arrows came. The men in the foremost ranks were all in plate armour and most of those men did not carry shields; only the men who could not afford the expensive plate carried a willow shield. Some advanced with shortened lances, hoping to thrust an Englishman off balance and let another man kill the fallen enemy with axe or mace or morningstar. Few men carried swords. A sword would neither thrust nor cut through armour. An armoured man must be beaten down by lead-weighted weapons, beaten and crushed and pulped.
The dauphin did not shout. He insisted on being in the very front rank, though he was not a strong man like his father. Prince Charles was thin, weak-limbed, long-nosed, with skin so pale it looked like bleached parchment, and with legs so short and arms so long that some courtiers called him
‘We should have let them starve,’ the dauphin said as they neared the hedge.
‘Sire?’ a man shouted, unable to hear the dauphin’s voice over the sound of drums, trumpets and cheers.
‘They have a strong position!’
‘All the more glory when we beat them, sire.’
The dauphin thought that remark stupid, but he held his tongue, and just then a flicker of white caught his eye and the man who had made the stupid remark reached over and slammed down the prince’s visor so hard that the dauphin was momentarily deafened and half stunned. ‘Arrows, sire!’ the man shouted.
The arrows were being shot from the ends of the hedge, slantwise across the advancing battle. More arrows came from small groups of archers who guarded the gaps in the hedge. The dauphin heard the missiles thumping into shields or clanging on armour. He could hardly see now. The visor had bars close together, his world was dark, sliced by bright sunlit slits, and he sensed, rather than saw, that the men about him had speeded up. They were closing ranks in front of him and he was too weak to force his way past them.
‘Montjoie Saint Denis!’ the men-at-arms shouted, and went on shouting so there was a great roar, an unending roar as the warriors of France hurried into the hedge’s gap. The archers there had retreated. It occurred to the prince that the English were silent, and just then they shouted their war cry. ‘Saint George!’
And there was the first harsh sound of steel on steel.
And screams.
And so the carnage began.
‘Fetch your horses!’ the Earl of Oxford called to Thomas. The earl, who was second in command to the Earl of Warwick, wanted most of the men who had protected the ford to return to the high ground. ‘I’ll leave Warwick’s archers here,’ he said to Thomas, ‘but you take your men up the hill!’
It was a long way up the hill and it would be much quicker to ride. ‘Horses!’ Thomas shouted across the river. Servants and grooms brought them over the ford, past the upturned wagon. Keane, riding a mare bareback, led them.
‘Have the bastards gone?’ the Irishman asked, looking past the dead and dying horses to where the French knights had vanished in the trees.
‘Find out for me,’ Thomas said. He did not want to abandon the ford only to discover that the French had renewed their attack on the baggage train.
Keane looked surprised, but whistled his two dogs and led them northwards towards the trees. The Earl of Oxford was sending Warwick’s men-at-arms back up the steep hill and shouting at them to carry full waterskins. ‘They’re thirsty up there! Take water if you can! But hurry!’
Thomas, mounted on the horse he had captured outside Montpellier, found a wagon waiting to cross the river once the overturned cart was cleared away. The wagon bed was filled with barrels. ‘What was in those?’ he asked the driver.
‘Wine, your honour.’
‘Fill them with water, then get the damned wagon up the hill.’
The driver looked aghast. ‘These horses will never make the hill, not with a load of full barrels!’
‘Then get extra horses. More men. Do it! Or I’ll come back and find you. And when you’ve done it once, come back for more.’
The man grumbled under his breath, Thomas ignored it and went back to the ford where his men were now mounted. ‘Up the hill,’ Thomas said, then saw Genevieve, Bertille, and Hugh were among the horsemen. ‘You three! Stay here! Stay with the baggage!’ He kicked back his heels and put the horse to the slope, going past Warwick’s men who were climbing in their armour. ‘Stirrup them!’ Thomas called. He beckoned a man-at-arms who gratefully took hold of one stirrup leather and let the horse pull him up the hill.
Keane came back fast, looked for Thomas and saw him among the men streaming upwards. He kicked back his heels so the mare caught up. ‘They’ve gone,’ the Irishman said. ‘But there are thousands up there!’
‘Where?’
‘Top of the valley. Thousands! Jesus!’
‘Get to the top of the hill,’ Thomas said, ‘and find a priest.’
‘A priest?’
The promised priest had never arrived at the ford. ‘The men need shriving,’ Thomas said. ‘Find a priest and tell him we never heard mass.’ There would be no time for a mass now, but at least the dying could receive the last rites.
Keane whistled to the hounds and kicked back his heels.
And Thomas heard the crash from the hilltop as men drove into men. Steel on steel, steel on iron, steel on flesh. He climbed.
The dauphin’s battle aimed itself at the centre of the English line. The widest gap in the hedge was there and, as the French came closer, they saw the largest banners flying above the waiting men-at-arms beyond the gap, and those banners included the impudent flag that quartered the French royal arms with England’s lions. That banner proclaimed that the Prince of Wales was there and, through the slits in their visors, the French could see the prince mounted on a horse, sitting close behind the line, and the battle anger was on them now. Not just anger, but terror, and for some men joy. Those men worked their way to the front rank. They were hungry for fighting, they were confident, and they were savagely good at their trade. Many other men were drunk, but the wine had given them bravado, and the arrows were slicing in from left and right, striking shields, crumpling on armour, sometimes finding a weak spot, but the attack flowed around the fallen men and, so very close now, the French broke into a run, screaming, and fell on the English.
That first rush was the most important. That was when the shortened lances could knock the enemy over, when the axes and hammers and maces would be given extra impetus by the charge, and so the dauphin’s men screamed at the tops of their voices as they charged, as they swung, thrust, and chopped their weapons.
And the English line went back.
They were forced back by the fierceness of the charge and by the weight of men who crammed through the gap, but though they went back, they did not break. Blades crashed on shields. Axes and maces slashed down. Lead-weighted steel crumpled helmets, shattered skulls, forced blood and brains to spurt through split metal, and men fell and in falling made obstacles, and other men tripped on them. The impact of the charge was slowed, men tried to stand and were stunned by blows, but the French had forced their way through the gap and now were widening the fight, attacking left and right as more men came through the hedge.
The English and Gascons were still being driven back, but slowly now. The initial impact had left men dead, wounded, bleeding, and moaning, but the line was not broken. The commanders, their horses close behind the dismounted men-at-arms, were shouting at them to stay closed up. To keep the line. And the French were trying to break the line, to cut and hammer their way through the shields so they could shatter the English into small groups that could be surrounded and slaughtered. Men hacked with axes, screamed obscenities, thrust with lances, swung maces, and the shields splintered, but the line held. It went backwards under the pressure, and more Frenchmen
