Fields of Glory (50 page)

Still the men kept coming. Some were walking through the English lines, having delivered wagons and carts to the wagon camp behind the lines, and were looking for their own sections, while
others were toiling up the hill in the wake of Berenger and his men. He watched the wagons, led by Archibald, trundling over the grass and taking up a position down to their left, at the farthest
point of the archers. Soon Archibald had other gynours helping him to erect a three-legged, makeshift crane beside his wagon, while their assistants unloaded little carts like wheelbarrows. When
the tripod was ready, Archibald supervised the emptying of the wagon. First, a large wooden trestle was lifted and eased over the side to lie on the ground. Archibald and two helpers levered it
around until they were happy with its position.

Next began the task of moving the cumbersome weight of his great gonne. Four assistants grabbed the ropes and began to haul. The tripod creaked and complained, but as they pulled, straining, the
long tube appeared. Archibald gave directions for the massive tube to be set on the wooden frame.

Berenger was distracted by Jack, who frowned up at the clouds, saing, ‘If there’s more poxy rain, we’ll be fucked this day, Berenger.’

‘You think so? Perhaps. But at least there’ll be a conclusion.’ Berenger glanced about him. ‘There’ll be no running away today, that is certain.’

‘Eh?’

‘The men-at-arms and the knights, they’re all standing together. No horses, they’re all kept within the wagon park behind us. With the forest there, and the villages either
side, it’ll be hard to run anywhere. And we won’t any of us make it to the sea, so, lads, here we are, and here we will stand.’

‘Here we’ll die, you mean,’ Clip said immediately. ‘Ye know, we’ll all get—’

‘Slaughtered – yeah, we know,’ Geoff snapped. ‘Now shut your gob and stop reminding us, you little git!’

‘Only trying to cheer you up,’ Clip beamed.

‘What – by telling us we’re all going to get killed?’ Jack said scornfully. ‘How’s that going to cheer us up?’

‘Well, could be worse,’ Clip said.

‘Shut up,’ Geoff said.

‘How exactly?’ Jack demanded.

‘We could be on board ship. Then we’d die feeling seasick and cold and wet. And get chucked overboard.’

‘Oh, give me strength!’ Geoff said. There was a spark of light in the distance. ‘God’s ballocks, what was that?’

‘Don’t blaspheme,’ Jack reprimanded him. ‘Not before a battle.’

Geoff opened his mouth to argue back, but then he nodded. ‘You’re right. My apologies. I’ll say
Pater Noster
and ask for forgiveness.’

It began to spit with rain.

Geoff turned a face full of frustration to Clip. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’

‘Wasn’t me!’ said Clip. ‘It was you bellyaching again. God thought to give you something to complain about for once.’

‘You little . . .’

Berenger shoved Clip out of the way before Geoff could grab him. ‘Enough! Clip, move to the left flank, Geoff, you to the right. No more bickering from either of you. I’ve had a
bellyfull already.’

A loud rumble came across the plains: thunder.

‘How long before it starts?’ Ed asked. He had delivered the oxen and wagon at the park behind the men and hurried to help the archers. He stood on tiptoe, peering past them.

‘Soon enough,’ Jack muttered.

‘Good to have you here, boy,’ Geoff said.

Jack clapped him on the back as Berenger nodded. ‘Just bring the arrows as fast as you can today, Donkey. We will have need of speed. The rest of you, keep your bowstrings dry!’

It was only when the entire army had been standing in their positions for two hours of the sun or more that the bannerets and barons rode to their men. Berenger watched as
Grandarse and Sir John cantered down towards them from the windmill where the King had his command position. From there, the highest point of the whole area, he had an unrivalled view.

The cavalcade rode to the front of the archers, and Sir John trotted to the farthest extreme of the English lines. He remained astride his horse, pulling his bascinet from his head, and his hair
shone grey as steel in the grim light. Shoving his helmet under his arm, he surveyed the men before him.

