archers, and I’ll … I’ll hold them as long as I can.’
‘I’ll give you ten archers.’
‘God damn it, Robin. Give me every single one of the fucking archers or you can hold this fucking bridge yourself against the whole fucking French army!’
Robin looked at me oddly. ‘All right, Alan, you can have all the archers. And Little John, Sir Thomas and Sir Roger – and forty men-at-arms. Hold them as long as you can, then retreat – fast. Don’t get killed. Don’t do anything stupid. Keep Miles close to you. Ward him well. I’ll see there is a ship waiting for you at the harbour.’
Then he was away, running across the bridge, shouting for his squires, with a stern-faced Hugh running at his elbow, and a dozen men at his back. Miles was standing beside me. His arms drooping under the weight of his heavy shield and drawn sword. For an instant, his expression was unguarded, eyes wide with fear and hurt. He looked forlorn and abandoned. I felt the same. I looked down at my own left hand. It was shaking again – indeed, it was jumping like a leaf in a gale.
We made a tight, slightly bowed wall of men half a dozen yards from the southern side of the bridge. Two men deep; shields locked in the front, spears protruding in a bristling line of sharp steel; the shields of the second rank hard up against the backs of the first row. I grouped the archers, perhaps forty seasoned men, many of them former Nottinghamshire outlaws and men from the wild Welsh mountains, on the bridge itself. The structure rose slightly, perhaps a yard higher than the cobbles at its central point, which made it easier for the bowmen to shoot flat over the heads of their comrades. There was a space before the bridge about fifty yards wide by forty, and three roads leading in from the southern part of the town. Gusts of smoke billowed down these empty streets from the burning houses, cinders swirled in the air, and a light fog was forming that obscured sight further than sixty or so yards.
But I could hear the rattle of iron shoes on stone, and the cries of many men and neighing of horses, and I knew that the enemy cavalry was not far away.
Little John was strolling up and down the front of the shield wall. He was magnificently relaxed, the great double-headed axe propped casually on his shoulder, a thick round oaken shield held loosely in his huge left hand.
‘Not a step backwards, lads, not one step without I give the order,’ he was saying in a conversational tone. ‘I swear – by Christ’s big fat swinging cock – that I’ll chew the bollocks off any man who breaks this wall. Bite them clean off, by God, and swallow them like sweet grapes. Is that clear, you miserable pig-fuckers?’
Then he pushed himself into the centre of the line, in the second row, and rammed his shield against the back of the centre man in the first line. ‘Nice and cosy,’ he said. ‘We stay here nice and cosy and see off these nasty Frenchmen. We hold this bridge till Sir Alan gives the word. Then, it’s home to England and a life of luxury. We’re rich, boys, and once we’ve done this little bit of bloody business, it will be honey cakes, whores and hogsheads of ale for the rest of our lives.’
There was a cheer, but it was half-hearted. I could smell the fear-sweat on the handful of men in the pathetically thin line. Many, I knew, must wish themselves already in England. The enemy were coming, and in far greater numbers than we had. And our friends and comrades were even now embarking on to the ships and heading for home and safety. But we were here, and we had to hold the damn bridge.
I pulled Miles towards me, and Claes, the tall, one-eyed rogue, and three other seasoned men from the second line. ‘You are the plug,’ I said. ‘Claes, you know the drill. If the line breaks, you are to come forward and fill the gap. You’re in command of this squad. I’ll help you if I can.’
And to Miles: ‘Stay close to Claes; do exactly what he says.
‘I’ll give you ten archers.’
‘God damn it, Robin. Give me every single one of the fucking archers or you can hold this fucking bridge yourself against the whole fucking French army!’
Robin looked at me oddly. ‘All right, Alan, you can have all the archers. And Little John, Sir Thomas and Sir Roger – and forty men-at-arms. Hold them as long as you can, then retreat – fast. Don’t get killed. Don’t do anything stupid. Keep Miles close to you. Ward him well. I’ll see there is a ship waiting for you at the harbour.’
Then he was away, running across the bridge, shouting for his squires, with a stern-faced Hugh running at his elbow, and a dozen men at his back. Miles was standing beside me. His arms drooping under the weight of his heavy shield and drawn sword. For an instant, his expression was unguarded, eyes wide with fear and hurt. He looked forlorn and abandoned. I felt the same. I looked down at my own left hand. It was shaking again – indeed, it was jumping like a leaf in a gale.
We made a tight, slightly bowed wall of men half a dozen yards from the southern side of the bridge. Two men deep; shields locked in the front, spears protruding in a bristling line of sharp steel; the shields of the second rank hard up against the backs of the first row. I grouped the archers, perhaps forty seasoned men, many of them former Nottinghamshire outlaws and men from the wild Welsh mountains, on the bridge itself. The structure rose slightly, perhaps a yard higher than the cobbles at its central point, which made it easier for the bowmen to shoot flat over the heads of their comrades. There was a space before the bridge about fifty yards wide by forty, and three roads leading in from the southern part of the town. Gusts of smoke billowed down these empty streets from the burning houses, cinders swirled in the air, and a light fog was forming that obscured sight further than sixty or so yards.
But I could hear the rattle of iron shoes on stone, and the cries of many men and neighing of horses, and I knew that the enemy cavalry was not far away.
Little John was strolling up and down the front of the shield wall. He was magnificently relaxed, the great double-headed axe propped casually on his shoulder, a thick round oaken shield held loosely in his huge left hand.
‘Not a step backwards, lads, not one step without I give the order,’ he was saying in a conversational tone. ‘I swear – by Christ’s big fat swinging cock – that I’ll chew the bollocks off any man who breaks this wall. Bite them clean off, by God, and swallow them like sweet grapes. Is that clear, you miserable pig-fuckers?’
Then he pushed himself into the centre of the line, in the second row, and rammed his shield against the back of the centre man in the first line. ‘Nice and cosy,’ he said. ‘We stay here nice and cosy and see off these nasty Frenchmen. We hold this bridge till Sir Alan gives the word. Then, it’s home to England and a life of luxury. We’re rich, boys, and once we’ve done this little bit of bloody business, it will be honey cakes, whores and hogsheads of ale for the rest of our lives.’
There was a cheer, but it was half-hearted. I could smell the fear-sweat on the handful of men in the pathetically thin line. Many, I knew, must wish themselves already in England. The enemy were coming, and in far greater numbers than we had. And our friends and comrades were even now embarking on to the ships and heading for home and safety. But we were here, and we had to hold the damn bridge.
I pulled Miles towards me, and Claes, the tall, one-eyed rogue, and three other seasoned men from the second line. ‘You are the plug,’ I said. ‘Claes, you know the drill. If the line breaks, you are to come forward and fill the gap. You’re in command of this squad. I’ll help you if I can.’
And to Miles: ‘Stay close to Claes; do exactly what he says.
Similar Books
