From the trenches and the main parts of the town of Villeneuve-la-Hardie, they could be seen up on the heights of Sangatte: row upon row of French horsemen, their flags and pennants fluttering gloriously in the wind. And in response, all over Calais the townspeople cheered and blew loud blasts on their horns. Fires were lit on the walls to celebrate the arrival of the French King with a force that could sweep the English invaders from his path.
‘Shit! Archers!’ Grandarse bellowed as the English horns blew to arms. ‘Fripper, John, all vinteners to me: now!’
Berenger and the others heard the call amidst the din, and he left the vintaine under Jack’s command. ‘Just don’t let Clip fall into another cesspool while we get things moving,’ he snarled, and hared off, glancing every so often up at the cliffs.
There were at least a hundred of them. Men clad all in armour, with the mail sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight. Above them fluttered a multitude of flags and pennons, with the great flag of St Denis, the Oriflamme gleaming scarlet, distinct in the clear air.
‘Christ’s ballocks,’ Grandarse said when Berenger joined him and the rest of the men, ‘where have you been, Frip? Having a wank? Never mind that now. The French army is here, as you can see. We need to array as planned.’
‘How far away is the French army now?’
‘I’m told that the scouts have seen a camp three leagues from here. They are building a camp to rival ours, perhaps! There are enough of them. Frip, take your men up to the southern point of the camp. If anyone tries to force their way past, hit them hard. You’ve commanded a wing of archers – well, I’m giving you responsibility for half the centaine today. Take horses with you so you can ride back if it looks like you’ll be overwhelmed. And don’t take any risks. The lives of your archers are worth more than their knights’.’
‘I’ll tell them that. I’m sure they never knew you cared.’
‘Don’t be a thick, shit-arsed cock-quean, Fripper! An archer can kill three knights in a charge, so of course I bloody care about them! John, you and Alan and Roger will take your men and join Fripper’s, and you will take your orders from him until you hear different. Now move your mother-swyving backsides and protect the south!’
Berenger and the others didn’t need to be told twice. He explained where to meet him, and then raced off to find his pack. With that slung over his shoulder, he ran back to where his men were waiting.
‘Clip, Earl, Aletaster, Oliver – each of you go and fetch four horses and bring them down to us. We may need to escape quickly where we’re going. The rest of you, follow me. Where’s our cart? Good! Georges, you can be responsible for that. We will need all the arrows we can get.’
He hurried down the clear, straight road to the south. At every intersection he glanced back at the heights, but there was no apparent movement. That was a relief. Berenger knew the French would think very carefully before attacking, after their catastrophic charges at Crécy. This meant that the English had a little more time to prepare themselves.
At the southern point, he called a halt to their mad rush and ordered the archers to attack the ground with their picks and shovels. They had brought stakes and he wanted them planted all over the land before them. Some set to digging holes, at least one foot deep and a foot square as they had at Crécy, to disrupt any charges by the French, but the sandy soil here was less capable of obliging. Still, it kept the men busy. While they were doing that, he stood on a hillock and gazed about him.
The land here was perfect for the English defence. A marsh covered the whole area from the feet of the Sangatte cliffs, and thence east. To the south of Berenger’s men, there was one road that led up from Guines, and the road from the heights of Sangatte wandered from the hills up towards the beaches of the coast, and then over the one usable bridge at Nieulay. That was on a line due west of Berenger and the men, where they stood near the little church of St Peter at the crossroads leading up to Calais. But all those roads were ideal for the English: narrow, sliding into the marshes on either side. Any army attempting to move along those roads would be at the mercy of the English. Especially since the English had brought all their spare ships to lie just off the coast. These too were filled with archers. The road to the Nieulay Bridge would run along a line of archers who could hit a horse at eighty yards and more. If the French wanted to ride line abreast to charge the English, that too was impossible. The English had set up pallisades on the beaches to disrupt any assault. The bridge itself was protected by a tower, and behind this and all the other defences stood thousands of men under Henry of Lancaster, with more artillery.
Berenger and Grandarse had discussed their plan of action some days ago when news of the French advance had been reported. It was plain enough that the French could not hope to beat the English in the open, and would be very unlikely to attempt an assault on such well planned and executed defences. That would be too much to hope. But the French could be tempted to an area of apparent weakness, and here, to the south and west of the English forces, there was a road in which the French charge could consolidate. Here, where the marshes widened, they might commit themselves.
