I remember this part well, because now I was waiting on tables every night with the commanders. I heard it all — every squire did. The Prince wasn’t afraid, but he was deeply worried, and while he tried to watch his words, we all knew how important Lancaster’s army — and his reputation and experience — were to us.
But the next morning, when I packed in darkness and left my favourite cup by the fire in my rush to get my knight on the road, the French were coming after us. As we marched out of the south of Le Haye, the French came in from the north. It was that close. Luckily, they missed us, and having marched all night, they halted for a rest, and it was noon before they knew how close we’d come.
We took Chatellerault without too much effort the next day, and the rumour was we’d hold it until relieved by Lancaster — it was a bridge town, and with it in our hands we could whistle at the French and wait for Lancaster to come down from the north. It was a lucky capture, and all agreed we were saved — indeed, that now we held the whip hand.
I curried horses. I had time to help Abelard. I made an early decision not to cut my ties with him or the company of archers. I was proud to be a squire, but I had no friends there. The squires had no love for me. While no one beat me or played tricks now, I had no friends among them. I seldom ate with them, and Richard and I were creeping back towards a fight. It was like a dance — and we were dancing towards a duel. We both knew it, and the other squires knew it, too. Since this was serious — sword in the guts serious — they didn’t torment me. They just waited for me to be dead.
At any rate, I kept working with Abelard whenever I had time. We were in the same retinue, and now I knew everyone — not just Abelard and archer John, my former mentor, but John Hawkwood; Peter Trent, the master archer; Sir Edward Cressey, my master, and Thomas de Vere himself. As well as fifty other men — archers and men-at-arms and squires and servants.
Everything was fine, except that Lancaster didn’t come. He couldn’t. He was the best soldier England ever grew, but he couldn’t get his army over the Loire. We waited three days for him, and there was more wine drunk at every dinner in the Prince’s pavilion, and by the third night, tempers were flaring and Boucicault, who was still with us, used the term ‘trapped’ in a sentence.
That night, as I carved some questionable venison, a messenger came in and reported that the King of France was just east of us, at Chauvigny.
All conversation died.
The Prince was wearing black. He didn’t always — that’s just the sort of crap men say — but that night he wore black with his three white livery feathers embroidered in silk thread on his chest. He was the tallest man in the tent — or perhaps that’s just how I remember him. He stood.
‘Messieurs,’ he said. ‘If the King of France is really at Chauvigny,’ he looked around. I swear his eyes came to rest on me. He spoke in French, of course. ‘If he is at Chauvigny, then we have no choice. We must fight.’
By God, they rose and cheered him.
No one said, ‘Christ, they outnumber us four to one.’
No one said, ‘Christ, they’ve cut our retreat, and if we lose, we’ll all be taken or killed.’
But certes, I confess that every one of us thought those things.
The next morning, we were up before the cocks. We all knew it would be a desperate battle, and the older men walked around steadying us. Master Peter came and put a hand on my shoulder and told me to fill every bottle I had with water, and that was the best advice I ever received. I had a big leather wine-sack and I filled it with watered wine; I filled four leather pottles with water, and a small cask. Then I loaded the donkey with all the vessels.
Then I got into my brigantine and my helmet. I buckled on my sword and helped my knight arm, which took almost an hour in the dark. I wonder if he was angry at me? I hadn’t stowed all his harness well, there was rust on one greave and I got the elbows on wrong and had to take them off and do it again. All while John Hawkwood was bellowing for the Earl’s men-at-arms to form.
My master never said a harsh word.
Bless his soul.
I saddled my horse, his war horse and his riding horse, then I fed and watered them. I was so flustered I had to take their bridles off to let them eat. I was doing everything out of order.
I felt the way you young men feel before a fight.
Terrified.
I followed Sir Edward up onto the walls, where we watched the ground to the south and west. As the sun crested the horizon, we could see the French already moving, their army a glittering snake in the hills to the south east. Between us was a range of low hills, heavily wooded, and two good roads (rare, in France), one on our side of the river and one on theirs, with the wooded ridge between them. Look here, friends. We’re in Chatellerault. Here, at the top of the triangle. The King of France is here at Chauvigny, ten miles to the south and east, and Poitiers is at the other base of the triangle, ten miles to the south and west. See it? The King is marching on the highway from Chauvigny to Poitiers to cut our line of retreat.
I stood on the walls looking at the terrain while the Prince laid out his plan. He staked everything on the deep woods on the ridge between the river and the road. We could move in those woods, if we were careful and our scouts were good, and the King of France wouldn’t know where we were. The Prince hoped to catch the King on his route of march — French armies are slow as honey. We’d cut his army in half and destroy it.
Or die trying.
We marched. For three miles we stayed in the open, on our side of the river. I think the Prince was still interested in avoiding battle, and I know that Talleyrand rode from the Prince to the King of France about the hour the bells rang for matins. At that time, we were west of the river, apparently running for the coast.
But as soon as Talleyrand left us, and his retinue of French knights were well out of sight, our screen of mounted archers found a good ford and we crossed the Clain River. We were all mounted, and we went up the bank and onto game trails in the woods.
The Prince’s archers were brilliant at this sort of thing. They posted men at every major junction, even in the maze of trails — apparently, this is what they did when deer hunting with the Prince, when leading him to a prime animal. Our vanguard followed them, and as soon as the van came up to one guide, he’d mount and spur back ahead to rejoin his mates, so that we had a constantly moving chain of guides. The archers had two local men — poachers — they’d taken in the town and promised a fortune. I hope they got it, because they were good guides. One of Hawkwood’s rules was always pay your spies, and always, always pay your guides.
When the sun was high in the sky, we were deep in the woods. I was with the Earl’s men, and we were in the middle of the column, which was just one cart or two mounted men wide. Diccon, Richard and I took turns watching the baggage animals. We were sure we would fight at any moment, and we expected to emerge from the endless wood at every turn in the trail — on and on it went, and the green grew boring and frightening at the same time.
The carts slowed us. The Gascons under the Captal were our vanguard, because they spoke the language and a few of them knew the terrain, and they crept along behind the Prince’s elite archers — crept, and yet outraced us in the main body, so that by an hour after noon we’d lost touch with the Captal’s men altogether, which made the Prince curse and Burghersh wince. I know — I was right there, handing out watered wine.
That wood was waterless.
If Sir Edward had been annoyed with me in the early morning darkness, he was pleased with me at the lunch halt. Most of the knights had little water, whilst I could water my horse and his, and give watered wine to a dozen men.