by Tony Roberts
Pip strode alongside Casca, a pack on her back. This contained a few valuable items, such as fire lighting equipment, water bottles and a pot for boiling water or stew.
“How far is Calais?” one of the new archers asked, a sharp-faced individual called Ned.
“About a week’s march,” Casca said, “assuming the French leave us alone and nobody blocks any of the river crossings.”
“Not likely that’ll be the case,” another newcomer, a broody individual called Jacob grumbled. “Always some damned bridge destroyed or some town shutting its gates to us. They don’t like us, you know.”
“How do you know, you miserable shit?” Walt challenged. “You done this before?”
“My father was on John of Gaunt’s chevachee years ago when he was not much older than the boy there,” Jacob nodded towards Pip. He had a bristly unshaven face, dark hair and a stocky build, like nearly all the archers. Twenty years of holding weights on their arms to strengthen them and practicing with the Great Warbow they carried with them had made them all unnaturally shaped. Many old retired archers ended up with permanent pain in their backs and arms. “He told me many tales about being an archer in France; not many of them were good ones.”
“So you became an archer yourself? You’re mad,” Andrew said, sniffing. He had a cold and his mood was as dark as the sky.
“So what does that make you then, Taffy?” Jacob growled.
“He got tired of shagging sheep,” Sills said, not passing up the chance to needle Andrew.
“Watch it, you English swine,” another Welsh voice piped up, “or we’ll substitute a sheep for you and see how much you like it!”
The others all chuckled, and even Andrew grinned. Sills sneered but lapsed into silence.
Pip nudged Casca. “So what is in our path then, Cass? Do you know?”
“Aye, I do,” Casca nodded. His mind went back to the campaign of 1346 when the English had inflicted a devastating defeat on France’s finest at Crecy, not that far from Calais. Then, it had been summer, when most campaigns usually took place, and it had been intended as a huge raid – a chevachee – that crossed Normandy and headed for Calais. “There are many rivers in our way, and we must cross them in order to get to the fortress at Calais. Most aren’t too wide but even so we won’t be able to get across unless the bridges are intact and unguarded. Even a few men could hold off an army this size, Pip, if the bridge is destroyed. We can’t afford to waste time or energy fighting across rivers; we haven’t that luxury. You’ve noticed how low our food stocks are, and many of this force aren’t well. There’s what? Seven thousand? Eight thousand? The French are gathering forces all round us, you can bet on that, and once they guess where we’re heading, they’ll block us off and either starve us into surrender, or bring us to battle and use their superior numbers and strength to defeat us.”
Pip looked white-faced at Casca. “You mean we could be defeated? All these men?”
“Oh yes, the French are on home territory so they can call on thousands and thousands of men to their banners. We can’t replace our losses but they can, so they could fight a number of skirmishes, weakening us gradually before finishing us off with one big attack.”
“Is that likely?”
Casca nodded, his eyes staring into the distance. “We’re going to have to cross one big river, the Somme, and that is critical to us getting away. The further north we go the better our chances of escaping. The French know that, too, and they’ll try to trap us before we get across the Somme.”
“And-and if they succeed?”
“Then we’re dead.”
Pip put her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. It was a shocking admission, but one that sounded so genuine that it had to be true.
* * *
The dysentery carried on gripping new victims, and men walked holding their stomachs in agony, not wishing to fall behind and be captured by the locals, for if they were they knew there would be little mercy showed. The English were feared and detested by the locals and the call had gone out from their landowners and lieges to mutilate any archer they found, and to hold prisoner any richly-dressed Englishman who fell into their hands. Anyone else could be dealt with as the captors saw fit.
The sky was covered with grey clouds that looked as if they would deposit their contents at any time, and the wind came in from the sea, whipping across them constantly. The ground was churned up by thousands of feet, tramping on land recently made sodden by the storm and rains of the past week, and people had trouble in making their way through some places where the terrain dipped and had formed pools of liquid mud. The smell of unwashed bodies rose from the column, permeating everywhere close by, whether in the ranks or on the side of the road.
The wagons got stuck and had to be pushed out by the soldiers, all tired enough as it was, by the lack of food, conditions and dysentery. All the time they were urged to keep on marching across the green countryside of northern France, passing the fields and hedgerows, copses and marshes that appeared over the next rise in the undulating terrain.
Casca was used to this. He had campaigned over and over all round the world, so it seemed. He wondered during the walk just where there was left for him to go. He’d been all over the old Roman world, from the western edges of Hispania to the Parthian borderlands, now under the Caliphs of Baghdad. He’d gone from Britannia and Scandinavia right down to the huge desert that formed the southern edge of that world, along the borderlands of Mauretania, Africa and Egypt. He’d been to the Arabian peninsula, the lands of India and China, through Russia’s vast steppelands, and west over the great ocean to the world beyond the horizons of Europeans where the Teotec had practiced human sacrifice atop their pyramids. He’d even been to Japan where the samurai held sway with their strict codes of social behavior.
He was sure there were still places yet to visit; the land of the Teotec and that of the other lands there were still unknown. What of the people that lived there? And beyond the deserts of Africa? Surely something existed on the other side.
