Harlequin

PART THREE Crecy

The whole English army had crossed before the tide rose again. Horses, wagons, men and women, they all crossed safe so that the French army, marching from Abbeville to trap them, found the corner of land between the river and the sea empty.

All next day the armies faced each other across the ford. The English were drawn up for battle with their four thousand archers lining the river's bank and, behind them, three great blocks of men-at-arms on the higher ground, but the French, strung out on the paths to the ford, were not tempted to force the crossing. A handful of their knights rode into the water and shouted challenges and insults, but the King would not let any English knight respond and the archers, knowing they must conserve their arrows, endured the insults without responding.

Let the bastards shout,“ Will Skeat growled,'s houting never hurt a man yet.” He grinned at Thomas. Depends on the man, of course. Upset Sir Simon, didn't it?"

He was just a bastard."

No, Tom,“ Skeat corrected him, you're the bastard, and he was a gentleman.” Skeat looked across at the French, who showed no sign of trying to contest the ford. Most of them are all right,“ he went on, evidently talking of knights and nobles. Once they've fought with the archers for a while they learn to look after us on account of us being the mucky bastards what keeps them alive, but there's always a few goddamn idiots. Not our Billy, though.” He turned and looked at the Earl of Northampton, who was pacing up and down by the shallows, itching for the French to come and fight. He's a proper gentleman. Knows how to kill the goddamn French." Next morning the French were gone, the only sign of them the white cloud of dust hanging over the road which was taking their huge army back to Abbeville. The English went north, slowed by hunger and the lame horses that men were reluctant to abandon. The army climbed from the Somme marshes into a heavily wooded country that yielded no grain, livestock or plunder, while the weather, which had been dry and warm, turned cold and wet during the morning. Rain spat from the east and dripped incessantly from the trees to increase men's misery so that what had seemed like a victorious campaign south of the Seine now felt like an ignominious retreat. Which is what it was, for the English were running from the French and all the men knew it, just as they knew that unless they found food soon their weakness would make them easy pick-ings for the enemy. The King had sent a strong force to the mouth of the Somme where, at the small port of Le Crotoy, he expected reinforcements and supplies to be waiting, but instead the small port proved to be held by a garrison of Genoese crossbowmen. The walls were in bad repair, the attackers were hungry and so the Genoese died under a hail of arrows and a storm of men-at-arms. The English emptied the port's storehouses of food and found a herd of beef cattle col-lected for the French army's use, but when they climbed the church tower they saw no ships moored in the river's mouth nor any fleet waiting at sea. The arrows, the archers and the grain that should have replenished the army were still in England.

The rain became heavier on the first night that the army camped in the forest. Rumour said that the King and his great men were in a village at the forest's edge, but most of the men were forced to shelter under the dripping trees and eat what little they could scavenge.

Acorn stew," Jake grumbled.

You've eaten worse," Thomas said.

And a month ago we ate it off silver plates.“ Jake spat out a gritty mouthful. So why don't we bloody fight the bastards?” Because they're too many,“ Thomas said wearily, because we've only so many arrows. Because we're worn out.”

The army had marched itself into the ground. Jake, like a dozen other of Will Skeat's archers, had no boots any more. The wounded limped because there were not enough carts and the sick were left behind if they could not walk or crawl. The living stank. Thomas had made Eleanor and himself a shelter from boughs and turf. It was dry inside the little hut where a small fire spewed a thick smoke.

What happens to me if you lose?“ Eleanor asked him. We won't lose,” Thomas said, though there was little conviction in his voice.

What happens to me?" she asked again.

You thank the Frenchmen who find you," he said, and tell them you were forced to march with us against your will. Then you send for your father.

Eleanor thought about those answers for a while, but did not look reassured. She had learned in Caen how men after victory are not amenable to reason, but slaves to their appetites. She shrugged. And what happens to you?"

If I live?“ Thomas shook his head. I'll be a prisoner. They send us to the galleys in the south, I hear. If they let us live.” Why shouldn't they?"

They don't like archers. They hate archers.“ He pushed a pile of wet bracken closer to the fire, trying to dry the fronds before they became their bed. Maybe there won't be a battle,” he said, because we've stolen a day's march on them." The French were said to have gone back to Abbeville and to be crossing the river there, which meant that the hunters were coming, but the English were still a day ahead and could, perhaps, reach their fortresses in Flanders. Perhaps.

Eleanor blinked from the smoke. Have you seen any knight carrying the lance?"

Thomas shook his head. I haven't even looked,“ he confessed. The last thing on his mind this night was the mysterious Vexilles. Nor, indeed, did he expect to see the lance. That was Sir Guillaume's fancy and now Father Hobbe's enthusiasm, but it was not Thomas's obsession. Staying alive and finding enough to eat were what con-sumed him. Thomas!” Will Skeat called from outside.

Thomas pushed his head through the hut opening to see a cloaked figure was standing next to Skeat. I'm here,“ he said. You've got company,” Skeat said sourly, turning away. The cloaked figure stooped to enter the hut and, to Thomas's surprise, it was Jeanette. I shouldn't be here,“ she greeted him, pushing into the smoky interior where, throwing the hood from her hair, she stared at Eleanor. Who's that?”

My woman," Thomas spoke in English.

Tell her to go," Jeanette said in French.

Stay here,“ Thomas told Eleanor. This is the Countess of Armorica.”

Jeanette bridled when Thomas contradicted her, but did not insist that Eleanor left. Instead she pushed a bag at Thomas that proved to contain a leg of ham, a loaf of bread and a stone bottle of wine. The bread, Thomas saw, was the fine white bread that only the rich could afford, while the ham was studded with cloves and sticky with honey.

He handed the bag to Eleanor. Food fit for a prince,“ he told her. I should take it to Will?” Eleanor asked, for the Archers had agreed to share all their food.

