Crown in Candlelight (27 page)

Towards the end of the line a smith quietly sharpened daggers and a dozen bowmen were notching their arrows and waxing their strings with goose-grease. He stopped and spoke to them.

‘I shall not forget your prowess at Harfleur, your tenacity and courage during these last weeks. Now the Almighty has you in his hand. Today, tomorrow, and for ever.’

They shivered in their ragged loose shirts, wondering how soon they might see the Almighty face to face. Yet, at the serene rapt smile that bade them goodnight, much of their fear abated.

In Gloucester’s pavilion the Duke was wakeful, uneasy. He motioned a page for wine for Henry but the King declined, dismissing pages and guard. Humphrey drained a goblet.

‘You drink overmuch,’ said the King.

‘I heard something earlier that set me drinking,’ said his brother. ‘The French have painted a cart in which they plan to parade you captive through the streets of Paris! After they’ve finished the throat-cutting!’

Henry said mildly: ‘Tomorrow they will be the captives. Have you no faith?’

‘I’m full of faith,’ said Humphrey, and poured more wine.

‘I spoke to Erpingham. He’s a good and great commander, so sagacious. We are agreed that combat must be joined as soon after dawn as possible. I cannot waste the men another day. They are debilitated already. A few more hours will finish them. My last challenge to be allowed to pass unhindered to Calais has been refused. So, by God, there will be throat-cutting on Crispin’s Day, and ours will be the blades!’

Humphrey knelt to kiss his brother’s hand. ‘My life and sword are yours,’ he said. He sighed. ‘By my faith I know not why, Harry, but I am comforted.’

Henry left him and walked on, flanked by his escort. Two figures approached, and did him homage.

‘Davydd ap Llewellyn ap Hywel here, Sire. We were seeking your Grace. My scurrier brings news from within the French camp.’

‘They’re merry, Sire,’ said the scout. ‘But that you can hear for yourself.’ Across the half-mile of country, tossed on the rainy wind, came shouts, laughter, the barking of dogs, and music, a flageolet’s weird high wail and the heartbeat throb of a tabor. Roaring campfires glowed on the skyline.

‘I hid in the Tramecourt woods, then penetrated their lines. It was quite easy. Then I caught a boy.’ Grimly: ‘I persuaded him to sing to me.’

‘Tell me.’

‘They are magnificently arrayed. Some knights are so proud that they are spending the night in the saddle rather than foul their harness in the mud. There’s at least ninety pounds of steel on their backs. They look like giants, not men.’

‘Ninety pounds!’ said Henry thoughtfully.

Ay, Sire. And I heard of their plan for the archers. They are to be killed or sold in bunches of twenty as slaves. All left living are to have three fingers of their right hand severed so that they may nevermore draw a bow,’

‘Now tell me of the commanders.’

‘Boucicaut, d’Albret. The Dukes of Orléans, Alençon and Bar, Bourbon and Berry. The Counts of Eu and Richemont, Sir Ferry de Lorraine, the Sire de Heilly, Guillaume Martel, Ganiot de Bournonville. Others, a chivalry too numerous to name.’

‘What of Burgundy?’

‘The story goes that Jean sans Peur wished to attend a christening feast and may not be here for days. His young brother, Anthony, Duke of Brabant is still awaited, but his son, Philip, has been forbidden the affray.’

‘Go on.’

‘Something else, Sire. There is much rivalry and disorder. A general feeling of rebellion. Even the card-players form factions and curse one another in the name of whoever is their master.’

Discipline! Indiscipline! He thought: again their weakness. That vast disparate army! And what commander could do what I have done, enforce this blessed stillness, these muted lights and fires, this constant watch and ward?

‘Are they well fed and well provisioned?’

‘Yes, Sire. And they know that we starve.’

‘Henry gave a grim chuckle. ‘So! We’ll deepen our silence. Let them think we have pined and withered where we lie. You have done more than well and you shall be rewarded. Remember now that God is with us. Never, never doubt.’

Davy Gam said in soft wonderment: ‘
Duw annwyl
! Your Grace is an inspiration …’ He knelt and took the hem of Henry’s sodden cloak to his lips.

He was moved again, but gave no sign.

‘It will soon be dawn. I shall complete my progress and then put on my
côte d’armes
.’

He went on to where the horses were quartered, most of them lying down with the grooms snuggled beside them for warmth. In the gloom a great white stallion shone like a ghost. It turned to him knowingly, dropping its nose into his hand.

