by Nigel Green
‘He says that they are men from Milan. They care for Maximilian’s cannons. They have watched your men shooting the fire-arrows and have a suggestion to help you, but we cannot understand them.’
Communication must always have been a problem for the mercenary forces of Duke Charles, I reflected, and now it looked as if Maximilian had the same problem. But surely there must be someone in the army who could speak to the Italians, or how else could they be instructed what to do or where to go? Unfortunately, he was not here now.
Broughton stepped forward.
‘Shall I try?’
He turned and slowly began to talk. There was an eruption of noise from the cannon-master’s assistants. Strolheim bellowed at them and indicated for the oldest of them – a small wiry-haired man – to come forward. Clutching the arrow, he began to talk slowly, with Broughton frequently stopping him, requiring clarification on a particular word or two. The discussion was lengthy, not least because, despite Strolheim’s shouting and occasional kicks, the others kept interrupting in order to assist in the explanation.
Finally, Broughton turned to Haldi.
‘I think I understand about one word in ten; they seem to be saying that they can make the fires much bigger.’ He grinned and, mimicking the enthusiasm of the men from Milan, threw out his arms. ‘Much, much bigger!’
‘How?’ Thomas David joined us with more of the German officers.
‘I’m not sure I understand fully,’ said Broughton. ‘But I think they want to mix some of the powders they put in the cannon with linen. They wrap the linen round an arrow and aim it to wherever there is already a fire.’
We all frowned at each other.
‘The powder would just blow off,’ said Thomas David shortly. He looked at Broughton. ‘Will you try again, Sir Thomas?’
Seeing our confusion, the Italians clustered round Broughton. Out of sheer frustration, one began to add miming gestures while the others spoke, not that it seemed to help. Then one of the German officers grabbed Haldi and said something quickly. Haldi nodded slowly.
‘He says that the powder is stuck to the linen. He says it has something to do with the inside of animals.’
‘The only animals here are the oxen for the cannon,’ I said.
Using a stick, the German sketched out a crude picture of a cow in the dust. The men from Milan nodded and continued with a garrulous explanation. The older man took the stick and pointed to the cow and indicated that they needed two. Then, holding up the arrows, he looked at Thomas David and indicated that he should be given more.
The arrows were not a problem; we had sufficient supply. But with two oxen removed, the chances were that the third cannon could no longer be moved. I looked at Strolheim, who chewed his lip and then nodded to the cannon master.
‘Give him the arrows he needs,’ I said to Thomas David.
In the largely flat countryside, the French positioned themselves in the only place that offered them a small natural advantage. Not that the river had any water in it – the scouts hastened to assure us – but as it was dried out it provided a natural ditch. It was not deep though and would not be a serious obstacle when we eventually arrived at the site.
We advanced slowly towards the French position, as to march quickly with pikes is impossible. They are too long and heavy to be carried for anything but a short distance. Normally on the march, carts transport them, but the only carts available were required for the armour of the nobles and such food as remained. Accordingly, the march towards the French position took longer than expected, and it was a hungry and thirsty army that had staggered into camp that night.
Despite hunger, thirst and weariness, there were few desertions. Haldi reported that the Flemish conscripts were pleased to be moving against the French, reasoning that the sooner they fought, the sooner they could return home, preferably laden with French booty. Haldi emphasised that after the battle they were going home to try to salvage what remained of their harvests. Clearly, the siege of Therouanne would not be continuing.
‘It doesn’t make too much difference to us,’ Thomas Broughton remarked as we strolled round the battle camp. ‘If all goes well tomorrow, there is no chance that the French will try and invade again before the end of the campaigning season and Maximilian will have bought himself enough time to raise a proper army.’
He looked towards the lights of the French campfires.
‘They will have enough of fire by the end of tomorrow. Did you test out the ones the Italians gave us?’
I shook my head. The archers had arrived into camp exhausted from helping to carry the pikes and had simply collapsed on the ground. It was better, I felt, to let them rest rather than spending time practising. Accordingly, I had given the Italian arrows to Thomas David with instructions to select fifty or so men to be ready to shoot these as soon as the fire-archers, led by Broughton and myself, had started the fires.
He felt the weight of one of the arrows dubiously.
‘It will be short range with these. Still, once you’ve got the fires going, we can just shoot a few and that will be it.’ He paused, ‘Maybe we will not need them.’
I tended to agree; the ground was so dry that anything would catch fire. But if we had the opportunity we could try them. I left Thomas and lay on the ground with the exhausted soldiers; it was odd that there were no stars tonight.
The storm that night raged fiercely for two hours or more. Lightning shot across the sky and the rumble of thunder grew increasingly louder as it moved towards us. An enormous crash overhead signalled the start of a very heavy downpour, which continued for some time. Without tents or any form of shelter, our men suffered miserably, huddling together on ground that got progressively wetter and muddier.
In due course the sound of thunder grew quieter, and the lightning moved further away; gradually men started to dry themselves as best they could in the mud. The noise of cursing filled the camp as men contested with each other for the dryer parts on the ground, but towards dawn the camp was perfectly still.
