The battle was now shrunken to the distance a man’s weapon could reach. Enemy could smell enemy, smell the shit as bowels emptied in terror, smell the wine and ale on their breath, smell the blood that slicked the grass. There would be a brutal bout of fighting, then a pause as men pulled back and caught their breath. Thomas had picked up the shortened lance. He had no idea where his own weapons were, presumably on a packhorse that might have been brought up the hill. The lance must do for now. The French, of whom he could see perhaps a hundred close by, were watching through closed visors. Most wore a livery of pale blue with two red stars. He wondered which lord they served and whether the lord was among them. They watched, they judged, they were readying for another charge. Thomas’s archers were holding poleaxes or maces. The Welsh archers were singing a battle song in their own language. Thomas assumed it celebrated a victory over the English, but if it helped them break the French then they could sing of English defeats till hell froze over.
‘The line’s holding!’ the Earl of Oxford called from horseback. ‘Don’t let them break us!’
A big man carrying a morningstar pushed his way to the front of the enemy line. He wore plate armour, and had no jupon, while his helmet was a visored bascinet spattered with blood. He wore a heavy sword in a belted scabbard. Most men abandoned their scabbards in battle, fearing it might trip them, but this enemy needed the scabbard to hold his sword while he wielded the monstrous morningstar, which was fouled with blood.
The morningstar had a haft almost as long as a bow stave, while the head was an iron ball the size of a baby’s skull. A long steel spike protruded from the tip of the ball, while a dozen shorter spikes surrounded it. The man hefted the weapon. The snout of his visor moved from side to side as he looked along the line of the Hellequin. Two companions, both carrying small battered tournament shields, joined him; one was armed with a poleaxe, the other with a
‘Kill the poleaxe first,’ Karyl said softly. The man carrying that weapon also had a shield, which meant he could not use the big hooked axe with full strength.
‘You want to die?’ the tall man shouted.
From somewhere to the north came the din of sudden frenzy: shouts, metal clashing, screams. The enemy must be making a frantic effort to pierce the line, Thomas thought, and he prayed the English and their Gascon allies held, then he could spare no thought for prayer because the huge man with the spiked morningstar was charging. He was charging straight at Thomas who, alone among the men-at-arms in the English line, wore no plate armour.
‘Saint Denis!’ the tall man bellowed.
And Saint Denis met Saint George.
Cardinal Bessieres watched the battle from the French hill. He was mounted on a stout and patient horse, and wore his cardinal’s robes though, incongruously, he had a bascinet perched on his head. He was a few yards from King Jean, who was also mounted, though the cardinal noted that the king had discarded his spurs, which suggested that if he fought he would fight on foot. The king’s youngest son, Philippe, and the rest of the knights and men-at-arms were all dismounted. ‘What is happening, Your Majesty?’ the cardinal enquired.
The king was not entirely certain of the answer and he was irritated that the cardinal, with his ridiculous helmet, was staying so close. He did not like Bessieres. The man was the son of a merchant, for God’s sake, but he had risen in the church and was now a Papal Legate and, the king knew, had hopes of becoming Pope. And perhaps Bessieres would be a good choice because, despite his humble birth, the cardinal was fiercely supportive of the French monarchy and it never hurt to have God’s help, and so the king indulged him. ‘Our first battle is breaking the enemy.’ he explained.
‘God be praised,’ the cardinal said, then pointed to the Duke of Orleans’s banner, which flew above the second battle that waited in the shallow valley between the two hills. The duke had well over two thousand men- at-arms. They were on foot, but their horses were close behind their ranks in case they were needed to pursue a broken enemy. ‘Is there some reason,’ the cardinal asked, ‘why your brother is not advancing to do God’s business?’
The king nearly lost his temper. He was nervous. He had hoped that the dauphin’s battle would be sufficient to break the English, but it was evident that the fight was harder than anyone had expected. He had been assured that the enemy was weakened by hunger and thirst, but they were still fighting. Desperation, he supposed. ‘My brother will advance when he is ordered to advance,’ he said curtly.
‘It is a question of space,’ the Count of Ventadour intervened. He was a young man who was a favourite of the king, and he had sensed his monarch’s irritation and moved to spare him from any further tedious explanations.
‘Space?’ the cardinal asked.
‘The enemy, Your Eminence, has a strong position,’ the count said, pointing. ‘You see the hedge? It restricts us.’
‘Ah,’ the cardinal said as if he had only just noticed the hedge. ‘But why not advance all our strength?’
‘Because even a king or a cardinal cannot pour a quart into a pint pot, Your Eminence,’ the count said.
‘So break the pot,’ the cardinal suggested.
‘They are attempting to do just that, Your Eminence,’ the count said patiently.
It was difficult to determine what happened beyond the hedge. There was plainly fighting, but who was winning? There were still Frenchmen on the hedge’s western side, which suggested that they did not have space enough to fight on the farther side, or perhaps they were the fainthearts who did not want to risk their lives. A small trickle of wounded men retreated down the hill, and it seemed obvious to the cardinal that the French should send every man they had to put unbearable pressure on the enemy, but instead the king and his brother were waiting calmly, letting the dauphin’s troops do the work. Geoffrey de Charny, the royal standard bearer, was still holding the oriflamme aloft, indicating that no prisoners should be taken, and the cardinal understood enough to know that the great flag would fly until the enemy was broken. Only when that bright red pennant vanished could the French be confident that they had time to secure rich ransoms, and Bessieres was frustrated that it still flew. King Jean, he thought, was being tentative. He had sent a third of his army to fight, but why not all? Yet he knew he could utter no criticism. When the next Pope was elected he needed King Jean’s influence.
‘Your Eminence?’ the Count of Ventadour broke into the cardinal’s thoughts.
‘My son?’ the cardinal responded grandly.
‘May I?’ The count reached up towards the cheap-looking blade that the cardinal held.
‘With reverence, my son,’ the cardinal said.
The count touched
‘It is God’s will,’ the cardinal said.
Thirty paces away from the cardinal, the Count of Labrouillade stood in the ranks of the king’s men. He was sweating. He wore linen underclothes and above those a close-fitting leather jerkin and a pair of trews. A mail coat covered the leather, and strapped over the mail was a full suit of plate armour. He needed to piss. The wine he had been drinking all night was swelling his bladder, but he feared that if he released that pressure then his bowels would release as well. His belly was sour. Christ, he thought, but let the dauphin win this quickly! And why was it taking so long? He shifted his weight from foot to foot. At least the Duke of Orleans would be the next into battle. The Count of Labrouillade had paid gold to Marshal Clermont to have himself and his men-at-arms posted to the king’s battle, the last battle, and he fervently prayed that the king’s three thousand men would not be needed. And why were they fighting on foot? Everyone knew that a nobleman fought on horseback! Yet some damned Scotsman had persuaded the king to fight on foot as the English did. If the English and the Scots wanted to fight like peasants that was their business, but a noble of France should be in the saddle! How could a man run away if he was on foot? Labrouillade groaned.
‘My lord?’ His standard bearer thought the count had spoken.
‘Be quiet,’ Labrouillade said, then sighed with relief as he pissed. The urine soaked warm down his legs and dripped from under the steel-plated skirt that protected his groin. He clenched his bowels and, blessedly, stayed clean. He looked to his right to see that the oriflamme still flew, and he prayed for the moment when it would be furled and his men could be released to find Roland de Verrec, who had sent his insulting and threatening message with the man whose horse he had killed in full view of the French army. The count had vowed to do to Roland what
