Blood on the Sand Page 18

  Calling to his commanders, Berenger explained their plan before hurrying back to his old vintaine. He wanted to leave from the ranks of his friends. He took with him a third of the archers from the wing, grabbing a bow from a cart as he went. It was a good, heavy yew bow, with a slight knot near the grip, but nothing to worry him, and he strung it quickly before snatching up a sheave of arrows and throwing it over his shoulder.

  ‘Archers! We’re going to within bowshot to tease the Scotch bastards to leave their hill. We have to approach, sting them hard and fast until they howl, and then run back to our lines. Do you understand?’ he shouted.

  Jack thrust a fist clutching a bow skywards and the archers gave a roar of approval, although Pardoner and Oliver in particular appeared less enthusiastic than others.

  Berenger felt his blood roil like fire as he roared: ‘Archers! Forward!’

  There was no cover here, no hope of moving without being seen. Berenger strode purposefully onward, without glancing around. All he cared about was the group of Scots before him. He could make out the fluttering of flags, but could not tell what symbols they held.

  ‘What do you reckon, Jack?’ he asked as they passed maybe eighty yards.

  ‘A little further, Frip. We want the men to be able to see their quarry.’

  ‘Good. Give it another twenty paces.’

  ‘That’ll do fine.’

  Berenger felt the old tingle in his breast as he stood there, confronting the enemy ahead.

  From here he could see them, if indistinctly with his poor sight. Row upon row of scruffy men, their weapons ready, some waving them in the air, others crouching low, fists clenched, to roar defiance like wild beasts. Some with bascinets, some with simple steel caps, many with mail twinkling in the sunshine, while others appeared to be wearing little more than quilted jacks and felt hats. They exuded a ferocious mixture of bloodlust and excitement, with men thrilling at the thought of destroying another English army. Too many had heard of the disaster of Bannockburn. It was before Berenger’s fighting time, back in 1314, but it was a battle that still rang down the decades: a story of victory and glory to all Scots, and one of disaster and horror to the English. The Scots had tried to emulate that battle ever since, but the English had learned from their mistakes and now they could hold their place against the Scottish on any battlefield. Today, so long as they could acquire the tactical advantage of the land, and could wait until the Scots attacked, the English should win. Their archers would make sure of that.

  ‘That’s the idea, anyway,’ he muttered, and then held up his fist, shouting: ‘Hold!’ He turned to Jack. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘We’re near enough to see their eyes!’ Clip said and spat. ‘What, do you want to get near enough we can count their teeth?’

  There came a sudden roar. Berenger looked up. Over at the other flank, the archers from Yorkshire were already engaging with the Scots. He could see them bend their bows, leaning back, letting their arrows fly high, high overhead, so that they must plummet down into the midst of the Scottish horde.

  ‘Archers! Archers, nock!’ he bellowed. ‘Jack, if we don’t make them fear our sting, they’ll rush at us all the sooner! Archers, draw! Archers, loose!’

  He felt it again, that wonderful thrumming that ran through his entire body, from his loins to his shoulders, as the bow came to life. Drawing a mighty bow gave a man a sense of power unlike anything else Berenger had experienced. It was almost like the thrill of sex, one moment the anguish of muscles straining to hold a string at full stretch, each part of his body as taut as the bones within, and then the exquisite release, when for a second every particle of his body was relaxed, and he could see his arrow soaring away and then plummeting down into the mass of the enemy. Not men, just an amorphous collection of bone and muscle and blood, all baying for him and his men.

  Jack was already bellowing the commands. Berenger saw him draw, the other bows straining in unison, the arrows pointing up, ready, then the ripple as the bows straightened once more, hurling their long missiles up and away towards the men on the hill.

  Five flights they loosed, then one more, and Berenger saw gaps opening up in the Scottish lines. He saw the little puffs of blood as arrows slammed into bodies, the rage building as the men stood impotent while death rained upon them, and he saw that rage growing, fed by the resentment and horror of death dealt at such a distance, until at last the cup of their endurance was overflowing. That was when the Scottish began to run straight for him and the others.

