The Bow

by Bill Sharrock

  For his part he sensed that survival lay in agility. One good thrust or single slash-cut from good French steel would be enough to finish him. His poor brigandine would be no defence.

  Five times he parried a sword with his buckler, deflecting it to lessen the blow, just as his uncle had taught him. Twice the sword crashed full on against the narrow boss: his whole body shook, and his forearm felt as though it had been broken. He reeled back on the second stroke, and would have been done for if Yevan ap Griffiths had not leapt to his defence. With a shout the master bowman cracked the knight on the side of his helmet with a bowstave and knocked him into the mud.

  ‘Are ye right, boyo?’ he laughed.

  James nodded. ‘Right enough, Yevan.’ They both turned instinctively to the fight. ‘I think they like this less than us.’ James shook his arm and stared at the bruising about the wrist. ‘But I thank ye for your staff.’

  The Welshman did not reply at first. He had shouldered his bowstave, and drawn a dagger from his belt. Then he spat and took a deep breath:

  ‘It’s close now we are boyo! Tusk to tusk!’ Again he shouted, and then rushed forward, throwing himself against the knight who had half struggled to his feet, and was resting on one knee. They both fell sprawling.

  James stood, crouched, staring uncertainly at them as they fought on the ground. Then someone pushed him from behind, a lance clattered over his shoulder, and he was swept into the fight again. He was sick, tired, and almost ready to give up, but he saw that those who faced him were even more exhausted than he was. After their long and painful march, the shock of battle was at last draining them of their strength to fight and their will to resist.

  Dropping his buckler, he took an old knight by the throat, and levelled his sword to drive it under the arm where the armour was weak. With a grunt of resignation, the knight dropped his sword and closed his eyes, waiting for the blow. For a moment James hesitated, then cursed, and cuffed him on the side of the cheek and threw him back, a prisoner.

  Suddenly all about him was the same. The French, overcome with weariness, were being cut down where they stood, or stripped of their weapons and made prisoners.

  Yevan had hauled his knight to his feet, scratched a marker on his breastplate, and slapped him on the back as though he were a brother.

  A captain standing nearby gave a cheer and shook his war-hammer above his head: ‘On lads! On! Don’t let Frenchie take breath! We have him!’

  There was a pause. Though the front ranks of the French had melted away, the rearmost companies had fallen back and regrouped. And then from the far side of the meadow a trumpet called, and the sound of drums grew loud.

  What see you?’ called the king as he leant on his sword. A squire turned and cupped his hand: ‘Brabant, my lord! I see the banner of Brabant. And Waleran de Fauquembergues. See! Five escalopes argent! He comes on apace!’

  The king straightened, but before he could reply, a messenger stumbled forward breathless with the news that French cavalry had broken into the baggage camp, and were advancing from the rear.

  Archers, knights, nobles and sergeants looked wildly around. The prisoners stirred, some smiled, others just shrugged. But the order when it came stunned all but the king: he reached his hand to his helmet where the fleuron had been broken off. ‘Kill the prisoners’, he said.

  There were gasps and groans. Many of the archers cursed and muttered that they had not come so far to throw away good ransoms now.

  Kill the prisoners!’ This time the king raised his voice. ‘And any man who resists this charge will be killed along with them!’ He waved his archer-guard forward to make sure his command was obeyed.

  The bloody business was over in minutes. Hardly any of the French knights and lords begged for mercy, or even spoke at all. And this made it all the harder for the archers and men at arms who were detailed to execute any man that they had captured.

  James delayed. He sensed that the king himself was watching him, but he half turned away as though unaware of the royal glance, and drawing his dagger wiped it slowly on his sleeve. Then he set the edge against his thumb testing the whet, spat on the blade and wiped it once more.

  His knight waited calmly, kneeling, hands bound and face turned towards the sun which now shone palely through the dying showers. There were four black martlets on his shield and jupon. His eyes were closed. Old eyes, heavy lidded and with wrinkles at the corners from squinting into the bright light of a good many summers. And smiling.

  The lips, near hidden beneath the greying beard moved as if in silent prayer. Or perhaps whispering someone’s name. A wife? A daughter? A long forgotten lover?

  ‘Archer!’

  James started and looked to the king.

