The Death of a King

by P. C. Doherty

  His endless chatter was brought to an end by a roar of approval which spread across the lines as the king, riding a white palfrey, passed slowly along the whole line of battle, stopping now and again to give some encouragement to the troops. As he passed our section, I lowered my eyes, heartily wishing I had the means to plant an arrow firmly in his back.

  After the king’s review, the marshals ordered us to stand down but to remain in our positions. Food and water were brought along the lines and the archers whiled away their time by throwing dice, trying to sleep, or in endless speculation about the whereabouts of the French. Midday passed and still no news arrived. I sat on a hassock of grass talking to Hemple and other archers, or gazing into the distance wondering how I could extricate myself from the trap in which I found myself. As the day wore on, my anxiety about my personal safety diminished as speculation mounted amongst the troops about whether the French would appear before nightfall. The day had started threatening and a sudden thunderstorm late in the afternoon ended our chatter and cooled our ardour. We rushed to protect our precious bowstrings. Each man unstrung his bow, coiled up the bowstring and placed it inside his cap.

  The storm was soon over. The clouds dispersed and we were beginning to shed wet leggings when a series of trumpet blasts made us all turn to the windmill. We could see figures scurrying to and fro, and then one of the archers started shouting and pointing down the valley where the road to Marcheville emerged from the wood. I looked. At first I could see nothing, but then the early evening sun caught the gleam of armour. The French had arrived. Our marshals shouted at us to take up our positions. We stood to arms and watched as the French army, division after division, debouched from the wood and began to advance across the floor of the valley. It was a splendid, terrifying sight. The chivalry from half the courts of Europe were advancing against us, banners and pennants snapping in the evening breeze. Hemple pointed out the great blue flag of France adorned with the fleur-de-lis and, alongside it, the scarlet Orifiame banner. Hemple spat when he saw it and explained that the Orifiame was only flown when the French intended to take no prisoners. It was a sobering thought and I couldn’t help shivering when Hemple pointed out that the English force only amounted to about thirteen thousand men, whilst the French must have been more than three times that number.

  By now, we archers were ready, arrows notched. We waited for orders as the French milled and turned in glorious colour in the valley.

  “The fools!” Hemple muttered. “They’re going to attack without waiting to deploy.”

  In fact, the French did pause to send forward their Genoese crossbowmen, who advanced steadily forward, leaping and shouting till they were within range. Then they stopped, wound up their windlasses and fired an erratic shower of arrows, which drew nothing except derisory catcalls from the lines of waiting English archers. Then our marshals shouted their orders.

  “Aim.”

  “Steady.”

  “Loose.”

  The air hummed with our shafts, which darkened the sky like clouds scudding across its surface, before falling with deadly accuracy amongst the Genoese. We never waited to see the effect of our volley for time and again we were ordered to loose until an order rang out ordering us to stop. When I looked down the slope I saw the Genoese lying in thick groups in the grass, many of them hit two or three times by our shafts, the rest were running back to the protection of the French horses, but these simply ran them down as they began their ponderous climb up the hill.

  Once again we were ordered to steady, then loose, and, although the French knights were heavily armoured, our arrows had the same deadly effect. Many of the French did make our lines, only to be hacked down, or have their horses killed under them. They were joined by fresh waves who trampled down their countrymen to get at us. The most frightening thing was their terrible anonymity. Great steel-encased figures. Visors down. They rode at us on horses like phantoms from a nightmare. They hacked and whirled sword and mace as they tried to reach us through the wooden stakes. Their great war-horses reared and snorted, flailing sharpened hooves, more wicked than any sword. Many were impaled on the stakes but more and more were getting through.

