Epic Historial Collection (253 page)

As Ralph and his men chased the fleeing peasants across gardens and fields, they ignored the men and concentrated on the women and children. Ralph knew that if he captured them, their husbands and fathers would come back.

He caught up with a girl of about thirteen. He rode alongside her for a few seconds, watching her terrified expression. She was dark-haired and dark-skinned, with plain, homely features, young but with a rounded woman's body—the type he liked. She reminded him of Gwenda. In slightly different circumstances he would have enjoyed her sexually, as he had several similar girls in the last few weeks.

But today he had other priorities. He turned Griff to cut her off. She tried to dodge him, tripped over her own feet, and fell flat in a vegetable patch. Ralph leaped off his horse and grabbed her as she got up. She screamed and scratched his face, so he punched her in the stomach to quiet her. Then he grabbed her long hair. Walking his horse, he began to drag her back to the village. She stumbled and fell, but he just kept going, dragging her along by the hair; and she struggled to her feet, crying in pain. After that, she did not fall again.

They gathered in the little wooden church. The eight English soldiers had captured four women, four children, and two babies in arms. They made them sit on the floor in front of the altar. A few moments later a man ran in, babbling in the local French, begging and pleading. Four others followed.

Ralph was pleased.

He stood at the altar, which was only a wooden table painted white. “Quiet!” he shouted. He waved his sword. They fell silent. He pointed at a young man. “You,” he said. “What are you?”

“A leather worker, lord. Please don't harm my wife and child, they've done you no wrong.”

He pointed to another man. “You?”

The girl he had captured gasped, and Ralph concluded that they were related; father and daughter, he guessed.

“Just a poor cowherd, lord.”

“A cowherd?” That was good. “And how often do you take cattle across the river?”

“Once or twice a year, lord, when I go to market.”

“And where is the ford?”

He hesitated. “Ford? There is no ford. We have to cross the bridge at Abbeville.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, lord.”

He looked around. “All of you—is this the truth?”

They nodded.

Ralph considered. They were scared—terrified—but they could still be lying. “If I fetch the priest, and he brings a Bible, will you all swear on your immortal souls that there is no ford across the estuary?”

“Yes, lord.”

But that would take too long. Ralph looked at the girl he had captured. “Come here.”

She took a step back.

The cowherd fell to his knees. “Please, lord, don't harm an innocent child, she is only thirteen—”

Alan Fernhill picked up the girl as if she were a sack of onions and threw her to Ralph, who caught her and held her. “You're lying to me, all of you. There is a ford, I'm sure there is. I just need to know exactly where it is.”

“All right,” said the cowherd. “I'll tell you, but leave the child alone.”

“Where is the ford?”

“It's a mile downstream from Abbeville.”

“What's the name of the village?”

The cowherd was thrown by the question for a moment, then he said: “There is no village, but you can see an inn on the far side.”

He was lying. He had never traveled, so he did not realize that there was always a village by a ford.

Ralph took the girl's hand and placed it on the altar. He drew his knife. With a swift movement, he cut off one of her fingers. His heavy blade easily split her small bones. The girl screamed in agony, and her blood spurted red over the white paint of the altar. All the peasants cried out with horror. The cowherd took an angry step forward, but was stopped by the point of Alan Fernhill's sword.

Ralph kept hold of the girl with one hand, and held up the severed finger on the point of his knife.

“You are the devil himself,” the cowherd said, shaking with shock.

“No, I'm not.” Ralph had heard that accusation before, but it still stung him. “I'm saving the lives of thousands of men,” he said. “And if I have to, I'll cut off the rest of her fingers, one by one.”

“No, no!”

“Then tell me where the ford really is.” He brandished the knife.

The cowherd shouted: “The Blanchetaque, it's called the Blanchetaque, please leave her alone!”

“The Blanchetaque?” said Ralph. He was pretending skepticism, but in fact this was promising. It was an unfamiliar word, but it sounded as if it might mean a white platform, and it was not the kind of thing that a terrified man would invent on the spur of the moment.

“Yes, lord, they call it that because of the white stones on the river bottom that enable you to cross the mud.” He was panic-stricken, tears streaming down his face, so he was almost certainly telling the truth, Ralph thought with satisfaction. The cowherd babbled on: “People say the stones were put there in olden times, by the Romans, please leave my little girl alone.”

“Where is it?”

“Ten miles downstream from Abbeville.”

“Not a mile?”

“I'm telling the truth this time, lord, as I hope to be saved!”

“And the name of the village?”

“Saigneville.”

“Is the ford always passable, or only at low tide?”

“Only at low tide, lord, especially with livestock or a cart.”

“But you know the tides.”

“Yes.”

“Now, I have only one more question for you, but it is a very important one. If I even suspect you may be lying to me, I will cut off her whole hand.” The girl screamed. Ralph said: “You know I mean it, don't you?”

“Yes, lord, I'll tell you anything!”

“When is low tide tomorrow?”

A look of panic came over the cowherd. “Ah—ah—let me work it out!” The man was so wrought up he could barely think.

The leather worker said: “I'll tell you. My brother crossed yesterday, so I know. Low tide tomorrow will be in the middle of the morning, two hours before noon.”

“Yes!” said the cowherd. “That's right! I was just trying to calculate. Mid-morning, or a little after. Then again in the evening.”

Ralph kept hold of the girl's bleeding hand. “How sure are you?”

“Oh, lord, as sure as I am of my own name, I swear!”

