The Bow

by Bill Sharrock

James had bought a chestnut hack from a Breton horse-dealer, while Ralf had found a shaggy coated pony in a shambles courtyard and paid a shilling for him. They met their captain, Sir Walter Hungerford by the tents that flanked the East Gate, and there they presented their indentures and drew their last pay before the march.

  And there too they heard for sure where the army was headed: the Somme Valley.

  Sir Walter told them as they lined up to collect their wages.

  ‘Five miles a day,’ he said in his rough Wiltshire brogue. ‘Four abreast with bows strung. All mounted, mind you, and all with a sharp eye. There’s French about. We march up the valley until we bump into them.’

  ‘And then what my lord?’ someone called out.

  Sir Walter glowered, his bushy eyebrows knit. ‘And then, my friend we go a-fishing,’ he replied.

  There were a few ironic cheers, but mostly the men fell silent, staring at the snow on their boots, or checking the horn tips on bows for one last time.

  Two days later they marched. There was no send off. They left with the rising sun, and tramped away into the river mist that blanketed the banks of the Seine. Soon all but the tops of banners were lost to view from the battlements of Harfleur, though it was only the guards of the dawn-watch near the Montvilliers Gate that saw them go.

  They marched north from the Seine towards the Somme Valley, covering a good ten miles and then making camp outside a small village. The following day they did the same, and the day after – though this time they made only four miles because the weather turned foul and the roads went to mud. The harbingers went ahead until they found clear ground, and there they made camp again: in open fields by the Amiens-Abbeville road. A palisade was set, and ditches dug. Foragers were sent out. They took what they wanted, and paid as they wished, but the Earl would not give the land over to slaughter. He was mindful of his king’s words: that France was England’s by sovereign right, and therefore every citizen of France had the protection of King Harry. Some grumbled at this, most just shook their heads. They knew that the country was easier to pass through if they did not leave it a smoking ruin, and they also knew that any man who ignored this king of England would soon have his neck stretched and his goods parted.

  So they went gently through Picardy, and only looked to war when they came upon castles, redoubts or towns that barred their gates. Few held out for long. The castles were too small, and the town gates too weak to withstand the shock of more than a thousand men thrown against them. One by one they surrendered, their banners draped over their walls in sign of submission, and their commanders kneeling before the Earl with sword and keys.

  And so the wagons grew fat with plunder, and captains scoured the countryside for more oxen to pull them. The men cursed and complained as they heaved and strained at rut-bound carts, but they worked with a will, knowing that when there was no more to gather the army would turn for home. When the weather lifted and the sun came out, so their spirits rose. The wind still bit hard from the east, and the mud froze at night, but the rain and wet snow had gone, and men could sleep dry if they found a place beneath a hedge or under a provost’s cart.

  There came an evening, after a day’s march under clear skies, that they made camp in open fields on a low ridge that ran between two stands of trees. As usual, they fortified the site, and placed guards at every twenty paces.

  ‘Soon be a-turning!’ said Yevan cheerfully, as he stirred the barley pottage, and kicked more twigs and straw under the blackened crock.

  ‘For home?’ asked Ralf, inching closer to the fire, and screwing up his eyes against the smoke.

  ‘Aye, for home, and keep your boots out of my fire! I’ve enough to do to keep a blaze without your trampling it. What say you James?’

  James looked up and smiled. ‘I’d say we was lucky to be sharing your pot, Yevan ap Griffiths, being as we are Englishmen and out of our company this present night.’

  The Welshman chuckled and bent to his task. ‘That’s right enough’, he said. ‘Hungerford’s men are half a bowshot from here, and nibbling mouldy bread in a mud puddle. Poor divvils.’

  'It’s nay that bad,’ said James. ‘but we’re happier here, that’s true enough, as long as your brothers are happy to have us so.’ He glanced at the other Welshmen gathered around the fire. They nodded, smiled, and returned to their muttered conversations.

  ‘Faith, but ye are slow witted, even for an Englishman!’ laughed Yevan. ‘If I didn’t count ye for a friend, I’d never have fished ye out of the mud at Agincourt.’

  James waved his hand, but said nothing.

  'Tell me!’ cut in Ralf suddenly. ‘Agincourt. What was it like?’

