Bowmen of England

by Donald Featherstone

  Ahead of the Genoese a sharp word of command rang out; in response the English archers, as one man, stepped forward a pace to draw their bowstrings to their ears. Suddenly the bright sunlight was shut off by black swarms of arrows, the air full of their hissing. The clothyard shafts quivered in the faces and bodies of the Italian mercenaries, the discharge striking their closely knit lines in devastating fashion. They reeled and staggered, falling into even greater disorder as they recoiled from the continuous shower of wailing arrows.

  Their discomfort was increased by a series of belches of flame, with roaring noises like thunderclaps, followed by the hissing progress of heavy balls of iron and stone which tore through the ranks of the crossbowmen to prostrate men and stampede horses in the ranks behind them. It was Edward’s ‘secret weapon’ – crude iron tubes that had been laboriously borne across France in the bottom of the ammunition wagons to take their place as the first cannon to be fired in open warfare. Surprising as their appearance must have been to the French, these crude and noisy innovations to the art of war do not seem to have had as much physical or morale effect upon the French as might have been expected. The chroniclers all continue to report this battle in the terms of devastating results of English archery rather than those caused by rough stone and iron balls, each of which weighed perhaps 1½ to 2 lb. and were sent on their way with such a spectacular gush of flame and smoke.

  The unfortunate, belaboured Genoese now had, crowding forward on their heels, the elite of the nobility of France, all spoiling for a fight and resentful that the foreign mercenaries had done them out of the honour of opening the battle. Like their leader, Count d’Alençon, they were ready to suspect the crossbowmen of treachery; had the Italians not baulked at going forward in the first place? The hot-headed d’Alençon provided the spark, crying loudly:

  ‘Slay me those rascals! They do but hinder and trouble us without reason!’

  Clapping spurs into his horse’s flanks, he drove his charger into the midst of the Genoese, closely followed by his men-at-arms, shouting and cursing as they rode and trampled underfoot the mercenaries. Beset from both sides and unable to get close enough to the English to return their fire, the crossbowmen furiously discharged their bolts at their new adversaries, so that small internecine fights added to the confusion. The heavily armoured French knights were not to be withstood; they relentlessly battered their way forward towards the Prince of Wales’s division, leaving behind them a trail of their own arrow-pierced knights and horses floundering among the crossbowmen they had ridden down.

  In the meantime the divisions in the rear had also brushed past the luckless Genoese and deployed into position until a continuous line was formed roughly equal in length and parallel to the English position. Then began the series of fruitless charges of heavily clad horsemen lumbering uphill against showers of arrows remorselessly plaguing them; the great stallions, mad from the pain of the keen, barbed shafts, broke from all control. They pushed, reared, swerved and plunged, striking and lashing out hideously. Soon the ground was heaped with the bodies of men and horses. The men-at-arms forced their reluctant steeds forward, struggling on with heads bowed; the horses, belaboured with lengthy and fierce mediaeval spurs, were noisily shuffled towards the dismounted, armoured formations in front of them, whilst being assailed by a short-range crossfire of arrows from their flanks. As in almost every battle, the main assault of the French was directed against the dismounted men-at-arms rather than against the archers; a situation due mainly to the fact that they were ‘channelled’ that way in their efforts to get away from the hissing arrows. The Count d’Alençon and his remaining knights had reached and engaged in hand-to-hand fighting the battle of the Prince of Wales, whilst others had closed with Northampton’s division. These were not concerted efforts but rather irregular and spasmodic surges that did not cause the English line to yield a single foot.

  French casualties rose rapidly. The ground was heaped high with the bodies of men and horses. The Welsh and Irish foot soldiers now began to creep forward, bearing their great sharp knives. These men, clad in thick leather jerkins, nimble of foot and accustomed to a life of activity, mingled fearlessly among the confused masses of fighting men, creeping beneath the horses’ bellies, standing up when they got a chance to stab horses and men. They slew by stabs and gashes through the joints in the armour those French men-at-arms, who rolled helplessly like turtles upturned amid the press.

