Casca 41: The Longbowman

by Tony Roberts

  They groaned. To have got this far and then be confronted at the last but one river was galling.

  “So why didn’t the rest of the army come along tonight?” one of the other archers demanded.

  “They are too far behind, Jack,” Walt said. “By the time the rearguard would have got here it’d be past midnight and there’d be no chance of crossing.”

  “Maybe the main French army hasn’t got this far yet,” Casca said, peering across the river. “I can’t see any other units or flags, can any of you?”

  There were shakings of heads. They waited for a few minutes, looking round the houses of the village, noting the locals were cowering behind closed doors. They didn’t want to get mixed up in the fight that was likely to take place any time. The Duke arrived with the vanguard and immediately began rattling out orders. His engineers began ripping doors from houses and screams came from the hovels. The Duke snapped out that nobody was to touch any of the villagers on pain of death. The wood was to repair the bridge and allow the army to cross.

  “You men there,” he pointed at Casca and his group. They bowed solemnly to the Duke. “Go drive those fellows off from the other bank, will you?”

  “Sire!” Casca replied and waved his men to line up on the bank. Other groups of archers were sent to join them, and before long the south bank was lined with bowmen throughout the entire village. On the far bank the road snaked away north-west and in the distance another low hill rose, silhouetted as the sun sank over the horizon behind their left shoulders. At this time of year it was more south-west than west.

  “Archers, loose!” the captains ordered after getting the nod from the Duke.

  Casca sighted on one Frenchman making an obscene gesture with his hand. His arrow took the man through the gut and he doubled over, screaming. It was no more than thirty yards, a ludicrously short distance for the English warbow. More arrows poured across and the French scattered in panic, not having anyone to shoot back. They got on their horses, those who were able to, and galloped off into the gathering darkness. Those on foot ran as hard as they could, following close behind.

  Casca thoughtfully lowered his bow and stared at their rapidly disappearing backs.

  “You thinking of something, Cass?” Walt asked.

  “Yes; they’re running off north-east. Now I’d bet that they’re going back to their main army, and if that’s the case, it’s away from the route we’re to take tomorrow. That means the road to the last crossing is still open.”

  “You serious? Heck, that’s great news!” Walt spread the word and the others all began chattering amongst themselves in excitement.

  They weren’t allowed to do so for very long, as the Duke ordered all the archers over the river to make sure nobody stopped the repairs being made to the bridge. Some plunged into the water, wading up to their waists, sucking in their breaths at the cold. The rest filed across on the single wooden plank that had been dropped across the span, spreading out and taking up guard posts on the north bank. Fires soon sprang up and the archers rested, with a third of their number patrolling out with bows strung and arrows ready. A few men-at-arms came across too to provide some support, but the main vanguard rested in the village and could be heard enjoying the benefits of doing so.

  “All fucking well for them, safe and comfy in Frevent,” Sills growled in bad temper, “they need us out here to make sure they sleep nice and warm back there. Bah!”

  “Remember last night?” Casca grinned. “It’s just their turn, that’s all. We had our good time; can’t expect it all to go well all the time.” He had a pang of memory, and finished his watered ale. There was no food. Nobody had any food. He got up, and muttered about checking on the picket line, and wandered off to a quiet spot. There was a clump of trees standing in the dark about fifty yards away and one of them had fallen some time ago and was lying flat, so he sat on the trunk and looked into the far distance, not really seeing the dark shapes of trees and hills.

  Shiu Lao Tze. The memory of the little yellow Chinese sage came to him again. He always said that life was a great circle, and what was, will come round again. So many wise words Shiu spoke in the short time they were together. He wondered whether he would come across any more of his kind again. The possibility was there, for ever since the Mongols had burst out of the east, trade had improved enormously, as had travel. Some said the Mongols had been a terrible plague on mankind, but there had been some benefits. People tended to overlook the good points the armies of Genghis Khan and his descendants had brought. They tended instead to point to the mayhem and slaughter that they had wreaked on Asia and Europe and that was all they had done, which was untrue. Casca had been there from the beginning and had returned a few times to their various empires, and what he could tell people differed from the close-minded opinions of people who had not experienced or seen what had gone on.

  True, there had been great slaughter, and it had sickened even a hardened warrior like himself, but ultimately they had brought greater benefits to people in the long term. There was greater exchange of ideas and skills now, and it had improved the lives of many. He wondered how people would look upon this very campaign in the future. He knitted his fingers together and stared at the ground. How often was history misrepresented by those who wrote it, writing it as though theirs was the one true account. He snorted. None of them had been anywhere near what had happened. Procopius was an exception, but even he exaggerated hugely, and was hardly an impartial eye witness. Some accounts of wars were completely different from what he’d experienced, but people would believe the writings of a learned man backed by the ruling elite, especially if they represented the victors of said war, rather than that of a common soldier. Such was the way of things.

  Ah, fuck it, he mused. After all is said and done, he’d live on and everyone else would die and their words would mean nothing in the end. He was history. What did any of these scholars really know? How could they possibly know of the heroism and self-sacrifice of soldiers? How could they relate to the fears, hopes and pain of men fighting wars that were described as ‘glorious’ and ‘heroic’ by people hundreds of miles away in safe, comfortable libraries? He spat in disgust onto the sodden earth. Only when you could smell blood in your sleep could you really know what it was like.