Not that it would serve any purpose, other than to injure a few score of archers, perhaps. The fact was, behind Berenger and his men were more archers, and immediately behind them lay another series of trenches that would disperse and destroy an attacking force. With archers on both flanks pouring shafts into them, the French would be annihilated. At least, that was the plan, were the French to attack here.
As the sun passed its zenith and the heat grew uncomfortable, Clip muttered, ‘Are they not coming, then?’
Berenger grinned. As a weathervane to show the direction of the men’s thoughts, Clip was incomparable. Now he was feeling frustrated and irritable. That was all to the good. Men in that frame of mind would fight if for no other reason than to vent their feelings.
He called to Clip, ‘We’re all thirsty, and as you’re the best scavenger, you can go and find us some ale. There’s bound to be some, somewhere.’
‘Yes, Frip.’
The vintener watched his man dart off up into the tangled mass of streets and lanes, little suspecting the outcome of that foray.
Clip knew of a good place to find wine, but as he walked along the main road, he sighted a familiar figure up ahead.
It was the outlaw who had attacked the vintaine on the way to Durham! He was not likely to forget that triangular face or gait in a hurry.
No, Clip would not forget that fellow, nor any of the others, in a hurry.
He was caught in a quandary, between the need for wine for the vintaine on the one hand, and the desire to follow this man and find out where he was going on the other.
Curiosity won the day. Taking care to remain invisible, he set off to stalk his prey.
Berenger was beginning to regret asking Clip to go and search out some wine. ‘I should have sent someone who’d just go to a tavern and come straight back,’ he grumbled to Jack.
‘Which one of this vintaine could be trusted do that, Frip, without testing the drinks on his way?’
‘That’s not the point. I’ll skin the bastard when he shows his face, again. He should have returned an age ago.’
‘Yes,’ Jack agreed, and both stared back towards the town.
‘You don’t think the stupid deofol’s fallen into a latrine again, do you?’ Berenger said at last, only half-joking.
‘That would be too much to hope for,’ Jack said, but there was an optimistic gleam in his eye.
Aletaster suddenly called out: ‘Frip, something’s happening!’
All thoughts of Clip were instantly wiped from his mind as Berenger turned his attention back to the heights of Sangatte. There, riding down a narrow track, was a small party of Frenchmen.
‘Shit! Archers, nock!’
They watched the line of French men-at-arms descend the heights and assemble at the bottom.
‘They’re going to try to charge the bridge!’ Jack cried. His eyes were keener than Berenger’s.
Berenger’s face grew lighter as he said, ‘Good luck to ’em. They’ll find that a hard nut to crack!’
The French began to ride forward, while a thick knot of men on foot ran pell-mell after them. Soon a roaring came to them on the still air – the clamour of battle. From here, it was astonishing to see how the arrows lifted and soared, then fell. It was like watching a black thundercloud on the horizon. More and more French were falling. Crazed, terrified horses, pricked with so many arrows as to look like pin-cushions, were rearing and trampling the men all about them. Flailing hooves crushed many a French skull, and yet soon, brave French fighters had arrived at the base of the tower at the bridge. With screams and shrieks, the English defenders threw themselves on the attackers, and died where they stood. More arrows flew, and Berenger saw the French fall as well, until it was hard to see which side was which, nor which men were falling. It looked like a scene from Hell: men dealing death with swords, maces, axes, anything that came to hand, accompanied all the time by the hideous whistle and slap of arrows dealing death to men and horses alike.
A group of men appeared with ladders, and these were thrown up at the tower’s sides.
‘They’re a bit more bloody handy with a ladder than our gits,’ Grandarse noted sourly. He had appeared as the first ladders hit the tower.
There was no doubting it: the tower was quickly lost. Soon there were new flags flying at the top, and the process of cleaning the building was undertaken with ease as bodies were flung from the top.
‘Right, lads,’ Grandarse said, hoicking up his belt and staring ahead grimly. ‘Our turn now. Let’s show these limp-wristed donkey-fuckers what English soldiers can do!’