The Mistress Of Normandy (33 page)

“Nay, Simon. The French have forgotten the lessons of Crécy and Poitiers. They follow an antique battle plan that relies on sheer might and disdains the skill of the archers.” He dropped his visor. “They’ve chosen a foolish position to make a stand. The trees on either flank hem them in so that our target is narrowed to that one muddy valley.”

“We’ve buried our arrows in smaller targets than that,” Piers boasted.

Grinning, Jack struck the boiled leather of his breastplate and said, “The smaller the target, the bigger the wound. Let’s go kill the prissy bastards.”

A stir to the right caught Rand’s eyes. Several hundred yards distant, the English army gathered at the far end of the ridge. Knowing that his ability to join the battle depended on anonymity, he motioned for his men to halt beneath a concealing veil of low branches.

The king appeared at the head of his pitifully small army. Although bareheaded, he was fully armored. His
cotte d’armes,
covering his chest, bore the leopards of England quartered with the lilies of France. His men formed into one line, four deep. Henry stood at the center, York on the right, Lord Camoys on the left. Erpingham’s archers gathered in triangular formations on either side and between the main thrusts.

The English had no reserves. None except Rand and his followers—one a bastard prince, one a priest, one maimed, one a boy, and all scared.

Behind the lines, at the fringe of the Maisoncelles woods, wagons full of baggage and wounded men formed a park—ill protected, as Henry had not the men to spare for a proper guard. Two boys, one hooded, the other bareheaded, peered from the high side of one of the carts. The trumpeters of the minstrel band sat with their instruments lowered. The deployment of the army was carried out in mist-thick silence.

Royally proud as only a king can be, Henry sat a white horse. He raised one arm; the royal banner with the arms of Our Lady, the Trinity, and St. George unfurled above his head.

In the valley below, some of the French were sitting on the ground, eating and drinking as if battle were not moments away. Others jostled for a frontal position. Ever jealous of their own glory, they quarreled. The arguments made a stark contrast to the quiet order of the English. Rand wondered if Gervais were among them. Then he discounted the notion. Mondragon would likely lurk at the rear, hoping to steal his share of the victory after the danger had passed.

Henry placed a basinet on his head. A crown of rubies, sapphires, and pearls marked his rank. He spoke. Rand could not hear the words, but he knew the way of Henry with soldiers. The archers gripped their longbows tighter; the mounted men sat straighter in the saddle. As if by heavenly design, the sun emerged from the clouds and shed a weak light on the field.

Erpingham tossed his baton in the air and shouted,
“Nestroque!”
The marshal’s age-old command belled out through the ranks. The bowmen shouted in response.

King Henry then gave the formal cry of battle. “Banner avaunt! In the name of Jesus, Mary, and St. George.”

The three tight divisions, dwarfed by the boundless steel wall of the French, marched forward. Archers ran ahead, planting a wall of sharpened stakes.

“What the devil are they doing?” Dylan asked.

With a wry smile, Rand said, “Putting up a fence.”

Jack nodded sagely. “The horses have more sense than their riders. They’ll shy away from the stakes.”

“Or be impaled upon them,” said Rand. He reached down and stroked the well-tended coat of Charbu.

The king, York, and Camoys dismounted and came on with drawn swords.

Provoked by the brazenness of a ragged army a fraction its size, the French horsemen galloped around from the wings, flooding like a sea of steel into the gap between the woods. Roars of
“Monjoie! St. Denis!”
filled the air.

“It’s time,” said Rand.

“God save us all,” said Batsford.

“Death to the goddamned French,” said Jack.

They cantered down the ridge to join the left flank. Without his martial colors, Rand blended into the ranks of mounted men-at-arms. As he rode, his mind and heart worked in wild, urgent cadence. Certain that death awaited him this day, he embraced his memories. He thought of his son, felt the firm, trusting clench of Aimery’s tiny fist about his finger. He thought of Bois-Long, taken from him by a woman’s treachery. Yet even now he remembered days of sunshine and nights of splendor, and love for Lianna blazed high in his heart. Somehow, her devotion to France dulled the sting of betrayal. She’d defied him, yet in knowing her, making a life with her, sharing all with her, he’d become a better man. Aye, he’d go to his grave loving Lianna.