Yes, but it can wait," Thomas said.

I shall take it now," Eleanor said, and pulled a cloak over her head before vanishing into the wet darkness.

She's pretty enough," Jeanette said in French.

All my women are pretty,“ Thomas said. Fit for princes, they are.”

Jeanette looked angry, or perhaps it was just the smoke from the small fire irritating her. She prodded the hut's side. This reminds me of our journey.

It wasn't cold or wet." Thomas said. And you were mad, he wanted to add, and I nursed you and you walked away from me without looking back.

Jeanette heard the hostility in his voice. He thinks,“ she said, that I am saying confession.”

Then tell me your sins,“ Thomas responded, and you won't have lied to His Highness.”

Jeanette ignored that. You know what is going to happen now?“ We run away, they chase us, and either they catch us or they don't.” He spoke brusquely. And if they catch us there'll be a blood-letting.“ They will catch us,” Jeanette said confidently, and there will be a battle."

You know that?"

I listen to what is reported to the Prince,“ she said, and the French are on the good roads. We are not.”

That made sense. The ford by which the English army had cros-sed the Seine led only into marshiand and forest. It was a link between villages, it lay on no great trading route and so no good roads led from its banks, but the French had crossed the river at Abbeville, a city of merchants, and so the enemy army would have wide roads to hasten their march into Picardy. They were well fed, they were fresh and now they had the good roads to speed them.

So there'll be a battle,“ Thomas said, touching his black bow. There is to be a battle,” Jeanette confirmed. It's been decided. Probably tomorrow or the next day. The King says there is a hill just outside the forest where we can fight. Better that, he says, than letting the French get ahead and block our road. But either way,“ she paused, they will win.”

Maybe," Thomas allowed.

They will win,“ Jeanette insisted. I listen to the conversations, Thomas! They are too many.”

Thomas made the sign of the cross. If Jeanette was right, and he had no reason to think she was deceiving him, then the army's leaders had already given up hope, but that did not mean he had to despair. They have to beat us first,“ he said stubbornly. They will,” Jeanette said brutally, and what happens to me then?"

What happens to you?“ Thomas asked in surprise. He leaned cautiously against the fragile wall of his shelter. He sensed that Eleanor had already delivered the food and hurried back to eavesdrop. Why should I care,” he asked loudly, what happens to you?"

Jeanette shot him a vicious look. You once swore to me," she said, that you would help restore my son to me.

Thomas made the sign of the cross again. I did, my lady," he admitted, reflecting that he made his oaths too easily. One oath was enough for a lifetime and he had made more then he could recall or keep.

Then help me do that," Jeanette demanded.

Thomas smiled. There's a battle to be won first, my lady.“ Jeanette scowled at the smoke that churned in the small shelter. If I am found in the English camp after the battle, Thomas, then I will never see Charles again. Never.”

Why not?“ Thomas demanded. It's not as if you'll be in danger, my lady. You're not a common woman. There might not be much chivalry when armies meet, but it just about reaches into the tents of royalty.”

Jeanette shook her head impatiently. If the English win,“ she said, then I might see Charles again because the Duke will want to curry favour with the King. But if they lose, then he will have no need to make any gesture. And if they lose, Thomas, then I lose everything.” That, Thomas reckoned, was closer to the nub. If the English lost then Jeanette risked losing whatever wealth she had accumulated in the last weeks, wealth that came from the gifts of a prince. He could see a necklace of what looked like rubjes half hidden by her swathing cloak, and doubtless she had dozens of other precious stones set in gold.

So what do you want of me?" he asked.

She leaned forward and lowered her voice. You,“ she said, and a handful of men. Take me south. I can hire a ship at Le Crotoy and sail to Brittany. I have money now. I can pay my debts in La Roche-Derrien and I can deal with that evil lawyer. No one need know I was even here.”

The Prince will know," Thomas said.

She bridled at that. You think he will want me for ever?“ What do I know of him?”

He will tire of me,“ Jeanette said. He's a prince. He takes what he wants and when he is tired of it he moves on. But he has been good to me, so I cannot complain.”

Thomas said nothing for a while. She had not been this hard, he reflected, in those lazy summer days when they had lived as vagabonds. And your son?“ he asked. How will you get him back? Pay for him?”

I will find a way," she said evasively.

Probably, Thomas thought, she would try to kidnap the boy, and why not? If she could raise some men then it would be possible. Maybe she would expect Thomas himself to do it and as that thought occurred to him so Jeanette looked into his eyes. Help me,“ she said, please.”

No,“ Thomas said, not now.” He held up a hand to ward off her protests. One day, God willing,“ he went on, I'll help find your son, but I'll not leave this army now. If there's to be a battle, my lady, then I'm in it with the rest.”

I am begging you," she said.

No."

Then damn you," she spat, pulled the hood over her black hair and went out into the darkness. There was a short pause, then Eleanor came through the entrance.

So what did you think?" Thomas asked.

I think she is pretty,“ Eleanor said evasively, then she frowned at him, and I think that in battle tomorrow a man could seize you by the hair. I think you should cut it.”

Thomas seemed to flinch. You want to go south? Escape battle?“ Eleanor gave him a reproachful look. I am an archer's woman,” she said, and you will not go south. Will says you are a goddamn fool,“ she said the last two words in clumsy English, to give up such good food, but thanks you anyway. And Father Hobbe tells you that he is saying Mass tomorrow morning and expects you to be there.”

Thomas drew his knife and gave it to her, then bent his head. She sawed at his pigtail, then at handfuls of black hair that she tossed onto the fire. Thomas said nothing as she cut, but just thought about Father Hobbe's Mass. A Mass for the dead, he thought, or for those about to die.

