The mammoth task of unloading the fleet’s supplies and equipment was completed three days later, and Warwick, Holland and Sir Reginald Cobham were called to attend a war council at the inn where the king was lodged. A plan of campaign was drawn up, and the following morning the army prepared to set out on its march across northern France.
The process of getting the vast army into marching order took up most of the morning. The army was divided into three battalions: the vanguard, under the nominal command of the young Prince of Wales, with the Earls of Warwick and Northampton to advise him; the main body, including the baggage train, commanded by the king himself; and the rearguard, under the joint command of the Earls of Arundel, Huntingdon and Suffolk, and the Bishop of Durham. Holland’s company was to march in the vanguard, and was thus one of the first units to be formed up on the road. He and his men had to wait impatiently while the harassed-looking marshals rode back and forth along the column, struggling to organise the units that were to follow.
The rearguard was still forming up when Norwich brought the order for the vanguard to set off. The prince rode at the forefront with his retinue, and behind them came fifty hand-picked archers from Chester, said to be the finest archers in the whole of England and Wales. Like the Welsh archers who followed them on foot, they were dressed in the prince’s green and white parti-coloured livery.
Holland’s company came next, with Sir Thomas, Villiers and Brother Ambrose riding at the head of the troop of knights and squires, followed by the men-at-arms and then the two platoons of archers. The archers sang as they set off marching. After the debilitating voyage and the five days spent around Morselines where they had recouped their strength while the ships were unloaded, it was good to be on the move at last. The sun was shining, and spirits were as high as they had been on the day they set out from Bosworth. There was little doubt in the ranks that this was the mightiest army ever fielded overseas by an English king, and with Valois’ forces reputed to be so far away, it seemed that little could impede their advance. The men boasted that they would be drinking and whoring in Paris within a month; once that great city had fallen, Valois would be forced to acknowledge the king’s claim to the French throne.
They set out shortly after noon, marching south-west down narrow lanes through thickly wooded countryside. They covered the best part of ten miles that afternoon, reaching a small town with a castle shortly after nightfall. Unlike Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue and Barfleur, the inhabitants of this town had not had a chance to flee before the English advance. A deputation of the townsfolk was escorted to the king, with whom they pleaded only that their lives and those of their fellow citizens be spared. As Preston explained to his new recruits, the inhabitants of a town or fortress that surrendered immediately were to be treated with honour and respect, while any place that put up any kind of resistance condemned itself to massacre, sack and pillage should it eventually fall to the besieging army, in accordance with the accepted rules of war. That was the theory, at least. In practice, troops would sack and pillage any settlement they came to, regardless of whether or not the inhabitants tried to resist. The difference was that in a town that resisted, the ensuing blood bath would have official sanction and sometimes even – at the end of a long and bitter siege – approval.
Word soon came back from the king that he had received the deputation of burghers kindly and had admitted the townsfolk to his peace. Theoretically this meant that they were as much entitled to English justice as any freeman back in England. These new-found privileges did not, however, stop them from having their larders raided by the king’s victuallers searching for supplies for the army; but then those victuallers took the same high-handed approach when they operated on English soil. Apart from this, the inhabitants were left largely unharmed, which was perhaps more than they could have dared to hope for.
Valois’ eldest son, the Duke of Normandy, had a manor house just outside the town, although he was absent, presumably still campaigning in Gascony. The king lodged in the manor house for the night, while the Earl of Warwick and his retinue found rather more humble lodgings at an inn to the south of the town, not far from the Bishop of Coutance’s palace, where the prince and the Earl of Northampton spent the night.
That evening, many of the men from Holland’s company made their way into town, including a group of squires still full of themselves following their first taste of victory at Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue. They were in high spirits, singing songs of love and glory, cursing the townsfolk who got in their way. They found a tavern which was not too full, where English knights and men-at-arms rubbed shoulders with humbler archers. The young squires were the rowdiest of the lot, lustfully pawing at the serving girls who struggled to serve wine without asking for payment, hoping only to make it through the next few days without being molested by the English troops; the arrival of the squires soon put paid to that vain hope. As some of them dragged serving girls upstairs, leaving the other men present to help themselves to wine, one of them turned to where Stamford sat in a corner. Unlike his friends, Stamford had been silent all night, showing little enthusiasm for their boisterous japes.
‘Come on, Dickon!’ said the squire, waving a flagon about and sloshing dark red wine on to the sawdust-covered floor with one hand as he sought to maintain his grasp around the waist of a struggling girl. ‘Don’t you want to join in the fun?’
