Fields of Glory Read Online Free PDF

enough to do more than bruise. Sir John threw it at the man’s head in disgust and drew his sword. Now the third knight – a heavy-set brute
with a thick, bristling beard – was barging forward, shrieking a war cry, his mouth wide open when Sir John’s lucky stab caught him full in the face. His smile was turned to blood, and
he spat teeth from his ravaged mouth.
    Sir John turned to the first man again, who fought with savage determination, although the two-foot splinter sprouting from his shield must have made it horribly unwieldy. Sir John beat at him,
keeping him between Aeton and the third man-at-arms, but it seemed nothing he could do would knock him from his mount. Sir John decided to change tactic. He withdrew his horse a little, and then
urged Aeton on again, riding for the head of the man’s horse. The beast was shoved aside, and Sir John hacked at its rider with two vicious sweeps right, before bringing his sword down onto
the horse’s skull. It collapsed instantly, and Sir John rode over the man on the ground to get back to the last attacker – but he had given up and was riding away, back into the shelter
of the trees.
    Sir John had to fight to control Aeton, who was raring to continue the battle. At last he managed to soothe the brute, patting his neck until the bloodlust left him, and he stood shivering,
whickering as his rage cooled.
    Looking down, Sir John saw that one of Aeton’s great hooves had landed on the last man’s face, and while he seemed to stare back at the knight with his remaining eye, the other side
of his face had been mangled and stamped by the brute’s horseshoe.
    Sir John studied the body dispassionately.
    There would be many more dead, he knew, before this campaign was over.
    ‘Stay with me, lads!’ Berenger warned while he and the vintaine slowly advanced. ‘We’re here to guard the landing, not to go chasing off like hounds
after a hare. Hold the line!’
    Jack gave a chuckle. ‘We’re well out of it, I reckon. Getting in the middle of a bunch of hairy-arsed horsemen is one sure way to get your skull broken.’
    ‘Aye, and I don’t like the thought of running after ’em. If you want a hound, get a hound,’ Wisp added.
    A few of the French had tried to coordinate their own charges against the English, but as more and more English knights charged up the beach, the Frenchmen despaired. The foot-soldiers had
already mostly fled: those who hadn’t lay dead or injured. When only twenty-odd men on horseback remained to contest the landing, it was obvious that the English must prevail. The French
faltered, and then, as one body, galloped away.
    Two men-at-arms clapped spurs to their beasts to chase after the fleeing enemy, but the Earl ordered them at the top of his voice,
‘No! Stay here with the army!’
Then, seeing
Grandarse, he indicated the bodies. ‘Make sure all are dead, and keep a close eye on those trees.’
    Grandarse looked at Berenger, who nodded and pulled out his knife. ‘Come, boys. We have work to do.’

Ed and Clip rejoined the vintaine as the men were wiping their weapons clean of enemy blood. Berenger watched them approach and snarled, ‘You took your time.’
    ‘Scared we’d leave you, Frip?’ Clip grinned. ‘Wouldn’t do that to him, would we, boy? You know you can trust me.’
    For a moment Berenger was gripped by the urge to grab Clip by the throat and punch him – but it passed. It was the reaction. He hated slaying the injured. Some were so badly hurt that they
barely moved as his knife sliced across their throats, or into their hearts or brains – but there had been two today who had looked up with eyes like puppies’ as he delivered them from
their pain.
    It reminded him of helping the warrener when he was a boy: catching rabbits and killing them swiftly, releasing them from pain. Except here, the men were surrounded by the odours of battle: the
metallic smell of blood, the midden-smell of opened bowels. Having to step