Part 36 (2/2)

'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 ma.s.s of grey pebbles smas.h.i.+ng 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, s.h.i.+elds, 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 G.o.d 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d 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.

'What the f.u.c.k are they playing at?' Granda.r.s.e snarled. He had come to join the men, and stood with a great bow clutched in his fist, staring down at the men struggling to cross the plain. 'Why don't they return our fire?'

'Their strings are wet and won't hold the tension. They can't reach us with their bolts,' Berenger said. He let fly, and watched his own and the other arrows rise, stoop and plummet. Men were struck in the breast and the head. Two, he saw, ran screaming, with arrows in their bodies that they could not reach. Their shrieks of agony came clearly on the wind.

'So much the better,' Granda.r.s.e said with satisfaction. He took his own bow and sent an arrow hurtling towards them. 'I like being safe when the enemy approaches!'

Berenger nodded, but his own, unspoken sympathy lay with the hapless men out there. He had been on the receiving end of enemy bolts and arrows far too often not to feel some compa.s.sion.

'They're retreating! Sweet angels of mercy, they're pulling back!' Granda.r.s.e roared, and Berenger could see it too. The crossbowmen had taken enough. They were streaming back towards the bulk of the French cavalry, leaving in disorder, men taking out their knives and cutting their crossbows, throwing the expensive weapons away, already made useless, before the English could take them, and then running pell-mell for their own lines.

'Thanks be to G.o.d!' someone muttered, and when Berenger looked, he realised it was Ed. The Donkey was staring at them with tears in his eyes.

'They're bolting like b.l.o.o.d.y rabbits! They've had enough, and they're bolting!' a man shouted, and Sir John threw him a sour look.

'A few thousand crossbowmen leave the field, and you think that's a cause for celebration?' he said. 'There are plenty more waiting there in the wings.'

'We're going to win this battle,' another man said, and lifted his sword defiantly. 'Hey! We're here, France! If you think you can push us away, come and try it!'

Sir John gritted his teeth. It was fools like this who caused wars fools like this who lost wars. 'Hold your tongues and hold your lines!' he commanded. 'That was only the first essay. Now will come the onslaught.'

'Onslaught, old man?' There was a rude laugh from behind him. 'They're already knocked back. One more little effort and we'll have the field.'

'Don't be a wh.o.r.e-swyving fool,' Sir John snarled. 'Look!'

The others turned and saw what Sir John had witnessed: as the crossbowmen fled, the hors.e.m.e.n in the first ranks spurred their mounts and charged down the farther hillside, straight into the running soldiers, and when they ran them down, it was no accident. As though blaming them for their inadequacy in bringing the English to their knees, the riders slashed and cut at the crossbowmen. Almost as many were hacked down as had been slain by the English arrows.

It was a bloodbath. The French knights had taken no more notice of the crossbowmen than they would of their enemies, slaying them with lance or sword or riding them down and trampling them. The poor fellows were caught between the hammer of their own knights, and the anvil of the English archers. To remain was to die, but to attempt to flee was to be killed by their own comrades. They fell in their hundreds, their bodies crushed into the mud by the knights on their huge destriers.

'Hold the line! Prepare to receive horses!' Sir John roared. He gripped his lance more tightly, setting the b.u.t.t in the ground and gripping it tightly. 'Steady! Steady!'

Archibald darted from his gonne to those nearby, a.s.sessing the angles of fire and glancing up at the horses now thundering towards the English lines. He peered along the length of his barrel and as the horses began to come closer, closer. Grabbing his match, he blew on the smouldering cord until it glowed bright and white. And then, when the leading horse was almost in front of his barrel, he stood back and thrust the lighted match into the powder-hole of the gonne.

There was a vast belch of flame that engulfed the whole battlefield in stark horror. As the roar died away, all was obscured by a thick, grey-white smoke. The gynour's breath was sucked from him, and his ears felt as if water had been thrown into them: he had gone deaf. Choking fumes were blown into his face, and he shook his head, blinking, as he tried to see what his shot had achieved. As all cleared, he saw three horses thras.h.i.+ng, two riders stumbling towards the English lines, and one knight, dazed by the blast, walking in little circles that were leading him towards the archers. Three clothyard arrows found him.

Archibald moved to the next barrel while another man attacked the still-smoking barrel with a swab drenched in water. The next gonne sprang into the air as Archibald danced away, sending more flames to deal death to the French. His heart was also dancing, with excitement and yes, with joy. There was nothing like this sensation, dealing death with the skill of a master-of-arms. He could kill and maim scores with his toys: this was the way to fight with utter impunity.

