Epic Historial Collection (255 page)

Caris saw that Mair was getting drunk. She was overplaying her boyish role, sitting with her legs splayed and her elbows on the table. “By the saints, that was a good stew, but it's making me fart like the devil,” said the sweet-faced nun in men's clothing. “Sorry about the stink, lads.” She refilled her wine cup and drank deeply.

The men laughed at her indulgently, amused by the sight of a boy getting drunk for the first time, doubtless remembering embarrassing incidents in their own pasts.

Caris took her arm. “Time you were in bed, baby brother,” she said. “Off we go.”

Mair went willingly enough. “My big brother acts like an old woman,” she said to the company. “But he loves me—don't you, Christophe?”

“Yes, Michel, I love you,” Caris said, and the men laughed again.

Mair held on tightly to her. Caris walked her back to the church and found the spot in the nave where they had left their blankets. She made Mair lie down, and covered her with her blanket.

“Kiss me good night, Christophe,” said Mair.

Caris kissed her lips, then said: “You're drunk. Go to sleep. We have to start early in the morning.”

Caris lay awake for some time, worrying. She felt she had had terribly bad luck. She and Mair had almost caught up with the English army and Bishop Richard—but at exactly the same moment the French had also caught up with them. She should keep well away from the battlefield. On the other hand, if she and Mair got stuck in the rear of the French army they might never catch the English.

On balance she thought she had better set off first thing in the morning, and try to get ahead of the French. An army this big could not move fast—it would take hours just to form up into marching order. If she and Mair were nimble, they should be able to stay ahead. It was risky—but they had done nothing but take risks since leaving Portsmouth.

She drifted off to sleep, and woke when the bell rang for Matins soon after three o'clock in the morning. She roused Mair, and was unsympathetic when she complained of a headache. While the monks sang psalms in the church, Caris and Mair went to the stables and found their horses. The sky was clear, and they could see by starlight.

The town's bakers had been working all night, so they were able to buy loaves for their journey. But the city gates were still closed: they had to wait impatiently until dawn, shivering in the cool air, eating the new bread.

At about half past four they at last left Abbeville and headed northwest along the right bank of the Somme, the direction the English army was said to be taking.

They were only a quarter of a mile away when the trumpets sounded a reveille on the walls of the town. Like Caris, King Philippe had decided on an early start. In the fields, the soldiers and men-at-arms began to stir. The marshals must have got their orders last night, for they seemed to know what to do, and before long some of the army joined Caris and Mair on the road.

Caris still hoped to reach the English ahead of these troops. The French would obviously have to stop and regroup before joining battle. That ought to give Caris and Mair time to reach their countrymen and find some safe place beyond the battlefield. She did not want to get caught between the two sides. She was beginning to think she had been foolhardy to set out on this mission. Knowing nothing of war, she had not been able to imagine the difficulties and dangers. But it was too late now for regrets. And they had got this far without coming to harm.

The soldiers on the road were not French but Italian. They carried steel crossbows and sheaves of iron arrows. They were friendly, and Caris chatted to them in a mixture of Norman French, Latin, and the Italian she had picked up from Buonaventura Caroli. They told her that in battle they always formed the front line, and fired from behind their heavy wooden pavises, which at the moment were in wagons somewhere behind them. They grumbled about their hasty breakfast, disparaged French knights as impulsive and quarrelsome, and spoke with admiration of their leader, Ottone Doria, who could be seen a few yards ahead.

The sun climbed in the sky and everyone got hot. Because the crossbowmen knew they might do battle today, they were wearing heavy quilted coats and carrying iron helmets and knee guards as well as their bows and arrows. Toward noon, Mair declared that she would faint unless they stopped for a break. Caris, too, felt exhausted—they had been riding since dawn—and she knew their horses also needed rest. So, against her inclination, she was forced to stop while thousands of crossbowmen overtook them.

Caris and Mair watered their ponies in the Somme and ate some more bread. When they set off again, they found themselves marching with French knights and men-at-arms. Caris recognized Philippe's choleric brother Charles at the head of the group. She was in the thick of the French army, but there was nothing to do but keep moving and hope for a chance to get ahead.

Soon after midday an order came down the line. The English were not west of here, as previously believed, but north; and the French king had ordered that his army should swing in that direction—not in a column, but all at the same time. The men around Caris and Mair, led by Count Charles, turned off the riverside road down a narrow path through the fields. Caris followed with a sinking heart.

A familiar voice hailed her, and Martin Chirurgien came alongside. “This is chaos,” he said grimly. “The marching order has completely broken down.”

A small group of men on fast horses appeared across the fields and hailed Count Charles. “Scouts,” said Martin, and he went forward to hear what they had to say. Caris and Mair's ponies went too, with the natural instinct of horses to stick together.

“The English have halted,” they heard. “They've taken up a defensive position on a ridge near the town of Crécy.”

Martin said: “That's Henri le Moine, an old comrade of the king of Bohemia.”

Charles was pleased by the news. “Then we shall have battle today!” he said, and the knights around him gave a ragged cheer.

Henri raised a hand in caution. “We're suggesting that all units stop and regroup,” he said.

“Stop now?” Charles roared. “When the English are at last willing to stand and fight? Let's get at them!”

“Our men and horses need rest,” Henri said quietly. “The king is far in the rear. Give him a chance to catch up and look at the battlefield. He can make his dispositions today for an attack tomorrow, when the men will be fresh.”

