Bowmen of England

by Donald Featherstone

  Battle of Poitiers 19th September 1356

  The English army was about 6,000 strong, composed of 3,000 men-at-arms, 2,000 archers and 1,000 sergeants; the force was positioned along or close to the hedge. Salisbury’s division was on the right, Warwick’s on the left. The archers, dismounted, were for the most part drawn up in the familiar Crécy formation – on the flanks of their respective divisions, in wedges slightly in advance of the men-at-arms. The Prince’s division were in reserve in rear, and he also kept back a small body of mounted men.

  The French army was about 20,000 strong, formed in four bodies; in the van were two small contingents of mounted men-at-arms – about 250 each – under the command of the two marshals, Clermont and Audrehem. The leading division was under the command of the Duke of Normandy, the Dauphin; then came that of his uncle, the Duke of Orléans; and, last of all, that of the King, who had given considerable thought to the manner in which his troops were to go into the battle. He had resolved to follow the successful expedient of King Edward at Crécy, and tried by the French without success at St. Georges-la-Valade and Mauron. He was going to dismount his men-at-arms, their horses being left in the city of Poitiers. For convenience in marching they had removed their spurs and cut off the long toes of their riding boots; they had also shortened their lances to about five feet for close-quarter fighting.

  It was a transitional period so far as armour was concerned; mail was gradually being replaced by plate-armour. The Black Prince wore plate except for his mail gorget, but the ordinary knight wore a bigger proportion of mail, esquires had even less plate than the knights. Over the breastplate or hauberk was worn a spectacularly emblazoned and loose-fitting surcoat, bearing the arms of the knight who wore it; this gave a recognised rallying point for his followers during any crisis or emergency in the battle. As the strength of armour increased, so the need for the shield diminished – its size decreased until it was eventually discarded. The archers, both foot and mounted, wore a steel cap and breastplate or a padded hauberk. Spearmen were similarly attired, except that they rarely ever wore a breastplate.

  Although taking the precaution of sending his booty-wagons off in advance, the Black Prince was inviting battle now that the armistice had ended. The stirring within the French lines as they noted the movement of his transport told the Prince that his gauntlet had been taken up. He passed along the lines of troops, making an inspiring address that subordinate commanders were carefully ordered to pass on to those men who could not actually hear it; then he made a second speech to his archers. His men turned their faces towards the enemy. They were ready for them and confident that victory would be theirs, as it had been at Crécy ten years before.

  The two marshals led the small mounted French van forward to the attack by divergent paths, threading their way through the vineyard so that they became a series of small columns each pursuing its own track. Clermont’s column tended to bunch leftwards on the Nouaille road, whilst Audrehem followed the Gué de l’Homme track, each path bringing the two columns up against the twin gaps through which the respective tracks breached the hedge. Audrehem’s men found themselves facing a manned barricade that held up their advance, so that their leader impatiently thrust himself forward. Being mounted on a better horse than his followers, he succeeded in either jumping or forcing himself through the barricade; unfortunately no one followed him in support so that he was quickly captured and disarmed. Clermont’s column came up to the unguarded gap on the Nouaille road; their leading files passed through it and then ponderously swung right to support Audrehem. It was a well-devised manoeuvre that was only frustrated by quick thinking on the part of Salisbury. Immediately weighing up the situation, he moved his line quickly forward right up to the hedge, thus closing the gap and preventing a flank attack on Warwick’s division. The fighting that now ensued was severe and some of the cavalry actually managed to break through the centre, but were eventually brought down.

  Seeing the approach of the French cavalry, the English archers on the left of the position intelligently moved still further leftwards, into the marsh. In the waterlogged ground they were comparatively safe from the heavily clad horsemen, and, undisturbed, were able to keep up a galling shower of arrows into the French flanks. The move into the marsh took place as a direct result of an order from the Earl of Oxford, who ran down from the Prince’s command-post to direct the archers to change their position. He had noticed that the English arrows were ricocheting off the French breastplates as the riders advanced directly towards the archers; the new position enabled them to fire obliquely at the unprotected hindquarters of the horses rather than at the armoured riders.

  The slope became littered with dead and wounded men and horses rolling over each other in heaps; one survivor, de Mézerary saying: ‘… the Englishmen’s bearded arrows made the horses mad.’ Recognising that only the vanguard had been engaged, the English were rigidly restrained from pursuit when the survivors broke and fled.

  Now the battle was taken up by the Dauphin’s division, who advanced on foot, their shortened but still clumsy lances projecting in front of them as they slowly waddled forward. They were far from happy at what lay before them, their morale having been detrimentally affected by what they had just seen happen to the mounted vanguard. The situation was worsened by the confusion and disorder that rippled through their closely packed ranks as the panic-stricken horses crashed through them in their lumbering passage to the rear, away from the biting arrows that tormented them. It was literally a charge of mad animals, the most terrible of all charges; and it caused the greatest confusion in their ranks.

  The English archers fired as quickly as they could, keeping the autumn sky black with their shafts and causing the belaboured French men-at-arms to lurch forward, heads down, falling over the bodies of those who fell before them. Still they came on, moving ever forward in a courageous manner, but courage does not always win battles and it was not to do so in this case. The English fire began to slacken as the archers ran out of arrows; encouraged by this noticeable diminution in the rain of death, the French men-at-arms tramped forward even more resolutely towards the waiting English. As the enemy neared their position, the dismounted English men-at-arms moved forward to the front of the now battered and partly flattened hedge, to give themselves more space to swing their swords in the mêlée that was about to come.

