The Bow (12 page)

‘
Let them go! Let them go!’ shouted Sir Walter, and
he reformed the rank to meet the next charge. They did not have long
to wait.

Another squadron poured down the slope, joined with the
remnants of the first two charges and prepared to advance.

‘
Make it eighty, again!’ yelled the captains.

Ralf looked at James. ‘Why’s that?’ he asked,
hunched over and grey with fear.

‘
Cos they’ll be slower this time’, replied James.
‘Picking their way over all those dead horses. Not so easy for
them.’

‘
E’s right, boyo!’ cut in Yevan, as he took up a
bundle of war arrows. ‘We brought a good few down on that second
rush. Bound to make it harder for ‘em.’

The Earl cantered up on his warhorse, and dismounted.
‘How goes it, Sir Walter?’ he called as he strode across to where
the old knight stood.

‘
It’s been busy my lord.’ Sir Walter was leaning
on his sword. Despite the cold, he was sweating.

The Earl smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Can
ye stand?’

‘
Oh, aye, we’ll stand. Just so long as those madmen
keep chasing off after our baggage.’

'And if they don’t.’

Sir Walter shrugged. ‘If they don’t, my lord, we’ll
have to do business with them here, and that won’t be pretty.’

The trumpets sounded another alarum, and the Earl turned
away. ‘They come again, Sir Walter. God be with you!’

‘
And with you, my lord!’ He saluted as the Earl
swung into the saddle, and headed away to the centre.

This time the French threw themselves in a wild charge
that covered the length of the line, and did not slacken even as it
swept over the wreckage of the first attacks. At eighty, seventy and
fifty paces three flights of arrows hammered against the armoured
tide of men and horses. Scores were killed or wounded. As they fell,
those behind them also fell or swerved desperately to avoid the
crash. The charge kept on, and only slowed where bodies lay like
headlands taller than a man. Even gaps were made treacherous by pits
and broken harness.

James loosed another shaft, and slapped Ralf on the
back. ‘At twenty paces, it’s bows down and look to your wits!’
he said.

‘
Fight?’

'Aye! As best ye can. But it’s not yet. Two more
volleys at least.’

They fired, and fired again. At less than thirty paces,
the armour was more vulnerable, and even war arrows found the chinks
between pauldron and breastplate, or fauld and stomacher. The screams
of the horses drowned out the cries of men, and James could clearly
see the bared teeth and hard eyes of those who came against him.

‘
See!’ called out Yevan. ‘They lift their visors
ready for the fight.’ He paused. ‘We’ll see about that, mind!’
He let fly with his last bodkin which struck a knight through his
open sallet and toppled him from the saddle.

Moments later the French cavalry reached the line.
Throwing down their bows, the archers stepped back among the hedges,
drawing swords and war-hammers. For a time the cavalry pushed against
them, hacking at the defenders and trying to force a way through the
bocage. But then they were set upon at the flank by a group of
men-at-arms and bowmen from another company. After that, the French
withdrew slowly, taking their wounded with them, and shouting
defiance. Soon the field was deserted, though the ridge and its
facing slope was still crowded with Armagnac cavalry.

The archers came out from among the hedgerows and picked
up their bows and equipment. They looked to their losses and began to
strip the dead.

‘
There’s a saucy scrap!’ laughed Yevan, and he
clapped a nearby Welshman on the shoulder. ‘What think you, Owain?’

The other shook his head and grimaced, but at first said
nothing. He was bleeding from a cut to his cheek, and his tunic was
torn along one side where a lance point had scored his ribs. When he
spoke his voice was tired and cracked:

‘
Can’t take much more o’ that’, he said.
‘Frenchie’s got his dander up, and he’ll ‘ave us if ‘e
can.’

‘
Ah, tusht, man! We’ll be fine as cock robin!
There’s the sun a-setting, and Frenchie don’t fight in the dark.’
Owain was about to reply, when William Bretoun appeared with Sir
Walter. They were counting the dead and checking the wounded.

‘
Lost three and thirty good men in that last charge’,
said Sir Walter. ‘How many wounded did you say, captain?’