I watched the beautiful beginning of the dawn. Clearly it would be another fine day, but it would be a day in which the Burgundian Army would be defeated. So great had been the rain from last night that the ground around me was still soaked; the fire-arrows would just splutter out. Unprotected in their advance by fire and smoke, the Burgundians would be decimated by the crossbowmen and the Duchy of Burgundy lost.
I had been in Burgundy for several weeks now and there had been very little rain, yet now the only thing that could have wrecked our plan had happened just half a day before the battle. And we had no alternative battle plan.
‘He’s stopped again,’ moaned Broughton.
I glanced to my left. Sure enough the column commanded by Engelbert, Count of Nassau, had halted for a third time. Despite the fact it was over 2,000 paces from the French line, large numbers of horsemen were threatening the Count of Nassau’s column. Each time they came too close, the column halted and extended their pikes. This, however, acted as a signal for the French archers ahead of their column to fire volleys of arrows into it; then they retired and the horsemen withdrew.
Three times already this had happened because the Burgundian left flank was completely exposed. The few Burgundian knights had been chased off and the two cannon were captured. So now, facing the twin threat of horse and archers, the Count of Nassau’s column moved forward in fits and starts. Their progress was slow in the extreme.
It had been decided at the meeting before the battle that there was not too much that could be expected from the fire-arrows. The only chance we had as an army was to try and get both columns to the French line at more or less the same time, in order to deny the French the chance to obliterate the columns one by one.
The Count of Romount had agreed to this up to the point when he was in the range of the French crossbows. He thought that to remain static while French crossbowmen pulverised his column was lunacy. Strolheim agreed to this but instructed that until
that point our column was to advance at the same speed as the Count of Nassau’s.
Thomas David was asked about the likelihood of the fire-arrows working. He was ambivalent. Clearly the longer the attack could be delayed the better, but Strolheim overruled him; they could wait to noon, he declared, but to expect the semi-trained levies to sit about all day without food and little water, knowing they would be fighting a battle later, would completely destroy morale. Ideally, the attack should be made immediately, but he reluctantly agreed to wait until noon.
The columns advanced again, but I groaned as I saw on the far left the French horse beginning to threaten again. Doubtless in a moment both columns would come to a juddering halt. I think it was at this point that the Count of Romount’s patience ran out, and he decided that the only way he could assist the other column was to advance without it.
He might have hoped that by crashing into the French line he could relieve the pressure that the Count of Nassau was under and that all this stopping and starting was depleting his men’s morale. He may have thought that the sooner he faced the crossbows the better. For whatever reason, though, our column moved forward to the measured cadence of drums and pipes.
Ahead of us, the French line seemed to fill the horizon. The huge number of painted pavises dominated their front, but it was possible to discern flashes of silver armour and see their gaily coloured flags. Their murmuring grew louder as we approached. Soon enough, it was possible to hear individual shouts.
The sound from our column was different; the tall Flemings in breastplates and helmets moved forward steadily, their rhythmical tramp almost drowning out the beat of the drums and squealing of the pipes. There was no talk, more due to exhaustion than fear, I believed, as to advance over a mile in this heat while holding a heavy pike upright calls for great stamina.
There had been no attempt to slow our column, and, at 500 paces from the French, we halted for the last time. I signalled to Broughton and Thomas David and we advanced the archers.
The noise from the French was deafening; moving against them was terrifying. About 300 paces from their line, we halted, and Thomas David led his men to the right to guard the flank. Broughton and I moved our men forward with the fire pots. There seemed to be a large number of horsemen massing on our far right. I trusted Thomas David to deal with those, while we quickly spread our men out.
The drill for shooting with the fire-arrows had been practised in camp – two men shared one pot. One arrow was inserted in the pot while the other fired. While this had worked well in practice, the situation here was so intimidating that I suspected a number of arrows were fired before they were properly lit.
I watched the first few volleys sink into the ground and then shouted to the archers to shoot faster. There were already crossbow bolts thudding into the ground around us. The noise from the French line grew louder and louder, and I saw that two of our archers were hit, then another handful went down.
‘The horses are moving!’ shouted Broughton.
‘Keep firing!’ I shouted, and after a moment signalled the recall.
Our archers obeyed with alacrity – only a few of them actually remembered to kick their fire pots over – and we moved back to the rest of Thomas David’s men, who stood to our right.
I looked back towards the French position. A few little fires took light in the stubble and small patches of smoke drifted across, but it was too little to conceal one man – let alone a column. I panted with exhaustion and felt sick with disappointment. The French yells of contempt at our pathetic efforts carried clearly across the distance.
‘The column’s moving!’ shouted Thomas David.
Obviously the Count of Romount and his officers had drawn the same conclusion as I had and wisely decided that the failure of the arrows made it pointless to delay the inevitable any longer. I saw the front two rows of pikemen extend their weapons, and, with a lurch, the whole block of 6,000 men moved forward.
