I cut my way to him. He must have had ten knights on him.
Here’s what happened.
One man was in Burgundian colours; he was closest to me. I came on him from behind, and in one swing of my war sword I dropped him — concussed, dead, or merely smart enough to drop the ground, he was out of my fight. The next fellow in green and gold whirled in his saddle, but he had to stretch across his body to reach me, and I spiked him in the armpit with my point two handed, and he was gone. So was his squire, who tried to reach me. I killed his horse as mine danced under me — forward, back, a half-rear, a lashing forefoot. Why a country priest had been riding a prince’s war horse was beyond me.
Seguin and I ought to have died right there, but I fought better than I’d ever fought before, and my nameless, stolen horse powered me from opponent to opponent.
So instead. .
John Thornbury erupted from the back of the melee and slammed into the man-at-arms, hammering Seguin with a mace. Blood flew like the rain, and the man seemed to jump off his horse.
The Burgundians melted away. It was shocking how fast they vanished, and I was slow to react. I was, in fact, so sure we were all about to be killed that I was hunching my shoulders, breathing like a bull, ready to fight to my very last ounce of strength.
Then I saw one of Camus’ black and white villains grab the reins of a knight in Bourbon’s arms, and I realized that we were not losing. When routiers take the time to take ransoms, it means we’re winning.
Companions, it was like the sun bursting into full flower over the battlefield. I was a dead man. .
. . and then I was not.
I stood in my stirrups and had a look. I had time — no one near me was fighting. To my left, up the ridge, there were still men fighting against Mechin and our footmen. But in front of us, the northern levies of the King of France were melting like snow in the desert, or throwing themselves off their horses and begging to be ransomed.
To my right, I saw Jacques de Bourbon. I’d saved his life once, and I determined to have him. He had two sons by him, and either of them was worth a fortune. But in the time it took me to ride ten horse lengths, they were already ringed with men like me, so I carried on, angling my horse to my right, downhill.
I caught a knight’s reins without having to try — he cut himself free from the rear of the crush and there I was. I took his reins and he begged my aid. He opened his visor and gave me a gauntlet.
‘Ride with me, monsieur, and I will protect you,’ I said.
Twenty horse lengths further on, I found myself among Hawkwood’s men. We were all intermixed, but I was watching for Savoyards, and there they were. Sir John took the Marshal of Savoy under my nose.
There was still a knot of men fighting. One had green and black arms, and I cantered at him. At lance-length, I rose in my stirrups — he was hammering Sir Robert Birkhead — dropped my sword and leaped at him, right out of my stirrups, arms spread. I hit him, wrapped him in my arms and carried him out of his saddle to the ground.
We hit hard. He broke his arm and I wrenched my left shoulder.
Nonetheless, he tried to rise. I put a hand on his elbow, opened my visor and said, ‘Yield, brother.’
Broken arm and all, he barked a laugh.
We were lying under a tangle of horse’s legs and hooves, and it seemed comfortable to be out of the fight. He was in pain, but he grabbed my hand. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I never thought we’d lose. Milady is in the camp.’
Rape and murder. That camp was about to become hell on earth.
‘Save her, William,’ he begged, and passed out. Damn him.
Men made their fortunes in the fight. Mercenaries retired from arms and went to live on rich manors.
The French army, on the brink of victory — or past it, if you ask me — suddenly collapsed. Mechin’s desperate footmen held past all expectation, then surged forward down the hill to complete the rout. Within an hour, we were in their camp.
I had taken two more knights, so that I appeared to be leading my own conroy. I had lost Perkin and Robert and de la Motte, but I wasn’t worried. They’d find me. I had one goal in mind from the moment Richard spoke. I rode into the Savoyard camp and rode my war horse up and down the tented streets, calling, ‘Milady! Janet!’
The rout of their army was behind me and all around me, and archers and Gascon spearmen were pouring down the hill. The more able women were already running, and a few had horses.
‘Milady!’ I screamed.
It was an odd moment, for me. I was trying to save someone. It was suddenly very, very important to me.
‘Milady!’ I roared. I turned to the knights I’d captured. ‘Gentlemen, will you support me in an attempt to save a lady?’
The Burgundian knight flushed. ‘But of course, monsieur!’
The other Savoyard didn’t answer.
We spread out. The edge of the wave of murder was just washing against the tents at the southern edge of the camp, and the screams had begun. Why hadn’t the other women run? They had children; they had things they valued too much; they wanted to wait for their men. Or they couldn’t believe they’d lost.
I couldn’t find her. Simple calling wasn’t working, for whatever reason. I decided to reason it out. The Green Count himself wasn’t in the field, but Richard was. On the battlefield, he’d been near the Marshal of Savoy. I found the Marshal’s arms on a tent off to my left and rode to it.
One street away, two Gascon spearmen were taking turns stabbing a priest. They roared and he screamed.
Hell.
I rode off to the right. Two tents past the marshal’s pavilion was a long, low tent of simple white linen, but the third tent in had a green pole striped black. I rode for it.
A woman screamed.
A man came out of the tent clutching his side. As I watched, he fell to his knees, blood flooding under his brigantine.
I heard the woman scream again and I was sure it was Milady.
Still mounted, I used my sword to cut through the side of the tent.
He had her hair. She had a wicked, long dagger, but he was wrenching her back and forth by the hair while using his other hand to raise her kirtle. He was laughing at her efforts to kill him.
I put the point of my sword into his laugh.
I reached down, caught her and boosted her across my saddle. In the same motion, I stripped the long dagger out of her hand.
‘Milady!’ I shouted at her. I couldn’t slap her — in gauntlets, you can kill a person with a slap — I just backed my horse through the slit.
My Burgundian had his sword across his saddle-bow and was covering me. The other knight I’d taken was nowhere to be seen. He’d ridden away.
I wonder what de Charny would have said about the situation. Eh, messieurs?
We rode north to get free of the looters. In fact, we made a great loop — almost five leagues — to stay well free of anyone who could hurt us, and by the time we capped the ridge Milady knew who I was. She was shaken. In fact, she was silent.
But as I set her down by my old wreck of a tent, she smiled. ‘I’m going to be a man again, if that’s all right,’ she said, very quietly. ‘I want to be a knight,’ she said.
I nodded. ‘Me, too,’ I said.
There’s a particular exhaustion that smashes you down after a day of fighting in harness. It’s not just fatigue — the mind can only handle so much violence, in my experience. Add the stress of leadership, the quest for a woman who is about to be hurt, and hurt badly, and the likelihood of defeat. .
After Brignais, I lay down on my pallet in my squalid tent and went to sleep, still wearing all my harness. Other men seized ransoms or pursued the beaten French. I was asleep.
I came to with that confusion that comes with fatigue, sleep and darkness. Night was falling and our camp was in a state of near riot.