For in the wet dark, beyond the forest, the might of France was drawing close. The English had escaped the enemy twice, crossing rivers that were supposed to be impassable, but they could not escape a third time. The French had caught them at last. The village lay only a short walk north of the forest's edge from which it was separated by a small river that twisted through placid water meadows. The village was an unremarkable place: a duck-pond, a small church and a score of cottages with thick thatched roofs, small gardens and high dungheaps. The village, like the forest, was called Crecy.

The fields north of the village rose to a long hill that ran north and south. A country road, rutted by farm carts, ran along the hill's crest, going from Crecy to another village, just as unremarkable, called Wadicourt. If an army had marched from Abbeville and skirted the Forest of Crecy it would come westwards in search of the English and, after a while, they would see the hill between Crecy and Wadicourt rearing in front of them. They would see the stump-like church towers in the two small villages, and between the villages, but much closer to Crecy and high on the ridge top where its sails could catch the winds, a mill. The slope facing the French was long and smooth, untroubled by hedge or ditch, a play-ground for knights on horseback. The army was woken before dawn. It was a Saturday, 26 August, and men grumbled at the unseasonable chill. Fires were stirred to life, reflecting flame light from the waiting mail and plate armour. The village of Cre'cy had been occupied by the King and his great lords, some of whom had slept in the church, and those men were still arming themselves when a chaplain of the royal household came to say a Mass. Candles were lit, a handbell sounded and the priest, ignoring the clank of armour that filled the small nave, called on the help of Saint Zephyrinus, Saint Gelasinus and both the saints called

Genesius, all of whom had their feasts on this day, and the priest also sought aid from Little Sir Hugh of Lincoln, a child who had been murdered by the Jews on this same day nearly two hundred years before. The boy, who was said to have shown a remarkable piety, had been found dead, and no one understood how God could have allowed such a paragon to be snatched from earth so young, but there were Jews in Lincoln and their presence had provided a convenient answer. The priest prayed to them all. Saint Zephyrinus, he prayed, give us victory. Saint Gelasinus, he pleaded, be with our men. Saint Genesius, look after us, and Saint Genesius, give us strength. Little Sir Hugh, he begged, thou child in God's arms, intercede for us. Dear God, he prayed, in Thy great mercy, spare us. The knights came to the altar in their linen shirts to receive the Sacraments. In the forest the archers knelt to other priests. They made con-fession and took the dry, stale bread that was the body of Christ. They made the sign of the cross. No one knew there was to be a battle that day, but they sensed the campaign had come to its end and they must either fight today or the next. Give us enough arrows, the archers prayed, and we shall make the earth red, and they held their yew staves towards the priests who touched the bows and said prayers over them.

Lances were unwrapped. They had been carried on packhorses or wagons and had hardly been used in the campaign, but the knights all dreamed of a proper battle of swirling horsemen punctu-ated by the shock of lances striking shields. The older and wiser men knew they would fight on foot and that their weapons would mostly be swords or axes or falchions, but still the painted lances were taken from their cloth or leather coverings that protected them from being dried by the sun or warped by rain. We can use them as pikes," the Earl of Northampton suggested.

Squires and pages armed their knights, helping them with the heavy coats of leather, mail and plate. Straps were buckled tight. Destriers were brushed with straw while the smiths dragged sharp-ening stones down the swords" long blades. The King, who had begun arming himself at four in the morning, knelt and kissed a reliquary which contained a feather from the wing of the angel Gabriel and, when he had crossed himself, told the priest to carry the reliquary to his son. Then, with a golden crown surrounding his helmet, he was helped up onto a grey mare and rode north from the village.

It was dawn and the ridge between the two villages was empty. The mill, its linen sails neatly furled and tethered, creaked in the wind that stirred the long grasses where hares grazed but now cocked their ears and raced away as the horsemen climbed the track to the mill.

The King led, mounted on the mare that was swathed in a trapper bright with the royal arms. The scabbard of his sword was red velvet and encrusted with golden fleur-de-lis, while the hilt was decorated with a dozen great rubies. He carried a long white staff and had brought a dozen companions and a score of knights as escorts, but as his companions were all great lords then they were duly followed by their entourages so that close to three hundred men trailed up the winding track. The higher a man's rank, the closer he rode to the King, while the pages and squires were at the back where they tried to hear the conversation of their betters.

A man-at-arms dismounted and went into the mill. He climbed the ladders, opened the small door that gave access to the sails and there straddled the axle as he peered eastwards.

See anything?" the King called up cheerfully, but the man was so overcome by being addressed by his king that he could only shake his head dumbly.

The sky was half covered in clouds and the country looked dark. From the mill's height the man-at-arms could see down the long slope to the small fields at its foot, then up another slope to a wood. An empty road ran eastwards beyond the wood. The river, filled with English horses being watered, twisted grey on the right to mark the forest's edge. The King, his visor jammed up against the crown's frontal, stared at the same view. A local man, discovered hiding in the forest, had confirmed that the road from Abbeville came from the east, which meant that the French must cross the small fields at the foot of the slope if they were to make a frontal attack on the hill. The fields had no hedges, merely shallow ditches that would offer no obstacle to a mounted knight.

If I was Philip,“ the Earl of Northampton suggested, I'd ride round our north flank, sire.”

You're not Philip, and I thank God you're not,“ Edward of Eng-land said. He's not clever.” And I am?" The Earl sounded surprised.

You are clever at war, William,“ the King said. He stared down the slope for a long time. If I was Philip,” he said at last, I would be mightily tempted by those fields,“ he pointed to the foot of the slope, especially if I saw our men waiting on this hill.” The long green slope of the open pastureland was perfect for a cavalry charge. It was an invitation for lances and glory, a place made by God for the lords of France to tear an impudent enemy to ragged shreds.