  Wearily he got up and made his way back to the camp fire. He would be taking the last watch of the night, so he needed to get some sleep now. The new day would bring more madness, no doubt.

  They were up early. The French had not returned and they looked up at the dark, racing clouds with hope. It was raining hard, and they were cold, wet and miserable, but they were still there with a chance of getting over the last river ahead of them. It would be almost a day’s march.

  The Duke ordered the vanguard up and off as soon as there was enough light to see the terrain by. The rest of the army under the King would be marching up the road from the south and would soon be crossing over at Frevent, so the vanguard had to be off and away so that they didn’t get in the way.

  The captains gathered their men together. Casca’s group were attached to one of the archer groups of the vanguard for the speech. The captain, a thick-set man with a dull chainmail hauberk and a filthy once-white surcoat, stood before them, his sword set in its scabbard. He was a man who looked as if he’d been in more than one battle. “Today we make our run for the last river that is in our way, the Ternoise. This road you see here runs to the village of Blanchy and it is just beyond there that a bridge stands. If we can get to it, secure it and cross, then it’s a straight run to Calais and unless the French are there already, they will not be able to catch us. May God give us speed today and enable us to beat the enemy to the crossing. Good luck all of you, now go. Nothing is to be allowed to get in our way.”

  They set off at a brisk pace, and riders came galloping up and past, a look of determination on their faces. This was it, no more wondering whether they would end up lost in France. Today was the day they had one last obst
acle to overcome, and then they could reach safety.

  The rain hammered down, reducing visibility to a mere few yards at times, and rivulets of water ran over the road and formed large puddles through which the men splashed, unmindful now of the water seeping into them through their clothing, or down their necks, or dripping from their helmets. It was blinding at times, stinging as it hurled itself at the faces of the English as they splashed and slipped their way across the countryside, pulling each other along, encouraging one another when one looked as if he would fall and not get up. Men went on, faces etched in pain, stolidly planting one foot in front of the other, mouths open as they sucked in volumes of air as they tried to avoid throwing up.

  They had gone two days without food in many cases. Exhausted, diseased, drenched, they still kept going. Casca shook his head in wonder. Men would do the most incredible things when necessary. If he had told them months ago they would be doing this, nobody would believe him.

  Will stumbled and sank to one knee into a filthy, swirling pool. Casca bent down and pulled him up. His sleeve was sodden and stuck to his arm. The young man’s eyes were bloodshot and stubble covered the lower part of his face. Rainwater trickled down his face through the growing follicles. His mouth was open and he was panting heavily.

  “Come on, Will,” Casca encouraged him, “keep going! The river’s not far now! Up!”

  “I-I can’t do it, Cass! Leave me here…. I’m through!”

  “You’re coming with us, come hell or damnation, boy,” Casca growled and hauled the exhausted archer up onto his shoulder. He passed Walt his bow. “Keep this for me while I’ve got young Will here. Right, let’s go!”

  They carried on. All round them the squelching sound of mud being stood in filled the air, and steam rose from their soaked bodies as their exertions raised their body temperatures and began turning the water on their skins into clouds. Seen from afar it was as if the army was wreathed in smoke, an ethereal sight.

  Some did fall by the wayside, spent beyond words, and lay beyond caring. Some were, like Will, picked up by friends and dragged along, their helpers staring ahead, looking for the first sight of the Ternoise.

  The line of the army stretched out, becoming thinner, with those fitter forging on ahead and the less able ones falling further behind, so that the rearmost echelons of the vanguard were caught up by the forward elements of the center.

  The afternoon came and the brisk walk had descended into a nightmarish shamble, men staggering like they were drunk, legs on fire, lungs pain-filled as air was rasped in and out. Men threw up by the roadside, wiped their mouths and noses, and gamely stumbled on, their minds not thinking of anything other than the crossing. The road was churned up into a morass, and yet they still plowed on, dragging feet twice their size through the mud and weighing as if lead were wrapped around their ankles. Heads lolled yet still they went on, hoping, hoping, hoping.

  It was mid-afternoon when they crested a low hill on a bend in the road, and emerged from a stand of ash and caught sight of Blanchy, a huddled collection of houses, barns and churches by the river bank. The Ternoise beckoned to them, bringing forth one last burst of energy from God-knew-where.

  And then they were sinking to their knees, tears joining the rain flowing down their faces. Fists clenched and beat the ground in frustration, bitterness and anger. Men cried and sank to their knees, hands to their faces is despair. The French were already there.

  They had lost the race.

  They were trapped.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The grass was a welcome bed, even though it was wet through. Men were soaked beyond words therefore it made little difference. They had given all in the day’s journey to the river, and now the sight of armored men on the far bank, banners fluttering above their heads, had taken any remaining will and strength from their bodies and they fell like wheat before the scythe.

