“
They will not be here till at least midday, highness,” said the Earl of Warwick in a calm voice. Warwick was twenty years the prince’s senior. Accounted one of the best captains in the English army, he had been the king’s Marshall for the past three years. It was on account of this experience that he had been assigned to the prince’s division. The prince’s pennant with the Plantagenet lion was the largest banner over our company, but Warwick’s red pennant with the yellow bar held second place beneath it.
“
Since we’ve time on our hands,” said the prince, “let the men sit and serve out something to break their fast. It benefits us nothing to fight on empty stomachs.”
“
The storm will break on us sooner than Philip does,” said Chandos, looking up at the ominous clouds gathering in the north. “We shall all be a good deal wetter before the afternoon is out.”
“
Highness,” said Warwick deferentially, also looking upward at the sky, “when you give the orders to serve out rations, let the archers also look to their bowstrings. A wet bowstring sends a weak arrow.”
Shriven, supped, and posted at the ready, the English army waited on the crest of the hill for all of the morning and into the afternoon. The sky sent down fitful showers of summer rain while the lightning and thunder fought their own battle over the territory of the sun. The noise was terrible and a few horses were frightened. “The heavens themselves portend our conflict!” remarked Audley with irony.
When the rain abated, the sun returned in glory, brighter for having been obscured a while. Our army faced east, and the light poured in from behind us; it illuminated the field of battle and shone full in the faces of the advancing foe. Philip and his army of sixty thousand men had arrived at last to do battle on the plains of Ponthieu. From half a mile away, I could pick out their great red-orange standard fixed on a lance and flying overhead. It was the Oriflamme, the battle flag of the French kings. Philip had unearthed it from the vaults of Saint Denis and brought it to Crecy, hoping that its golden stars would shine brightly on the house of Valois and that its tongues of fire would speak victory for the French. I wondered who carried the Oriflamme that day, for only the pick of French chivalry were allowed to touch that hallowed banner.
*****
No sooner had we sighted their troops than the battle began. The French did not advance in any regular order. From the hill opposite, it was difficult to tell whether they had any leadership at all. Our men, on the contrary, were still arranged in tight formation. At one word from the prince, we arose from our seats on the ground, gripped our weapons, and girded up our loins.
“
They are disorganized!” said I, and my anxiety at being so grossly outnumbered began to abate a little.
“
So is an avalanche,” replied Chandos soberly, “but it can still crush whomever it falls upon.”
A large company of crossbowmen broke off from the rest of the French army and headed for our ridge at a run. “Here come the Genoese,” said Chandos. “The French were always wont to hire their bowmen.”
“
Best to hire an Italian,” boomed Audley, “because a Frenchman always aims crookedly.”
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With arrows as well as with words,” said Warwick with a laugh.
“
Good God, these fellows are excitable!” said Chandos, as we watched the Genoese come forward. They ran across the field in short spurts, using most of their energy to send up a great hooting and howling.
“
If bravery was located in the lungs, why then these Italians are the bravest men alive,” said the prince.
Again they ran forward and again they stopped to taunt us with their cries. For our part, no man said a word, but each stood silent with hand on sword or arrow on string. They came on a third time, and this time they let loose a volley of arrows as well as a volley of shouts. I saw one or two of our men flinch, but the bulk of the barrage fell short. Not a man fired in response; stoic silence continued to reign across our lines.
“
Their bowstrings are wet from the thunder shower,” declared Chandos assessing the cause behind the ineffectual volley. The Genoese had halted now in the field, winding their crossbows for further fusillades. The prince looked questioningly at Warwick, and the earl nodded gravely.
“
Let the archers stand forward,” ordered the prince, and his voice assumed an unusual roughness. “And on my mark, let them fire in unison.”
Signals circulated throughout the line, and the company commanders barked out his highness’s orders. The archers fired directly on cue, using the full strength of their longbows to put their arrows in flight. I heard men say later that the sky looked like it was filled with snow. The shafts flew so thick that they snuffed out the sun like a candle. The Genoese wore armor on head and breast, but it was as much use to them as a satin doublet. Our arrowheads pierced through the plate like a tailor’s needle through a lady’s gown.
The English silence was broken now, not only by the cheers of our archers but also by the thunder of our new engines. The king had brought several cannon from England;we had carted them across Normandy all the way to this battlefield. The engines themselves were metal instead of wood, and when lit on fire they shot great iron balls and sent out a deafening rumble.
The arrows and gunstones did their work. A wail went up from the wounded Genoese, and they tried to exit the field of battle in even more disarray than they had entered it. The French king, however, would not let his mercenaries earn their pay so easily. French horsemen leaped forward impeding the Genoese in their flight and urging them to remember their duty. But soon it became apparent that the crossbowmen had lost all heart; they would not return to the ridge no matter how much urging they received. With swords turned into scythes, the French horsemen began to cut them down. The Genoese, instead of being an asset, were now an obstacle that must be removed.
“
Send me a volley into their horse,” commanded the prince. The English archers complied. The riot beneath the ridge grew louder as the neighs of stricken steeds combined with the groans of dying men. Philip sent more men into the fray, attempting to overcome the accuracy of our archers with the sheer magnitude of his host. Through unflagging perseverance, several companies of their mounted knights crossed the sea of confusion to reach our lines. Our archers broke ranks immediately and retired to the flank; their arrows were no match for armed riders in such close proximity. Our men-at-arms braced themselves for the onslaught. The hidden pits slowed the French horses down a little, but it was still a thunderous clash when their host met ours in hand to hand combat.
“
Montjoy and Saint Denis!” they cried.
“
England and Saint George!” was our response. It was well that our archers had felled so many of their knights; we had more than enough to do with the ones who reached us. I laid about me right and left with my sword, fighting frantically to keep the Frenchmen off and to stay near my master’s side. Chandos fought more coolly, with his experienced eye trained on the prince all the while.
