Bernard Cornwell - 1356 (Special Edition)

Sculley, the frightening Scotsman, walked past Labrouillade, who thought he resembled a creature from nightmare. Blood had soaked his jupon so that the red heart of Douglas looked as though it had burst. There was blood on his gauntlets and on the vambraces that covered his forearms. His visor was up. He gave the count a feral look, then stalked on towards the cardinal.

‘I want the magic sword,’ Sculley said to the cardinal.

‘What is the animal saying?’ the cardinal asked Father Marchant, who was mounted on a mare that stood close behind Bessières’s horse. Sculley had spoken in English and even if the cardinal had understood that language he would never have penetrated the Scotsman’s accent.

‘What is it?’ Father Marchant asked Sculley.

‘Tell your man to give me the magic sword!’

‘ La Malice ?’

‘Give it to me! The bastards have hurt my lord and I’m going to kill the bastards!’ He spat the words out, glaring at the cardinal as though he wanted to begin his revenge by slicing open Bessières’s huge stomach. ‘That archer,’ Sculley went on, ‘he’s a dead man. I watched the bastard! Shooting at my lord when he was on the ground! Just give me the magic sword!’

‘Your Eminence,’ Father Marchant spoke in French again, ‘the creature wants la Malice . He expresses a desire to slaughter the enemy.’

‘Thank God someone does,’ the cardinal said. He had been wondering which man might best use the relic, but it seemed the man had chosen for him. He glanced at the Scotsman and shuddered at the crudity of his appearance, then he smiled, sketched a blessing, and gave the sword to Sculley.

And somewhere a trumpet called.

The Prince of Wales appeared in the English front line, his bright flag, the largest on the English side, behind and above him, and the French responded with a roar as they renewed their attack, but the English matched the war shout and surged forward themselves. Shield met shield with a crash, the weapons fell and thrust, and it was the English who forged ahead. The men trusted to guard the Prince of Wales were among the most experienced and savage in all the army. They had fought a score of battles, from Crécy to minor skirmishes, and they fought with cold-blooded ruthlessness. The two Frenchmen closest to the prince were felled instantly. Neither was killed. One was half stunned by a mace blow, and he collapsed to his knees, and the other took an axe blow to his right elbow that shattered the bone and left him weaponless. He was dragged backwards by his companions, and that rearward movement spread to the neighbouring Frenchmen. The half-stunned man tried to stand, but the prince kicked him backwards onto the ground and trod on his armoured wrist. ‘Finish him,’ he said to the man behind him, who used a steel-shod foot to push up the fallen man’s visor and rammed down with a sword point. Blood sprayed on the prince.

‘Give me room!’ the prince bellowed. He stepped forward and swung the axe, feeling the impact jar up his arms as the blade chopped into a man’s waist. He wrenched the axe free and thrust it forward. The haft was topped with a steel spike that dented the wounded man’s breastplate, but did not pierce it. That man staggered, and the prince took another step forward and sliced the heavy weapon at the enemy’s neck where the sharp blade went through the mail aventail that he wore beneath his helmet to cover his neck and shoulders. The man staggered and the prince kicked him backwards and swung at another enemy. He was fighting without a visor and he could plainly see Charles, the dauphin, not ten paces away. ‘Come and fight me!’ he bellowed in French. ‘You and me! Charles! Come and fight!’

The dauphin, so thin and awkward, did not bother to answer. He saw the Prince of Wales beat a man down with his axe, and saw a Frenchman plunge a shortened lance that ripped open the prince’s jupon. Beneath the jupon the prince’s cuirass was sculpted with his coat of arms. The lance thrust again and the prince slashed the axe down onto his assailant’s shoulder. The dauphin saw the big blade bite through the armour and saw the blood spray sudden and bright. ‘Back, Your Highness,’ one of the dauphin’s guards said. That guardian could see that the enemy prince was determined to fight his way through to the heir to the French throne. That could not happen. And the English were fighting like demons, so it might happen if he did not act. ‘Back, Your Highness,’ he said again, and this time pulled the dauphin away.

The dauphin was speechless. He had surprised himself by how little fear he had felt once the battle began. True, he was well guarded and the men charged with his safety were all brutally efficient fighters, but the dauphin had tried to do his best. He had thrust a sword hard at an enemy knight and thought he had hurt the man. Most of all he had been fascinated. He had observed the battle with an intelligent eye and, though he was appalled at the butchery, he found it intriguing. It was a stupid way to decide great matters, he thought, for the decision was surely a lottery once the brawling began. There had to be a cleverer way to defeat the enemy?

‘Back, sire!’ a man bellowed at him, and the dauphin allowed himself to be drawn back through the gap in the hedge. How long had they been fighting? he wondered. It seemed like minutes, but now he saw that the sun was high above the trees and so it must have been at least an hour! ‘Time flies,’ he said.

‘Did you speak, sire?’ a man shouted.

‘I said time flies!’

‘Christ Jesus,’ the man said. He watched the Prince of Wales, who was standing cocksure above the men he had beaten down with his bloodied axe.

The prince shook the axe at the retreating enemy. ‘Come back!’ he bellowed.

‘He’s a fool,’ the dauphin said in puzzlement.

‘Sire?’

‘I said he’s a fool!’

‘A fighting fool,’ the man said in grudging admiration.

‘He’s enjoying this,’ the dauphin said.

‘Why wouldn’t he, sire?’

‘Only a fool could enjoy it. To a fool this is paradise, and he’s wallowing in idiocy.’

The man in charge of the dauphin’s guards thought the eighteen-year-old prince was mad and he felt a surge of anger that he was trusted with the life of this pale-faced, hollow-chested weakling with his short legs and long arms, and now, it seemed, with a brain made of soft cheese. A prince should look like a prince, like the Prince of Wales. The Frenchman hated to admit it, but the enemy prince looked like a proper ruler in his broad-chested blood-spattered glory. He looked like a real warrior, not like this pale shred of an excuse for a man. But the pale shred was the dauphin, and so the man kept his voice respectful. ‘We must send messengers to your father,’ he said, ‘to the king.’

‘I know who my father is.’

‘We must request him to send more men, sire.’

‘Do so,’ the dauphin said, ‘but make sure he sends his most foolish fools.’

‘Fools, sire?’

‘Send the messengers! Do it now!’

So the French sent for help.

The huge man with the morningstar rushed at Thomas, while his companions, one with the flail and the other with an axe, charged with him. They bellowed their challenges as they came. Thomas was flanked by Karyl and by Arnaldus, hardened men both, one German, one Gascon, and Karyl faced the man with the poleaxe, while Arnaldus was challenged by the steel-faced man with the war-flail.

Thomas still carried the shortened lance. He dropped it.

The morningstar swung. Thomas, looking up, saw drops of blood being flicked from its spikes as it seared through the sky. He himself had no weapon now, so he just stepped forward, inside the swing, and put his archer’s arms around the tall man and squeezed as he lifted.