He knew this area well. It had been called Gaul in his time with the legions, then Francia, and finally France. The roads were poorer now than in the time of the legions, but they still got an army from place to place; it just took longer. At least they were of softer material. The Roman roads were of hard, unforgiving stone and the footwear of many of the English army would not have endured it. As it was, the hardy souls plodded on, heads down, hoping they would soon find shelter and food for their protesting stomachs. And what of Pip? She gamely stuck to Casca’s side, not straying very far, except at the times when nature called, and then Casca stood by the roadside and waited for her to rejoin the column and they would catch up.
Conversations died away gradually and they merely concentrated on keeping with their friends and company members. The flag carried by the bearer at the head of the company served as a focal point and was easily identified.
As evening approached, they were told to stop, and they gratefully threw themselves down on the roadside. A great hubbub of complaints, groans and sighs of pleasure rose up and they lay or sat where they had thrown themselves down for a moment.
“Alright, alright, no resting here you lot!” the captain appeared, admonishing them. “We’ve got to get up the tents and form a piquet line. Sergeants, organize your men to dig latrines. We don’t want to be overflowing in shit by morning!”
The grumbling rose in volume. Casca groaned, then rolled onto his knees and stood up. “Stay here, Pip. Walt, Will, you stay with Pip and form a watch. Go off road and look to the south; that’s where trouble will appear if it does. The rest of you, let’s get digging. One big trench to the left of the road. Make it deep.”
They set about their tasks while daylight remained, but it faded rapidly thanks to the deep cloud cover and soon fires were blazing away providing the necessary illumination to see by. The men, having dug the latrines, gathered round the fires to eat. What paltry food they had was produced and eaten
or heated. Casca took some to the three on guard. Pip had to do her bit too so as not to attract the wrong kind of attention.
“I’ll relieve you in a couple of hours,” he informed them. “Gavin and Sills will as well. What’s happening out there?”
“Not much,” Walt said, chewing on a hunk of stale bread. “There’s a village off to the south; I can see the lights down there, see?” he pointed.
“Aye. There’s plenty around here. Good farming country, Normandy.” Casca smiled to himself. He’d even owned a farm once somewhere here, before it had been burned by rapacious rent collectors. “Keep an eye out; don’t want anyone sneaking up on the army.”
He returned to the fires. Many men were already lying down, finding as comfortable spots to sleep as they could, wrapping cloaks or robes around themselves. Only the commanders slept in tents; the men would have to cope the best they could. Groans of those suffering with stomach cramps came to Casca and he sat near his unit’s fire listening, his gaze lost in the flames.
The fire flickered and crackled, and as he stared into it he imagined he saw the sad face of Jesus stare back at him. The eternal mercenary shook his head to dispel the illusion but it persisted. “When am I to be released from this torment?” he whispered in Latin at the apparition.
“Until we meet again, Roman,” the Jew whispered back, softly, and with that tinge of sadness he’d heard so many times before.
Casca bit back a curse. It was no good railing about his condition; it was there and there was no changing it. It only made him bitter and angry, and the only person it affected was himself. The visage faded to be replaced by a yellow flame and he sighed and sat back. The air was chill and laden with moisture. People would suffer out in the open, but they would have to endure these conditions until they got to Calais. He doubted any other place would happily allow eight thousand or so English soldiers in for a restful night’s sleep, and they just didn’t have the time or supplies to besiege anyone.
He flexed his shoulders. They were tight. He felt anxious about Pip. The girl really needed to find some place to live in peace. Calais was the best place. She spoke no French, and undoubtedly she’d be seen as an enemy by the locals here, so asking a town to take both himself and Pip in was not a realistic one, and as long as the unknown hireling of Cooper’s was around, they would not be safe no matter where they were.
The trouble was there was no real way of finding out who it was until something happened, and then it may well be too late.
Shit. Time for his sentry duty. He got up and kicked Sills as he passed the slumbering figure. “Right, Sills, come on, time to do your stint.”
“Fuck off,” Sills’ muffled voice came through the robe he was using as a blanket.
Casca reached down, grabbed the robe and hauled it off the archer. Sills swore, got to his feet and went for his knife. Casca knew it was coming and grabbed his wrist, sending his other fist into Sill’s face. The archer’s head snapped backwards and he slumped to his knees, held up by the scarred sergeant. “I said time to do your stint, you slacking bastard. Now either you do it or I’ll beat you senseless today and every day. Got it?”
Sills growled but staggered to his feet. Casca released his wrist and Sills slid his knife back. He rubbed his wrist and glared at Casca. “You made of iron or something?”
“Yes, something like that Sills, and don’t you forget it.” Casca waved him off to his post and followed, noting a grinning Gavin making his way to replace Walt.
Casca went up to Pip who was shivering. “Go on, get to the fire and wrap up; you look like you need it.”
“Thanks! It’s really cold and frightening, Cass. I’d no idea armies suffered like this! We only hear of the battles in the taverns.”
