like a good slaughter, do the French,’ said Matthew Hampton.

And a murmur ran along the line. There was no doubt who were the underdogs. Blackstone felt for his talisman and the rough length of linen with the embroidered bird. Two women guarded his life – Arianrhod and Christiana. He looked at Richard, who still gazed with childish wonder at the sky; a boy who could kill as well as any man and barely a year younger than the Prince of Wales, who stood in the van of battle. Richard seemed not to understand the meaning of fear. He had proved his daring and courage often enough.

Blackstone was afraid but did not show it.

Of which son would the father have been most proud?

A roar, like a battle cry, broke Blackstone’s reverie. The men were on their feet. Above them on the ridge the King’s banner – the lions of England and the lilies of France – unfurled in the humid air and beside it the red-painted dragon battle standard.

‘Drago! Drago!’ the men roared.

The cheers settled as the King rode down on a palfrey, his great war horse already tethered with the thousands of others. The marshals Warwick and de Harcourt with the constable of the army, the battle-hardened Northampton, rode among the troops. The King, bareheaded, had not yet put on his armour and wore a green and gold pourpoint, the heavy, padded linen undershirt worn to make the armour a more comfortable fit. As he moved along the line of men, he pointed with a white baton to those he recognized. Then he would stop and address them, each of the three divisions. Blackstone and those around him could not yet hear the King’s words, but laughter and then cheers marked his passage. By the time the King drew rein in front of the men-at-arms and archers where Blackstone stood, the anticipation of being so close to their King ran through them like a shiver down a horse’s back.

‘Have we rested enough from our walk across Normandy, lads?’

‘We have!’

‘Aye!’

Men yelled out their answer.

‘And with a lesson or two in swimming, sire!’ one called. The King smiled and the men laughed.

‘Then we think it’s time to fight this King who lays claim to these lands and who believes that once he has beaten us this day he will settle in our kingdom and let his men become acquainted with those we call our own.’

The roar of disapproval brought another smile to the King’s face, but then his brow furrowed and his voice lost its cheerfulness. ‘We urge you all to stand your ground, never yield, do not break ranks, because we have the better of this King, my cousin. We know him and his army. They do not lack courage; they have a ferocity that is well known and this
furor franciscus
will spew its rage onto us all. But they cannot win this battle. They cannot, I swear to you. English and Welsh blood alike will be shed, that is a promise we can make and keep, but the day is already won, that is a promise we make in the eyes of God. Our own son will stand with you, he will live or die at your side. There is no ransom to be had from the capture of a noble knight or lord, and there is to be no robbing of the dead. This is our day of glory. Their destruction will be spoken of for ages to come. They do not know what fury it is
we
possess. Keep my words close to you. We take no prisoners. We give no mercy. Kill them. Kill them all,’ he commanded.

The blood-lust roar reverberated across the hills.

Richard Blackstone had not taken his eyes from his King. The silent world he inhabited was something he had understood since childhood. The scent of the wind and the change in weather com­forted his senses as much as the colours of field and sky. This man chosen by God had looked at him and the air had vibrated with a hum as those around him bared their teeth and bellowed at the sky. They were angels on earth who would slay anyone who offered a threat. His brother had not looked his way and the warmth in his chest he once felt had deserted him. The fighting had been easy. It required strength and the ability to kill without feeling. He had both. Life in his caged world channelled his emotions elsewhere. The girl at home had once given him that warmth and he had tried to tell her through clumsy gestures and incoherent sounds. She would smile and stroke his head and reach down for his manhood and bring him to her. The soft moistness of her brought tears to his eyes. Nothing in the world was as tender as the rhythmic movement of that girl who laid her hands on his broken face and eased his lips onto her breasts. When her eyes closed and she smiled, he followed her into the same darkness to try to share that moment. He had not meant to kill her. The act was something he had buried within himself. When his brother had found out his secret it was as if a knife had cut into him. Now nothing could bring his brother back.

The long-haired men with spears, some with strange markings painted on their faces, avoided his gaze. The men who pulled their war bows, just as his father had taught him, were closer now than his own brother. They would jig and dance and some would fall down from drink, but all were simple savages who could kill to stay alive. There was no regret in slaying others to keep your own breath from bubbling through your chest from a sword thrust.

He looked down the line. Men in chain mail and armour stood ready, the spearmen leaned on their weapons and the men with bows had taken their places between the ranks. He could see a young man kneel before the King and the King kissed him on the lips as his brother once did to him. The King loved that boy just as his father had loved him. The boy was surrounded by the men who wore armour and coloured cloth, there were flags held around him. And then the father left the son and the boy pulled on his helm. He looked around him. Men were not bellowing now. Their jaws were set tight and their eyes squinted into the late afternoon light. He turned to look to his front and saw the green hills making a startling contrast with the colours of a multitude of men and horses.