The Bow (14 page)

‘
A Welshman!’

‘
Aye, a Welshman, and one like to save your hide, and
happy to do so.’

Pausing to put a rough cloak over John to try and keep
him warm, James hurried off in search of Yevan. It took him longer
than he expected, and it was nearly an hour before he came back with
the Welshman. On the way, Yevan had picked up some moss, some
bandaging, and a half-drunk bottle of red wine. He knelt down, looked
at John and then studied the bolt and the wound.

‘
Well, there’s neat and nasty!’ he said after a
while.

‘
Can you fix it?’ asked James.

‘
Fix it, boyo? I don’t want to fix it, I want to get
the thing out!’ He chuckled, and carefully felt under John’s
back. ‘Luck!’ he whispered. ‘The little fellow is poking his
little head out the other side. Barb an’ all. Just as well you
didn’t lie all the way down, John Hert, ‘cos ye’d have sprung
to your feet quick and lively.’ He put his head to one side, and
felt again. ‘Aye, aye, there he is the little beauty.’

When he took his hand away, it was covered in blood.
‘You’re leaking, boyo!’ he said and winked at John.

He stood up. ‘Away James, and find a man like yourself
to give us a hand here.’ Then he caught sight of a man-at-arms
coming down from the top of the dunes with a group of others. ‘Hey,
up! Is that not one of ye’re Scots laddies? It is! It is.’ He
waved. ‘Ho there!’

The man stopped, looked in their direction and then
wandered across.

He greeted them with a grunt, and looked down at John.
‘It’ll need tae be ut’, he muttered.

‘
Aye, Jock! It will’, said Yevan. ‘Can ye not give
us a hand?’

The Scotsman shrugged. ‘Aye, I might. If ye stop
calling me Jock, that is. My name is Duncan, and James here knows
it.’

Without waiting for a reply, he put down his poleaxe,
knelt by the wounded archer and carefully rolled him onto his side.
John cried out, and then gritted his teeth.

‘
Wissht, now! I have tae hurt tae heal.’ He looked
closely at the barb protruding from John’s back. ‘A narrow head’,
he said. ‘That’s a blessing.’ He glanced up. ‘List now. Who’s
among ye pulled an arrow here?’ Yevan nodded. ‘I have. Three
times or more. Twice for nought, though. A couple of them died.’

Duncan frowned. ‘Good enough’, he said. ‘We’ll
snap the shaft near the fletchings, an’ pull it through from the
head. Need to be steady though, and once we start, don’t stop. Not
for anything.’

'I know it’, said Yevan, and he bit his bottom lip.
‘Here James, steady the lad, while we draw this beastie.’ He gave
John a stick to bite on, said a quick prayer and nodded to Duncan.
From where he was standing, half-stooped, James could not see what
happened next, but he heard the shaft snap, and John groan. Then
Duncan said, ‘Quick, now!’ and moments later the arrow was drawn.
John sagged in a dead faint, and James could scarcely hold him up.
Blood flowed freely from the wound which Yevan staunched with
bandaging soaked in wine. They then cut away his tunic and bound his
shoulder firmly with strips of cloak and leather bindings from a
scabbard. The last of the wine was then poured over the wound.

It was done. They laid John back against the body of the
horse, and sheltered him with whatever they could find from the
battlefield: a broken saddle, a torn banner, two shields and a split
pavisse.

Yevan straightened and sighed. ‘Well done, all!’ he
said. ‘The more especially to you, Duncan. Ye don’t say much, but
ye can do plenty.’

The other grunted, and ran his fingers through his
sand-red hair: ‘Pray God he lives’, he said. He picked up his
poleaxe, returned James’ salute and walked away down towards the
beach.

‘
I’ll never say aught against the Scots again’,
said James, watching him go.

Yevan laughed. ‘I’ll warrant ye will, but ye’ll
never have a bad word for that Scot there.’ A flock of seagulls
wheeled screeching above their heads, marking the return of the
cavalry from Harfleur. They gathered on the top of the dunes and then
began to pick their way carefully down and across the slope. William
Bretoun was there. He was guiding them, holding the bridle of the
first horse, and talking quietly while he led them down the dune.

