Read Online The King’s Assassin by Angus Donald - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Angus Donald
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charge a firmly held shield wall – a truth that has been the saviour of men-at-arms on foot since our great-great-grandfathers’ day. No horse will impale himself upon a palisade of spears. Not willingly.
The arrow flocks flew, again and again, the thrumming sound beating our ears. The carnage was appalling. The French horsemen died as they charged, plucked from their saddles by the wicked missiles, their blood-splashed mounts impaled by shaft after shaft and crazed with pain and fright, bucking and kicking their lives away. But that attack was not stopped. The lead horse of the conroi , a grey stallion, his rider long since swept away by the arrow storm, and dying on its churning hooves, kept on coming at us, impelled by the sheer force of its own charge. Dying, dead, its chest stuck deep with a dozen shafts, the huge beast collapsed five yards away from the shield wall, tumbled over its own forelegs and carried on forward – smashing into the two-deep wall of men, snapping spears like twigs and battering through, creating utter disarray in our lines and a three-man-wide hole in our defence.
A rider directly behind the dead horse, miraculously unscathed by the barrage, put spurs to his mount and leapt the beast’s corpse – and he was in behind our wall.
The Sherwood men began to die.
The Frenchman lunged with his lance and transfixed two men, running them both through as if spitting capons. Then, urging his mount further into the press of men, he began to lay about him with a mace, smashing skulls and dropping our spearmen like alehouse skittles. Brave Sir Roger broke out from the end of the line, charging him on foot, snarling, his long sword gleaming – and died. His skull was caved in by the swinging mace like a spoon tapping a boiled egg. Another knight was coming in behind that first Frenchman, threading his horse through the bodies; now he was through, chopping down men on the right of the hole in the shieldwall, widening it with great sweeps of his sword.
The air was filled with stinging cinders and veils of grey smoke like silken drapes. I could barely make out the burning houses of the far side of the square. The two enemy horsemen towered over us, huge and immediate. I ran forward, Fidelity in both hands, swung and cut the blade deeply into the thickly muscled throat of the mace-wielding sergeant’s horse. The blood exploded, splashing like soup across my face, but even as the animal dropped, screaming and spraying, the man on his back was swiping at my skull with his weapon. By the grace of God, I ducked just in time, the mace’s sharp flange merely tinging across the dome of my helmet. But it was enough to drive me to my knees. I cuffed the hot blood from my face with my mailed sleeve, looked up at the sergeant as he loomed above me on his dying horse, his lethal mace raised at full stretch above him – and a bow shaft smacked deep into his throat, punching into the flesh, knocking him back and away.
The second rider was down, too, the horse bristling with shafts, a trio of our men hacking and stabbing at his prone body.
And suddenly there were no cavalry left to menace us – broken mailed men and bloody arrow-stuck horses were writhing, screaming, dying all across the open space before us – but our defensive line was in ruins, and Frenchmen on foot, dozens of them, were now once again pouring out of the smoke, running towards our shattered shield wall. Indeed, we had no wall left to speak of, just a few scattered dazed-looking men-at-arms and two loose clumps of terrified men huddling together – a gap of at least ten yards between the separate groups.
I heard someone cry ‘Locksley!’ and snatched a glance to my right.
Miles and Claes and the men of the plug had formed a meagre five-man wall and were marching forward in step into the gap between the clumps of survivors of the cavalry charge, their shields locked together, stepping over the corpses of men and beasts. Miles, in the centre
The arrow flocks flew, again and again, the thrumming sound beating our ears. The carnage was appalling. The French horsemen died as they charged, plucked from their saddles by the wicked missiles, their blood-splashed mounts impaled by shaft after shaft and crazed with pain and fright, bucking and kicking their lives away. But that attack was not stopped. The lead horse of the conroi , a grey stallion, his rider long since swept away by the arrow storm, and dying on its churning hooves, kept on coming at us, impelled by the sheer force of its own charge. Dying, dead, its chest stuck deep with a dozen shafts, the huge beast collapsed five yards away from the shield wall, tumbled over its own forelegs and carried on forward – smashing into the two-deep wall of men, snapping spears like twigs and battering through, creating utter disarray in our lines and a three-man-wide hole in our defence.
A rider directly behind the dead horse, miraculously unscathed by the barrage, put spurs to his mount and leapt the beast’s corpse – and he was in behind our wall.
The Sherwood men began to die.
The Frenchman lunged with his lance and transfixed two men, running them both through as if spitting capons. Then, urging his mount further into the press of men, he began to lay about him with a mace, smashing skulls and dropping our spearmen like alehouse skittles. Brave Sir Roger broke out from the end of the line, charging him on foot, snarling, his long sword gleaming – and died. His skull was caved in by the swinging mace like a spoon tapping a boiled egg. Another knight was coming in behind that first Frenchman, threading his horse through the bodies; now he was through, chopping down men on the right of the hole in the shieldwall, widening it with great sweeps of his sword.
The air was filled with stinging cinders and veils of grey smoke like silken drapes. I could barely make out the burning houses of the far side of the square. The two enemy horsemen towered over us, huge and immediate. I ran forward, Fidelity in both hands, swung and cut the blade deeply into the thickly muscled throat of the mace-wielding sergeant’s horse. The blood exploded, splashing like soup across my face, but even as the animal dropped, screaming and spraying, the man on his back was swiping at my skull with his weapon. By the grace of God, I ducked just in time, the mace’s sharp flange merely tinging across the dome of my helmet. But it was enough to drive me to my knees. I cuffed the hot blood from my face with my mailed sleeve, looked up at the sergeant as he loomed above me on his dying horse, his lethal mace raised at full stretch above him – and a bow shaft smacked deep into his throat, punching into the flesh, knocking him back and away.
The second rider was down, too, the horse bristling with shafts, a trio of our men hacking and stabbing at his prone body.
And suddenly there were no cavalry left to menace us – broken mailed men and bloody arrow-stuck horses were writhing, screaming, dying all across the open space before us – but our defensive line was in ruins, and Frenchmen on foot, dozens of them, were now once again pouring out of the smoke, running towards our shattered shield wall. Indeed, we had no wall left to speak of, just a few scattered dazed-looking men-at-arms and two loose clumps of terrified men huddling together – a gap of at least ten yards between the separate groups.
I heard someone cry ‘Locksley!’ and snatched a glance to my right.
Miles and Claes and the men of the plug had formed a meagre five-man wall and were marching forward in step into the gap between the clumps of survivors of the cavalry charge, their shields locked together, stepping over the corpses of men and beasts. Miles, in the centre
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