Stamford shook his head and waved dismissively at the squire, scowling. The other squire was curious to know what was troubling his friend, but not to the extent that he would let it interfere with his enjoyment. He shrugged, and hoisted the girl on to his shoulder like a sack of grain, carrying her kicking and struggling upstairs.
Stamford was still brooding over his latest humiliation at Kemp’s hands. It was insufferable that a mere villein should be allowed to get away with all that Kemp had done, without any punishment whatsoever. Sometimes it seemed as if the whole world was laughing at him.
‘It’s that squire, isn’t it? The one who Lancelot got into an argument with at Barfleur,’ said a voice nearby.
‘They got into an argument long before that. I saw him and his master demanding that Lancelot be hanged for rape at Bosworth,’ responded another.
‘Rape? Lancelot!’ snorted the first. ‘That gelding couldn’t rape a woman if she were stripped naked and tied spread-eagled to a bed!’
‘What did Sir Thomas say?’ asked a third voice.
‘Told him to go to Hell,’ asserted the second.
Stamford gave the new arrivals a sidelong glance. Their faces were vaguely familiar: four archers from Holland’s company, in the same platoon as Kemp.
‘Why that squire lets a villein like Lancelot push him around is beyond me,’ said the first.
‘Maybe he’s a gelding, too,’ chuckled a fourth.
‘“This churl carries a sword that he has obviously stolen”,’ mimicked one of them, exaggerating Stamford’s noble accent. ‘“He’s a criminal, and should be hanged.”’ All four of them laughed raucously.
His ears burning with rage, Stamford could stand it no longer. It might be dishonourable to quarrel with churls; but it would be an even greater dishonour if he were to sit by and allow such mockery to go unchallenged. He pushed himself sharply to his feet, upsetting his stool with a crash. The sudden sound commanded silence in the tavern. Everyone stopped what they were doing to stare as Stamford made his way around the table to confront the four archers.
‘Does something amuse you?’ Stamford asked them coldly, toying with the rings on the fingers of his right hand, as if it required a conscious effort for him to keep his hand from the hilt of his sword. ‘Perhaps you would care to share your jest with me? I am much in need of amusement.’
All four archers had blanched and fallen silent. They moved into a huddle, shrinking away from the squire.
‘I’m addressing you, if you would have the courtesy to respond…?’
‘Please, we didn’t…’ began one.
Stamford drove his fist into the speaker’s jaw, the powerful blow sending him sprawling on the floor. ‘Doff your cap when you address your betters, you unmannerly dog!’ he snarled.
The other three hurriedly removed their caps as one.
‘Well?’ persisted Stamford.
‘We didn’t mean no offence, your lordship,’ stammered one of the others.
‘That’s right,’ said the leader of the four archers, a rough, horse-faced individual. ‘I were just saying how disgraceful it is for a villein like Kemp to be allowed to treat a man like yourself so disrespectfully. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. Isn’t that right, lads?’
The other three archers nodded in fervent agreement, murmuring their assent.
‘It’s a crying shame, it is, the way thieves and rapists like Kemp are allowed to get away with murder,’ continued the horse-faced man. ‘But that’s the way of the world, isn’t it? The innocent are punished while the guilty go free.’
‘What would you know about it?’ scoffed Stamford.
‘Oh, I like to think I know a fair bit about justice, having been through the legal system myself a couple of times. Now me, I’m a great believer in natural justice. God takes care of what the courts leave unpunished. Take Kemp, for example. If he were suddenly to suffer a fatal accident in the next couple of days, that might seem like a judgement of God, mightn’t it?’
‘A dagger-thrust to the heart,’ suggested one of the other archers, catching the horse-faced man’s drift. ‘Men are killed all the time on campaign without anyone asking too closely about the whys and wherefores. Who’s to say if it was a French hand that held the dagger, or an English one?’
‘And what would the hand that held the dagger seek in return?’ demanded Stamford.
‘I’ve always found that gold oils the wheels of justice to make them turn more smoothly,’ said the horse-faced man.
Stamford sighed. ‘How much?’
‘Fifty shillings,’ said Caynard, expecting to have to haggle. When Stamford reached for the purse that hung at his belt, it was obvious he had misunderstood. ‘Each,’ added Caynard.
‘That’s ten pounds of gold!’ protested Stamford.
Caynard glanced about to make sure that no one was eavesdropping; but the other men in the tavern had long since returned to their drinking. ‘We’re talking murder here, your lordship. If anyone finds out, it’ll be our necks they stretch.’
