Fields of Glory (49 page)

‘I could have been fed and watered by now, if I was at home. Up on the hills, if you don’t get yoursel’ out of your bed and ready, the foxes will have had all the
lambs.’

‘Don’t blow it like that, man! You’ll blow it out! Breathe on it
gently
.’

‘Clip, if you stick your arse in the air like that, Geoff will be after you. He couldn’t resist a backside like that.’

‘You’d know, Grand
arse
!’

‘Blow this side now, you lurdan! No! Round here!’

‘You want to blow on it yourself, Jack – feel free,’ Clip snapped, sitting up, his face black with soot and ash from a gust of wind. ‘I’ll put my feet up while you
get the fire going.’

‘Oh, aye. You go and rest, you lazy deofol,’ Jack said without rancour. ‘We’ll get the fire going, and then, since I’ve made your cake, I’ll eat that too.
Yes, you laze around while we do all the work – as usual.’

‘Work? You idle sods don’t know the meaning of the word!’

‘What does it matter? “Ye’ll all be dead soon. They’ll slaughter you.”’ There was a general guffaw.

Berenger sighed happily. While his men were taking the rise out of each other, he was content.

When the fire was burning well, Jack produced a griddle-iron from the cart and hung it from a tripod of sticks. Each man set his little patties on the hot surface and waited eagerly for them to
cook.

Berenger took his and broke it open to release the steam before eating. It was good to feel the food in his belly, warming and filling at the same time. He took his sword and began to whet it
with his stone, preparing for whatever the day should bring. He had a strong premonition that there would be a need for a good, sharp weapon soon.

The command to decamp came as the men were finishing their oaten cakes and gulping down beer liberated from a little farm Clip had found. Called to their feet, they moved in
the slouching manner Berenger recognised so well. It was always the way of the English to pretend to a careless disobedience that they would never exhibit on the battlefield. Or not often, he
amended.

For all their posturing, the men were quickly packed. While many esquires and heralds were still hurrying from tent to sumpter horse, Berenger’s men were ready and waiting.

‘Takes a lot longer for nobles to get their shit together, don’t it?’ Clip sniped. ‘Why don’t they wake those sods up first, and leave us to get our
rest?’

‘You need more beauty sleep, that’s for certain,’ Berenger grunted.

‘At least my face isn’t past improvement,’ Clip countered. ‘Not that it matters. We’ll all be killed soon. All of us slaughtered.’

‘Shut the fuck up!’ came the general cry.

The delay had set some of the other men to fretting. ‘When will we be moving?’ Oliver asked.

‘The French aren’t here yet,’ Jack told him.

‘No, but they could be at any time. They’re only a few miles away. I don’t know – how far is it to Abbeville?’

Jack shrugged. ‘Should have asked that Yorkshire git while we had him. He’d have known.’

‘Maybe,’ Berenger agreed.

‘Why are you bothered? If they get here, we’ll just use archers to keep them back while the army makes good its escape.’ It was Tyler speaking. He was standing behind the
remains of Roger’s men, a little apart. Berenger wondered whether that was his choice, or because he had been rejected by his companions.

‘Do you think the King wants to run from them?’ Oliver asked.

‘Of course he does,’ Jack said. ‘He’s no fool. He wants to stay a couple of steps ahead of them, doesn’t he?’

‘Then why are we still here? We could have set off earlier yesterday. What was the point of staying here all night, and having such a long sleep, Jack?’

Jack shrugged. ‘I don’t pretend to understand him and his plans. What are you getting so worked up about?’

‘I like to know what someone’s planned for me,’ Oliver said.

Berenger shook his head. ‘He’s planning on giving us our battle, you lurdans! He kept us here to make sure we were rested, and now he’ll take us to the place he reckons gives
him the best chance of defeating the French army.’

‘That won’t be easy. They look like they have double the men we have,’ Jack said

‘Or more, yes,’ Clip said.

‘I thought nearer three times our force,’ Berenger considered.

‘Really? Christ’s bones, I didn’t realise there were that many.’

‘Yes, Jack. So today you’d best keep your string dry and your arrows near to hand. And pray that we don’t see the French before our King is ready to receive them. Because if
they were to get here too soon and catch us in the open, we would be sitting targets.’

Clip nodded contentedly. ‘Aye. We’ll all be killed. There’ll be a great slaughter.’

Berenger sniffed the air. There was a comforting odour of woodsmoke and toasting bread all about. It added to his sense of impending battle. He felt his face crack into a smile again. The
waiting would be over, at last.

Oliver interrupted his thoughts. ‘But you don’t think that’s going to happen?’

‘Our King has brought us this far safe enough. I think he has something in his mind already,’ Berenger said. Just as he spoke, there was a squeak and a rattle from the wagons ahead.
A bellow, a blast on a horn, and the army began to trundle onward. ‘Come, Jack. We’ve both been in enough wars to know how to fight. With luck, we’ll soon have a chance to fight
one last battle and stop this war with a good profit!’

Archibald rolled about on his wagon half-asleep, his head lolling with every jerk of the wheels over the uneven ground. His oxen team were well rested, but he wasn’t. At
one jolt, he almost fell from his perch, and was only saved by Ed and Béatrice, who each grabbed his jerkin and pulled him back.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ he mumbled.

Last night, in his mind, he had gone over all the miles of the journey to reach this place. He recalled the journey by sea, the many rivers and streams, the hurried flight from Paris, the
troublesome crossing of the Somme, and now a thin mizzle began to spit at his face, reminding him of the Somme. In the middle of the night he had given up all attempts at sleep and instead made his
way to the wagon park, where he sought out his barrels and weapons. To his relief all seemed well, but he was not content to leave them. Instead he wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down beneath
his wagon, running through his mind the many things he must do in the morning.