‘
Fifty, all told my lord, barring those with nought
but scratches. There’s eight of them be archers who’ll never pull
a bow again. Hands all messed up or gone.’ He looked at Yevan,
James and the others. ‘How fare ye here?’

‘
Bravely, my lord’, replied Yevan with a grin and a
little bow.

‘
Then get out there, ye lummox, and grab as many
bodkins as ye can. The French’ll put in two more charges yet.’

Yevan stopped smiling, and quickly ducked his head. ‘I
will my lord!’ He turned to those around him. ‘Come on lads! It’s
arrows first and silver second. Forget their wallets. We need those
bodkins.’ He shouldered his bow and went out among the dead. The
others followed. James and Ralf went too, searching among the bodies,
and retrieving what arrows they could. Occasionally, they paused and
scratched their initials or mark on any armour that looked as if it
would bring a good price.

Any wounded they came across that were close to death,
they left to die. Strangely, no one had the heart to despatch them.
The less badly wounded were dragged clear of the bodies and sent back
as prisoners. There were hardly any.

‘
It stinks!’ said Ralf.

'It always stinks.’ James drew an arrow from the turf
and held it up: a bodkin, and still true. The fletchings were good as
well. He stuck it in his belt. ‘Come on! Let’s be out of here!’

‘
But there’s pickings, James! Look at them!’

‘
Ye’ll come now, or feel the captain’s staff
across your back. See there!’

Ralf looked up. Outlined against the fading light, the
French were gathering to the charge once more.

They came like a rising shadow, black against the ridge
top, then lit with gold and amber as all their arms and armour caught
the setting sun.

‘
Them’s brave, and that’s the truth of it!’ said
Owain as he wiped the mud from his bowstring, and looked to the
arrows at his feet.

'Them’s fools, and like to die for it’, replied old
Richard Walsh from Reigate.

As the archers watched they could see yet another group
of cavalry setting off from the crest of the ridge. There were two
attacks coming at once.

‘
That’s neatly done’, said William. ‘They hope
to hit us with the second rush before we have a chance to recover
from the first.’

Sir Walter thought for a moment, then shook his head.
‘We’ll not be worrying about the second, if we can bring down the
first’, he said. ‘Tell your men to hold their fire till fifty
paces, then bodkins all!’

William Bretoun smiled. ‘That’s brave indeed, my
lord, but it might just work.’

The warlord from Hungerford grunted. ‘Be damned if it
doesn’t, Captain William! Eh? What say you?’

Williams reply was lost in the sound of the approaching
cavalry. He bowed and turned away.

'Fifty paces, lads!’ he roared. ‘Fifty paces, and
nought but bodkins!’

Yevan ap Griffiths frowned as he reached for his first
arrow. ‘Nought but bodkins, eh? And what’s to do after that?
Shoot spittle at ‘em?’

‘
Ye may as well’, replied James with a grin, and he
gave Ralf a nudge to shake him from his staring. ‘Come lad! No good
lookin’! There’s no Frenchman ever stopped because an Englishman
was looking at him.’

Ralf began to scramble around at his feet, trying to
sort out the bodkins. ‘How can we stop them from fifty paces, if we
could scarce hold them from eighty?’ he said, ‘And there’s
twice as many this time. Look at ‘em!’

'Stop your wittering’, replied James, ‘And do what
ye are told.’ He leant to the first arrow as the call came, and
felt the muscles in his back stretch. This would be close: only time
enough for a few volleys, and every shaft would have to count. He
nocked the arrow, straightened and drew in that one curved movement,
his whole body pulling against the power of the bow. The fletchings
brushed his jaw. ‘Now strike!’ He loosed and the bodkin sped into
the mass of horsemen in front of him. He leant, stretched and drew
again. ‘Now strike!’ His second bodkin smashed through the shield
of a chevalier no more than thirty paces away and hurled him beneath
the hooves of the following horses.

His last bodkin ! They were almost upon him now. His
feet shook. The ground seemed alive. A wall of armour and horseflesh
rushed against him. He bent forward, eyes fixed on the last arrow,
then straightened for the last time.

‘
Loose!’ A jagged black cloud of arrows flew and
smacked against the crowding horsemen even as they gathered stride to
leap the English line.