“This is what warfare is like, Pip; it’s not glorious or wonderful. This is the reality. Our leaders may brag about the glory of victory, or how their brilliance won them and their kingdom a war, but for the majority of those who follow kings and that kind into battle, this is the reality. Maybe we’ll survive, maybe we’ll get a few coins to share a drink with in a tavern somewhere, and tell tall tales of gallantry, chivalry and bravery to goggle-eyed listeners in return for more drink, but this is what we have to endure first.”
“You’re all mad,” Pip shook her head and slowly trudged back to the camp. Casca watched her go and then grinned to himself. Mad. Yes, he might well be mad, but then the world was full of madmen. What he’d gone through was enough to drive anyone mad.
“She’s doing fine, she is,” Gavin said, wandering up to Casca. “She’s a tough one, that girl.”
“Aye, that she is,” Casca agreed. “Keep an eye on her if I’m not around.”
“We all do, Cass. Even Sills there.”
“Sills?”
“Aye, he’s got a soft spot for her, as do we all,” the Welshman said. “Our lucky mascot, see? We keep her safe and the rest of us will be fine through all this bloody rubbish.”
Casca clapped the archer on the shoulder and wandered off. That was a comfort, knowing his group were all watching out for her. Even so, he wondered when his pursuer would strike, and how. He doubted the man was like an assassin, wishing to kill no matter what fate befell him. No, he was no hashish addict. He’d be an ordinary cutpurse, wanting to strike at an opportunistic moment and then fade away safely.
The next morning they resumed, plodding on through the grey day, noses running, dampness coating everything. Even the few horses there were with them walked on with their heads down. Hunger was beginning to bite. One dysentery sufferer, his leggings untied and flapping loose, quipped that was just as well as it would mean he had nothing more to shit out. Those who had the disease were easily spotted; they were the ones with their leggings undone. At random times they would suddenly run off the road and dive behind a bush or down a ditch to squat.
It was all very well, but it made them weaker. Casca wondered whether if any of them would be fit to face a French army should one rear its head.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Their first obstacle was the River Bethune. There was a crossing at the town of Arques, but the townsfolk initially shot at the English as they arrived and began to spread out before the walls. Henry though rode up and after a short exchange with the townsfolk convinced them that he was not interested in their town – Sills described it as a ‘shithole’, which Henry may or may not have agreed with, but he was in a diplomatic mood – and in return for being left alone the English were allowed to cross.
The next river was the River Besle, a much tougher proposition. Here was the border of Normandy and the town of Eu sat squarely in their path. The Duke of York had to drive the garrison back into the town when they came out to contest the approaches, and bodies lay littered across the churned-up ground that led to the town gates.
The archers were ordered to get ready, and the noble with overall command of the archers, Sir Thomas Erpingham, rode up and down before the assembling archers, growling at them to wait until he gave the order. Any archer who loosed before he gave the command would be strung up and ‘his intestines stretched across the river’. Casca grinned. He preferred to serve under someone who spoke that way; it made orders that much more interesting and clear. You knew where you stood with someone like Erpingham.
The archers flexed their arms and stood in a long curving line, out of range of the crossbowmen looking down at them from the walls. They all had walked with their bowstrings under their caps to protect them from the elements, and their bows had been wrapped in cloth. Now each six-foot piece of warfare was taken out and examined critically by its user. English yew or elm formed the raw material for the bow, and at either end were nocks of horn with the hooks to affix the strings of hemp to.
Casca tested the pull of his bow. The string had been fitted and because of his great strength he had been able to bend the wood to his will, forcing the string onto the nocks. Now it rested in his right hand, a weapon of death. It could kill at half a mile. There was some
thing alive about it, a sensual feel to the smoothness of the stave, as if it were pleading with him to be able to be let loose upon the French. The others were ready, too. They had been brought up on these weapons from an early age, and as they grew, their bows were replaced with bigger and more powerful ones until they were adults and as one with the properly sized bow.
Casca had seen for himself young boys being forced to stand for hours holding weights on their outstretched arms, building up their muscles and shoulders. It produced a regular supply of archers, something unique in the world, for no other nation proudly held their archers in such esteem. As a result, even though they were low born and not of noble blood, they were paid reasonably well. Without them, no English army could have won the great battles thus far.
Casca found the English Warbow a thing of wonder. He’d used bows in other parts of the world, Japan, Mongolia, even in mainland Europe, but nothing really compared to the devastating impact of this weapon. For every shot a crossbowman could loose, an English or Welshman could loose off six. Faced with that ratio, it was no wonder the Genoese crossbowmen had fled at the start of the Battle of Crecy. They had been shot to hell.
Pip was with the main group before the gates. As she was no archer, she had not been sent to the side with the others. Two more were missing from Casca’s company, both pleading stomach cramps and the worry was they were beginning to suffer from dysentery. One was the sharp-faced Ned. That was a worry, as he had been walking amongst them all. Now he was sulking in a drainage ditch by the roadside along with the other sufferers.
They fidgeted, stamping their cold feet, puffing out their breath and staring balefully at the walls before them. The bridge over the river was clearly in view, and there was little chance of trying to cross elsewhere, for the banks were steeply sloped and covered in woods. It would be impossible to make a bridge in the time they had.