THE ENGLISH WAITED. Two of Skeat’s archers played straw flutes, while the hobelars, who were helping to protect the guns on the army’s flanks, sang songs of green woods and running streams. Some men danced the steps they would have used on a village green back home, others slept, many played dice, and all but the sleepers continually looked across the valley to the far hill crest that was thickening with men.

Jake had a linen-wrapped lump of beeswax that he handed round the archers so they could coat their bows. It was not necessary, just something to do. “Where did you get the wax?” Thomas asked him.

“Stole it, of course, off some daft man-at-arms. Saddle polish, I reckon.”

An argument developed over which wood made the best arrows. It was an old discussion, but it passed the time. Everyone knew ash made the best shafts, but some men liked to claim that birch or hornbeam, even oak, flew just as well. Alder, though heavy, was good for killing deer, but needed a heavy head and did not have the distance for battle.

Sam took one of his new arrows from his bag and showed everyone how warped the shaft was. “Must be made of bloody blackthorn,” he complained bitterly. “You could shoot that round a corner.”

“They don’t make arrows like they used to,” Will Skeat said, and his archers jeered for it was an old complaint. “It’s true,” Skeat said. “It’s all hurry up and no craftsmanship these days. Who cares? The bastards get paid by the sheaf and the sheaves are sent to London and no one looks at them till they reach us, and what are we going to do? Just look at it!” He took the arrow from Sam and twisted it in his fingers. “That’s not a bloody goose feather! It’s a goddamn sparrow feather. No bloody use for anything except scratching your arse.” He tossed the arrow back to Sam. “No, a proper archer makes his own arrows.”

“I used to,” Thomas said.

“But you’re a lazy bastard now, eh, Tom?” Skeat grinned, but the grin faded as he stared across the valley. “Enough of the goddamn bastards,” he grumbled, looking at the gathering French, then he grimaced as a solitary raindrop splashed on his worn boots. “I wish it would damn well rain and get it over with. It wants to. If it pisses on us when the bastards are attacking then we might as well run for home because the bows won’t shoot.”

Eleanor sat beside Thomas and watched the far hill. There were at least as many men there as were in the English army now, and the French main battle was only just arriving. Mounted men-at-arms were spreading across the hill, organizing themselves into conrois. A conroi was the basic fighting unit for a knight or man-at-arms, and most had between a dozen and twenty men, but those who formed the bodyguards of the great lords were much larger. There were now so many horsemen on the far hilltop that some had to spill down the slope, which was turning into a spread of color, for the men-at-arms were wearing surcoats embroidered with their lords’ badges and the horses had gaudy trappers, while the French banners added more blue and red and yellow and green. Yet, despite the colors, the dull gray of steel and mail still predominated. In front of the horsemen were the first green and red jackets of the Genoese crossbowmen. There was only a handful of those bowmen, but more and more were streaming over the hill to join their comrades.

A cheer sounded from the English center and Thomas leaned forward to see that archers were scrambling to their feet. His first thought was that the French must have attacked, but there were no enemy horsemen and no arrows flew.

“Up!” Will Skeat shouted suddenly. “On your feet!”

“What is it?” Jake asked.

Thomas saw the horsemen then. Not Frenchmen, but a dozen Englishmen who rode along the face of the waiting battleline, carefully keeping their horses away from the archers’ pits. Three of the horsemen were carrying banners, and one of those flags was a huge standard showing the lilies and the leopards framed in gold. “It’s the King,” a man said, and Skeat’s archers began to cheer.

The King stopped and spoke with the men in the center of the line, then trotted on toward the English right. His escort was mounted on big destriers, but the King rode a gray mare. He wore his bright surcoat, but had hung his crowned helmet from his saddle pommel and so was bare-headed. His royal standard, all red, gold and blue, led the flags, while behind it was the King’s personal badge of the flaming sun rising, while the third, which provoked the loudest cheer, was an extravagantly long pennant which showed the fire-spewing dragon of Wessex. It was the flag of England, of the men who had fought the Conqueror, and the Conqueror’s descendant now flew it to show that he was of England like the men who cheered him as he rode the gray horse.

He stopped close to Will Skeat’s men and raised a white staff to silence the cheers. The archers had pulled off their helmets and some had gone on one knee. The King still looked young, and his hair and beard were as gold as the rising sun on his standard.

“I am grateful,” he began in a voice so hoarse that he paused and started again. “I am grateful that you are here.” That started the cheering again and Thomas, who was cheering with the others, did not even reflect on what choice they had been given. The King raised the white staff for silence. “The French, as you see, have decided to join us! Perhaps they are lonely.” It was not a great joke, but it prompted roars of laughter that turned to jeers for the enemy. The King smiled as he waited for the shouts to subside. “We came here,” he then called, “only to procure the rights and lands and privileges that are ours by the laws of man and of God. My cousin of France challenges us, and in so doing he defies God.” The men were silent now, listening carefully. The destriers of the King’s escort were pawing the ground, but not a man moved. “God will not endure Philip of France’s impudence,” the King went on. “He will punish France, and you,” he cast a hand to indicate the archers, “will be His instrument. God is with you, and I promise you, I swear to you before God and on my own life, that I will not leave this field till the last man of my army has marched from here. We stay on this hill together and we fight here together and we shall win together for God, for St. George and for England!”

