Casca 41: The Longbowman

by Tony Roberts

  The night began to descend upon them. Off to the left a small castle stood, white-stoned and dominant. Beyond it a church spire poked itself up above the treeline and houses were scattered about it. Someone asked what that place was and the reply came back that it was a village called Azincourt.

  On the other side of the large clearing the road from Blanchy ran down the slope and hugged the edge of the trees before running through the growing French camp into the distance. Casca pointed to it. “That’s the road to Calais. If we’re to get there we’ll have to go through those buggers.”

  Smoke billowed up in huge gouts as the wet wood burned, but nobody cared. The need to get warm and dry out was greater than the discomfort of watering eyes. But there still was no food. Night fell, and the mutterings in the English camp began to die down as word was sent round that the King wished for no noise to be made. No singing – not that anyone really wished to raise their voice in praise of the Lord, the wonderful scenery or their happy set of circumstances, no shouting, no laughing. Nothing to break the silence of the night.

  They could hear in the distance the faint sound of the French talking. Laughter came floating up the long, cold field that separated them, and the soldiers in the camp scowled and cast annoyed looks down towards them. Men tried to sleep but it was difficult; adding to the cold, hunger and wet was now the knowledge they were to fight on the morrow, and they were hugely outnumbered.

  “Think we’ll prevail, Cass?” Walt asked, sat close to one fire, warming his hands. His face was pinched and one eyebrow and cheek were smudged with dirt, probably from where he’d wiped it with a filthy hand. Gathering firewood had been a messy business.

  Sitting opposite them Will was carving a stake. All those archers who had none had been ordered to make one. Casca had got some of the men to gather what decent stakes they had and then make up the numbers with branches from the trees all round. The wood seemed well managed; no doubt the nearby villages of Azincourt and Tramecourt cut their firewood and building materials from there, and the field in front of the army was plowed and had been harvested recently.

  Andrew and Sills sat silently, along with three others, all thinking deeply. Would this be their last night?

  Casca pursed his lips. “We’re on higher ground and we’ve got the warbow. Five thousand of them, in fact, so we’ve got a great defensive weapon. What we don’t want is to get involved in a melee as we’ll be cut to pieces.”

  “I know that, Cass,” Walt smiled tiredly. “I’m not stupid! But we’re outnumbered, what, three to one? Four to one? They’re bloody great armored knights, and what are we? A rag-tag collection of tired men in cloth!”

  Casca nodded. The numbers didn’t help. The best he could work out was that Henry had around a thousand men-at-arms and five times that number of bowmen. Maybe a few hundred more around, but he couldn’t see that they had more than seven thousand huddled quietly at the top of the hill amongst the trees. Down at the bottom the French would have plenty of men, maybe twenty thousand, and most of them would be heavy infantry, well armored up, carrying an array of nasty vicious weapons designed to chop up and carve enemies into big chunks.

  The French would be fed, watered and in good health and spirits. Opposed to that the English had little food, were riddled with dysentery and were trapped.

  “So we’re in a bad spot, then,” Walt said.

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Casca looked at his companion. “We’re in a good spot, defensively speaking. We’re fewer in numbers, so the King has found us the perfect place. Look,” he pointed to the line of trees to either side. “Those trees will compress the French line, negate their superior numbers. They’ll have to funnel uphill in a narrow gap, perfect for us archers. They’ll be a solid mass of slow-moving targets.” Casca smiled briefly. “Nobody could miss, not even young Will here.”

  Will coughed in amusement. “If I can draw my string, that is. I feel like shit.”

  “You look it. How can you still be here?” Sills asked. “You must have shat half of France out of your arse.”

  Will grimaced. “Wish the bloomin’ ailment would pass. I’m sick of being sick.” He made a lop-sided smile at his own humor.

  Walt gave Casca a careful look. “You saying we’re not as bad as things seem?”

