“Push forward, lads!” he shouted. The men groaned and strained and roared, and pushed as hard as they could, but the enemy kept coming, adding bodies to their mass, and Gill found himself taking small steps in the wrong direction.
“Push, you bastards!” he shouted. He grabbed a spear from the ground; holding it horizontally, he pressed forward on the men before him, trying to drive them on. The front row were already too closely entwined to use their weapons, and the fight had degenerated into a grappling contest, with the men thrown to the ground killed by those in the rearward ranks who still had space to use their weapons.
The melee was a confusing scrum of bodies. There were too many men coming over the wall, and the pocket they were occupying was growing, allowing them to be bring more men to the fight. There was no denying what was happening, and the longer they fought on such a wide front, the more the advantage would swing against them. Gill looked back at the village: the cluster of buildings around the square provided a number of choke points, where they’d be better able to defend against greater numbers.
He’d considered this in preparing their defence, but part of him had hoped that they might be able to hold the enemy at the walls. He’d wanted to instill the idea in his fighters that the pickets would be enough to help them hold off the enemy, and keep them safe. Confidence in that thought would help them achieve it, but even a fool could see that was no longer believable.
“Fall back!” Gill shouted.
The men didn’t need to be asked twice. They peeled away, turned, and ran back for the village with such haste that he was worried they wouldn’t stop. He charged back himself, hoping to get there before them so he could rally them at a choke point.
A few of the fleeter-of-foot got back to the village before Gill, and as he’d suspected, they didn’t stop to take up new positions. All he could do was hope that those coming behind him did—or at least, didn’t try to kill him if he stood in their way. He spotted a small reserve waiting in the square; they appeared unnerved by the withdrawing troops, who looked far more like they were routing than merely retreating.
“Let no one else by,” Gill shouted. “Add any men that reach you to your force. We’ll plug all the streets. We’ll hold them here until they break.” He threw in the last part in the hope of undoing some of the damage of the fleeing troops. He had some reputation, both as a dragonslayer and as a soldier who had been considered a national hero once upon a time, although many of the men were too young to have much memory of that. Nonetheless, they weren’t going to believe they could win if he didn’t pretend he did, so pretend he would.
He turned and held his arms out to stop the retreating troops and soon gathered enough to block the street, then started issuing commands to put them into a semblance of order. Some had dropped their weapons, but most still clung to a spear, axe, or sword. Gill did his best to ignore the approaching enemy as he tried to put the men with spears and shields in the front, while those with cutting weapons stayed in the rear rows, poised to chop at anything that came within reach.
One thing caught his eye, however—a banner he recognised. The one the Count of Aubin had been flying when they had met for their parley. The sight of it set Gill’s mind racing. There were any number of reasons that Aubin might choose to come in for a closer look, but one stuck out in Gill’s mind. As long as the king lived, he remained a threat, possessed by witchcraft or not.
Aubin was going to want to make sure Boudain was captured or killed. It was something he needed to see with his own eyes.
Gill had planned on saving the king’s banner for a special moment, that point where a little morale boost could make the difference between victory and defeat, but now, he realised, he could use it like a flame to draw a moth. He grabbed a spear from the soldier next to him, pulled the banner out of his tunic, tied it on, and raised it as high as he could. The two blue dragons rampant on a white field fluttered proudly on the gentle breeze, announcing to everyone who recognised the king’s sigil that he was in the thick of battle. The deception was hardly honourable, but neither was sedition, and when it came to war, winning was all that mattered.
There was a chance he was inviting an arrow in his direction, but everyone would know that the standard-bearer was not the king and that shooting him down was an empty act, for such a man was easily replaced. Better to leave the banner flying, so they would know where the true prize was.
He didn’t have much of a vantage point where he was standing, but he was taller than most, so could see over their heads. A group of well-armoured men was clustered around Aubin’s banner, exactly as Gill had suspected. He would have liked a little more time to consider a plan to draw Aubin in. Killing a commander could swing the balance of a battle faster than anything else.
The surest way to lure him was to make it look like the king’s party was in trouble. The only problem there was that unlike the group around Aubin’s banner, those around Boudain’s looked distinctly less convincing. He spotted the young officer from earlier, and gave up trying to remember his name after only a moment’s effort.
“You!” Gill had to shout three times before the young man realised he was the one being called. “Get up to the belfry and send the Count of Savin’s retinue down here to join me. Then get all the troops from the northern section and form them into a reserve on the square before the church. Understand?”
The captain nodded, but didn’t look like he appreciated the seriousness of Gill’s order. With so much going on, and the fact that he’d just experienced his first combat, that was forgivable. “Get them down here fast,” Gill added, nearly snarling. “Or I’ll have their guts out myself.”
Now the fellow set off at a run, disappearing into the church a moment later. Gill turned back to the enemy. Aubin had slowed his attack, and was taking time to get his troops back under control. He was shrewd enough. Many inexperienced commanders would let their troops run amok once they’d had their first hint of victory.
It didn’t take long for a group of noblemen to emerge from the belfry, their quality armour a marked contrast to what everyone else, Gill included, was wearing. They were moving quickly, but there was no mistaking their reluctance. They’d had a prime view of the battle as it had unfolded, and had no doubt watched plenty of men die. Now it was their turn to roll the dice.
“To me!” Gill shouted.
They responded, and as soon as they’d gathered, Gill raised the royal standard as high as he could.
“Look important,” Gill said to one of the new arrivals who had a neat black beard that would pass for the king’s at a distance. Gill could see that the noble was a long way from understanding what Gill was up to, but time was too tight to get everyone caught up.
“Gather around the banner, lads,” he said. “You’re the king’s retinue. Act like it.”
They looked at him with puzzled expressions, but did as they were told. Now, how to get to Aubin, he thought. An idea occurred to him, accompanied by the pang of regret that he hadn’t come up with this plan earlier. Still, there was something to be said for an ability to react to circumstances as they unfolded. Plus, he could always claim it had been part of his plan all along, assuming it worked out. He turned to a group of levy men gathered in the square.
“Any of you lot done any hunting? Any poaching?” he said.
There was no response.
“Come on. I’m not the bloody sheriff. I need some men who’re handy with a bow. Show me some hands!”
One or two rose hesitantly, followed by a half dozen more.