Fields of Glory (4 page)

Not Sir John’s brute, thank the Lord.

His own horse came down next: Aeton. The great destrier was jerking his head up and down to tug his reins from the hands of the swearing shipmen. He was ever a vicious brute: keen to trample a
man or bite his hand. In battle, he became almost uncontrollable, even when Sir John sat in the saddle attired in full armour. Aeton was born, and lived, only for battle.

‘Here, Aeton. Soon you will have enemies aplenty even for the fire in your belly,’ the man said with gruff affection. He took the halter and led Aeton away from the rolling thunder
of the waves at the shore, through a milling pack of hounds, and past the horse slain by the farrier. At its side, a man-at-arms stood with tears flowing as he gazed down at the body of his mount.
There would soon be many more mourning their horses, but no one mourned the groom dead in the water, Sir John noted. It was natural enough. Every one of the men knew that they were here to fight,
and possibly die. A horse could help them win victory, but one dead man was merely a corpse.

Further up the beach, Berenger was past caring about the threat of a French army or even the rigours of command. Just now, all he cared about was Clip’s fire-making.
After his immersion, he shivered with every breath of wind.

The armada had sailed in absolute secrecy. Only the King and his closest advisers knew their destination. If the ships were separated, each shipmaster had written instructions as to where to
rendezvous, but because of the risk of spies their letters were to be kept sealed until needed. To maintain that secrecy, the King had commanded that no ships were to leave English ports for
another week after the fleet sailed. He did not want a captured Portsmouth fisherman giving away news of the fleet’s destination.

Of course, amongst the sailors and men rumours of their landing-place had abounded, but Berenger was not convinced until he saw the stores being brought aboard. He had spoken to an old shipman,
who told him knowledgeably that with all those goods the King must be intending a two-week journey at least.

‘There’s only one place takes that long,’ the old tar said knowingly. ‘Guyenne. You’ll be out there before long, boy. Burning your balls in the Gascon sun.’
He hawked and spat, and his faded blue eyes seemed to stare into the distance, past the grey, overcast sky and the steady rain. ‘You lucky bastard.’

‘My
arse
,’ Berenger muttered to himself.

Geoff heard him and threw him an enquiring glance.

‘I thought we were going to the south, to Guyenne,’ Berenger explained.

‘This isn’t?’

‘No. This is Normandy,’ Berenger said, keeping his eyes fixed on the country ahead. He was sure that any attack would come from either the village or the woods. Both areas would
afford concealment to enemy forces gathering to confront them. ‘We weren’t at sea long enough for Guyenne.’

As Berenger watched, more ships were beached. Four or five had disgorged troops, who had already grabbed their favourite weapons and trotted away towards the fishermen’s cottages. Just out
to sea were more round-bellied cogs, their masts swaying like storm-tossed tree-tops in a forest. There were more vessels than Berenger could count: hundreds. It would take days to empty them all.
He only hoped that their bows and arrows would be brought to them before they were on the receiving end of an attack.

The beach looked frantic. Berenger remembered an evening once, when a fire took hold in a tavern. Drunken men hurtled about, grabbing buckets, pots, even coifs and hats, anything that would hold
water to fight the fire.

There was the same urgency here. Men went scurrying, some to establish forward pickets while others brought weapons. Haste was in every man’s heart; all were aware of the ever-present risk
of attack. Some had tied ropes between two wagons, and soon fifteen horses were tethered there. Before long, a group of men-at-arms were mounted and ordered to scour the countryside for news of the
French. A knight with light mail and a helm was commanding the men.

‘Who’s that?’ Ed asked. He had walked to Berenger’s side and now stood peering at the beach with him.

‘Earl Thomas of Warwick. He has command of the vanguard. Anything goes wrong with us here, it’s him you have to look to, to save us,’ Berenger said.

It was good to see that Earl Thomas was already organising the men on the beach. If even a small enemy posse were to arrive now, while the majority of the men were still on board and those
landed were without their weaponry, the day would go ill for the English. Berenger looked about, but could see no other bowmen yet, and that made him scowl. ‘Where are they all?’ he
muttered.

