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 labourers 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 towards 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 centre 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 drum-mer 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 grey 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 towards 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 for-ward 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 upwards 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