  Soon our front line was heavily engaged in hand-to-hand fighting, while our colleagues at the back poured volley after volley over our heads into the massed French knights. The evening air was filled with curses, shouts and the screams of dying men and horses. At close quarters, my bow became useless. I drew my stabbing knife, dodged sharpened hooves and hacked and clawed at anything which came near me. A French knight loomed over me but I ducked under the belly of his horse, drove my knife upwards and then jumped sideways as horse and rider crashed to the ground. The knight lay thrashing like a baby on the ground but, terrified of being cut off, I hurried back to the protection of my own lines. The situation was now becoming desperate. We had run out of arrows and, though the French were impeded by the weight of their armour as well as their dead, who clogged the ground and turned it a muddy red, it was obvious that they were going to break through our flank by sheer weight of numbers. In fact, the line was beginning to sway and buckle in the centre. Then Edward detached troops from the left flank and sent them to our help. At the same time, he brought up the reserve and the French were forced to retreat.

  The sun was now setting but the dying daylight revealed the magnitude of the French losses. The slope was carpeted with dead or dying knights, their colours sadly tarnished, while some of their great war-horses still stood pathetically beside them. We were or dered to recover as many shafts as possible and we surged forward, plucking arrows from the dead and so finishing off those wounded too badly to be taken prisoner for ransom. The marshals put a stop to any plundering and we were ordered to reform and await a fresh attack. I joined my comrade, Hemple, who, talkative as ever, vowed he must have slain a score of French knights. I wondered if the enemy would retreat, but he laughed and pointed downhill where the French assault was reforming. Up they came again, not so quickly as before, but quite prepared to trample their dead to break our lines. Once again they were met with deadly volleys of arrows before they closed with us once more. This time the full English force was committed. The front line, a mixed collection of knights and men-at-arms, held them while the archers shot over their heads. It was soon dark, but a clear night helped our archers, who had simply to aim at the French mass, confident that every arrow found its mark. It soon became apparent that the French had suffered a disastrous defeat and that it was only a matter of time before they conceded the day. Eventually, a series of trumpet blasts, repeated time and time again, ordered the French to break off. As they did so, one knight, maddened by defeat, turned his horse round and rode full tilt at our group. It was an unexpected move and caught Hemple too far forward. The knight sliced at him with his sword, striking at the archer’s shoulder, and was turning round for a second charge when I ran forward, knelt and loosed a shaft which did little damage except bring the Frenchman to his senses. He checked his horse, threw down his sword and cantered off into the darkness.

  The marshals were shouting at us not to pursue the enemy as I ran forward to Hemple, who was lying face-down in the red mud. When I turned him over, I noticed his shoulder was bleeding badly though he was not in mortal danger. I ripped the cloak off a corpse and tore it into strips and, after cleaning the wound with some wine from my leather bottle, I bound his shoulder as securely as possible. Apart from the chilling moans of the dying, the fighting had now died out. The English lines had drawn back towards the torch at the ridge and the French had retreated into the darkness. I forced some wine between Hemple’s lips; he stirred, opened his eyes and looked at me.

  “You drove him off?” he asked weakly.

  I nodded and told him to keep quiet. He smiled and fumbled at his belt, then I felt his dagger point pressing against my stomach. I looked down at him. “So, you’re the master bowman?”

  “Yes,” he sighed, “with orders to kill you. They said you were a coward.
” He let the knife drop. “Whoever or whatever you are, you’re no coward and I owe you my life. So take my advice. Change clothes with a dead man and go. Now! They’ll soon be combing the battlefield for the wounded and will find me. So go! Go!”

  I pressed his hand and moved off. I soon found a suitable corpse. He was my stature and his face was badly scarred and mauled. I changed garments and left enough evidence to suggest (at least for a while) that the corpse was that of Edmund Beche. I kept my purse and wallet carrying the royal warrants, then I moved off to seize one of the many horses still wandering the battle-field. I managed to capture a mount, a magnificent brute, but dull with exhaustion, and I then rode slowly north towards the river. My intention was to skirt the English camp and then follow the Somme north till I reached the port of Crotoy. I calculated that the countryside would be denuded of both French and English troops, and this proved to be correct. The news of Crécy had reached the port—God knows how—when I reached it safe but exhausted late the following evening. I sold the horse for a nominal sum and, using the king’s warrants, managed to secure passage on an English supply boat plying between Crotoy and the port of London. I spent most of the voyage sleeping for three days in a rat-infested hold, until we docked at the steel-yard this morning. London is celebrating the carnage at Crécy but I know it will only be a matter of time before the king discovers my escape. Therefore I must prepare the resumption of my quest and journey immediately to Italy.

