3. A Second Chance (23 page)

Leon had appeared at the very time and place I needed him to be. He’d been given the coordinates. Who had told him when and where to go?

I had.

And who had sent him back, alone and broken, to a very uncertain future?

I had.

And who was going to fix that? Right here? Right now?

I was.

For me, he was dead and gone, but I could still save his life.

Eventually, Dr Bairstow capped his pen and looked up.

‘May I see my file, please, sir?’

He raised his eyebrows, but pulled open a filing cabinet, rummaged, and produced the battered document that was the story of my life so far.

I flipped it open and took out the photograph again.

I laid it on the desk in front of me and looked at it. Had I ever been that young?

Yes, was the answer to that one. And I still was. All right, the left knee wasn’t up to spec any more, but deep down inside, I was still young. And I always would be.

I turned over the photo, picked up a pen, and wrote across the back:

Leon
, come and get me. If you dare. Lucy.

That should do it.

I put the pen down and handed him back the photo. Without even glancing at it, he tucked it back in the file and replaced the whole thing in the cabinet.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s solved that little mystery. Let’s hear the end of the story.’

I handed him my report and sat back to watch his face.

He read it through, his expression never changing. Laying it on the desk in front of him, he stared at me for a while and then smiled.

‘And how was Leon?’

‘Not good, actually, sir. Not good when we met and probably slightly worse when we parted.’

Obviously, I hadn’t told him all of it. I’ve always regarded it as my duty not to overburden senior staff with too much information. Their brains can’t handle it. It’s all that bigger-picture stuff they do. However, I had described, in some detail, the sad end of Number Nine, the less-than-sad end of Clive Ronan, the appearance of Chief Farrell, and my rescue. My subsequent return to St Mary’s was covered in half a sentence.

I said nothing about Helios. I would never tell anyone about Helios. Or Joe Nelson, as I must get back into the habit of calling him.

He looked up.

‘You did make a note of the coordinates?’

‘Of course, sir.’

I took out the most important piece of paper of my life and pushed it across the desk.

He folded his hands and said, ‘I was present when my Director pulled out this famous Standing Order. Just one sheet of paper. One named historian to present himself at these co-ordinates to render assistance. This order has, apparently, been handed down from Director to Director until the right historian turned up. Which reminds me – I had better write the damned thing.’

He pulled a sheet of paper towards him.

‘Just one more thing, sir. Ronan was an old man when he died. There’s absolutely no reason why, as a younger man, he still couldn’t come bursting out of the woodwork at any time.’

He nodded. It was true. Something Ronan had done ten years before he died could still be ten years in our future. We would never be completely safe.

‘We have defeated him at every encounter, Max. If he has any sense, he’ll give us a wide berth in future.’

Neither of us mentioned that he was a desperate fanatic who had long ago kicked common sense and rational thought into touch and had just demonstrated that his hatred remained undimmed right to the end of his life. There was nothing we could do – no way to predict what he might do next. We could never do anything but deal with each threat as it arose.

‘Was there anything else, Dr Maxwell?’

I got up. I had more thinking to do.

‘No, that’s it, I think, sir.’

As I reached the door, he said, ‘That photograph saved his life, you know.’

I nodded and left the room.

That photograph saved his life so he could save mine.

The circle was closed.

Time to move on.

Feeling the need to be alone, I saddled up Turk and rode up through the woods and onto the moors. Side-saddle. We stopped at Pen Tor. I sat on the rocks and looked at the distant sea, sparkling on the horizon. Turk got his head down and carried on as if there was going to be some sort of grass shortage in the very near future. At no point did he try to attack me. I wondered if we were both mellowing with old age. It seemed unlikely. I’m an historian. The chances of living long enough to have an old age, mellow or otherwise, are remote.

I sat and thought for ages, sorting things out in my head. Hours passed. I was roused by the old bugger giving me a nudge. He wanted his tea.

 I went to see Dr Bairstow that evening and told him I would be honoured to take up the offer of Deputy Director. We had a quick drink and he told me I’d soon come to regret it. I told him I already did.

I put in for my last jump the very next day.

Tim and I were off to Agincourt. It seemed appropriate, somehow.

