Chapter 17
Tom sat on a crude wooden stool with a group of the Holland archers – six veterans who wore his badge.
A savoury aroma of vegetable and salt fish broth wafted to him from the cauldron whose contents were simmering over the open fire.
The men were eating bread and drinking from the costrel of wine he had brought them as a gift.
These archers had served his father with stalwart loyalty, and he had known them himself since birth.
Following the death of Tom’s father, the Prince had taken the company into his employ and delegated them back to Tom’s command now he had received his knighthood.
Some of Tom’s fondest early memories were of watching these men at archery practice, and he knew how much his father had valued their skills – enough to give their leader, Samson, a horse bred from one of the Holland stud mares.
That horse, Cygnet, was now an ageing but still powerful stallion, and Samson made an extra wage by selling his stud services to others who wanted to improve their own stock or desired a good foal from their mare.
Having been knighted, Tom had extra responsibility now, although he still answered to his stepfather and his commanders.
He was ‘Sir’ Thomas Holland, and it was his duty to see that the men in his charge knew their own duties and fulfilled them to the best of their skill.
He was answerable in his turn for their welfare.
Joining them at night, even briefly, relieved his tension.
He was reassured when absorbed into their familiar company and he felt somehow closer to his father.
He knew they were proud that their young lord took an interest in them, maintaining the bond and tradition his father had begun.
Samson stroked his stubby, badger-striped beard and his weather-lined eyes were shrewd. ‘I heard a scout’s report that Trastamara’s army is close.’
‘Indeed, that is true – unless they turn tail and run.’
‘Is that likely, sire – that they will run?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Tom replied with a shrug.
Samson’s brows drew together. ‘They won’t want to meet us head on, sire, not with our prince leading us. You’d think they’d learn from their mistakes – lucky for us they never do.’
Tom nodded. ‘But they do have a seasoned commander in Bernard de Guescelin,’ he said, naming one of the senior French commanders among the melange of troops conjured up by Enrique the Bastard, as the Prince called him.
De Guescelin was adept and cunning, a hard man to defeat in the field, although he had no overall say in final battle plans.
‘Who knows what they will do? I agree it would be folly to meet us head on – your archers have repeatedly proven their deadly worth. De Guescelin knows this, and Trastamara is no fool, even if he is a usurper. Either they will change direction and not come to battle with us, or they will have a plan. Perhaps they truly do believe God is on their side and they can bring us down – but they won’t. ’
Samson curled his upper lip. ‘We’ll be ready for them whatever, won’t we, lads?’
A rumble of assent circled the fire, and the men touched their personal talismans or cast glances at their longbows.
‘Whatever it is, our lord prince will also have a plan,’ Tom said, and rose to his feet. ‘Speaking of which, I should attend him before he sends to find me, and I have some letters to write to my wife and my lady mother.’
‘God save our blessed princess – and your own dear lady,’ Samson replied, touching his forelock.
‘And God save all of you,’ Tom answered, a warm feeling in his stomach at their camaraderie.
Some of the lords disapproved of the close bond he had formed with his archers and thought he should not be fraternising with men so far beneath him in status, but he always remembered his father’s advice that a body must function as a whole, and you should always look to the feet as much as the head.
He strolled back through the camp and slipped through the gaps and little alleys between the pavilion pegs, heading towards his stepfather’s great silk tent with its black shield and ostrich feathers nailed to a post outside, and the arms of England fluttering from its top in the evening wind.
Lamp light escaped from within, and he could hear his stepfather’s voice rising and falling in conversation.
The guards stood aside to let him through.
The Prince was standing over a large table studying diagrams of the area with a scout to one side of him in travelstained clothing, and on the other, his brother, the Duke of Lancaster, and his household knight John Chandos.
The men looked up as Tom arrived, and the Prince beckoned him forward to the table.
‘Look at this, Tom,’ he said. ‘The Bastard’s army is camped here for the night, and we are here.
’ He stabbed the areas with his forefinger.
