Fields of Glory (51 page)

‘Vintaine, stand straight. Clip, try to look like you’re a brave, bold Englishman,’ he hissed.

‘Why?’ Clip demanded. He was filthy to his armpits after shovelling soil all morning, and aching all over from lifting the heavy barrels of the gonnes into place.

‘It’s the King,’ Berenger said.

‘Archers, are you ready for this?’ the King asked as he drew near the archers on the wing. ‘Grandarse, is that you? In God’s name, you will need a new belt soon! That one
is too tight. Are your men eager? This will be a great day today, a glorious day. You know, I have ridden all over this land. It is my inheritance, and I always loved it. But this place I
remembered, because I always felt it had a special significance for me. Here, I felt, I would prove that my country was as great as any – even France! We have been forced to bow the knee to
France many times, but now it is we who are the stronger, and today we shall show it!

‘Hold your courage! Remember that our cause is just. If we were hated by God, we would not have crossed the Seine or the Somme. We would have been held there, like rats waiting for the
dogs to come and kill us. There we would have met the French hungry, thirsty, and without hope. It was God Who gave us our miracle and allowed us to cross the river so that Despenser could fetch us
food and drink. And now look at us! We have made our way to this glorious field where we shall win renown for ever. Because I say this to you: in years to come, men will discuss your exploits here.
They will say that they wished that they had been here at your side. For what happens here today will go down in history as the greatest battle of Christendom. You will defeat a French army. After
today, no man will believe again that the French chivalry is superior to English.

‘But remember: at all times, listen to your orders. Always remain in the ranks. Do not believe any feints by the enemy that are designed to tease you out from your positions in the battle.
They will pretend to run in terror; do not give chase. They will fall back as though to retreat; let them. While we remain here, we are safe. Trust me: they cannot break us. Not here. So, friends,
praise God, give Him your thanks, and eat a hearty meal. Before this day is out, we shall have won renown and glory, and in the future if any woman sees you, tell her you were here with me, and she
will want to bed you immediately! Even
you
, Grandarse!’

There was a roar of delight at that, and several archers threw their hats in the air. As the handsome young King trotted back along the lines to chat to other soldiers, Berenger saw that the
only archer not cheering was Geoff.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘Aye, I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I just wish . . . oh, nothing.’

Berenger kept his eyes on the far hill. He stared at it as food arrived, thick stew that was slopped into their bowls and had to be scooped up with bread soaked in the gravy. He watched it as
the food was taken away and women and boys with wineskins and jugs of ale wandered up and down the lines giving each man enough to keep them thirst-free. Many of them had to go and release their
bladders afterwards, each receiving a curt, ‘Don’t leave the line again,’ as they shamefacedly returned.

He watched the French line as the vanguard grew and swelled from a thin sprinkle of men into a thick carpet of colours and gleaming armour. Instead of a few figures, there was one mass, like a
tide of men that moved and rippled in the failing light, broadening and becoming amorphous as the shape changed, suddenly developing into recognisable units, before they were washed away by a
following wave of horsemen and additional foot-soldiers.

‘Sweet Jesus, will you look at all that lot?’ Walt said, aghast at the sight.

‘Don’t say it, Clip,’ Jack growled.

‘What? What d’you think I’d say at the sight of that army?’ Clip’s face had paled as he took in the view. ‘By my faith, if the King’s right, and God
gave us a miracle when we crossed that river, do you think He has any more to spare for us now?’

‘We could do with one,’ Geoff muttered. ‘What the devil does it matter though? Today is as good a day to die as any.’

They stared as the vast army formed into regular columns and the banners were brought forward. And then Berenger noticed a strange thing. None of the units and formations were stable. All were
drifting forward like ships without anchors, as though they were impelled by an invisible tide. He frowned, patting his purse in brief reminder that there his bowstring lay, before peering more
closely. ‘They aren’t stopping, are they?’

‘I don’t think they can, Frip.’ Jack was gazing ahead raptly. ‘The men behind are still marching, so those in front cannot halt. They’re being pushed
onward.’

Berenger nodded. Such a vast army of men would be impossible to direct. The English army itself was hard to command, and messages must be relayed at speed by riders to coordinate the
army’s march. The French army was many times larger, and seemed incapable of halting.

And their march seemed inexorable.

Sir John took a deep breath at the sight of the French troops rippling over the top of the ridge before him descending the slope towards the lower ground. To attack, they had
to ride up the slope and into the teeth of the English archers. Yet still they kept coming. Men by the thousand, with the sun glinting from their spear-tips, making their helmets and mail glitter,
and giving the red of their banners a demonic glow.

Dimly, on the afternoon air, the shouts of the French marshals could be heard, calling on their army to halt. The front rows of foot-soldiers and men-at-arms did stop, and some knights
dismounted, but then they all rippled forward again, just as the waters of a river in flood would lap and then press on, reaching ever further.

‘Richard, today we shall have our battle,’ Sir John said, without looking at his esquire.

‘God be with you, Sir John.’

‘And you, Richard. Let us pray He will not look away from us this day.’

Sir John had been surprised to see the King’s new banner. It was so unlike anything the English had seen before. Usually they fought under the King’s own arms. And then Sir John saw
that a vast banner was flying over the heads of the French, and understood: the Oriflamme of St Denis, the great crimson flag of the French kings since Charlemagne, was here. The two kings were
setting their flags against each other as much as their armies. Their symbols of authority and confidence in God’s support were there for all to see, fluttering gently in the breeze over
their heads. Both claimed support from the same God and fought in His name, but only one could win today.