‘Look! A spark! A spark!’ Jack Fletcher cried. ‘He’s managed to get a spark!’

Clip looked up with a scowl. ‘If ye think you can do better—’ he began again, but before he could finish there came the drumming of hooves. A rider was galloping to the ships,
lashing his mount, screaming a warning.

‘
Fripper!
’ Grandarse roared.

Berenger stared at the woods from which the rider had appeared.

‘
Shit
! To arms!’

Sir John was fretting at the delay and felt the thrill when the call to arms came, spitting into the sand and staring back towards the trees. Suddenly he heard shouting and saw
the English scouting party sprinting back towards the ships, a motley group of French men-at-arms at their heels, spearing them as they ran.

‘Arms! To arms!’
he bawled, springing into the saddle. He could feel the excitement rippling through Aeton’s frame. ‘Come, old fellow,’ he muttered, grabbing
for the reins.

‘Sir John, wait for me! My horse isn’t here!’ Richard Bakere called, alarmed at the thought his knight might ride off alone.

‘Do you think they’ll hang around for you?’ Sir John snarled.

Richard nodded reluctantly, and passed up Sir John’s bascinet. ‘Can you not wait until—’

‘There is no time, man! If they charge the beach now, we’ll be hurled into the sea,’ Sir John rasped, shoving the helmet over his head and settling the mail-rings of the tippet
about his shoulders. He pointed. ‘Lance! Quickly!’

He threw a glance at the approaching French. Their line of horsemen were staring along the beach as though thunderstruck by the number of ships. Behind them was a large force of men on foot.

Richard had run to the rack and passed his lord a long, stout lance.

‘Good. Now, remain here and organise a defence. Lances facing the enemies’ horses, yes? We will hold them off.’

Already there was a screamed war-cry as another knight pounded up the beach towards their enemy. Sir John recognised the Marshal of England, the Earl of Warwick, lance and shield held aloft. The
shield bore a bright red background, with a thick, horizontal gold bar, and three stars above and below.

‘Shield!’ Sir John shouted, and as soon as he had it, he spurred Aeton into a canter as the Marshal rode on a rounsey, not a charger towards the thickest part of the French
forces.

‘Be damned to that!’ he swore. ‘You won’t have all the glory, Warwick!’

He raked his spurs along Aeton’s flanks. His excitement and enthusiasm was communicated to his great destrier, and Aeton bunched his muscles and launched himself forward, his head low as
he stretched out. Sir John felt the wind in his hair and heard its roar in his ears, the drumming of hooves on the sandy soil, felt his cloak tugging at his throat as it snapped in the wind, and
sheer exhilaration flamed along his spine. This was the life!

‘
F
OR
S
AINT
B
ONIFACE
,
AND FOR
E
NGLAND
!’ he roared, and
with his left hand he snapped his visor down. He couched his lance ready for the first impact and bent lower, while beneath him, Aeton hurled them into battle.

Fortunately, Berenger’s men were experienced. As he stood and took stock, they grabbed swords and axes, and Geoff took up a long spear.

Pelting by, the messenger threw sand in all directions, making Wisp swear and spit. Geoff clenched his fist, shaking it impotently, shouting abuse at him: ‘You son of a Winchester goose!
May your tarse shrivel, may you—’

‘Geoff, the enemy’s
that
way,’ Berenger reminded him, pointing.

‘God’s cods!’ Wisp said hoarsely. The thin scattering of trees had given protection to the Frenchmen who were now making their way into the open ground. ‘Look at
’em all!’

Berenger was scowling, assessing the risk. Perhaps four or five hundred men on foot had appeared, and Frenchmen-at-arms on horseback were forming up, ready to charge. It would not take much to
push the English back into the sea, if these were trained and warlike enough. They had gathered quickly, just as Berenger had feared, and more were joining them by the minute. Gleams of sunlight
flashed on steel.

