still three furlongs away when their line began to waver. A shout went up from our men, and their line disintegrated completely. A frantic Frenchman wearing blue with golden stars—presumably the Constable—rode up and down their fleeing ranks. He cursed them roundly and adjured them to hold fast, but it was to no avail. These French were no soldiers; they were farmers, shepherds, and vinedressers. Their spirits had shriveled within them at the first sight of us, and now they dispersed in a crazed rush to cross the river and return to the eastern half of the town.
Our own commanders gave us free rein. We charged forward trying to reach the head of the bridge and cut the fugitives off from the gatehouse. Knights, archers, and men-at-arms rushed madly into the fray, hacking down the fleeing French with indiscriminate blows. Separated from Chandos by the swirling mob, I dismounted my horse in the melee. Once on the ground the tide of moving bodies swept me along. My eyes focused in on the blue surcoat with golden stars; I pushed toward it dealing blows to the right and left. Before I knew where I was headed, the blue surcoat had disappeared and I found myself at the foot of the gatehouse.
The bottom of a tower is a good place to be as long as there are no archers above. I set my back against the wall and held my ground against all comers. To my left stood a big Englishman with a neck like a bull. He had one eye with a jagged scar across the lid and nothing but the white of the eyeball inside. His shield showed the map of England surrounded by a silver border. A troop of a dozen men or so ranged themselves round about him, and I saw that he must be a baron of some small standing.
The fugitives were frantic now, with passage across the bridge being their only hope of survival. I blocked blow after blow with my shield, slicing at men who came too close or beating them down with the pommel of my sword. “Have at them, boy!” grunted the man with one eye. “Skewer the bastards!” He lunged and panted like a mastiff, snarling all the while out of the corners of his mouth.
The battle was all in our favor. As more and more of our men reached the gatehouse, the sloping banks of the river ran red with blood. “Shall we give them quarter?” I asked, seeing a few Frenchmen fall to their knees with their hands above their head.
“ Quarter?” bellowed the big man. “We give no quarter!” He spat as he said this, tripped a fleeing Frenchman, and sliced cleanly through the back of his neck. I shrugged wearily and hitched up my shield, anxious for the butchery to end.
“ Sir Thomas!” said a voice from a place above.
“ Eh?” said the big man, looking about him in bewilderment. His men shook their heads in confusion. None of them had called his name.
“ Sir Thomas!” sang the voice again.
“ There, in the tower window!” said I, and a flash of blue and gold peeked out.
“ Who knows my name?” bellowed the big man. “Who calls me?”
“ It is I, the Comte d’Eu,” said the man in blue.
“ And I, the Comte de Tancarville,” said another voice, slightly higher pitched, from within the recesses of the window.”
“ You are Sir Thomas Holland, are you not?” said the Comte d’Eu. “We fought with you in Prussia. You were with the Teutonic Order then.”
“ Aye, in Prussia!” replied Holland, dropping his jaw in amazement. “I recognize your voice. You are Raoul of Brienne. You saved my skin more than once from the infidel.”
“ And now I’m asking you to save our skins from your infidels,” replied the Comte d’Eu, the honored Constable of France. “They seem resolved to slaughter us all without regard for rank or quality. Come up to us in the tower so that we may surrender to you and save ourselves alive. For even prison is better than the dishonorable death that awaits us below.”
“ It shall be done!” said Holland, saluting the window with exaggerated courtesy. He ordered his men to cut a
Our own commanders gave us free rein. We charged forward trying to reach the head of the bridge and cut the fugitives off from the gatehouse. Knights, archers, and men-at-arms rushed madly into the fray, hacking down the fleeing French with indiscriminate blows. Separated from Chandos by the swirling mob, I dismounted my horse in the melee. Once on the ground the tide of moving bodies swept me along. My eyes focused in on the blue surcoat with golden stars; I pushed toward it dealing blows to the right and left. Before I knew where I was headed, the blue surcoat had disappeared and I found myself at the foot of the gatehouse.
The bottom of a tower is a good place to be as long as there are no archers above. I set my back against the wall and held my ground against all comers. To my left stood a big Englishman with a neck like a bull. He had one eye with a jagged scar across the lid and nothing but the white of the eyeball inside. His shield showed the map of England surrounded by a silver border. A troop of a dozen men or so ranged themselves round about him, and I saw that he must be a baron of some small standing.
The fugitives were frantic now, with passage across the bridge being their only hope of survival. I blocked blow after blow with my shield, slicing at men who came too close or beating them down with the pommel of my sword. “Have at them, boy!” grunted the man with one eye. “Skewer the bastards!” He lunged and panted like a mastiff, snarling all the while out of the corners of his mouth.
The battle was all in our favor. As more and more of our men reached the gatehouse, the sloping banks of the river ran red with blood. “Shall we give them quarter?” I asked, seeing a few Frenchmen fall to their knees with their hands above their head.
“ Quarter?” bellowed the big man. “We give no quarter!” He spat as he said this, tripped a fleeing Frenchman, and sliced cleanly through the back of his neck. I shrugged wearily and hitched up my shield, anxious for the butchery to end.
“ Sir Thomas!” said a voice from a place above.
“ Eh?” said the big man, looking about him in bewilderment. His men shook their heads in confusion. None of them had called his name.
“ Sir Thomas!” sang the voice again.
“ There, in the tower window!” said I, and a flash of blue and gold peeked out.
“ Who knows my name?” bellowed the big man. “Who calls me?”
“ It is I, the Comte d’Eu,” said the man in blue.
“ And I, the Comte de Tancarville,” said another voice, slightly higher pitched, from within the recesses of the window.”
“ You are Sir Thomas Holland, are you not?” said the Comte d’Eu. “We fought with you in Prussia. You were with the Teutonic Order then.”
“ Aye, in Prussia!” replied Holland, dropping his jaw in amazement. “I recognize your voice. You are Raoul of Brienne. You saved my skin more than once from the infidel.”
“ And now I’m asking you to save our skins from your infidels,” replied the Comte d’Eu, the honored Constable of France. “They seem resolved to slaughter us all without regard for rank or quality. Come up to us in the tower so that we may surrender to you and save ourselves alive. For even prison is better than the dishonorable death that awaits us below.”
“ It shall be done!” said Holland, saluting the window with exaggerated courtesy. He ordered his men to cut a
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