  ‘Archers, nock . . . draw . . . aim . . . and loose!’ Jack cried, and then Berenger bellowed his own order: ‘Back! Back! Back to the lines!’ and they were hurtling, pell-mell, over loose stones and slippery grass, running for their lives, running as they had never run before, more than one dropping his arrows and bow in the mad flight, not stopping until they had reached the safety of the lines . . . and at last they heard the friendly bawling of the centener Berenger had left in charge, and they saw the bows bending, the arrows rising, and with a whistle and a hum they flew overhead before pelting into the bodies of the Scottish pursuers.

  Berenger stopped, panting, to watch as the rest of his command returned to their posts, and nocked an arrow in readiness while he gazed at the Scots, choosing a target. There was a man in heavy armour, he saw, and he drew his bow fully, aiming carefully – and loosed. The arrow flew perfectly true, and he heard it strike with a sound like a hammer on an anvil. The man stopped in midflight, his head dropping uncomprehendingly before two more arrows struck him, and then he was seen no more as the Scottish ran over and past him.

  ‘Loose at will!’ Berenger cried, and he drew and released as quickly as he could, the blood thundering in his ears as the Scottish came nearer and nearer, until there was no point, and he drew his sword, waving it over his head: ‘Archers, draw steel!’ He sprang at the first screaming madman – a black-haired rogue with the face of a felon – who swung a sword at Berenger’s head. He slipped to the side, blocking with his bow, and the string parted with the sound of a gonne firing, but then the man had pushed past him and was stabbing and slashing in all directions. Blood spattered into the air, and Berenger felt it hit his brow and cheeks, and he thought it might be Jack – but then he saw Saint Lawrence stagger away with a great gash in his face that laid it open to the bone . . . and then John of Essex was there, and he blocked the Scot’s next wild cut with a blade that rose and turned, and as it turned, the point slipped through the Scot’s defence and slashed into the soft flesh under his arm. John stood still, watching his enemy, and then he pressed hard, once, and the blade slid into the man’s breast.

  ‘Frip! Behind you!’ someone shouted.

  Berenger turned and saw the mass of Scots running at him. He just had time to clamber to his feet, throw away the shattered remains of his bow, and grip his sword in both hands when the first screaming hordes crashed into the line of archers.

  He was clutched at the back and flank by other archers, all gripping swords or long knives, and they clung together as the Scottish tried to shove them over. Every Englishman had an enraged Scottish face before him, and as great mauls, maces and axes whirled and crashed into them, there was no escape for anyone here. It was a brutal fight, but simple. Kill or be killed.

  Berenger bellowed to his men. ‘One! Two! Push! One! Two! Push!’ and they thrust forward with each command, trying to unsettle the Scots and force some over, if they could. He could see nothing but the face or two faces in front of him. Beside him, above him, behind him: nothing existed. His entire universe was before him and beneath him; a claustrophobic existence of foul breath, of blood, of shit. He stabbed, slashed, felt his blade strike something, someone, felt the spatter of warmth, and pushed on again; the line began to give, and he pushed more forcefully, bellowing. He saw a man go down before him, and stamped with all his might on the fellow’s body, desperate to prevent a sword opening his entrails from beneath. A blow was aimed at him, and he caught a reek of foul breat
h, and instantly it brought Dogbreath to mind, but then he had another face in front of him, and this time he couldn’t protect himself from the blade that crossed wildly in front of him, and he felt it hit his cheek, dragging hideously across his face to his nose. He jerked his head aside before it could stab his eye, and lashed out madly with his sword, which hit his attacker in the mouth. He wrenched it, ripped it aside, and the man’s face disappeared. Berenger bent his head, snorted, hawked, spat blood, stamped down again, ducked as a war hammer came near, felt the shaft crash into his shoulder – the head miraculously missing him – and felt his left arm fall dead with the shock. He punched forward with his sword and the blade caught something, but now his vision was blurred with blood from his opened cheek, and he had to wipe it, but he couldn’t lift his left hand, and he dared not use his right.

  He swung and stabbed, ducking as he became aware of weapons heading towards him. His world, their world, was all here. There was nothing outside the pain, the stench, the fear, the horror: no sun, no sky, no pleasure, no joy, no love, no comradeship – only the unrelenting reality of death.