Geoff belched and wiped at his mouth, demanding, ‘Where are our bows?’

Matt was pensively scratching his beard. ‘Horse
and
foot? I could do with a lance or bill, me.’

‘Our weapons are all on the ship still,’ Berenger grated. All they had with them were their personal weapons, swords and daggers. It was enough to make a man howl in despair. He had
a hollow feeling in his belly, although it was at least partly explained by hours of throwing up on the ship. Still, it was a sensation he knew only too well. He was always afflicted with this when
battle approached. ‘How many are there, Geoff?’

‘I count two, maybe three hundred men-at-arms on horse, and hundreds on foot. Perhaps a thousand?’

‘Aye, well, have ye seen the Frenchies in battle? Mad, the lot of them,’ Clip said, and dropped his hone back beneath his shirt, spitting into the sand. ‘Bugger it: ye’ll
all be slaughtered. Me too.’

‘Shut it, Clip.’ Berenger drew his sword and gave the blade a cursory glance. He ran it along the sleeve of his padded jerkin and pulled a face when he saw it grew wetter than
before. Still, he was their leader. ‘Come on, lads.’

Grandarse had joined them, and now he shouted orders.

‘Berenger, you hold this line: Clip, run to the ship with the boy and bring us spears, bows, arrows – anything you can get your hands on. See if there are any more men who can
support us. We’ll soon be overrun against a force that size.’

While he strode along the beach bellowing to other captains, Berenger jerked his head at his men. ‘Go on, you idle goats, you heard him! And Clip:
hurry
! I don’t want to die
waiting for you to get back!’

Grandarse had brought a second vintaine with him, and now Berenger cajoled and bullied the men into two lines on the side of the hillock. More men were gathering and he had them join the lines
to create a wall of men. There was no time to dig holes to make the enemies’ horses stumble, and in the absence of pallisades or hurdles they would have to hold their ground as best they
could.

There was no muttering amongst the men. The English were used to fighting and gripped their weapons stoically. Only Grandarse, when he returned, showed any emotion, appearing to take the arrival
of the enemy as a personal affront. Berenger eyed his men closely, assessing their temper. Geoff alone looked distracted, seemingly by young Ed as much as the enemy. It made Berenger wonder if
Geoff was still boat-sick, or whether there was something else troubling him. He had been quiet before boarding, he recalled.

Grandarse loudly deprecated the temerity of the French in arriving before he could have weapons readied and men brought to their support.

‘Sons of whores,’ he grumbled. ‘Look at ’em! Sodding about like they have all the time in the world, just because they caught us out here with our hosen down, the
bastards.’

‘Yes, lookit them,’ Clip moaned. ‘Bloody hundreds! We’ll all get slaughtered here.’

Matt sniffed. ‘Ach, stop your whining, Clip. They’ve got sod-all discipline, eh?’

Satisfied with his vintaine’s mood, Berenger grinned to himself.

There was a series of roared commands from the beach, and Berenger turned to see Sir John, his own captain and the commander of two hundred men, galloping past to join the Earl of
Warwick’s vanguard. Berenger felt a flare of pride at the sight. So few, yet all were riding to meet a force many times their own size.

Geoff gave a hoarse roar of encouragement, and the rest of the men waved fists or weapons as Warwick gave an incoherent scream, couched his lance and charged. A moment later, the men behind him
also thundered into the French, and Berenger saw one Frenchman lifted into the air, spitted on a lance, to be thrown down behind the Earl. There was a clash of weapons, shouts and cries, and
Berenger could see little through the dust and sand that was thrown into the air by the impact of the attack.

‘UP!’
Grandarse commanded over the sound of battle.
‘FORWARD!’

‘Christ’s pain,’ Berenger heard Matt mutter, but the vintaine began to walk steadily to the battle.

They possessed few weapons, but the French weren’t to know that. Berenger marched forward with his eyes moving about the woods and fields before them, searching for the appearance of new
forces, fearing this was a ruse to entrap the English.