The cheers began again and the King smiled and nodded, then turned as the Earl of Northampton strode from the line. The King leaned down in his saddle and listened to the Earl for a moment, then straightened and smiled again. “Is there a Master Skeat here?”

Skeat immediately reddened, but did not confess his presence. The Earl was grinning, the King waited, then a score of archers pointed at their leader. “He’s here!”

“Come here!” the King commanded sternly.

Will Skeat looked embarrassed as he threaded through the bowmen and approached the King’s horse where he went on one knee. The King drew his ruby-hilted sword and touched it on Skeat’s shoulder. “We are told you are one of our best soldiers, so from henceforth you will be Sir William Skeat.”

The archers shouted even louder. Will Skeat, Sir William now, stayed on his knees as the King spurred on to give the same speech to the last men in the line and to those who manned the guns in the circle of farm carts. The Earl of Northampton, who had plainly been responsible for Skeat’s knighthood, raised him up and led him back to his cheering men, and Skeat was still blushing as his archers clapped him on the back.

“Bloody nonsense,” he said to Thomas.

“You deserve it, Will,” Thomas said, then grinned, “Sir William.”

“Just have to pay more bloody tax, won’t I?” Skeat said, but he looked pleased anyway. Then he frowned as a drop of rain splashed on his bare forehead. “Bowstrings!” he shouted.

Most of the men were still sheltering their strings, but a handful had to coil the cords as the rain began to fall more heavily. One of the Earl’s men-at-arms came to the archers, shouting that the women were to go back beyond the crest. “You heard him!” Will Skeat called. “Women to the baggage!”

Some of the women wept, but Eleanor just clung to Thomas for a moment. “Live,” she said simply, then walked away through the rain, passing the Prince of Wales who, with six other mounted men, was riding to his place among the men-at-arms behind Will Skeat’s archers. The Prince had decided to fight on horseback so he could see over the heads of the dismounted men and, to mark his arrival, his banner which was bigger than any other on the right of the field was loosed to the heavy downpour.

Thomas could no longer see across the valley because wide curtains of heavy gray rain were sweeping from the north and obscuring the air. There was nothing to do but sit and wait while the leather backing of his mail became cold and clammy. He hunched miserably, staring into the grayness, knowing that no bow could draw properly till this downpour ended.

“What they should do,” said Father Hobbe, who sat beside Thomas, “is charge now.”

“They couldn’t find their way in this muck, father,” Thomas said. He saw the priest had a bow and an arrow bag, but no other battle equipment. “You should get some mail,” he said, “or at least a padded jacket.”

“I’m armored by the faith, my son.”

“Where’s your bowstrings?” Thomas asked, for the priest had neither helmet nor cap.

“I looped them round my…well, never mind. It has to be good for something other than pissing, eh? And it’s dry down there.” Father Hobbe seemed indecently cheerful. “I’ve been walking the lines, Tom, and looking for your lance. It’s not here.”

“Hardly goddamn surprising,” Thomas said. “I never thought it would be.”

Father Hobbe ignored the blasphemy. “And I had a chat with Father Pryke. Do you know him?”

“No,” Thomas said curtly. The rain was pouring off the front of his helmet onto the broken bridge of his nose. “How the hell would I know Father Pryke?”

Father Hobbe was not deterred by Thomas’s surliness. “He’s confessor to the King and a great man. He’ll be a bishop one day soon. I asked him about the Vexilles.” Father Hobbe paused, but Thomas said nothing. “He remembers the family,” the priest went on. “He says they had lands in Cheshire, but they supported the Mortimers at the beginning of the King’s reign so they were outlawed. He said something else. They were always reckoned pious, but their bishop suspected they had strange ideas. A touch of gnosticism.”

“Cathars,” Thomas said.

“It seems likely, doesn’t it?”

“And if it’s a pious family,” Thomas said, “then I probably don’t belong. Isn’t that good news?”

“You can’t escape, Thomas,” Father Hobbe said softly. His usually wild hair was plastered close to his skull by the rain. “You promised your father. You accepted the penance.”

Thomas shook his head angrily. “There are a score of bastards here, father,” he indicated the archers crouching under the rain’s lash, “who’ve murdered more men than I have. Go and harrow their souls and leave mine alone.”

Father Hobbe shook his head. “You’ve been chosen, Thomas, and I’m your conscience. It occurs to me, see, that if the Vexilles supported Mortimer then they can’t love our king. If they’ll be anywhere today, it’ll be over there.” He nodded toward the valley’s far side, which was still blotted out by the pelting rain.

“Then they’ll live for another day, won’t they?” Thomas said.