Stamford sighed again. He would have preferred to have reserved the pleasure of killing Kemp for himself, but too many people had admonished him too many times for brawling with the churl. Certainly it would be better not to soil his hands from further contact with the villein, but to leave the dirty work to these archers. The important thing was that Kemp’s existence ceased to make a mockery of Stamford’s honour. And with a purse now bulging with looted gold, he considered ten pounds a bargain when his honour was at stake. ‘Very well,’ he agreed, discreetly passing them a few coins. ‘Five pounds now, and the other five when it’s done. But if you make a botch of the job, don’t come crawling back to me. I’ll forget I ever met you.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Caynard, grinning evilly. ‘But don’t worry, we won’t.’
Stamford eyed him appraisingly. ‘You’ve done this kind of thing before, haven’t you?’
Caynard’s grin was broader than ever. ‘When your roof needs mending you go to a thatcher. What you pay for is craftsmanship.’ He winked grotesquely at the squire, and then led his three friends out of the tavern, back to where the rest of the company was encamped to the south of the town.
As soon as they had turned into the next street, Edritch whooped with joy. ‘Twenty-five shillings for nothing! What a jackass that squire must be!’
Caynard shook his head. ‘Fifty shillings. For killing Kemp.’
‘But why risk being hanged for murder?’ demanded Edritch. ‘That squire’s not going to turn around and accuse us of taking his money without doing the job for him is he?’
‘That squire is perfectly capable of exacting his own justice, if he feels we’ve given him cause for grievance,’ warned Caynard. ‘And I for one don’t intend to give him cause. Oh, no. We’re going to kill Kemp, all right. And I intend to enjoy it.’
The army was roused before dawn by reveille the following morning, and after breakfast the heralds reiterated the king’s edict that no harm should be done to women, children or the elderly, no churches or holy places robbed, nor any towns or manor houses put to the torch; and the promise of forty shillings to any man who apprehended someone performing such crimes was repeated. Nevertheless, when the rearguard departed from the town they left it in flames. If anyone was punished for starting the fire, Martin did not hear of it. The huge column of smoke that rose from the town behind them made a mockery of the king’s promise to admit the townsfolk to his peace.
By now everyone had a better idea of the marching order, and this time it did not take more than a couple of hours to form the army up into its three columns. They set out much earlier than they had done the previous day. Now their route veered to the south-east. The men sang, chatted, and exchanged jests to relieve the monotony of the march. Martin found himself wishing that they could encounter the enemy, if only to relieve the tedium.
They covered over fifteen miles on the second day of the march, reaching another town about an hour before dusk. There the townsfolk told them that the bridge across the River Douve had been broken down to slow the advance of the English. The Earl of Northampton, who had been appointed constable of the army, dispatched two troops of hobelars to search for an alternative crossing, but the reconnaissance parties returned within a couple of hours to report that there was no sign of a crossing for several miles in either direction.
Holland’s men were seated around their camp-fires just outside the town, finishing their supper, when Norwich rode up and ordered them to escort the team of pioneers to the site of the broken-down bridge. At Preston’s command, his men gathered up their arms once more, and under cover of darkness they escorted the pioneers with their ox-drawn lumber wagons to the river-bank. There they found Cobham and two other knights in command of the crossing point.
The bridge’s stone foundations remained intact, but the main wooden span had been hacked and burnt out of existence. The water was too deep to ford, and looked dark and sluggish. There was no moon, and the far bank was barely visible through the gloom. One of the pioneers crossed first, swimming at an angle as he fought the deceptively powerful current. A rope was tied around his waist which his fellow pioneers on the river-bank played out behind him. Finally he reached the far side, scrambling up the bank and disappearing into the darkness. Presently he reappeared, waving to signify that the rope had been secured, and the pioneers hauled it in until it was taut, making it fast to a sturdy tree-stump.
The master carpenter in charge of the pioneers turned to Preston. ‘Your turn, now. One at a time.’
Preston ordered his men to take the bowstrings from their bow-bags, coiling them up and placing them under their hoods and caps: if a bowstring became wet, it would slacken and be rendered useless.
‘Serjeant…’ piped up Inglewood, eyeing the dark water unhappily.
‘What?’ Preston demanded impatiently.
‘I can’t swim.’
‘No one’s asking you to swim,’ Preston told him irritably. ‘Just hang on to the rope and haul yourself across.’
‘I can’t do it!’
‘You’re a king’s archer now,’ Preston reminded him. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word “can’t”.’