  ‘Archer, do your duty.’

  James bowed. ‘My lord.’ He took a step, grasped the old knight by the hair at the back of his head, and tugged down hard. Then he took his dagger and put it to the grizzled throat. The old knight swallowed once, eyes now clenched tight.

  There came a shout. ‘Hold my lord king! Hold! For pity’s sake!’

  Those, including James, who had still not slain their prisoners, stopped.

  Another messenger, this time a squire to Sir Walter Hungerford, had all at once appeared, nearly covered in mud from head to foot with the haste of his running. He fell on his knees before the king: ‘My lord ! No need! No need! The French have gone. I saw the arms of de Bournonville and de Clamasse, and precious few besides. They but raided. No more. They have fled.’

  The king listened silently, looked towards the French lines, and then glanced at Sir Thomas Erpingham who nodded in return and grimaced.

  ‘So!’ shouted the king. ‘Their folly, their loss, but no more slaughter lads. Hold now, and save your blades for something better. Here comes the Duc de Brabant like a bridegroom to his wedding. Let’s meet him with English petals made of steel.’

  All those about the king gave a cheer, and soon flights of arrows were arcing over the heads of the remnants of the second French Battle and into the rapidly reducing company of knights led by the Duke of Brabant.

  James had lost sight of the old knight he had so nearly slaughtered. He was back in line now, standing next to his old friend Yevan ap Griffiths, bending, drawing and loosing to the barked commands of the master bowmen. Again, the baggage boys were at his back – those who had survived the attack by the French cavalry - throwing down fresh bundles of war arrows, and cutting the leather straps. All of his own arrows had gone. Every last one of them. And all such good shafts. Livery shafts from his own belt and arrow-bag. Even the swallow-tails, which bounced off plate, but bored a hole like a man’s fist through wool or light leather. The bodkins were gone, the clout-heads too, and the spiral fletched war arrows that his brother had given him all those days ago just before he left Chiswick.

  Well, he would have to rely on the King’s barbs now, and good they were, and well they sang, and how they flew on the grey goose breeze that sucked them down upon the French. He laughed, then spat, and shot again. To his right, old Lewis, then John ap Meredith, and Morgaun Filkyn still coughing up the fever, but bright eyed with the fight, and cursing every shaft. On his flank David Whitecherche stood, still bloodied from the fight around the lily banner, and telling all who would listen how he had pulled Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester free from the press, and dragged him back to his brother the king.

  ‘Safe ‘e was, an’ safe ‘e be!’ he shouted as he shot. ‘And I’m the king’s man, yes I am!’

  The arrows rained down on the tattered French lines, but still they came.

  While the foremost ranks were all shot through, the living stumbling forward over the dead and dying, the rearmost ranks pushed forward, shouting and shoving as they advanced. And so the crush grew, and the jostling lanes of men were driven together until those at the flanks could scarcely draw their weapons, and those in the centre could scarcely breathe. But the banners never fell. As an ensign staggered or was struck down, another knight
would snatch up his flag and wave it high. Where men could go neither forward or back, the banner-staff was driven into the mud, and held by those around it.

  At last King Henry could wait no longer. ‘Avaunt!’ went up the cry. Down went the bows, weapons were drawn and the line surged forward once again.

  Led by William Bretoun and the other master bowmen, they plunged pell mell among the exhausted French, cheering each other on, and striking out as best they could. The French fought back, like animals caught in a pit, baring their teeth, and meeting the attack with shield and sword. But their strength was fading. The lightly armed archers darted in among them, eager to claim more ransoms to make up for the earlier losses. A few paid the price for their boldness, and fell among the dead, but most took prisoners like men at market, and only killed those who resisted. And so it went on.

  Then Mountjoy came. He came like a king, astride a white horse, crossing the ploughed and bloody field as though it were a smooth road in Summer. He bore the gold and blue banner of France, and his chest was blazoned with the arms of a herald. No man touched him. None dared. He was a herald, and as such had free pass over the battlefield. Still, the last arrows from Lord Camoys’ company on the left flank were loosed at a venture, and fell about him like a dying shower. He did not flinch, nor did his horse which tossed its head and snorted at the smell of death. Slowly he came, and the mass of fighting men parted before him like a sea. He held his course, then swerved slightly when he spied the Lion banner of England, and next to it the red cross on the white field of St George.

