Warlord(50)

‘I know all that,’ I said irritably, wiping Ghost’s sides with a damp cloth to cool him. ‘But why did Philip come all the way down here with his army, seeming to seek battle with us, and then run like a craven after one skirmish?’

‘Philip had to come down here. Richard has been winning too consistently in Maine, Touraine and Aquitaine for him to stay away. He has to keep the rebellion in the south alive – otherwise Richard will close down the southern front, having utterly destroyed the rebels, and then our victorious King would be free to turn all his forces loose on the north, on Normandy. Philip’s army coming here was a threat – and it partially worked. Richard came north to face him, leaving several castles in Aquitaine still in rebel hands. I also believe Philip hoped to trap Richard between a rock and a hard place; between a strong Vendôme garrison loyal to Philip, and the French royal army itself. But the citizens of Vendôme believe Richard will win, ultimately; and Richard is not easily intimidated. So when Richard did not retreat south, as Philip expected him to do, but instead decided to confront the French head-on, Philip panicked and withdrew. It was the sensible move, I think. Richard would probably have beaten him here, and Philip can’t afford a defeat. I suspect the French King will try to arrange a truce – and I think Richard may grant it him.’

‘Why would Richard agree to a truce, if we are winning?’ I said.

‘Oh, it would be in his interest, too. He needs to rebuild the castles he has captured; give his men time to rest and heal their wounds; perhaps recruit a few more knights to his side. This war will not be one giant pitched battle; it will stop and start, truce and war, a castle captured here, and lost there. We will win eventually, I believe; we will push the French back and reclaim Richard’s lands, but it will not be swift.’

I pondered Robin’s words as we mounted up and set off again, thinking what I might attempt to do if a truce were declared. But I soon drowned my thoughts in the rhythm of the chase, pounding up the dusty road at a canter with thick forest forming a cool green curtain on either side. Then we rounded a bend, and at a hand-command from Robin we all drew rein and slid to an abrupt halt, with much snorting and cursing and one beast barging into another. Ahead of us, perhaps fifty paces away, was a thin line of mounted French knights, barely a score of them, drawn up knee to knee across the road as a fragile barrier.

Clearly they had heard us coming, and what they were attempting to protect was a massive train of wagons and carts, pulled by oxen and heavy horses and stretched out along the road for almost a quarter of a mile – gigantic, lumbering wagons piled high with goods, weapons, sacks of grain, barrels of wine. Round-topped carriages rumbled along carrying women – a knight’s mistress and her maids, perhaps, or a travelling brothel, or a contingent of nuns; light donkey carts carried horse fodder, great mountains of hay packed tight under ropes but still towering ten foot in the air; strings of pack mules ambled along carrying chests of coin or bales of fine cloth, and every kind of transport imaginable filled the road ahead in a long river of beasts and men – and plunder. We had come up unexpectedly on what appeared to be the entire French royal baggage train – which was now defended by only a handful of knights.

‘God in Heaven!’ said Hanno from my right shoulder. To my left, Robin turned to me, a look of savage delight on his handsome face, like a starving peasant presented with a dripping roast on a silver platter. ‘Oh, Alan,’ he said, ‘your God – or whomever it is sitting on that cloud up there – he truly loves me! Be so good as to sound the charge!’

I was pleased to see Robin happy, though a little alarmed that he should choose this moment, just as we were to go into battle, to make a jest about Almighty God, the Lord of Hosts. Nevertheless, I unhooked the twisted horn from my pommel, put it to my lips, and gave two short blasts and then a long one; repeated twice. The signal to charge: ta-ta-taaaa, ta-ta-taaaa.



I lowered my lance, slammed my heels into Ghost’s grey sides and rocketed forward – and Robin’s entire force of more than five score loot-hungry outlaws-turned-lancers charged forward with me and poured down on to the thin line of enemy knights like an avalanche.

We swept them away in a matter of moments. I lunged at a knight directly to my front with my lance, aiming for the killing blow to his belly, but his warhorse took a sideways step at the last moment and I missed. My lance smacked into the high wooden cantle at the rear of his saddle and snapped in two. Suddenly he was on me with his sword swinging at my head. I blocked his first strike with my shield, simultaneously dropping my shattered lance and groping for Goody’s mace, which was slung from the pommel of my saddle. He hacked at me again and I caught it again on my red shield, returning his blow with a hard overhand chop with the mace, which crunched sickeningly into his left shoulder joint. The knight dropped his shield – marked, I noticed, with a strange device: a light blue cross on a white background, with a black border around it – used his spurs and made off up the road, his left arm loose and useless, and I was content to let him live. The rest of the enemy knights had either been cut down or had run from the field, except for one Frenchman who had been knocked off his horse, half-stunned, and had managed to surrender himself to a delighted Little John. A few footmen, men-at-arms, crossbowmen, and the drovers and carters were running from the wagon train in all directions, heading for the cover of the trees on either side of the road.