The serjeant went across first. The rope sagged underneath his weight, so that he found himself hanging waist-deep in the water. Oakley went next, slinging his longbow in its cover across his back by its strap. Martin climbed down to the river’s edge next, one hand on the rope, keen to get the crossing over with. He waited until Oakley had clambered out at the other side. Preston signalled for the next man to cross, and Martin gripped the wet rope tightly, lowering his legs into the water.
He gasped as he sank up to his waist in the cold water. It swirled about his hips, the current trying to drag him away from the rope. He found himself more concerned that the current would pull his shoes off his feet than he was about losing his grip. He inched his way along the rope, the water buffeting his buttocks, and soon fell into a steady rhythm as his powerful arms and shoulders hauled him across to the far side. He managed to get one foot on the muddy bank, and then Oakley clasped his hand, heaving him up to safety. He stood shivering in the cold as Preston waved the next man across.
‘Come on, you lot, keep moving!’
Once the whole platoon was across, Preston divided them into groups of three or four and ordered them to form a line of pickets along the perimeter of the bridgehead. Martin found himself with Newbolt, Pip Herrick and Ned Skeffington, standing in the darkness by a clump of marsh reeds about forty yards from the wrecked bridge. He took his bowstave from its cover and restrung it, his eyes searching the darkness ahead for any signs of movement. All was quiet apart from the steady croaking of frogs. Suddenly, an eerie sound boomed across the marshes. Martin instinctively reached for one of his arrows.
‘Marsh bittern,’ Newbolt told him, sitting down to take off his shoes to tip the water out of them. ‘Christ’s pain, I’m cold!’ he grumbled. It was characteristic of him that he started nearly every conversation with a gripe of some kind. ‘Let’s see if we can get a fire going.’
‘Are you sure we ought to?’ Martin asked dubiously. ‘If there are any Frenchmen nearby…’
‘We’re in the God-damned middle of nowhere, for the love of Christ! Who’s going to see a fire out here? Besides, if we don’t get ourselves dried out, we’ll like as not freeze to death.’
Of the four of them, Newbolt was the only one who had served in the king’s army before, so Martin reluctantly acceded to his greater experience, although he half-expected Preston to come thundering out of the darkness the moment they had got it going, ordering them to douse it. Behind them, however, several more of the pioneers had crossed the river, and one of the first things they did was to set up flaming torches on either side of the banks so that they could see what they were doing.
Herrick and Skeffington managed to find enough dead wood scattered about to make a fire, while Jankin stomped up and down, alternatively beating his arms against his sides and blowing into his cupped hands. Martin stood by placidly, gazing across the marshes into the darkness. Behind them, the pioneers quickly set up a pulley system across the river and began to rebuild the bridge. When Martin had first realised that the army could not move on until the bridge was repaired, he had thought it would require a halt of several days, but each time he stole a backwards glance he was astonished by how much progress the pioneers had made in such a short space of time. The noise of hammering and sawing was constant, accompanied by the occasional shout, a call for more nails or a request for help in driving a new strut into the river-bank. The skeleton of the new bridge was completed in a matter of hours, the pioneers scrambling nimbly across the wooden framework with the agility of squirrels. They were obviously used to labouring as a close-knit team in such conditions, and it was almost a pleasure to watch them work.
The night wore on. Preston came by at irregular intervals to make sure that they had not fallen asleep. Martin felt dog-tired, but in spite of the meagre fire that Jankin had managed to get going, the cold kept him awake. Halfway through the night some archers from Sir Hugh Despenser’s company came to relieve them. By then the pioneers had laid enough of the bridge’s planks to enable men to cross on foot in single file. They encamped for the rest of the night on the north bank of the river, and Martin immediately fell asleep.
It seemed as if he had no sooner closed his eyes than Preston was kicking him awake. Dawn was rising to find the bridge completed, and the rest of the vanguard marching up from the town. Daylight revealed the landscape ahead of them, a vast expanse of marshland with a narrow causeway barely wide enough for six men to march abreast snaking away from the bridge, towards the east.
They marched across the causeway for about three miles until they came to a large, walled town surrounded by an extensive network of dykes and moats. A strong fortress dominated it, and even to Martin’s inexperienced eyes the place looked impregnable. As they drew near to the town, however, Sir Godefroi d’Harcourt rode to the front of the column with Norwich and met two Norman knights at its entrance. D’Harcourt and the two Normans greeted one another amicably as if they were old friends, and before long the army was marching into the town unopposed.
At first the streets seemed deserted, but wherever Martin looked he saw nervous eyes peering from windows, or shutters being hurriedly slammed shut. He drew Preston’s attention to the fact, instinctively taking his longbow from its bag.
