Chapter 17 #2
Tom retired to his tent, his body churning with the excitement of knowing he was going to fight a battle.
He would be taking an active part and commanding his archers, not staying behind to guard the baggage camp, which would have been his role as a squire.
He would not sleep a wink, he was certain.
Diverting from his route to his tent, he paused to speak again with his archers and give them instructions.
‘Thought it might happen,’ Samson said, wiping wine from his whiskers and setting his empty mug aside. ‘Our prince is a wily one, always springing surprises on his enemies. Ah well, I’ll make sure we’re ready.’
Samson’s attitude was as unbothered as if he were discussing the state of a farm field and whether it would rain. Envious of his aplomb, Tom wished he could be that insouciant.
Returning to his tent, he gave orders to his servants to have his armour ready to put on two hours before dawn, then undressed to his shirt and braies.
He was much too restless to sleep and called for ink and parchments, to pen brief letters to his mother and young wife.
Once written, he sealed them, but rather than summon a messenger he stowed them in his chest of personal effects.
He had at least set his affairs in order should he die in battle, and if he survived, the women need never know.
In a few hours’ time he might be a corpse on the battlefield – so might they all.
But he trusted his stepfather to know what he was doing, and he had faith in God.
He knelt at the small personal altar beside his strung camp bed and prayed for the time to live his life and say more prayers of gratitude.
Tom was not alone in his wakefulness, or his use of the quill.
Edward seldom slept for more than a few hours a night and was wont to spend the rest of his time in contemplation, prayer and dealing with correspondence for which he had not had time during the day.
When Jeanette was with him he was more relaxed and would sleep a little longer, but without her company in bed with dogs and refreshments, his only recourse was to turn inside himself, to God and prayer.
He wrote tenderly to Jeanette, hoping she was in good health and that their sons were thriving.
She was his heart and his greatest treasure and constantly in his thoughts.
He gave a short account of the dealings of the army and that they were about to join battle with Trastamara’s army.
Edward knew she had objected to the campaign, but she was sufficiently pragmatic to understand and would want to know the details rather than have silence.
Besides, the writing helped him think his way through his plan to check for fissures.
God willing, tomorrow would be the end, and they could return home victorious.
In the darkness of the late and early hours, the English army struck camp, quietly and without fuss, and moved out to meet Trastamara’s army, taking the detour that led them away around the hill.
Their manoeuvre was shielded from the enemy by a ridge rising to the northwest of the plain where Trastamara was expecting to hammer them to pulp.
As dawn flushed the skyline, runners sped through the ranks giving the signal to halt behind the crest of the hill that had brought them to within four hundred yards of their enemy’s left flank.
Trastamara’s troops were looking eastwards, waiting to see the English riding out of the sunrise, never thinking that they would come upon them from behind.
Tom’s breathing was swift and shallow, and his heart was beating so hard it shook his body.
His palms were slick and his mouth dry as he dismounted, and his groom took the reins of his black warhorse.
In the twilight before the full blaze of dawn, he watched Samson and his archers taking their bowstrings from under their caps and stringing their weapons.
‘Reckon we are just about in range, sire,’ Samson said matter-of-factly. ‘I could down one now if you wanted.’
‘You’ll have your chance,’ Tom said, and had to clear his throat.
‘We’re to attack as soon as the sun crests, and with everything we have.
Take them off balance and bring them down – but no early warning.
’ He drew a deep breath. ‘The Prince said last night he knows we have been on short rations of late and our bellies tight, but our foes have plentiful provisions. Our scouts reported to my lord that their baggage lines have bread and wine, salted meat and fish. If we take them, we take their supplies, which means food and plunder for all.’
Samson showed him a chip-toothed smile. ‘Reason aplenty to shoot straight,’ he said.
‘Aye, that is the truth. If you manage to bring down Enrique the Bastard, then you may name your price in riches – that goes for all of you!’
‘We’ll do our best, my lord!’ Samson licked his lips as if already tasting a fine banquet.