When Yevan hailed him, he looked up, waved and kept on.

Yevan called again: ‘Ho captain! Captain William!’

This time William stopped: ‘What is it?’ he called
back.

‘
We need a horse, captain. We have a wounded man of
Hungerford’s company: John Hert of Cheshire.’

For a moment it seemed as though William Bretoun of
Yeovil was not in the mood to be finding horses for wounded archers.
He gazed at them, and shook his head. Then he turned and spoke to the
lead horseman. That man, a tall knight in plated armour gilt with
bronze, laughed out loud, but then in turn called over his shoulder
to the men behind him. There was a pause. At last a squire appeared,
walking a chestnut destrier forward, and leading a shaggy little
pack-pony.

God be praised’, said Yevan under his breath. He waved
his arm and started towards them.

Shortly after, they had eased John onto the back of the
pony, and standing either side of him began the descent to the beach.
William Bretoun, and the company of knights had gone ahead of them,
along with most of the returning archers and men-at-arms, so that by
the time they reached the shore there was a great crowd of soldiers
and servants standing around talking excitedly about the fight, and
making ready to build fires on the beach. The advance guard from
Harfleur had advised them to camp for a few hours until wagons and
carts could be brought from the port to bring in the wounded as well
as any plunder.

The Earl and his officers were assured by the seneschal
of Harfleur that the French cavalry had been pursued along the North
bank of the Seine and were unlikely to return before the following
day. However, Armagnac had twice now proved his ability to launch a
surprise attack, so pickets were posted along the top of the dunes,
and cavalry patrols were sent out to scout along the river estuary.

Carefully, James and Yevan took John from the back of
the pony and lowered him to the ground, as close as they dare to a
fire which had just been lit.

'Here’s good!’ said Yevan. ‘A lively blaze to keep
the fever from ye. Sweats for sweats as my old gran-mamy used to
say.’

John nodded his thanks, but his teeth were still
clenched, and his limbs were shaking. The wound had stopped bleeding,
but James poured some more wine over it, to the annoyance of some
Gascon spearmen who were sitting nearby, and called out that good
wine was for the gullet and not for a dying man’s pap.

A while later John fell asleep, and a while after that
Sir Walter Hungerford happened by. He was wandering about the camp
fires with his clerk, talking to his men and taking note of the dead
and wounded.

When he spotted Yevan, James and the others he came
over.

They stood to meet him, but he waved them down: ‘Nay,
lads, rest yer bones. They’ve had enough up and down for one day.
What’s this? A fallen bowman? And from my indenture is he not?’

‘
Aye, my lord’, replied James. ‘This is John Hert
of Nantwich, a Cheshire bowman in your service.’

Sir Walter looked at him and frowned. ‘Aye, and
grievously hath he paid for it! He has the look of death about his
gills.’

‘
Twas paler and sorrier an hour or two ago’, replied
Yevan. ‘We’ve drawn the barb and cleaned the wound. Now we wait.’

‘
Have ye salted it, man?’ asked the old knight
leaning over the sleeping archer, and staring at the bandaging.

‘
My lord?’

‘
Salted it. Mix the wine with sea salt. Good and
proper. Take off these rags and pour it in. Wake him with the pain of
it, then bind it up good and clean again.’ He straightened up.
‘That’s what I would do. I’ve seen it done, and I’ve seen it
work.’

‘
We will then!’ said Yevan, getting to his feet.
‘But sea salt?’

‘
Hah! Look about ye, man! There’s a world of it!’
Sir Walter laughed and pointed out to sea. ‘Still, to save ye the
scrabbling, I’ll send my surgeon with a handful. Use it well, mind,
and don’t take a blind bit of notice of what he might tell thee
about wounds and healing!’ He laughed again, and sauntered away.

By the time the wagons came Sir Walter’s surgeon had
come with a small bag of salt, the wound had been re-dressed, and
John was propped up shivering by the fire.

The sun dipped over the sea and estuary. A chill breeze
began to cut across the beach, stirring up the sand and making the
camp fires blaze.