  The numerical superiority of the French enabled them to persist in their efforts, unsuccessful as they appeared to be up to then. Whenever a man fell, another lurched forward to take his place from the apparently inexhaustible supply of the French army. In this manner the pressure on the English line increased, particularly on the right, where Godfrey Harcourt began to feel anxious for the safety of his royal charge. In person, he ran clumsily across to the nearest unit of Northampton’s division – that commanded by the Earl of Arundel – and begged him to put in a counter-attack, so striking in the flank those enemy assailing the Prince’s division. Harcourt then sent a messenger to the King, asking for reinforcements. From his command-post high in the windmill, the King could see that Arundel’s counter-attack was taking effect; that it was not yet the opportune moment to throw in his precious reserve. Without taking his eyes from the surging, heaving battle spread out before him like a colourful carpet, he said:

  ‘Let the boy win his spurs,’ waving his hand in dismissal as he spoke. The experienced soldier and King was right in his judgment. When the messenger arrived back, the Prince and his men-at-arms were sitting among the dead, resting after beating off the attack. In front of their position were more than 1,500 dead French men-at-arms.

  In wave after wave, not continuously and with varying intervals, the French chivalry bravely and characteristically thundered clumsily up to the English position, without ever effecting a penetration before being beaten back. In the pauses the English archers would leave their lines, run forward to search for arrows among the dead. They did not waste time trying to pull them from the bodies of the dead, knowing that the barbed arrow-head could only be removed from soft flesh by major feats of surgery or extensive crude carpentry.

  The old, blind King of Bohemia sat restlessly chafing on his charger, hearing all around him the noise of the battle. He repeatedly asked after its progress and then said:

  ‘Sirs, ye are my men, my friends and companions. I require ye to lead me so far forward that I may strike one stroke with my sword.’

  Two knights buckled the reins of their bridles to those of his horse, lest they should lose him in the press, and the three charged forward together. In the centre of them the old King held his sightless head high as though sniffing the scent of battle. The trio reached the fighting, guided their wrenching horses forward until they were brought up to a standstill by the press. The aged monarch swung a stroke with his sword, struck again – sometimes at thin air, sometimes feeling solid resistance that jarred his arm. They fought valiantly but perhaps ventured too far forward, to be found next day, still tethered to their King, about whom they lay dead.

  The rearmost men, carried forward by their own momentum, surged on to the top of the foremost, to wedge the whole into a helpless, choking mass. Still the pitiless arrows hissed into the press and the entire French fighting line became a confused welter of struggling animals, maimed crossbowmen and fallen men-at-arms, who, crippled by the weight of their armour, lay an easy prey to the long, keen knives of the Welsh. It is reported that at least fifteen attacks were put in by the French, who did not realise in 1346 and still did not comprehend nearly 100 years later at Agincourt, that to force a fine of bowmen supported by men-at-arms with a frontal attack was an almost hopeless task for cavalry. There is little that can be more disconcerting to charging cavalry than a flight of arrows, laying low not only many of the riders but also causing disorder by setting the wounded horses plunging and rearing so as to sadly check the impetus of the charge. Then, as the charge neared
the English position, the wounds to man and horse became more numerous, the disorder increased, the pace progressively slackened until at last the charge came to a standstill, wavered and then withdrew.

  The fight went on after darkness had fallen, under a rising moon, until late in the evening it petered out to give way to an uneasy semi-silence broken only by the groans of the wounded. Philip of France, with only three score knights remaining, was unwilling to believe that all was lost; he was prevented from personally leading yet another charge by the restraining hand on his horse’s bridle of Sir John of Heynault, who said:

  ‘Sire, depart while there is yet time. Lose not yourself willingly. If this field is lost, you shall recover it again another season.’

