‘The priests are too busy.’
Suddenly Davydd Gam stood beside them, flanked by two sergeants. With an angry oath: ‘Annwyl Crist! Why are you from your place? I could have killed you for a spy!’ And Owen rose quickly and Page hurriedly hid his writing and began to grease a bowstring.
‘Yes. Ready your gear,’ said Gam more kindly. ‘We’ll soon be moving upward on the ridge.’
‘To fight? Now?’ said Owen.
Unexpectedly, oily terror churned his bowels.
‘Chivalrous leaders do not carry war by night!’ Davy smiled wryly. The throat-tightening panic grew in Owen. I am alone. Let me borrow your smile, your experience. Let me rub against your knowledge. This chance was all my desire. But I am alone, afraid, ashamed.
‘I’ll be riding close by you in the King’s party.’ Gam was watching him. ‘But ask me not when or where we will fight. Only prepare yourself.’ His hand on Owen’s shoulder, he said softly: ‘What Glyn Dwr would have given for this!’
‘He hated the English …’
‘Not all of them. He loved a fight. Remember him. Be worthy.’
Henry opened the treasure chest. Reverently he lifted out the crown. Even he had almost forgotten its beauty. Wrought of purest gold it was embellished with sapphires, rubies, and a hundred and twenty pearls the size of hazelnuts. The delicate fleurons of its circle lay snugly against the gold battle helm over which it would be worn. He regarded it for some moments while the lords crowded into his pavilion.
‘Have all the men now seen the enemy?’
Sir Walter Hungerford, one of the chief advisers, nodded. His eyes were puffed and streaming from a heavy cold, the latest plague to sweep through camp.
For the past two hours the army had stood, dismounted, on the ridge, staring down to where the Tramecourt woods merged with that other fleshly forest in all its shattering immensity. Noise was muted. The loudest sounds were the nervous whickering of the horses and the unceasing murmur of the confessors as the soldiers knelt for absolution, and the wet wind moaned along the ridge. They had seen the massed monster below break and reform into thick columns which moved back into the densely wooded terrain behind the small village of Maisoncelles. Now these detachments lay across the country as far as could be seen, though it was difficult to know where enemy ended and trees began.
‘Lord Jesu!’ Hungerford’s voice was choked with cold and emotion. ‘Sire, the Gascon didn’t lie: We are outmatched four to one. Would to God we had ten thousand more bowmen!’
There was something almost rapt about the cadaverous smile that touched the red-brown eyes as Henry said:
‘By Heaven’s grace on whom I have relied for my victory I would not, if I could, increase our number by one. For those whom I have are the people of God!’
He rose from his seat, lean and vibrant, looking older than his twenty-eight years.
‘Do you not believe that the Almighty with these, his humble few, is able to conquer the haughty opposition that waits so proudly out there?’
He held up the crown close to his eyes, so that the jewels ran into rainbow prisms and the pearls glowed like running tears. ‘Tonight, we move down into the valley, south of the trees. I feel that Almighty God planted those trees for a purpose. He has us all in his protection. When the men are encamped again, I shall go and tell them so.’
George Benet, master cordwainer, worked under canvas while the rain drummed above. With a long curved needle he drove into Cordovan morocco leather, fashioning the last eyelet through which gold laces would pass, and trimming the edge with minute stitches. He worked close to a tiny light shielded from the midnight world outside by his crouching apprentice. Finally he laid down the supple shoes fashioned for a man’s slim light feet, and sighed deeply. The apprentice gave a sudden bellowing sneeze.
‘Quiet, you knave. Do you want to lose your right ear?’ Absolute silence had been ordered through this night, on pain of ear-lopping for inferior persons and loss of horse and armour for any knight. At sundown the tense, excitable army had been shouting around the village, looking for billets and bedding, the armourers racketing with hammer and file, even the animals infected with noisy anxiety.
‘His Grace wants the French to think we’ve run away. Keep your carcass over that light!’ He stroked the soles of the little shoes, ‘Fine work, though I say it …’ Next moment he was hastily on his feet, managing to kick the youth into a kneeling position at the same time. The King’s face materialized, ghostly between the weak glint of shaded lanterns. He was in half-armour, and smiling.
‘How goes it, Master Benet?’
