Part six: Not quite burning bridges, but almost
Style took another step back. He was most of the way across the pontoon now, and the Frenchmen were ruthlessly pushing forward. He batted a spear aside, stepping inside its arc as he did so. He aimed his lunge low, and caught the man in the gut. A glance to his right, and there was Ross, fighting like a demon, screaming Gaelic war cries at an enemy increasingly frightened to face him. An enemy soldier swung his shield at him. Style ducked and slammed his own teardrop shield into the man’s chest. The metal boss landed with a sickening crunch, and the Frenchman crumpled. Another step backwards as two French spearmen closed on him on the swaying pontoon, then another as they both thrust their spears at him. Dodging the first man’s spear, he heard the high-pitched sound of a support beam snapping. The French were crowding the bridge; it could not carry many more. The first Frenchman lunged again, catching Style’s chainmail. He felt a sharp pain in his ribs, but he was alive, and hopefully not bleeding. God save me from old sawbones if I am. Another step backwards, and breathing room as Style hit the man with the flat of his spear tip, before stabbing him in the neck. A glance to the right. Ross was gone. Damn. Looking around, Style found himself further forward than anyone else. He jogged backwards a few steps, until he was off the bridge with the others. The French advanced towards them, and Style thought it was over. Death is preferable to captivity, he thought, having heard the (mostly false) rumours of how captives were treated by the French King. He knelt down, digging his spear into the ground, and prepared to die. Until the bridge collapsed.
Style ducked under a French officer’s sword thrust. He drove the spear up into the man’s ribcage. For a second, their eyes met, until the Frenchman’s went lifeless. Style twisted and freed his spear point. One of the supports must have cracked, he thought. A whole section of the bridge, almost ten feet of it, had just crashed into the Garonne. Many French had been swept away by the fast-flowing river, or simply drowned under the weight of their chain mail. The others were wavering on the remaining bridge sections. There were cries of terror every time the pontoon swayed or creaked. There was no way of getting across now, and, if the English brought the dreaded Welsh bowmen up, the tightly packed French would be slaughtered. Of course, they could not have known that the spearmen were alone. The French captain, sat on his grey charger on the opposite bank, had been shocked and thrown by the bridge’s collapse. What should have been an easy victory had turned into a disaster. He turned to his drummer boy.
“Sound the recall. Hurry, man!”
Ross dropped the woodman’s axe and held onto a piece of the cracked support. The river was trying desperately to claim him, another life lost to the tide that was flowing terrifyingly fast after the storms. He reached out with his left hand, just getting a grip on a stone jutting out from the wall. He swung himself against the tide, and now he had two hands on the stone. To his right, slightly downstream, was a jetty for small merchant boats. Very carefully, he let go of the stone, first with his right hand. If he didn’t grab the jetty first time, he would be swept away. He let go.
The river pushed him along again, impatiently waiting for him to die it seemed. The jetty was ten feet away. Closer, and Ross stretched his arms out ready to grab the edge. He was five feet away when the support beam hit him in the back. He winced, and caught the edge of the jetty with the fingertips of his left hand. He struggled against the tide, gaining a grip with his left hand. He swung his body upwards, and gripped the edge with his right hand. He then pulled against the tide, eventually flopping onto the jetty like a salmon caught by a bear. He stopped to catch his breath, before staggering up the jetty to the road where the remnants of the company were stood.
“What happened, Rob?” Style asked as he approached.
“Axes and bridges don’t mix well, laddy.” Said Ross in full highland drawl as he walked towards the company, still out of breath. Style looked at him incredulously.
“What? But the bridge… How will the Duke get across?” The French infantry who had not been swept away by the Garonne had scattered on the other side. If they brought crossbows up, the spearmen might have a problem, Ross reflected.
“Never mind that for now. Where’s the captain?” Old Gisbourne probably wouldn’t have noticed that the French were within crossbow range. Senile old fool...
“Dead. He got killed over on the other side, right at the start o’ the thing, Rob.”
“Damn! Who commands now?” Ross already half knew the answer,
“Nobody, Rob. Nobody does.” Style replied. Ross swore in Gaelic.
“Then I’ll command. Only ‘til the duke gets back, mind. But fer now, I’ll be cap’ain.” Then he addressed the company, “Hear that lads? I’ll be yer cap’ain ‘til the Duke gets back.” A cheer rose from the company. Their losses had been high, their captain was dead, but their side of the river was still English, and Robert Ross was their new captain.