“
God’s blood!” roared Sir James Audley, after we had been immersed in the melee for half an hour or more. “This battle presses thicker than marsh fog.”
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I can keep near him no longer!” said Chandos, and indeed, the rushing tide of men had swept between us and the prince. His highness was still mounted, but the jet-black brilliance of his armor had dulled to an earthy red. Only a few of our knights kept pace with him as he cut deeper and deeper into the lines of the enemy.
“
He’s fearless as his father!” cried Chandos, as the prince urged forward his horse to cross swords with a knight twice his girth. In a moment more we could barely see him; our whole company was pushed back and engaged in hard battle.
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Shall we send for help?” demanded Audley.
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What says Warwick?” replied Chandos.
But Warwick was as separated from us as the prince, far to the right of the fray. “Boy!” said Chandos quickly, “Do you see Warwick over yonder?”
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Aye,” said I confidently, and pointed him out where he stood.
“
Go to him. Ask him how the battle stands from there. And tell him we cannot keep the prince in blade’s range of his bodyguard. If he will, bid him send for the second division to come to our aid.”
It was no easy matter to reach Warwick. The slope of the hill had liquefied from the rain, the blood, and the heavy trampling. I slipped several times in the mud as I dodged here and there to avoid encountering the enemy. One little man-at-arms gave chase and I was forced to delay my mission to parry his blows. But the mud proved as treacherous to him as it had to me. His legs lost footing and I drove my sword into the joints of his armor, right where the breastplate meets the helmet.
After dispatching this assailant, I looked again for Warwick. I sighted the red pennant with the yellow bar fluttering nearby. But before I could reach it, I heard a familiar bellow and glimpsed the one-eyed bull making the sound. Behind me stood Sir Thomas Holland, the man who had captured the Constable at Caen. His shield hung carelessly in his left hand while he struck out fiercely with his right. I stepped backwards before I was trampled or cut in two. “We are friends!” cried I. “Leave off, man!”
“
You are English, boy?” Sir Thomas cried in disbelief. “Sweet mother of God! Then take a stand! All this scurrying about is for mice—or Frenchman. Turn around and fight the enemy, you poltroon!” I understood now that he thought I was trying to flee the field of battle. Seizing me by my collar, he shoved me toward the foe and gave me a hearty kick to the buttocks. I grimaced painfully and choked down rage at this treatment. It was useless to protest—the niceties of my mission would be lost on this baron filled with bloodlust. Unable to explain, I thought it best to escape his custody. I made a half-hearted attempt to engage the enemy before us, keeping Sir Thomas’s lumbering form in the corner of my eye. He turned to engage a mounted knight, and they grappled together in the mud. Once I saw that he could no longer bother me, I took to my heels again. This time I reached the red pennant with the yellow bar.
The Earl of Warwick was panting heavily when I overtook him; the company surrounding him looked weary and bedraggled. I recited my master’s message bidding him wind the horn to summon the second division.
“
The second division is already with us!” he exclaimed, and he gestured further down the line to where the earls of Northampton and Arundel had joined the fray. The battlefield here looked much the same as the patch of ground I had come from. The French pushed against us strongly while our men fought back fiercely, summoning up valiant vigor from weary limbs. Warwick’s countenance, instead of bearing its normal, placid composure, looked harried as a housewife with unexpected guests. “There’s no help for it,” he said. “We must send to the king.” I waited by his side while he sent one of his knights to discover Edward and desire his aid. I was still waiting by his side when the knight returned, alone and unabashed.
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How comes this?” demanded Warwick. “Did you find His Majesty? And did you deliver my message?”
“
I found him on the northern prospect beside a windmill,” said the knight, “and in truth, I gave him your message most plainly. ‘Sir,’ said I, ‘The Earl of Warwick and the others who surround your son are vigorously attacked by the French. They beg you to come to their assistance with your battalion. If numbers should increase against the prince, he will have too much to handle.’”
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And what answer made the king?” said Warwick.
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He answered this: ‘Is my son dead, unhorsed, or so badly wounded that he cannot support himself?’
“‘
By no means,’ replied I, ‘Thank God! But he is in so hot an engagement that he has great need of your help.’
“
Then the king fixed his eye on me sternly, and said, ‘Return to those that sent you. Tell them not to send again whatever may happen, and not to expect that I shall come as long as my son has life. I command them to let the boy win his spurs. God willing, I am determined that all the glory of this day shall belong to him and to those who are in charge of his care.’”
At the relation of these words, Warwick’s eyes glinted brightly and I saw his soul stir within him. “His Majesty is right,” said he. “This day belongs to the prince and to us. What need have we of help? Return to your master, boy,” he said to me, “and bid him stand fast and cleave unto his charge.”
This refusal on the part of the king to send aid dismayed me at first, but it was not long before I saw the wisdom of it. From his vantage point beside the windmill, the king had judged the battle more accurately than those down in the thick of it. The enemy’s strength had begun to ebb. The victory was ours; we had only to claim it. I looked about the battlefield until I spotted the Virgin Mary, embowered in blue on the surcoat of Sir John Chandos. He had regained his position beside the prince, and I darted through devious paths to rejoin them.
“
They are turning!” cried Chandos. “By St. George, they are turning!” It was even as he said. The French knights had taken to their heels, for few of them had horses left to ride, and were beating the same ignominious retreat for which they had earlier punished the Genoese. Our archers, who had formed up on the flanks of our army, began to ply their skill once more. It was a rout, a total rout, and Philip recognized it. Instead of castigating his fleeing troops, he ordered the orange Oriflamme furled. The great banner disappeared from view, and we heard the lugubrious horns of France sounding a retreat. The day was lost for Valois.