The King’s Assassin (32 page)

Then, in an instant, it seemed that the French had broken – scores of horsemen, hundreds perhaps, were running from the fight heading north to the bridge and the wide banners of the King and his men. Others ran south for the woods, horsemen spurring into the trees pursued by howling foes; an unlucky few were pushed back into the marsh and floundered there, helpless until they were cut down. I saw Ferrand himself, with only his standard-bearer and a trumpeter, his sword lofted high, in the place where the French first line had been, shouting for his men to re-form, the trumpet echoing his command. His bold knights, who were by now spread all across the southern half of the battlefield, dutifully rallied to his call; they left off their pursuit of the beaten French and trotted to his banner in their hundreds. Ferrand turned, his bannerman lifted his standard, and the Count led his knights, swords bloodied, horses spent, and more than half their number dead or lying wounded on the field, back to their original positions on our left flank.

It’s time, I thought, time for Otto to attack in the centre. The whole French right had been savaged by the Flemings – if only the Germans would attack the centre with one great crushing advance, we’d have victory in our grasp.

The Germans did nothing. Unbelievably they were still dressing their ranks. The Saxon guard had now been granted the honour of the right of the line, and were making their way forward in a block, to claim their new position. It was almost as if they had not noticed Ferrand’s dashing assault to their front and left.

I rode over to Robin, who was chatting with his two sons in the centre of our hollow square, as unconcerned as if he were on a family picnic. ‘Should we not attack as well, my lord?’ I said. ‘Count Ferrand has done well in the south – the enemy are reeling, scattered – we should finish the job.’

‘You know very well, Alan, that I get my orders from Salisbury,’ he said, pointing to Longsword who was sitting his horse a dozen yards away eating an apple. ‘He gets his from Otto. We’ve been told to hold this ground. That is why we are in Robert’s magnificent defensive formation – you do like it, don’t you?’

I said that I did.

‘Well, you should do, the trouble I had convincing Salisbury to make it. Anyway, he’s been told by Otto to hold this ground and that is what we are doing. When Otto calls for a general advance, then we will all go in together.’

I had been thinking about the prospects of capturing a rich man for ransom; I knew that my best chance of that would come once the enemy was smashed. And I also knew that the time to smash them was now.

‘But that is plain stupid, Robin,’ I said, hotly. ‘We must attack now. Time is crucial. They are on the edge of panic, almost ready to flee. I can feel it. One big push and they’ll quit the field, cross over the bridge and run like hares for Lille.’

‘I agree with you, Alan, I’m not blind. I know what Ferrand achieved down there – but orders are orders. I cannot attack the King of France all on my own. Moreover, I cannot take my own men forward and break up this position. We must all fight together or we are sunk—’ He suddenly broke off. ‘Look, Alan, look!’

My lord was pointing south-west at the bridge of Bouvines. I could see horsemen, many hundreds moving southwards, the French King’s household knights, barons from Blois and Champagne, and the refugees from the mauling given to them by Ferrand streaming south to retake the positions they had been driven from no more than a quarter of an hour before.

I muttered some foul oath and commented on the waste of an opportunity.

‘No, no, Alan, look at the bridge,’ said Robin.

I looked. Tendrils of smoke were rising from the wide wooden structure. Now thickening to great black plumes. And here and there the orange flash of flame, columns of shining sparks rising in the still summer air.

‘They are burning the bridge,’ I said incredulously. ‘They are destroying their only means of escape.’

‘King Philip is giving a message to his men,’ said Robin grimly. ‘Do or die. Death or glory. They do not mean to leave this field alive unless they are victorious.’

The French cavalry were now back in their positions on their right flank. They were fewer in number, and their lines were a little ragged but, apart from that, and the strewn bodies of horses and men that littered the field around them, one could hardly tell that Ferrand had struck them a blow at all. All that courage and blood – all expended for nothing. Then my heart skipped a beat. They were advancing. My God, the French on their right flank were actually advancing. Their cavalry were moving forward in three long lines of horsemen. The French were going to attack Ferrand!

