You get the picture.
When he was armed and mounted, he rode over to me and raised his visor. ‘I understand Madame the Princess gave you that yesterday,’ he said conversationally.
I bowed in my saddle. ‘My lord is correct.’
He nodded. ‘Do you really think you are the best man among all these worthy and noble gentlemen?’
His intention was to be rude. He was tense and what the French call ‘disobliging’.
I bowed again. ‘My lord, after Madame the Princess was kind enough to grant it to me, I thought it would be rude not to wear it.’
‘It looks like a brag, to me. But you are young, and English, and probably don’t understand such things.’ He shrugged — no easy feat in armour — and turned his horse away.
I was too young to answer the bastard as he deserved. I just sat there, my knee hurting, thinking about what I’d do to him if I ever had the chance.
Fast, dashing talk is hard. You have to practice. You have to read — the romances are full of bon mots to shoot at your opponents. I vowed to read more. I sat on Goldie, stared at his back and stewed.
It was as hot as the hell I was destined to visit with my soul steeped in the mortal sin of adultery. Sweat soaked my cap and my helmet liner, and trickled down my back under my arming coat and shirt. Knights came one and two at a time into the yard and armed, and the appearance of each was a little event — ladies cheered; men shook hands.
It was my first chance to see the French — from inside, so to speak. They were, and are, great knights, but there is an element of performance to everything. Each knight had to be seen and admired; had to arm publicly and hear the plaudits of the ladies. Meanwhile I sat and sweated as my knee burned like sin.
Until Emile entered the courtyard. I was watching the French knights, trying to imagine which one was her husband. There was a murmur — I turned my head and there she was, dressed in her gown, with my blood on it. She paused by one French knight’s horse and curtsied, back straight, eyes down. Then she danced among the horses, crossed the yard — the English and Gascons were all together, and the French were all together, and a few feet separated us like a wall — and paused under Goldie’s nose. She curtsied.
What could I do? Spurn her? I grinned. ‘Madame,’ I said.
‘I. . we. . put all our faith in you,’ she said distinctly.
There was a murmur of outrage from the French.
I drew my sword and saluted her. ‘I will try to be. .’ I began, and then I thought of a line from the Alexander Romance. My mother used to read it to me when I was little — the monks had a copy which I’d used to learn French. I waved my sword. ‘Only death, madame, will prevent my return. Victorious.’
She flushed and smiled. A French lady at the edge of the yard clapped her hands together.
The Captal grunted. ‘Excellent, my big English mastiff. When we’ve killed all the Jacques, we can fight the French.’ But he grinned wolfishly at me. ‘Never mind them, stay close to me, or the Sire de Bourbon will have you off your horse in the melee.’ He shot a glace at one of the French knights. ‘Her husband’s brother. Eh?’
We were not a band of brothers. Somewhat shamefacedly, I put my sword away, and emotion made me shove it home in the scabbard a little too hard.
The captain of the castle arranged us in ranks, and we shuffled about the yard, forming a dense column. The enemy was already formed on the far bank, their flanks anchored on stone buildings either side of the bridge entrance, and they had crossbowmen in the houses.
De Grailly had half a dozen professional archers, and Sam was with them in the bridge-gate tower. That was all the support we were going to have.
Let me add that the Jacques were fools to come out and fight at all. Much less to pack in like lemmings at the entrance to the main bridge.
The main gate opened.
I was in the third rank, behind the Captal’s shoulder, with Tom — the last man mounted — at my right hand. The Count of Foix was in the front rank, with the captain of the castle and the Duke de Bourbon. They were there from social precedence, although, to be fair, they also had the very best and latest armour.
The Captal was far and away the most famous knight — and the best, I think. As a mere Gascon, however, he was in the second rank.
The French. Well might you all shake your heads.
We walked out the gate. As soon as we were on the bridge, the head of the column began to move faster — it was a tricky manoeuvre, getting the column to a charge on the bridge without crashing into the enemy in dribs and drabs.
Just as I passed into the brilliant sunshine beyond the bridge gate, the first flight of English arrows hit the Jacques and men fell.
The Duke de Bourbon put his spurs to his horse. The captain’s horse shied, and the Captal pressed past him — I stayed with him, and we galloped down the narrow path, barely three horses wide. I was struggling to get my lance into its rest when I felt a change, and my left rein hung slack. One of the French knights had cut it as I rode past.
By St Thomas, gentleman, try riding with a lance and no control of your horse on a bridge just five ells wide! I was saved by the closeness of the press — Goldie had nowhere to go but forward, and I grabbed the curving cantle of my war saddle with my left hand, jamming my shield against my left thigh and losing the reassuring cover of its shadow against the crossbows. I put my head down, and rose slightly in my stirrups as Bertrand du Guesclin had taught me.
Some poor bastard in the front rank took my lance in the chest and died instantly. My lance tore a great hole in him, then snapped, and I bounced back against the rear of my saddle and snapped forward again as the lance broke. Goldie, maddened by the blood, the gallop and the waiting, crashed into the press, kicking and biting, and I had no control over the damned horse, who was going like a demon from hell. I reached for my sword as Goldie did a curvet that almost unseated me, but I got my right hand on my hilt and pulled — the sword stuck fast.
Good Christ, that was a terrible moment. A crossbow bolt struck my visor and tore it off its hinge, so it hung from the right, bouncing against my head and face. What was worse, the forcible removal of my visor showed me that Goldie had carried me past the Jacques and I was all by myself, with men all around me, reaching for my harness — a bill slammed into my right foot, and the sabaton held, but the weight of the blow hurt my ankle.
I fell back against my cantle, and Goldie caught the change in weight, bless him, reared and kicked.
I got my right hand back on my sword hilt and pulled.
The belt moved on my hips and the sword stayed scabbarded.
Not that I stopped to make choices, but I couldn’t dismount — I was surrounded by foes — and I couldn’t control my horse, either.
And I had no weapon.
My right knee throbbed like some devil’s torment. And some of the knights on my own side were trying to kill me.
I got Goldie to rear again and kick. As he came down on his forefeet, I pinned my scabbard with my left hand, shield and all, and pulled at the hilt with my right, with all the power of desperation.
A spear point caught me from behind and threw me forward over my horse’s neck, which of course made Goldie bolt forward.
Finally the sword came loose in my hand. I sat back, hard, to try and slow my mount. Now I was deep in the ranks of the Jacques — I cut, more from habit than from a feeling of combat, and they scattered.