Twenty-Three

S
tanding in the baggage cart at the top of the ridge, Lianna watched the battle in horror, awe, and disbelief. The chevaux-de-frise, hidden by mud from the French horsemen, took the knights by surprise. Sickened, she saw horses spitted and disemboweled by the sharpened stakes. Beasts screamed, wheeled, and bucked their armored burdens into the mud. Founts of blood sprayed over the bowmen, drenching them with glorious, hideous color. Entombed by metal, helpless without their pages, the fallen knights met death beneath the blows of English clubs and maces.

Through the next charge, the bowmen kept up a relentless threefold drill of
Notch! Stretch! Loose!
delivering a razor-tipped hail into the ranks of the French.

Still the French nobles came on, swarming into the valley, bearing down with all the speed they could coax from their overburdened destriers. Packed too close to swing a sword, they folded in on one another, trampled their fallen comrades.

Use the guns, she thought in silent frustration. But the arrogant lords had jostled the gunners to either side of the ranks, thus robbing the artillery of a satisfactory field of fire. The crossbowmen, too, had been squeezed aside by disdainful horsemen. Some archers doggedly grappled with cranequins and clinches, gaffles and winders. But their antique bows proved no match for the quick and deadly English longbows.

The crash of steel on steel punctuated the whine of arrows. The slaughter, she thought, sounded like the din of a deadly smithy. She glanced over at Johnny. The boy’s face was white, his mouth rimmed by taut lines of fear. Lianna guessed what gripped his mind. The gory reality of pitched battle did not match the flowery tales of valor sung by the bards.

A fresh wave of French knights charged. Some managed to evade the bloodied spikes of the chevaux-de-frise and engaged the English soldiers. She looked at the left flank, where the fighting was most vicious. A tall knight, devoid of an identifying tabard, stood surrounded by four Frenchmen. Even in his suit of steel the man moved with the ease and grace of a dancer. A powerful thrust sliced into the mail beneath one foe’s arm. Even before blood welled from the wound, the English knight pivoted to deflect the blade of another. He met blow after blow with magnificent courage and unflinching valor.

Deep within Lianna, an undefinable feeling strained. At first she felt only a sense of admiration for the personal bravery of the lone knight. But as she studied his tireless, calculated movements, she knew it was something more.

Recognition exploded in her mind.

“Dear God, ’tis Rand,” she whispered.

Johnny regarded her curiously. “My lady?”

Raw terror left her speechless. The battle was no longer a fight between French and English, archer and horseman. The combat had shrunk to a fight between the man she loved and the French knights intent on killing him.

She tried to pray but could find no coherent words. She dared to hope but could find no promising thoughts. She clung to the side of the cart and watched Rand battle for his life.

Blades, maces, and battle-axes sliced and swung at Rand. His armor was dented in dozens of places. Two more Frenchmen fell beneath his blade, but Lianna could see his energy flagging. The split-second timing that had served him so well only moments ago had suddenly become imprecise. A mace clanged against his basinet. He reeled wildly.

“Help him!”
she screamed at the archers who fought nearby. But those not similarly engaged were busy making prisoners of the fallen French nobles. They’d not trade their hard-won booty for the life of one nameless English knight.

Rand recovered from the blow and surged forth. More Frenchmen fell beneath his lethal blade. Just as relief made an inroad into Lianna’s terror, a new column of mounted French entered the pocket of fighting. Lances lowered, voices raised, they came on with soul-wrenching speed.

Sobs tore from her throat. She tried to scramble from the cart, but the chains shortened her reach. Unable to witness Rand skewered by a lance, she ground her fists into her eyes.

A burst of dark thunder brought her gaze back to the battle. The lead horseman had flopped from his saddle; the others galloped away in panic. The men on foot scattered, leaving Rand standing alone, his bloodied sword hanging at his side. Searching through billows of smoke, Lianna made out the small figure of a man running toward Rand. Instantly she identified the gunner’s helm and long handgun as Chiang’s.

“Sweet Holy Mary,” she breathed. Chiang, her friend and confidant, had thrown in his lot with the English. The shift in her master gunner’s loyalty bothered her not at all, for Rand was safe. He shouted something to Chiang, and together they plunged down toward the valley and disappeared from view.

“He fought,” said Johnny with quiet awe, “like a legend.”