  The scarred warrior shrugged and looked round at the men huddled by their fires. “Plenty of fight left in these men, don’t you think? Look at it this way; the French are on home soil. They aren’t desperate to get out of here like we are. They’re not starving and driven to fight for their own lives like we are. Tomorrow two armies will fight here – one cornered without food or a way out unless they destroy the other side, the other army confident but without the need to win or die. They can flee and live, or even step aside and their lives and homes will be preserved. We can’t step aside.”

  “So you’re saying we have a chance?” The rest all looked up and stared at Casca, amazement on their faces.

  Casca nodded. “I seem to recall reading or hearing somewhere Julius Caesar saying something like ‘I am not afraid of the well-fed strong men here, I’m more afraid of the hungry looking thin ones.’ He knew a few things.”

  “Caesar, eh?” Walt said, scratching his cheek. “Roman emperor, wasn’t he?”

  “Dictator,” Casca corrected him. “Augustus was the first emperor, his nephew.” Casca briefly looked into the far distance. Augustus had been emperor when he, Casca, had been born. He’d never met that emperor but had in his time encountered others – Nero, for one. That fat toad had been the one who had sentenced him to life servitude on the slave galleys. Honorius had been another. He hadn’t been impressed with that one, a feckless, weak man sitting on the throne while all around him disintegrated.

  “Know your Roman history, then. You were taught by someone?” Walt asked, surprise in his voice.

  “I’m a well-traveled man, Walt. Amazing what you pick up in foreign climes.”

  “Yeah, just ask Will here,” Sills quipped.

  “Fuck off,” Will snapped.

  “Alright you men,” said a passing officer, “the King has ordered quiet. Use the time for silent prayer and saving your strength for the morrow’s battle.”

  “Sire,” they said, and silence descended upon the group.

  Casca lay down, wriggling on a wet patch that seeped through his already damp tunic. Yes, tomorrow would be a battle. It would be the truest test of these men yet. They would either have to win, or else they would most probably die, and the English King taken captive and held to ransom, and the war won by the French.

  It seemed the odds were against them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It was with equal silence that they woke and prepared themselves. All that could be heard were the sounds of buckles being fastened, swords being sharpened, priests muttering prayers to small groups of men, farting, sneezing, helmets being put on, and all the other noises of an army preparing to fight.

  The archers made sure their staves were fine and their strings under their head gear or helmets, then they picked up their sharpened stakes and stood about, waiting for the first command of the day. They had all been handed a sheaf of arrows from the supply wagons.

  As part of Henry’s ‘battle’, which was what a division of the army was called, they would be in the center of the battlefield. The Duke of York and his men were to the right while Lord Camoys was on the other flank. “So what’s our job then?” Will asked, shaking. He looked really unwell and Casca worried about him. He had no strength to fight off any additional ailment and looked as if he was going down with some other affliction than dysentery. That was no surprise given that they had been soaked repeatedly on the march from Harfleur with only a few occasions to dry out properly.

  “Provide the screen to keep those horrible Frogs from chopping our men-at-arms to pieces,” Casca said. “We’re the killing arm of the army. If we can keep them at arm’s length, then we’ll have done our job. They must have at least ten times
the number of knights or swordsmen than we have here, so work out the arithmetic if they get to us and we’ve not killed that many.”

  The others nodded and waited patiently.

  The King was visible on his white horse, having received morning prayer from his chaplain and had now mounted up and was issuing commands. Like a ripple on a pond, the orders spread out through the camp and men shuffled into order, filing out through the tents and extinguished fires onto the field. They were at the top of the slope which ran away from them in a long, brown sea, furrowed and glistening in the morning air. The amount of rain it had absorbed in the past week would have made it glutinous and slippery. Casca permitted himself a brief smile. Anyone making their way through that in full battle armor would be bogged down. Another plus to the defense.

  Sir Godfrey began fussing about their positions. Clearly he’d never been in this situation before and his captains held their peace stolidly, until the nobleman had shut up, then calmly arranged their men into a line of swordsmen, two ranks deep, with two ‘wedges’ of archers on either side. The same overall formation was repeated all along the English line, so that the archers looked like prongs of teeth. On command they all rammed their stakes into the ground, adding an extra line of defense to their lines.