  James paused as he led a young lord, hands roughly bound, to an old marker stone where most of the prisoners were gathered. Never had he seen such a knight as Mountjoy. Earlier in the day, he had viewed this herald from afar, dismounted, but now he saw him from twenty paces and in the full glory of a chevalier. How could these English scarecrows have stood against men such as Mountjoy?

  Closer he came. Closer, until James had to step back to let him pass. For a moment the herald glanced down at him. Returning the gaze, James saw nobility and sorrow all at once. ‘We’ve won!’ he thought, and raised his hand in a kind of vague salute, but Mountjoy had gone.

  'Did ye see him?’ said Jankyn Fustor in his easy Devon drawl. ‘He’s bound for the king right enough. See! There ‘e goes now. Dancin’ over the dead like ‘e was bound for to see ‘is sweetheart.’ He laughed, and looked towards the fighting. ‘We’d better be back there, young’un. If King Harry catches sight of us meandering over here, he’ll have our guts for bowstrings that’s for sure.’

  James nodded, and they began to make their way back, pushing past the archers and men-at-arms who were bringing in prisoners, and joining those who were headed for the press. But they had scarcely arrived when a trumpet sounded, followed by a ragged cheer. They all stopped and turned towards the sound. There by the royal banners the king stood. Mountjoy was with him, and the lords of England too. One of them was waving. It was Sir Thomas Erpingham. The trumpet sounded again. And then they heard it:

  'No more, lads! No more! The field is ours!’ The old marshal was shouting and all about him men were putting up their weapons. A few shouted with him. One or two shook spears or swords, but mostly all were silent, staring dumbly around or hanging their heads and leaning on whatever weapons they carried.

  Old Lewis Hunte appeared, holding up the injured Eric, and supporting his bandaged shoulder.

  ‘Saw it all! Heard it all!’ he said with his broad, toothless grin. There was a jagged cut over his eye where the flange of a mace had nicked him.

  ‘King Harry an’ that Frenchie,’ he went on. ‘They was right in front of me, well near enough. They stand back from the banners, an’ Harry says:

  “How come you, Mountjoy?” An’ the Frenchie says: “To let you know whether the field be yours or no.” Then Harry sort of grins, but ‘e’s angry see, and a bit cut about and bruised. “I know not whether it be for England or for France,” he says, but he aint laughing. So at last the herald gives a kind of sad nod, an’ says back:

  “The field is yours.” Now the king just stares at him, so the fellow says again: “The field is yours great Harry! Give us leave to book our dead.”

  ‘Then Harry falls down on his knees, and says something like “Sweet Jesu, God be praised!” but I can’t rightly hear him, ‘cos he’s got his face near down in the mud. But the Duke of Bedford, ‘e’s there, ye see, an’ he hauls the king to his feet, and shouts an’ slaps ‘im on the back, like they’re all lads in a tavern! And old Mountjoy just standing there, and ne’r moving a muscle, but I swear there were tears a’starting. Never seen the like!’

  Old Lewis looked about him, and carefully lowered Eric to the ground, and propped him against a broken shield and buckler. ‘A hard day, lads, but a good ‘un.’

  Jankyn Fustor nodded, and taking off his leather cap, rubbed his brow.

  ‘Aye, hard for some and good for t’others. John Grafton copped it, and young Richie Walsh too. Saw ‘em go down. Will Glyn took a clip but ‘e’s all right: just a little lighter on one side.’ He laughed and knelt down by Eric who was ashen pale.

  ‘And how are you, soldier?’

  The man-at-arms tried to smile. ‘Never better, Jankyn. Never better.’

  From across the field, hard by the royal banner came the sound of singing: rough, guttural but rising to a tune. Yevan ap Griffiths came up with Morgaun. He paused and put his head to one side:

  They’re singing a Te Deum,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked James.

  Yevan smiled: ‘It’s a hymn, that’s what, you heathen Englishman. Te Deum, and then Te Domine. “Te Domine, non nobis.” That’s how it goes. Not for us the glory, Lord, but to You.’

