Fields of Glory (42 page)

Jack bit his thumb at him, grinning.

‘And that’s your answer, is it?’ Clip demanded shrilly. ‘You reckon you can just insult me, and I won’t—’

‘Clip,’ Berenger said wearily, ‘Shut the fuck up! If you want to go and complain to the King back there, he’ll be delighted to hear your comments, I’m sure. But for
now, I’m tired of your whining.’

‘It’s not fair, that’s all I’m saying,’ Clip muttered. ‘Why are we always riding ahead, scouting for the army?’

Jack laughed. ‘What are you complaining about? Look over your shoulder, man. There are fifteen thousand Englishmen at your back, and when you meet a Frenchman, all he’s going to see
is the number of men here to protect you: a king’s host, with knights and English archers. He’ll take one look at that lot, crap himself, drop his sword and flee.’

‘At least it’s not much further,’ Berenger said appeasingly.

‘How do we know that?’ Clip moaned. ‘It could be another hundred miles, for all we know.’

‘No. We’ve been travelling too long already. The river isn’t too far now.’

‘How do you know that?’ Clip said, his tone tempered by hope.

‘I have been here before. Many years ago.’

‘Oh. So how long will it be?’

‘
Enough
, Clip! We’ll be at the river in less than a day, I think. Now shut your trap – you’re giving me earache.’

He did recall this land. The plains were familiar. It was a long time ago that he had last been here, but with the journey the memories flooded back. He recognised a village, now smouldering
where English troops had set fire to the houses.

‘When?’

‘Eh?’ Berenger was jerked back to the present.

‘When were you here last?’ Clip said.

‘Sixteen years ago. Last time I saw it, people were working in the fields; the horses were set to pasture. There were children laughing, darting in among the trees at the edge, playing
catch-as-catch-can.’

Yes. And King Edward II had thrown a coin to them, and the children had scurried for it gleefully. It was a happy scene.

‘See? I can inspire joy in the hearts of the innocent,’ the King had said sadly. ‘Even if I have lost wife, son, throne and realm.’

Sixteen years ago, Berenger had been – what? Twenty? That was when he had fled England, travelling first to Avignon, thence to Italy.

‘So long as we make it there,’ Clip said gloomily.

Berenger frowned. ‘What now?’

‘I doubt many of us will ever reach home. Not with the witch still among us.’

‘Without her nursing, Geoff would be dead by now.’

‘He’s dying anyway,’ Clip said. ‘He won’t make it to England. You’ve seen how his face is. He’s got a fever.’

‘It’ll break. He’ll recover,’ Berenger said.

‘You think so?’

It hadn’t crossed his mind that Geoff could die. Geoff was always there, an essential cog in the machine that was the vintaine. Without him, Berenger thought, the team would fall
apart.

‘He’ll be fine,’ he repeated, but he glanced over his shoulder towards the cart in which Geoff bounced. He could see that Béatrice was sitting in the cart still, her
long hair concealed beneath a coif. It was tempting to go back and check on him, just to make sure that Geoff was truly all right.

He needed the miller’s son alive.

‘The river!’

The army straggled over a wide area as they ambled onwards, like men walking or riding in their sleep. On hearing the cry, Berenger saw Jack lurch, startled, and Clip almost tumbled from his
mount.

Ahead, a scout was pointing and waving urgently.

‘See that, Jack?’ Berenger said. ‘What is it?’

Jack peered through the dust that the rider had stirred; beyond was a sparkling and glinting. ‘I don’t know.’

The gleams were so faint, they could have been the sun sparkling on water, Berenger thought. Perhaps that was it: they had reached the river at last! With a quick thrill of fear, something
struck him: the sun was behind them. Surely if it were a river, there would be less glittering? Besides, these glimmers looked to be too high. Any water would be low against the land.

That was when he realised what he could see, and recognised their danger. In that instant, he felt his bowels must empty.

‘
VINTAINE, TO ME
!’ he bellowed. ‘It’s the French, and they’re coming straight at us!’

There was a sudden hush, and his men paused and looked at him, then back at the greyness ahead. ‘Where?’ someone asked.

Later, Berenger could have sworn that they sat stationary on their mounts for an age. Once, long ago, he had sat at the side of his village’s pond and observed a strange, repulsive brown
creature that climbed from the slime and ooze, to pause, gripping the reeds. Then, fascinated, he watched as the skin split, and gradually a brilliant, colourful body appeared. The wings were
crumpled and useless, he saw, and he thought that they must somehow have been crushed, but then they gradually expanded, their appearance flattened and became shaped, and he realised that this was
a magnificent dragonfly.

It had taken an age before the creature was able to fly away, and today he measured the time between the appearance of the rider and the sight of the men approaching them in a similar manner. In
truth, he knew they came quickly. He saw men-at-arms in armour, lance-points shining in the afternoon sun . . . and then suddenly they were ploughing through the vintaine, and the air was full of
the shouts of the wounded, and screams and bellows as men tried to escape from the enemy. Berenger saw Jack avoid one lance, and then slam his bow at the face of another rider. He ducked too, but
his aim was thrown off and he missed his own mark.

Berenger felt a lance-tip cut along his ribs but by a miracle, beyond the fine razor’s slash, there was no damage. He looked up, just in time to see a second horse pounding towards him. He
tried to jerk his mount out of the way, but the pony appeared spellbound by the terrifying sight of the other beast and the lance, and froze. Berenger yanked at the reins with such gusto that he
fell half from the saddle. He felt a great shudder run through the horse, then heard a loud crack. The lance, aiming for him, had dropped when he fell, and speared his mount instead, the lance
snapping as the rider galloped on.