The hill's steep, sire,“ the Earl of Warwick warned. I warrant it won't look so from the foot,” the King said, then turned his horse and spurred northwards along the ridge. The mare trotted easily, revelling in the morning air. She's Spanish,“ the King told the Earl, bought off Grindley. D'you use him?” If I can afford his prices."

Of course you can, William! A rich man like you? I'll breed her. She might make fine destriers."

If she does, sire, I'll buy one from you."

If you can't afford Grindley's prices,“ the King teased, how will you pay mine?”

He spurred the mare into a canter, his plate armour clanking, and the long train of men hurried after him along the track which led north on the ridge's summit. Green shoots of wheat and barley, doomed to die in the winter, grew where the grains had fallen from the carts carrying the harvest to the mill. The King stopped at the ridge's end, just above the village of Wadicourt, and stared northwards. His cousin was right, he thought. Philip should march into that empty countryside and cut him off from Flanders. The French, if they did but know it, were the masters here. Their army was larger, their men fresher and they could dance rings about their tired enemy until the English were forced to a desperate attack or were trapped in a place that offered them no advantage. But Edward knew better than to let every fear prey on his mind. The French were also desperate. They had suffered the humiliation of watching an enemy army wreak havoc across their land and they were in no mood to be clever. They wanted revenge. Offer them a chance, he reckoned, and the odds were good that they would snatch at it, and so the King dismissed his fears and rode down into the village of Wadicourt. A handful of the villagers had dared to stay and those folk, seeing the golden crown encircling the King's helmet and the silver curb chains on his mare, went onto their knees. We mean you no harm,“ the King called airily, but by morning's end, he knew, their houses would have been ransacked thoroughly. He turned southwards again, riding along the ground at the foot of the ridge. The valley's turf was soft, but not treacherous. A horse would not flounder here, a charge would be possible and, better still, just as he had reckoned, the hill did not look so steep from this angle. It was deceptive. The long stretch of rising grass looked gentle even, though in truth it would sap the horses” lungs by the time they reached the English men-at-arms. If they ever did reach them.

How many arrows do we have?“ he asked every man in earshot. Twelve hundred sheaves,” the Bishop of Durham said. Two carts full," the Earl of Warwick answered.

Eight hundred and sixty sheaves,“ the Earl of Northampton said. There was silence for a while. The men have some themselves?” the King asked.

Perhaps a sheaf apiece,“ the Earl of Northampton said gloomily. It will just have to be enough,” the King said bleakly. He would have liked twice as many arrows, but then he would have liked a lot of things. He could have wished for twice as many men and a hill twice as steep and an enemy led by a man twice as nervous as Philip of Valois who, God knows, was nervous enough anyway, but it was no good wishing. He had to fight and win. He frowned at the southern end of the ridge where it fell away to the village of Crecy. That would be the easiest place for the French to attack, and the closest too, which meant the fight would be hard there. Guns, William,“ he said to the Earl of Northampton. Guns, sire?”

We'll have the guns on the flanks. Bloody things have to be useful some time!"

We could roll the things down the hill, sire, perhaps? Maybe crush a man or two?"

The King laughed and rode on. Looks like rain.“ It should hold off a while,” the Earl of Warwick answered. And the French may hold off too, sire."

You think they won't come, William?"

The Earl shook his head. They'll come, sire, but it'll take them time. A lot of time. We might see their vanguard by noon, but their rearguard will still be crossing the bridge in Abbeville. I'll wager they'll wait till tomorrow morning to make a fight.“ Today or tomorrow,” the King said carelessly, it's all the same.“ We could march on,” the Earl of Warwick suggested. And find a better hill?" The King smiled. He was younger and less experienced than many of the earls, but he was also the King and so the decision must rest with him. He was, in truth, filled with doubts, but knew that he must look confident. He would fight here. He said as much and said it firmly.

We fight here,“ the King said again, staring up the slope. He was imagining his army there, seeing it as the French would see it, and he knew his suspicion was right that the lowest part of the ridge, close to Crecy, would be the dangerous ground. That would be his right flank, close under the mill. My son will command on the right,” he said, pointing, and you, William, will be with him.“ I will, sire,” the Earl of Northampton agreed.

And you, my lord, on the left,“ the King said to the Earl of Warwick. We shall make our line two-thirds of the way up the hill with archers in front and on the flanks.”

And you, sire?" the Earl of Warwick asked.

I shall be at the mill," the King said, then urged his horse up the hill. He dismounted two-thirds of the way up the slope and waited for a squire to take the mare's reins, then he began the morning's real work. He paced along the hill, marking places by prodding the turf with his white staff and instructing the lords who accompanied him that their men would be here, or there, and those lords sent men to summon their commanders so that when the army marched to the long green slope they would know where to go.

Bring the banners here,“ the King ordered, and place them where the men are to assemble.”

He kept his army in the three battles that had marched all the way from Normandy. Two, the largest, would make a long, thick line of men-at-arms stretching across the upper reaches of the slope. They'll fight on foot,“ the King ordered, confirming what every man had expected though one or two of the younger lords still groaned for there was more honour to be gained by fighting from horseback. But Edward cared more about victory than honour. He knew only too well that if his men-at-arms were mounted then the fools would make a charge as soon as the French attacked and his battle would degenerate into a brawl at the hill's foot that the French must win because they had the advantage of numbers. But if his men were on foot then they could not make a crazed charge against horsemen, but must wait behind their shields to be attacked. The horses are to be kept at the rear, beyond the ridge,” he com-manded. He himself would command the third and smallest battle on the ridge's summit where it would be a reserve.

You will stay with me, my lord bishop," the King told the Bishop of Durham.