Tom nodded brusquely. The moment’s exchange had settled him; his heart was steadier now and his hands had ceased to tremble.
The Duke of Lancaster rode along the line of archers on his sweating dappled grey. ‘Make ready,’ he commanded. ‘When the banner unfurls and the trumpets sound, march forward over the ridge. Shoot into their troops the moment you have clear range and keep on shooting. Are you ready on my order?’
The answer was a roar, and moments later the advance blared out in the orange dawn light from the trumpets of the English heralds and Lancaster unfurled the great silken banner of England and let it flow out in the morning wind.
‘Saint George!’ went up the cry from thousands of throats.
‘Guienne! Saint George!’ The Anglo-Gascon army crested the ridge and advanced, closing the gap between themselves and the Castilians.
The archers began shooting as they forged forward, creating a swatch of darkness against the dawn, the arrows like a murmuration of starlings.
The Castilians scrambled to respond to the assault, amid the bellowing of their frantic commanders and the ragged fanfares of their own trumpets.
As they struggled to turn and face the threat from behind, they tangled with each other in chaos.
Tom watched the arrows plummet among them, thicker than a blizzard, and heard the screams of men and horses.
De Guescelin frantically rallied and formed a charge to try and stem the surprise English attack, and indeed closed fast and hard with Lancaster’s vanguard, reaching far enough into the English line for spears to be discarded and weapons drawn.
But still the archers shot deep into the enemy line, creating mayhem with the sheer volume of their arrows.
Trastamara himself brought his infantry to bear, and his slingers sent their stones in among the archers, but to little effect.
A few men were struck and fell, but it was as nothing to those who tumbled beneath the onslaught of English arrows, and soon the slingers were fleeing from the deadly storm as were Trastamara’s light infantry, who went down like mown grass beneath the deadly bodkin points of the English bowmen.
Again Trastamara charged, only to be repulsed by a hail of arrows.
Tom’s bowmen concentrated their shot towards Trastamara’s banner, but he was not in the front rank and his stallion was heavily protected.
Around him the mounts of his men stumbled and fell, and none of his knights were prepared to fight on foot.
Troops fled the battle, racing for the bridge across the River Najerilla to make their escape.
The churning group of Castilians battling Lancaster’s vanguard grew rapidly more ragged as the English surged vigorously, and the Prince’s elite Gascon mercenaries attacked Trastamara’s French contingent like hungry men falling upon a feast. In moments, the battle became a rout, a pursuit and a slaughter as Trastamara’s banner went down.
As the Castilians fled, Tom gave his men the order to charge in pursuit of the enemy, and drew his sword.
Feeling a glow of satisfaction, Jeanette studied the chamber that had been made ready for Tom and Alys as husband and wife.
New tapestries draped the walls, featuring unicorns and lovers in a flowery meadow.
An enamelled chest stood beneath the window depicting a young couple hawking together on one side, and dancing on the other.
Alys’s embroidery frame stood nearby, angled to gain the best of the light.
A polished chest filled with precious books also had pride of place within the best of the light.
The shutters were open to a warm summer morning, made even more glorious by the news that Edward and his victorious army were returning from the Spanish campaign and would arrive on the morrow.
Alys plumped the new cushions she had recently finished embroidering.
She had been nest building all spring and summer, but now the time was nigh she was twitchy and unsettled.
Jeanette regarded her with fond compassion, knowing how big a change was coming.
She had prepared her as best she could over the last few months, but there had come a point where she had to let go and allow Alys to deal with the situation herself.
Alys tilted her head. ‘I hope Tom likes it.’
Jeanette did not think the décor would be the first thing on her son’s mind. ‘I am certain he will.’
‘Do you think he will be different?’ Alys knotted her hands together.
‘Well, for certain he will be more experienced – a knight now, not a squire,’ she said, and hugged her in reassurance. ‘Be yourself and no one else, that is the only rule.’
Alys nodded uncertainly, still unsure.
‘Come,’ Jeanette said, briskly, ‘no brooding. We have plenty to do before they arrive and not enough time!’