Preston had already seen them. ‘Townsfolk,’ he said dismissively.
‘How can we be certain it’s not an ambush?’ Martin asked uncertainly.
Preston chuckled. ‘If it was an ambush, they would’ve been sure not to let us see them. Not until it was too late, anyway.’
It was the first French settlement they had reached that had not been largely abandoned by its populace, and somehow that seemed to keep looting and pillaging to a minimum. It transpired that the two Norman knights in command of the town’s garrison were protégés of d’Harcourt, in the pay of the English, so the orders to do no harm to the townsfolk were to be strictly enforced. Nevertheless, the army needed to replenish its stock of food, and after a late breakfast Holland’s men were put to work foraging for victuals from a whole street of houses.
Martin and Rudcock approached one of the houses. Rudcock tried the door, but it was locked. He hammered on it with his fist. ‘Come on, open up! Ouvrez, ouvrez!’
Martin stared at him. ‘What?’
‘It’s French,’ explained Rudcock. ‘It means “open up”.’
‘Oh.’ Martin tried to make a mental note of it. He did not know how long he was going to be in France, but it could do no harm to learn a little of the language.
No one opened up. Rudcock threw his shoulder against the door. It splintered open. Inside, a terrified-looking man stood in front of his family – a wife, two children and their grandmother – who cowered in one corner. The man was wielding an iron poker, but Rudcock snatched it from his hand and tossed it out into the street. He kept his sword in his scabbard to show that he meant no harm, and Martin followed his lead. The family was clearly unconvinced; when Martin raised a hand to push back his hood and run his fingers through his tangled mop of hair, they all flinched as if he had threatened them. It bemused him to find that people could be so terrified of him. These people were all well-dressed compared to peasants, not unlike the townsfolk of Leicester; but Martin had always associated fine clothes with the nobility, whom he held in reluctant awe. Yet here were these well-dressed, important-looking people all trembling with fear at the sight of him. He tried to view the situation from their point of view. How would he have felt if two armed men had broken into the Kemps’ cottage at Knighton? Angry, perhaps, but he would certainly not have cowered in fear like these contemptuous creatures, he decided.
Once disarmed, the master of the house tried to be helpful and compliant, but Rudcock was not interested. He knew what he was looking for and where he would find it. With a vaguely apologetic shrug to the family, Martin followed him through to the larder. They gathered up as much food as they could carry between them.
The army spent the rest of that day in and around the town. Exhaustion suddenly caught up with Martin around late afternoon, and after an early supper he fell into a deep sleep, waking up shortly before reveille the following morning.
Its supplies replenished, the army set out shortly after dawn, leaving another town burning in its wake contrary to orders. They marched across a dozen miles of low, marshy ground until they came to a small village on the west bank of another river. There the army halted, and after the best part of an hour spent waiting around, the order was given to make camp. Another bridge in their path had been broken down, and once again the pioneers had to be brought forward to effect repairs.
Preston and his men lit a fire and began to roast some beef. As they were eating, Holland came by. ‘You’d best make sure you and your men get a good night’s rest,’ he told Preston in a low voice. Preston nodded.
‘What’s going on, Sir Thomas?’ Inglewood, belonging to a slightly higher stratum of society than his fellow archers, had no qualms about speaking to Sir Thomas without waiting to be spoken to.
Holland rubbed his jaw, glancing across the river. He took a deep breath. ‘There’s a town on the other side of the river, about four miles from here,’ he explained curtly. ‘We were hoping to reach it by nightfall, but since the bridge has been destroyed that’s out of the question. Our spies tell us that the Marshal of Normandy has levied a sizeable body of troops, and intends to make a stand at the town.’
‘There’s going to be a battle?’ asked Inglewood, wide-eyed.
Holland nodded absently. ‘Aye, it looks that way.’
The following day was the Feast of Saint Mary Magdalen. Once again the pioneers had finished repairing the bridge by dawn, and after a hurried breakfast the vanguard crossed the river and climbed to the top of a nearby ridge overlooking the town that Holland had told them about. The English knights and men-at-arms dismounted, leaving their horses tied behind the ridge, while the marshals hurried to get the troops into battle array. The archers were formed into a long line facing the town, interspersed with dismounted men-at-arms and hobelars, while the Welsh archers were positioned at the flanks. Much activity was visible in and around the walled town less than two miles away, but there was no sign of any French troops approaching.