‘You do me great honour, Sire.’
Henry said to the apprentice, ‘Get up, child. Are you ready for the morrow?’
The youth, who had never before been so close to the sovereign, nodded dumbly. While Benet marvelled: out of all this host of servants he remembered my name! Henry’s eyes were benign, with a look so calm it was almost of fulfilment.
‘Are you busy?’
‘There’s much mending to do after the march; your Grace. But these–’ he pushed the new shoes forward shyly ‘are holy work.’
Henry studied them in the gloom, touching them with tender curiosity.
‘Beautiful,’ he said.
Tomorrow—today now,’ murmured Benet, ‘is our patron’s day, the Guild will be performing in London. These shoes would have been worn by a man who plays our Lord. But I have made them anyway in honour of the saint.’ With hanging head: ‘I would deem it greater honour if your Grace would accept them as a gift of love.’ In the dimness, sudden tears burned Henry’s eyes. I have marched them, worked them to death and near death, and still they speak of love. He said steadily: ‘We are pleased and we will cherish them. But you will live to make me many more pairs of shoes. You know that God is with us and will never desert us?’
Benet bowed his head. Withdrawing into the blackness and the rain, the King said: ‘My calendar is out of sorts after this march. What day is it? Which saint has you in his care?’
Benet smiled proudly. ‘We have two, my liege, both shoemakers. Today is Saint Crispin and Crispinian.’
Through the soaking dark and the quiet lines he moved on. His foot brushed against a threadbare soldier, lying curled against a fire of dead ashes, his bare feet in a pool of rain. He never stirred, his exhausted face was bland as the dead. Scores of similar shapes littered Henry’s progress. Their longbows were stacked close at hand; they lay with arms clasped about sheaves of arrows and the sharp stake each had carried for eight days was planted nearby in the ground. Further on a man knelt upright in the mud, whispering urgently to a priest. Henry passed them stealthily, his head averted. What sin could that man have, to look so sorrowful? Could he bear a burden as great as mine? My children. My people of God. He trod carefully so as not to disturb the sleepers as he went.
Towards the end of the line a smith quietly sharpened daggers and a dozen bowmen were notching their arrows and waxing their strings with goose-grease. He stopped and spoke to them.
‘I shall not forget your prowess at Harfleur, your tenacity and courage during these last weeks. Now the Almighty has you in his hand. Today, tomorrow, and for ever.’
They shivered in their ragged loose shirts, wondering how soon they might see the Almighty face to face. Yet, at the serene rapt smile that bade them goodnight, much of their fear abated.
In Gloucester’s pavilion the Duke was wakeful, uneasy. He motioned a page for wine for Henry but the King declined, dismissing pages and guard. Humphrey drained a goblet.
‘You drink overmuch,’ said the King.
‘I heard something earlier that set me drinking,’ said his brother. ‘The French have painted a cart in which they plan to parade you captive through the streets of Paris! After they’ve finished the throat-cutting!’
Henry said mildly: ‘Tomorrow they will be the captives. Have you no faith?’
‘I’m full of faith,’ said Humphrey, and poured more wine.
‘I spoke to Erpingham. He’s a good and great commander, so sagacious. We are agreed that combat must be joined as soon after dawn as possible. I cannot waste the men another day. They are debilitated already. A few more hours will finish them. My last challenge to be allowed to pass unhindered to Calais has been refused. So, by God, there will be throat-cutting on Crispin’s Day, and ours will be the blades!’
Humphrey knelt to kiss his brother’s hand. ‘My life and sword are yours,’ he said. He sighed. ‘By my faith I know not why, Harry, but I am comforted.’
Henry left him and walked on, flanked by his escort. Two figures approached, and did him homage.
‘Davydd ap Llewellyn ap Hywel here, Sire. We were seeking your Grace. My scurrier brings news from within the French camp.’
‘They’re merry, Sire,’ said the scout. ‘But that you can hear for yourself.’ Across the half-mile of country, tossed on the rainy wind, came shouts, laughter, the barking of dogs, and music, a flageolet’s weird high wail and the heartbeat throb of a tabor. Roaring campfires glowed on the skyline.