He kicked his feet free from the stirrups as the little pony collapsed to its knees, blood gushing from its nostrils, and dodged swiftly aside as the beast collapsed, rolling, hooves flailing in
the air.

Berenger could not afford to spend time to put the brute out of its misery. His sword in his fist, he stared about him. It seemed that the French were already gone. They had ridden through the
midst of the scouts, killing many, and then continued on for a short distance, but when they caught sight of the main body of the army, they turned about and returned northwards.

Unknowing, Berenger knelt and gave thanks, his forehead resting on his sword’s cross.

‘You’d better hurry,’ Jack said. ‘They’ll be back soon.’

‘Back?’ Berenger said, still dazed.

‘Aye. And here are the first of them.’

Berenger looked, and saw a mass of men. Some on horseback, others running on foot. He took a deep breath.

‘Tell the men to prepare.’

There was little time for the army to respond, but as Berenger bellowed to the men nearby to dismount and string their bows, he was aware of movements behind him as more men
rode to his side and flanks. In a surprisingly short time, there were two hundred or more archers, bows strung and ready, their arrows near to hand.

‘Frip, take these!’ he heard, and turned to see the Donkey carrying an armload of arrows.

‘Dump them here, lad,’ Berenger said gratefully.

‘You think I have time to clean your mess for you?’ the Donkey responded with a grin. ‘Take them and be damned. I have to take these to other men.’

Ed dropped the arrows, and Berenger quickly stabbed them into the ground a short way away so he could snatch them up in a hurry. It wasn’t as efficient as having them in a wicker quiver
before him as he preferred, but it was a great deal better than nothing. He counted quickly. Three-and-twenty arrows. Not enough, but they would suffice, with luck.

The enemy were coming on still. There were perhaps a thousand of them, and from the way they approached, they were reluctant to come to blows. Not trained men-at-arms, then, like the group which
had first appeared and killed his pony. These were likely local levies, or perhaps just men from about the plain who were distraught at the devastation inflicted on their lands. Albeit unused to
war, their anger and despair were enough to make them a force to reckon with.

‘
ARCHERS
!’ Berenger recognised Grandarse’s stentorian bellow. ‘Hold your ground!’

It was good advice. Some had considered moving forward to try to pick off the occasional Frenchman as they came into range, but by so doing they would weaken the force’s impact.

Berenger’s blood was thundering in his head like a horse’s hooves in full gallop. His training told him that he was safe, for there were more archers appearing at his sides, and he
knew that with so many bowmen, only a massive army could reach them . . . but still there was this dread anticipation of battle. He looked over to where his pony had been rolling, and saw that he
was quite dead, his legs curved over his body. One eye appeared to stare at him reproachfully. The broken spear still projected from his breast, and the ground about him was black with his
blood.

‘Sorry,’ he said, and felt unaccountably sad. Tears threatened his eyes and he dashed them away irritably. It was nothing: a pony. He was only sad because it had been a comfortable
little thing, and he would miss the brute’s broad back for the rest of the march.

‘Archers! Nock!’
Grandarse bawled.

Berenger took the nearest arrow and flicked the dirt from the tip. These were bodkins: sharp, pointed arrows, designed to penetrate mail and leather and stab the body beneath. A prick from one
of these would be enough to pin a man to his horse, or to the ground.

‘Archers! Draw!’

The enemy were approaching quickly now. A few bolder spirits had egged on the rest to throw themselves on the invaders, and now men raced towards them, seven or eight on ponies, but the rest on
foot, hurtling towards the English with savage determination.

‘Archers! LOOSE!’

Berenger felt the jerk as the string snapped forward, and saw the arrow bend and twist as it leaped up, the fletchings catching the air and coming alive. He saw it rise as he reached for his
second and nocked the horn to the string, and saw it plummet as he drew again, feeling his eyelashes catch the string as he blinked . . . and then that arrow was flying, and he was reaching for the
next.

An archer like Berenger could loose six arrows a minute easily. Three hundred men meant eighteen hundred arrows. And all those arrows would strike in the midst of the men coming towards them.
Even as he watched, he saw the first arrows find their marks, and a rank of men disappeared. One moment they were running at full tilt, the next they were fallen. Unconsciously, the Frenchmen
clumped together as their companions died, bunching up for comfort in the face of this hideous airborne onslaught, but by doing so, they made themselves into easy targets. The next flight of arrows
slammed into them – and more men tumbled and fell. They gathered together again, and the next flight reduced their numbers yet further.

Few Frenchmen succeeded in reaching the English. Those who did, exhausted by their long race, were easily overwhelmed and dispatched, and as Berenger stared out over the plain, he suddenly had
the feeling that things would improve. They would win. They would return to England.

But then the shrill cries and sobs reminded him of his duty, and he and the other men drew their long knives and went to end the suffering of the men on the field.

Sir John was glad to be asked to go and test the defences.

After the French militia had tried to bring the English to battle, the English army had been delayed once more, collecting arrows from the field, despatching the enemy wounded, and reforming
their men into a line of march. If their intention had been to hold up the English, the French militia could hardly have succeeded more effectively, Sir John thought, but he kept the thought to
himself.

The army would continue to Airaines, the Earl of Warwick told him, but Sir John must ride north, to the Somme, and test the defences. It was vital that the English army found a means of crossing
the river. They must not be constrained as they had been at the Seine, but must punch their way over and continue up to the county of Ponthieu.

‘Those lands were the King’s own until this damned war,’ Warwick said. ‘Once we are there, our situation will improve.’

‘Because of the people? You think we can win more men to the King’s flag?’ Sir John asked.

‘Perhaps some, although I wouldn’t trust any of the locals that much. You can never tell how a peasant’s mind will work. No, I was thinking more that we know that territory.
There are places where we can use the land to our advantage.’