Part 25 (1/2)

'Just too many of them,' Skeat said, almost to himself. 'Tommy Dugdale faced worse odds down in Brittany, Tom, but he had plenty of arrows. We're short.'

'We're going to be all right, Will.'

'Aye, well. Maybe.' Skeat pushed himself off the wagon. 'You two go ahead. I need a quiet place for a second.'

Thomas and Eleanor walked back north. The English line was forming now, the scattered flags being swamped by men-at-arms who were forming into blocks. Archers stood ahead of each formation while marshals, armed with white staffs, made sure there were gaps in the line through which the archers could escape if the hors.e.m.e.n came too close. Bundles of lances had been fetched from the village and were being issued to the men-at-arms in the front rank for, if the French did get past the pits and the arrows, the lances would have to be used as pikes.

By mid-morning the whole army was a.s.sembled on the hill. It looked far bigger than it really was because so many women had stayed with their men and now sat on the gra.s.s or else lay and slept. A fitful sun came and went, racing shadows across the valley. The pits were dug and the guns loaded. Perhaps a thousand Frenchmen watched from the far hill, but none ventured down the slope. 'At least it's better than marching,' Jake said; 'gives us a chance for a rest, eh?'

'Be an easy day,' Sam reckoned. He nodded at the far hill. 'Not many of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, eh?'

'That's only the vanguard, you daft b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' Jake said.

'There are more coming?' Sam sounded genuinely surprised.

'Every G.o.dd.a.m.n b.a.s.t.a.r.d in France is coming,' Jake said.

Thomas kept quiet. He was imagining the French army strung along the Abbeville road. They would all know the English had stopped running, that they were waiting, and doubtless the French were hurrying in case they missed the battle. They had to be confident. He made the sign of the cross and Eleanor, sensing his fear, touched his arm.

'You will be all right,' she said.

'You too, my love.'

'You remember your promise to my father?' she asked.

Thomas nodded, but he could not persuade himself that he would see the lance of St George this day. This day was real, while the lance belonged to some mysterious world of which Thomas really wanted no part. Everyone else, he thought, cared pa.s.sionately about the relic, and only he, who had as good a reason as any to discover the truth, was indifferent. He wished he had never seen the lance, he wished that the man who had called himself the Harlequin had never come to Hookton, but if the French had not landed, he thought, then he would not be carrying the black bow and would not be on this green hillside and would not have met Eleanor. You cannot turn your back on G.o.d, he told himself.

'If I see the lance,' he promised Eleanor, 'I shall fight for it.' That was his penance, though he still hoped he would not have to serve it.

They ate mouldy bread for their midday meal. The French were a dark ma.s.s on the far hill, too many to count now, and the first of their infantry had arrived. A spit of rain made those archers who had their strings dangling from a bowtip hurry to coil the cords and shelter them under helmets or hats, but the small rain pa.s.sed. A wind stirred the gra.s.s.

And still the French came to the far hill. They were a horde, they had come to Crecy, and they had come for revenge.

Chapter 12.

The English waited. Two of Skeat's archers played straw flutes, while the hobelars, who were helping to protect the guns on the army's flanks, sang songs of green woods and running streams. Some men danced the steps they would have used on a village green back home, others slept, many played dice, and all but the sleepers continually looked across the valley to the far hill crest that was thickening with men.

Jake had a linen-wrapped lump of beeswax that he handed round the archers so they could coat their bows. It was not necessary, just something to do. 'Where did you get the wax?' Thomas asked him.

'Stole it, of course, off some daft man-at-arms. Saddle - polish, I reckon.'

An argument developed over which wood made the best arrows. It was an old discussion, but it pa.s.sed the time. Everyone knew ash made the best shafts, but some men liked to claim that birch or hornbeam, even oak, flew just as well. Alder, though heavy, was good for killing deer, but needed a heavy head and did not have the distance for battle.

Sam took one of his new arrows from his bag and showed everyone how warped the shaft was. 'Must be made of b.l.o.o.d.y blackthorn,' he complained bitterly. 'You could shoot that round a corner.'

'They don't make arrows like they used to,' Will Skeat said, and his archers jeered for it was an old complaint. 'It's true,' Skeat said. 'It's all hurry up and no craftsmans.h.i.+p these days. Who cares? The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds get paid by the sheaf and the sheaves are sent to London and no one looks at them till they reach us, and what are we going to do? Just look at it!' He took the arrow from Sam and twisted it in his fingers. 'That's not a b.l.o.o.d.y goose feather! It's a G.o.dd.a.m.n sparrow feather. No b.l.o.o.d.y use for anything except scratching your a.r.s.e.' He tossed the arrow back to Sam. 'No, a proper archer makes his own arrows.'

'I used to,' Thomas said.

'But you're a lazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d now, eh, Tom?' Skeat grinned, but the grin faded as he stared across the valley. 'Enough of the G.o.dd.a.m.n b.a.s.t.a.r.ds,' he grumbled, looking at the gathering French, then he grimaced as a solitary raindrop splashed on his worn boots. 'I wish it would d.a.m.n well rain and get it over with. It wants to. If it p.i.s.ses on us when the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are attacking then we might as well run for home because the bows won't shoot.'

Eleanor sat beside Thomas and watched the far hill. There were at least as many men there as were in the English army now, and the French main battle was only just arriving. Mounted men-at-arms were spreading across the hill, organizing themselves into conrois. A conroi was the basic fighting unit for a knight or man-at-arms, and most had between a dozen and twenty men, but those who formed the bodyguards of the great lords were much larger. There were now so many hors.e.m.e.n on the far hilltop that some had to spill down the slope, which was turning into a spread of colour, for the men-at-arms were wearing surcoats embroidered with their lords' badges and the horses had gaudy trappers, while the French banners added more blue and red and yellow and green. Yet, despite the colours, the dull grey of steel and mail still predominated. In front of the hors.e.m.e.n were the first green and red jackets of the Genoese crossbowmen. There was only a handful of those bowmen, but more and more were streaming over the hill to join their comrades.

