The Bow

by Bill Sharrock

  ‘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.

  Eventually the order came: fall back to the baggage wagons. Slowly, quietly, in the dark, with no fires lit they prepared to retreat. The Welsh were last to leave: ‘We bury our dead, rather than rob our enemies’, as Yevan said. They scraped out shallow graves for Owain and the others, wrapped them in their green and white tunics and committed them to the earth with a muttered prayer. The bowstaves, arrows and wallets they took, the rest they left. Any coin was given to William Bretoun, and he had sworn to get it safely back home to widows and kinsfolk.

  By the second hour of the evening watch they had joined up with the baggage wagons, and made camp with the rest of the army within a walled orchard scouts had found during the battle. The wagons had been plundered by the few French cavalry that had earlier broken through, but there were still enough supplies left to let most of the troops have a meagre meal of soup and trencher. Some fires were lit, and men prepared to bed down for the night. But it was not to be. The Earl, though wounded, was eager to march. He feared that the French might trap him in this place in the morning, and he was keen to use the cover of darkness to slip away.

  His provosts and sergeants strode among the fires and huddled soldiers urging everyone to their feet, and rousing them to the march. There were curses, grumbles and even taunts, but there was nothing for it: all men, fit and wounded, horsed and unhorsed, were ordered into line.

  Ralf and James had found their horses tethered along with most of the others in Hungerford’s company: they were next to a spinney of birch. Someone had brushed them down, and even left some feed. With their mounts harnessed and rough saddled they rode through the darkness to the van of the column where Hungerford’s banner hung limp in the light of a single torch. There was no trumpet call or rattle of drums, just a single cry of command, and the army tramped away from the shelter of the orchard. They headed for the coast.

  The Dunes

  Despite the night and their exhaustion they made enough progress to reach the fishing village of Etretat well before morning. It was decided not to go down the narrow, chalky valley to the sea, but stay on the heights where they were in less danger of being trapped. Tired, hungry and wary of pursuit, they camped in the great forest that ran down to the cliffs, made fires in the clearings and slept as best they could. It was cold, but the air was still and frost would not trouble them where they lay beneath the oaks and elms of Etretat. The following day the army woke to a bright, thin-misted dawn. Men blinked wearily in the sunlight that streamed down into the crowded clearings. Fires were stirred to life, knights were armed, and common soldiers snatched breakfast before the trumpets called them to the march.

  With his captains gathered about him, the Earl discussed the options open to them. They could head for the shore now, and make for Harfleur along the coast; they could rest up in the forest and hope to avoid discovery; they could line up at the edge of the forest in order of battle and wait for the French. In the end, the Earl chose the last option.

  With banners unfurled, and horses sent to the rear, the army advanced to the eastern side of the forest and drew up their ranks, two deep: archers, men-at-arms and dismounted knights. All day they waited. No one came. At sunset they withdrew, and began a long night march, along the beach south from Etretat. In the distance they could see the fire of Cap de la Heve, where the inhabitants of Sainte-Adresse kept a beacon for returning ships. By first light, footsore and complaining, they came upon Cap de le Havre. As they made camp on the beach, baking some fish they had bought in a local village, scouts brought news that they were only ten miles from Harfleur. There was a ripple of rejoicing that ran along the shore. Even the pickets shouted, and shook their lances.

  But then the French came. They appeared on the dunes that stood above the beach, and attacked without warning.

  Archers scrambled for their bows, and men-at-arms seized their weapons as crossbow bolts zipped among them. Dorset had ordered his men to camp in line of march, so it was simple enough to quickly dress their ranks, turn left and face their attackers.

  Convinced of their advantage, the French vanguard charged down the the face of the dunes yelling the old war cries of ‘St Denis!’ and ‘Montjoie!’ They were met with a three sharp volleys of arrows which tore into their ranks, and reduced the charge to a ragged advance.

  With a shout the English now charged, rushing at the slope and half-stumbling, half-running up the dunes. The French met them head on, and showed some skill with sword and axe, but their ranks were too broken to withstand the English counter-attack for long. Soon they had been reduced to scattered groups of men fighting for their lives, and shortly afterwards the last of them fell. He was a young knight bearing on his shield the towers and golden scallops of Sainte-Adresse. When challenged to ‘cry craven’, he merely took off his helmet so that his blond hair fell across his shoulders, raised his sword in two hands and rushed against the soldiers surrounding him. He wounded two archers before a knight of Dorset’s household cut him down.

