and dying men, and now they climbed in panic towards 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 Alencon 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 cross-bowmen 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, sen-sibly, 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 armoured man easily drove the wooden spears clean through their victims, but those lances were all lost, m
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 scat-tered 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 them-selves. Mon tjoie Saint Den is!“ they shouted. Montjoie Saint Den is!” 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 towards 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 Saint Denis!” The drums were beating faster than ever and the trumpets screamed to the sky as the horses climbed towards 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 won-derment. 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 armour. He loosed, and just then the man in the plate armour 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 hootbeats, 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 Saint Denis! Montjoie Saint 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 grey 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 mad-ness, 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 bob-bing as the charge thundered close. And then the French front rank was among the pits, and a stal-lion'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 Saint 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.
Saint George!“ the Earl screamed. Saint George!” Mon tjoie Saint Den is!' 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.
If a plum was thrown at a conroi, the experts said, it should be impaled on a lance. That was how close the horsemen were sup-posed to be in a charge because that way they stood a chance of living, but if the conroi scattered then each man would end up surrounded by enemies. Your neighbour in a cavalry charge, the experienced men told the younger, should be closer to you than your wife Closer even than your whore. But the first French charge was a crazed gallop and the men first became scattered when they slaughtered the Genoese and the disarray became worse as they raced uphill to close on the enemy.
The charge was not supposed to be a crazed gallop, but an ordered, dreadful and disciplined assault. The