  For a time no one spoke. Yevan broke a branch, shoved it under the pot, and held it there until it blazed. ‘Twas all mud and arrows,’he replied. ‘The French came at us and we shot them down. But they damn near had us. Good they was, and gutsy too. Six deep the bodies lay before our battle, but still they came.’ He stopped and stared into the flames.

  Ralf gave a short laugh. ‘As long as we have the yew bow they can never beat us.’

  'Who’s that would say so?’

  They all turned at the sound of the voice.

  It was William Bretoun. Ralf scrambled to his feet. ‘Sire!’ he said.

  ‘Don’t sire to me, lad!’ snapped the Devon captain. ‘I’m as common as ye, but longer in the tooth, that’s all. Now, what’s this I hear ye say about the French?’

  Ralf blushed and ducked his head. ‘They can never beat us ‘cos we have the bow,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Hah! Is that so? Well, when ye see them come at you, and their sword points are damn near up your nostrils, then tell me how much use your pretty bow’ll be.’

  He turned and disappeared into the shadows.

  Ralf stood awkwardly for a bit, then sat down heavily by the fire.

  Don’t mind the captain, boyo,’ said Yevan quietly. ‘It’s just he lost some good few mates at Agincourt. He knows the measure of the French.’

  ‘But at Agincourt . . .’

  ‘At Agincourt we had the mud.’

  ‘Aye!’ a Welshman by the name of Owain ap Glyn broke in, ‘We had the mud and King Harry’s prayers.’

  Stretching his hands to the fire, Ralf shook his head. ‘But eight shafts a minute, sometimes twelve, there’s nothing can stand against that!’

  ‘We’ll see, boyo!’ laughed Yevan. ‘When Frenchie hasn’t got mud on his boots, ‘e can skip across the ground like a jackrabbit. The more especial when ‘e’s coming at you on ‘alf a mountain of horseflesh!’

  Away in the darkness a trumpet sounded for the end of the first watch, and there was a clattering of arms somewhere behind them and to the left: the pickets were being placed for the night.

  'Learnt that hymn’, said Yevan suddenly. He grinned.

  'What hymn?’

  'The one we sang at Agincourt. After the battle it was. Remember? Harry the king sang it, and we sang it too. Well leastways some of us.’

  'The Te Deum?’

  'Aye, the Te Deum, ye laggard! Ye’re not the wax head I took ye for after all, James!’

  James shrugged and bent his head to the fire. In a little while he was aware that Yevan had begun to sing: humming at first, then mumbling a few words, and finally lifting his voice:

  ‘Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto Thy Name give glory, for Thy mercy and for Thy truth’s sake.’ He stopped, looked about him and winked cheerily:

  'Like gods we was,’ he said.

  ‘We were dead on our feet,’ muttered James. No one replied.

  James gazed beyond the firelight. In Chiswick all the folk would be long since home, and Hettie would have cooked the evening supper. He wondered how she would manage bringing the milch cow up from the deep meadow in the evening. It was a tricky beast and skittish near the byre. Still, there was Simon. He would always help out, and Hettie was not too proud to ask.

  A man at arms tramped by, and James looked up: it was one of
the Scotsmen from the lodgings in Harfleur. He waved and was gone.

  Valmont

  In the morning they broke camp, and marched to the south-west, arcing back towards Valmont and Harfleur. The land fell away before them in a series of icy, open fields flanked by hedges and scattered groves of birch trees. The road was still firm with the early morning frost, and the wagons bounced and crashed along the rutted surface.

  Sir Walter Hungerford’s Company was in the van, followed by the mounted archers from Cheshire and Morcambe. Then came the Welsh, and with them three companies of men at arms and spearmen, drawn from the Eastern Counties. The cavalry, a poor thin detachment of armoured horse, scouted along the flanks and to the rear. The way ahead was covered by two trumpeters, and a Dorsetshire knight who rode within a bowshot of Hungerford’s banners. The Earl himself and all his retinue held march at the centre to protect the wagons and the baggage.