I craned over to look at the cavalry of Flanders on our left flank. It was in utter disarray – believing they had vanquished their foes, perhaps even thinking that their part in the battle was over, Count Ferrand’s men were scattered over a wide area, some several hundreds yards back from the front line, most unhorsed, some tending their wounds or looking to their mounts’ wellbeing, some were eating, drinking, some even lying on the ground at their ease.

Not for long. At the sight of the advancing cavalry, trumpets began to sound and suddenly it was all a-scramble. The knights of Flanders responded with admirable quickness. Men were hauling themselves up into the saddle. I even saw one fellow, dressed only in chemise and braies, leap astride his saddle-less horse and snatch a spear from his squire and ride forward. They were spurring towards Ferrand’s banner in the centre where by now a loose knot of loyal knights surrounded the count. But they were too late – a horseman at full gallop can cover three hundred yards in twenty heartbeats – and the Flemings were not formed to receive the appalling storm that was about to fall upon them.

‘I wish I knew what Philip said to his commanders,’ said Robin at my shoulder. ‘He must have put the fear of Hell itself into them.’

I looked at the bridge: it was now a mass of flame and smoke. There could be no retreat for Philip’s men. Not this day. But the enemy seemed to have no notion of trying to escape. On their left flank, the first line of the French cavalry was now at the full canter, their line of lances sweeping down into position like the opening of an enormous fan. The pounding of their hooves was audible even here, a half-mile away.

The French line struck the thick crowd of men about the count at the gallop and washed over it like a giant wave breaking over rock. The banner of the Count of Flanders, a black lion rampant on gold, was now at the centre of a crowd of hundreds of struggling men, Flemish and French, slicing, stabbing, killing, dying. But the second line of the French, and then the third, charged straight past the mêlée surrounding the Count and sliced into the mainly unmounted men behind him and his bodyguard, who were now hurrying forward, desperate to join the fray before it was too late. The French rolled over the Flemings, killing scores, hundreds of their unprepared opponents. Everywhere on our left, the men of Count Ferrand were dying, spitted by French lances, hacked down by long blades. The scrum of battling men around the banner of the Count of Flanders was thinning too, its convulsions less frequent, more sluggish. They were surrounded by a sea of French horsemen.

‘Surely Otto must do something now!’ I said.

‘He’s moving,’ said Robin.

Indeed, at last the Emperor was stirring himself. I saw a rider heading up towards us in our hollow square, crossing the road – finally some orders – and ranks of German knights were stepping out from their positions in perfect formation. The knights flowed smoothly forward. If they turn now, I thought, and fall upon the French cavalry from the flank, they can destroy them utterly. But no, the German knights were pulling further and further away from the bloody mêlée on their immediate left, the death struggles of Count Ferrand’s brave men, dying one by one around the black-and-gold standard of their lord. Instead, the Germans were heading due west, into the sun, heading straight for the French lines before the inferno that had once been the bridge of Bouvines.

They were making straight for Philip.

I could see why. The King had sent most of his household cavalry to bolster his right flank and make the surprise attack on Ferrand; he had weakened his centre, almost stripped it of knights, and now Philip was defended only by ranks of infantry, ill-trained town militia by the look of them. The Emperor’s cold logic was clear – he aimed to leave Ferrand and his men to their doom and strike a crushing blow, perhaps the decisive blow, at the centre of the enemy with all his might. It was a cruel tactic, but not a bad one. If Otto could capture or kill the King of France the day was won.

The breathless rider from the Emperor was conferring with Robin, the Earl of Salisbury and the Count of Boulogne in the centre of our square. It was orders at last. Robin was bellowing for the archers, and a trumpeter was calling for the cavalry to form up inside the square. As our fifty or so horsemen swung up on to their mounts, I pushed my horse into the first rank next to Sir Thomas Blood.

‘Ever tried this sort of caper before, Thomas?’ I said.

He shook his dark head. ‘Robert and I discussed it many a time. The theory is sound, I would wager my soul on it; now we will see if it works in practice.’

The Earl of Salisbury addressed the troops.