There were shouts along the English lines – defiance from some, jeers and insults from others – both intended to keep up their spirits, Sir John knew. He eyed the knights and
men-at-arms who were near him: war-hardened men with the cold, indifferent eyes of professionals who knew themselves and their abilities. Behind them, the black-haired skirmishers and knife-men
from Wales stood eagerly licking their lips and fiddling with their long daggers, gripping their pikes. There was an atmosphere of expectation now, not fear. Men ostentatiously took out their
swords and studied the edges as if thinking they could have become blunted in the last few minutes, or adjusted thongs and strapping, tightening them in preparation.

Gradually a hush settled on the men. Sir John saw one man begin to convulse and then push through his companions to vomit on the grasses in front of them. He wasn’t insulted or laughed at,
however, but received encouraging comments and smiles. Two men patted him on the back as he returned to his post.

Sir John had none of that nausea. Only the old, familiar tension in his belly – and a slight feeling of doubt. In the lists he knew his position, he knew that the beast under him was
reliable. He and Aeton together were an unstoppable force that could pass through any number of enemies, and to be waiting here without the reassuring bulk of Aeton beneath him, felt both strange
and disquieting.

The French continued to advance.

‘Sir John, do you see the people there on the roadway?’

Richard was pointing, and now Sir John saw a large number of people waving and egging the French on.

‘So they have an audience for our defeat, do they?’ Sir John said coolly. Somehow the sight of so many men and women determined to witness the destruction of the English was
sufficient to calm him. His tension left him, and he eyed the approaching army with detached interest. ‘They are proceeding in good order.’

‘Crossbowmen to the fore. Genoese.’

‘Yes, Richard. Soon they must stop and reorganise themselves into fighting formation. At present they are still in marching order.’

Even as he spoke, the first pattering of rain tinkled on the men’s armour. A burst of lightning seared across the clouds, and a moment or two later the crackle of thunder was deafening.
Sir John turned his face to the skies and closed his eyes, letting the cooling water strike his face and run down his cheeks. It was refreshing, and he wondered whether he would be one of those who
would never again, after this day, feel the rain upon his face.

‘They aren’t stopping yet,’ his esquire noted.

‘They will,’ Sir John said confidently, keeping his face to the sky.

A whim made him glance to the left, towards his archers. He saw them standing with their bows unstrung and nodded to himself. A good idea to keep their strings dry. But the crossbowmen in the
plain before him were not so fortunate. This was more than a light shower, and their bows were all bent. It took a great effort to restring a heavy crossbow.

The rain was now falling in torrents, like a mass of grey pebbles smashing down on the field – and suddenly the field was hidden, as if a veil had been dropped over it. Sir John called to
the men nearest: ‘Be vigilant! The French may try to attack in the mists. Hold hard!’

He listened keenly, but there was nothing, only a clattering as drops as large as peas slammed against helmets, shields, armour. In moments the men-at-arms’ tunics were soaked through.
With the sides of his helmet giving him a strange sensation of being enclosed, imprisoned, it was hard for Sir John to make sense of the noises he could hear. A scream from the right made him turn,
alarmed, but there was no other call. Later he heard that a man had been kicked by a destrier and had his leg shattered.

And then the rain was gone. The skies cleared again, and a warm, rich odour of damp soil rose to the aged knight’s nostrils as the sun sprang out and illuminated the land. He took his
sword’s hilt and wiped it with a piece of tunic that was already so wet that it could achieve nothing, but he didn’t notice. Gripping his sword again, he stared as the first of the men
before him began once more to make their way forward.

‘For God and Saint Boniface!’ he shouted, and raised his sword high.

Berenger and the men hunched their shoulders and peered through the thick rain, and then, when the downpour moved on, they saw the crossbowmen ahead of them.

‘Archers! String your bows!’ Berenger bellowed at the top of his voice, fumbling in his purse and grabbing his own cord. He snatched up an arrow and nocked it to the string, prepared
to draw.

Watching, he felt his heart stop as the crossbowmen knelt and discharged their weapons. Most were aiming at the front rank of men-at-arms, but some were aiming at the archers, and Berenger had
the feeling that a bolt there had been made for him and him alone. He felt the breath stop in his lungs, and saw the dark shadow rising against the sky as thousands of bolts flew. And then, to his
astonishment, all the bolts fell harmlessly to earth many yards short of the English lines.

A roar came from behind him, and he heard ‘
Draw
!’ Pulling the string and pushing away the bow, he leaned back, bending his right leg and lifting the arrow to the sky until the
string touched his cheekbone and the arrow rested at the side of his face.

‘
LOOSE
!’

It was a sound like no other: like a hundred thousand starlings flying past, like ten thousand whips whirling about a man’s head. He felt the jolt of release in his left arm drawing him
forward and rocking him on his broadly planted feet, but then there was the quick grab for the next arrow. Nock, draw,
loose
; nock, draw,
loose
– a constant, steady routine that
dulled the senses. But it was essential work. Occasionally he glimpsed the battlefield, and when he did, he saw many corpses. The arrows the English sent up were so numerous that, when they fell,
few could survive.

‘
LOOSE
!’

As the arrows flew, a hundred and fifty thousand in every minute, they darkened the sky, as if another stormcloud was lying overhead and blotting out the sun. Surely those receiving this
terrible tempest must feel that God had deserted them.

The crossbowmen still advanced, stolidly spanning and reloading their weapons, but more and more were felled. Already their numbers were reduced by a quarter, and as the next flight of arrows
sheeted into them, Berenger felt a savage joy mingled with pity for the men who were out there, with no protection whatsoever.