Thomas David kept a watchful eye on the French horsemen, signalling to his men to move further to the right, as we were in the path of the column that was, I remembered for some reason, 100-people wide. Then I remembered something else.
‘Fire those Italian arrows!’ I shouted to Thomas David.
‘There’s no time!’ he yelled.
Frantically, he chivvied men out of the path of the oncoming column.
Broughton pushed me aside, drew his knife and seized Thomas David by the shoulder.
‘Fire them!’ he shouted.
Thomas David looked to start to say something and thought better of it. He gestured to the men with the yellow-circled arrows.
‘Fire the shots, then run!’
He moved off swiftly with the rest of the archers. Broughton and I drew our swords and stayed with the fifty or so archers.
The noise from the French rose to a crescendo. Despite the clamour, I could hear the fearful tramping as the column advanced behind me and the sound grew louder and louder. The archers heard it too; one turned round with a look of horror and saw my sword pointing at him. He quickly blazed off the rest of his arrows. It was over in a moment; we all moved as quickly as we could to join Thomas David’s force on the right flank.
I heard, rather than saw, the column begin to march past us. The French horsemen advanced to surround us on three sides. They kept out of range, but any retreating movement on our part would provoke them to ride us down. Equally, no armoured knight was stupid enough to attack over 400 archers. For an uncomfortable few minutes we faced each other. A moment later, at the sound of a shouted order, they withdrew. Doubtless they were required for the final destruction of the column.
‘Look!’
The man next to me grabbed my arm, and I swung around in the direction he was pointing. As more men took in the spectacle, we began to laugh and cheer. While only the men from Milan could have any idea of the effect of whatever they had put onto the arrows, the results were truly inspiring.
The little fires we had started were now burning fiercely and the gentle breeze was blowing the fire and smoke back towards the French line. Already the French line was showing signs of confusion, as men emerged to try and beat back the flames but were driven back by the smoke and the vision of the column that was now only 300 paces away from them.
A sudden series of explosions told me that the fast-spreading fires had now reached some of the Italian arrows that had carried further than the others. As they caught fire, so did the vegetation in the old riverbed and, being sheltered, the smoke and fire began to spread along the bottom of the ditch itself. But as the fire encountered moisture from the previous night’s rains, the smoke rose and billowed along the length of the riverbed.
As the smoke was at its thickest, the Count of Romount’s column crashed into the French line and, in turn, was lost in sight.
‘Nice wine this,’ Broughton said appreciatively.
He had found the large flask of wine; you could always rely on him where matters of food and drink were concerned. We sat on the ground in the French camp watching the Flemings and our own archers systematically looting everything and gorging themselves on all the food that they could find. Doubtless the remainder were busy going through the bodies of the enemy’s dead.
Victory had come swiftly. Overwhelmed by smoke, most of the French crossbowmen had simply fled and the Count of Romount’s column had easily smashed through the men-at-arms. They had then wheeled left towards the centre of the French line and had used their sheer momentum to roll through completely and slaughter the archers who had been delaying the Count of Nassau.
The enemy cavalry, seeing what had happened, promptly fled. Unhindered, the Count of Nassau advanced vengefully towards the enemy’s right wing. Having punched his way straight through it, French resistance was put to an end.
‘Mind you, I suppose Maximilian will be angry that he has no cavalry to pursue the French,’ I said.
‘I don’t know.’ Broughton handed over the flask and settled h
imself down more comfortably. ‘He’s probably killed half their army and built up his reputation in Burgundy. What are you going to do about Thomas David?’
I shrugged.
‘If he has the courage to come and see me, nothing. If not, I’ll tell the Duke of Gloucester that the man is a coward.’
He grunted and we sat and drank throughout the rest of the day as the French camp around of us was thoroughly pillaged.
The next day we prepared to return to Calais. I had already sent word to Nan that I was safe, but it occurred to me that a further message, to the Duke of Gloucester, might also be advisable. I was sending for a clerk to come to my tent when Thomas David entered.
He was pale and his hands were shaking. Quietly, but in a steady voice, he admitted that he had panicked. ‘I don’t know how it happened,’ he muttered. ‘Perhaps it was those fire-arrows that were new to me or maybe it was… well it doesn’t matter now, does it?’
He looked at me.
‘I’m finished now. It’s taken me a good number of years to build up my reputation but when word gets out, everyone will despise me.’
‘Why will it get out?’
‘I imagine you’ll tell the Duke of Gloucester,’ he said bitterly.
He gave a half smile and turned to go.
‘One error doesn’t make you a bad soldier,’ I said firmly.
He turned around.
‘You made a mistake, but for the rest of the time you were a good leader. You ask me what I’ll tell the Duke of Gloucester – it’s simple. I’ll tell him, and anyone else, that you brought your men safely here, recruited others and helped to teach them to fight in a new way.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘No, nothing else.’
‘How can I thank you?’
He brushed past Swartz and Haldi on his way out.
‘Maximilian is grateful to you and your men. The French are totally defeated and Martin Swartz,’ Haldi told us with a smile, ‘has been knighted by Maximilian and is to be given an important post.’