And now it was morning, and he was behind with all his tasks. Still, he had food in his belly, for Béatrice was a helpful little filly about the camp. She was behind him now, sitting and
staring out ahead. Without glancing at her, he knew what her expression would be. She would be glaring at the world, loathing France and all Frenchmen.

They had passed by the last of the trees, and now they clattered and rumbled past marching men. An uncountable number, he thought, stretching and towards the field. Ahead lay a road, which they
must cross, and he could see a village on the left and a second on the right. Before them, the land rose slightly into a natural ridge, with a windmill on the right. The men were steadily trudging
towards the left of the windmill, and he took his wagon lumbering and rumbling over to the right of it. Suddenly, a man bellowed, running up to him and pointing back the way he had come. When he
was nearer, Archibald guessed he was a sergeant.

‘Get this lump of shite away, you prick! This is where the men will be standing. Put the wagon back with the others!’

‘Go and bully a loon who’ll be scared by your bluster,’ Archibald said calmly. ‘This wagon’s full of the King’s favourites.’

‘Favourites?’ The sergeant strode to the wagon and lifted an edge of the waxed cloth protecting the contents. ‘A metal pot? Don’t play the fool with—’

‘Sergeant, this toy is the King’s favourite for today. And the barrels are meat and wine to them, so leave me in peace. When I’ve dropped them off, I will send the wagon back
to you. But I am
not
carrying them all the way from here.’

The sergeant looked as though he was going to argue, but then there was a shout and two fellows in the line of men-at-arms marching to the front began jostling and fighting. After a sour look at
Archibald, the sergeant spat a curse and then hurried to the squabbling men, bawling at them to stop.

‘What’s going on?’ Béatrice asked, staring.

‘Just soldiers having an argument,’ Archibald chuckled. ‘They aren’t allowed to fight – at least, not with each other!’

They rumbled on until suddenly they were past the windmill and could take in the sweep of the land.

The ridge ran along in a curve, like an inverted ‘U’, with perhaps a half-mile between the two arms. A line of men was forming. Archibald aimed the wagon between them as he drove it
to the field where the English troops hoped to join battle.

As they passed over the road, the wagon crashed over a stone, and the gynour swore as he was jolted to the side of his seat, throwing an anxious glance over his shoulder. Relieved, he blew out
his cheeks.

‘Perhaps our King will mend the roads, too, once he is undisputed ruler of this land,’ he said under his breath as he used the reins to persuade the oxen to move.

‘Why do we go here?’ Béatrice asked.

‘Hey? Oh, the King knows his business, I suppose,’ he said, checking the position of the sun. ‘If you have to have a battle, this isn’t a bad place, is it?’

It was a shallow rise, perhaps only twenty yards above the road itself, but as Archibald gazed about him, he realised that this was a perfect ground for fighting. He hoisted himself up on the
wagon’s seat. At the top of the ridge the windmill made, a rallying point for the English. Before it, the land fell away in a shallow incline from the English ridge. On the right was the
river, serving to protect that flank, and before them the land was clear and unobstructed all along the road. The road which would lead King Philippe to King Edward’s trap. From here he could
observe the men being led in to form three long battles, one behind the other, across the ridge. There was shouting and roaring from the vinteners and centeners as they bullied and pushed their men
into lines. Flags appeared as nobles had their banners thrust into the ground, and already the Earl of Warwick’s standard was held in place, and the positions of all the Lords were marked out
by the time that the knights arrived, all on foot.

This was not to be a cavalry battle; this was to be a battle fought on a strong defensive position, tempting the enemy to attack and be riven by English arrows and Archibald’s toys.

The men were in their positions, and now the gynour had to do the same. He must work out the best place for his little crackers.

Berenger swore as he marched up the hill towards the ridge. A series of greyish-yellow clouds had moved in, and a thick mizzle was in the air, blown with the wind.

The vintaine had already given up their ponies to the urchin who was detailed to take them to the rear of the army, and now they were squelching their way over the damp ground to their
positions. After giving them instructions on where they were supposed to be standing, Grandarse had hurried off to discuss the plans with Sir John, leaving the men to find their own way.

When Berenger stopped and stared back the way they had come, he saw a thick straggle of men stretched all over the hillside, with numbers gradually forming under their lords’ banners,
while more streamed towards the lines like iron filings inexorably drawn to a magnet.

He and the men were situated at the far left wing of the front battle. This was a line of foot-soldiers with, to the fore, the heaviest armoured men of all, the knights, mingled with the
remaining Welsh pikemen. Berenger could see Erbin and his men in the midst of the first battle.

Behind this was a second battle, which could be thrown into the fight to support the front rank, and, held a little further back, a final reserve, with the wagons behind to form a solid defence
against attack from the rear. Not that it would be easy for that to happen. Any assault would have to arrive from one of the two villages that stood at each side of the English lines, or come
through the woods behind.

Today, the strength of the English would lie in the skill of the archers, that much was clear. For the English had learned that, while knights on horseback could serve a great purpose in fast,
fluid campaigns, when it came to a purely defensive battle, it was better to have the heavily armoured men in the front line with the other foot.

The two vintaines were mingled with a thick group of archers, angled towards the field in front of them. On their right, the first battle of Englishmen stretched away into the distance, with the
rest of the archers positioned on the opposite flank. Berenger could see them, all with their bows unstrung, just like himself and his own men. There was no point in letting the strings get wet:
they would stretch and grow useless. Jack and the others had their strings tucked into their shirts or under their hats to keep them dry. Berenger had his wound up tightly and installed securely in
his purse. The oiled leather would keep it dry for a long time.