Martin’s mouth felt dry as he took his bow from its cover and planted a dozen arrows in the ground at his feet. The veterans seemed unconcerned at the prospect of imminent battle, chatting and joking amongst themselves as they waited. He tried to feign a similar lack of concern. Inglewood, Tate and Wighton were white-faced and trembling. Martin held a hand in front of his own face and detected a slight tremor. He flexed his fingers. His legs felt weak, and his bowels churned like a mill-race.
Holland had dismounted to stand with his men. Somehow Martin found that reassuring. He had always thought of the nobility as too proud to get down off their horses and face the enemy on foot with the men. Holland had put on armour that morning, the first time Martin had seen him wearing it. He wore a steel breastplate over a coat of mail, cuisses on his thighs made of steel plates riveted to hardened leather, steel greaves on his calves, articulated steel sabatons on his feet, and steel rerebraces, vambraces and couters to protect his arms. A pair of articulated steel gauntlets protected his hands, and on his head he wore a vizored bascinet over a chain-mail coif. His coat of arms was proudly displayed on both his shield and his jupon. He looked dangerous and threatening as he marched up and down the ranks of his company, exchanging a few words here and there with his serjeants and one or two of his men. He was in good humour; it seemed that the prospect of battle pleased him.
Martin wished he could share the knight’s feelings. This had been what he had wanted, after all: a chance to fight for his king. Why, then, did he feel so frightened? But he already knew the answer to that one. The battles of his imagination, where he rode gloriously against the foe, cutting a swathe of death and destruction before him, were very different from the grim reality he had encountered on the beach south of Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue, and after that on the road to Quettehou. He was not a knight in armour, able to fight with the advantage of sitting astride a massive war-horse; he was an archer, a foot-soldier, condemned to stand and fight – and perhaps die – on the very patch of ground he now occupied. There could be neither advance nor retreat; he had just to stand and await the French attack. The waiting was the worst part of all: it gave him time to think of all the ways a man might be killed in battle through no fault of his own. In a one-on-one situation he feared no man, but anything could happen in the confusion of a mêlée. Fie might be spitted on a lance, decapitated by the wildest stroke of a sword, or even killed by an arrow that he never saw coming…
‘It looks like they’re moving, Sir Thomas,’ rumbled Preston.
Martin snapped out of his reverie and glanced up. Sure enough, a column of armed men was emerging from one of the town gates, led by the banner that Martin had seen on that first day on the beach – a green lion rampant on a yellow background.
‘Hold your positions,’ growled Preston. ‘It won’t be long now.’
The column continued to emerge from the town. There were several hundred men as far as Martin could tell, perhaps even one or two thousand. And how many on the English side? It was hard to tell from the middle of the ranks, but Martin guessed at least two and a half thousand, maybe even as many as three. The bulk of the army remained on the west bank of the river. The men in the English vanguard seemed to outnumber the French, but the French column was still emerging from the town. How many more men were there yet to appear?
At least the English had gained the advantage of height, Martin noted with approval. The Frenchmen charging on foot up the hill towards them would be sorely tired even before they got to grips with the waiting English…
‘Where are they going?’ asked Villiers, standing beside his master.
Martin looked towards the French column again. It had not turned to advance on the English position as might have been expected, but was continuing along the road leading east, away from the ridge.
One of the men-at-arms behind Martin laughed nervously. ‘They’re running away!’
‘Retreating, perhaps, but not running away,’ Preston observed, almost to himself.
The rear of the French column had emerged from the town now. Two thousand men at the most, Martin guessed; barely two-thirds the number of men in the English formation. The column continued along the road leading to the east.
Norwich rode up on his palfrey and reined in alongside Holland, who now stood with the Prince of Wales, Warwick, Cobham and Despenser, a short distance from where Martin was positioned; close enough for him to be able to hear their conference.
‘What’s happening?’ demanded Norwich.
‘The French are withdrawing,’ Holland said coolly.
‘That much I can see for myself,’ Norwich snapped irritably.
No one in the English ranks cheered. It was some time before the realisation that there was to be no battle sank in. In spite of his earlier fear, Martin felt disappointed, deflated. He felt like an iron poker that had been heated up until it was white hot, and then put aside, unused and left to cool. The burning in his blood needed to be quenched in battle, not left to cool in the breeze.
The men were forced to stay in their positions for another interminable hour while two troops of mounted archers were sent to follow the retreating French at a distance, to make sure that the manoeuvre was not a feint. By now it was boredom rather than fear that troubled Martin. There was little doubt in the English ranks that the French retreat was genuine, and not a ruse of any kind. Just to make sure, d’Harcourt rode down to the town with Norwich and a troop of hobelars. Norwich presently returned to report that there were no enemy troops left in the town. As far as d’Harcourt could tell from questioning a few of the townsfolk, Marshal Bertrand had been planning to make a stand, but had not expected the English to cross the river so swiftly, and had found himself outflanked.