A cheer sounded from the English centre and Thomas leaned forward to see that archers were scrambling to their feet. His first thought was that the French must have attacked, but there were no enemy hors.e.m.e.n and no arrows flew.

'Up!' Will Skeat shouted suddenly. 'On your feet!'

'What is it?' Jake asked.

Thomas saw the hors.e.m.e.n then. Not Frenchmen, but a dozen Englishmen who rode along the face of the waiting battleline, carefully keeping their horses away from the archers' pits. Three of the hors.e.m.e.n were carrying banners, and one of those flags was a huge standard showing the lilies and the leopards framed in gold. 'It's the King,' a man said, and Skeat's archers began to cheer.

The King stopped and spoke with the men in the centre of the line, then trotted on towards the English right. His escort was mounted on big destriers, but the King rode a grey mare. He wore his bright surcoat, but had hung his crowned helmet from his saddle pommel and so was bare-headed. His royal standard, all red, gold and blue, led the flags, while behind it was the King's personal badge of the flaming sun rising, while the third, which provoked the loudest cheer, was an extravagantly long pennant which showed the fire-spewing dragon of Wess.e.x. It was the flag of England, of the men who had fought the Conqueror, and the Conqueror's descendant now flew it to show that he was of England like the men who cheered him as he rode the grey horse.

He stopped close to Will Skeat's men and raised a white staff to silence the cheers. The archers had pulled off their helmets and some had gone on one knee. The King still looked young, and his hair and beard were as gold as the rising sun on his standard.

'I am grateful,' he began in a voice so hoa.r.s.e that he paused and started again. 'I am grateful that you are here.' That started the cheering again and Thomas, who was cheering with the others, did not even reflect on what choice they had been given. The King raised the white staff for silence. 'The French, as you see, have decided to join us! Perhaps they are lonely.' It was not a great joke, but it prompted roars of laughter that turned to jeers for the enemy. The King smiled as he waited for the shouts to subside. 'We came here,' he then called, 'only to procure the rights and lands and privileges that are ours by the laws of man and of G.o.d. My cousin of France challenges us, and in so doing he defies G.o.d.' The men were silent now, listening carefully. The destriers of the King's escort were pawing the ground, but not a man moved. 'G.o.d will not endure Philip of France's impudence,' the King went on. 'He will punish France, and you,' he cast a hand to indicate the archers, 'will be His instrument. G.o.d is with you, and I promise you, I swear to you before G.o.d and on my own life, that I will not leave this field till the last man of my army has marched from here. We stay on this hill together and we fight here together and we shall win together for G.o.d, for St George and for England!'

The cheers began again and the King smiled and nodded, then turned as the Earl of Northampton strode from the line. The King leaned down in his saddle and listened to the Earl for a moment, then straightened and smiled again. 'Is there a Master Skeat here?'

Skeat immediately reddened, but did not confess his presence. The Earl was grinning, the King waited, then a score of archers pointed at their leader. 'He's here!'

'Come here!' the King commanded sternly.

Will Skeat looked embarra.s.sed as he threaded through the bowmen and approached the King's horse where he went on one knee. The King drew his ruby-hilted sword and touched it on Skeat's shoulder. 'We are told you are one of our best soldiers, so from henceforth you will be Sir William Skeat.'

The archers shouted even louder. Will Skeat, Sir William now, stayed on his knees as the King spurred on to give the same speech to the last men in the line and to those who manned the guns in the circle of farm carts. The Earl of Northampton, who had plainly been responsible for Skeat's knighthood, raised him up and led him back to his cheering men, and Skeat was still blus.h.i.+ng as his archers clapped him on the back.

'b.l.o.o.d.y nonsense,' he said to Thomas.

'You deserve it, Will,' Thomas said, then grinned, 'Sir William.'

'Just have to pay more b.l.o.o.d.y tax, won't I?' Skeat said, but he looked pleased anyway. Then he frowned as a drop of rain splashed on his bare forehead. 'Bowstrings!' he shouted.

Most of the men were still sheltering their strings, but a handful had to coil the cords as the rain began to fall more heavily. One of the Earl's men-at-arms came to the archers, shouting that the women were to go back beyond the crest. 'You heard him!' Will Skeat called. 'Women to the baggage!'

Some of the women wept, but Eleanor just clung to Thomas for a moment. 'Live,' she said simply, then walked away through the rain, pa.s.sing the Prince of Wales who, with six other mounted men, was riding to his place among the men-at-arms behind Will Skeat's archers. The Prince had decided to fight on horseback so he could see over the heads of the dismounted men and, to mark his arrival, his banner which was bigger than any other on the right of the field was loosed to the heavy downpour.

Thomas could no longer see across the valley because wide curtains of heavy grey rain were sweeping from the north and obscuring the air. There was nothing to do but sit and wait while the leather backing of his mail became cold and clammy. He hunched miserably, staring into the greyness, knowing that no bow could draw properly till this downpour ended.

'What they should do,' said Father Hobbe, who sat beside Thomas, 'is charge now.'

'They couldn't find their way in this muck, father,' Thomas said. He saw the priest had a bow and an arrow bag, but no other battle equipment. 'You should get some mail,' he said, 'or at least a padded jacket.'

'I'm armoured by the faith, my son.'

'Where's your bowstrings?' Thomas asked, for the priest had neither helmet nor cap.