‘Archers! This is your position for the fight to come! From here, you can see the dip in the ground clearly. The French will approach us from there, to the east, and we think it is likely
that they will hurry towards us and meet us here today. We hope so. You have the day to prepare and take your ease; the French will arrive after marching for miles. Are you happy with your
positions? Memorise your posts here, all of you. As soon as you hear the horns, you must be here, ready to throw yourselves into battle. You must hurry back here, no matter what you have been
doing: no matter that you are standing with your hosen around your ankles, whether you are stirring a pottage or whoring with one of the army wives, you must return, grab your weapons and prepare
to fight to the last.’

He cast an eye over the men before him. ‘You are English archers. You have the skill and the weapons to put the fear of God and His Saints into the French. God willing, we shall win this
battle. But God makes demands of all of us. You must all go to Mass and ask Him for His help during the battle to come, and then you must give Him all the help you can. Before then, and starting
right now, I want to see the whole of the field in front of our lines pocked with holes: one foot square and one foot deep. Where there is a flat, clear space, I want you to savage it. If you
can’t measure that accurately – I mean you, Master Clip – just dig a short ditch. We must make the land intolerable for horses before they arrive. If the field has the same aspect
as a paddock full of rabbit holes, they will not be able to charge us for risk of breaking their chargers’ legs. Now, make sure you know where your rallying banners lie; make sure you know by
whom you stand. Remember: this is where you must return when the French appear. And I say again:
you must return with all speed
.’

He looked at them again, this time shooting a glance at Berenger. Then he jerked his head in a gesture of beckoning, and trotted a short way down the grassy plain.

Berenger rode over to him as the men began to break out of their rigid lines and gather up mattocks and spades. ‘Sir John?’

‘Berenger, I have a task for you and your men.’ The knight dismounted and passed the reins to a groom, who led Aeton back to the horse-lines. ‘Bring the vintaine. Your friend
Archibald is in need of aid.’

‘Him?’ Berenger asked. Looking to where Archibald had a number of gynours running around as he bellowed at them. ‘Why?’

‘It’s his equipment – it’s the Devil’s fire, so far as I am concerned,’ Sir John said, his lip twisted in distaste. ‘I dislike the things. That damned
powder burns so fiercely, it can ignite if you only strike it with a steel and flint. Damn it to hell, the odour afterwards makes you think you’ve been snatched away by the Devil. But it
makes a crack so loud, it will put terror into the heart of the bravest destrier, or so they say.’ His voice and his manner betrayed his doubts. ‘Archibald needs more pairs of hands,
and he has asked if you can give him assistance.’

‘We will help him so far as we may,’ Berenger promised.

‘Good. I put you under his command for now. Keep your bows nearby, and remember: keep your bowstrings dry!’

Ed laboured like a slave that day. When he wasn’t carrying Archibald’s small but heavy barrels, or helping push carts into position, he was set to fetching food and
water for the men.

It was ceaseless work, but it had the advantage that he was still at the front with her.

Béatrice was like a woman possessed. She almost ran as she carried the little bags filled with stone and metal balls, and tossed her head scorefully when Clip moaned about working too
hard.

The whole vintaine, such as it now was, stayed there all morning while the English army dug their little pits all over the field, until there were only the holes with piles beside where the soil
had been dumped. Men still wandered about, some sergeants and a knight or two, pointing to any areas where the ground could do with another assault. Some patches showed as little green islands, but
they were few and far between. Mostly the ground was pitted as though a massive fork had been jabbed into the soil by an infuriated giant.

‘What good will these things do?’ Clip nagged as he rolled another barrel of powder up behind the great tube.

