The Bow

by Bill Sharrock

  James danced back, as the sword came at him again, this time slashing through his quilted jack where belly meets rib cage. There was sudden pain, and a wave of nausea that made him stagger, but he stayed on his feet, his own sword held up at guard, waiting for the death-blow.

  As the French sword came down, it rang against the metal head of a poleaxe. James flinched, looked up and saw Eric grinning down at him. Then the pommel of a sword came out of nowhere, and Eric reeled backwards spitting blood and teeth: the young French knight had struck him on the reverse parry, then turned to deliver the final cut. Despite the mud that closed about sollerets and greaves, he moved with a grace and strength that made him a leopard among lambs. He felled Eric with a stroke that took the man-at-arms across his shoulder, shearing the mail links and smashing the collar bone beneath his quilted gambeson.

  He did not pause as Eric sank to his knees, but thrust a captain through who had come at him from his blind quarter.

  Holding his stomach, wet to the touch, James lurched forward, half falling, and hacked down with his sword. It was an awkward, poorly weighted blow, which lacked everything but desperation – but it was enough. It struck the young Frenchman on his backplate, knocking him off balance. With a cry James lashed out again. This time the blow was parried, but the swirl of battle moved about them and in a moment the knight was gone.

  More men at arms closed about James, their pikes and poleaxes driving forward against the press of advancing knights. Someone took him by the shoulder and dragged him back. It was old Lewis, the greybeard of the company.

  'Hey, lad, here’s a pickle! Eric down and you all bloodied.’

  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 s
now 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.

  At the same moment someone grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, hauling him upright. It was a noble lord. It was Baron Talbot, knight of the royal guard, and keeper of a great war-dog that shadowed his every step.

  ‘Up lad! Up! No time for less than fighting!’ He grinned through his stubbled beard and shoved James forward. The dog snarled and leapt into the press.

  And then through the din came the sound of steel on steel ringing about James’ head, and the breath of a blade as it swept across his face. He ducked, cut wildly with his sword, and pushed on into the sea of visored helms and staring eyes.

  All about him nobles, knights, squires and common men fought with demented fury, screaming and shouting as they lashed about with daggers, maces, axes and mauls. Some fought with short-hafted war-hammers, others with falchion-swords. A few fought with their bare hands. The mud consumed them, and the rain began to come down again in gusting torrents. Those who fell beneath the piling bodies were drowned or suffocated. Those who became isolated from friends or shield bearers were quickly clubbed down, or hacked about from every side.

  A small group of archers, Thomas Tudur and David Whitecherche among them, along with the king’s brother Humphrey of Gloucester,fought their way forward to claim a Lily banner, and would have been overwhelmed if the king himself had not led a party to their side. It was then that a French knight seizing his opportunity attacked the kin
g, and gave him such a blow that it struck a fleuron from his helmet, and brought him to his knees.

  James, only three paces away and trapped in the press, could only stare in dismay as he saw the Frenchman step back and swing his sword high for the death cut. Someone cried out in alarm, ‘A Talbot! A Talbot!’ – and even as the sword swept down – ‘To the King!’

  But before the blade could bite an archer had flung himself in its path, taking the full force of the blow. As the archer fell, his brigandine already bright with blood, and the knights of the king’s household swarmed about their lord, James saw that it was Davy Gamm. The Welshman had come from nowhere at the last to give his life for his king. It was the stuff of ancient songs and dreamers’ ballads, but it had happened: and all in an instant soon swept away. Davy Gamm was gone.

  King Henry staggered to his feet, glanced down at the dying archer, muttered something James could not make out, and hurled himself back into the fight.

  All those about him followed, pushing against the French ranks like frenzied hedgers hacking and hewing all about them. But it was a hedge that refused to give way, and seemed to grow with each passing moment.

  Men fought to stay on their feet, and fought to stay alive. It was no longer about winning. It was simply about taking breath in the bloody crush, and clearing a space around you in the chaos. Out of the corner of his eye, James could see arrows still flickering in from the left flank, but here at the centre, beneath the banner of the king, it was hand to hand: friend heaped on foe, and foe on friend. He tore a buckler from the body of a man at arms, and hammered it against the falchions and maces that came at him. His sword was chipped and jagged at the point, but the blade still held true, and he struck again and again at breastplate, helm and iron-bound glaive.

  Increasingly, his arms felt leaden, and jarred with every stroke. Although he could scarcely miss, he knew that nearly all his blows skidded, dented, and bounced against the plated armour of these aristocrats and chevaliers who were trying to bring him down.