Father Hobbe frowned. “You think we’re going to lose?” he asked sternly. “No!”

Thomas shivered. “It must be getting late in the afternoon, father. If they don’t attack now they’ll wait till morning. That’ll give them a whole day to slaughter us.”

“Ah, Thomas! How God loves you.”

Thomas said nothing to that, but he was thinking that all he wanted was to be an archer, to become Sir Thomas of Hookton as Will had just become Sir William. He was happy serving the King and did not need a heavenly lord to take him into weird battles against dark lords. “Let me give you some advice, father,” he said.

“It’s always welcome, Tom.”

“First bastard that drops, get his helmet and mail. Look after yourself.”

Father Hobbe clapped Thomas’s back. “God is on our side. You heard the King say as much.” He stood and went to talk with other men, and Thomas sat by himself and saw that the rain was lessening at last. He could see the far trees again, see the colors of the French banners and surcoats, and now he could see a mass of red and green crossbowmen at the other side of the valley. They were going nowhere, he reckoned, for a crossbow string was as susceptible to the damp as any other. “It’ll be tomorrow,” he called down to Jake. “We’ll do it all again tomorrow.”

“Let’s hope the sun shines,” Jake said.

The wind brought the last drops of rain from the north. It was late. Thomas stood, stretched and stamped his feet. A day wasted, he thought, and a hungry night ahead.

And tomorrow his first real battle.

 

AN EXCITED GROUP of mounted men had gathered about the French King, who was still a half-mile from the hill where the largest part of his army had gathered. There were at least two thousand men-at-arms in the rearguard who were still marching, but those who had reached the valley hugely outnumbered the waiting English.

“Two to one, sire!” Charles, the Count of Alençon and the King’s younger brother, said vehemently. Like the rest of the horsemen his surcoat was soaking and the dye in its badge had run into the white linen. His helmet was beaded with water. “We must kill them now!” the Count insisted.

But Philip of Valois’s instinct was to wait. It would be wise, he thought, to let his whole army gather, to make a proper reconnaissance and then attack next morning, but he was also aware that his companions, especially his brother, thought him cautious. They even believed him to be timid for he had avoided battle with the English before, and even to propose waiting a mere day might make them think he had no stomach for the highest business of kings. He still ventured the proposal, suggesting that the victory would be all the more complete if it was just delayed by one day.

“And if you wait,” Alençon said scathingly, “Edward will slip away in the night and tomorrow we’ll face an empty hill.”

“They’re cold, wet, hungry and ready to be slaughtered,” the Duke of Lorraine insisted.

“And if they don’t leave, sire,” the Count of Flanders warned, “they’ll have more time to dig trenches and holes.”

“And the signs are good,” John of Hainault, a close companion of the King and the Lord of Beaumont, added.

“The signs?” the King asked.

John of Hainault gestured for a man in a black cloak to step forward. The man, who had a long white beard, bowed low. “The sun, sire,” he said, “is in conjunction with Mercury and opposite Saturn. Best of all, noble sire, Mars is in the house of Virgo. It spells victory, and could not be more propitious.”

And how much gold, Philip wondered, had been paid to the astrologer to come up with that prophecy, yet he was also tempted by it. He thought it unwise to do anything without a horoscope and wondered where his own astrologer was. Probably still on the Abbeville road.

“Go now!” Alençon urged his brother.

Guy Vexille, the Count of Astarac, pushed his horse into the throng surrounding the King. He saw a green-and-red-jacketed crossbowman, evidently the commander of the Genoese, and spoke to him in Italian. “Has the rain affected the strings?”

“Badly,” Carlo Grimaldi, the Genoese leader, admitted. Crossbow strings could not be unstrung like the cords of ordinary bows for the tension in the cords was too great and so the men had simply tried to shelter their weapons under their inadequate coats. “We should wait till tomorrow,” Grimaldi insisted, “we can’t advance without pavises.”

“What’s he saying?” Alençon demanded.

The Count of Astarac translated for His Majesty’s benefit, and the King, pale and long-faced, frowned when he heard that the crossbowmen’s long shields that protected them from the enemy’s arrows while they reloaded their cumbersome weapons had still not arrived. “How long will they be?” he asked plaintively, but no one knew. “Why didn’t they travel with the bowmen?” he demanded, but again no one had an answer. “Who are you?” the King finally asked the Count.

“Astarac, sire,” Guy Vexille said.

“Ah.” It was plain the King had no idea who or what Astarac was, nor did he recognize Vexille’s shield that bore the simple symbol of the cross, but Vexille’s horse and armor were both expensive and so the King did not dispute the man’s right to offer advice. “And you say the bows won’t draw?”

“Of course they’ll draw!” the Count of Alençon interrupted. “The damned Genoese don’t want to fight. Bastard Genoese.” He spat. “The English bows will be just as wet,” he added.

“The crossbows will be weakened, sire,” Vexille explained carefully, ignoring the hostility of the King’s younger brother. “The bows will draw, but they won’t have their full range or force.”