The bishop, armoured from nape to toes and carrying a massive spiked mace, bridled. You'll deny me a chance to break French heads, sire?"

I shall let you weary God with your prayers instead,“ the King said, and his lords laughed. And our archers,” the King went on, will be here, and here, and here.“ He was pacing the turf and ramming the white staff into the grass every few paces. He would cover his line with archers, and mass more at the two flanks. The archers, Edward knew, were his one advantage. Their long, white-fledged arrows would do murder in this place that invited the enemy horsemen into the glorious charge. Here,” he stepped on and gouged the turf again, and here."

You want pits, sire?“ the Earl of Northampton asked. As many as you like, William,” the King said. The archers, once they were gathered in their groups all along the face of the line, would be told to dig pits in the turf some yards down the slope. The pits did not have to be large, just big enough to break a horse's leg if it did not see the hole. Make enough pits and the charge must be slowed and thrown into disarray. And here,“ the King had reached the southern end of the ridge, we'll park some empty wagons. Put half the guns here, and the other half at the other end. And I want more archers here.”

If we've any left," the Earl of Warwick grumbled.

Wagons?" the Earl of Northampton asked.

Can't charge a horse across a line of wagons, William,“ the King said cheerfully, then beckoned his horse forward and, because his plate armour was so heavy, two pages had to half lift and half push him into the saddle. It meant an undignified scramble, but once he was settled in the saddle he looked back along the ridge that was no longer empty, but was dotted with the first banners showing where men would assemble. In an hour or two, he thought, his whole army would be here to lure the French into the archers” arrows. He wiped the earth from the butt of the staff, then spurred his horse towards Crecy. Let's see if there's any food," he said. The first flags fluttered on the empty ridge. The sky pressed grey across distant fields and woods. Rain fell to the north and the wind felt cold. The eastern road, along which the French must come, was deserted still. The priests prayed.

Take pity on us, O Lord, in Thy great mercy, take pity on us. The man who called himself the Harlequin was in the woods on the hill that lay to the east of the ridge that ran between Crecy and Wadicourt. He had left Abbeville in the middle of the night, forcing the sentries to open the northern gate, and he had led his men through the dark with the help of an Abbeville priest who knew the local roads. Then, hidden by beeches, he had watched the King of England ride and walk the far ridge. Now the King was gone, but the green turf was speckled with banners and the first English troops were straggling up from the village. They expect us to fight here," he remarked.

It's as good a place as any," Sir Simon Jekyll observed grumpily. He did not like being roused in the middle of the night. He knew that the strange black-clad man who called himself the Harlequin had offered to be a scout for the French army, but he had not thought that all the Harlequin's followers would be expected to miss their breakfast and grope through a black and empty countryside for six cold hours.

It is a ridiculous place to fight,“ the Harlequin responded. They will line that hill with archers and we will have to ride straight into their points. What we should do is go round their flank.” He pointed to the north.

Tell His Majesty that,“ Sir Simon said spitefully. I doubt he will listen to me.” The Harlequin heard the scorn, but did not rise to it. Not yet. When we have made our name, then he will listen.“ He patted his horse's neck. I have only faced English arrows once, and then it was merely a single archer, but I saw an arrow go clean through a mail coat.”

I've seen an arrow go through two inches of oak," Sir Simon said.

Three inches," Henry Colley added. He, like Sir Simon, might have to face those arrows today, but he was still proud of what English weapons could do.

A dangerous weapon,“ the Harlequin acknowledged, though in an unworried voice. He was ever unworried, always confident, perpetually calm, and that self-control irritated Sir Simon, though he was even more annoyed by the Harlequin's faintly hooded eyes which, he realized, reminded him of Thomas of Hookton. He had the same good looks, but at least Thomas of Hookton was dead, and that was one less archer to face this day. But archers can be beaten,” the Harlequin added.

Sir Simon reflected that the Frenchman had faced one archer in his whole life, yet had already worked out how to beat them. How?"

You told me how,“ the Harlequin reminded Sir Simon. You exhaust their arrows, of course. You send them lesser targets, let them kill peasants, fools and mercenaries for an hour or two, then release your main force. What we shall do,” he turned his horse away, is charge with the second line. It does not matter what orders we receive, we shall wait till the arrows are running out. Who wants to be killed by some dirty peasant? No glory there, Sir Simon." That, Sir Simon acknowledged, was true enough. He followed the Harlequin to the further side of the beech wood where the squires and servants waited with the packhorses. Two messengers were sent back with news of the English dispositions while the rest dismounted and unsaddled their horses. There was time for men and beasts to rest and feed, time to don the battle armour and time for prayer.

The Harlequin prayed frequently, embarrassing Sir Simon, who considered himself a good Christian but one who did not dangle his soul from God's apron strings. He said confession once or twice a year, went to Mass and bared his head when the Sacraments passed by, but otherwise he spared little thought for the pieties. The Harlequin, on the other hand, confided every day to God, though he rarely stepped into a church and had little time for priests. It was as though he had a private relationship with heaven, and that was both annoying and comforting to Sir Simon. It annoyed him because it seemed unmanly, and it comforted him because if God was of any use to a fighting man then it was on a day of battle.

This day, though, seemed special for the Harlequin, for after going down on one knee and praying silently for a while, he stood and ordered his squire to bring him the lance. Sir Simon, wishing they could stop the pious foolery and eat instead, presumed that they were expected to arm themselves and sent Colley to fetch his own lance, but the Harlequin stopped him. Wait," he ordered. The lances, wrapped in leather, were carried on a packhorse, but the Harlequin's squire fetched a separate lance, one that had trav-elled on its own horse and was wrapped in linen as well as leather. Sir Simon had assumed it was the Harlequin's personal weapon, but instead, when the linen was pulled from the shaft, he saw it was an ancient and warped spear made from a timber so old and dark that it would surely splinter if it was subjected to the smallest strain. The blade looked to be made of silver, which was foolish, for the metal was too weak to make a killing blade.