  Now the waiting began.

  They fitted their strings, tested the tension, and began placing arrows in the ground before them, before looking down the slope to the French, twelve hundred or so yards away. Some counted them, or tried to at least, or those who could count did, anyway. Casca did a quick assessment, being a veteran of so many conflicts. He grunted and turned to Walt, standing alongside him. “I make it they have twenty-three or twenty-four thousand down there.”

  “Uh, three or four of theirs to every one of ours?”

  “Aye, and they have cavalry, look at their flanks. Crossbowmen too, but not many. Most of them are dismounted knights or men-at-arms. That’s our target.”

  “Can’t do much damage at this range,” Andrew commented from Casca’s other side. “They’ll need to get closer.”

  “True,” Casca conceded, “and they’re not really making much effort to attack us, are they?”

  The others grumbled. The enemy were happily going about their morning’s business, having breakfast, talking in small groups, wandering off for one thing or another. It looked as if they were happy to wait there and keep the English where they were.

  Sills looked puzzled. “So what’s up with them, then? They scared?”

  “Nnnnooooooo….” Casca thought for a moment. “Their second army must be close. I bet they’re waiting for reinforcements just to make sure of their kill. Why should they attack? Time is on their side and not on ours. We must fight today – now – if we have any chance of winning.”

  Sills cursed. “Come on you French bastards,” he shouted down the hill, shaking his fist, then he thought for a moment. “Hey, Froggies, I’ve still got my bow fingers on me!” and began waving his fingers high in the air at the French. A few on either side laughed and joined in, then suddenly it was spreading along the entire line as the frustrated archers all took up the defiant challenge and five thousand men stood at the top of the hill, jeering the ‘cowardly’ enemy, waving three fingers at them in a gesture of contempt.

  The men-at-arms behind them chuckled, glad for the moment of light-heartedness. Even some of the nobles permitted themselves a smile. The King asked his standard bearer what was going on and was informed as to what, and he nodded. Perhaps it would goad the French into advancing?

  But it did not.

  Finally, his patience wearing thin, Henry gave a fateful order, knowing that reinforcements were under way and they simply could not wait any longer. If the French would not advance, then the English would advance and give battle.

  When the order reached Casca’s group, they stared at each other with incredulity. Why abandon their defensive position at the top of the slope behind their wooden stakes? Was the King mad? They were outnumbered and as far as the archers were concerned hopelessly under protected. Sir Thomas Erpingham, resplendent in his armor and wearing his green surcoat with the white motifs of martlets surrounding a white shield set across his chest, rode out in front of the archers, holding his baton.

  He turned to face the men, his face clearly visible, having abandoned his visor in order to fight with better vision. “You heard the King,” he bellowed, looking across the lines of bowmen, “we are to attack. When you get into range, loose at the enemy. Do not allow them to reach the King; you must loose like the devil. Now,” he said tossing his baton up into the air, “strike!”

  Five thousand archers roared in response and slipped through their protective stakes, leaving them behind. “Shouldn’t we take them with us?” Andrew asked, looking back at his particular stake.

  “No time, Andrew,” Casca said grimly. “We’re going to have no time to fuck about putting them back into the ground. We’re going to be right up their arses and they’ll be all over us like a rash. Come on, let’s get at them!”

  The ground, slick with mud, was treacherous but they ran down the slope, gripping their bows and sheaths tightly. Men skidded, slipped and fell, but they quickly got up, covered in the ooze, and plunged on gamely, fear making them feel sick. They were heading suicidally right at the larger French force, the English and Welshmen weak with hunger and riddled with illness. Behind them the nobles dismounted and ran in the wake of their archers, escorted by their armored entourages, a long line of men racing towards the shocked and stunned French.