A flash from the third gonne, and a gust of brimstone-filled smoke . . . and he saw two more horses rearing and thras.h.i.+ng in their agony. Archibald stopped for a moment, brought back to the present by their pain, but then he saw a fresh rank of knights thundering up the hill towards the English lines, and he ordered his men to reload their gonnes, while he leaned down and rammed and cleaned and dried, preparing the next charge, aiming as the beasts headed towards them.

Sir John waited, watching for the first of the French to reach the English lines, but none approached nearer than a few tens of yards. 'Hold your places!' he shouted as a couple of men-at-arms made as though to run at the wounded.

Now those same knights who had treated their own crossbowmen with such cruelty were themselves slaughtered. Sir John saw the front row struck as though by an invisible rope: the foremost horses were killed at almost the same moment, plunging to the ground, while their riders were thrown or remained with their horses. Two men, he saw, lay trapped by their mounts' dead bodies, a leg caught beneath the steed. But as more and more arrows fell among them, these two were soon dead, stabbed by many arrows.

Another rank of horses and men were tumbled to the ground, then a third, and suddenly a ma.s.s of riders was making its way forward.

'Hold the wall! s.h.i.+elds and lances! For G.o.d and England!' he heard from all around, and he added his own, 'For Saint Boniface!' And then he added, 'For King Edward and for England!' And thrust the b.u.t.t of his lance into the ground, pointing the tip at the enemy. He could hear the crackle of the banners overhead and feel the strange juddering in his legs. It was the ground, rebelling at the hoofbeats of thousands of horses. The very earth recoiled from the French attack.

There was no time to aim his lance. Suddenly the knights and destriers were all too close, and in the blink of an eye, they were on him.

It felt as though all those French lance-points were targeting his heart, his breast, his face. A matchless forest of steel-tipped lances were thrust towards him, but before any could reach him or the other men, the horses saw their danger. While many carried on, impaling themselves on the English weapons, many more reared or tried to run to one side or the other to avoid the bristling sharp steel points.

They crashed into each other, causing mayhem amongst the French chivalry. One beast ran along the English line, deflecting many lances, until a lucky stab brought him down.

Sir John felt his own lance pulled from his hand, and the b.u.t.t was yanked from the soil and swiped at his legs, almost knocking him down. Before he could grab it again, three French men-at-arms appeared, their horses dead already, running at him.

Sir John pulled his sword free and hefted its weight with relief. This was the sort of fight he had trained for: the sort of fight he was born for.

They charged and were repelled, charged and were repelled, and still they kept coming. Berenger had counted six charges already, but once more the men and horses were gathering at the other end of the field, and now they were charging again.

Archibald's gonnes roared and spat flames and missiles like an array of dragons, while from the other flank still more clouds of smoke were thrown at the French, and each time a few men were forced to the ground, a few more horses were slain.

There was an enormous cacophony of sound. Berenger felt a concussion at his ears, a searing flash of heat, and turned to see a bloom of flame. A figure was thrown high into the air, and the stench of brimstone was thick and cloying as wafts of greasy smoke rolled past them. Screams and shouts came from the edge of the archers' post, where Archibald stood with his gonnes.

Berenger let another arrow loose at the men approaching. More and more knights were thundering up the slope to the English lines. He saw a strange group: knights, and a n.o.bleman wearing three white feathers, riding together. Even when first one and then a second knight were hit and fell from their mounts, their horses remained with the rest, and he realised that they were all tied together as a group, as though their leader feared that one or more might attempt to flee the battle. All rode straight for the Prince's banner, and there was a moment when Berenger thought that they might succeed in punching through to him, but then there was a moment's blindness as the fog from Archibald's cannon rolled out, pa.s.sing through them. They looked like wraiths in a mist, and then the smoke cleared and Berenger saw that the little party was dead. All had fallen before the English lines.

There was another ma.s.sive charge building. It was the greatest collection of men he had ever seen, and his belly gave a lurch. Then three Frenchmen sprang forward, calling on their peers to ride with them. Suddenly, the whole line was moving: thousands of the n.o.blest-born, best-trained warriors of Europe, mounted on the highest-quality destriers, first trotting, then beginning to canter, then lowering their heads and thundering at full gallop towards the centre of the English line. Berenger saw the English sergeants and vinteners rallying their men. He glimpsed the Earl of Warwick raising his ma.s.sive sword over his head and shrieking his defiance, while nearby, Sir John de Sully was awaiting the enemy with a cool demeanour as though deciding which man he should aim his lance at first.

'ARCHERS! LOAD! ARCHERS LOOSE!' he heard, and aimed at a great black-armoured knight with a red surcoat. The arrow struck at the top of the man's shoulder and bounced away, and he rode on without injury.

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