The reinforced strakes of the former English ship theSaint Georgereared up before them as the spiked ropes snaked out and drew her breast to breast with theThomas.In the crow’s nests, the English archers were ready to pick off or pin down anyone trying to hack the boarding ropes.
Thomas and Otto were first on deck, climbing swiftly up the nets attached to the grapnels and over the top. Thomas ducked a blow aimed at his torso and downed his man. An English marksman brought down another before he could cleave Thomas’s head, and then Otto was beside him, and the deadly dance began.
Thomas ploughed into the thick of the brawl, and as the battle grew harder and ever more desperate, the steelier and steadier he became. The alchemy of sword and long dagger in tandem. The kick, the punch, the smooth twist and the pivot. He knew every move, every permutation. He could finely judge what each opponent would do, and linked to that judgement was pure, swift instinct. Yet, despite his pinpoint focus, he did not lose the wider perspective, and knew what was happening around him. He was aware of the King fighting to his left with household knights Walter Manny and William Burgesh either side.
Edward missed his parry and took a slash to his leg, and then another to his arm, but Manny reached him and cut the French soldier down. Thomas had disengaged and backed to protect theKing, but Edward waved his sword. ‘I am all right!’ he panted, breathing hard, teeth bared. ‘Go on, go on!’
Thomas and Otto plunged back into the fray until no French were left aboard the ship, at least none that breathed. Henry de la Haye, his surcoat blood-soaked, handed Thomas the English flag, and Thomas cast the fabric over his shoulder and scaled the rigging to the crow’s nest, where he tore down the French Oriflamme banner and let the quartered English lions snap out in the wind, to a resounding cheer from the deck.
The battle raged on throughout the long summer afternoon. As the sun slipped in the sky and the colours of dusk smudged the horizon, the English continued to press forward with relentless determination. The ships of the French front line had either been seized or had fled, and Edward ordered crews from his own second row to take the captured French vessels and push forward to demolish the next French line. One by one English banners flapped in the breeze as ship after ship succumbed, and the Flemish, watching from the shore, put to sea in their own craft and turned on the French like vultures at a lion’s kill.
By sunset, the French third line had broken and scattered, and Edward’s smaller fleet had recaptured many more English ships including theChristopher.The decks of the great galley were awash with blood and arrows. From the forecastle, Thomas directed his archer Samson and two of his companions to gather up the shafts and drop them in an empty barrel to be sorted for reuse. A detail of men at arms was picking up the French dead, stripping them of valuables, and casting them over the side. Thomas gazed into the heavy green water, no longer blue as the sun declined in the sky. He could not see any bodies, but knew many would float in the coming days and that thousands were now sinking down in the fathoms under the ship’s keels.
‘The fish will all speak French, the feast we have given them,’ Otto said, joining him. The vambrace on his left arm was cut almost through. ‘And then if we catch the fish and eat them, shall we have devoured our enemy, do you think?’
Thomas snorted. ‘You have some strange fancies at times, and not ones I want to consider when eating my dinner!’ He gestured to the vambrace. ‘Are you hurt?’
Otto shook his head. ‘One of the bastards had a good try, but this was the only casualty. You?’
‘Not a scratch,’ Thomas said, although he knew he would have a few bruises when it came to the accounting. ‘The King took that cut to the thigh though. If we failed in anything, it was in protecting him.’ But then Edward was not a child to be constantly watched and coddled. He knew his own mind and the risks involved, and the injury had not looked severe.
He slapped his hand down on the top of the wooden castle hoarding and gazed at the sea of English banners waving against the blood-red sky. ‘We have destroyed the French king’s fleet and the army he was assembling to invade England.’ He shook his head in wonder at the sheer enormity of their achievement. There would be booty and glory for all.
‘God was with us,’ Otto said, ‘as He was not with the French.’