Questions seethed through her mind. Did Rand’s presence mean the king had found him, forgiven him? Or had her husband joined the battle in anonymity? Finding no answers, she tried to locate him on the field. But now all she could see were the growing piles of dead and wounded, the groups of prisoners.

The French lay floundering, crushed, dying in the mud. Archers, seized by blood lust, threw down their bows and took to stabbing their fallen adversaries between rivets, plunging daggers into visors. Noblemen were dragged off by sergeants in charge of ransoms. The captives, stunned speechless, were deposited by the baggage park. Just fifteen minutes before, these cocksure lords had been eating and drinking and, between toasts, taunting the puny English force.

The mounds of dead towered higher than a man’s shoulder. Already carrion crows circled overhead. The mud was stained red and reeked of blood and sweat and fear. English soldiers, Welsh bowmen, and Irish warriors butchered with a savage jubilance that chilled Lianna’s heart.

The Duke of Alençon stumbled toward King Henry and held out his sword in surrender, sobbing, “I yield!
Ayez merci,
I yield!” Lianna sagged with relief; perhaps the slaughter would end now. Yet a blood-crazed English knight stepped between Henry and Alençon and rived the duke’s head from his shoulders.

The fighting continued.

Lianna was shocked to note, from the changeless position of the sun, that only a half hour had passed. The tiny English army had made a vicious advance into the French ranks. Soldiers scrambled over mountains of dead. The archers, in an orgy of victory, looted. One bowman sliced the fingers off a wounded man, doubtless to get at his jewels, but also in reprisal for the French threat to maim all archers.

The battle lines faded into disorganized pockets of fighting. Rand was nowhere in sight. Looking about, Lianna became aware that the men guarding the baggage park had gone off to join the fighting and looting. She thought to flee, but shackles and horrified fascination held her still.

A howl sounded from behind. She whirled to see a mounted French knight leading a rabble of peasants toward her. The knight wore Rand’s
cotte d’armes.

Gervais.

A scream gathered in her throat; the keen edge of his blade suddenly laid across her neck held her silent. From the corner of her eye she saw Johnny knocked senseless. He sank onto the sacks of grain and utensils.

“The woman’s mine,” bellowed Gervais from behind his visor. He dismounted; his gauntleted hand rifled the contents of the cart. In greedy triumph he held up a gold crown and King Henry’s chancery seal. “These as well. ’Twill be a high insult. Do what you will with the rest.”

Baggage boys were summarily tossed aside. Eager hands took horses, caches of gold and silver. Lianna scrambled from Gervais, but the manacles made her clumsy. She fell over the side of the baggage cart.

“You never should have left,” said Gervais. His steel-encased hand snatched at her. She shrank from him, stumbled.

Caparisoned in light armor, and thus unencumbered, he captured her easily and hauled her to her feet. His fingers bit into her upper arms. She looked around in panic. Not far away, knights wearing the colors of York had gathered around the prisoners. One or two Yorkists glanced her way, mildly interested. Doubtless they believed Gervais an Englishman and didn’t realize what he was about.

Breathing hard, he said, “Do you come docilely, Baroness, or shall I sling you across my saddle like the article of baggage the English have made of you?” He cuffed Johnny, who was shaking his head groggily.

“I’d sooner see you in hell,” she spat, then clenched her teeth against the pressure of his bruising fingers.

Johnny, recovering from the blow, leaped over the side of the tumbril. “Leave go of her,” the lad yelled. Brief as lightning, he lashed out at Gervais. A dagger glittered in the cloud-filtered sunlight. Blood spurted from Gervais’s shoulder, drenching the stolen tabard.

“Whoreson!” he bellowed. His free hand swung wildly. Johnny fell. Then, jerking Lianna into his arms with bone-jarring force, Gervais ran toward his horse.

Terrorized beyond reason, she screamed the name of her beloved.
“Rand!”

Somewhere at the fringes of the disassembled left flank, Rand fell still. His heart gave a great lurch. The sudden feeling of dread that washed over him had nothing to do with the two dismounted knights he was fighting. Both were battle weary and not entirely sober; almost casually he had been trying to batter them into yielding.

But the sound, faint as a wisp of breeze-borne smoke, set his nerves on edge. His heart always heard, no matter how faint her cries. He turned toward the baggage park.

At the site, he saw a hooded youth struggling with a knight. Then the hood fell back, and moon-silver hair spilled over narrow shoulders.