Sir Simon grinned. You're not fighting with that!“ We are all fighting with that,” the Harlequin said and, to Sir Simon's surprise, the black-dressed man fell to his knees again. Down," he instructed Sir Simon.

Sir Simon knelt, feeling like a fool.

You are a good soldier, Sir Simon,“ the Harlequin said. I have met few men who can handle weapons as you do and I can think of no man I would rather have fighting at my side, but there is more to fighting than swords and lances and arrows. You must think before you fight, and you must always pray, for if God is on your side then no man can beat you.”

Sir Simon, obscurely aware that he was being criticized, made the sign of the cross. I pray,“ he said defensively. Then give thanks to God that we will carry that lance into battle.” Why?"

Because it is the lance of Saint George, and the man who fights under the protection of that lance will be cradled in God's arms.“ Sir Simon stared at the lance, which had been laid reverently on the grass. There had been a few times in his life, usually when he was half drunk, when he would glimpse something of the mysteries of God. He had once been reduced to tears by a fierce Dominican, though the effect had not lasted beyond his next visit to a tavern, and he had felt shrunken the first time he had stepped into a cathedral and seen the whole vault dimly lit by candles, but such moments were few, infrequent and unwelcome. Yet now, suddenly, the mystery of Christ reached down to touch his heart. He stared at the lance and did not see a tawdry old weapon tricked with an impractical silver blade, but a thing of God-given power. It had been given by Heaven to make men on earth invincible, and Sir Simon was astonished to feel tears prick at his eyes. My family brought it from the Holy Land,” the Harlequin said, and they claimed that men who fought under the lance's protection could not be defeated, but that was not true. They were beaten, but when all their allies died, when the very fires of hell were lit to burn their followers to death, they lived. They left France and took the lance with them, but my uncle stole it and concealed it from us. Then I found it, and now it will give its blessings to our battle."

Sir Simon said nothing. He just gazed at the weapon with a look close to awe.

Henry Colley, untouched by the moment's fervour, picked his nose.

The world,“ the Harlequin said, is rotting. The Church is corrupt and kings are weak. We have it in our power, Sir Simon, to make a new world, loved by God, but to do it we must destroy the old. We must take power ourselves, then give the power to God. That is why we fight.”

Henry Colley thought the Frenchman was plain crazy, but Sir Simon had an enraptured expression.

Tell me,“ the Harlequin looked at Sir Simon, what is the battle flag of the English King?”

The dragon banner," Sir Simon said.

The Harlequin offered one of his rare smiles. Is that not an omen?“ he asked, then paused. I shall tell you what will happen this day,” he went on. The King of France will come and he will be impatient and he will attack. The day will go badly for us. The English will jeer at us because we cannot break them, but then we shall carry the lance into battle and you will see God turn the fight. We shall snatch victory from failure. You will take the English King's son as a prisoner and maybe we will even capture Edward himself, and our reward will be Philip of Valois's favour. That is why we fight, Sir Simon, for the King's favour, because that favour means power, riches and land. You will share that wealth, but only so long as you understand that we shall use our power to purge the rot from Christendom. We shall be a scourge against the wicked.“ Mad as a brush, Henry Colley thought. Daft as lights. He watched as the Harlequin stood and went to a packhorse's pannier from which he took a square of cloth which, unfolded, proved to be a red banner on which a strange beast with horns, tusks and claws reared on its hind legs while clasping a cup in its forepaws. This is my family's banner,” the Harlequin said, tying the flag to the lance's long silver head with black ribbons, and for many years, sir Simon, this banner was forbidden in France because its owners had fought against the King and against the Church. Our lands were wasted and our castle is still slighted, but today we shall be heroes and this banner will be back in favour.“ He rolled the flag about the lance-head so that the yale was hidden. Today,” he said fervently, my family is resurrected."

What is your family?" Sir Simon asked.

My name is Guy Vexille,“ the Harlequin admitted, and I am the Count of Astarac.”

Sir Simon had never heard of Astarac, but he was pleased to learn that his master was a proper nobleman and, to signify his obedience, he held his praying hands towards Guy Vexille in hom-age. I will not disappoint you, my lord," Sir Simon said with an unaccustomed humility.

God will not disappoint us today,“ Guy Vexille said. He took Sir Simon's hands in his own. Today,” he raised his voice to speak to all his knights, we shall destroy England."

For he had the lance.

And the royal army of France was coming.

And the English had offered themselves for slaughter. Arrows,“ Will Skeat said. He was standing at the wood's edge beside a pile of sheaves unloaded from a wagon, but suddenly paused. Good God.” He was staring at Thomas. Looks like a rat got your hair.“ He frowned. Suits you, though. You look grown up at long last. Arrows!” he said again. Don't waste them.“ He tossed the sheaves one by one to the archers. It looks like a lot, but most of you godforsaken lepers have never been in a proper battle and battles swallow arrows like whores swallowing, Good morning, Father Hobbe!”

You'll spare me a sheaf, Will?"

Don't waste it on sinners, father,“ Will said, throwing a bundle to the priest. Kill some God-fearing Frenchmeri.” There's no such thing, Will. They're all spawn of Satan.“ Thomas emptied a sheaf into his arrow bag and tucked another into his belt. He had a pair of boweords in his helmet, safe from the rain that threatened. A smith had come to the archers” encamp-ment and had hammered the nicks from their swords, axes, knives and billhooks, then sharpened the blades with his stones. The smith, who had been wandering the army, said the King had ridden north to look for a battlefield, but he himself reckoned the French would not come that day. It's a lot of sweat for nothing,“ he had grumbled as he smoothed a stone down Thomas's sword. This is French work,” he said, peering at the long blade.