  The English had won the day without stirring a foot from their position; the enemy had conveniently come to them to be killed. More than a third of his number lay dead before the unbroken English lines, the majority laid low by clothyard shafts. Wearied with slaughter and satiated with victory, the English lay down and slept, supperless, where they had fought. The Irish and Welsh infantry were out in full force, combing the battlefield and giving no quarter as they finished off those who had fallen but still lived. There was no attempt made to pursue the vanquished, who melted away silently into the night, each man retreating in whatever direction he fancied because there were few left to give commands or orders. King Philip had lost his own brother, the Count d’Alençon; his brother-in-law, John of Bohemia, and his nephew, the Count of Blois, besides a clean sweep of his generals. The flower of the chivalry of France had been wiped out, more than 1,500 of them, in a total casualty list of over 10,000. The rest of the army, the allies from Bohemia, Hainault and Flanders, dispersed and returned to their homes. In a few hours Philip, the most powerful monarch in Western Europe, had lost an army.

  The next morning, Sunday, the 27th of August, arrived with a thick fog, as though mercifully to blanket the grim scene – the valley black with the bodies of men and horses. Edward sent his clerks out to make a tally of the dead, and, to this day, the scene of their labours is known as the Valley of the Clerks.

  Before leaving the scene it might be opportune to consider why an overwhelming victory should have been gained by a force so much smaller in numbers than their enemy. Crécy proved that the archer, when supported by dismounted men-at-arms, could beat off the most determined cavalry charges. This was not news to Edward; he had learned much from Halidon Hill, Morlaix and other smaller battles, but probably even he was surprised at the way in which the battle had, for him, been so purely defensive. This is borne out by the fact that he had resisted using his reserve, even to aid his son; that he held them firmly under his hand, intending to launch them in a great, final counter-attack, a course of action made unnecessary by the desperate and senseless bravery of the French knights, who learned nothing of what was happening from those who had charged before them and persisted in following the only creed they knew. In the end this resulted in the flower of French chivalry lying dead with arrows bristling from their bodies or awaiting the bloody knives of the Welsh and Irish.

  Therein lay a lesson that the French never learned, refusing in their class-pride to recognise that their defeat was at the hands of despised peasants. For generations they persisted in the delusion that the defeat was due to the stability of dismounted English men-at-arms. In part this was true, because the newly successful English tactical scheme depended upon men-at-arms fighting dismounted and in mutual support of the archers. Undoubtedly, the qualities of the two armies had a great bearing on the result of the battle; on the one hand the English were well trained, well led, well disciplined and well armed. The French, on the other hand, were a hastily collected force from different countries, not particularly well trained and no unit knowing much about its neighbours. As a result it lacked cohesion, neither trusting nor respecting each other, so that, as an army, it was bound to disintegrate when exposed to ordered blows.

  In this day and age it might seem incredulous that such a succession of fruitless charges should have been made when each one was obviously being decimated. Such a statement must be considered in the light of the happenings at Waterloo nearly 500 years later, when the cream of Napoléon’s cavalry were wiped out in a succession of fruitless uphill charges against squares of British infantrymen, descendants of the archers of Crécy; or, even to the present day, within living memory are the vast and bloody onslaughts made on prepared positions by infantry during the war of 1914 – 18.

  The Battle of Crécy marks a step in the progress of the military art, in the age-long contest between mounted and dismounted men, between missile and personal weapons and in the emergence of a third arm: artillery. It was a battle that should have taught a striking lesson to feudal chivalry, but the old tradition hallowing the mounted knight as the most honourable name in warfare was strong enough to be perpetuated for another century; the methods that really died on the 26th of August 1346 were still to be breathing in 1415 and even later. It would take more than one such disaster to destroy a system so intimately bound up with mediaeval life and ideas.

  As an ironical epitaph to the French knight, it might well be said that his chivalrous code would have been horrified at the very thought of shirking a direct frontal attack against a numerically inferior enemy!

  Chapter 13

  Neville’s Cross – 1346

  Following his defeat at Crécy and the melting-away of his army, Philip of France found himself sorely pressed by the invading army of Edward III. He sought to relieve this pressure by urgently entreating David II, King of Scotland, to invade England in the hope of drawing Edward back to defend his realm. David succumbed to the lure and, in October 1346, he marched his army over the border and into England, being assured that Edward and his chief commanders were absent so that ‘… here are none to oppose our progress save churchmen and base artisans’. He crossed the Tyne at Ryton, above the town of Newcastle, and advanced into Durham to encamp, on the 16th of October, at Beaurepair (Bear Park), about two miles north-west of the city of Durham.