  They all stood for a time, listening. A few of the knights and men-at-arms nearby, and one or two archers who knew the tune, took up the hymn and began to sing as well.

  'Strange,’ muttered Jankyn, ‘Never ‘eard that afore.’

  ‘What, a Te Deum?’ asked Yevan.

  ‘Nay, lad. Just the singing. Singing, that’s what. Never heard it so after a fight. Heard it afore, aye, afore. There’s many a time ye’ll hear them sing afore a fight, but nay afterwards. Strange.’

  Yevan shrugged. ‘Well, they’re singing now, Jankyn, and there’s a fact. And they’re giving God the glory which is rare enough these days.’

  Jankyn looked across at Morgaun and winked: ‘It was our arrows but, and we shot ‘em.’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Yevan, ‘But it was God sent the rain, and He made the mud.’

  ‘True. He made that all right, and it saved our bacon right enough, but see what a pigsty we’ve made of it.’ He sniffed. ‘Stinks like a midden.’

  They were all silent for a time. The muffled cries and groans of the wounded rose about them, and the first of the great black crows came flapping down onto the field.

  Suddenly James needed to sit down. Somewhere. Anywhere. His body felt taut, his limbs shook, and his throat was as dry as an August ditch. He put his hand to his stomach and felt the wound smart.

  ‘Here lad!’ It was Eric. ‘Sit beside me, an’ we’ll prop each other up.’

  James sat down. ‘My prisoner,’ he said, looking over his shoulder.

  'Don’t worry,’ grunted Yevan . ‘I’ll see to him. The king’s provost will be around soon, booking knights and nobles. William Bretoun will make sure you don’t miss out on any of your share of the ransom.’

  ‘Aye,’ broke in Jankyn, ‘And by the look of that fellow you fished, he’ll dine at the king’s table tonight, and ye won’t see ‘im again.’

  James shrugged. ‘As long as he brings me enough for a patch of land and a fat belly to keep me from this soldiering.’

  ‘Faint hope, bowman!’ a voice boomed. They all turned. It was Lord Talbot, his warhound by his side, and a captured French banner in his hand. He was grinning broadly:

  ‘Ye did bravely, lads and the king would have ye know it, but there’s a lick of
work yet before this fair march is done.’

  They all put their hands to caps and forelocks, and those that were sitting started to their feet, but he waved them down.’

  ‘Nay, lads. No ceremony. You’ve done enough this day. Rest now. Patch your wounds, make fires and look to the setting of the sun. The provender marshal and his clerks will be around soon with meat and beer from the king’s own wagons.’

  No one replied. There was a silence. Then Morgaun muttered under his breath: ‘Cry God for Harry, England and Saint George’.

  Talbot frowned, then smiled quickly again. ‘A problem, sir bowman?’

  Morgaun flushed. ‘No, my lord. It’s just that . . .’

  ‘Say on, man! I won’t string you up for speaking your mind.’

  The stocky Welshman straightened: ‘Well, my lord, it’s just that, meat and beer aside I was hoping I but might see my lassie and my little ones before this year is out.’

  ‘Hah!’ laughed Sir Gilbert. ‘Hah! And so you shall. We march for Calais in the morn.’

  'But ye said, my lord . . .’

  ‘Aye, just so – a lick of work: we bury the dead in the morning. Then we gather what we have, burn the rest and take the road for England. The king is for home, though I’ll warrant he’ll call for indentures in the Spring.’ He turned and was gone.

  The archers watched him go. ‘A good man is that,’ said Yevan after a while.

  ‘He is, too,’ replied Old Lewis, easing his legs straight as he sat down. ‘Though you’d be hard to find a better man than my lord Westmoreland. Did ye see how he fought at the king’s back, and then called up those extra spearmen to cover us when the second Battle broke against our centre?’

  ‘The devil I did!’ laughed Jankyn, ‘I was too busy saving your poor hide from those Frenchies. Fair skittled three of us before I could say “priest and pauper”, and then looked to shorten you by a head!’

  ‘Never saw that!’ said Old Lewis, scratching the back of his neck, and then looking puzzled when everyone burst out laughing.

  'Well,’ said Morgaun after a time. ‘The wounds are beginning to smart, and the fever’s in my throat. Let’s be away from this place and find a dry corner to build a fire.’