“It would be best to wait?” the King asked.

“It would be wise to wait, sire,” Vexille said, “and it would be especially wise to wait for the pavises.”

“Tomorrow’s horoscope?” John of Hainault asked the astrologer.

The man shook his head. “Neptune approaches the bendings tomorrow, sire. It is not a hopeful conjunction.”

“Attack now! They’re wet, tired and hungry,” Alençon urged. “Attack now!”

The King still looked dubious, but most of the great lords were confident and they hammered him with their arguments. The English were trapped and a delay of even one day might give them a chance to escape. Perhaps their fleet would come to Le Crotoy? Go now, they insisted, even though it was late in the day. Go and kill. Go and win. Show Christendom that God is on the side of the French. Just go, go now. And the King, because he was weak and because he wanted to appear strong, surrendered to their wishes.

So the oriflamme was taken from its leather tube and carried to its place of honor at the front of the men-at-arms. No other flag would be allowed to go ahead of the long plain red banner that flew from its cross-staff and was guarded by thirty picked knights who wore scarlet ribbons on their right arms. The horsemen were given their long lances, then the conrois closed together so the knights and men-at-arms were knee to knee. Drummers took the rain covers from their instruments and Grimaldi, the Genoese commander, was peremptorily told to advance and kill the English archers. The King crossed himself while a score of priests fell to their knees in the wet grass and began to pray.

The lords of France rode to the hill crest where their mailed horsemen waited. By nightfall they would all have wet swords and prisoners enough to break England for ever.

For the oriflamme was going into battle.

 

“GOD’S TEETH!” Will Skeat sounded astonished as he scrambled to his feet. “The bastards are coming!” His surprise was justified, for it was late in the afternoon, the time when laborers would think of going home from the fields.

The archers stood and stared. The enemy was not yet advancing, but a horde of crossbowmen were spreading across the valley bottom, while above them the French knights and men-at-arms were arming themselves with lances.

Thomas thought it had to be a feint. It would be dark in another three or four hours, yet perhaps the French were confident they could do the business quickly. The crossbowmen were at last starting forward. Thomas took off his helmet to find a bowstring, looped one end over a horn tip, then flexed the shaft to fix the other loop in its nock. He fumbled and had to make three attempts to string the long black weapon. Sweet Jesus, he thought, but they were really coming! Be calm, he told himself, be calm, but he felt as nervous as when he had stood on the slope above Hookton and dared himself to kill a man for the very first time. He pulled open the laces of the arrow bag.

The drums began to beat from the French side of the valley and a great cheer sounded. There was nothing to explain the cheer; the men-at-arms were not moving and the crossbowmen were still a long way off. English trumpets responded, calling sweet and clear from the windmill where the King and a reserve of men-at-arms waited. Archers were stretching and stamping their feet all along the hill. Four thousand English bows were strung and ready, but there were half as many crossbowmen again coming toward them, and behind those six thousand Genoese were thousands of mailed horsemen.

“No pavises!” Will Skeat shouted. “And their strings will be damp.”

“They won’t have the reach for us.” Father Hobbe had appeared at Thomas’s side again.

Thomas nodded, but was too dry-mouthed to answer. A crossbow in good hands, and there were none better than the Genoese, should outrange a straight bow, but not if it had a damp string. The extra range was no great advantage, for it took so long to rewind a bow that an archer could advance into range and loose six or seven arrows before the enemy was ready to send his second bolt, but even though Thomas understood that imbalance he was still nervous. The enemy looked so numerous and the French drums were great heavy kettles with thick skins that boomed like the devil’s own heartbeat in the valley. The enemy horsemen were edging forward, eager to spur their mounts into an English line they expected to be deeply wounded by the crossbows’ assault while the English men-at-arms were shuffling together, closing their line to make solid ranks of shields and steel. The mail clinked and jangled.

“God is with you!” a priest shouted.

“Don’t waste your arrows,” Will Skeat called. “Aim true, boys, aim true. They ain’t going to stand long.” He repeated the message as he walked along his line. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Tom.”

“Ten thousand ghosts,” Thomas said.

“There’s more of the bastards than that,” Will Skeat said. He turned and gazed at the hill. “Maybe twelve thousand horsemen?” He grinned. “So that’s twelve thousand arrows, lad.”

There were six thousand crossbowmen and twice as many men-at-arms, who were being reinforced by infantry that was appearing on both French flanks. Thomas doubted that those foot soldiers would take any part in the battle, not unless it turned into a rout, and he understood that the crossbowmen could probably be turned back because they were coming without pavises and would have rain-weakened weapons, but to turn the Genoese back would need arrows, a lot of arrows, and that would mean fewer for the mass of horsemen whose painted lances, held upright, made a thicket along the far hilltop. “We need more arrows,” he said to Skeat.

“You’ll make do with what you’ve got,” Skeat said, “we all will. Can’t wish for what you ain’t got.”

