Desired (37 page)

The sun was setting before the stronghold fell to them. King Edward went to the Constable of France’s war room and searched it top to bottom. When he discovered a plan to invade England that had been drawn up by the Normans, he was incensed. It showed in detail how England was to be divided among the victors. He handed it to the Black Prince, who had inherited his father’s lightning temper. The king’s eyes burned with blue fury. “Tomorrow you will put the entire population of Caen to the sword,” he ordered Warrick.

“We will exact revenge for this plan, never fear,” thundered an infuriated prince.

Warrick’s eyes rolled wildly in Hawksblood’s direction. He was familiar with the Plantagenet temper and, hardened warrior though he was, he did not relish putting women and children to the sword. The Constable of France
and his army had already been defeated and many lay dead. It was unnecessary to spill more blood.

Hawksblood understood Warrick immediately, without words having to be spoken. “You persuade the king; I’ll talk to Prince Edward,” he told Warrick.

Hawksblood drew Edward out onto the ramparts. The townspeople were still putting out fires the English had set. Women wept and children wailed as Caen was systematically stripped and everything of value was piled onto the English wagons. “The success of this campaign depends upon speed, Your Highness. We must sweep across the whole of the northern coast before the French effectively organize against us. The chances for loot have been greater than we ever dreamed, but it has already slowed us considerably. Putting the entire population of Caen to the sword will take days. The men will rape the women before they kill them, then after the slaughter they will drink themselves into oblivion. We’ll lose another week. It has taken us a fortnight to get this far.”

Edward drew in a deep breath. The air smelled of wood-smoke, blood, and death.

“Bank the fires of your anger so you may draw upon it in battle.”

The Black Prince nodded slowly. He had been knighted such a short time. He would keep his vows awhile longer.

Warrick was having a much harder time controlling the king’s bloodlust. He refused again and again to give up this act of revenge. Warrick pointed out the need for speed, pointed out they should be closer to the French capital by now, but King Edward would not let go of his white-hot fury. It was only when a pair of Godfrey de Harcourt’s scouts arrived after dark, reporting that Philip had fallen into a panic and was preparing Paris to withstand a siege, that the king wavered.

The scouts reported that Philip was tearing down all the buildings that touched the city walls. King Edward’s laughter rolled out, to think he could put fear into the King of France. The other news was less amusing, however. Philip was gathering a huge army on the Plain of St. Denis, between Paris and Poise, which swelled in number every day. The scouts could not give exact numbers, but of one thing
they were certain: the French army was much larger than the English army!

King Edward forgot his need for revenge and called a strategy meeting. They decided to press on at dawn, but instead of following the coast, they would take Lisieux and the towns that lay inland on their way to Paris.

Twenty-eight days melted away before the English reached Poise. They were a mere dozen miles from Paris, but the great river Seine still had to be crossed. Suddenly they received different numbers regarding the French army. Some scouts reported fifty thousand, but others swore the French were sixty or seventy thousand strong. One thing was clear: Philip must have withdrawn all his forces from the south.

Against such vast numbers, King Edward concluded a siege of Paris would be folly. It was decided that Sir Walter Manny would take a small force south, away from the Seine, and circle back up to Paris in a deceptive tactic while a pontoon bridge was built across the river Seine.

It took them three days, and the leaders heaved great sighs of relief to have this obstacle behind them. Only lightning speed could safeguard the English army now, for they were rumored to be outnumbered at least three to one.

This was the price they had to pay for their slow progress through Normandy while they searched out loot. The king and Warrick were aware of the danger. All the roads behind them were black with French troops. They drove their heavily laden soldiers at top speed through the Vexin of Normandy and covered an unbelievable sixty miles in four days. But the most serious obstacle to their progress still lay ahead.

The broad river Somme with marshy peat bogs on both sides was enough to spark terror in the bravest heart. The king ordered his two marshals to go ahead and secure a crossing. Warrick took both his sons, but made it clear they must follow Harcourt’s orders because of the French knight’s familiarity with the treacherous terrain.

