The Bow Read Online Free Page B

‘Well keep your
guard high, and whatever you do, don’t parry. Not against these
fellows.’ (The French, no more than a dozen paces away, were
struggling towards them, swords and spears levelled.) ‘Just duck
the cut,’ he went on, ‘and sway inside the thrust. It’s your
only chance.’ He took a step forward and raised his poleaxe. ‘See
that big ‘un? Leave him to me!’
    A trumpet sounded away to their left, where the English
banners of St George and the Lions Royal stood. The whole line gave a
great cry and surged forward, led by the lion banner of that old
warhorse, Sir John Cornwall, and the golden cinqfoil of Gilbert
Umfraville, knight of the King’s Chamber. James hesitated, got a
blow on the back, and stumbled into the advance with the others.
    They were on the French in an instant. Swords clashed.
Steel rang on steel. Shouts and curses, and men sprawling bloodied in
the mud. A knight in plate and mail, but with his helmet gone, came
straight at James.
    He was young, fresh faced, with dark eyes and
russet-brown hair cropped in the chevalier style. He fought with his
sword in both hands, sweeping aside James’ over-stepped lunge then
making a back-cut that missed his throat by a hair’s breadth.
    James danced back, as the sword came at him again, this
time slashing through his quilted jack where belly meets rib cage.
There was sudden pain, and a wave of nausea that made him stagger,
but he stayed on his feet, his own sword held up at guard, waiting
for the death-blow.
    As the French sword came down, it rang against the metal
head of a poleaxe. James flinched, looked up and saw Eric grinning
down at him. Then the pommel of a sword came out of nowhere, and Eric
reeled backwards spitting blood and teeth: the young French knight
had struck him on the reverse parry, then turned to deliver the final
cut. Despite the mud that closed about sollerets and greaves, he
moved with a grace and strength that made him a leopard among lambs.
He felled Eric with a stroke that took the man-at-arms across his
shoulder, shearing the mail links and smashing the collar bone
beneath his quilted gambeson.
    He did not pause as Eric sank to his knees, but thrust a
captain through who had come at him from his blind quarter.
    Holding his stomach, wet to the touch, James lurched
forward, half falling, and hacked down with his sword. It was an
awkward, poorly weighted blow, which lacked everything but
desperation – but it was enough. It struck the young Frenchman on
his backplate, knocking him off balance. With a cry James lashed out
again. This time the blow was parried, but the swirl of battle moved
about them and in a moment the knight was gone.
    More men at arms closed about James, their pikes and
poleaxes driving forward against the press of advancing knights.
Someone took him by the shoulder and dragged him back. It was old
Lewis, the greybeard of the company.
    'Hey, lad, here’s a pickle! Eric down and you all
bloodied.’
    James tried to smile, but he felt dizzy, and his legs
had lost their strength. ‘I . . .’ he began.
    ‘ Aye, I know. Ye tangled with that young Frenchie, and
he damn near had you for breakfast. Now sit ye down – over here,
and let me see to that wound. Don’t worry about the fighting. The
lads’ll hold ‘em. That mud has taken the stuffin’ right out of
those them chevaliers.’ He paused. ‘But they got a few of us,
including young Stephen Geryng. Only man to fall in his company. How
unlucky is that?’
    James sat down on a furrow a good fifteen paces behind
the English lines. He took some vinegar wine from a clay bottle that
Lewis thrust into his hand. It tasted good: warm, sharp and tingling
all at once. His head began to clear, and he sat back, hardly aware
that Lewis was dressing his wound.
    'There!’ said the old archer, as he tied the bandage.
‘Had to rip up some poor blighter’s tunic for ye, and I wasted
some good wine on that cut, but it’s nay more than a scratch, and
ye should