The Champion (I): Blood and Steel by David Pilling

Author:David Pilling [Pilling, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-10-08T18:30:00+00:00

14.

St John did not hesitate. The mere sight of an enemy fired the blood in the old war-dog’s veins. His exhaustion fell away and he leaped into the saddle with all the vigour of a man half his age.

“Charge!” he shouted, tearing out his sword. “At them – charge, charge, charge!”

Without thinking, I vaulted aboard Bernal and followed St John as he tore up the slope. Most of his men did the same, bar a handful of cravens who turned and fled. I did my utmost to catch up with the old knight, white hair flying about his shoulders, sword raised in defiance of the French.

If the enemy had swept down to meet us, we would have been crushed under a rolling tide of steel and horseflesh. Instead, they gave back, startled by St John’s head-on charge. The long line of pennons withdrew from the ridge, just as he gained the summit and thundered into them.

I was only a few paces behind. St John ploughed straight into the French ranks, unhorsed three men, and then vanished among the throng. Before they could reform, I steered Bernal into the gap St John had created. Utter madness. I had not expected to ride into combat and had left my helm and shield with my servant. The French hemmed me in on all sides, a sea of glaring faces and glittering blades. I found myself guarding desperately against three men at once, then four.

It must have lasted mere seconds; I could not have survived much longer in that mêlée. In an instant, the French scattered, swept away by a tide of English knights. St John’s men had smashed into them at full tilt, roaring deep in their throats:

“Saint George! God for England! God for King Edward!”

My sanity returned. As the Englishmen galloped past in pursuit of the retreating French, I reined in and took stock.

The entire French host lay before me. They covered the flat land to the east, split in two by the swollen waters of the Luy de Béarn. St John’s furious charge had driven back the first division, but two more were marching up in support. Perhaps as many as ten thousand men, led by the Count of Artois in person. Everywhere I looked, I saw helms glinting in the watery sun, pennons waving in the breeze, the entire plain filled with horsemen. A great mass of infantry tramped in their wake, marching to the steady throb of drums.

How in hells had they found us? Before we left Bayonne, our scouts assured Lacy that Artois was far to the north, besieging La Réole. Somehow the French commander had received word of our march to Bonnegarde and raced south to intercept us. Either his spies were exceptionally alert, or someone had betrayed us.

I suddenly felt sick and not just with terror of the advancing French. It wasn’t difficult to guess the traitor. César had deserted me three days ago, plenty of time to ride north and inform Artois of Lacy’s intentions. My old squire wanted to live the rest of his days in comfort.

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