The man probably did not know his own name right now, he was so distracted with terror. Ralph looked at the leather worker. There was no sign of deceit on his face, no defiance or eagerness to please in his expression: he just looked a bit ashamed of himself, as if he had been forced, against his will, to do something wrong. This is the truth, Ralph thought exultantly; I've done it.

He said: “The Blanchetaque. Ten miles downstream from Abbeville, at the village of Saigneville. White stones on the river bottom. Low tide at mid-morning tomorrow.”

“Yes, lord.”

Ralph let go of the girl's wrist, and she ran sobbing to her father, who put his arms around her. Ralph looked down at the pool of blood on the white altar table. There was a lot of it, for a slip of a girl. “All right, men,” he said. “We're finished here.”

 

The trumpets woke Ralph at first light. There was no time to light a fire or eat breakfast: the army struck camp immediately. Ten thousand men had to travel six miles by mid-morning, most of them on foot.

The prince of Wales's division led the march off, followed by the king's division, then the baggage train, then the rear guard. Scouts were sent out to check how far away the French army was. Ralph was in the vanguard, with the sixteen-year-old prince, who had the same name as his father, Edward.

They hoped to surprise the French by crossing the Somme at the ford. Last night the king had said: “Well done, Ralph Fitzgerald.” Ralph had long ago learned that such words meant nothing. He had performed numerous useful or brave tasks for King Edward, Earl Roland, and other nobles, but he still had not been knighted. On this occasion he felt little resentment. His life was in as much danger today as it had ever been, and he was so glad to have found an escape route for himself that he hardly cared whether anyone gave him credit for saving the entire army.

As they marched, dozens of marshals and undermarshals patrolled constantly, heading the army in the right direction, keeping the formation together, maintaining the separation of divisions, and rounding up stragglers. The marshals were all noblemen, for they had to have the authority to give orders. King Edward was fanatical about orderly marching.

They headed north. The land rose in a gentle slope to a ridge from which they could see the distant glint of the estuary. From there they descended through cornfields. As they passed through villages the marshals ensured there was no looting, because they did not want to carry extra baggage across the river. They also refrained from setting fire to the crops, for fear the smoke might betray their exact position to the enemy.

The sun was about to rise when the leaders reached Saigneville. The village stood on a bluff thirty feet above the river. From the lip of the bank, Ralph looked over a formidable obstacle: a mile and a half of water and marshland. He could see the whitish stones on the bottom marking the ford. On the other side of the estuary was a green hill. As the sun appeared on his right, he saw on the far slope a glint of metal and a flash of color, and his heart filled with dismay.

The strengthening light confirmed his suspicion: the enemy was waiting for them. The French knew where the ford was, of course, and a wise commander had provided for the possibility that the English might discover its location. So much for surprise.

Ralph looked at the water. It was flowing west, showing that the tide was going out; but it was still too deep for a man to wade. They would have to wait.

The English army continued to build up at the shore, hundreds more men arriving every minute. If the king had tried now to turn the army around and go back, the confusion would have been nightmarish.

A scout returned, and Ralph listened as the news was related to the prince of Wales. King Philippe's army had left Abbeville and was approaching on this bank of the river.

The scout was sent to determine how fast the French army was moving.

There was no turning back, Ralph realized with fear in his heart; the English had to cross the water.

He studied the far side, trying to figure out how many French were on the north bank. More than a thousand, he thought. But the greater danger was the army of tens of thousands coming up from Abbeville. Ralph had learned, in many encounters with the French, that they were extraordinarily brave—foolhardy, sometimes—but they were also undisciplined. They marched in disarray, they disobeyed orders, and they sometimes attacked, to prove their valor, when they would have been wiser to wait. But if they could overcome their disorderly habits, and get here in the next few hours, they would catch King Edward's army in midstream. With the enemy on both banks, the English could be wiped out.

After the devastation they had wrought in the last six weeks, they could expect no mercy.

Ralph thought about armor. He had a fine suit of plate armor that he had taken from a French corpse at Cambrai seven years ago, but it was on a wagon in the baggage train. Furthermore, he was not sure he could wade through a mile and a half of water and mud so encumbered. He was wearing a steel cap and a short cape of chain mail, which was all he could manage on the march. It would have to do. The others had similar light protection. Most of the infantry carried their helmets hanging from their belts, and they would put them on before coming within range of the enemy; but no one marched in full armor.

The sun rose high in the east. The water level fell until it was just knee-deep. The noblemen came from the king's entourage with orders to begin the crossing. Earl Roland's son, William of Caster, brought the instructions to Ralph's group. “The archers go first, and begin firing as soon as they are near enough to the other side,” William told them. Ralph looked at him stonily. He had not forgotten that William had tried to have him hanged for doing what half the English army had done in the last six weeks. “Then, when you get to the beach, the archers scatter left and right to let the knights and men-at-arms through.” It sounded simple, Ralph thought; orders always did. But it was going to be bloody. The enemy would be perfectly positioned, on the slope above the river, to pick off the English soldiers struggling unprotected through the water.

The men of Hugh Despenser led the advance, carrying his distinctive black-on-white banner. His archers waded in, holding their bows above the water line, and the knights and men-at-arms splashed along behind. Roland's men followed, and soon Ralph and Alan were riding through the water.

A mile and a half was not far to walk but, Ralph now realized, it was a long way to wade, even for a horse. The depth varied: in some places they walked on swampy ground above the surface, in others the water came up to the waists of the infantry. Men and animals tired quickly. The August sun beat down on their heads while their wet feet grew numb with cold. And all the time, as they looked ahead, they could see, more and more clearly, the enemy waiting for them on the north bank.