  With the death of the young knight, the English paused, leaning on their swords and catching breath. Then once the wounded and the English dead had been carried down to the beach, the archers and men-at-arms set about stripping the dead.

  James found a wallet with silver marks and a few pennies. He took the money, thrust it into his own purse, and threw the wallet away. Next he found a lucky charm made of pewter and semi-precious stones in the shape of a dolphin. ‘This’ll fetch a pretty sum at market’, he said ripping it from around the neck of a crossbowman and tucking it under his belt.

  Moving on, he came across John Hert, a Cheshire bowman who he used to chat to down at the butts of Harfleur.

  ‘What ho! John! I see they have not trimmed ye yet!’

  The other smiled. He was tall, lean and gaunt with an easy frame, cropped black hair and deep set dark eyes. ‘Not for want of trying, Chiswick-James. There’s a knight here dead at my feet near ran me through with this fine sword.’ He held it up. ‘The point caught the buckle of my belt. And so he is dead, and I live.’

  James laughed. ‘Then your good wife back in Nantwich burns more candles to Mary, than that poor fellow’s beloved ever did.’

  Reaching down to loosen the poignard from the dead knight’s scabbard, John straightened up. ‘Candles be blowed!’ he snorted. ‘It was chance and that’s all there is to it. He was a better man than me, and quicker on his feet, but a tin buckle found him out.’ He slipped the poignard into his belt, and gave James his hand. James felt the strength of the grip, and remembered that he had seen John pull one eighty pounds draw weight at Harfleur.

  They moved together among the dead, picking their way among the bodies, and checking all the while for anything of value that could be carried away. Neither of them however took rings. They left those for the spearmen of Wales and Ireland who feared no curse of the dead, and felt no shame in taking a lover’s gift. When they had almost finished, and stood awhile to let the sea breeze play against their faces, there came a cry of alarm:

  ‘Armagnac! Armagnac!’

  Everyone stopped and spun round to look up the slope. They saw at once the reason for the cry.The top of the dunes was covered with the lance points and pennons of the Constable’s main force.

  There was no time to form array. The enemy was upon them. They heard a call to arms, that was all, and saw Hungerford’s standard heading up the slope.

  ‘It’s us, lads!’ shouted John. He turned to wave the archers on. As he d
id so a crossbow bolt caught him in the shoulder and knocked him down. With a roar the others charged. James turned back to help John, and got a blow round the ear, and a curse for his trouble from a burly captain of pike:

  ‘Up, damn you! The French are upon us!’

  Shaking his head and blinking, James went up the dune with the others, short sword in his left hand, buckler in his right. It was an old trick, taught to him by William Bretoun: to reverse his grip and fight left handed. That way it was easier to get under the guard of a charging enemy who was often off balance. It didn’t always work.

  What happened next was never clear to James no matter how much he thought about it, or talked it through with others who made that charge.

  The French, mostly on horseback, with crossbowmen among them began to descend the dunes. Then all at once they hesitated, slowed their charge and began to scramble back. It may have been the steepness of the slope, it may have been the unexpected aggression of their enemy. The Earl’s priest said it must have been an angel of the Lord stood in their way. It was not clear.

  Whatever the reason, most of the French suddenly turned and fled, apart from a few cavalry and footsoldiers who rushed on down. One of them, a young squire on a floundering grey mare, came right at James and two other archers. They caught the mare by the bridle, and hurled the squire from the saddle. He was on his feet in an instant, lashing out with his sword and laying the arm of one of the archers bare to the bone. James closed with him, took a blow on the buckler, and struck under the squire’s guard. His head flew back as James’ sword caught him high on the breastplate, and he fell against the slope. The other archer raised his axe to deliver the death blow, but James held him back, and levelled his sword at the squire’s throat.

  ‘Yield!’ he said.

  The squire looked up at him, his pale blue eyes unflinching.

  ‘Yield!’ repeated James, putting the point of the sword on the squire’s adam’s apple. ‘Cedez ou mort!’ He was aware of the fighting continuing around him, and the nervous anger of the other archer, who was calling out: ‘Finish the toss pot! Finish him!’ while he looked wildly around.