Authors: Bill Sharrock
James tried to smile, but he felt dizzy, and his legs
had lost their strength. ‘I . . .’ he began.
‘
Aye, I know. Ye tangled with that young Frenchie, and
he damn near had you for breakfast. Now sit ye down – over here,
and let me see to that wound. Don’t worry about the fighting. The
lads’ll hold ‘em. That mud has taken the stuffin’ right out of
those them chevaliers.’ He paused. ‘But they got a few of us,
including young Stephen Geryng. Only man to fall in his company. How
unlucky is that?’
James sat down on a furrow a good fifteen paces behind
the English lines. He took some vinegar wine from a clay bottle that
Lewis thrust into his hand. It tasted good: warm, sharp and tingling
all at once. His head began to clear, and he sat back, hardly aware
that Lewis was dressing his wound.
'There!’ said the old archer, as he tied the bandage.
‘Had to rip up some poor blighter’s tunic for ye, and I wasted
some good wine on that cut, but it’s nay more than a scratch, and
ye should be right as rain before long.’
‘
Thanks!’
'Huh! Thanks, nothing! Gave me a chance to get out of
that madness. But see Eric over there – Morgaunt and Yevan got him
out – his shoulder’s a mess. No more fighting for him till
Springfest for sure.’
It began to rain again, falling in light misted curtains
over the struggling lines of armoured men. James sat and stared at
what he saw before him, as though in a dream. He felt that he could
reach out and touch the battle, and yet he was no longer part of it.
He drank again, then shook his head. This was no good. It was time to
get back to the fighting.
But as, turning, he looked for his bow and began to get
to his feet, old Lewis held him back. He crouched down beside him.
'Nay lad! Don’t ye be rushing off now. You’re as
wobbly on your pins as a newborn lamb. They’d trim you soon as look
at ye. Wait here and rest.’
‘
Rest?’
‘
Aye, rest! I’m thinking the fight will be coming
this way pretty soon any way.’
The rain grew heavier. James shivered and drew what was
left of his cloak about him. It was cold, very cold – like lambing
time in Chiswick. That was the time when his father would call him
and his brother out into the night as the storms broke in from the
West. They loved that time. Loved it and hated it: freezing cold in
bitter driving rain, but so good to come home in the morning with a
lamb or wrapped up safe in your cloak.
There was a sudden shouting above the noise of battle.
More trumpets sounded, and the English line fell back a spear’s
length.
Old Lewis stood up: ‘The trumpets call, laddie, the
trumpets call. Anyone who hangs back now will be spitted on the spot
by yon captains or swung from a tree by King Harry after this here
battle.’ He hauled James to his feet. ‘Up now! Bring that sword
of yours and we’ll find ye a place to hide in the rear ranks.’
He pushed James forward towards the fighting. ‘Just
shout and shove lad. Shout and shove.’
Ahead, James could see Yevan, William and the other
archers of the company. Using the men at arms like a hedge of steel,
they were darting forward to strike at the French, then leaping back
again.
He stumbled into the rearmost rank, put his shoulder
against a buckler and drove with all his might. He pushed till his
joints cracked, and his head rang – but the line did not move,
except to surge backwards against him half a pace, so that he sank to
his shins in the mud. More men joined him from somewhere. There were
cries, shouts of alarm, then a sudden clash of steel just ahead of
him. He drove again, and this time the line seemed to go forward.
Someone cheered, a broken lance was thrown which fell harmlessly
behind him, another cheer, then everyone surged forward. Six, no
seven paces, then James looked down and saw the lifeless eyes of a
dead French knight staring up at him. He tripped over the body, and
nearly fell. On they went, fives paces more then shambled to a halt.
They stood about, some of them with hands on knees, heads down
gasping in the chill, damp air.
The French had gone. Their Battle broken, and their
captains killed, what was left of them had retreated in good order
across the field.
James watched them go, and nodded his thanks when Old
Lewis thrust his bow into his hand. He sat down, and all around him
others followed suit. A few were tending to the wounded. Others were
stripping the dead.