  Casca put Will down next to the forlorn figures of Andrew and Sills and walked on a few more paces. The army was spreading out on either side of the road, gauging the size and strength of the opposition. From his position Casca could see in the distance a forest of banners, spear points and armored figures. He turned. Coming up was a squad of men-at-arms led by a man on horseback. He bowed to the man. “Sire, French vanguard at the river, dismantling the bridge. Main French army in the distance, not yet at the river. They’re one hour’s march away by the look of things, sire, although it’s hard to tell in this rain.”

  The noble frowned, his visor up. “Very good, archer. Therefore we must drive the vanguard away from the bridge and affect a crossing. You men look spent; can you assist in driving them off? We’ll need archer support.”

  “Sire.” He turned and went to the coughing and groaning group of men sat dejectedly by the roadside. “Up, you lazy dogs! Come on, it’s not Sunday Prayers! Here’s your chance to stick a few Frenchies. We’ve got to drive them from the bridge before they break it up.”

  “Aw, get lost,” Sills cried out and sank onto his back, uncaring of the rain that splattered onto his face. “They’ve beaten us to the river and we’re stuffed.”

  “Not quite, Sills, take a look; it’s their vanguard. The rest of their army is still an hour away – you can see them in the distance coming this way. If we get across first at least we have a chance to face them. Otherwise we stay here and get caught between two armies and phht!” he smacked his hands together. “We’ll have to fight them but it’ll be just one army.”

  “One army?” Andrew leaned up on one elbow, “too bloody many for us. Look at us, man. We’re absolutely fucked.”

  “Is that what the Welsh do when faced with a challenge?” Casca demanded. “I thought you boys rose to the fight! Where’s that hwyl?” he said, using the Welsh word for guts.

  Andrew muttered an obscenity but dragged himself to his feet. “Bugger it,” he said heavily, “I might as well show you English softies how to fight.”

  Casca pulled Will up. The young archer stared at him vacantly, so Casca slapped him round the face a few times. “Come on, man! It’s time to fight!”

  Walt took Will from Casca. “Alright, Cass, I’ll get him going. You get the rest up.”

  Casca nodded and roared at the groaning line of men on the roadside. As they reluctantly got to their feet, the men-at-arms arranged themselves into a tightly-packed formation, growing by the minute as more and more men arrived. The Duke of York came riding up, demanding to know the situation. The archers stood in a line, shaking with cold and the reaction to the long march.

  “Very well,” they could hear the clipped, enunciated words of the Duke. “You men will drive those unspeakable men from the bridge and secure the far bank so we can cross.” He looked across the river. Another hill rose on the far side. “If we can get to that hill at least we can camp tonight amongst those trees on it. No doubt on the morrow we will have to accept battle. The French will not be able to form up properly before the end of today.” He turned and rode off, organizing the groups of men coming up on the road.

  The nobles leading the groups of men formed up now waved them to advance, and Casca and the other archer sergeants got their men to walk down the hill towards Blanchy, stringing out into a long line ahead of the men-at-arms. The road ran to the right of the village and the bridge could clearly be seen beyond it, and the French were furiously working to take it apart. At two hundred yards Casca ordered a halt and the two hundred or so archers came to a stop. The rain was hammering down. He shook his head and turned to the captain leading the first element of swordsmen. “Sire, we won’t be able to loose in this!”

  “No matter, we’ll drive them off. Stand aside.”

  They watched as the English soldiers advanced in a solid block, reminding Casca of an old Roman cohort. He smiled, despite the conditions, and leaned on his bow stave. The French warriors on the near side of the river retreated, crossing the bridge, shouting to their comrades. As one, the English line charged, roaring furiously, desperation ad
ding strength to their attack. There came a deep metallic crash and voices raised in anger and challenge, and the fight was short but vicious. The French were driven back and across the party-demolished bridge and retreated back towards their arriving colleagues.

  With a cheer the rest began to file across the bridge, racing to get to the hill before them. As the sky began to darken, the rest of the English army turned up and they joined the Duke of York’s men on the north bank. Casca and his men were ordered to rejoin their unit since the need to act as skirmishers was now gone.

  The other archers were told likewise and men blundered about trying to find their paymasters. It was a chaotic mess but finally some order was brought about, but only after much shouting and cursing. The road from the river rose up into the hill and ran through a forest of trees, and the vanguard forged ahead, seeking to find the best place to camp. The French army swung up the hill off to the right and it wasn’t long before the scouts came riding back to advise the Duke that the road ahead was blocked. Casca and his men were now marching under Sir Godfrey’s banner once more and the break while waiting for him and his entourage to arrive had been very welcome. They at least had rested for a short while.

  They marched up through a growth of trees and emerged at the top of a slope. Two villages could be seen, one to the right and another opposite it. At the bottom of the hill a large French camp was spreading out, a sea of gaily colored tents and marquees. They all stopped and looked at it and cursed. There were thousands of them. “Well, that’s us buggered then,” Sills said gloomily. “Look at that! We must be outnumbered four or five to one!”

  “Maybe,” Walt said, a thoughtful look on his face.

  Sir Godfrey pitched his tent in the first clear spot he could find and gathered his men around. Fires were started and the rain, having pelted down all day, now petered out and suddenly stopped. Men puffed out their cheeks in relief. At least they would be able to sleep now without being rained on.