  They made good progress, sensing they were on the road back to Harfleur. Some of the men began to sing. It was a ballad of Robin Hood, one that their fathers had sung in the days of the Peasants Revolt. The sun crested against a milky sky, and the early chill melted away. By the afternoon they had five miles under their belt, and the talk was that they would make camp early, at the next broad reach.

  It was then that they saw the French. Or so it was that the French saw them. There were two horsemen, one a banner bearer, etched out against the low ridge top directly athwart their line of march. The army shambled to a halt, and watched as the Dorsetshire outrider galloped back. Sir Walter rode out to meet him. There was a brief exchange, and then the outrider spurred away towards the centre battle where the Earl was waiting.

  The archers sat their horses and talked quietly among themselves. At length, Sir Walter cantered his warhorse up to the company, and swung out of the saddle.

  'Heads up, lads!’ he shouted. ‘There’s work up yonder. Armagnac in all his glory.’

  ‘How many?’ someone called.

  Sir Walter smiled. ‘More than you could ever count, John Hert! But I tell ye this, there’s like to be more of them than us. My lord Armagnac would never come against us with anything less than a host.’

  There was a pause, then the captains began shouting, and the army shuffled forward and began to uncoil itself into order of battle. The archers dismounted and sent their horses to the rear. The men at arms formed into echelons four or five deep and marched to left and right across the open fields led by their sergeants. Even before Sir Walter’s company had taken station either side of the road, the baggage boys were running up with bundles of arrows from the wagons.

  As James took a bundle and handed Ralf another, the two trumpeters who had scouted ahead came galloping back. They skittered their horses to a halt not ten paces away, and called out to Sir Walter. He turned and came hurrying across.

  ‘What news?’ he said.

  ‘They come on at even pace, my lord,’ replied one of the trumpeters.‘There’s at least four times our number, and mostly horsed.’

  Sir Walter frowned. ‘Any archers?’

  ‘Some crossbowmen, my lord, but precious few.’

  ‘And infantry.’

  'It was hard to say. There must have been some, but their cavalry were in the vanguard for the length of their line.’

  ‘They advance against us formed for battle!’

  ‘Aye, my lord. They are in array. And not more than a mile beyond that ridge.’

  For a moment Sir Walter just stared, then he reached and took the trumpeter by the shoulder:

  'Quick man! Hurry now and tell my lord of Dorset, the French come on apace. No time to lose!’ He turned to the other trumpeter. ‘Up now! Sound alarum, and keep sounding it until I say no more!’

  As the trumpet sounded, the old warlord of Hungerford looked around. He caught sight of James who, along with others had begun to dig a shallow pit ahead of his place in the line.

  ‘Ahah! Fletcher is it not? Fletcher of London, no Chiswick. Yes, I have your indenture. Did not your father also march under my banner?’

  James paused from his digging and looked up. ‘Aye, my lord. He took service in the Welsh Wars and against the Douglas.’

  ‘Just so, just so. Well, on Master Fletcher! Dig that pit. The French are upon us, and it’s all we have to slow them up until the lads bring up the stakes.’

  He was still speaking when the Earl himself came hurrying up. He was on foot, and carrying a flanged mace. ‘What ho! Sir Walter! What’s to do?’

  Sir Walter laughed. ‘The very devil, my lord! That’s what! The French come on apace in full array with Armagnac at their head.’

  The Earl nodded, and glanced along the line. ‘So the new constable of France seeks to make him a name by knocking us poor fellows down. Well, we’ll meet him here, and trade him blow for blow. Where are we anyway, Walter? ‘

  ‘Valmont, my lord.’

  'Oh, aye, Valmont.’ He looked around again. ‘The pity is we lie short of that ridge. It would have been tidier to meet their cavalry from a ridge top. But no matter. There are hedges about, and I see you dig pits for their horse.’

  'We do my lord.’

  With a grunt, the Earl took a couple of paces forward and gazed at the long slope that led up to the ridge. Then he turned to Sir Walter once more: ‘Make good your preparations, Sir Knight, they will be upon you directly.’ He paused. ‘I see you have formed the men-at-arms five deep. That makes the line too short. Make it a single rank, and place your archers in groups along the line. Can’t have the French outflanking us.’

  Sir Walter bowed. ‘As you say my lord.’ He turned, bellowed some orders at a pair of captains and strode away to reform the line.

