Part 32 (1/2)

Even as he had the thought, a bolt whirred past his ear like a blackbird rocketing away from danger. That sound brought him to his senses. He stopped and studied the battlefield. There were more crossbowmen in the roadway now, to block any attempt at rescue. The rest of the French were determinedly heading for the Earl's men.

He heard a cough, and when he glanced to his side, he saw Roger gazing at a bolt's fletchings embedded in his chest. He looked at Berenger and choked, and a great gush of blood came from his mouth, and then he retched and collapsed, writhing.

Berenger stared in shock. Roger had always seemed impervious to the darts and blades of the enemy. Another bolt flew past.

'Swyve a goat, these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are getting serious!' Clip said.

It was enough to bring Berenger to his senses.

'Archers! Archers! To me! To me! Nock!'

He set his quiver on the ground and put arrow to string.

'Aim for the hors.e.m.e.n of the French. Take them in the back if you may! We have to support the Earl and his men!'

He stared to either side. 'Archers: draw!'

A man three further along from him gave a strangled cry and fell back, a bolt jutting from his brow.

'Archers: loose!'

A flurry of arrows rose into the air and plunged down towards the French, and before they could strike, a second wave was heading after them. Berenger drew his bow a third time, and another ma.s.s of wood and steel was launched on its way.

The arrows did their work. French men-at-arms suddenly found that their steel protection was punctured, or badly dented, by the hideous, hard points of arrows from behind. Berenger saw a man hit in the head who rode, his arm held high with a sword gripped in his fist, away from the fight, and continue until lost from sight. Another was struck in the neck, near the spine, and seemed to fly into a frenzy, his gauntleted hands reaching around with desperation to try to pluck the barb from him. Two English knights hacked at him until he fell. A third was. .h.i.t by two arrows in the lower back, and fell forwards over his horse's neck until a man with an axe beheaded him with two blows.

'With me!' Berenger shouted. With three arrows in his hand and a fourth on his string, he ran towards the Genoese. A man stood to aim his crossbow, but three arrows launched at him made him flinch, and his bolt flew high overhead. At his side, a second man took aim, but an arrow struck him in the eye and he was thrown to the ground. Then the Genoese took flight.

Berenger stopped, trying to control his breathing, and took aim at a large man with a flowing red beard. His helmet was open-faced, and he fought like a berserker of old, his sword leaping and dancing in his hand as he tried to belabour Sir John and the Earl. Berenger's arrow sprang forth and struck him in the throat, and he fell back with the point of the arrow protuding inches from the back of his helmet.

Jack was beside him again now, muttering, 'They don't pay us enough, Frip, f.u.c.k 'em!'

'Stop your moaning, you old git,' Berenger managed through gritted teeth as he held the string back, the point of his clothyard arrow aiming at a French man-at-arms who was riding towards the archers. He took a low aim, and saw it strike the man's horse in the breast. It managed only three more steps before its heart burst, and the steed crumpled to the ground, forelegs folding to the knees, and the brute's chin striking the roadway. There was a crack like a tree-limb breaking as the neck snapped, and the rider was hurled from the saddle to land in the dirt. He rose, shaking his head, but Clip was already at him, and his dagger went into the man's eye. He fell, legs kicking, blood spraying and smothering Clip, who swore and quickly dashed it away.

Berenger could see the French were wilting away. The Genoese crossbowmen had taken to their heels and were disappearing beyond the village, but even as they went, Berenger's glee was dispelled. More men on horseback were cantering towards them: men-at-arms, with their metal gleaming blue-black and silver, pennants fluttering from their spears. And with their arrival, the Genoese took heart again. He saw them turn, crouching to span their weapons, and then loading and aiming while protected behind walls.

'Frip, we can't take this place,' Jack panted at his side.

'We can't leave the knights!' Berenger responded.

'Then we'll all die,' Clip shouted. For once there was no whining edge to his voice, only determination. 'Frip, we have to get out of this!'

Berenger stood torn, but before he could decide, Granda.r.s.e appeared at his side. He had a long, raking cut on his arm, and he stood breathing stertorously as he studied the men struggling in the road before him. The dust rose, enveloping the scene, and only the clanging, cras.h.i.+ng and bellowings of rage and agony could be heard.

'Sod this,' he muttered. Then: 'Frip, get your men back. This we cannot win.'