‘You will be surprised,’ Archibald said. He was squinting down the length of his gonne. ‘You see this? When I set a spark to the hole at the back of the gonne here, it will
stab flame and thunder at the victim. Those,’ he went on, pointing to the three large tubes being set up nearby, ‘those will hurl numbers of little balls of stone or steel darts
straight at the enemy, and cut them down. Just you wait! You will see the first Christian battle making full use of this wonderful new invention. When these little crackers go off, the French will
run for their lives!’

Ed pondered that as he helped dig trenches behind the other two gonnes. The latter were made of long steel bars that had been heated and hammered together. The individual staves were reinforced
by more steel bands bound around them and holding them into their shape, like long steel barrels. Ed and the gynours had to dig deep to set three lengths of timber behind each barrel. Archibald
kept talking about the barrels leaping into the air when they fired: these timbers were set to provide a firm support to stop them bucking and moving backwards. Ropes were laid over them and
tethered to great metal spikes thrust into the ground on either side until Ed could not imagine how they could possibly move. They were too securely fastened. Even a kick from a destrier
wouldn’t shift them.

‘Don’t you believe it,’ Archibald said contentedly. ‘And
never
stand behind the gonnes when they launch their missiles or you will be crushed like a beetle. They
leap like salmon!’

Ed had a ball in his hand, weighing it. It was enormously heavy, and at four inches in diameter, he wondered how it could be thrown with any great power. He would find it difficult to hurl it
more than fifteen paces.

‘And now,’ Archibald concluded, ‘we are ready. Any French whorseson who tries to come here and assail the archers in flank will wish he had never been born.’

The men were called back to their position at the braying of trumpets, and Berenger and the others hared back over the grass. Most of the other archers were already waiting,
sitting on their shields against the damp of the grass, some gazing longingly to the west, thinking of their homes, while others stared at the ground as if wondering what it would feel like to be
buried there.

Berenger stood bellowing at the others, urging them to greater speed. He fumbled and almost dropped his bowstring, slipping the noose over the top, fitting the knot to the bottom, then bending
the bow and sliding the topmost noose into its grooves. The bow was ready.

‘String your bows!’ he yelled, looking up and down his line of men. They were already nocking arrows and gazing about them, alert for a target. On the opposite hill a trio of
horsemen could be seen racing hell for leather towards the English lines.

‘Archers!
Hold
!’ Berenger roared. ‘They’re ours, men. Our scouts.’

Now more figures appeared, pursuing the English scouts. There were five of them, and from the way their armour sparkled, they must have been men-at-arms. They reined in and stared at the army
massed before them, two turning and haring away while the remaining three sat calmly observing the English dispositions.

Berenger relaxed. These were the forerunners of the French army, but the main force was not near enough for a sudden charge. Not yet.

But as he waited, their own scouts cantered back to the English lines.

‘Are they far?’ he cried as they raced past.

‘One league, no more!’ one man cried, and was gone.

‘Three miles, men,’ Berenger called unnecessarily. ‘Give them another hour of the day and they’ll be swarming all over that side of the field.’

‘So long as they stay there!’ Jack called.

Ed was nearby, and Berenger saw his pale features. ‘Don’t worry, boy. Stick to your duties and you’ll be all right.’

There was a ripple of sound and then laughter. As Berenger turned and stared, he saw that a new banner had been unfurled in the English lines: a massive red flag with a golden dragon set upon
it.

‘What in God’s name is that?’ Geoff muttered.

‘It looks as if the King’s had a new flag made,’ Berenger said.

Geoff sniffed. ‘Very nice, I’m sure. But a silken dragon isn’t going to win this battle for us. We need a couple of real ones.’

Berenger watched the shadows. It was closer to an hour and a half before the first of the vanguard of the French appeared over the ridge ahead.

But the time passed swiftly. While the men waited, some, like Berenger, unstringing their bows again and storing their strings safely, a roar went up from the main body of the English army, and
Berenger made out a figure on a white palfrey, sitting calmly before the army and chatting. Something in the man’s gestures caught his attention. And then, with a short, ‘Aw,
shite!’ he recognised the fellow.