‘I hid in the Tramecourt woods, then penetrated their lines. It was quite easy. Then I caught a boy.’ Grimly: ‘I persuaded him to sing to me.’
‘Tell me.’
‘They are magnificently arrayed. Some knights are so proud that they are spending the night in the saddle rather than foul their harness in the mud. There’s at least ninety pounds of steel on their backs. They look like giants, not men.’
‘Ninety pounds!’ said Henry thoughtfully.
Ay, Sire. And I heard of their plan for the archers. They are to be killed or sold in bunches of twenty as slaves. All left living are to have three fingers of their right hand severed so that they may nevermore draw a bow,’
‘Now tell me of the commanders.’
‘Boucicaut, d’Albret. The Dukes of Orléans, Alençon and Bar, Bourbon and Berry. The Counts of Eu and Richemont, Sir Ferry de Lorraine, the Sire de Heilly, Guillaume Martel, Ganiot de Bournonville. Others, a chivalry too numerous to name.’
‘What of Burgundy?’
‘The story goes that Jean sans Peur wished to attend a christening feast and may not be here for days. His young brother, Anthony, Duke of Brabant is still awaited, but his son, Philip, has been forbidden the affray.’
‘Go on.’
‘Something else, Sire. There is much rivalry and disorder. A general feeling of rebellion. Even the card-players form factions and curse one another in the name of whoever is their master.’
Discipline! Indiscipline! He thought: again their weakness. That vast disparate army! And what commander could do what I have done, enforce this blessed stillness, these muted lights and fires, this constant watch and ward?
‘Are they well fed and well provisioned?’
‘Yes, Sire. And they know that we starve.’
‘Henry gave a grim chuckle. ‘So! We’ll deepen our silence. Let them think we have pined and withered where we lie. You have done more than well and you shall be rewarded. Remember now that God is with us. Never, never doubt.’
Davy Gam said in soft wonderment: ‘Duw annwyl! Your Grace is an inspiration …’ He knelt and took the hem of Henry’s sodden cloak to his lips.
He was moved again, but gave no sign.
‘It will soon be dawn. I shall complete my progress and then put on my côte d’armes.’
He went on to where the horses were quartered, most of them lying down with the grooms snuggled beside them for warmth. In the gloom a great white stallion shone like a ghost. It turned to him knowingly, dropping its nose into his hand.
‘Fear nothing,’ he told the stable-boys, the baggage-boys and farriers. ‘All will be well.’
Almost at the end of his progress he came on Owen, standing rigid in the lee of a tent, his hand curled tightly about his longbow. Owen had forgotten that once he had been told he would always be safe. There was room for nothing but crippling fear. He hardly noticed when the King came forward to speak to him.
‘You’re afraid,’ Henry said softly.
‘Duw a’n cymorth!’ Owen whispered.
‘Amen’ The King’s voice was grave. ‘And He will help us indeed. Cymerwch nerth oddiwrth Dduw a byddwch ddewr~!’ And turned to include his own escort, repeating: ‘Have courage; take strength from God!’
He thought as he walked away: Almighty, spare him. My good talisman, with his little sycamore harp!
With dawn, the rain ceased suddenly as if satisfied with a havoc of wet clothes and sneezes. For three hours both armies had been drawn up at the appointed place on Artois plain, the English in a field of young corn, the French flanked by the woodland less than a mile to the north. As they waited the day brightened and some small birds alighted to peck among the furrows deepened by the horses’ feet.
Henry sat on a little grey pony and stared across the field. Behind him a page held the snow-white destrier, groomed to a glassy sheen, its housings blue and gold, golden tassels hanging from its bridle. A little way off was Edward, Duke of York, commanding the adjoining vanguard to the right, while on the left a keen-eyed knight, Lord Camoys, watched with them. His horse was restive, his nerves taut as wet hemp. Henry had chosen Camoys to lead the left attack with soldiers brought up from the rear. Thus three main bodies formed the vanguard. The men stood four deep behind the commanders, quilled with an assortment of killing-tools: lances, clubs, spiked maces ad axes. Small deadly knives were thrust through their belts and some carried a sharp double-edged sword. Interspersed with these three bodies were the archers, drawn up in wedge-shaped groups each like a half-diamond, the base line steady, the sides of the apex trimmed to a hair. On either wing of the company more archers formed flanks curving inwards, ready to encircle a charging enemy. The tall bows bristled beside their heads, their waists were crammed with arrows and beside each man the stout sharp stake was planted firm.