From Caen."

You could sell this for a penny or two,“ the praise was grudging, good steel. Old, of course, but good.”

Now, with their arrows replenished, the archers placed their belongings into a wagon that would join the rest of the army's baggage and one man, who was sick in his belly, would guard it through the day while a second invalid would stand sentry on the archers“ horses. Will Skeat ordered the wagon away, then cast an eye over his assembled archers. The bastards are coming,” he growled, if not today, then tomorrow, and there are more of them than there are of us, and they ain't hungry and they've all got boots and they think their shit smells of roses because they're bloody Frenchmen, but they die just like anyone else. Shoot their horses and you'll live to see sundown. And remember, they ain't got proper archers so they're going to lose. It ain't difficult to understand. keep your heads, aim at the horses, don't waste shafts and listen for orders. Let's go, boys."

They waded the shallow river, one of the many bands of archers who emerged from the trees to file into the village of Crecy where knights were pacing up and down, then stamping their feet and calling on squires or pages to tighten a strap or loosen a buckle to make their armour comfortable. Bunches of horses, tied bridle to bridle, were being led to the back of the hill where, with the army's women, children and baggage, they would stay inside a ring of wagons. The Prince of Wales, armoured from the waist down, was eating a green apple beside the church and he nodded distractedly when Skeat's men respectfully pulled off their helmets. There was no sign of Jeanette, and Thomas wondered if she had fled on her own, then decided he did not care.

Eleanor walked beside him. She touched his arrow bag. Do you have enough arrows?"

Depends how many Frenchmen come, Thomas said.

How many Englishmen are there?“ Rumour said the army had eight thousand men now, half of them archers, and Thomas reckoned that was probably about right. He gave that figure to Eleanor, who frowned. And how many Frenchmen?” she asked. The good Lord knows," Thomas said, but he reckoned it had to be far more than eight thousand, a lot more, but he could do nothing about that now and so he tried to forget the disparity in numbers as the archers climbed towards the windmill.

They crossed the crest to see the long forward slope, and for an instant Thomas had the impression that a great fair was just begin-ning. Gaudy flags dotted the hill and bands of men wandered between them, and all it needed was some dancing bears and a few jugglers and it would have looked just like the Dorchester fair. Will Skeat had stopped to search for the Earl of Northampton's banner, then spotted it on the right of the slope, straight down from the mill. He led the men down and a man-at-arms showed them the sticks marking the spot where the archers would fight. And the Earl wants horse-pits dug,“ the man-at-arms said. You heard him!” Will Skeat shouted. Get digging!" Eleanor helped Thomas make the pits. The soil was thick and they used knives to loosen the earth that they scooped out with their hands.

Why do you dig pits?" Eleanor asked.

To trip the horses," Thomas said, kicking the excavated earth away before starting another hole. All along the face of the hill archers were making similar small pits a score of paces in front of their positions. The enemy horsemen might charge at the full gallop, but the pits would check them. They could get through, but only slowly, and the impetus of their charge would be broken and while they tried to thread the treacherous holes they would be under attack from archers.

There," Eleanor said, pointing, and Thomas looked up to see a group of horsemen on the far hill crest. The first Frenchmen had arrived and were staring across the valley to where the English army slowly assembled under the banners.

Be hours yet," Thomas said. Those Frenchmen, he guessed, were the vanguard who had been sent ahead to find the enemy, while the main French army would still be marching from Abbeville. The crossbowmen, who would surely lead the attack, would all be on foot.

Off to Thomas's right, where the slope fell away to the river and the village, a makeshift fortress of empty wagons was being made. The carts were parked close together to form a barrier against horsemen and between them were guns. These were not the guns that had failed to break Caen Castle, but were much smaller. Ribalds," Will Skeat said to Thomas.

Ribalds?"

That's what they're called, ribalds.“ He led Thomas and Eleanor along the slope to look at the guns, which were strange bundles of iron tubes. Gunners were stirring the powder, while others were undoing bundles of garros, the long arrow-like iron missiles that were rammed into the tubes. Some of the ribalds had eight barrels, some seven and a few only four. Useless bloody things,” Skeat spat, but they might frighten the horses.“ He nodded a greeting to the archers who were digging pits ahead of the ribalds. The guns were thick here, Thomas counted thirty-four and others were being dragged into place, but they still needed the protection of bowmen. Skeat leaned on a wagon and stared at the far hill. It was not warm, but he was sweating. Are you ill?” Thomas asked. Guts are churning a bit,“ Skeat admitted, but nothing to make a song and dance about.” There were about four hundred French horsemen on the far hill now, and others were appearing from the trees. It might not happen,“ Skeat said quietly. The battle?”

Philip of France isjumpy,“ Skeat said. He's got a knack of march-ing up to battle, then deciding he'd rather be frolicking at home. That's what I hear. Nervous bastard.” He shrugged. But if he thinks he's got a chance today, Tom, it's going to be nasty.“ Thomas smiled. The pits? The archers?”

Don't be a bloody fool, boy,“ Skeat retorted. Not every pit breaks a leg and not every arrow strikes true. We might stop the first charge and maybe the second, but they'll still keep coming and in the end they'll get through. There's just too many of the bastards. They'll be on top of us, Tom, and it'll be up to the men-at-arms to give them a hammering. Just keep your head, boy, and remember it's the men-at-arms who do the close-quarter work. If the bastards get past the pits then take your bow back, wait for a target and stay alive. And if we lose?” He shrugged. Leg it for the forest and hide there."

What is he saying?" Eleanor asked.

That it should be easy work today."

You are a bad liar, Thomas."

