‘Are you with me?’ he demanded and knew the answer before the roar flapped the sides of the panoply with a dragon’s breath.
Addaf watched them butcher the horse in the stream, so that it ran red with blood all the way back to the sea. It had been worth a year’s wages, he thought bitterly, and had foundered trying to cross the tidal-swollen, steep-sided curse of a stream the night before; there were half a dozen more, slipped off the makeshift bridges of boards and tumbled to expensive ruin, unveiled as bloated, stiff-legged feasts for flies when the tide sucked the water back.
Men moved stiffly, red-eyed from lack of sleep. Most of the men-at-arms and knights had lain fully armoured by their bridled horses, starting fitfully at every noise, for everyone thought the Scotch imps of Satan would use the night for some foul, unchivalrous attack.
Now they levered themselves up, all the fine surcotes and plumes and trappers streaked with dust and dung, snatching bread or a mouthful of wine if they were lucky or had clever squires.
Addaf had not slept, nor many of his archers other than the eight who had been sent to eternal rest, ploughed under by the Van horse the day before. Now the remainder stretched, gathered their gear and moved like a black scowl into the day, smouldering still at what had been done to them.
They would not fight, Addaf thought. Not after being ridden over by the pig English, but it probably did not matter, since it seemed only the disarray of heavy horse would take to the field. He hoped that was so, for he did not want to put his men to the test.
Ironically, it would be Y Crach who fired them up, with his demands to do God’s work. I will have to deal with him, Addaf thought, sooner rather than later. But the thought crushed him with weariness.
Sir Maurice Berkeley would have been surprised to find that he was in agreement, at least with the latter part of Addaf’s reckoning. The foot, exhausted from a long march – and still struggling to the field – were littered like fallen trees, Hainaulters, Genoese crossbowmen, Cheshire archers and all.
Only my Welsh dogs, Sir Maurice thought, are fit to get to their feet and draw a bow, and he did not much like the lowered brows of them; he was angered at what had been done to them by Gloucester and Hereford, but kept that choked.
He was glad to be quit of the Van, back with the King’s Battle and assigned to the Earl of Pembroke’s retinue: the further his Welsh were from the mesnies of Hereford and Gloucester the better. He wished he could keep his son and two grandsons out of it as easily.
Just as well the Scotch won’t stand, he thought.
Addaf glanced at Sir Maurice, seeing the blackness on the man. The Berkeleys should have that chevron on their fancy shields turned up the other way, he thought, as a better representation of the scowl between their brows.
Mounted men worked the stiffness out of horses and their own muscles, calling out the bright, shrill ‘Je vous salue’ one to another. These were the ones who had risen early and found a priest who could take their confession and shrive them – now the priests were too busy taking Mass as the sun filtered up, for this was the Feast of St John.
Sir Marmaduke had mounted Garm, feeling half-dead and chilled; enjoy it, he growled to himself, for it is the best part of the day, which promises to be hotter than Hades – and better half-dead than entirely so.
He turned as a ragged wave of shouting spread from head to head; Sir Giles d’Argentan, splendid in scarlet and silver, cantered through the throng, heading for the mass of horse out to the front. He smiled and waved right to left, the perfect paladin leading the King to battle.
Edward followed, even more splendid in scarlet, the three gold pards glowing in the rising light. To his left, de Valence kept pace with him and, trailing behind, came the royal mesnie, a little bedraggled but still grinning.
Thweng fell in beside Sir Payn Tiptoft, who raised a gauntleted hand in greeting.
‘Dieu vous garde.’
Thweng returned the compliment, but he had hands full of reins and shield and lance, so it was an awkward fumbled affair; Tiptoft’s squire, he saw, rode unarmoured at his master’s back, carrying lance and shield both, but Thweng liked his own squire, young John, too much to place him at such risk.
‘Will he speak, d’ye think?’ Tiptoft demanded and Thweng knew Sir Payn referred to the King. He did not think so and saw the headshake and frown when he said as much. No holy banners from Beverley and no rousing royal speech. No knightings either – every custom and usage of battle, it seemed, was being ignored.
He saw the King rein in suddenly, forcing everyone to hastily follow; horses veered and swerved and there were muted curses and a clatter of arms and armour. Perhaps he realizes he should have done more, Thweng thought as the King screwed round in his saddle and flung one triumphant hand to the east.