Lord Camoys’s horse reared and he fought its restlessness with a soothing oath. He had not expected the honour of commanding the left advance. During the night he and others had ridden to reconnoitre the field of battle, reporting it as fairly favourable to Henry.
‘I had thought your Grace’s brother would be in place,’ he said, still struggling with his plunging mount.
Henry said, never taking his eyes from the distant French line: ‘My lord of Gloucester will do well in the rearguard. Once it begins he will come forward and reinforce us.’
He continued to stare, incredulity growing in him. Not at the vastness of the French force which this morning looked greater than yesterday, but at the position in which they were drawn up. To their left the Tramecourt woods sprawled densely; even closer to their right another thick wood on a little hill girdled some farm dwellings and a derelict-looking castle.
‘Sweet Jesu, mercy!’ He said under his breath. ‘God did plant those trees to a purpose!’
Camoys looked hard where the King looked.
‘Can they not realize?’ said Henry softly. ‘They are so many!’
‘They’re proud,’ said Camoys.
‘The first deadly sin. See how the cannon on their flanks is hindered, almost masked by woodland!’
‘And the mangonels and arblasts … they should be placed well clear …’
‘And look how the knights are bunched together in the front line!’
They were so close that it seemed a solid wall of silver-grey confronted the observers, intermittently blazoned with colours of shameless loveliness: purple, jade, bright mustard gold, rich cerise, sapphire, and azure and leaf green. Central to this bouquet of beauty and steel the oriflamme tossed, a scarlet vein glistening as its bearer moved flauntingly about. The standards of so many lords and dukes seemed to outnumber the common soldiery by ten to one. The first two lines of dismounted pikemen stood six deep, while small companies of archers stood at intervals between them. Behind the footsoldiers were the cavalry on mounts unarmoured save for gay silk housings.
‘Can you ascertain who commands
each party? Describe the standards if you will,’ Henry said, as the French colours billowed clearer in a light wind.
‘To their right vanguard: Bourbon. Then d’Albret, Boucicaut …’ Camoys strained to see. ‘Now, here’s another standard … jostling to join the first battalion—the Duke of Orléans, I think, and on the end, my lord of Eu. Rearward … Vendôme commands their left … many more, Lammartin, or it could be St Pol … and Marle, or Fauquemberghes … many more. Too many.’ He shook his head, half blinded from interpreting the colours at a distance, and when he looked at the King the whites of his eyes were bloodily veined.
Henry’s gaze wandered away to the left. ‘What is that village and castle, westward?’
‘They call it Agincourt, your Grace.’
Henry looked again at the French army. ‘What vainglory!’ Then, with a chilling laugh: ‘And see how the woods hem it in!’
He turned to gaze at his own lords and captains heading the neat taut wedges of footsoldiers and bowmen. A sense of completion that was almost joy rose in him at sight of their good battle order, their quiet controlled stance, the undisputing loyalty which seemed to shine from them. Sir Gilbert Umfraville, Sir John Cornwall, Edward of York, Sir John Greyndon, Suffolk, inheritor of his dead father’s earldom since Harfleur, Dorset and Oxford, Humphrey of Gloucester, now looking fresh and unworried. Sir Walter Hungerford and priceless Erpingham. Sir John Holland. Davydd ap Llewellyn ap Hywel.
But no Clarence, no Arundel, no dear Courtenay. And no loving traitors, either. Again he surveyed his army. Not only the captains but those who had marched or ridden starving jades over two hundred and sixty miles at his bidding. Waiting, tattered, bareheaded, shoeless, the leather having rotted like that of their gloves. Some wore no breeches at all, their bare buttocks were red and rain-chapped as the wind lifted their shirts. These and the Irish contingent gave the party an occasional nude savagery not unpleasing in the circumstances. The sergeants and captains had chain hauberks and the less dilapidated of the archers still had black jackets lined with mail. It was a beggar’s army, until one looked at the faces. Under the streaked mud there was no fear, only an unbearable impatience. And with this bold hankering came nobility.
Crown in Candlelight Page 21