Just too many of them,“ Skeat said, almost to himself. Tommy Dugdale faced worse odds down in Brittany, Tom, but he had plenty of arrows. We're short.”

We're going to be all right, Will."

Aye, well. Maybe.“ Skeat pushed himself off the wagon. You two go ahead. I need a quiet place for a second.” Thomas and Eleanor walked back north. The English line was forming now, the scattered flags being swamped by men-at-arms who were forming into blocks. Archers stood ahead of each forma-tion while marshals, armed with white staffs, made sure there were gaps in the line through which the archers could escape if the horsemen came too close. Bundles of lances had been fetched from the village and were being issued to the men-at-arms in the front rank for, if the French did get past the pits and the arrows, the lances would have to be used as pikes.

By mid-morning the whole army was assembled on the hill. It looked far bigger than it really was because so many women had stayed with their men and now sat on the grass or else lay and slept. A fitful sun came and went, racing shadows across the valley. The pits were dug and the guns loaded. Perhaps a thousand French-men watched from the far hill, but none ventured down the slope. At least it's better than marching,“ Jake said; gives us a chance for a rest, eh?”

Be an easy day,“ Sam reckoned. He nodded at the far hill. Not many of the bastards, eh?”

That's only the vanguard, you daft bastard,“ Jake said. There are more coming?” Sam sounded genuinely surprised. Every goddamn bastard in France is coming," Jake said. Thomas kept quiet. He was imagining the French army strung along the Abbeville road. They would all know the English had stopped running, that they were waiting, and doubtless the French were hurrying in case they missed the battle. They had to be confi-dent. He made the sign of the cross and Eleanor, sensing his fear, touched his arm.

You will be all right," she said.

You too, my love."

You remember your promise to my father?" she asked. Thomas nodded, but he could not persuade himself that he would see the lance of Saint George this day. This day was real, while the lance belonged to some mysterious world of which Thomas really wanted no part. Everyone else, he thought, cared passionately about the relic, and only he, who had as good a reason as any to discover the truth, was indifferent. He wished he had never seen the lance, he wished that the man who had called himself the Harlequin had never come to Hookton, but if the French had not landed, he thought, then he would not be carrying the black bow and would not be on this green hillside and would not have met Eleanor. You cannot turn your back on God, he told himself.

If I see the lance,“ he promised Eleaflor, I shall fight for it.” That was his penance, though he still hoped he would not have to serve it.

They ate mouldy bread for their midday meal. The French were a dark mass on the far hill, too many to count now, and the first of their infantry had arrived. A spit of rain made those archers who had their strings dangling from a bowtip hurry to coil the cords and shelter them under helmets or hats, but the small rain passed. A wind stirred the grass.

And still the French came to the far hill. They were a horde, they had come to Crecy, and they had come for revenge.

The English waited. Two of Skeat's archers played straw flutes, while the hobelars, who were helping to protect the guns on the army's flanks, sang songs of green woods and running streams. Some men danced the steps they would have used on a village green back home, others slept, many played dice, and all but the sleepers continually looked across the valley to the far hill crest that was thickening with men.

Jake had a linen-wrapped lump of beeswax that he handed round the archers so they could coat their bows. It was not necessary, just something to do. Where did you get the wax?“ Thomas asked him. Stole it, of course, off some daft man-at-arms. Saddle polish, I reckon.”

An argument developed over which wood made the best arrows. It was an old discussion, but it passed the time. Everyone knew ash made the best shafts, but some men liked to claim that birch or hornbeam, even oak, flew just as well. Alder, though heavy, was good for killing deer, but needed a heavy head and did not have the distance for battle.

Sam took one of his new arrows from his bag and showed everyone how warped the shaft was. Must be made of bloody blackthorn,“ he complained bitterly. You could shoot that round a corner.”

They don't make arrows like they used to ? Will Skeat said, and his archers jeered for it was an old complaint. It's true,“ Skeat said. It's all hurry up and no craftsmanship these days. Who cares? The bastards get paid by the sheaf and the sheaves are sent to London and no one looks at them till they reach us, and what are we going to do? Just look at it!” He took the arrow from Sam and twisted it in his fingers. That's not a bloody goose feather! It's a goddamn sparrow feather. No bloody use for anything except scratching your arse." He tossed the arrow back to Sam. No, a proper archer makes his own arrows.

I used to," Thomas said.

But you're a lazy bastard now, eh, Tom?“ Skeat grinned, but the grin faded as he stared across the valley. Enough of the goddamn bastards,” he grumbled, looking at the gathering French, then he grimaced as a solitary raindrop splashed on his worn boots. I wish it would damn well rain and get it over with. It wants to. If it pisses on us when the bastards are attacking then we might as well run for home because the bows won't shoot."

Eleanor sat beside Thomas and watched the far hill. There were at least as many men there as were in the English army now, and the French main battle was only just arriving. Mounted men-at-arms were spreading across the hill, organizing themselves into conrois. A conroi was the basic fighting unit for a knight or man-at-arms, and most had between a dozen and twenty men, but those who formed the bodyguards of the great lords were much larger. There were now so many horsemen on the far hilltop that some had to spill down the slope, which was turning into a spread of colour, for the men-at-arms were wearing surcoats embroidered with their lords" badges and the horses had gaudy trappers, while the French banners added more blue and red and yellow and green. Yet, despite the colours, the dull grey of steel and mail still predomi-nated. In front of the horsemen were the first green and red jackets of the Genoese crossbowmen. There was only a handful of those bowmen, but more and more were streaming over the hill to join their comrades.

A cheer sounded from the English centre and Thomas leaned forward to see that archers were scrambling to their feet. His first thought was that the French must have attacked, but there were no enemy horsemen and no arrows flew.

Up!“ Will Skeat shouted suddenly. On your feet!” What is it?" Jake asked.