For a moment the squire stared beyond James as if looking at something over his shoulder, then he closed his eyes and opened them again: ‘Je me rends’ he said.
With a sharp intake of breath, James pulled back the sword and hauled the squire to his feet. He scratched his initials on his breastplate, and let the other archer do the same. Then he bound his hands, and pointed away down the slope. ‘Par la!’ he said and gave him a shove. The squire nodded and walked away, head hung low.
The fighting was all but over. Most of the French had fled, and were being pursued by a good number of the archers and men-at-arms. Word soon spread that cavalry were seen approaching from Harfleur itself, and that they too were taking up the chase.
There seemed little else to do, but pick up weapons, help the wounded and wander back down to the beach. On his way, James met Ralf who was dizzy with excitement and a glancing blow he had taken from a French mace. He paused in his chatter to throw up, and then held his hand to his head. ‘It hurts’, he said.
‘Aye it would. You’ve a lump as big as an apple on the side of your skull. Lucky he didn’t brain you.’
‘Didn’t even see it’, muttered Ralf. ‘Came out of nowhere.’
‘That’s the way it is. You never see the one that gets you. Now away with you to the barber-surgeon. He’ll have some herbs you can put in a poultice for that, but whatever happens, don’t let him bleed you.’
As Ralf stumbled off, James caught sight of John Hert. He was sitting propped up against a dead horse. The crossbow bolt was sticking out of his shoulder, just above the right breast. He was deathly pale, and his teeth were clenched. James came and knelt beside him: ‘Ho, friend! How goes it?’
John looked up. ‘Good enough, I s’ppose. Better than old Richard over there. He copped an axe right through the brisket. No more songs from him.’ He tried to laugh, and winced with pain.
‘It’ll have to come out, and soon’, said James looking closely at the bolt. ‘The wound’s still bleeding, and the arrow’s deep.’
John tried to sit up, and grimaced. ‘There’s the truth’, he replied. ‘It won’t pop out on its own, will it? And we won’t be talkin’ it out either.’ He eased himself back until he was nearly lying down. Beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead, and his lips were bloodless and trembling.
‘The surgeon, then,’ said James.
‘A plague on the surgeon. That Gascon butcher! He’d kill me to save the arrow!’ His voice was harsh with effort, and he swallowed hard as if he were choking. James propped him up again: ‘You can’t leave it there, John. It’s killing ye!’
‘I’m half killt already, man!’ He smiled weakly. ‘Listen! No surgeon. I’ll take my chances with one such as ye.’
‘You mean . . .’
‘Aye, you can take it out. You, James. Get a good grip, give it a twist and pull the beggar out! I’ve seen it done.’ He coughed, but there was no blood: the lungs were sound at least.
Standing up slowly, James looked down at him. ‘Well, all right’, he said. ‘But not on my own. I’ll get Yevan. He’ll know a thing or two.’
‘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.<
br />
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.’
‘But ye know me, Emma-Jeanne’, called James. The girl started back to hear her name, then leaned forward again. ‘James of Chiswick!’ she shoute
d. ‘Master James, it’s you!’
'Aye, and with masters Duncan and Hamish too. And young Ralf besides. Did ye not recognise us?’
‘It was the Welsh, Master James. The Welsh. What I could not see, I heard, and all I heard was the Welsh.’
They all laughed save John, who slept, and Yevan who stood, hands on hips, glaring up at the window.
‘By all the saints, what am I then? A thief?A rogue? Because I am a Welshman?’ But the girl had long since disappeared, and Yevan was left shouting up at an empty window. Moments later there was the sound of bolts and bars being drawn back, the door swung open, and there was a breathless Emma-Jeanne with the bleary-eyed apothecary standing next to her. He was carrying an old cudgel, and looking worried, but he beamed when he saw James and the others.
‘Come in! Come in, gentlemen! We heard you were on the road from Cap le Havre . . .What’s this? A wounded hero? Come in!’ He turned. ‘Margrette! Margrette! Where’s that wife of mine? Here, Emma! Go rouse my wife. Marie and Louisa too! Go now! We have guests!’
He led them through the shop, down the narrow hallway and into the family room. They crowded in, and stood about awkwardly while the family, appearing one by one, rushed about to the shouts of the apothecary, lighting candles, bringing seats and benches, setting the table and stirring the hearth.
‘Faith!’ said the Simon the apothecary, clapping his hands. ‘There’s a fair few of you. Are you all to be staying?’
‘All but the Welsh’, answered James, and he winked at Emma-Jeanne.
‘Well, there’s a pity’, said Simon, but he sounded relieved, and smiled nervously at his wife. ‘Your wounded friend will be best here on a palliasse in front of the fire. Let him sleep on. In the morning, my daughters will tend to his wound.’
‘Ye have the arts, then?’ asked Yevan.
The apothecary raised his eyebrows. ‘You see the sign above my door, sir. Good health, and a long life, that’s what I am trained in.’
‘Ye’ll know of sea salt, then?’
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