The crossbowmen paused at the foot of the English slope and shook themselves into line before placing their bolts into their bows’ troughs. Thomas took out his first arrow and superstitiously kissed its head, which was a wedge of slightly rusted steel with a wicked point and two steep barbs. He laid the arrow over his left hand and slotted its nocked butt onto the center of the bowstring, which was protected from fraying with a whipping of hemp. He half tensed the bow, taking comfort from the yew’s resistance. The arrow lay inside the shaft, to the left of the handgrip. He released the tension, gripped the arrow with his left thumb and flexed the fingers of his right hand.

A sudden blare of trumpets made him jump. Every French drummer and trumpeter was working now, making a cacophony of noise that started the Genoese forward again. They were climbing the English slope, their faces white blurs framed by the gray of their helmets. The French horsemen were coming down the slope, but slowly and in fits and starts, as though they were trying to anticipate the order to charge.

“God is with us!” Father Hobbe called. He was in his archer’s stance, left foot far forward, and Thomas saw the priest had no shoes.

“What happened to your boots, father?”

“Some poor boy needed them more than I did. I’ll get a French pair.”

Thomas smoothed the feathers of his first arrow.

“Wait!” Will Skeat shouted. “Wait!” A dog ran out of the English battleline and its owner shouted for it to come back, and in a heartbeat half the archers were calling the dog’s name. “Biter! Biter! Come here, you bastard! Biter!”

“Quiet!” Will Skeat roared as the dog, utterly confused, ran toward the enemy.

Off to Thomas’s right the gunners were crouched by the carts, linstocks smoking. Archers stood in the wagons, weapons half braced. The Earl of Northampton had come to stand among the archers.

“You shouldn’t be here, my lord,” Will Skeat said.

“The King makes him a knight,” the Earl said, “and he thinks he can give me orders!” The archers grinned. “Don’t kill all the men-at-arms, Will,” the Earl went on. “Leave some for us poor swordsmen.”

“You’ll get your chance,” Will Skeat said grimly. “Wait!” he called to the archers. “Wait!” The Genoese were shouting as they advanced, though their voices were almost drowned by the heavy drumming and the wild trumpet calls. Biter was running back to the English now and a cheer sounded when the dog at last found shelter in the battleline. “Don’t waste your goddamn arrows,” Will Skeat called. “Take proper aim, like your mothers taught you.”

The Genoese were within bow range now, but not an arrow flew, and the red-and-green-coated crossbowmen still came, bending forward slightly as they trudged up the hill. They were not coming straight at the English, but at a slight angle, which meant that the right of the English line, where Thomas was, would be struck first. It was also the place where the slope was most gradual and Thomas, with a sinking heart, understood he was likely to be in the heart of the fight. Then the Genoese stopped, shuffled into line and began to shout their war cry.

“Too soon,” the Earl muttered.

The crossbows went into the shooting position. They were angled steeply upward as the Genoese hoped to drop a thick rain of death on the English line.

“Draw!” Skeat said, and Thomas could feel his heart thumping as he pulled the coarse string back to his right ear. He chose a man in the enemy line, placed the arrow tip directly between that man and his right eye, edged the bow to the right because that would compensate for the bias in the weapon’s aim, then lifted his left hand and shifted it back to the left because the wind was coming from that direction. Not much wind. He had not thought about aiming the arrow, it was all instinct, but he was still nervous and a muscle was twitching in his right leg. The English line was utterly silent, the crossbowmen were shouting and the French drums and trumpets deafening. The Genoese line looked like green and red statues.

“Let go, you bastards,” a man muttered and the Genoese obeyed him. Six thousand crossbow bolts arced into the sky.

“Now,” Will said, surprisingly softly.

And the arrows flew.

 

ELEANOR CROUCHED by the wagon that held the archers’ baggage. Thirty or forty other women were there, many with children, and they all flinched as they heard the trumpets, the drums and the distant shouting. Nearly all the women were French or Breton, though not one was hoping for a French victory, for it was their men who stood on the green hill.

Eleanor prayed for Thomas, for Will Skeat and for her father. The baggage park was beneath the crest of the hill so she could not see what was happening, but she heard the deep, sharp note of the English bowstrings being released, and then the rush of air across feathers that was the sound of thousands of arrows in flight. She shuddered. A dog tethered to the cart, one of the many strays that had been adopted by the archers, whimpered. She patted it. “There will be meat tonight,” she told the dog. The news had spread that the cattle captured in Le Crotoy would be reaching the army today. If there was an army left to eat them. The bows sounded again, more raggedly. The trumpets still screamed and the drumbeats were constant. She glanced up at the hill crest, half expecting to see arrows in the sky, but there was only gray cloud against which scores of horsemen were outlined. Those horsemen were part of the King’s small reserve of troops and Eleanor knew that if she saw them spur forward then the main line would have been breached. The King’s royal standard was flying from the topmost vane of the windmill where it stirred in the small breeze to show its gold, crimson and blue.