  A shriek, a stumbling shove, and he was down, scrambling to be out of the line where any man could kill him in an instant, thinking him to be a foe. He scurried between legs like a rat running from the dogs, but then he collapsed. He was too exhausted to continue. With the blood running down his chin, he sank to the ground.

  Death would have been a mercy.

  Berenger felt himself being lifted and rolled out of the way, and when he could at last look around groggily, he saw that the battle was continuing. At his side, Jack and Turf were panting.

  Jack snapped, ‘Keep him here, Turf. Don’t let him go anywhere!’ and then he sprang back to the hacking, frenzied mass of fighting men.

  Berenger could see that where there had been a thick group of English archers, now there was a much thinner line, spread more widely. He could see their backs, with many figures wearing tan, russet or green jacks quilted against sword blows, while a few wore steel helms or mail. There was a continual clatter of metal striking metal, of shrieks and screams of agony, or of fierce joy, and the rumble of voices bellowing at each other. He looked on as a man walked backwards from the line, only to stumble and fall and lie still. Another turned, and Berenger saw the hole in his brow as he toppled softly to the ground, eyes wide. Three Scots appeared in the gap where the two had been, but they suddenly fell, pierced by several arrows, and the gap became sealed with more Englishmen. And then there were more men arriving, rushing to the aid of the archers: fighters from Northumbria with grim, resolute expressions, men who had fought the Scots before for the security of their ancient lands, and who now took up arms again with fierce determination to remove the threat of raids once and for all.

  Exhausted archers fell back as their places in the line were taken by fresher, keener fighters. The weary men strolled a short distance away to fall down and pant after their exertions.

  Jack was one of the last of the vintaine to return to Berenger’s side. He peered at his captain with an air of concern, but then shook his head. ‘Your looks aren’t improved.’

  ‘And there was me thinking that a rakish scar would bring the wenches flocking to me.’

  ‘Aye, well, at least it covers the worst of your ugly mug,’ Jack said.

  Turf, meanwhile, was gaping at the seething mass of fighting men with a look of near panic.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ Jack said, not unkindly.

  ‘Saint Lawrence is dead. I was trying to fight, but being small I couldn’t quite reach, and this sword came at me, and he grabbed me and pulled me to safety, but then a sword hit him on the head and he fell.’ Turf’s voice broke. ‘He was smiling at me when he died. I couldn’t do anything to save him . . .’

  Jack suddenly slapped Turf hard on the cheek. The sound was loud enough to make several of the other archers turn and stare, but Jack kept his eyes on the short archer, hissing, ‘Keep that to yourself. There are many other good men here who’ve died. You won’t help any of them by blubbering like a girl. For fuck’s sake, get a grip!’

  ‘Yes, Vintener.’ The man was instantly calmer.

  Jack looked about him. ‘How many casualties?’

  ‘I’m here,’ Dogbreath called.

  ‘I’m all right,’ the Pardoner said.

  The Earl held up his hand and nodded, as did Oliver and the others.

  Clip was his usual bitter self. ‘I was out there, stuck in the front, and none of you bastards bothered to come and get me, did you? Oh, no. It’s all very well to look to me when you need something, but when I’m in danger, you’ll all leave me alone to suffer in silence and—’

  ‘Silence?’ Jack guffawed. ‘That’ll be the day.’ Then: ‘Hold!’

  They heard a bellow, a cheer, and then a rumble announced a change in the battle.

  Jack was on his feet in an instant. ‘Archers, quick!’

  He pulled out his sword again and set off towards the line. The fighting men were swaying, pushing, shoving, hacking and stabbing with vigour still, but as Berenger looked, he could see that they were advancing. The Scots must be giving way, for the lines were unmistakably moving forward, and as the men thrust and shoved, the carnage became more clear. On the ground, littered thickly, severed limbs and dreadfully slashed and damaged bodies had stained the ground red with gore.

  ‘Push!’ Jack gave a mighty roar, and he and the others took their place behind the lines, shoulders to the back of the men before them, legs straining, boots slipping and sliding on the blood-wet grass.