The effect was instantaneous. In a moment all was bloody
disorder. Horses reared, shot through with arrows, then fell in front
of those behind, bringing them down in turn. Knights lurched in the
saddle, driven back on the cantle as arrows pierced plate and mail.
Some cried out as their armour was battered and split by weight of
shot.

Not a warhorse made the line. All were hurled back, and
lay in kicking heaps some ten paces from where the archers and
men-at-arms stood.

The second squadron came on at the gallop, and so swift
was the destruction of the first, they had no time to react. Without
swerving or pulling up they careered into the wall of dead and dying
which had sprung up before them, and so broke themselves against the
bodies of their comrades.

The English stood and watched with a mixture of awe and
shock, too numbed by the brilliance of the charge to advance, and too
overwhelmed by the sight of its destruction to retreat.

A number of French knights, perhaps a score, struggled
free of the chaos and rode off into the dusk. Several others, finding
themselves on the English side of the dead, threw themselves at the
archers and men-at-arms. There was a brief clash of arms. Eight
archers and three spearmen were killed before the knights were
overwhelmed and captured.

As for the rest, there was little more to be done. James
listened to the groans of the wounded and watched the dying horses
writhe and kick.

‘
I hate all this’, he said.

‘
You’re getting soft’, muttered Yevan, but his
voice was low, and he looked away as the men-at-arms began to move
among the dead and dying, cutting the throats of any that still
moved. ‘No mercy’, he said to himself. ‘No mercy, no ransom,
and no time to find a good piece of armour to sell in the market at
Harfleur.’ He walked away.

'And no honour, neither’, James said, as though in
reply. ‘Who gave the order to kill the wounded?’

‘
I did!’ came a voice. James turned. It was the
Earl. He was standing nearby, and must have come up only moments ago.
His jupon was cut, bloodied and torn, his armour was dented, and
there was a deepening bruise across the bridge of his nose. ‘I
spare the wounded when we can afford to. Now is not such a time. We
have won, but it is not over. The road home is a long one, archer,
and the French will make us pay a toll in blood before we see
Harfleur – any of us.’

With a touch of his forelock, James withdrew. Ralf was
beside him in an instant. His hands were shaking, and he was still
pale, but his eyes were bright with excitement. ‘We beat them,
James!’ he said.

‘
Aye we did, but look around you, lad. It cost us a
pretty price. See there’s a few of us won’t be going home.’

Ralf gazed about him. ‘I didn’t notice’, he said.

With a weary smile, James took him by the shoulder.
‘Don’t worry. You were fighting to save your own skin. We all
were. No time to think about what’s happening to anyone else.’

‘
But that’s just it. I didn’t fight. I just sort
of stood there. With this!’ He gestured at his sword.

'You stayed alive, and that’s what counts. Now, no
more of this! We’ve work to do: bury the dead, pick up what’s
ours and be on our way. Night is near upon us.’

As he spoke, Yevan came up. There were some Welsh bowmen
with him. A few were wounded, and one could scarcely walk.

‘
Hey, ho! James ! Give us a hand here. Some of the
lads have taken a bruising.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘We need a
handcart like that one we found at Agincourt.’

‘
Found it? We stole it, Yevan.’

‘
Hussht, man! Ye’ll have the Earl down upon us.’
He grinned, then suddenly frowned. ‘We lost Owain.’

‘
Owain? Gone?’

'Aye! Killt! Killt he was in that last rush. Didn’t
see it. Just walked over there now, and there he was. All spread out.
Sad, really. One of those knights must have got him.’

‘
I’m sorry.’

‘
Aye, well. We’ll miss him, see. He was all right,
Owain. A valley man. With a bonny wife, and two littl’uns. It’ll
go hard with them.’ He turned away and shrugged. The Welshmen all
sat down in the lee of a hedge and began to bind their wounds. James
watched them for a bit, then wandered over and began to help, tearing
up rags from the dead and using them as bandages. The sun had almost
set and the evening chill was coming on. They would have to move
soon. There was no sign of the French. No firelight. They had gone.
And so must they. There was no staying in this place.