The vast baggage park was guarded by a mere score of sick or wounded soldiers who would not last a heartbeat if the French broke through the English line. The King’s baggage, heaped on three white-painted wagons, had a dozen men-at-arms to guard the royal jewels, but otherwise there was only the host of women and children, and a handful of pageboys who were armed with short swords. The army’s thousands of horses were also there, picketed close to the forest and watched by a few crippled men. Eleanor noted that most of the horses were saddled as though the men-at-arms and archers wanted the animals ready in case they had to flee.

A priest had been with the royal baggage, but when the bows sounded he had hurried to the crest and Eleanor was tempted to follow. Better to see what was going on, she thought, than wait here beside the forest and fear what might be happening. She patted the dog and stood, intending to walk to the crest, but just then she saw the woman who had come to Thomas in the damp night in the forest of Crécy. The Countess of Armorica, beautifully dressed in a red gown and with her hair netted in a silver mesh, was riding a small white mare up and down beside the prince’s wagons. She paused every now and then to gaze at the crest and then she would stare toward the forest of Crécy-Grange that lay to the west.

A crash startled Eleanor and made her turn to the crest. Nothing explained the terrible noise that had sounded uncannily like a close clap of thunder, but there was no lightning and no rain and the mill stood unharmed. Then a seep of gray-white smoke showed above the mill’s furled sails and Eleanor understood that the guns had fired. Ribalds, they were called, she remembered, and she imagined their rusting iron arrows slashing down the slope.

She looked back to the Countess, but Jeanette was gone. She had ridden to the forest, taking her jewels with her. Eleanor saw the red gown flash in the trees, then disappear. So the Countess had fled, fearing the consequences of defeat, and Eleanor, suspecting that the Prince’s woman must know more of the English prospects than the archers’ women, made the sign of the cross. Then, because she could not bear the waiting any longer, she walked to the crest. If her lover died, she thought, then she wanted to be near him.

Other women followed her. None spoke. They just stood on the hill and watched.

And prayed for their men.

 

THOMAS’S SECOND ARROW was in the air before his first had reached its greatest height and begun to fall. He reached for a third, then realized he had shot the second in panic and so he paused and stared at the clouded sky that was strangely thick with flickering black shafts that were as dense as starlings and deadlier than hawks. He could see no crossbow bolts, then he laid the third arrow on his left hand and picked a man in the Genoese line. There was an odd pattering noise that startled him and he looked to see it was the hail of Genoese bolts striking the turf around the horse pits.

And a heartbeat later the first English arrow flight slammed home. Scores of crossbowmen were snatched backward, including the one Thomas had picked out for his third arrow and so he changed his aim to another man, hauled the cord back to his ear and let the shaft fly.

“They’re falling short!” the Earl of Northampton shouted exultantly, and some of the archers swore, thinking he spoke of their own arrows, but it was the Genoese bows that had been enfeebled by the rain and not one of their quarrels had reached the English archers who, seeing the chance for slaughter, gave a howling cheer and ran a few paces down the slope.

“Kill them!” Will Skeat shouted.

They killed them. The great bows were drawn again and again, and the white-feathered arrows slashed down the slope to pierce mail and cloth, and to turn the lower hill into a field of death. Some crossbowmen limped away, a few crawled, and the uninjured edged backward rather than span their weapons.

“Aim well!” the Earl called.

“Don’t waste arrows!” Will Skeat shouted.

Thomas shot again, plucked a new arrow from the bag and sought a new target as his previous arrow seared down to strike a man in the thigh. The grass about the Genoese line was thick with arrows that had missed, but more than enough were striking home. The Genoese line was thinner, much thinner, and it was silent now except for the cries of men being struck and the moans of the wounded. The archers advanced again, right to the edge of their pits, and a new flight of steel poured down the slope.

And the crossbowmen fled.

One moment they had been a ragged line, still thick with men who stood behind the bodies of their comrades, and now they were a rabble who ran as hard as they could to escape the arrows.

“Stop shooting!” Will Skeat bellowed. “Stop!”

“Hold!” John Armstrong, whose men were to the left of Skeat’s band, shouted.

“Well done!” the Earl of Northampton called.

“Back, lads, back!” Will Skeat motioned the archers. “Sam! David! Go and collect some arrows, quick,” he pointed down the slope to where, amidst the Genoese dying and dead, the white-tipped shafts were thickly stuck in the turf. “Hurry, lads. John! Peter! Go and help them. Go!”

All along the line archers were running to salvage arrows from the grass, but then a shout of warning came from the men who had remained in their places.

“Get back! Get back!” Will Skeat shouted.

The horsemen were coming.

 

SIR GUILLAUME D’EVECQUE led a conroi of twelve men on the far left of the French second line of horsemen. Ahead of him was a mass of French cavalry belonging to the first battle, to his left was a scatter of infantrymen who sat on the grass, and beyond them the small river twisted through its water meadows beside the forest. To his right was nothing but horsemen crammed together as they waited for the crossbowmen to weaken the enemy line.

