know who you’re going to die for – other than me and your King.’
As each young man knelt before his sovereign Sir Gilbert whispered some of their names: Mortimer , de la Bere , Salisbury , de la Warre . Then a lame middle-aged noble limped forward, his surcoat of red and gold horizontal bars catching the rays of the July sun through the church’s west window. He knelt and did homage to Edward.
‘That’s Godfrey de Harcourt,’ Sir Gilbert said quietly as the Norman baron swore his allegiance and recognized Edward as King of France.
Then lions and lilies unfurled as the King’s standard was raised.
‘Now we’re at war,’ Sir Gilbert said and tugged the reluctant Blackstone to the door.
Sir Gilbert was pursuing his duty to Lord Marldon. He hoped that giving Blackstone his protection and then chastising him harshly would teach the boy quickly and help him find the courage needed for what lay ahead.
He took twenty hobelars – light cavalry who looked as if they could ride down wolves – attended by twenty archers, and rode south to scout the land. Sir Gilbert had chosen veterans and half a dozen of Lord Marldon’s men to ride on the sortie. Nicholas Bray rode at their head. Norman forces loyal to Philip were light on the Cotentin peninsula, but every step towards the River Seine and Paris, the French capital, would take its toll on Edward’s forces. There had already been brief skirmishes with other units and one of the marshals, the Earl of Warwick, had been ambushed, but had fought his way clear. The few hundred retreating French troops would harry and snap at the army’s flanks.
And now Edward had made a proclamation that, out of respect for de Harcourt, and to show that these French were Edward’s vassals, no Norman manor houses or towns were to be looted or burned. That beggared belief as far as Nicholas Bray and the other veterans were concerned. How was the army to feed itself? How could lowly paid men be kept willing to fight if they could not plunder? Scouring the land was accepted practice. Sir Gilbert knew it was a promise that the King could not keep, and told them so. The army was a disciplined fighting force against any enemy, but villages needed to be looted and burned – that was a fair warning to his King’s enemies. This war was not about mercy.
And Blackstone needed to be blooded. For days they rode south, criss-crossing the peninsula. Villages were deserted; some had already been burned by foragers and those that remained Sir Gilbert’s men put to the torch. The message was being sent to the French King that the English army was coming. As each day passed the frustration of not engaging with the enemy made Sir Gilbert more bad-tempered than usual. Like all the nobles and knights he craved the joy of battle and the glory and wealth it could bring. The dragging pace of the baggage train kept Edward’s main division well behind the vanguard. And thank God for it, Sir Gilbert let it be known. They needed to get their arses out of the confines of this suffocating landscape before the French King brought up his army and trapped them with their backs to the sea. If the Prince of Wales’s vanguard of four thousand troops could smash their way through to the cities of St Lô and Caen then they would be on their way to Paris. Sir Gilbert knew the land. He’d irrigated the French soil with his enemies’ blood before. That’s why he was leading a reconnaissance of pox-scarred, drunken, throat-slitting archers across a godforsaken landscape with nothing but the mocking crows to taunt him. And he told the archers so. Every day.
Blackstone had no idea where he was. The names of places meant nothing to him, nor to most of the others. What he did know was that the expectation of the unknown scared him. They had skirted the marshlands, moving down the narrow tracks between high hedgerows. This bocage was the most dangerous terrain and the men were forced to ride close together. A couple of
As each young man knelt before his sovereign Sir Gilbert whispered some of their names: Mortimer , de la Bere , Salisbury , de la Warre . Then a lame middle-aged noble limped forward, his surcoat of red and gold horizontal bars catching the rays of the July sun through the church’s west window. He knelt and did homage to Edward.
‘That’s Godfrey de Harcourt,’ Sir Gilbert said quietly as the Norman baron swore his allegiance and recognized Edward as King of France.
Then lions and lilies unfurled as the King’s standard was raised.
‘Now we’re at war,’ Sir Gilbert said and tugged the reluctant Blackstone to the door.
Sir Gilbert was pursuing his duty to Lord Marldon. He hoped that giving Blackstone his protection and then chastising him harshly would teach the boy quickly and help him find the courage needed for what lay ahead.
He took twenty hobelars – light cavalry who looked as if they could ride down wolves – attended by twenty archers, and rode south to scout the land. Sir Gilbert had chosen veterans and half a dozen of Lord Marldon’s men to ride on the sortie. Nicholas Bray rode at their head. Norman forces loyal to Philip were light on the Cotentin peninsula, but every step towards the River Seine and Paris, the French capital, would take its toll on Edward’s forces. There had already been brief skirmishes with other units and one of the marshals, the Earl of Warwick, had been ambushed, but had fought his way clear. The few hundred retreating French troops would harry and snap at the army’s flanks.
And now Edward had made a proclamation that, out of respect for de Harcourt, and to show that these French were Edward’s vassals, no Norman manor houses or towns were to be looted or burned. That beggared belief as far as Nicholas Bray and the other veterans were concerned. How was the army to feed itself? How could lowly paid men be kept willing to fight if they could not plunder? Scouring the land was accepted practice. Sir Gilbert knew it was a promise that the King could not keep, and told them so. The army was a disciplined fighting force against any enemy, but villages needed to be looted and burned – that was a fair warning to his King’s enemies. This war was not about mercy.
And Blackstone needed to be blooded. For days they rode south, criss-crossing the peninsula. Villages were deserted; some had already been burned by foragers and those that remained Sir Gilbert’s men put to the torch. The message was being sent to the French King that the English army was coming. As each day passed the frustration of not engaging with the enemy made Sir Gilbert more bad-tempered than usual. Like all the nobles and knights he craved the joy of battle and the glory and wealth it could bring. The dragging pace of the baggage train kept Edward’s main division well behind the vanguard. And thank God for it, Sir Gilbert let it be known. They needed to get their arses out of the confines of this suffocating landscape before the French King brought up his army and trapped them with their backs to the sea. If the Prince of Wales’s vanguard of four thousand troops could smash their way through to the cities of St Lô and Caen then they would be on their way to Paris. Sir Gilbert knew the land. He’d irrigated the French soil with his enemies’ blood before. That’s why he was leading a reconnaissance of pox-scarred, drunken, throat-slitting archers across a godforsaken landscape with nothing but the mocking crows to taunt him. And he told the archers so. Every day.
Blackstone had no idea where he was. The names of places meant nothing to him, nor to most of the others. What he did know was that the expectation of the unknown scared him. They had skirted the marshlands, moving down the narrow tracks between high hedgerows. This bocage was the most dangerous terrain and the men were forced to ride close together. A couple of
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