They found all the bridges destroyed and the fords guarded by Picardy troops. Harcourt’s men failed in two attempts to seize fords. Then Warrick sent his son, Robert, who led the Duke of Clarence’s men, but they too failed.

Hawksblood was eager to try, but Warrick decided to lead the men himself. They suffered high casualties; their horses floundered in the bogs and the attempt failed. When King Edward arrived with his army, he was incensed that no way across the boggy Somme had been secured.

Hawksblood withdrew to his campaign tent with his squires. They knew he needed to achieve a trance-like state before he could experience one of his visions. Christian lay supine upon the floor while Ali lit a small incense burner. Hawksblood harnessed his mind’s great power, first clearing it of all unnecessary clutter. Then, one by one, he went through the barriers of fear, time, space, finally becoming one with the elements of air, earth, and water. What was secret became known, what was distant became close, what was impossible became attainable.

Hawksblood came out of his trance to find Prince Edward standing over him. “Where is the king?”

“He has called a strategy meeting. I came to fetch you.” The Black Prince’s eyes were filled with questions, but he and Hawksblood were close friends who did not question each other. Before they entered the tent they heard contention in the raised voices. Their dangerous position strained the leaders’ tempers to breaking point.

Hawksblood spoke. “Your Majesty, I have learned that the French cavalry has already reached Amiens and is on its way to Abbeville. Philip’s army marches parallel to us. It is no exaggeration that they outnumber us at least four to one.”

A babble of voices broke out. Fear could be detected in most of them. Pointing at the map, King Edward shouted, “God damn Philip! He shoves us into a triangle formed by his army, the impassable Somme, and the waters of the Channel.”

Robert de Beauchamp pointed out what he thought was obvious. “We must escape across the Channel.”

Prince Edward gave him such a look of contempt Robert wanted to run his sword through him.

Warrick said, “We arranged to have our fleet land in our own province of Ponthieu across the Somme. It will not have arrived yet.”

Harcourt stood by helplessly. He felt he had led the English army into this trap.

Robert de Beauchamp, standing with two of Lionel’s knights, gritted out, “Where does the Arabian get his information?” Immediately one of the knights shouted, “How do we know he isn’t in league with the French?”

It was a terrible accusation for one knight to hurl at another, but all eyes turned upon Hawksblood now that the seeds of suspicion had been sown. Hawksblood looked straight at his father. “The information came from an informant we captured,” he lied. “A little torture loosened his tongue enough to reveal a navigable ford close to the mouth of the Somme.”

The King and Warrick looked vastly relieved. Robert de Beauchamp fought rising panic. “What if it’s a trap? Did any other hear this Frenchman’s confession?”

“I did,” Prince Edward said calmly.

The king invited, “Show us on the map.”

Hawksblood stepped forward, tracing the line of the river Somme with his finger. “The place is called Blanche Taque. It is possible to ford it at low tide.”

“Blanche Taque means ‘white stone,’ ” Harcourt said thoughtfully. “Perhaps Blanche Taque is a landmark of some kind.”

King Edward held up his hands for silence. “You must realize it is no longer possible to join forces with our allies from Flanders. Our only hope is to get across the river Somme into our own province of Ponthieu.”

The earls of Northumberland and Lancaster added their voices. “We must maintain ourselves in Ponthieu until our ships arrive and get us back on English soil.”

King Edward’s eyes met those of the Black Prince; Warrick’s eyes met Hawksblood’s. They knew the king would not leave France before he had done battle with Philip. Prince Edward stepped to his father’s side. “Hawksblood and I will lead the vanguard across the Somme.”

The king looked upon his son with pride. Though darkness had already fallen, he gave orders to march. By midnight the vanguard reached Blanche Taque. The tide was high and it was impossible to cross the Somme. As
Hawksblood waited for the tide to ebb, he spoke with the prince. “Thank you for your confidence, Your Highness.”

“You had a vision. It is a power given to only a few.” He looked out over the raging black water. “You’ve had them before.” It was not a question.