That English line looked pitifully small, perhaps because its men-at-arms were on foot and so took up much less room than mounted knights, yet Sir Guillaume grudgingly acknowledged that the English King had chosen his position well. The French knights could not assault either flank for they were both protected by a village. They could not ride around the English right for that was guarded by the soft lands beside the river, while to circle about Edward’s left would mean a long journey around Wadicourt and, by the time the French came in sight of the English again, the archers would surely have been redeployed to meet a French force made ragged by its long detour. Which meant that only a frontal assault could bring a swift victory, and that, in turn, meant riding into the arrows. “Heads down, shields up and keep close,” he told his men, before clanging down the face-piece of his helmet. Then, knowing he would not charge for some time yet, he pushed the visor back up. His men-at-arms shuffled their horses till they were knee to knee. The wind, it was said, should not be able to blow between the lances of a charging conroi.

“Be a while yet,” Sir Guillaume warned them. The fleeing crossbowmen were running up the French-held hill. Sir Guillaume had watched them advance and mouthed a silent prayer that God would be on the shoulders of the Genoese. Kill some of those damned archers, he had prayed, but spare Thomas. The drummers had been hammering their great kettles, driving down the sticks as if they could defeat the English by noise alone and Sir Guillaume, elated by the moment, had put the butt of his lance on the ground and used it to raise himself in the stirrups so he could see over the heads of the men in front. He had watched the Genoese loose their quarrels, seen the bolts as a quick haze in the sky, and then the English had shot and their arrows were a dark smear against the green slope and gray clouds and Sir Guillaume had watched the Genoese stagger. He had looked to see the English archers falling, but they were coming forward instead, still loosing arrows, and then the two flanks of the small English line had billowed dirty white as the guns added their missiles to the hail of arrows that was whipping down the slope. His horse had twitched uneasily when the crack of the guns rolled over the valley and Sir Guillaume dropped into the saddle and clicked his tongue. He could not pat the horse for the lance was in his right hand and his left arm was strapped into its shield with the three yellow hawks on the blue ground.

The Genoese had broken. At first Sir Guillaume did not credit it, believing that perhaps their commander was trying to trick the English archers into an undisciplined pursuit that would strand them at the bottom of the slope where the crossbows could turn on them. But the English did not move and the fleeing Genoese had not stopped. They ran, leaving a thick line of dead and dying men, and now they climbed in panic toward the French horsemen.

A growl sounded from the French men-at-arms. It was anger, and the sound rose to a great jeer. “Cowards!” a man near Sir Guillaume called.

The Count of Alençon felt a surge of pure rage. “They’ve been paid!” he snarled at a companion. “Bastards have taken a bribe!”

“Cut them down!” the King called from his place at the edge of the beech wood. “Cut them down!”

His brother heard him and wanted nothing more than to obey. The Count was in the second line, not the first, but he spurred his horse into a gap between two of the leading conrois and shouted at his men to follow. “Cut them down!” he called. “Cut the bastards down!”

The Genoese were between the horsemen and the English line and now they were doomed, for all along the hill the French were spurring forward. Hot-blooded men from the second battle were tangling with the conrois of the first line to form an untidy mass of banners, lances and horses. They should have walked their horses down the hill so that they were still in close order when they reached the climb on the far side, but instead they raked back spurs and, driven by a hatred of their own allies, raced each other to the kill.

“We stay!” Guy Vexille, Count of Astarac, shouted at his men.

“Wait!” Sir Guillaume called. Better to let the first ragged charge spend itself, he reckoned, rather than join the madness.

Perhaps half the French horsemen stayed on the hill. The rest, led by the King’s brother, rode down the Genoese. The crossbowmen tried to escape. They ran along the valley in an attempt to reach the northern and southern ends, but the mass of horsemen overlapped them and there was no way out. Some Genoese, sensibly, lay down and curled into balls, others crouched in the shallow ditches, but most were killed or wounded as the horsemen rode over them. The destriers were big beasts with hooves like hammers. They were trained to run men down and the Genoese screamed as they were trampled or slashed.

Some knights used their lances on the crossbowmen and the weight of a horse and armored man easily drove the wooden spears clean through their victims, but those lances were all lost, left in the mangled torsos of the dead men, and the knights had to draw their swords. For a moment there was chaos in the valley bottom as the horsemen drove a thousand paths through the scattered crossbowmen. Then there were only the mangled remnants of the Genoese mercenaries, their red and green jackets soaked with blood and their weapons lying broken in the mud.

The horsemen, one easy victory under their belt, cheered themselves. “Montjoie St. Denis!” they shouted. “Montjoie St. Denis!” Hundreds of flags were being taken forward with the horsemen, threatening to overtake the oriflamme, but the red-ribboned knights guarding the sacred flag spurred ahead of the charge, shouting their challenge as they started up the slope toward the English, and so climbed from a valley floor that was now thick with charging horsemen. The remaining lances were lowered, the spurs went back, but some of the more sensible men, who had waited behind for the next assault, noted that there was no thunder of hoofs coming from the vast charge.