“To hell with dispositions. There are only a few thousand English. We'll just overrun them.”

Henri made a helpless gesture. “It is not for me to command you, my lord. But I will ask your brother the king for his orders.”

“Ask him! Ask him!” said Charles, and he rode on.

Martin said to Caris: “I don't know why my master is so intemperate.”

Caris said thoughtfully: “I suppose he has to prove that he's brave enough to rule, even though by an accident of birth he's not the king.”

Martin shot her a sharp look. “You're very wise, for a mere boy.”

Caris avoided his eye, and vowed to remember her false identity. There was no hostility in Martin's voice, but he was suspicious. As a surgeon, he would be familiar with the subtle differences in bone structure between men and women, and he might have noticed that Christophe and Michel de Longchamp were abnormal. Fortunately, he did not press the matter.

The sky began to cloud over, but the air was still warm and humid. Woodland appeared on the left, and Martin told Caris this was the Forest of Crécy. They could not be far from the English—but now Caris wondered how she was going to detach herself from the French and join the English without being killed by one side or the other.

The effect of the forest was to crowd the left flank of the marching army, so that the road on which Caris was riding became jam-packed with troops, the different divisions getting hopelessly mixed up.

Couriers came down the line with new orders from the king: the army was instructed to halt and make camp. Caris's hopes rose: now she would have a chance to get ahead of the French army. There was an altercation between Charles and a courier, and Martin went to Charles's side to listen. He came back looking incredulous. “Count Charles is refusing to obey the orders!” he said.

“Why?” Caris asked in dismay.

“He thinks his brother is overcautious. He, Charles, will not be so lily-livered as to halt before such a weak enemy.”

“I thought everyone had to obey the king in battle.”

“They should. But nothing is more important to French noblemen than their code of chivalry. They would die rather than do something cowardly.”

The army marched on in defiance of its orders. “I'm glad you two are here,” Martin said. “I'm going to need your help again. Win or lose, there will be a lot of wounded men by sundown.”

Caris realized she could not escape. But somehow she no longer wanted to get away. In fact she felt a strange eagerness. If these men were mad enough to maim one another with swords and arrows, she could at least come to the aid of the wounded.

Soon the crossbowmen's leader, Ottone Doria, came riding back through the crowd—not without difficulty, given the crush—to speak to Charles of Alençon. “Halt your men!” he shouted at the count.

Charles took offense. “How dare you give orders to me!”

“The orders come from the king! We are to halt—but my men can't stop, because of yours pushing from behind!”

“Then let them march on.”

“We are within sight of the enemy. If we go any farther we'll have to do battle.”

“So be it.”

“But the men have been marching all day. They're hungry and thirsty and tired. And my crossbowmen don't have their pavises.”

“Are they too cowardly to fight without shields?”

“Are you calling my men cowards?”

“If they won't fight, yes.”

Ottone was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke in a low voice, and Caris could only just hear his words. “You're a fool, Alençon. And you'll be in Hell by nightfall.” Then he turned his horse and rode away.

Caris felt water on her face, and looked up at the sky. It was beginning to rain.

49

T
he shower was heavy but brief and, when it cleared, Ralph looked down over the valley and saw, with a thrill of fear, that the enemy had arrived.

The English occupied a ridge that ran from southwest to northeast. At their backs, to the northwest, was a wood. In front and on both sides the hill sloped down. Their right flank looked over the town of Crécy-en-Ponthieu, which nestled in the valley of the River Maye.

The French were approaching from the south.

Ralph was on the right flank, with Earl Roland's men, commanded by the young prince of Wales. They were drawn up in the harrow formation that had proved so effective against the Scots. To the left and right, triangular formations of archers stood, like the two teeth of a harrow. Between the teeth, set well back, were dismounted knights and men-at-arms. This was a radical innovation, and one which many knights still resisted: they liked their horses and felt vulnerable on foot. But the king was implacable: everyone on foot. In the ground in front of the knights, the men had dug pitfalls—holes in the ground a foot deep and a foot square—to trip the French horses.

On Ralph's right, at the end of the ridge, was a novelty: three new machines called bombards, or cannons, that used explosive powder to shoot round stones. They had been dragged all the way across Normandy but so far had never been fired, and no one was sure whether they would work. Today King Edward needed to use every means at his disposal, for the enemy's superiority was somewhere between four-to-one and seven-to-one.

On the English left flank, the earl of Northampton's men were drawn up in the same harrow formation. Behind the front lines, a third battalion led by the king stood in reserve. Behind the king were two fallback positions. The baggage wagons formed the first, drawn up in a circle, with noncombatants—cooks, engineers, and hostlers—inside the circle with the horses. The second was the wood itself where, in the event of a rout, the remnants of the English army could flee, and the mounted French knights would find it difficult to follow.

They had been here since early morning, with nothing to eat but pea soup with onions. Ralph was wearing his armor, and had been sweltering in the heat, so the rainstorm had been welcome. It had also muddied the slope up which the French would have to charge, making their approach treacherously slippery.

Ralph could guess what the French tactics would be. The Genoese crossbowmen would shoot from behind their shields, to soften up the English line. Then, when they had done enough damage, they would step aside, and the French knights would charge on their warhorses.

There was nothing so terrifying as that charge. Called the
furor fransiscus,
it was the ultimate weapon of the French nobility. Their code made them disregard their own safety. Those huge horses, with riders so completely armored that they looked like iron men, simply rolled over archers, shields, swords, and men-at-arms.