There are many views of Agincourt. That it was one of Britain’s finest hours – right up there with the little ships at Dunkirk, the stirrup charge at Waterloo, and the March Uprisings, when a tiny handful of civilians threw the Fascists out of Cardiff, sparking the nationwide uprising that led to the Battersea Barricades.

And it was. Henry’s inspired leadership of his tiny, hopelessly outnumbered army on their increasingly desperate march through France was a triumph of skill and tactics.

On ascending the throne, the fifth Henry took one look at his over-mighty subjects – all the fractious lords who thought they were entitled to a share of the pot simply because they’d joined the rebellion that placed his father on the throne – and said, ‘Sod this for a game of soldiers.’

Casting his eyes thoughtfully across the Channel, he revived the age-old Plantagenet claim to the French throne and shunted the whole turbulent bunch of them over to France where they could either get themselves killed or rich. Whichever came first.

They took Harfleur – although not easily, as Henry’s ‘Once more unto the breach,’ speech implies and, with the end of the campaigning season coming up, he had a difficult decision to make. To return home with most of his money gone and only a very moderate victory to show for it, or to intimidate the French with a show of strength and press on to Calais; a march, he estimated, of no more than five days.

He opted for Calais and got it wrong.

Reaching the River Somme, they found the ford held by the French army, leaving Henry and his army with no other option than to head away from Calais and look for another place to cross. The French, for some reason reluctant to force the outcome, followed them on the other side of the river, waiting for Henry to surrender.

By 24th October, the English were in deep trouble, many of them weak and sick and all of them hungry.

The battle of Agincourt was fought the next day – St Crispin’s Day – and the rest, as they say, is History.

Tim and I planned to conceal ourselves on the west side of the battleground, near the village of Agincourt to watch the battle from there and, with luck, get the low-down on Henry’s controversial order to kill all his French prisoners.

Tim, as a keen bowman himself, wanted to see the English and Welsh archers at their best. Or worst, of course, if you were looking at things from the French point of view. Under Henry, every Sunday (after church, naturally) was devoted to archery practice. Every man and boy took part – even girls got in on the act. It’s almost certainly true that a medieval girl could draw a bow better than a young man could today.

And don’t think – oh, bows and arrows! A practised archer could easily shoot six arrows a minute. Accurately. That’s one every ten seconds. And unlike a man at arms, they didn’t have to get close. They could wound at four hundred yards, kill at two hundred, and pierce armour at one hundred. Archers were the shock troops of the age and English and Welsh archers were the best of the best.

Neither Peterson nor I could contain our impatience.

We had a bit of a problem with Dr Bairstow, who complained that St Mary’s had invested a very great deal of money in us, all of which would be wasted if we, inevitably as he seemed to think, got ourselves punctured like colanders.

I admit we were going to be a bit close. Closer than we’d told him, actually, but no need to bother him with that now. Normally, we watch this sort of thing from a nearby hilltop or even from the pod itself, but that wasn’t possible in this case. Our assurances that we would take every precaution, were, for some reason, met with a derisory snort.

He gave in, however. Mrs Enderby kitted us out in what Wardrobe persisted in referring to as Autumn Tones. I had an ankle-length brown dress, soft boots, a linen scarf to bind my hair, and an old green cloak I was sure I recognised from my very first jump. Tim looked seasonal in russet and grey.

And that was it. I was ready. My last jump. We were going to observe one of the bloodiest battles of the Middle Ages and it was my last jump. What could possibly go wrong?

I’d asked to come off the active list but Dr Bairstow had refused, grumbling it was too much faff to get me back on again, should it ever be necessary. I hadn’t argued – just for once – but in my heart I knew this was my last jump.

Tim met me in the Hall and presented me with a single yellow rose.

To hide my emotion, I said, ‘This is two in ten years now. At this rate I’ll have the full bouquet by the time I’m one hundred and eighty-three.’

‘Don’t be so ungrateful. This is just the incentive. The rest will be presented to you on your safe return.’

I took the rose. ‘Thanks, Tim. And thank you for everything.’

‘An honour and a privilege, Max.’

We stood for a bit and then he cleared his throat and said, ‘Are you ready?’

He offered me his arm and walked me to Hawking, where I got the traditional round of applause.

