The Bow

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The Bow Page 8

by Bill Sharrock


  '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.’

  The Earl grunted: ‘Sometimes captain I worry that we lean too heavily on our yew hedges. Will this one stand today?’

  'My lord,’ replied William with a twinkle in his eye, ‘It will have to.’ He saluted Dorset and then hurried away to order his men into position.

  A few paces away, James with Ralf beside him was finishing a pit, and about to return to his bow. Suddenly he heard a familiar voice:

  Eh, eh! So it’s ye skittle-heads again! Now we’re in trouble boyo! What with ye and the French.’

  James smiled and looked around: ‘Yevan! What are ye doing cluttering up this fine day! I’d hoped to fight this fight in a bit of peace.’ He held out his hand, and the Welshman took it.

  ‘We’ve been ordered into the line, boyo! Seems the Earl thinks ye Englishmen are not up to it. And quite right too.’ He strung his bow, took ‘first point’ and drove his arrows in the turf in front of him. The others did the same. Ralf was looking about nervously, and dropped an arrow as he drew it from his belt. There was a hand on his shoulder. It was Yevan:

  'Easy lad. Nothing to worry about. We’ll look after ye. Won’t we James?’ James nodded and took another bundle of arrows from a baggage boy.

  Someone called out, and they looked up. There were more horsemen on the ridge. And banners too.

  ‘The crows gather,’ said Yevan and he winked at Ralf. Ralf tried to smile back. ‘Do you miss your wife?’ he said suddenly.

  The Welshman seemed taken aback, but he smiled. ‘I have no wife, lad! But aye, I miss her.’ With a shrug, he went on. ‘The Great Sickness took her, see. And the babba as well. I miss her sore. I miss them both.’ He paused. ‘So that’s why I’m here a soldierin’. Here in France. Away from my valley.’

  Ralf carefully took his bowstring from under his cap and strung his bow. ‘I’ve a girl in Norwich,’ he said. ‘A sweetheart.’

  ‘Have ye now!’

  'Aye I have. Lilibeth, that’s her name. Leastways, that’s what we all call her. Her real name’s Elizabeth, and she lives with her folks above a draper’s.’

  ‘And she has bright eyes, shining hair, and a voice as light as silk.’

  'Ye know her then!’

  ‘Aye, I know her! She’s every poor boy’s lass between here and Pembroke cliffs. She’s . . .’

  James held up his hand. ‘Easy, Yevan. Ye’re teasing the lad! But watch ye now. There’s a storm brewing on that ridge all right. Have ye ever seen so many horse?’

  They all looked again. The length of the ridge was covered by a glittering array of armoured cavalry, spear points and pennons tossing as they jostled forward.

  'That’s Armagnac up there,’ said William Bretoun as he came up to the group of archers. ‘Constable of France, and a fine soldier to boot. Don’t underrate him lads. He’s not all plume and polish. We’ll need to hit him good and hard at the first push or he’ll have us for sure.’

  Yevan nodded in agreement. ‘And ‘e’s got the high ground, with no mud to cross, and vengeance all over his coats. See that banner in the centre: red and gold lions rampant, quartered on a white and red field? That’s Armagnac himself, and he won’t be in the mood for mercy. Not after our little dance at Agincourt.’

  Ralf swallowed hard, and tested his bowstring once more: ‘When will they come, d’ye think?’ he asked.

  ‘When they’re good and ready lad. And not before. They’ve got us where they want us, but they won’t be rushing in like milkmaids and ploughboys. They’ve made that mistake before, so they won’t be about to do it again.’

  Though the sound of trumpets and now drums continued from the French lines, growing in intensity with each passing moment, the English positions were now strangely silent. All was ready. The men-at-arms stood with pike and bill in a single rank of mail and plate that stretched for over a quarter of a mile. Interspersed along that line were groups of archers three and four deep and a company strong: a captain to each company, and a master bow man to every twenty men. They waited.

  A breeze sprang up, an easterly, that sent the clouds scudding and made the pennons snap. The archers eyed the wind anxiously and licked their fingers and held them up, hoping for a shift or at least a lull.

