The Bow (6 page)

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.’

‘
Aye,’ replied Yevan. ‘We sit here on our
backsides while them’s out there robbing the dead, and killing the
wounded! May as well take ourselves off. Ye heard what Sir John
said.’ He shouldered his staff and picked up his quiver. ‘Lewis!
You wait here with James and Eric. We’ll send for you when we’ve
found a possie.’ He shambled off, and called over his shoulder:

‘
Come on lads!’

Groaning and muttering, they followed.

The sun was dipping, but the skies had cleared, and a
soft light fell across the battlefield. Around him, James could hear
the prisoners talking in their strange and sing-song language. One or
two were sobbing – squires or page boys he guessed – and a few
cursed and cried out from wounds that smarted as they moved. There
was a young knight, standing to one side, covered in filth, but
upright, and staring. He wore the muddy remnants of a blue jupon with
a yellow chevron: it was a blazon he did not recognize.

William Bretoun came across. He was whistling, and he
had a golden chain slung about his neck.

'Hey, up lads! Others gone? No matter, there’s plenty
here to look after ye.’ He said down with a sigh. ‘That was a
bonny fight, then. Close enough though. Did you hear? My lord Suffolk
fell: the father falls at Harfleur, and now the son at Agincourt. I
saw his shield all smashed up and him beneath it. A bad day for the
leopard-heads, and the widows of La Pole.’

Eric tried to sit up, and winced.

‘
Whoa!’ said William. ‘Take your ease! You’ve
done enough for one day.’ He looked about him. ‘King’s over
there, still talking. My lords Bedford and Exeter too, and Warwick.
You know York got killed, don’t you? Aye, the king’s own brother.
Trampled to death they say. Poor blighter! Drowned in the mud!’

Lewis grunted: ‘King’s princes and peasant boys! Mud
doesn’t care. Swallows ‘em all. What say you, James?’

‘
I’d say I’m happy to be alive.’ He paused.
‘What do you think they’ll call this battle?’

William laughed and spat. ‘They’ll call it bloody
an’ lucky, boyo!’

‘
Nay, ye bell-noggin!’ broke in Lewis, ‘The lad
means . . .’

‘
Aye, I know what he means. Well, I’m guessing it’ll
be called Tramecourt, or Maisoncelles, or perhaps Azincourt after
that castle over there. Makes no odds, anyway, - the king’ll call
it whatever he likes.’

There was a stir as the provost-marshal came up with a
clerk, a priest and three men at arms. They had come to book the
prisoners.

‘
Ask ‘im !’ said Yevan gesturing towards the
provost. ‘He’ll know the king’s mind on the matter.’ He got
to his feet, and stood waiting until the provost caught sight of him,
and waved him across. ‘I’m away, lads!’ he said and walked
across to the provost.

James took the rag end of a French banner and draped it
across Eric’s shoulder: the man-at-arms was shivering despite the
late sun, and he was still deathly pale. Eric nodded his thanks, and
clenched his teeth to stop them chattering.

'They’ll be back soon,’ said James. ‘Then we’ll
get ye to where it’s warm and dry.’

‘
Aye, and none too soon’,’ grumbled Lewis. ‘It’s
a fine thing to win a battle, but it’s a sorry thing to celebrate
by sitting on your backside in freezing mud.’

Slowly, James stood up. His shoulders were stiff, and
his belly hurt, but apart from that . . .

‘
I’ll remember this battle,’ he said.

‘
Good for ye,’ replied Lewis.

James shook his head. ‘No, I’ll remember it. I’ll
remember it when I’m twice as old an’ grey as ye be now, and I’ve
got grandchildren scampering around my feet. I’ll tell them.’

Old Lewis gave a short laugh and looked up at the bowman
from Chiswick. ‘And what will ye tell ‘em?’

‘
I’ll tell ‘em we won a great battle against the
French in a muddy field in a far country far across the sea, and that
we took gold and prisoners by the score.’

‘
And ye’ll no remember your friends?’

'Hah! No need! You’ll all be there in Chiswick,
lounging around, old and fat and sucking on chicken bones. And you’ll
tell me what I ought to say and what I ought not. You too Eric!
You’ll be there!.’