Fields of Glory Read Online Free PDF Page A

returned, showed any emotion, appearing to take the arrival
of the enemy as a personal affront. Berenger eyed his men closely, assessing their temper. Geoff alone looked distracted, seemingly by young Ed as much as the enemy. It made Berenger wonder if
Geoff was still boat-sick, or whether there was something else troubling him. He had been quiet before boarding, he recalled.
    Grandarse loudly deprecated the temerity of the French in arriving before he could have weapons readied and men brought to their support.
    ‘Sons of whores,’ he grumbled. ‘Look at ’em! Sodding about like they have all the time in the world, just because they caught us out here with our hosen down, the
bastards.’
    ‘Yes, lookit them,’ Clip moaned. ‘Bloody hundreds! We’ll all get slaughtered here.’
    Matt sniffed. ‘Ach, stop your whining, Clip. They’ve got sod-all discipline, eh?’
    Satisfied with his vintaine’s mood, Berenger grinned to himself.
    There was a series of roared commands from the beach, and Berenger turned to see Sir John, his own captain and the commander of two hundred men, galloping past to join the Earl of
Warwick’s vanguard. Berenger felt a flare of pride at the sight. So few, yet all were riding to meet a force many times their own size.
    Geoff gave a hoarse roar of encouragement, and the rest of the men waved fists or weapons as Warwick gave an incoherent scream, couched his lance and charged. A moment later, the men behind him
also thundered into the French, and Berenger saw one Frenchman lifted into the air, spitted on a lance, to be thrown down behind the Earl. There was a clash of weapons, shouts and cries, and
Berenger could see little through the dust and sand that was thrown into the air by the impact of the attack.
    ‘UP!’
Grandarse commanded over the sound of battle.
‘FORWARD!’
    ‘Christ’s pain,’ Berenger heard Matt mutter, but the vintaine began to walk steadily to the battle.
    They possessed few weapons, but the French weren’t to know that. Berenger marched forward with his eyes moving about the woods and fields before them, searching for the appearance of new
forces, fearing this was a ruse to entrap the English.
    As his destrier brought him closer, Sir John de Sully felt his spirits soar: even as the great horse’s hooves pounded at the soil, his heart beat faster and faster, and
he could have sung with joy to be in battle again. This was life! He felt as though his soul was with the angels!
    Old age be damned!
    His mind was completely focused. It was ever the way for him that, as he approached the enemy, he saw only that which was directly before him. Now two Frenchmen were in his sight-line, one with
a steel helm, one with a leather cap, and neither of any importance. He set himself at them, his lance-point wavering, but as he closed he chose steel-cap, and his lance-point fixed on his target.
Nearer, nearer . . . and he saw the dark eyes narrow in shock, then the man tried to draw aside, but too late, and Sir John’s lance trembled in his fist as the point buried itself in the
man’s breast.
    There was a scream, and as Sir John thundered on, his progress so swift that it took only a flick of his wrist and the dying Frenchman, still spitted like a pig, was lifted high overhead to fall
behind. His lance freed, reeking of the blood and shit that dripped down the shaft, Sir John set his mount at another man, spurring Aeton onwards. This man wore a steel bascinet and mail, but
before he could close with him the fellow had set his own horse at the Earl.
    Frustrated, Sir John snarled and searched for another opponent, but then realised that three men were making for him. He couched lance as Aeton reared, and charged again. This time his
lance-point struck a shield, and the point became embedded. The shock snapped it away, sprinkling the shield with faeces and blood. Sir John swung the lance’s stump at the second man; it
slammed into his upper arm, but not forcefully