I looked around the hangar. The place was packed. Historians hung over the gantry, calling advice and insults. Dr Bairstow nodded. Even Mrs Partridge was there. She looked as if she wanted to say something and I paused, but she just shook her head and stepped back. I waved, smiled, and tried to ignore the lump in my throat.

Techies pulled out the umbilicals and towed them away. I remembered not to look for Leon.

We were in Number Eight. I gave it an affectionate pat as I entered.

Dieter and Peterson checked everything while I stowed our gear.

‘Right, you’re all set,’ said Dieter, stuffing his scratchpad back in his knee pocket. ‘Take care, Max. Look after yourself.’

I must have looked surprised at this concern and he laughed.

‘Ancient historian tradition. Drinks are on you when you get back.’

First I’d ever heard of that one. I made a rude noise and he let himself out, laughing.

I laid the rose on the console where I could see it.

Tim initiated the jump and the world went white.

Chapter Twenty

We landed on the western side of what would be the battlefield. We found a small hollow and established our equipment and ourselves. Peering through the silent woods, we could make out the French lines. At this moment, we were closer to the French than the English, but Henry would move his troops forward, and then we’d have the best seats in the house.

I breathed deeply, inhaling the smell of wet loam, rotting leaves, mud, and smoke. If I closed my eyes, I could have been back on assignment in 1917, at the Somme. That would be exactly 502 years in the future, but nothing ever seems to change. I know they must have seasons in France, but in my memories it’s always autumn. Always cold and damp, with the smell of wet earth and bonfires and the memory of conflict.

The long night was ending. The French camp blazed with lights and cooking fires. Music and laughter drifted through the dripping woods. The French, confident of tomorrow’s outcome, were shouting, laughing, and dicing, dividing up the prisoners they were confident of capturing the next day. Their only concern was that, because the odds were so overwhelmingly in their favour, the battle would be over before they all got a chance to display their prowess.

For most of them it was their last night on earth.

The English camp, in contrast, was nearly silent. Men gathered quietly around such small fires as they had been able to put together. They were cold, hungry, and exhausted. Many of them were sick. All of them were far from a home they never thought they would see again.

According to Shakespeare – and it was probably true because Henry was an inspired leader – the King spent the night walking from one miserable campfire to another, making an effort to talk to everyone, forgetting no one, spreading such good cheer and encouragement as he could. Putting the heart back into his troops. Shakespeare calls it ‘a little touch of Harry in the night’.

Dawn came silently. The day was mild and damp. Clouds hung low in the sky. The English rose first, probably glad to have the night behind them.

The French assembled themselves with a colossal racket. There were thousands of them. Richly decorated tents and pavilions stretched as far as the eye could see. Brilliantly coloured pennants and flags hung limply.

The knights arrayed themselves in three mounted lines. The first was led by the two big-hitters, the Constable and the Marshall of France, both of whom would have difficulty controlling the over-enthusiastic French forces.

The second line was commanded by the Dukes of Bar and Alençon.

And, as if these two massive lines weren’t enough, a third, led by the Counts of Dammartin and Fauconberg waited impatiently in the rear. I took a moment to wonder if the latter was in any way related to our local pub – The Falconberg Arms. I’d look it up when we got back.

All three lines jostled each other impatiently. Discipline was minimal. As far as I could see, no sort of strategy had been devised. Their plan was simply to charge the English and overwhelm them by sheer numbers. They probably thought it would all be over by lunchtime.

In contrast to all this raucous clamour, the English slipped quietly into place as the early morning mist uncurled about them.

A mere knight, Sir Thomas Erpingham, led the bowmen. Unlike the French, Henry promoted by merit, not rank. They deployed themselves on each flank, digging in the sharpened stake every man had been ordered to cut, shape, and carry with him since they started out from Harfleur, all those long days ago.

Once the stakes were in place, they strung their bows and waited.

Compared with the French they were a sorry-looking lot. Few of them wore any sort of armour. Most wore a simple, mud-splattered leather jerkin over a short tunic with boots and a hood. They carried waist-quivers, stuffed full of arrows and either an axe or hammer in their belts. And that was all they had. They relied on the men-at-arms to protect them. And the men-at-arms relied on the archers to protect them.