The battle lines were broken up, the men complaining about the cowardice of the French and boasting about the great deeds of valour they would have performed if there had been a battle. The vanguard advanced down the side of the ridge in a series of loose formations. Earthworks were visible around the town walls, hastily begun and abandoned incomplete. As Preston’s platoon approached the north gate, Martin saw d’Harcourt seated astride his courser, giving terse commands in French to one of his squires. The Norman knight’s voice was terse with barely controlled emotion as he indicated two round objects stuck on poles atop the battlements directly over the gateway. Martin had never seen such objects before, but there could be no mistaking them: human skulls, picked clean of flesh by carrion birds and bleached by the elements, their grinning jaws hanging slackly. Whitefaced, the squire nodded and dismounted, hurriedly climbing up to the battlements to remove the offending objects.
‘I wonder who they were?’ mused Villiers, riding alongside his master at the head of the company. There was neither shock nor outrage in his voice: dismembered body parts displayed in public places as an example to others were a common enough sight in many parts of Christendom.
‘Doubtless friends of Sir Godefroi’s, executed for treason,’ Holland replied absently. ‘There were many Norman knights who fought with us in Brittany.’ He did not seem to care that at least two of his former allies had been decapitated for having fought alongside the English.
Many of the town’s narrow streets had been blocked by barricades of furniture, but with no one to defend them they were easily pushed over by the English troops, each splintering crash of wood accompanied by cheers. Cheated of an opportunity to face the French on the field of battle, they had to slake their thirst for destruction on the property of the townsfolk.
Like the last town they had passed through, this one had not been deserted by its inhabitants, but for an altogether different reason. The last town had been friendly to the English; or at least, the commanders of its garrison had been, and that was what had counted. But it was clear that the folk of this town had been expecting Bertrand and his men to protect them, and had even been helping the French troops to prepare the town for a siege. Bertrand’s sudden withdrawal had left them unexpectedly undefended, and now they found themselves at the mercy of the English. The English troops knew that the townsfolk had been planning to resist, and they treated them more roughly than they had done at the last town when searching for food. This time, money and jewellery were seized right from under the noses of the owners. The townsfolk were helpless to prevent it. They could see that the Englishmen, cheated of their battle, were spoiling for a fight, and the townsfolk had to tread warily to avoid provoking them, stoically suffering indignities and humiliations.
Martin watched with Preston as a group of archers robbed a handful of terrified burghers at sword-point, first ordering them to hand over their valuables and then likewise demanding their fine clothes. They were not satisfied even when the burghers stood naked and shivering in the thin sunshine.
‘Now kneel,’ ordered the leader of the archers. ‘Go on, get down on your knees!’
The burghers did not seem to understand, so the archer punched one of them in the stomach with a gauntleted fist. As the burgher bent double, the archer grabbed a fistful of his hair and forced him down on to his knees. The other burghers got the message, and knelt hurriedly.
‘Lie down – flat, on your stomachs! Crawl like the worms you are!’ The archer kicked another burgher between the shoulder-blades so that he sprawled in the ordure-filled gutter, whimpering. ‘Come on, down on your bellies, you French scum!’ When they were all lying down, the archer raised the hem of his tunic and urinated on them. His comrades joined in the game, laughing.
‘We should do summat,’ Martin whispered to Preston.
The serjeant turned to regard him with amusement. ‘Like what? Join in, perhaps?’
Martin pulled an expression of disgust. ‘The king’s edict…’
‘The rules of war take precedence, lad,’ Preston reminded him. ‘If a town surrenders immediately, the citizens are to be treated honourably. If they resist, on the other hand…’
‘These people hardly resisted…’
‘They were planning to. They would’ve done, too, if Bertrand and his men hadn’t turned tail and fled, like the cowardly scum these French dogs are.’
Martin slipped away from Preston and the others shortly after that. He needed some time by himself, to think. But wherever he went he saw more scenes of brutality. Soldiers trooped in and out of the larger houses, emptying them of food and valuables. Pieces of furniture were thrown from upper-storey windows for the sheer fun of watching them smash against the ground. Martin saw women of all ages pinned to the ground, struggling and screaming while English troops took turns at raping them, laughing, goading one another on. Women who tried to resist were savagely beaten. Sometimes they were beaten even if they did not resist, just for the hell of it. Martin wanted to intervene, but he knew he would only earn himself a beating if he tried to interfere. He was an idealist, but pragmatic enough not to want to get beaten up on principle. There was nothing he could do to defend these people; it made him feel impotent, sick with rage and despair at the senseless brutality of it all.