  I have written this letter in haste from London. God keep you, Richard. 4 September, 1346.

  Letter Ten

  Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, greetings. The day I finished my last letter to you marked the end of my mission in England. I spent that day touring the docks along the river Thames and eventually secured a passage to Genoa on board the Bianca, a home-bound cog from that city. I thought it would be too dangerous and too slow to travel overland to Rome, and the Genoese ship seemed to be the safest prospect. It had delivered its spices at the steelyards and its holds were now crammed full with English felts and hides bound for the markets of northern Italy. Moreover, she was part of a well-armed convoy, a small fleet in itself. The master of the Bianca, who had agreed to take me (and my English marks), explained that the sea was a constant battlefield. From Land’s End to Gibraltar prowled the ships of France, Spain, England, as well as those of Hainault, Holland and the Hanse. Nor was the Middle Sea any safer for it was the hunting-ground of fierce corsairs from the Moorish states of North Africa.

  The Bianca slipped its moorings two days after I embarked. I was unable to bring my horse, so I sold it and only took my sword, dagger and saddle-bags, filled with a few clothings and all my marks and other different coins I could gather. My lack of baggage proved an asset, for within a week we were battling through the savage winds which lashed the Bay of Biscay into a frenzy, and the master had to jettison all unnecessary cargo. His warnings about the sea-wolves proved to be more than justified. Time and again sails appeared on the horizon but, seeing our strength (it was a convoy of forty ships), none dared draw any nearer. At length the winds dropped and the weather grew warmer as we slipped through the Straits of Gibraltar and came into the Middle Sea. Here, the Bianca huddled close with the rest of the squadron. The master explained that the Moorish corsairs attacked in ships driven by long sweeps manned by slaves. They would follow the convoys, waiting for any hapless ship to be left behind and then swoop down on it, like a falcon to the kill. Two days later, in the middle of the day, three long, narrow vessels appeared over the horizon. They lay low in the water, dark sails flapping whilst their oars slowly dipped in the calm, blue sea. They never attacked, for our escort ships spread as a shield, but they kept close and their drumbeats could be heard clear across the water. The master prayed for good winds, explaining that if we were becalmed then the pirates would attack. The wind, however, never dropped and at night each ship lit beacons to prevent a sudden attack through the darkness. For days the corsairs tracked us like starving wolves would a deer but, when we changed tack for port, they gave up the hunt and vanished the night before we entered Genoa.

  I would have liked to have visited that city, but time was passing and I stayed in the harbour until I secured passage along the coast to the Roman port of Ostia. I ended up bribing a fisherman, who took my money and then insisted on leaving immediately. His boat looked as old as the Middle Sea itself but it served its purpose and within a week I was in Ostia and on to the old Appian Way to Rome.

  Rome might be eternal, but so is its heat, filth, mangy cats and quarrelling nobles. The master of the Bianca had warned me to take care and I took his advice to heart. If the Holy City had forced the Pope himself to flee to Avignon, then it was no place for a lonely, English clerk. I avoided the inns and housed with the Franciscans in their monastery on the Travestere. From its tower, I could see the ruins of the Circus Maximus, as well as the vague outlines of what used to be the Forum. After a few days rest, I crossed the Pons Emilius (or the Ponte Rotte according to the plebs) intent on a little sight-seeing. The brothers kindly left me a guidebook, a bat tered copy of the Mirabilia Orbis Romae, but I was disappointed to find most of the ancient buildings covered in rubble which the city fathers refused to clear. The modern quarter only consisted of spacious villas of the ever-quarrelling barons and the yellow tenements which housed the rest of the city’s thirty thousand population. Due to the heat and filth in our glorious centre of Christendom, I soon gave up sightseeing and turned to the business in hand. A few inquiries amongst the Franciscans sent me to the Via Lata, where I commissioned a common scribe to draw up the names of all monasteries within a sixty-mile radius of Rome. Then my pilgrimage began. I visited every monastery, abbey and convent. Sometimes I was away days but, as the weeks passed, I failed to find any trace of the Inglese I was searching for. Scots, Irish, men from Yorkshire and Devon, were there, but after a few questions I dismissed each of them. The search was gruelling and dangerous. Such men had their reasons for hiding from the world, and time and again I was warned off with threats and curses.

