miles to their front the ground rose to the west and then spread out into more open meadows. The burning villages were far behind them and the roving Welsh spearmen and English infantry had not yet reached this far south.
It was Richard who raised the alarm. His guttural cry alerted Sir Gilbert, who turned in the saddle prepared to issue a rebuke, but then he saw the boy explaining to Blackstone what he had seen. He halted the horsemen.
‘He saw a man half a mile away push into the hedgerow,’ Blackstone explained.
‘A peasant?’ Sir Gilbert asked.
Blackstone shook his head. ‘He wore mail.’
Sir Gilbert looked at Blackstone’s brother. ‘Tell him if he is wrong I’ll have him whipped. I need to move faster.’
‘With respect, Sir Gilbert, being dead is as slow as you can go,’ Blackstone said. ‘If he says he saw a man wearing mail, then that’s what he saw.’
Within minutes Sir Gilbert had ordered a plan of attack. Blackstone and the archers dismounted, climbed a high bank and pushed through the hedgerow. The track ahead looped to the left and the hedgerow followed the curved route. An ambush by French troops would be on that bend and the archers would be shielded as they approached their firing position, half-concealed by tall meadow grass and a drainage ditch.
‘My life is in your hands,’ Sir Gilbert said to Bray and the archers before they scurried away, their bows already strung.
Elfred led the way, crouching as he ran, seeking out the best position: a place that allowed them to kill the enemy without fear of their arrows striking Sir Gilbert and the horsemen. They heard the men continuing their way down the track as they prepared to draw the ambush.
On Bray’s silent command the dozen archers spread out a yard apart, nocked an arrow each and waited. Stillness gives a hunter the edge over his prey, but the shadows in the hedgerow, now two hundred yards away, shuffled nervously, readying themselves to strike and so revealing their position. The memory of the men working across the valley on Lord Marldon’s estate flashed into Blackstone’s mind. That idle game was now a deadly reality.
Blackstone saw a gauntleted arm raised from the greenery, a command to attack about to be given. He raised his bow and, as one, the others followed his lead. Goose-feather fletchings hissed through the air and the yard-long arrows struck home moments before the ambush. Despite the distance the sound of steel-tipped arrows ripping into flesh could be heard by the archers.
The wounded enemy’s screams were drowned by the attacking cries of Sir Gilbert’s men. Metal clashed, more screams, horses whinnied, half a dozen figures burst from the hedgerow to retreat across the meadows, running for shelter in the woodland five hundred yards away – a distance no retreating man could make when an English archer followed his run. Hemp cords released another flurry of arrows and the helpless men fell, most with two shafts tearing through bone, cartilage and vital organs. Those who did not die instantly would bleed to death within minutes, the shock from the impact of the arrows crippling and fatal. The battle was still being fought on the track. Blackstone broke cover, running instinctively, breathless with excitement mingled with fear, but with a focused certainty that he needed a better firing position. If Sir Gilbert had advanced along the track then he and his men would be in danger from his own archers. Something blurred past his face and one of the Englishmen cried out as a crossbow bolt slammed into his chest. An archer’s padded jacket offered insufficient protection against a direct strike.
‘Kneel!’ yelled Bray. From a dense patch of brambles half a dozen more bolts snapped over their heads; the range was down to a hundred yards. The crossbowmen had placed themselves between brambles and hedgerow, out of sight from an attacking force from the rear. Without conscious thought Blackstone and the others
It was Richard who raised the alarm. His guttural cry alerted Sir Gilbert, who turned in the saddle prepared to issue a rebuke, but then he saw the boy explaining to Blackstone what he had seen. He halted the horsemen.
‘He saw a man half a mile away push into the hedgerow,’ Blackstone explained.
‘A peasant?’ Sir Gilbert asked.
Blackstone shook his head. ‘He wore mail.’
Sir Gilbert looked at Blackstone’s brother. ‘Tell him if he is wrong I’ll have him whipped. I need to move faster.’
‘With respect, Sir Gilbert, being dead is as slow as you can go,’ Blackstone said. ‘If he says he saw a man wearing mail, then that’s what he saw.’
Within minutes Sir Gilbert had ordered a plan of attack. Blackstone and the archers dismounted, climbed a high bank and pushed through the hedgerow. The track ahead looped to the left and the hedgerow followed the curved route. An ambush by French troops would be on that bend and the archers would be shielded as they approached their firing position, half-concealed by tall meadow grass and a drainage ditch.
‘My life is in your hands,’ Sir Gilbert said to Bray and the archers before they scurried away, their bows already strung.
Elfred led the way, crouching as he ran, seeking out the best position: a place that allowed them to kill the enemy without fear of their arrows striking Sir Gilbert and the horsemen. They heard the men continuing their way down the track as they prepared to draw the ambush.
On Bray’s silent command the dozen archers spread out a yard apart, nocked an arrow each and waited. Stillness gives a hunter the edge over his prey, but the shadows in the hedgerow, now two hundred yards away, shuffled nervously, readying themselves to strike and so revealing their position. The memory of the men working across the valley on Lord Marldon’s estate flashed into Blackstone’s mind. That idle game was now a deadly reality.
Blackstone saw a gauntleted arm raised from the greenery, a command to attack about to be given. He raised his bow and, as one, the others followed his lead. Goose-feather fletchings hissed through the air and the yard-long arrows struck home moments before the ambush. Despite the distance the sound of steel-tipped arrows ripping into flesh could be heard by the archers.
The wounded enemy’s screams were drowned by the attacking cries of Sir Gilbert’s men. Metal clashed, more screams, horses whinnied, half a dozen figures burst from the hedgerow to retreat across the meadows, running for shelter in the woodland five hundred yards away – a distance no retreating man could make when an English archer followed his run. Hemp cords released another flurry of arrows and the helpless men fell, most with two shafts tearing through bone, cartilage and vital organs. Those who did not die instantly would bleed to death within minutes, the shock from the impact of the arrows crippling and fatal. The battle was still being fought on the track. Blackstone broke cover, running instinctively, breathless with excitement mingled with fear, but with a focused certainty that he needed a better firing position. If Sir Gilbert had advanced along the track then he and his men would be in danger from his own archers. Something blurred past his face and one of the Englishmen cried out as a crossbow bolt slammed into his chest. An archer’s padded jacket offered insufficient protection against a direct strike.
‘Kneel!’ yelled Bray. From a dense patch of brambles half a dozen more bolts snapped over their heads; the range was down to a hundred yards. The crossbowmen had placed themselves between brambles and hedgerow, out of sight from an attacking force from the rear. Without conscious thought Blackstone and the others
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