‘Now, he expects us to approach him on the road to Nájera from the east and funnel through this valley. That way, he will have the full expanse of the plain to charge his cavalry and take down our archers. He will aim to circle round our back and destroy our men at arms. Do you see?’
Tom followed his stepfather’s pointing finger. It was straightforward and clever, although he was surprised. ‘He must have great confidence in himself and his French allies if he is intending to bring the fight to us,’ he said.
Edward gave him a mordant smile. ‘Over-confidence, rather. The plan has always been to bring him to battle, and he might think it is on his terms, but he could not be more deluded.’
Tom nodded. They had endured difficulties this winter in the mountain passes through to Castile, and several night skirmishes had not gone their way.
Only the quick thinking of John Duke of Lancaster had prevented a disaster on one occasion when he had rallied the troops into rapid battle formation, and fortunately their men were well trained, and the orders had been swiftly carried out.
Recently, though, his stepfather had taken the initiative and sent a barrage of insults in Enrique’s direction, deliberately attempting to rile him into full battle, and it appeared to have worked.
However, Tom was not sure that his stepfather’s reading of the situation was of advantage to themselves.
He looked at the older men. ‘So, what is his delusion?’
‘Trastamara has taken part in successful battle before,’ Edward said, ‘a success he owed to a powerful cavalry charge. I do not deny a man can feel almighty when thus engaged, but he is wrong if he thinks this will bring him to victory. The greatest threat to us is that de Guescelin will talk him out of it, because he is the better commander.’ He pointed at the map again.
‘Of course, such a charge might indeed prove fruitful, but we will not allow him to do that.’ He exchanged a glance with his brother, who was observing with a half smile on his lips.
Excitement licked through Tom’s veins, mingled with apprehension.
‘Instead of falling into his trap, he shall fall into ours,’ Edward continued.
‘We are going to move before dawn and go around the hill, here.’ His hand flashed over the diagram, pointing and explaining.
‘It is no great detour and will bring us within shooting distance of their left flank. We will use the crest of the hill to conceal our manoeuvre, and then we shall come at them not from the east as they expect, but from the north with the protection of higher ground, and the river. He will have to turn to face us and that will be more difficult for him to accomplish than it will be for us to go round and engage him from a different angle. As the sun rises, we shall take his vanguard before they can regroup.’ He nodded at his brother.
‘I want you to lead our van. Chandos, I’m promoting you to knight banneret, and you shall unfurl our colours as we attack.
If we can take down de Guescelin’s battle line, the rest will follow.
We should march an hour before dawn, and in silence.
Let them still think that we are preparing to face them from the east.’
Tom had always known from stories that his stepfather was a man at home on the battlefield and a superb strategist, but being told was not the same as hearing him put a plan together that was daring but not reckless, addressing the situation and gaining the best advantage.
‘John?’ Edward looked to his brother.
The latter cupped his chin. ‘It will work,’ he said. ‘But it will have to be done in tight order.’
‘Agreed, but the men are disciplined and seasoned. If we succeed, the Bastard’s army will be decimated.
But remember, in all this, our objective is to capture or kill Enrique of Trastamara, and he will be well protected.
’ He spread his hands. ‘If we do not take him then it will all have been for nothing.’
‘Agreed, we must not lose sight of that.’
Edward turned to Tom. ‘I trust you to bring your own archers to order and lead them well. You are responsible for having them in the right position at the right time. Their bows are vital to this engagement, and every man must earn his wage.’
‘Yes, sire,’ Tom said, and his breathing quickened.
‘Good.’ Edward gripped his shoulder. ‘Be ready to move in the hour before first light. That does not mean rise at that time, it means truly be prepared. Your horse, your armour, your men. We need to be in tight order and to move as one. When the fight comes, you must be ready and sure – no fumbling.’
‘Yes, sire, I will not let you down.’
‘Then go to your rest, and we shall see you and your men by torchlight in a few hours.’ Edward nodded encouragement. ‘You shall do well. You are your father’s son.’