Lianna.

He felt as if an iron fist had driven into him. “Sweet lamb of God,” he gasped. Unthinking, he deflected a blow.

A knight wearing Rand’s own
cotte d’armes
dragged her away from the carts. Rand knew with pure dread that the imposter was Gervais Mondragon.

A mace slammed against Rand’s basinet, and deep ringing sound blotted out all save the burst of pain. Reeling, he lashed out wildly with his sword. The flat of the blade met armor; the impact reverberated up the length of his arm.

His vision cleared. Through the slits of his visor he saw the two knights advancing, one wielding a sword, the other a mace. Fear for Lianna drove all thought of mercy from his mind. His blade sang a note of deadly menace and sliced cleanly into the gorget of the mace-wielding warrior. The man babbled a curse, sank to his knees, and pitched into the mud.

The other man, swinging deftly, came on.

Rand heard Lianna scream again.

He thrust; his opponent parried. Seconds flew by.

“I’ll take him,” yelled a familiar voice. Jack bounded up. He’d discarded his bow in favor of knightly weapons retrieved from fallen Frenchmen. Rand experienced a moment of anxiety; how would Jack fare against a trained knight?

“Just go, damn your eyes!” Jack bellowed.

Running as fast as his steel-encased legs would allow, Rand crossed to the baggage park.

Manacles clanging against the imposter’s breastplate, Lianna hammered at her captor. Her small fists seemed impossibly fragile against the steel wall of armor.

Roaring with fury, Rand bore down on Mondragon. He grasped Lianna and sent her hurtling back. With his sword tip, he lifted the visor. Gervais glared, hard-eyed and red-faced.

“Yield or die,” said Rand.

“I...” Gervais swallowed.

Rand flicked the blade to Gervais’s throat. “You’ll squirm on my sword like a bug on a pin.”

Mondragon’s weapon clattered to the ground. “I yield,” he spat bitterly.

Rand noticed the jeweled piece swinging from Mondragon’s baldric. “The crown,” Rand said through clenched teeth. Cursing, Gervais surrendered it, and Rand shoved the object into his own baldric. He began pushing Gervais at sword point toward a group of guarded prisoners.

Over his shoulder Rand addressed Lianna, who followed hard on his heels. “What do you here?” he demanded.

“I sought the king,” she said. “I wanted him to know you did not betray him.”

Rand’s breath caught in his throat. He longed to believe her; his heart told him she spoke the truth. His eyes fastened briefly on her iron-bound wrists.

“The Duke of York made me a prisoner,” she said. “He’s convinced you turned traitor.” Her weary, lovely face lit with hope. “But we have Gervais now. He’s proof of your loyalty.”

Gervais swore.

Trumpets blared in the distance. Lianna stopped short. “’Tis my uncle’s refrain.”

Alarm raced through Rand’s veins. “Damn Burgundy! If he’s violated his promise to remain neutral, the French could yet win the day.”

Lianna pointed to the north. A knight leading a host of horsemen raced toward the battlefield. “Not Burgundy; ’tis Uncle Antoine of Brabant.”

Seizing the second of preoccupation, Gervais turned and ran for his horse.

Rand lunged after him.

“Rand, wait!” Lianna’s scream brought him wheeling back around. “Help him.” Her eyes, wide with horror, were fastened on the field. She pointed a shaking finger.

Jack Cade lay on the ground, disarmed, rolling from side to side in an effort to evade the downthrusts of his opponent’s sword.

Forgetting Mondragon, Rand hurtled across the field. He arrived just as the knight’s blade made another stab at Jack.

The blade sliced into Jack’s side.

Rand beheaded the knight with a single stroke that bore all the savage force of his horror and grief.

He plunged to his knees beside Jack. Heart pounding, teeth clenched, Rand extracted the blade.

Jack winced and swore. He turned his head toward the twitching body of the fallen Frenchman. “That bastard...won’t be toasting victory tonight, my lord.”

“Hush, Jack, save your wind.” Rand looked down at the fount of crimson spurting from Jack’s side. “Surgeon!” he bellowed, looking about wildly. Cold inside and out, he flung off his gauntlets and cradled Jack’s head. “Hold on, my friend....”

Jack’s face had drained to gray. His eyes fluttered shut. “Goddamn, I think I’m dead.”