He had taken oaths of ransom and saved many from slaughter, putting them under the protection of his banner on promise of payment, but he could not save everyone and he had had to take a pragmatic approach. Save the wealthiest; save those who could help themselves and send the weak to the wall. That was how it had to be.
He took a drink to clear his throat and approached his most important catch of the day – Raoul de Brienne, Comte d’Eu, who was sitting on a straw mattress on the floor. His armour had been taken away, and also his shoes – a precaution given that the battle was not long won and that Raoul might attempt escape, although he would be mad to do so given the volatile mood of the soldiers and the difficulty of returning to his own side.
Thomas handed Raoul a cup of wine and hooked up a camp stool to sit on.
‘I cannot thank you enough for saving my life,’ Raoul said. ‘Anything you want, my family will see you receive it.’
Thomas drank and did not answer immediately. In the way of things, he would not be collecting Raoul’s ransom in person, but would sell it on to either the lord Edward or the King himself for an agreed sum. How much was negotiable, but Raoul was worth a tidy sum that would enable him to hire a good lawyer and begin his campaign at the papal court.
‘I hear there are many dead,’ Raoul said.
‘That is so – but it is the nature of war. You could not have held us off whatever you did. Do not take yourself to task.’
‘I know . . .’ Raoul rubbed his face. ‘I realise you must speak to the King about my ransom, but will you get word to my family that I am safe?’
‘Of course.’ Thomas refilled their cups. ‘I shall require your formal pledge, but you will not find your captivity too onerous I hope.’
Raoul set down his cup and slid a signet ring from his finger, the centre set with an engraved Roman sardonyx. ‘This I swear by my own privy seal,’ he said. ‘On my oath and on my soul and the souls of all my forefathers, I pledge myself to your keeping until the ransom shall be paid.’
Thomas slipped the ring on to his own finger. ‘I accept your pledge in good faith and I will see that you are well treated.’ He beckoned to John de la Salle. ‘You will attend to the needs of the Comte d’Eu while he is in our charge. See that his armour is cleaned, and find him some soft shoes to wear.’
‘Sir.’ De la Salle bowed and set about his task.
‘You will find John quick-witted and competent,’ Thomas said. ‘I will appoint others to care for your needs in due course, but it can wait until later.’
Raoul finished the second cup of wine and a flush mounted his cheeks. ‘You know you cannot win. Your king has just had good fortune with him so far.’
Thomas smiled tolerantly. ‘Everyone said that we would be destroyed at Sluys,’ he replied. ‘The French fleet was many times larger than ours. Yes, we had the luck of the wind and tide, but we made our own luck too and our king is skilled at spinning it from whatever fleece the fates give him, while yours doesn’t always know what to do with his distaff.’
Raoul gave a snort of disagreement and waved his hand, but good-naturedly.
John de la Salle returned with a pair of soft-soled shoes from the spare baggage that were a reasonable fit once Raoul had laced them up.
‘But beyond fortune, we have this,’ Thomas said, and taking Raoul outside led him to the archers’ tents set up under theHolland banner, where his and Otto’s men were stirring a cauldron of stew and tending to their equipment.
‘Samson, Godwin, bring your men,’ Thomas commanded. ‘I want you to show the Comte d’Eu how you earn your pay. Bring as many arrows as you can shoot to a count of sixty. I’ll pay you a penny for each one.’
The men gathered their bows and strings and followed Thomas to the abbey gardens where one of them set up a series of markers.
Raoul looked sidelong at Thomas. ‘Archers?’ he said dubiously.
‘Watch.’ Thomas nodded to Samson, the group’s leader. ‘And pray for France.’
The archers had strung their bows, and Samson ordered them to nock their arrows, draw and loose. The barbed shafts hissed overhead and plummeted over the marker line. Thomas steadily recited the paternoster and the archers continued to shoot, emptying their arrow bags until Thomas cried ‘Amen’ and sent Joss, sixteen, the youngest of the group, to run and gather up the loosed arrows and bade him count them.
‘Seven times seventeen, in the time it took me to say a paternoster,’ Thomas said. ‘Now tell me how many bolts one of your Genoese can shoot with his arbalest in the same time.’
‘About six,’ Raoul said, looking wry, ‘but they have great accuracy and power.’
‘Indeed, and are rightly to be respected.’
Thomas instructed Samson to set out the targets of cloth-stuffed straw at the range the men had been shooting, and had each archer take his turn at the target. No one missed, and all were near the centre.
‘Now,’ Thomas said, ‘imagine you are charging into a rain like that on the back of a horse, and imagine that there are not seven men, but seven thousand. The best, like mine, will shootseventeen arrows in the time it takes to say a swift paternoster, and even the worst will shoot twice as fast as your crossbowmen, and straight into your horses. They cannot miss. And in front of the archers, ranked up, will be the spearmen in a forest of blades. And the knights behind them are fresh and have yet to bloody their swords and lances.’
He thanked and dismissed the archers with a wave, telling Samson to come to him for payment in a while, and bidding them enjoy their dinner. Then he returned to his lodging with a subdued Raoul at his side.
‘Now do you see?’ he said. ‘They are like good hounds, and they take great pride in their pack, but when it comes to battle, they become wolves – wolves that know how to stand hard. You cannot win against such pride and skill.’