‘
Time for the off!’ said Yevan. ‘I’ll get John a
berth in one of those wagons. Just see if I don’t!’ He hurried
off, and soon returned with a tall, gangling youth he said was a
carter from Harfleur.

‘
Meet Jean-Pierre’, he said.

The way to Harfleur runs along the estuary coast from
Cap de le Havre, keeping close to the shore. There is a cart track
that takes the high ground beyond the dunes and cliffs; the footway
follows the beach below. And so the army marched divided. The carts
and wagons, loaded with the wounded and baggage, were escorted by the
Earl at the head of his cavalry, along with two companies of archers.
On the beach itself the men at arms, spearmen, and the rest of the
archers led by Hungerford’s retinue marched with sand on their
boots and the sea at their shoulder.

The going was easy, and there were no alarms, but the
army did not reach Port Harfleur until the sun was well set and the
torches were bright along the battlements. It was a good ten miles
from where they had fought Armagnac, and all were weary and happy to
make the gates.

The town guard was there to meet them, along with the
mayor and the local burghers. Other townsfolk, including wives and
sweethearts clustered along the wall-walk and lined the main street
that led to the market square. But there was little or no cheering,
just a few isolated calls and shouts of recognition. The men waved,
and smiled back then shuffled on towards the market place. There they
took their billets, unloaded the carts and dispersed to the camp
which harbingers and provosts had already marked out and set up.
Sutlers were gathering, calling their wares, and selling provisions.
A great bonfire in the middle of the field beyond the wall guided the
levied archers and men at arms to tents, ‘hovels’ and bivouacs.
It was a clear night, the wind had dropped and the frost was settling
early. There was time for a snatched meal, orders for the morrow,
then the army turned in for the night. Only in the Earl’s pavilion
did the torches and lanterns burn into the early hours of the
morning. Although it seemed that the Duke of Armagnac had been
decisively defeated, the French host was still largely intact and a
force to be reckoned with. Harfleur could not rest easy yet, though
no doubt King Henry would be pleased to hear the news that hurried
towards him across the channel by royal cog.

In the town, James had once more sought out Simon the
apothecary’s house. This time he was accompanied not only by Ralf,
still nursing a sore head, but also by John Hert, carried on a
makeshift stretcher by Yevan and Duncan, the Scots man-at-arms. They
were followed in turn by a Welsh archer by name of Daffyd, and Hamish
of Argyll, the second of the Scotsmen who had taken a billet with the
apothecary. It was they who carried not only their own gear, but also
that of Yevan and Duncan.

‘
Quite a little caravan’, laughed Yevan as they made
their way through the dim lit streets. ‘Do ye think master
apothecary will be willing to make quarters for poor John here?’

‘
I’m thinking he might’, replied James.
‘Especially if we make it worth his while. Besides, he may have
some healing potion that we’d be ready to buy.’

Yevan nodded. ‘Aye, aye. Money answers all things, as
the Good Book says.’

‘
It’s the love of it ye have to watch’, grunted
Duncan. ‘And ye can read that in the same book.’

‘
Well, I never thought I’d hear such a thing from
the mouth of a Scotsman’, laughed Yevan. ‘What say ye James?’

‘
I’d say, there’s the apothecary’s house up
ahead, and not a moment too soon.’

When they came to the house, it was all bolted and
barred. There were no lights at the windows, save for a single
rushlight burning in one of the upstairs rooms. They hammered on the
door and stood cursing in the dark.

At length a window opened from high under the top most
eave, and a small figure in a nightcap leaned out. It was
Emma-Jeanne, the maidservant.

‘
What is it?’ she called anxiously, her English
spoken with a strong French accent.

Yevan stood back: ‘What is it? What is it, lassie?
It’s us, that’s what it is. We’ve come to speak with your
master.’

‘
Master’s a-bed.’

‘
Then rouse him, lassie! Rouse him out his bed, before
we all of us here freeze!’

She paused and looked down through the gloom. ‘I know
ye not sirs. Save that ye be soldiers by the look of ye, and odd to
come so late at night when honest folk are all a-bed.’