He thought about what Preston had said about the rules of war. It made no sense to him. He had always considered it chivalrous to admire courage and despise cowardice; yet those who tried to defend their homes were punished, while those who surrendered immediately were to be treated honourably. That was the theory, anyway, but then Martin recalled how the last town had readily surrendered, and the English had nonetheless left it in flames. It might have been argued that that had been the handiwork of common soldiers like himself rather than chivalrous noblemen bound by the rules of war, but the king’s edict to protect the people of Normandy did not seem to be too strictly enforced. Martin was learning that pillage, brutality and destruction were an integral part of warfare, and that the nobility evaded the constraints of the chivalric code by leaving the dirty work to the common soldiery, most of whom seemed more than happy to oblige.
He suddenly noticed that dusk was falling. He had not realised how late in the day it was, and hurried through the gloomy streets in search of the rest of his unit, or at least a familiar face. He was making his way down a back alley when two armed men stepped out of the shadows ahead of him, blocking the way. At first he thought they must be French, and he panicked, reaching for the hilt of his broadsword. Then he recognised them as Edritch and Lefthand. His first reaction was one of relief at seeing someone he recognised, and he raised one hand in an uncertain greeting. He was not particularly friendly with Edritch or Lefthand, but that was not enough to explain why they made no attempt to return his greeting. His instincts were screaming that something was wrong long before he heard Caynard’s voice behind him.
‘Get him!’
Martin glanced over his shoulder to see Caynard and Murray standing at the other end of the alley, blocking his retreat. The two pairs of men advanced, closing in on him. He turned to a back door in one wall of the alley. It was locked. He threw his shoulder against it, but it held firm. He turned his back on the door to face the four men. They stood around him in a half-circle, their faces grim but uncertain.
‘What the devil do you want?’ Martin demanded angrily, unnerved by their strange and threatening behaviour.
Caynard grinned, showing dirty and jagged teeth in the gloom. ‘Scared, Lancelot? You should be.’
‘Go to Hell.’
‘Go on, Piers!’ urged Murray.
Edritch drew a dagger from his belt, taking a step forward as he thrust the blade towards Martin’s stomach. It was so sudden, so unexpected, Martin did not have a chance to draw his rondel. He stepped aside to avoid the dagger thrust, at the same time throwing a punch at Edritch, catching him on the jaw. As Edritch staggered back, the other three closed in. Martin tried to break away, but Lefthand grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him back against the wall. Murray drove his fist into Martin’s stomach, kneeing him in the face as he doubled up. Pain exploded through Martin’s skull. He struggled to keep his grip on consciousness. It was obvious that they intended to kill him, although he could not understand why. He knew that if he fainted now, they must surely finish him.
He felt hands grab him roughly by the arms and haul him upright, so that he was face to face with Caynard. There was a dagger in Caynard’s hand, and as Lefthand and Murray struggled to hold Martin steady, Caynard tried to plunge the blade into his chest. Martin tried to squirm aside. The razor-sharp blade sliced through his leather jerkin. He felt an icy, burning sensation in his left side. The blade came away with blood on it, and Martin could see a dark stain spreading rapidly across his tunic.
‘Hold still, you God-damned whoreson!’ snarled Caynard. ‘You’ll only make it worse for yourself.’
Martin struggled with renewed frenzy. He might be badly cut, but he was not dead yet, and he was damned if he was going to let these whoresons kill him. He lashed out with his right foot, catching Caynard just below the kneecap. Caynard cried out in agony, dropping the dagger. Then Lefthand’s elbow smashed into Martin’s cheek. Bright lights exploded in his head. He felt his consciousness slipping away from him. The cloth of his tunic was warm and sticky where it was soaked with his own blood.
‘What the bloody hell’s going on here?’ demanded an unfamiliar voice with a strange accent. It distracted Lefthand long enough for Martin to get his right arm free. He lashed out with his fist, but it failed to connect with anything.
‘Scarper!’ Caynard’s voice, hoarse, panicky. Murray threw Martin against the wall again. His head struck the stonework with an audible crack, and suddenly his legs refused to support him any longer. As he slid to the ground, he felt someone kick him viciously in the stomach. He no longer cared. He heard running footsteps, a scream of agony, but it all sounded very distant, and he was not convinced that it had anything to do with him any more. Not any of it.