  ‘By all the saints’, said William as he strode restlessly behind his company, ‘If that doesn’t bring down Frenchie on us nothing will.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ whispered Ralf anxiously.

  ‘It’s the breeze,’ replied James. ‘In our teeth it is, and set to suck the life out of any shafts we loose.’

  ‘Surely not,’ said Ralf, but his voice shook.

  James did not reply, but an old archer next to him, Richard Walsh of Reigate, laughed and shook his head:

  ‘Listen, young’un! Did ye not see some of our shafts skip off their plate at eighty paces when the air was slack?’ Ralf nodded. ‘Well, then,’ the old archer went on, ‘Ye’d better draw to ear and not to pap if ye want to see your lassie again.’

  They waited some more. The breeze freshened till they felt it sharp against their faces, and then it died away to uncertain gusts.

  'A plague on this’, muttered Yevan, ‘Why don’t they come?’

  Suddenly they were aware of the Earl at their backs. He was mounted on his warhorse now, and trotting up and down behind the line.

  ‘Steady, lads!’ he roared. ‘There’s no use fretting till they make a charge. Then by God’s grace we’ll all know what to do.’

  ‘Aye, run like the very devil,’ muttered one archer under his breath, and all those around him laughed.

  ‘Steady!’ the Earl roared once more. ‘Don’t loose until your captains call. I’ll string the first man who shoots afore!’ He turned his horse’s head and headed away towards the left flank. Moments later, Sir Walter returned followed by the baggage boys weighed down with the last bundles of war arrows.

  'No sense in keeping them back there,’ he said, as the master bowmen distributed them. ‘We’ve no reserve lines, and the wagons are indefensible.’ He looked to the ridge. ‘Here they come,’ he said.

  As he spoke, a thousand pennons on the ridge top dipped, and a mass of armoured chevaliers plunged down the slope towards them. Men knelt and kissed the earth.

  ‘Take point!’ called the captains. The archers shuffled into position and the men-at-arms stepped forward, their spear-points and pikes lowered.

  The French cavalry reached the base of the slope and surged out onto the field, their mounts barely breaking stride.

  ‘They ride like angels!’ said Sir Walter as he stood behind where James and Ralf had taken point.

  ‘Aye, my lord, like avenging angels!’ replied William Bretoun, as he shifted his stance one last time, and took measure of the Frenchmen’s charge. He glanced to left and right, then turned his gaze to the oncoming cavalry.

  'On my call!’ he shouted.

  ‘Welshmen all!’ came the reply, even from those English archers who found themselves among the men in green and white.

  The cavalry swept on, and at eight hundred paces the ground began to shake. William leant forward.

  ‘Knee! . . . Stretch! . . . Now strike!’

  The air hummed and hissed as more than five hundred arrows shot skywards. James heard Ralf gasp. This was the first time the lad had heard or seen such a volley.

  ‘Keep to the shot!’ James shouted, as he saw Ralf staring after the first volley. With a jerk of surprise Ralf bent to his task.

&
nbsp; As at Agincourt, the cloud of arrows fell on the advancing cavalry. Horses reared, plunged and fell. Riders toppled from the saddle. Others wrenched their mounts around, wounded and galled by shafts.

  But the rest came on, gathering in pace, and stretching to the full weight of the charge.

  ‘Bodkins, damn your eyes! Bodkins! Not war arrows!’ roared Sir Walter.

  Another two flights were loosed.

  ‘They are bodkins, sire!’ shouted the Yeovil captain in return. ‘But that’s not six penny plate out there. That’s harness from Milan and Nuremberg. The best!’

  Three more volleys were called, and at last the cavalry broke away. They headed back towards the base of the slope where they reformed. As they did so, another squadron of at least a thousand horses appeared on the ridge top in support.

  James took stock of what arrows he had left, and looked around him. There was concern everywhere, even on the faces of the greybeards.

  The Earl galloped up to where Sir Walter was standing, and leant from the saddle.