Jankyn Fustor came and sat beside him. ‘Aye-o, lad!’
he said in his easy drawl. ‘That was a pretty fight.’
James nodded.
‘
Cost us, though,’ Jankyn went on, picking his teeth
with a twig. ‘Five good archers, and more than a handful of
spearmen. I saw John Harford go down, and Eric the Pike too.’
‘
Eric’s still breathing,’ said James. ‘He’s
back there, shoulder all busted up.’
Jankyn turned and looked; ‘Aye, I see him. Still, he
may as well be dead for all the use he’ll be to us today. There’s
more o’ the French forming up across that field. They’ll be upon
us in next to no time.’
As he spoke, an English knight bearing the arms of
Gloucester on his shield came hurrying towards them.
‘
Up England, up!’ he shouted. ‘On your feet!
There’s more to be done yet.’ The men stood and went to the
stakes, bows at the ready, and fresh arrows in their belts. As they
formed rank the knight went up to William Bretoun.
‘
The king wants ten of your company at his banners
now’, he said. ‘We lost heavily in that last fight, and the next
Battle will hit the centre for sure.’
‘
Ten archers?’
‘
Aye, ten. There’s ten to be drawn from each company
now.’ He looked hard at William. ‘Now, master bowman. Now!’
The Somerset archer shrugged. ‘So be it!’ he said.
His gaze fell on James, Lewis, Yevan and Jankyn. ‘Away you go then,
lads, and be quick about it. King Harry calls ye, and there’s work
to be done.’ He glanced at the knight. ‘And tell the lord marshal
I’ll send six more men directly.’
As James and the others hurried away, they could already
hear the captains call, and the sound of archers urging one another
to draw the first shafts. They came to the banners. The king was
there, flanked by his chosen knights. He looked tired and anxious,
but his sword was in his hand, and when he spoke his voice was clear
and strong. He was giving orders to Davy Gamm who frowned, then
nodded, and with a half bow disappeared along the line to the west.
Old Sir Thomas, Marshal of England, was there of course,
running his hand through his shock of snow white hair and gazing all
around him. He caught sight of the approaching archers and waved them
forward.
‘
Come on! Come on! They’ll be upon us any moment.
You’ll stand both sides of the banners here, and keep up a good hot
fire on the French. Show no mercy: no clout heads, no ransom. There’s
right here some of your brothers who tried to capture instead of
kill, and now look at ‘em.’
He gestured at his feet where the bodies of several
archers lay.
James swallowed hard. His head was clear now, but his
stomach still hurt, and he wondered if he could draw bow.
‘
Avaunt, lads!’
He turned. It was the king. The king had spoken, and was
looking straight at them. They bowed instinctively.
‘
No time for that! Up now, and look to your front. The
trumpets sound, and France comes on apace!’
They took their stand, and chose arrows. Yevan assured
Sir Thomas that more archers would join them soon. The old marshal
shrugged, then suddenly smiled. ‘You’re as good as your word,
bowman. I see them coming. Six men, just as you say. Well, we’ll be
needing them.’
As he spoke the captains called and the bows sang.
With a gasp, James leant to the rhythm of the task,
stretching against the pull of the yew, and drawing the fletchings
hard to his cheek. His stomach hurt, but the wound didn’t seem
deep. Perhaps Old Lewis was right. Perhaps it was just a scratch. He
loosed the first shaft, and bent to the second. Over by the royal
banner a master bowman was calling the shots:
‘
Knee . . . Stretch . . . now, strike!’ The old
familiar call. Again he loosed, and felt the greased string hum and
slap against his wrist guard. Again he nocked a war arrow, and in one
easy movement straightened, aimed and struck.
Clouds of arrows gathered like a swift dark storm over
the second French Battle. They fell as lightning against a fleet at
sea, tossing the French lines into confusion. Banners dipped and
reeled. Shields held high were split and knocked aside. Men stumbled
to their knees, and stood upright once more, only to be hammered down
by a flurry of shafts.
And yet still they came, drawing their ranks together to
close the gaps, and sounding trumpet.