Edward, Duke of York, led the vanguard. He would be the only noble English casualty, sharing the same fate as many of his French opponents – smothered to death in the mud.

The King himself commanded the main body. Henry had been fighting since he was fourteen. He’d won his spurs in the Welsh Marches, fighting Owen Glendower and the rebel Percys. This was not a king who skulked at the back. He wore a golden crown on his helmet, which would make him instantly recognisable to friend and foe alike. Over his head hung the Royal Standard of England – the golden Lions of England on their red background, quartered with the blue and gold Fleur-de-Lys of France, which must have pissed off the French no end. Alongside the standard, the banner of St George hung limply. There was no wind today and the heavy air was damp.

I could hear Peterson calculating numbers. He estimated the English forces at between eight or nine thousand. He glanced at me for confirmation and I nodded. The French forces were more difficult to compute. Behind the three lines of mounted knights and the ranks of men-at-arms behind them, the French camp seethed in chaos.

Thousands milled around in the rear. Servants, spare horses, commoners, grooms, pages, camp-followers. And the archers. Regarding them as inferior troops, they left their archers behind the lines. What were the French commanders thinking? Henry had no such qualms and his archers would win the day.

We settled eventually on between thirty and forty thousand French troops. Which made the English, playing away, outnumbered by about four to one.

The English waited patiently as the French got themselves sorted out. Around us, the day lightened a little, although thick clouds still obscured the sun. The woods around us were completely silent. I could just hear an occasional drip of water rolling off a leaf somewhere and splatting onto the carpet of wet leaves.

From where we lay we could see part of the English force and the massive French lines drawn up against them.

They were ready.

We checked our equipment again.

We were ready.

Everyone was ready.

And nothing happened. Both sides stared at each other across the muddy fields. Sounds carried clearly in the still air. I could hear the chink of horses’ bits, the scrape of metal on metal, and the creak of leather.

Time passed.

Henry now had a problem. He knew the French were unwilling to fight. They were waiting for reinforcements. Although where they would put them was anyone’s guess. Already their ranks were packed so tightly they could barely move their sword-arms.

The English, on the other hand, couldn’t afford to wait. The men were weary. Weary unto death, as the saying goes. They had no lines of supply. The last thing they needed was to wait endlessly on foreign soil feeling their courage ebb away while the enemy gathered strength.

The military manuals of the time were very clear. He who moves is lost. The accepted wisdom was to stay put and let your enemy come to you.

Henry, typically, took a calculated risk. Orders were shouted. Horns blew and the archers ripped out their stakes. The whole army was on the move. He marched them towards the French, reached the place where the woods formed a narrow waist, and halted there.

Peterson and I, lost in the moment – again – inched our way closer, wriggling through drifts of wet leaves, desperate for a closer look.

This was the most dangerous moment of all. Until they could hammer their stakes into the ground, his archers were completely unprotected. If the French moved now, all was lost.

But they didn’t. Inexplicably, they stayed put. Who knows why. They hesitated long enough for the English archers to dig themselves in behind their stakes again and suddenly, it was a whole new ball game.

Suddenly, the English were only three hundred yards away from the French lines. Whether the French were aware, at that moment, that this despised rabble was actually a well-trained, well-led, disciplined, almost professional army, they certainly would be in several hours’ time.

Their own ranks consisted of the flower of French nobility, mounted knights – the football stars of the medieval age – behind them, large numbers of men-at-arms; and behind them, conscripted peasants. Because, yes, having ten or fifteen thousand ignorant, reluctant, undisciplined, untrained, unpaid, resentful serfs to back you up was such a good idea. Leonidas the Spartan, berated for arriving at Thermopylae with only three hundred troops pointed out that he’d brought three hundred professional soldiers and while everyone else may have brought thousands, they were only farmers and stable boys. The French should have paid more attention to the classics.

A small group of unarmoured heralds detached themselves from the French ranks, picking their way disdainfully through the mud. They halted and waited under their blue and gold banner – the Fleur-de-Lys of France.

‘There,’ said Peterson, pointing, as Henry, bareheaded, rode out with his entourage to meet them. The great banner of St George streamed out behind him. ‘There he is.’

The two parties spoke together, a little patch of brilliant colour in the dull landscape around us.

