As grey evening stole upon the valley, King Charles came to see the brutal tally of the day’s fighting. His foot soldiers had scouted the area and declared it safe enough for his royal presence, though his guards still watched and rode all around him. They had been ambushed too many times over the previous weeks. Close to the king, only bodies and still-screaming wounded remained, until they were silenced. The English were cut or strangled on the spot, while maimed French knights were borne away to be tended by the army doctors. In the darkening air, their wails could be heard in miserable chorus.
The king looked pale and irritable as he walked the field, stopping first where Highbury had made his charge, then striding further out, to see where a single archer had been allowed to shoot from a safe distance. The king scratched his head as he imagined the scene, convinced he had picked up lice again. The damned things leaped off dead men, he had heard. There were enough of those.
‘Tell me, Le Farges,’ he said. ‘Tell me once more how few men they have. How it will be nothing more than a boar hunt through the valleys and fields of Maine for my brave knights.’
The lord in question did not meet his eye. Fearing punishment, he went down on one knee and spoke with his head bowed.
‘They have first-rate archers, Your Majesty, much better than I expected to see here. I can only imagine they came out from Normandy, breaking the terms of the truce.’
‘That would explain it,’ Charles replied, rubbing his chin. ‘Yes, that would explain how I have lost hundreds of knights and seen my expensive crossbow troop slaughtered almost to a man. Yet no matter who they are, these men, no matter where they have come from, I have reports of no more than a few hundred, at most. We have captured and killed, what, sixty of them? Do you know how many of mine have lost their lives for that small number?’
‘I can have the lists brought, Your Majesty. I … I’m …’
‘My father fought these archers at Agincourt, Le Farges. With my own eyes, I have seen them slaughter nobles and knights like cattle, until those still alive were crushed by the weight of their own dead. I have seen their drummer boys run among armoured men to stab at them, while archers laughed. So tell me, how is it that we have no archers of our own?’
‘Your Majesty?’ Le Farges asked in confusion.
‘Always I am told how lacking in honour they are, what weak and spineless specimens of men they are, yet still they kill, Le Farges. When I send crossbowmen against them, they pick them off at a distance too great for them to reply. When I send knights, a single archer can murder four or five before being cut down — unless he is allowed to escape to return and kill again! So enlighten your king, Le Farges. By all the saints, why do we not have archers of our own?’
‘Your Majesty, no knight would use such a weapon. It would be … peu viril, dishonourable.’
‘Peasants, then! What do I care who stands, as long as I have men to stand!’
The king reached down to pick up a fallen longbow. With a disgusted expression, he tried to pull back the string and failed. He grunted with the strain, but the thick yew weapon bent only a few inches before he gave up.
‘I am not an ox, for such work, Le Farges. Yet I have seen peasants of great strength, great size. Why do we not train them for such slaughter, the way the English do?’
‘Your Majesty, I believe it takes years to build the strength for such a bow. It is not possible simply to pick one up and shoot. But, Your Majesty, will you stoop to such a course? It does not suit a chivalrous man to use such a tool.’
With a curse, the king threw the weapon away with a great heave, sending it whirring over his head.
‘Perhaps. The answer may lie in better armour. My own guards are able to come through a storm of these archers. Good French iron is proof against them.’
To make his point, he rapped his knuckles proudly against his own breastplate, making it ring. Le Farges kept silent rather than point out the king’s ornate armour was nowhere near thick enough to stop an English arrow.
‘The crossbowmen use mantlets and wicker shields, Le Farges. Yet that is no answer for knights who must wield sword and lance. Better armour and stronger men. That is what we need. Then my knights can go in deep among them, reaping heads.’
King Charles stopped, wiping a drop of spittle from his mouth. Taking a deep breath, he looked into the sunset.
‘Either way, they have broken the truce. I have sent the call to my lords, Le Farges. Every knight and man-at-arms in France is coming north even now.’
Baron Le Farges looked pleased as he rose from his kneeling position.
‘I would be honoured to lead them, Your Majesty, with your blessing. With the noble regiments and your order, I will destroy these last stragglers and take all of Maine in a month.’
King Charles looked at him, his eyes cold.
‘Not Maine, you cloth-headed fool. They have broken the truce, have they not? I will have it all. I will take back Normandy and push the last English rags into the sea. I have eleven thousand men marching north. They have mantlets and shields, Le Farges! I will not see them cut down. Yet archers or no archers, I will not stop now. I will have France back before the year is out. On the blessed virgin, I swear it.’
There were tears in the lord’s eyes as he knelt again, overcome. The king placed his hand briefly on the man’s matted head. For an instant, a surge of spite made him consider cutting the fool’s throat. His hand tightened in the hair, making Le Farges grunt in surprise, but then the king released him.
‘I need you yet, Le Farges. I need you at my side when we drive the English out of France for the last time. I have seen enough here. The truce is broken and I will visit destruction on them that will stand for a generation. My land, Le Farges. My land and my vengeance. Mine!’
Jack Cade had to push hard against the crowd to force his way through. His two companions came with him in the space he created with his elbows and broad shoulders. More than one elbow poked back in time to catch Paddy or Rob Ecclestone as they went, making them curse. The crowd was already angry and the three men earned furious glares and shoves as they made their way to the front. Only those who recognized Ecclestone or his Irish friend stopped short. The ones who knew them well edged away to the outskirts, ready to run. Their reputation made as much space as their elbows and helped to deposit Jack Cade into the open air.
He stood facing the crowd, panting, black with soot and raw as a winter gale. The man who had been shouting to the gathering broke off as if at an apparition. The rest of them slowly fell silent at the sight of the newcomers.
‘Is that you, Cade?’ the speaker asked. ‘God’s bones, what happened to you?’
The man was tall and made taller by a brown hat that stood six inches off his forehead. Jack knew Ben Cornish well and he’d never liked him. He stayed silent, his red-rimmed gaze drawn to the swinging figure off to one side of the square. They’d taken no notice of the body while they’d stamped and laughed and had their meeting. Jack had no idea what Cornish and the others were there for, but the sight of their blank stares made his anger rise again. He wished he had a full jug in his hand to drown it.
‘I’ve come to cut my lad down,’ he said gruffly. ‘You won’t stop me, not today.’
‘By God, Jack, there are greater matters here,’ Cornish blustered. ‘The magistrate …’
Jack’s eyes blazed.
‘Is a dead man, Cornish. As you’ll be if you cross me. I’m about sick to my guts of magistrates and bailiffs — and sheriff’s men like you. Bootlicking pox-boys is all you are. You understand me, Cornish? Get out of here now before I take my belt to you. No, stay. I’ve a mind to do it anyway.’