‘Fear nothing,’ he told the stable-boys, the baggage-boys and farriers. ‘All will be well.’

Almost at the end of his progress he came on Owen, standing rigid in the lee of a tent, his hand curled tightly about his longbow. Owen had forgotten that once he had been told he would always be safe. There was room for nothing but crippling fear. He hardly noticed when the King came forward to speak to him.

‘You’re afraid,’ Henry said softly.

‘
Duw a’n cymorth!
’ Owen whispered.

‘Amen’ The King’s voice was grave. ‘And He
will
help us indeed.
Cymerwch nerth oddiwrth Dduw a byddwch ddewr~!
’ And turned to include his own escort, repeating: ‘Have courage; take strength from God!’

He thought as he walked away: Almighty, spare him. My good talisman, with his little sycamore harp!

With dawn, the rain ceased suddenly as if satisfied with a havoc of wet clothes and sneezes. For three hours both armies had been drawn up at the appointed place on Artois plain, the English in a field of young corn, the French flanked by the woodland less than a mile to the north. As they waited the day brightened and some small birds alighted to peck among the furrows deepened by the horses’ feet.

Henry sat on a little grey pony and stared across the field. Behind him a page held the snow-white destrier, groomed to a glassy sheen, its housings blue and gold, golden tassels hanging from its bridle. A little way off was Edward, Duke of York, commanding the adjoining vanguard to the right, while on the left a keen-eyed knight, Lord Camoys, watched with them. His horse was restive, his nerves taut as wet hemp. Henry had chosen Camoys to lead the left attack with soldiers brought up from the rear. Thus three main bodies formed the vanguard. The men stood four deep behind the commanders, quilled with an assortment of killing-tools: lances, clubs, spiked maces ad axes. Small deadly knives were thrust through their belts and some carried a sharp double-edged sword. Interspersed with these three bodies were the archers, drawn up in wedge-shaped groups each like a half-diamond, the base line steady, the sides of the apex trimmed to a hair. On either wing of the company more archers formed flanks curving inwards, ready to encircle a charging enemy. The tall bows bristled beside their heads, their waists were crammed with arrows and beside each man the stout sharp stake was planted firm.

Lord Camoys’s horse reared and he fought its restlessness with a soothing oath. He had not expected the honour of commanding the left advance. During the night he and others had ridden to reconnoitre the field of battle, reporting it as fairly favourable to Henry.

‘I had thought your Grace’s brother would be in place,’ he said, still struggling with his plunging mount.

Henry said, never taking his eyes from the distant French line: ‘My lord of Gloucester will do well in the rearguard. Once it begins he will come forward and reinforce us.’

He continued to stare, incredulity growing in him. Not at the vastness of the French force which this morning looked greater than yesterday, but at the position in which they were drawn up. To their left the Tramecourt woods sprawled densely; even closer to their right another thick wood on a little hill girdled some farm dwellings and a derelict-looking castle.

‘Sweet Jesu, mercy!’ He said under his breath. ‘God
did
plant those trees to a purpose!’

Camoys looked hard where the King looked.

‘Can they not realize?’ said Henry softly. ‘They are so many!’

‘They’re proud,’ said Camoys.

‘The first deadly sin. See how the cannon on their flanks is hindered, almost masked by woodland!’

‘And the mangonels and arblasts … they should be placed well clear …’

‘And look how the knights are bunched together in the front line!’

They were so close that it seemed a solid wall of silver-grey confronted the observers, intermittently blazoned with colours of shameless loveliness: purple, jade, bright mustard gold, rich cerise, sapphire, and azure and leaf green. Central to this bouquet of beauty and steel the oriflamme tossed, a scarlet vein glistening as its bearer moved flauntingly about. The standards of so many lords and dukes seemed to outnumber the common soldiery by ten to one. The first two lines of dismounted pikemen stood six deep, while small companies of archers stood at intervals between them. Behind the footsoldiers were the cavalry on mounts unarmoured save for gay silk housings.

‘Can you ascertain who commands each party? Describe the standards if you will,’ Henry said, as the French colours billowed clearer in a light wind.

‘To their right vanguard: Bourbon. Then d’Albret, Boucicaut …’ Camoys strained to see. ‘Now, here’s another standard … jostling to join the first battalion—the Duke of Orléans, I think, and on the end, my lord of Eu. Rearward … Vendôme commands their left … many more, Lammartin, or it could be St Pol … and Marle, or Fauquemberghes … many more. Too many.’ He shook his head, half blinded from interpreting the colours at a distance, and when he looked at the King the whites of his eyes were bloodily veined.