  James, close by, kept digging with Ralf working beside him. He was aware of the Earl who had once again stepped forward and was looking toward the ridge. ‘A pity,’ he heard him say, as if to himself. ‘A thousand paces more and we could have snatched the high ground.’ Then he raised his voice: ‘What say you archer?’

  James started, then straightened up. ‘My lord?’

  At first it seemed as if the Earl had decided to ignore his own question, but at last, rubbing his chin he said: ‘The Great Edward always liked to hold a ridge like that whenever he came against the French. His captains too – Chandos, Knollys and Bentley – they were the same. But we have fallen short this day.’

  James bowed and returned to his digging.

  All at once a knight bearing Dorset’s coat of arms on his tabard came up and saluted the Earl:

  ‘My lord! Is this our ground? We fight here?’

  ‘It is, and we do! Now, Sir Hugh, get ye forward with those men of yours and tell me how lies that slope. Is there still frost in that shadow, or is the going soft? I cannot tell from here. We need to know how quickly the French can make their ground when they settle to the charge.’

  The knight bowed. ‘I will my lord, but the stakes. . .’

  ‘The stakes? What about them, man? Confound the stakes!’

  ‘My lord, we were ordered to bring up stakes, but there are precious few in the wagons, and the baggage boys will have no time to find and make more.’

  ‘No matter!’ The Earl shook his head. ‘There are hedges enough, and these pits should help.’ A trumpet sounded from beyond the ridge, and then another. ‘Sir Hugh! Get ye forward now! The French approach.’

  Again the knight bowed. He swung into the saddle, and waving his men forward galloped towards the ridge. They had gone scarcely five hundred paces when a whole company of French cavalry appeared on the crest. Without pausing they rode from the ridge top, thundering down the shadowed slope towards the English squadron.

  They test the ground for us,’ said Earl Thomas grimly. ‘I hope Sir Hugh is bold enough to cut and run.’

  The English horsemen, numbering no more than twenty, held their course until nearly at the base of the slope, then suddenly wheeled and galloped pell mell for their own lines.

  All along the ranks of Hungerfo
rd’s company and beyond, men stopped their preparations for battle to watch the chase.

  Inexorably the French closed, whooping and shouting as they drew near to the fleeing English.

  ‘They claim their stag!’ roared Sir Walter. ‘String bows and let fly before they have first blood!’

  Captains and master bowmen took up the cry, and within moments the first shafts fell upon the horsemen. It seemed too late. Though several of the French, horse and rider, went down among the whirling hooves, the rest charged on and struck the English some three hundred paces from the safety of the lines.

  The rearmost riders were hurled from the saddle and trampled. The next seven turned and struck out at their pursuers, but were quickly overwhelmed and killed or captured. Barely half the number of Sir Hugh’s men fought their way clear and galloped on.

  They were almost at the pits and slowing down to over ride them when Sir Hugh himself wheeled about, sword held high, to cover their retreat.

  ‘Man’s a fool!’ said the Earl.

  'Aye, but worth fighting for!’ muttered an archer. He loosed an arrow which struck the leading French knight through the breastplate killing him instantly. More arrows followed, some dangerously near to Sir Hugh, but they had the desired effect. The French withdrew leaving several of their number dead upon the field. Sir Hugh, with helmet dented and sword broken six inches from the tip, made it safely back.

  He swung wearily from the saddle, quieted his horse, and called out his thanks to the archers nearby. They laughed, and went back to digging their pits, leaving the English knight to report back to his commander:

  'The ground is firm to soft my lord,’ he said, ‘though it is perhaps a touch boggy near the base of the slope.’

  ‘I’ll warrant that touch is what saved your hide,’ muttered the Earl. ‘Damn fool idea to gallop so far forward.’

  'You needed to know, my lord.’ Sir Hugh reached up and felt a graze on his cheek.

  ‘Aye, well, I did. And now I know. Only sorry it cost you so many of your men.’

  'It is done, sire.’

  'Aye, and bravely. Now get you and your men away to the left flank. There’s more to do yet.’ The Earl watched the young knight lead his men away, and then called a master bowman to his side. It was William Bretoun.