  Berenger spotted a leather bottle. He grasped it, pulled the stopper free and took a deep draught of water. It was warm and brackish, and tasted of the pitch used to seal the leather, but it was the most wonderful drink he had ever taken. It flowed through his frame like an elixir, bringing refreshment to tired muscles and renewed life to his mind. His face hurt so badly, it felt as though a mule had kicked him, but the stinging was somewhat abated as he stood, swayed a little, shivered, and then set off towards the fighting line.

  ‘Wait! Frip, Jack said you—’

  ‘Fuck Jack and fuck the Scottish,’ Berenger said bluntly and threw himself at the line of struggling men. ‘Archers! Archers, one, two, heave! One, two, heave!’ he snarled. It hurt like hell. He almost expected to feel his head explode with the effort, but the call was taken up by other men. A man glanced over his shoulder, saw Berenger’s bloody, ravaged face behind him, and blenched at the sight, before pushing onwards with gusto, probably more to get away from the demonic-looking archer behind him than from any desire to rush back into the fray.

  The tide was turning now. Berenger was not the only man to see that. The archers, reinforced by the Northumbrian levies, were taking the ground. The Scots had been fighting at the same place for an age, and now those who were uninjured were weary to death of the constant ferocious assault. Weakened by lost troops, they were bone-tired, thirsty and growing desperate. It was clear that they were being forced backwards, and while they knew that they must endure, it is one thing for a man to know he must continue, and another to persuade fatigued arms to lift a heavy weapon and strike for the thousandth time, or to tell legs to hold position when a solid, teeming mass of enemies are hell-bent on driving you off with regular ramming movements.

  At first, one or two men fell back, some too whipped even to defend themselves as the English blades stabbed down into their bodies, while others began to withdraw; and with every man who turned and ran, the line was weakened as though it had been depleted by ten. It took one man running to dismay five or six others from near his position, and when twos and threes began to turn and flee, more and more felt that their cause was lost.

  And then their army broke en masse, and the remaining Scottish fled as one. Tripping and stumbling, they raced over the fields which they had crossed so enthusiastically only an hour or two before, passing the dead bodies of the men who had been picked off by the English archers, some throwing down t
heir swords that they might run the faster, others falling flat and leaping up and bounding away like the deer of the Scottish hills, filled with the terror of men who sought to escape the fate that pursued them.

  The English archers sank to their knees as the enemy before them ran, but Berenger remained on his feet, the sense of elation intoxicating him like strong wine.

  Looking to his left, however, he saw what the others had not: the battle in the centre was as vicious and dangerous as their own had been a moment or two before. ‘Archers! Archers, nock your arrows!’ he bawled, feeling the life flooding back into his body as the thrill of continued battle ignited in his soul.

  There was a scurrying of men hunting for weapons. Most had dropped their bows in the madness and now they picked up any stave they could find undamaged amongst the bodies littering the ground. A few found arrows: Berenger saw Jack and another vintener sending boys hurrying back to fetch sheaves from the carts.

  ‘Archers, loose at the enemy!’ Berenger shouted, pointing.

  Singly, then in groups, arrows rose into the air and curled lazily down towards the scrambling, fighting mass. A full fifty to eighty each minute, lifting and then falling, looking no more dangerous than drops of rain splashing down on the men, but these drops were deadly, bearing sharpened steel points designed to puncture the strongest armour and pin a man to the ground.

  ‘Archers, to me!’ Berenger cried at last, when the arrows had done their work. It was time to finish things.

  He had found another sword – his own he had lost in the mêlée – and lifted it high. There was a slither of steel as the rest of the archers drew their own weapons again; he waved his sword once and plunged forward, towards the Scots.

  There was about sixty yards to cover, and Berenger ran as fast as he could, hearing only the rattle and curse of the men fighting and dying. Behind him, screaming and shrieking like so many banshees, came his archers and the rest of the Northumbrians, and as they approached, Berenger saw the Scots nearest turn haggard faces to this new threat. Then with a high, keening ululation, Dogbreath pelted past him, eyes wide and staring, a sword gripped in each hand, mouth wide in a demonic rictus. He was first to hit the Scottish.