  ‘Not good enough, Sir Walter.’

  The old knight looked up at him, and wiped his brow. ‘Aye, my lord. We stung them, but that’s all. Too many shots skid off. False shots. Not worth a tinker’s damm!’

  ‘Even with bodkins?’

  ‘Aye, my lord. They have the measure of our stripe.’

  The Earl frowned. He turned his gaze to the French lines which were showing signs of moving forward again.

  ‘Then shoot the horses’, he said.

  Sir Walter bowed and shouted the order to his captains.

  When Yevan heard it, he shrugged and spat. ‘Them’s all very well’, he said. ‘Shoot the ‘orses. Oh, aye! Just like that! Thank ‘e, yer lordship!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ whispered Ralf. He was white and shaking.

  James didn’t seem to hear. He was watching the French cavalry as it stirred itself for the charge, then he knelt to count his remaining bodkins.

  At last he spoke: ‘What’s wrong? I’ll tell ‘e. Horses aren’t that easy to bring down. I’ve seen one stuck full of clothyards gallop all the way to the line, and trample six men before we finally finished him an’ his master.’

  'That’s ‘orrible.’

  'That’s war, laddie. Now look to your bow! They’re coming again!’

  The French cavalry came at them across the field, clods and turf flying about their hooves. Their banners were held high, and the lions of Armagnac were carried to the fore. They charged in a crescent, flanks five hundred yards apart, and arcing in toward the centre.

  'Hold your shot!’ called Sir Walter. ‘We’ll strike them at eighty paces!’

  ‘Eighty paces my lord?’ said William Bretoun.

  ‘Aye, eighty Captain! Now call it!’

  The captain nodded: ‘It’s eighty, lads! Eighty and not afore. You ‘eard me! Hold to my mark! Let Frenchie feel the stripe!’

  His command was taken up by the other captains, and echoed along the line. The cavalry thundered on. Closer and closer. The ground shook. All about him James could see archers, eyes fixed on the approaching enemy, hands gripping and relaxing against the bows. He eased his shoulders, and glanced at Ralf. The lad was shaking a little, and wide-eyed, but he would be all right.

  Shifting his footing yet again James turned to the cavalry. They were well within range, and measuring their charge with a steady rhythm which made the air drum. Already he could hear the faint clink of harness and buckles striking against polished plate.

  ‘Jesus help us!’ said Ralf suddenly. ‘Why don’t we shoot?’

  On they came, Armagnac at their head, till it seemed they would sweep into the English line without an arrow loosed.

  'Hold! Hold, curse you! My mark!’ William was shouting above the rising sound of the charge. The archers held, and the cavalry swept on, their shields bright, and their painted devices shining clear in the late afternoon sun.

  At last, when it seemed as if anything now was nothing but too late, the captains made the call:

  ‘Right lads! On my mark! Knee . . .Stretch . . . Now strike!’

  The English line flexed, the bows sang and a storm of arrows flew against the French. This time the bodkins struck home with greater efficiency. Everywhere horses staggered and fell, throwing their riders to the ground. When the second volley went in at fifty paces, James could see that the arrows were also piercing the French armour at gorget, helm and breastplate, and only horses protected with the heavy chanfrons were able to endure the short-range bodkins.

  Still, the French did not slacken in their charge, though their ranks were badly thinned.

  ‘Ware pikes!’ The order rang along the English line, and the men-at-arms stepped forward with a great shout.

  Swerving to avoid the chevrons of archers the surviving French cavalry threw themselves against the single rank of infantry. The pits and hedges gave some protection to the pike and billmen, but they could do little to halt the attack. Wherever horsemen struck the line they burst through. Some were brought down immediately, but most charged over the infantry, striking to left and right with swords, maces and battle axes.

  Twenty paces from where James and Ralf stood, three French destriers smashed their way through, scattering the men-at-arms in their path. But instead of wheeling about to attack the infantry from the rear they merely galloped off towards the baggage park. It was the same all along the line.

  ‘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 ag
ainst 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.

 

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