The Bow (10 page)

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.

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 Hungerford’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.

'Ah, Captain William! Tell me, you saw the way the
French came over that ground. How many volleys can you and your
Welshmen put against them before they strike our lines?’

William smiled and thought carefully. ‘I think sire we
could strike them nine times before they struck us.’

‘
Hmmm! Sounds a good trade, but I hear there’s
nearly 4,000 horsemen coming over that ridge soon, and there’s
nought but hedges and pits between them and us.’

‘
Aye sire, that’s true enough, but we have a good
strong hedge of yew that’ll tickle them sore.’