  One of them, Roger Harnett, became friendly with me. He was an exile from England. In actual fact, an outlaw who had been sentenced to permanent exile by the assizes. He was a thief but one with some charm, and he gaily regaled me with his past history. How he had been apprehended in the New Forest and sentenced at the Winchester Assizes. He had been commanded to walk from Winchester gaol to the coast to seek transport abroad. He had walked for days, always keeping to the highway, and safe as long as he never left it or dropped the small cross he was obliged to carry. At Southampton, through a mixture of bribery and cajolery, he secured passage on a Venetian galley, which took him to Venice. He then travelled south to Rome. That had been five years ago and Roger had survived through casual employment and nimble wits. He knew a great deal about the English exiles in Rome. I exhausted him with my questions but learnt nothing. He never asked the reason for my interrogation; he seemed more than content with my company and attention.

  I was coming to the end of my stay in Rome when late one afternoon I joined Harnett in a tavern near one of the city gates, the heat was always intense and the dark coolness of the tavern was a constant refuge despite its dirt, rancid smell and myriad horde of flies and cats. It was also frequented by sailors from every nation and so my English tongue and attempts at broken Italian went unnoticed. Harnett, as usual, was in the corner watching the door. He watched me come in and then languidly waved me to a seat. He snapped his fingers and rattled off an order to a greasy slattern, who slammed two cups of wine on to the table and then grabbed the coins I offered. Harnett watched her move away and then leaned across.

  “Do not turn round, but you are being followed.” Naturally I turned immediately and noticed that a small fat man had followed me in. He was balding and red-faced with the impish look of a wizened monkey. He seemed unperturbed by my glare and stared coolly at me. I turned back to Harnett.

  “How did you know?” I asked.
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br />   Harnett shrugged. “I have noticed him on the last two occasions.” He tapped the side of his pock-marked nose and said, “Be careful! Be careful!”

  I shrugged and went back to my drink. I knew that Edward III could not possibly have found my trail. Moreover, the man did not look English and seemed to pose no threat. I decided to ignore him for the while and wait for the evening to cool by listening to Harnett’s chatter. The bells of a nearby church were tolling for evening prayer when Harnett and I rose unsteadily to our feet and left the tavern. The stranger had gone and I wondered if he had only been the result of Harnett’s suspicious imagination. I remember that the evening air was cool and welcome despite the fetid smells of the alley-way. Harnett was singing some song, a lullaby from pleasanter days. He was still singing when the attack came. Three men came from the shadows and poor Harnett seemed just to walk on to the thin long stiletto of their leader. The attack cleared my head and I drew my own dagger thinking these were Edward’s men, but the way they searched for Harnett’s purse made me realize that they were bandits, the scum of Rome. Nevertheless, they were just as dangerous as any professional assassins and equally frightening. They were dressed in gaily coloured rags with dark, gaunt, unshaven faces. Once they had searched Harnett, they came towards me. I could have fled, but the moment passed, and I was left with my back pressed against the wine-stained alley wall. Their approach was so relaxed that I thought I was dreaming. They did not even change expression as I adopted a fighting stance. Then suddenly, one of them clutched his chest and stared unbelievingly at the cross-bow quarrel which quivered there. He crumpled to the ground. His two companions stared wildly round and then turned to run. In the darkness behind me I heard a click and then saw both thieves brought short in their escape, arms wide out as they slipped to the ground with two more cross-bow quarrels embedded deep between their shoulders.