  Now the French were reacting. They had stood open-mouthed at the sight of the distant English coming down the hill towards them. They simply hadn’t believed it at first, the mere possibility of it was unthinkable, yet here they were, closing the distance rapidly. Men threw their breakfasts down and scrambled for their weapons and shields. Horsemen milled about, colliding and cursing, reaching for their animals. Half of their number was away foraging. Everyone had said the battle would not take place until the reinforcements arrived that afternoon! These English were crazy!

  Casca pounded downhill, his feet slipping on the ruts of the plowed field. He kept on muttering profanities under his breath as he went, cursing the dumb order, the wet conditions, the French, the dysentery, and the lack of food. All this was working against the English, but there they were in this situation, and nothing was going to change that.

  Walt and Will were to his right, panting with effort, Will’s hose flapping untidily in the breeze. He’d untied his clothing, not knowing when he’d next shit himself, so there he ran, his once white loin cloth swaying with his movement. Casca decided not to look. There were prettier sights. Andrew and Sills were to his left, unshaven, white-faced, looking as grim as he felt. Behind him he heard the others, their breaths rasping in and out of their throats.

  The field ran down straight to the French, woods to either side, and it widened as they went, forcing their line to stretch. Figures stumbled, got up, pressed on. They had run nearly a thousand yards when the order to halt came. Men stopped, chests heaving, sweat beginning to break out on faces.

  “Prepare!” the captain barked, standing behind his men. Other captains were doing the same, and the men-at-arms were catching up, forming their groups behind the archers.

  The French were mounting up, grabbing their lances and swords from their squires, and the crossbowmen were being urged forward with kicks. The rest of the French line was hurriedly assembling, men flooding back to the field from the rear and sides, having gone for breakfast, a chat or a shit. Nobles came riding back, displeasure across their faces, their tempers frayed. How dare these foreigners disturb their petit dejeuners!

  Casca grabbed a handful of arrows and shoved them point first into the ground. He’d learned that one at Crecy. Best to have them before you, feathered ends upright, than having to reach into a quiver and waste time selecting one and pulling it out. He urged the others to follow suit. Will groaned, farted, and a splash of
brown liquid shot out onto the ground in between his feet. He stabbed his arrows into the ground. If his arrows hit, then they’d carry the disease with them into their victims. They may not die through the wound, but they’d possibly do so from dysentery.

  To the flanks the French cavalry were trying to close in but were being swept aside by a murderous hail of arrows. There would be no threat from the mounted knights that day. Behind the archers, King Henry was making his stand, surrounded by his elite retinue, poleaxes, halberds and axes bristling from their ranks. The King himself was hefting an axe, looking forward anxiously. This was it; as the saying went, it was shit or bust.

  Casca wiped saliva from his lips. It seemed everything and everywhere was wet. It was cold, grey and dank. What an appalling day to have a fight. The ground was slippery and he had to squelch his feet in harder through the top layer of semi-liquid mud to get some purchase. Using a bow with a pull of more than a hundred and twenty pounds needed a secure foothold or he’d be falling backwards and loosing up into the sky. He snapped to the others to do likewise, but most had already done so, their breaths clouding the air before them. Noses and cheeks were red and legs were shaking – some probably not through the cold, either.

  Before them a line of steel was coming at them. The French were on the move, like some fantastic metal thorny hedge, advancing with menacing intent, wicked spikes from the array of weaponry they had fixed before them. Many had the poleaxe, a particularly nasty close-combat weapon, being of a shaft of wood of three feet or so in length, topped by a metal spike and bill hook. It had a better strike rate than a sword, a shorter wielding space and was feared by the archers. That spike was almost as long as the sharpened portion of a sword’s blade.

  Sir Thomas Erpingham, standing close to the King, snapped out his permission for the archers to let loose. The captains passed the order on, the words rolling back and forth along the central line of archers, grouped in wedges along the front of the English line. Directly behind Casca stood the panting and coughing figure of Sir Godfrey. This sort of exercise was getting beyond the elderly noble but he was damned if he was going to miss this battle! His pride and honor demanded he stand with his men and his King, and fight that day. And probably die.