They withdrew to a hamlet halfway back to the main army, where the men rested and sat to patch their wounds. Of the archers, a quarter had been injured, although only fifteen had died. A little while after the last of the archers had slumped to the ground, Berenger heard cantering horses and turned to see the remaining English men-at-arms riding towards them, a body of French knights in hot pursuit.

'Archers!' he shouted, and gathered together three vintaines. They waited until their men-at-arms were safe, and then released four flights of arrows. Seven men fell not to rise again, and three more were punctured, the arrows punching through their armour and when the French saw the archers standing at the ridge, they gave up on the chase, turning and riding away.

'I owe you and your men a debt of grat.i.tude,' the Earl said, eyeing the retreating French. His face and armour were bespattered with blood, but he appeared uninjured. 'They bested us, d.a.m.n their souls! They bested us well.'

'So we cannot take the bridge here?' Granda.r.s.e said.

'They have too many men, and reserves. It would drain our army to force a path. No, we shall find a better crossing-point. Pont-Remy is supposed to have a good bridge. We shall try that. Gather your men.'

'Aye, sir. Berenger? You've complained about your manpower. Take Roger's vintaine and mix it with yours.'

The town of Pont-Remy was less than two leagues away, and the archers wearily remounted and followed the Somme's banks.

Berenger found himself riding beside Granda.r.s.e.

'Well?' his centener asked. 'How are the men?'

'They'll cope.'

'Will you, Frip?'

'I'll be fine. You've known me long enough.'

'Aye. And you've known me, you daft b.u.g.g.e.r. Doesn't mean you won't see me start to complain soon. This whole campaign's gone to c.o.c.k.'

'We'll get through it.'

'Will we? I wish I had your faith.'

Berenger stared at him. It was the first time he had heard Granda.r.s.e make a negative comment, and it was crus.h.i.+ng. He had tried to keep his spirits up, but if Granda.r.s.e himself considered their position hopeless, there was nothing more to say.

Approaching the town, they saw the forces ranged against them.

'Sweet Jesus!' Granda.r.s.e grunted. 'Did I not tell you, Frip? How in G.o.d's name can we pit ourselves against an enormous host like that, eh?'

There were two main forces, one flag neither recognised, while the second was familiar to both of them.

'John of Hainault! I'd like to get my hands round his throat, the back-sliding, dishonest, treacherous git,' Granda.r.s.e said with feeling.

Berenger couldn't disagree. John of Hainault had been the King's ally until recently, but there was no honour in the man's soul. He would go wherever he thought he would gain the most. And right now, that was with the French.

In the course of their march, more men-at-arms had joined the English, and now there were over a hundred knights and esquires riding with the archers. It was good to see so many with them, but viewing the men ranged against them, Berenger felt his belly contract. It was his own, personal premonition of disaster.

Sir John de Sully listened as the Earl discussed with his captains how best to force the French from their path. In the end, the Earl's view prevailed. The archers were placed in two triangular formations on either side of the road, and they were ordered to begin loosing their missiles as soon as the men-at-arms were ready.

Sitting in the saddle with his back resting against the cantle, Sir John eyed the enemy shrewdly. 'Easy, Aeton,' he said, patting the beast's neck. 'Not long now.'

There were so many of them! Too many. Men-at-arms of all ranks waited on horseback, while before them stood foot-soldiers armed with pikes, lances and bills. They would be able to defend themselves without trouble. There was a slightly weaker point in the line over to the right, he noticed, where the English might be able to charge through . . . but even as he thought this, more packed the s.p.a.ce.

Usually, he would aim to charge, force a way through, and cause havoc behind their lines. A few knights ranging widely behind an army could quickly destroy what confidence that force originally held. But today, to break through that rigid-looking line would be almost impossible.

He let his eyes move over the men at either side, wondering how their courage would hold.

It was a simple fact that Englishmen were better trained and tested in war. That did not mean that the French were not equally bold and courageous, only that the English could sometimes perform prodigious feats of arms against overwhelming odds. All had heard of the brilliant efforts of men like Sir Walter Manny and Sir Thomas Dagworth. No one could be in any doubt as to the worth of Englishmen in war, but that did not mean that they were invincible. The French possessed more knights, more men-at-arms, more foot-soldiers and more weapons than the English. And the English were tired. They had been marching for weeks already, and with few provisions over recent miles, while the French could rely on every town or city for resupply.