adjusted their bows’ angle and loosed a concentrated hail of arrows into the confines of the bramble patch. The enemy’s cries of pain ended quickly – the hammer-like force of a shaft striking a body stunned most into breathless pain. Except for the agonized moans of the wounded, the fight was over – the killing had taken less than ten minutes.
Blackstone and the others advanced carefully.
‘Bray! Elfred! Blackstone!’ Sir Gilbert’s voice carried from the other side of the hedges.
‘Aye!’ Elfred and Bray answered.
‘Yes, here, Sir Gilbert,’ Blackstone heard himself say. He was gazing down at an old man, the French knight whose gauntlet-covered fist had been raised, ready to trigger the ambush. Blackstone’s arrow had taken him through the collarbone into his chest and out of his groin, piercing his chain mail as if it were nothing more than a nightshirt. He lay on his back, his body contorted in a frozen spasm of shock, then death. The blood from his gaping mouth was already buzzing with flies. His jupon of pale apple green with a vivid blue swallow was darkened by the seeping stain. Blackstone couldn’t take his eyes from the man’s deathly gaze.
Two of Sir Gilbert’s soldiers hacked at the hedgerow and then Sir Gilbert himself pushed through the gap. He was grinning. Blood splattered his surcoat and legs.
‘We killed a dozen or more,’ he said happily. ‘Is he one of yours?’ he asked, following Blackstone’s gaze. Blackstone nodded.
‘Well, there’s a feather in your cap, lad. Your first kill a knight. A piss-poor one with no arms worth taking, perhaps, but praise God there’ll be plenty more. France has the greatest host of knights in the world. They’re magnificent fighters, I’ll say that for them. Though not so magnificent with a yard of English ash gutting them, eh?’ He laughed and touched Blackstone’s shoulder. ‘Well done, lad.’
Dying men had soiled themselves and the smell of ordure, together with that of copiously spilled blood, mingled into a throat-gagging stench.
Blackstone turned away and vomited.
The men around him laughed.
‘First time is the worst time, lad. Get used to it. This is as much glory as you’ll see in a battle,’ Sir Gilbert said. He raised a flask to his lips and swilled the wine before spitting it out. He unbuckled the dead knight’s scabbard and looked at the chipped blade.
‘An old sword, older than him, but it has a good balance to it.’ Sir Gilbert sheathed it and tossed it to Blackstone.
‘Spoils of war. It’s better than that bastard toothpick of yours. Attach it to your saddle, but get rid of the scabbard if you fight with it. Damned scabbard is no good to a man on the ground with a sword in his hand, it’ll trip you and then you’re done for.’
The wounded men in the hedgerow were quickly despatched by the hobelars. ‘There’s fifteen or more here, I’ll wager,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘Did we lose anyone?’
‘Attewood,’ Bray answered, as he unstrung his bow. ‘Back there in the field.’
‘Well, that’s a poor bargain. An English archer for these scum,’ said Sir Gilbert.
‘Do we bury him, Sir Gilbert?’ Elfred asked.
‘No time. Foxes and carrion crows will pick his bones. Was he Christian?’
‘He never said,’ Bray answered.
‘Then we’ll let God decide. Get his weapons.’
Elfred nodded and turned back towards the fallen archer.
One of the wounded attackers, his lower back pierced by an arrow, was trying to drag himself away through the meadow grass. He muttered words that sounded pitiful to Blackstone – words he did not understand. Sir Gilbert picked up a cumbersome crossbow and tossed it to one side.
‘Genoese crossbowmen. They’re the best in the world, but not good enough today. Philip’s bought himself some mercenaries. If there’s half a dozen all the way back here then you can be sure there’s another few thousand between us and Paris. Put the man out of his misery, Blackstone,
Blackstone and the others advanced carefully.
‘Bray! Elfred! Blackstone!’ Sir Gilbert’s voice carried from the other side of the hedges.
‘Aye!’ Elfred and Bray answered.
‘Yes, here, Sir Gilbert,’ Blackstone heard himself say. He was gazing down at an old man, the French knight whose gauntlet-covered fist had been raised, ready to trigger the ambush. Blackstone’s arrow had taken him through the collarbone into his chest and out of his groin, piercing his chain mail as if it were nothing more than a nightshirt. He lay on his back, his body contorted in a frozen spasm of shock, then death. The blood from his gaping mouth was already buzzing with flies. His jupon of pale apple green with a vivid blue swallow was darkened by the seeping stain. Blackstone couldn’t take his eyes from the man’s deathly gaze.
Two of Sir Gilbert’s soldiers hacked at the hedgerow and then Sir Gilbert himself pushed through the gap. He was grinning. Blood splattered his surcoat and legs.
‘We killed a dozen or more,’ he said happily. ‘Is he one of yours?’ he asked, following Blackstone’s gaze. Blackstone nodded.
‘Well, there’s a feather in your cap, lad. Your first kill a knight. A piss-poor one with no arms worth taking, perhaps, but praise God there’ll be plenty more. France has the greatest host of knights in the world. They’re magnificent fighters, I’ll say that for them. Though not so magnificent with a yard of English ash gutting them, eh?’ He laughed and touched Blackstone’s shoulder. ‘Well done, lad.’
Dying men had soiled themselves and the smell of ordure, together with that of copiously spilled blood, mingled into a throat-gagging stench.
Blackstone turned away and vomited.
The men around him laughed.
‘First time is the worst time, lad. Get used to it. This is as much glory as you’ll see in a battle,’ Sir Gilbert said. He raised a flask to his lips and swilled the wine before spitting it out. He unbuckled the dead knight’s scabbard and looked at the chipped blade.
‘An old sword, older than him, but it has a good balance to it.’ Sir Gilbert sheathed it and tossed it to Blackstone.
‘Spoils of war. It’s better than that bastard toothpick of yours. Attach it to your saddle, but get rid of the scabbard if you fight with it. Damned scabbard is no good to a man on the ground with a sword in his hand, it’ll trip you and then you’re done for.’
The wounded men in the hedgerow were quickly despatched by the hobelars. ‘There’s fifteen or more here, I’ll wager,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘Did we lose anyone?’
‘Attewood,’ Bray answered, as he unstrung his bow. ‘Back there in the field.’
‘Well, that’s a poor bargain. An English archer for these scum,’ said Sir Gilbert.
‘Do we bury him, Sir Gilbert?’ Elfred asked.
‘No time. Foxes and carrion crows will pick his bones. Was he Christian?’
‘He never said,’ Bray answered.
‘Then we’ll let God decide. Get his weapons.’
Elfred nodded and turned back towards the fallen archer.
One of the wounded attackers, his lower back pierced by an arrow, was trying to drag himself away through the meadow grass. He muttered words that sounded pitiful to Blackstone – words he did not understand. Sir Gilbert picked up a cumbersome crossbow and tossed it to one side.
‘Genoese crossbowmen. They’re the best in the world, but not good enough today. Philip’s bought himself some mercenaries. If there’s half a dozen all the way back here then you can be sure there’s another few thousand between us and Paris. Put the man out of his misery, Blackstone,
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