“It’s turned to mud,” Sir Guillaume said to no one in particular.

Trappers and surcoats were spattered with the mud churned up by the hoofs from the low ground that had been softened by the rain. For a moment the charge seemed to flounder, then the leading horsemen broke out of the wet valley bottom to find better footing on the English hill. God was with them after all and they screamed their war cry. “Montjoie St. Denis!” The drums were beating faster than ever and the trumpets screamed to the sky as the horses climbed toward the mill.

“Fools,” Guy Vexille said.

“Poor souls,” Sir Guillaume said.

“What’s happening?” the King asked, wondering why his careful ordering of the battlelines had broken even before the fight proper had begun.

But no one answered him. They just watched.

 

“JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH,” Father Hobbe said, for it seemed as if half the horsemen of Christendom were coming up the hill.

“Into line!” Will Skeat shouted.

“God be with you!” the Earl of Northampton called, then went back to join his men-at-arms.

“Aim for the horses!” John Armstrong ordered his men.

“Bastards rode down their own bowmen!” Jake said in wonderment.

“So we’ll kill the goddamn bastards,” Thomas said vengefully.

The charge was nearing the line of those Genoese who had died in the arrow storm. To Thomas, staring down the hill, the attack was a flurry of garish horse trappers and bright shields, of painted lances and streaming pennants, and now, because the horses had climbed out of the wet ground, every archer could hear the hooves that were louder even than the enemy’s kettledrums. The ground was quivering so that Thomas could feel the vibration through the worn soles of his boots that had been a gift from Sir Guillaume. He looked for the three hawks, but could not see them, then forgot Sir Guillaume as his left leg went forward and his right arm hauled back. The arrow’s feathers were beside his mouth and he kissed them, then fixed his gaze on a man who carried a black and yellow shield.

“Now!” Will Skeat shouted

The arrows climbed away, hissing as they went. Thomas put a second on the string, hauled and loosed. A third, this time picking out a man with a pig-snout helmet decorated with red ribbons. He was aiming at the horses each time, hoping to drive the wicked-edged blades through the padded trappers and deep into the animals’ chests. A fourth arrow. He could see clods of grass and soil being thrown up behind the leading horses. The first arrow was still flying as he hauled back the fourth and looked for another target. He fixed on a man without a surcoat in polished plate armor. He loosed, and just then the man in the plate armor tumbled forward as his horse was struck by another arrow and all along the slope there were screaming horses, flailing hoofs and falling men as the English arrows drove home. A lance cartwheeled up the slope, a cry sounded above the beating hoofbeats, a horse ran into a dying animal and broke its leg and knights were thumping their knees against their horses to make them swerve about the stricken beasts. A fifth arrow, a sixth, and to the men-at-arms behind the line of archers it seemed as though the sky was filled with a never ending stream of arrows that were dark against the darkening clouds, white-tipped, and rising above the slope to plunge into the churning men-at-arms.

Scores of horses had fallen, their riders were trapped in their high saddles and ridden over as they lay helpless, yet still the horsemen came on and the men at the back could see far enough ahead to find gaps between the twitching piles of dead and dying. “Montjoie St. Denis! Montjoie St. Denis!” Spurs raked back to draw blood. To Thomas the slope looked a nightmare of heaving horses with yellow teeth and white eyes, of long lances and arrow-stuck shields, of flying mud, wild banners and gray helmets with slits for eyes and snouts for noses. The banners flew, led by a ribbon-like red streamer. He shot again and again, pouring arrows into the madness, yet for every horse that fell there was another to take its place and another beast behind that. Arrows protruded from trappers, from horses, from men, even from lances, the white feathers bobbing as the charge thundered close.

And then the French front rank was among the pits, and a stallion’s leg bone cracked, and the beast’s scream soared above the drums, trumpets, clang of mail and the beating of hoofs. Some men rode clean through the pits, but others fell and brought down the horses behind. The French tried to slow the horses and turn them aside, but the charge was committed now and the men behind pressed the ones in front onto the pits and arrows. The bow thumped in Thomas’s hand and its arrow seared into a horseman’s throat, slitting the mail like linen and hurling the man back so that his lance reared into the sky.

“Back!” Will Skeat was shouting. The charge was too close. Much too close. “Back! Back! Back! Now! Go!”

The archers ran into the gaps between the men-at-arms, and the French, seeing their tormentors vanish, gave a great cheer. “Montjoie St. Denis!”

“Shields!” the Earl of Northampton shouted and the English men-at-arms locked their shields together and raised their own lances to make a hedge of points.

“St. George!” the Earl screamed. “St. George!”

“Montjoie St. Denis!” Enough horsemen had got through the arrows and the pits, and still the men-at-arms streamed up the hill.

And now, at last, charged home.