We could hear their voices, clear in the cold air, but were unable to make out the words. The meaning was clear however. Henry shook his head and spoke briefly. The French spoke again. They were urging him to surrender. Henry responded.

Come on, come on. Just turn your head this way. Just a little. I really wanted to see his face.

‘Are you getting this?’

Peterson nodded, not taking his eyes from the scene. I didn’t blame him.

Finally, the heralds turned back. As did Henry and his entourage and I finally got to see the mighty Henry V. The hero of his age. And yes, he really did have that bloody awful pudding-bowl haircut. They all did. Whether Henry was a royal trendsetter or it was practical under their helmets, I didn’t know. I certainly couldn’t think of any other reason for having the most hideous hairstyle in a History that includes Donald Trump.

His face was very long and badly scarred down one side. He’d caught an arrow in the cheek at Shrewsbury in 1403 and had been lucky to survive.

The king was on his way back to his own lines which were already opening up to receive him when a great cry of outrage rose up from the English ranks.

He wheeled his horse. Swords were drawn.

One of the French heralds, secure in his immunity, was standing in his stirrups. He held his right arm above his head, the first two fingers extended. With his other hand, he made a chopping gesture.

It was true! It was true after all! It’s moments like this make me realise why I don’t have an office job.

Legend says that the French, secure in their assumption of triumphant victory had threatened to chop off the first two fingers of every captured archer, thus ensuring he could never again draw a bow. The truth of this had always been hotly debated. Not least because the more normal fate of captured commoners was death rather than mutilation. Plain and simple.

As one man, the English roared defiance and Henry galloped back to his own lines, flourishing his sword over his head.

Preliminaries over. Time for the main event.

Trumpets sounded. Orders were shouted. Someone was banging a drum.

The French cavalry lined up, each beneath his own banner. Horses reared and plunged, impatient to be off. I heard no orders given, no trumpets sounded, but suddenly, like thunder, they were on the move. Lying prone, I could feel the earth tremble beneath me.

They weren’t fast, but they were unstoppable. A giant wall of men and horses bearing down on the tiny English force.

Amongst the English, the order was given and seven thousand archers let fly.

I’ve pulled a bow myself and I’m not bad. Nowhere near as good as Peterson, but I’m not bad. I was watching the English archers now and I’ve never seen anything like it.

I know you don’t just pull with your arms – all your back muscles come into play, as well. These archers pulled with their entire bodies – backs arched with the strain as they aimed high into the air. The force generated was such that on shooting the arrow, their feet actually left the ground.

And they were fast. Five or six arrows pulled from waist quivers in less than a minute. The air was thick with the sight and sound of arrows, shot high into the air. We could hear screams and shouts as they fell amongst the advancing ranks.

For the cavalry, it all started to go wrong from this moment. Unable to outflank the archers because of the trees, and forced forwards by the pressure behind them, they were pushed onto the pointed stakes. Their horses, unarmoured except for their heads and bleeding from numerous arrow wounds, milled around, screaming and panic-stricken. Knights crashed to the ground. Many never rose again. The English archers poured arrows into them at point-blank range. Injured and riderless horses tried to barge their way back out of the conflict, trampling the fallen and hindering those attempting, and failing, to retreat in good order.

It was no longer possible to hear any commands given from where we lay, but suddenly the first rank of French men-at-arms was on the move towards the English lines. Squeezed tightly together as they were, any movement other than forwards was almost impossible. The unending hail of arrows from above meant they not only had their visors down, but also actually had to lower their heads as they marched. They couldn’t see. They couldn’t hear. They couldn’t breathe. And thanks to the French horses having chopped up the ground so badly, they could barely move, either. Unable to avoid the suddenly retreating cavalry, many were ridden over by their own countrymen who were fleeing for their lives.

I could see the Constable’s thinking. If he could get his men-at-arms to the English front line then they’d outnumber the enemy at least three to one and it would all be over very quickly.

Except that they couldn’t get to the English front line. They struggled, knee-deep in liquid mud. They had to find their way around piles of dead or wounded men and horses. Their own cavalry were trampling them into the ground. Again, many fell and couldn’t get up again. They struggled feebly, drowning in the mud inside their own helmets.