‘The Emperor has issued us with orders,’ he began, and I could see by his expression that he did not relish this subordinate state of affairs. ‘He commands that we support his attack on the King of France with an assault on the French left – those infantry over there.’ He was pointing due west at a half a dozen companies, spearmen and crossbowmen, directly opposite our position and about three hundred yards away. I noted that the late afternoon sun, low in the sky, would be shining in our faces as we attacked.

‘We are to sweep them from the field – the Emperor has commanded it – and then to continue on and join his assault on King Philip himself by the bridge. That is what Otto wants. But you are my men. You obey my commands. We shall attack the enemy – and if they flee we shall naturally ride on and join the attack on the French centre. Perhaps that will be the way of it. It is in God’s hands. But I particularly desire you to listen out for the recall – it sounds like this.’ He made a signal to his trumpeter, who blew a trio of jaunty notes, and then repeated them. ‘At that signal you will disengage and return to this position and reform within the square. Do not dally. Do not stray. If you hear the recall, you return here instantly.’

He gazed over the ranks of silent horsemen, waiting for some comment. None came.

‘Right, let us do this deed of arms for the honour of old England … and, ah, Boulogne, of course and, ah, no doubt several other places, too. My lord of Locksley, you are to remain with the archers and return them here when their task is done.’

The two central companies of pikemen on the western side of the square swung open, one going left, the other right, and through this human doorway marched Robin, Little John and his sixty-odd archers, heading towards the enemy lines.

Salisbury, Thomas and I and the rest of our cavalry trotted out on their heels.

As I passed out of the square I could see what an effective defence it was: a fortress of men, bristling with spear-points, a hedge of sharp steel on all sides. There was no cavalry on earth that could breach it, and I marvelled once again at the cunning of Robert’s design.

‘God grant me a rich knight,’ I prayed silently, as my horse stepped out on to the battlefield. ‘You know how much I love my boy. Grant me this boon, O merciful God, and I will praise you for the rest of my life.’

We walked our horses across the field in two
conrois
of about twenty-five men, in line, one
conroi
twenty paces behind the other. The archers had also split into two groups, ranging out left and right from the advancing horse. A hundred and fifty paces from the enemy ranks, about halfway between their lines and ours, we stopped. The archers strung their bows and began selecting their arrows. I saw Robin testing his bowstring and sticking a dozen bodkin points into the turf at his feet, so they could be pulled from the earth and loosed with maximum speed. But the sun was directly in our eyes; I could see little ahead but a fiery yellow blur: Left and right, I could make out archers squinting and holding up hands before their faces to block the glare. Others were pulling their hoods far forward to keep the blinding light at bay.

I looked left. The German knights were now deeply into the enemy ranks around the King, hacking their way through the poor levies of the militia with their two-handed swords. Around the Oriflamme was a wall of steel and horseflesh where Philip’s remaining knights, no more than a score or so, held back, waiting for just the right moment to charge: too soon and Otto’s counter-attack might sweep back all the way to the King; too late and the infantry, who were soaking up the punishment from the German knights, would be no more than reeking meat.

Otto himself had not left his position in our lines. He and his Saxon guard looked on impassively three hundred yards away as his noble knights demonstrated their valour on the ranks of peasant spearmen from Orleans and Paris.

Beyond the German lines I saw, with a jolt of horror, that our left flank was no more. There was no sign of Ferrand of Flanders; and his men lay in bleeding heaps. Dozens of French knights, sagging in the saddle, spattered with gore and filth, picked their way among the dead and wounded on exhausted horses, looking for men worth ransoming. ‘O God,’ I prayed again, ‘grant me my heart’s desire.’

I was jerked back to my own situation by Robin’s battle voice calling: ‘Archers … nock.’ The thirty men in the left-hand company smoothly fixed a shaft to the string. On the right a similar number of bowmen, under the captaincy of Little John, did exactly the same.

Robin shouted: ‘Draw … and loose,’ and with a sharp creak and a swish, a black cloud of ash shafts hurtled into the air, hovered for an instant, and fell like black thunderbolts from the sky.

For the first time in my life I saw the archers of Sherwood fail. Blinded by the sun, they could not judge the distance well, and a goodly number of the arrows overshot the company of spearmen in front of them and fell harmlessly into the empty pasture behind them. Other shafts went wide and a few even fell short.