‘And with our archers,’ Thomas replied, remembering the death rain of arrows whistling over the sea as he watched the soldiers at their work on the deck, where the fallen shafts lay as thick as floor-straw in places. He stooped and picked one up, barred with trimmed goose feathers and a sharp bodkin head. ‘This is what won the battle,’ he said. ‘These kept them pinned down – and their own folly. Had they sailed out to meet us, we would now be the ones at the bottom of the sea.’ It was a sobering thought. How so many small moments and decisions could amalgamate into a force strong enough to turn the wheel of fate.
Edward spent the night on theChristopher.The tally of the dead amounted to five hundred English and over ten thousand French, with a hundred and sixty-six French ships captured – more than the total English fleet – and twenty-four sunk. It had been a triumph and a rout.
Despite his injuries, the King was in good spirits. His chirurgeon had cleaned and stitched his thigh wound, and smeared it with honey. Edward sat with his leg propped on a stool to aid healing while his scribes toiled around him, writing news of the victory; a messenger had already set out to the Queen to inform her of their success.
Thomas and Otto made their report and returned to theThomas.Now in dock, they could hear the roistering in the drinking houses on shore. Men capered and caroused on the decks of the captured ships, drunk on wine and the exhilaration of being alive to celebrate, and with the promise of booty to come.
The brothers sat down either side of an upturned tub to consume roast capon and a clear French wine purloined from theSaint George.
‘Are you going to tell the King about your marriage?’ Otto asked. ‘You could do it now while he is in a good mood about the victory.’
Thomas shook his head. ‘I need to speak with Jeanette first, and he has other matters on his mind as well as contending with his wound. Let it wait a better time.’ He was procrastinating – he knew the King would not respond well whenever he broached the matter. ‘I shall tell him when the time is right,’ he said, to assuage his conscience, ‘but if you want to go ashore and celebrate, do not let me stop you.’
‘Without you?’
Thomas shrugged ruefully. ‘I have to count how many arrows we have salvaged, and what equipment needs replacement or repair. Henry will go with you of a certainty.’
‘You could do that tomorrow in daylight – it would be far easier.’ Otto pushed aside his dish and stood up.
‘Perhaps, but I know how easy it would be to get drunk and wake up lying across some harlot with a thousand demons banging hammers inside my skull. Besides, I have a reputation to uphold now that must stand me in good stead with the King.’
‘As you please,’ Otto said. ‘At least you know what you’ll be missing.’
Standing among the Queen’s ladies, Jeanette watched King Edward return to Ghent in triumph amid a fanfare of silver trumpets and horn blasts. News of the miraculous victory at Sluys had spread far and wide, and the city was decked out to greet the returning heroes.
The glossy coats of the horses shone with starbursts of sunlight, and the armour of the knights and attendants twinkled and flashed, dazzling the eyes. Harnesses jingled, and horseshoes struck blue sparks on the cobbles. The supply carts rumbled behind, piled with booty from hundreds of French ships.
Positioned in the middle of the women, Jeanette stood with Katerine of Salisbury, who was watching her closely for any signs of infraction. The Countess’s mood was pensive and irritable for her husband was still a prisoner of the French with his ransom to be arranged.
Jeanette sought Thomas in the throng. They had heard at court of the King’s injury and that he had been resting while the captured ships were unloaded and the victory consolidated, but he had sent messages daily, informing the Queen of his progress. Jeanette was glad for the victory, and that Thomas was alive– news would have come to them in the daily dispatches if he wasn’t – but she was deflated and afraid of the news she had for him.
She saw him riding not far from the King with Otto at his side, the brothers clad in the green and scarlet livery of the household knights. He leaned in to reply to a comment made by one of the men, but then raised his head, searching the crowd, and like an arrow finding its mark, unerringly caught her gaze. Jeanette hastily looked down, unsure of how to respond. They no longer needed to be married. He could ride away without commitment. The only people who knew were their servants and the young friar, and they were all sworn to secrecy. But she didn’t want it to be an ending.
