A Flight of Arrows by A.J. MacKenzie (most recommended books txt) 📗

yards of the English line and their followers recoiled back down the bloody slope. ‘They attacked without support!’ Warwick said sharply. ‘What in hell were they thinking?’

No one answered. The prince was on his feet, groggy, bleeding from a head wound; Fitz-Simon was up too, tying the standard to its battered staff. ‘You are wounded, Highness,’ said Burghersh. ‘You should retire.’

The prince looked at him. ‘Retire, and leave my friends to fight? No, Sir Bartholomew. While there is a drop of blood left in my body, I shall remain here.’

‘By the looks of you, that won’t be long,’ said Roger Mortimer.

The prince glanced at the bloody cut on Mortimer’s arm and grinned at him. ‘You’re one to talk.’

In front of them, another French company launched its attack, and then another. Each time the arrow storm hit them and shattered them, driving any survivors back down the slope. Along the face of the ridge the bodies piled up, and the air stank of blood. ‘This is carnage,’ Holland said softly. ‘The fools. They had us in the palm of their hand, and now they are throwing it away.’

Everyone knew the usual French tactics; form up in three divisions one after the other and attack in waves, the first division punching a hole in the enemy line, the second following to exploit the advantage and the third moving up to complete the rout. The French vanguard, after inexplicably massacring its own crossbowmen, had attacked according to plan, but there was no support. Now, a collective madness seemed to have overtaken the rest of the French army. Company after company came off the Abbeville road and attacked without thought or tactics, barely pausing to form up before launching up the hill towards the enemy. In companies of two or three hundred at most, they stood no chance. The archers slaughtered them like deer at a driven shoot.

Afternoon turned to evening, and still the French came, and still they died. A larger corps of horsemen rode into view, and a murmur ran through the English ranks. Even at a distance, the lilies of France could be seen plainly. ‘The adversary is here,’ said Sir John Sully, leaning on his sword. ‘Now let us see what he will do. Will he call off the attack?’

‘I think it is too late for that,’ Merrivale said.

‘Mary, Mother of God,’ John of Hainault said quietly.

Men wandered dazed and wounded and bleeding, or simply sat on the ground in a stupor with arrows embedded in their bodies. Riderless horses galloped in confusion and pain, sometimes knocking men over. Beyond them were the dead Genoese, and then the slope of the ridge carpeted with dead horses and the bright motionless figures of men. Above them the English waited, the setting sun haloing their position with light.

Beside him the king sat motionless, staring at the scene. ‘What in Christ’s name has happened?’ he said finally. ‘Where is my brother?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hainault said. He called to a man-at-arms, his surcoat and armour stained with blood, leading a limping horse. ‘Montmorency! Where is the Count of Alençon?’

‘Dead,’ said the marshal. ‘They’re all dead. Alençon, Blois, Lorraine, Aumale, all of them.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘We were lambs to the slaughter.’

Hainault nodded. ‘Go and get your wounds seen to,’ he said. He sat for a moment, thinking. This was a disaster, but it could still be salvaged. It had been a mistake to rely on Alençon, but a replacement could be found. ‘Your Grace, we must halt the attack. Withdraw, make camp, give the men time to recover and then resume in the morning.’

‘Withdraw?’ The king stared at him. ‘Are you mad?’

‘Sire, we have suffered heavy losses, but most of the army is intact. It is jammed together on the roads behind us, unable to get near the battlefield. Give the men tonight to rest, and then tomorrow form them up and attack in orderly fashion. Do you remember what I said? The principles of war?’

‘To hell with your principles,’ the king said violently. ‘If I withdraw now, I may as well abdicate. The nobles will spit me out like gristle and feed me to the dogs. No, Hainault. We are going to attack, and if we die, at least we will have died with honour.’

‘And let Edward win the victory?’ Hainault said steadily. ‘And perhaps seize your throne?’

‘If he can take my throne and hold it, he is welcome to it.’ The king shook his reins. ‘Trumpeter! Sound the attack!’

There was nothing to do but ride forward, surrounded by the royal bodyguard, horses tripping and stumbling over the bodies underfoot, watching the grim lines of steel and the dark wedges of archers facing them. Hainault saw the bows come up and braced himself for the shock. Then the arrows fell in clouds, so thickly that they darkened the red sun, and the air was filled with the dreadful tintinnabulation of arrows striking armour and the screams and shouts of horses and men. The standard-bearer, the target of the storm, was shot half a dozen times in as many seconds and fell from his saddle. The king tried to snatch the standard before it too fell, and yelped in pain as an arrow slammed into his arm, piercing his vambrace and spouting blood. Another hit him high on the shoulder, wedging itself between breastplate and gorget. One after another the royal bodyguard went down, and the enemy were still two hundred yards away. The English cannon thundered once more, stone shot slamming into the French ranks and completing the wreck.

‘Sire!’ Hainault shouted. ‘You must withdraw! Now!’

Transfixed by pain, the king said nothing. Hainault seized his bridle and turned his horse, yelling at the rest of the men to follow. The arrows pursued them for a moment longer, and then faltered. In near silence they rode back towards Marchemont.

‘Damn you, Hainault,’ the king said finally, his voice hoarse with pain. ‘This is all your fault.’

‘Yes,’ Hainault said. ‘I think it probably is.’