'Damn them for their courage!’ shouted Jankyn, as he
reached for another war arrow. ‘There’s more of them than the
first.’
‘
Aye!’ muttered Yevan, spitting on a barb for luck,
‘And they come at us like death.’
The rain had eased again, the sun shone pale through the
grey drifting sky, and the muddy field was lit once more with the
twinkling of arms and armour. Splashes of bright colour marked a
thousand noble tabards, and though men were falling like wheat, it
seemed that there were two to replace every one that fell.
On they came, just like the first Battle, with shouts of
anger and defiance, heads bowed to the storm that broke about them.
Slowly they ate the yards that spanned the field; slowly they reached
out for the English lines.
At seventy paces the archers about the king’s banners
began to glance at one another. One or two missed their shots, broke
their rhythm and hurried on the return.
Yevan raised his voice and cursed them: ‘Hold you
whore-sons! Hold! I’ll kill the first man who takes a step back!’
Nearby, Sir Thomas Erpingham, mace in hand, nodded his
approval:
‘
Let them come lads! Let them come! When you hear the
king’s trumpet call it’s draw sword and every man upon them!’
James felt sick. It might be the fever, it might be his
guts, it might be simple fear, but no matter – there was nothing to
do but fight.
He would sooner be at home than standing here. Better to
be in the long grass meadow calling in the cows, and bringing home a
fat pigeon for the pot. And sitting watching the cooking fire, and
stretching out his boots to feel the warmth, while Hettie . . . his
Hettie . . .
‘
Thirty paces, boyo! Two more flights should do it!’
It was John ap Meredith. He must have come up with the
other six. Well, John was a good man to have at your side if it came
to trading blows with the French again. He fought with nothing but
his bow stave, but he used it like a club, and could bring any knight
to his knees with one hit.
James loosed two more arrows, hesitated then looked to a
third. Before he could nock it a trumpet sounded.
‘
Ahah!’ laughed John. ‘See! What did I tell you?
Yon Harry our king knows how to fight!’
With bows unstrung, and bowstrings made safe under cap
and casque, the archers snatched up what weapons they had, gave a
great cheer and once again rushed out at the French.
The English men-at-arms and dismounted knights who were
gathered about the king, also advanced but heavier in the stride
because of their armour. As he ran, James could hear the king call as
though he were almost at his shoulder.
‘
Here’s steel, lads! For God and king! Swing hard!’
The French knights stopped, and stood to meet the
charge. Some were so exhausted by the long march across the field
that they could scarcely lift their arms to defend themselves. Others
could fight well enough, but were slow to move, or even keep their
footing as the English rushed upon them.
Two French noblemen, bearing the arms of Bourbon and
Vendome cried out ‘Montjoie!’ and ‘Dieu aide!’ Both carried
poleaxes, and though their armour was battered and bloody, and they
were half-stooped with weariness, they struck down three archers with
the same number of blows.
But they stood like islands in a sea of slaughter. All
about them their countrymen fell, butchered by flailing axes,
short-swords and mauls. Some cried out for mercy, and were snatched
to ransom by eager hands. Most fought on, but were hammered to their
knees and left to die in the mud. The ground itself was soon lost to
sight beneath the bodies of the slain, and even the archers became
breathless and uncertain with the killing. Prisoners were shoved
hastily to the rear, while the sergeants and captains roared against
and beat any man they saw who paused to strip the dead.
Still, and yet, Vendome and Bourbon would not go down.
Soon a remnant of the Battle, mostly squires and coated knights,
gathered about them in support.
With a shout, Henry himself hurled against them, sword
at parry and the banner of St George held high by Sir Thomas
Strickland. James went with his king. Shoulder to shoulder they
collided with the French.
The shock of the charge seemed to drive the air out of
James’ lungs. He felt his own sword go home under the guard of a
young crop-headed squire from Valences, but it was as though he
himself had been struck hard across the chest by a giant hand. Head
spinning, he staggered backwards, but was straightway flung forward
by a sudden push from behind, and fell against the dying squire.