  Within the city itself, the utmost consternation prevailed; it appeared to be at the mercy of the invaders. But things were not as bad as they appeared and the Scots were to be opposed by a force that was collecting with all speed and considerable zeal. This army, well armed and numbering about 16,000 men-at-arms, archers and infantry, was led by the northern barons – Ralph, Baron Neville of Raby; Henry, Baron Percy of Alnwick; Musgrove, Scrope, Hastings and the ubiquitous Edward Baliol.

  The English force advanced slowly and cautiously eastwards; near the village of Ferry Hill they met and scattered a raiding party of about 500 men under Sir William Douglas. The latter, flying from the field and leaving more than 200 of his force dead, arrived breathless at Beaurepair to warn David that the English had formed an army and were advancing to meet him. Still moving slowly by the Red Hills on the west of the city of Durham, the English were coming up to the ground on which the forthcoming battle was destined to be fought. The battlefield lay west and west by north of the cathedral; it was a level ridge, since cut up into fields and partly built over; northwards there was a sharp slope forming a kind of trough into which a spur juts out – hereabouts the ground was covered thickly by Shaw Wood. In the trough and woody recesses was a little pear-shaped hillock known as the Maiden’s Bower, on the top of which the clergy from the city clustered to pray around the holy relic of St. Cuthbert.

  David formed the Scots army into three divisions. The first was led by the high Steward of Scotland, the second by the Earl of Moray and Sir William Douglas of Liddesdale (then named ‘The Flower of Chivalry’), and the third division, consisting of select troops and a party of French auxiliaries, was led by the King in person.

  The English were disposed so that Lord Percy led the vanguard which, in the battle, became the right wing and was opposed to the Scots left wing under the High Steward. The main body was commanded by Lord Neville and, as centre, in the battle joined issue
with the Scottish main body and centre under King David. The English rearguard (the left wing) under Rokeby, was in conflict with the Scottish right wing led by the Earl of Moray. The English also had provided for that which the Scots had not – a powerful reserve of picked cavalry – mailed horsemen, under the command of Edward Baliol.

  Still moving slowly, the English advanced and deployed for action; the Scots left their position on Durham Moor and moved forward to meet them. Sir John Graham, remembering how a quick cavalry movement against the archers at Bannockburn had decided the day, asked leave to attack them. ‘Give me but one hundred horse and I shall disperse them,’ he declared. King David refused and, at nine o’clock in the morning, ordered a general attack.

  The Scots advance was sorely impeded by walls and hedges, behind each of which were stationed English archers, whose arrows galled and played the usual havoc with the advancing Scots. Flying as thick as hail, the destructive volleys, at long range, poured into the enemy so that their spearmen fell thickly without having been able to inflict a single injury upon the English. Graham, furious at this loss of men and sensible enough to realise that archers at ‘long bowls’ had a terrible advantage over men armed with sword, axe and spear, took matters into his own hands and struck the first blow. At the head of his own personal followers, he rode straight for the archers, charging down on them so quickly that his little band actually broke through in one place and dispersed the archers there. At short range, Graham’s horse was shot down and was wounded, but he managed to regain the Scots lines.

  The High Steward, quickly grasping the situation, ordered his men to charge the partly disordered English right wing. Momentarily freed from the nagging arrows, the Scots came on with such impetuous fury that by sheer weight of sword and battle-axe they hurled the English column back in confusion against that of Lord Percy, whose wing was then in danger of rout. At this moment of crisis the value of possessing a cavalry reserve under a capable commander became apparent – Baliol, with great spirit, charged the Scottish troops threatening Percy. Not only was the Scots attack on the right wing repulsed, but that repulse was converted into a complete rout and within a brief space the division of the High Steward were a bunch of fugitives. The High Steward desperately worked to re-form and reorganise his troops, who were entangled among hedges and ditches, again being decimated by the fire of the now steady English archers.