1356

Saint George.
    ‘Weapons, gentlemen,’ the captal said in heavily accented English. He grinned and his teeth looked very white against his sun-darkened skin, which was shadowed by his helmet. ‘Now let’s destroy them!’
    With those words he spurred his horse out of the trees. The men-at-arms and archers followed and as Thomas rode into the sunlight he suddenly saw the French army crowded at the hedge, and he saw that the captal had led them in a wide circle so that they were now riding at the French from the rear. The men-at-arms with lances held the weapons upright. All the long lances bore a black and yellow pennant: the captal’s colours. There was a small hedge in front of them, but there were gaps, and the horsemen streamed through, re-forming on the far side as the captal spurred into a canter. Thomas’s world was the thud of hooves, a devil’s thud counterpointing the drums of the French, who seemed oblivious of the horsemen coming from behind.
    They were riding on grassland now. Thomas kicked his horse into a canter. Not far. The French were just two bowshots away and the one hundred and sixty horsemen were spreading out. Down into the small combe, then up the slope where the horses trampled the broken grape vines. The flag of Saint George was high, the lances were lowered to the charge, the spurs went back, and a man screamed, ‘Saint George!’
    ‘Saint Quiteira!’ a Gascon shouted.
    ‘And kill them!’ the captal bellowed, and the horsemen let their destriers and coursers run, and the French rear ranks, where the more timid men sheltered, turned to see the great beasts and armoured men crashing down on them and they broke even before the charge slammed home. Flags fell, men began to run, clumsy in their armour, and then the horses were among them and the lances slid into steel-clad bodies and axes swung to splinter backplates and shatter bone and to mist the autumn air with blood, and Thomas heard himself shouting like a fiend and feeling utter exhilaration. ‘Saint George!’ and he slammed the spike at the end of the poleaxe into a Frenchman’s helmet and let the momentum of his horse drag the weapon free. A nakerer let his vast drum fall and ran, but a horseman turned and casually split the man’s skull with a sword before turning back to attack a French knight. He swung again and his sword shattered the Frenchman’s sword. A horse reared and beat a man down with its hooves. Sam was killing crossbowmen with an axe. ‘I hate bloody crossbowmen!’ he shouted and dropped the axe blade onto a man’s head. ‘Like cracking an egg!’ he shouted at Thomas. ‘Who’s next?’
    ‘Stay together,’ the captal shouted. They were only one hundred and sixty strong, and the King of France’s battle was three thousand men, but the one hundred and sixty had shattered the rear ranks of the French, who were now desperately running back towards the west. The front ranks, fighting beyond the hedge, heard the panic, and the whole battle moved backwards as the English line roared in triumph and moved forward. More horsemen appeared, this time from the southern end of the line, a more ragged charge of men coming to complete the panic. And the French had indeed panicked. They were fleeing, all of them, and the captal bellowed at his men to pull back.
    A hundred and sixty men had broken an army, but they were still hugely outnumbered, and the French were realising it and forming lines to resist the horsemen. Three of them caught Pitt, the taciturn archer, and Thomas watched, horrified, as they cut his horse down with axes, dragged Pitt from the saddle and beat him to death with maces. Thomas rode at them, reaching them too late, but swinging the poleaxe wildly and slamming the blade into a man’s neck. ‘Bastards!’ he shouted, then twisted his horse fast away from their axe blows. He followed the captal north, just out of range of the French weapons. The prince’s men had come through the hedge and were falling on the French who again broke in panic. They fled, pursued by the dismounted men-at-arms coming in ever greater numbers through the hedge, and by the horsemen who had appeared to the south.
    It was like shepherding a flock of sheep. The horsemen rode and threatened and the French made no effort to re-form, but kept going westwards. The oriflamme had vanished, but Thomas could see the blue and gold of the French royal standard still flying in the centre of the disorganised mass.
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