Henry’s gaze wandered away to the left. ‘What is that village and castle, westward?’

‘They call it Agincourt, your Grace.’

Henry looked again at the French army. ‘What vainglory!’ Then, with a chilling laugh: ‘And see how the woods hem it in!’

He turned to gaze at his own lords and captains heading the neat taut wedges of footsoldiers and bowmen. A sense of completion that was almost joy rose in him at sight of their good battle order, their quiet controlled stance, the undisputing loyalty which seemed to shine from them. Sir Gilbert Umfraville, Sir John Cornwall, Edward of York, Sir John Greyndon, Suffolk, inheritor of his dead father’s earldom since Harfleur, Dorset and Oxford, Humphrey of Gloucester, now looking fresh and unworried. Sir Walter Hungerford and priceless Erpingham. Sir John Holland. Davydd ap Llewellyn ap Hywel.

But no Clarence, no Arundel, no dear Courtenay. And no loving traitors, either. Again he surveyed his army. Not only the captains but those who had marched or ridden starving jades over two hundred and sixty miles at his bidding. Waiting, tattered, bareheaded, shoeless, the leather having rotted like that of their gloves. Some wore no breeches at all, their bare buttocks were red and rain-chapped as the wind lifted their shirts. These and the Irish contingent gave the party an occasional nude savagery not unpleasing in the circumstances. The sergeants and captains had chain hauberks and the less dilapidated of the archers still had black jackets lined with mail. It was a beggar’s army, until one looked at the faces. Under the streaked mud there was no fear, only an unbearable impatience. And with this bold hankering came nobility.

Integrated with the rest were the Household craftsmen, those who oiled the wheels of this rough life. Like Allbright Mailmaker with his serving armourers, John Covyn, Sergeant of the royal tents and pavilions and his attendant yeomen. The surgeons, doctors and leeches. John Waterton, Master of Horse, and Gerard de la Strade who had groomed to its present glory the white beast waiting behind the King. Guy Midelton and John Milton, who guided Henry through the lines by night on his progress of comfort. Richard Berre and his saddlers. Carpenters and labourers. John Feriby, Clerk of the Wardrobe, George Benet, master cordwainer, Almoners: Thomas Bridde and Estephin Payn. John de Bordin, Doctor in Laws, with his clerk and archers. And rolling to join the waiting ranks were the baggage carts from Maisoncelles with the packmules and men too sick to fight. In attendance were the Household priests: Dean Esmon Lacy with his chaplains, friars and the young weary priests for whom the long night had been heavy with the grief of penitent men.

The minstrels: John Cliffe, Tom Norys Tromper, Panel and Peut Tromper, Richard Pyper, and his brothers Meysham and Broune, Snaith Fidler, Thomas Hardiberd, with trumpets, fifes, shawms and drums. Henry had listened to their sweetness in times of waiting. Now they would scream of glory or death, beside the banners of the three royal heralds, Leicester, Guienne and Ireland, and the great standard of Antelope Pursuivant.

Vested for the Mass, behind a great gold cross, the Dean approached, leading chaplains carrying the Pyx and Eucharist. Singing-boys began a chant, their voices icy on the thin breeze. Cloud-filtered sunlight touched the Cross, the gold mitre, the chasubles. Henry dismounted and took off his mantle. He was revealed in magnificence. He wore full armour, its silver burnished to blue. Over it lay his
côte d’armes
, bright with the leopards and fleurs-de-lys of England and France. The priests began to pray loudly, as he had instructed. About their feet, one small bird still pecked fearlessly in the furrows.

‘Remember us, O Lord! Our enemies are gathered together and boast in their might. Scatter their strength and disperse them, that they may know that there is none other that fighteth for us, but only Thou, O God.’

‘Amen.’ The word resounded deep in thousands of throats. In that moment every man was sinless, without will or desire other than to be led, lying between the great pale hands of fate. The Mass wound its sonorous coil about the King. He received the Sacrament; in his lifted face the full red lips shone like a wound. Then he rose and his body-servants crowned him with helm and diadem. The jewels gave grace to the morning, glittering blue and carmine and pearl. There was a little gasp from the men. Mounted on the white horse, his sword was placed in his hand. In the ranks there was silence, while his words came forth in a roar.