“Yes. My knowledge of the French fleet at Sluys came to me in a vision. I was never there,” he admitted.

“Did Warrick know this?”

Hawksblood replied, “I told no one. Who would believe me?”

“I believe you, friend.”

They knew they had formed a bond that would last them all their lives until the day they died.

Eventually all of King Edward’s army reached the banks of the Somme. Not only was it impossibly wide and impossibly deep, two thousand Picards awaited them on the far side. The troops were tense, some had given up all hope. Many raised their voices in anger at being led to a place where they would drown or be sucked into the surrounding bogs. They were tired and footweary and after seeing Blanche Taque, they felt hopeless.

As dawn began to break, the tidal waters started to recede. Hope mingled with fear showed upon every face. It was like the parting of the biblical Red Sea, but the waters were still waist-deep and the weight of the horses and war wagons would surely cause them to be sucked beneath the water by the quicksand.

The king and Warrick watched in amazement as Hawksblood and the Prince of Wales rode without hesitation into the water. Their horses’ hooves struck the solid white stones of Blanche Taque.

The king immediately ordered his longbowmen into the water. They drove the men of Picardy back with a storm of arrows. Warrick ordered the rest of the army into the water and they tramped waist-deep over the solid white stones.

The French were close behind them, but just as it came to pass in the Bible tale, the tide flooded back in before they could cross. The only losses to the English were a few wagons that fell into French hands.

Every man present thought he had been part of a miracle. The king and his marshals marched their army to the
village of Crécy, close by the coast. It was August 25, and knowing the French could not cross for another day, they welcomed the respite gratefully.

Now King Edward did what he did best. He rallied his troops! The Plantagenet king was nothing if not ostentatious. He did everything splendidly. He ordered that his massive azure and gold silk pavilion be erected and he raised his leopard standard quartered with the lilies of France.

He had chosen the battle site well, on gently rolling downs, upon a low ridge that could be defended against attack from the plain below. The wagons and camp were located behind his pavilion. By midday the campfires were lit and pits dug for roasting meat.

Harcourt’s scouts spread out and Hawksblood’s Cornishmen, with their long knives, also went reconnoitering. The information they brought back was both good and bad. The French had crossed the Somme by the bridge at Abbeville. Between the two armies stretched the forest of Crécy, a thick and impenetrable barrier that would necessitate a march around it of eighteen miles for the French. Behind the English camp, a narrow path through the heart of the forest led to the sea. It was confirmed that the French army was one hundred thousand strong and King Philip had hoisted the bloodred oriflamme above his headquarters, indicating they would neither give nor accept quarter.

The French occupied St. Peter’s Monastery in Abbeville and Philip had all his allies with him, including the King of Bohemia with his German knights and mercenaries. Also he had Charles of Luxembourg, King Jayme of Majorca, the Duke of Lorraine, and the Count of Flanders. King Edward, surrounded by his noble leaders, listened to this information without any hint of fear.

Marshal Godfrey de Harcourt eyed the forest path leading to the sea. He spoke up, recommending the army retreat to the coast, where they could make a last stand. Most of the nobles concurred with this plan. Warrick and Hawksblood exchanged knowing glances.

King Edward, without a hint of uncertainty, motioned about him. “This is the land of my lady mother’s. We will wait for them here.”

Silence fell over those crowded about him. Incredulously, Edward was laughing. “Can you imagine the impossible task of providing food and beds for one hundred thousand? Can you envision the discord of so many proud and jealous leaders, all from different countries? Can you conceive the altercations in French, German, Wendish, and Genoese when this rain that threatens comes pouring down and they have no way to keep the strings of their intricate crossbows from getting wet?”

King Edward diffused the strain of uncertainty and fear with humor. “I venture to guess Philip will spend a sleepless night in a monastery. He has too many violent sins on his conscience to face mortal conflict with equanimity!”

Warrick ordered a barricade of tree trunks be raised behind the wagons and the squires hurried off to sort out their masters’ armor. Privately, most men feared they were trapped like rats. When the relentless rain began to fall, they amended that to “drowned rats.”