  With shouts, battle-cries and the clash of steel, the two forces met and a fierce hand-to-hand struggle took place. It surged back and forth, broke into innumerable personal duels and ebbed to and fro, giving promise of victory first to one side, then the other. Warwick’s portion of the line was particularly strained and the Prince reinforced it with the bulk of his own division, keeping a small mounted reserve in hand. At last, with both sides exhausted and hardly able to lift their heavy arms, the Dauphin’s men wavered and began to draw off, but still fighting valiantly and in good order.

  The hard-breathing English stood back, leaning heavily on their weapons; they were too tired for any spontaneous expressions of triumph but they heaved sighs of relief at what they believed to be the victorious end of the battle. The archers scampered forward to retrieve arrows that they had already discharged and which carpeted the ground in front of them. Water was brought and wounds were dressed, damaged weapons changed for whole ones, a fair selection being possible from those lying around abandoned by dead and wounded of both sides. The English savoured the lengthening lull, taking time to look around them; they failed to realise that there were still two French columns so far uncommitted, at least one of which was double the strength of the entire English army. This impression was so marked that a number of men-at-arms were actually sent off in pursuit of the Dauphin’s retreating men.

  The original plan of the King of France was for the next stage of the battle to be taken up by the column of the young Duke of Orléans; but it had completely dispersed and was fleeing in scattered groups towards Chauvigny. The disastrous effects of the two distinc
t and separate groups of survivors from previous attacks fleeing, weaponless and distraught, through their ranks, caused a panic that their twenty-one-year-old commander was completely unable to stem.

  For some reason the King’s column was being held far back behind the fighting, so that the Dauphin’s force had been dispersed before John even knew that they had been engaged. He was now aware that only his 10,000 men remained, and he had ominous doubts as to whether they could cope with even the 6,000 or so battle-weary English who remained secure in their position on the ridge. The most prudent move would have been a strategical withdrawal but there were considerations of chivalry to be taken into account and, as a typical example of French thinking of the day, high-minded dreams prevailed over discretion. King John gave the order to advance; slowly, stiffly the column rolled forward to the attack, lumbering arduously to the top of the North Ridge facing the English position.

  The serried ranks of the large, glittering mass topped the ridge in good order, banners fluttering, weapons gleaming; apparently unaffected by what had gone before, they moved purposefully to the attack. When the formidable spectacle was unrolled before their eyes, the weary English gaped in astonishment; their previous elation suddenly disappeared and was replaced by exhaustion and apprehension. Dismayed curses and grumbles rose on all sides. Many looked wildly around as though seeking an avenue of escape; losing his head, one of the Prince’s staff cried out:

  ‘Alas! We are beaten!’

  His master looked at him contemptuously and then turned away. Raising his head so that all around him could hear, the Prince stingingly replied:

  ‘Thou liest! Thou knave! If thou sayest that we can be conquered as long as I live!’

  Nevertheless, it was a decisive moment in the life of the Black Prince. He did not know of the defection of the Duke of Orléans’ column and was uncertain whether or not it was backing up this great, fresh force that was steadily lumbering towards them. He had to make a rapid decision; should he sacrifice some of his foot soldiers and the wagons, be satisfied with the damage he had done up to now, and withdraw? Or should he repeat the action that had already taken place twice and stand on the defensive and let them throw themselves against his tired men? No, he did not fancy that, realising that, for the moment, his moral superiority had departed and he recalled a tactical point that he had earlier noticed – that his defensive position was less effective against dismounted men than against cavalry.

  The Prince’s active brain seized on the one and only course that would restore his army’s morale – he would attack! He reasoned swiftly to himself – the French were out in the open, on the move and dismounted, and they lacked archers – all factors that added up to a marked inability to defend themselves against a mounted attack. The Prince blessed the inspiration that had caused him to keep his horses at hand and order spurs to be retained by his men-at-arms. If the Prince had any doubts about his plan, they were rapidly dispersed when Sir John Chandos, one of his ablest commanders, hastened to his side and urgently spoke:

  ‘Sir, ride forward, the days is yours! Let us assail the King of France, for with him lies all the strength of the enterprise.

  Well I know his valour will not permit him to flee, therefore, please God and Saint George, he shall remain with us!’

  On all sides, commanders roared out orders to mount; the men-at-arms, their previous exhaustion forgotten in -the new excitement, gathered themselves together and struggled into the saddle, where they slumped awaiting the next order. Becoming impatient through the delay that followed, their horses restlessly lifted their feet and nudged into each other, whilst their riders glanced to both sides seeking the reason for the pause. The Prince was arranging a diversion in the form of a flank attack by the small mounted reserve he still held, fresh and ready, under the Gascon leader, Captal de Buch. He carefully instructed them to leave the position by the northern end of the Nouaille wood, swing left and approach the North Ridge unobserved, so that they hit the French left flank as their column trudged forward. The Prince returned to the head of his men, glanced all around him, nodded with satisfaction and raised his sword high above his head. To the standard-bearers he cried: ‘Advance, banners! In the name of God and St. George!’ With the Prince and Chandos in front, the now mounted men-at-arms rolled, down the slope towards the dip that lay between them and the North Ridge, gradually gathering momentum as they went. Having exhausted their arrows, the mounted archers drew their swords and grimly tacked themselves on to the flanks and rear of the now charging mass. The advancing French division, seeing the sudden avalanche of men and horses cascading down towards them, backed by the thunder of hooves and the shouts of battle-cries, involuntarily stopped, so that the rear ranks piled up on those in front. For some it proved too much; a considerable number of the French men-at-arms in the rear and on the flanks took advantage of their position to turn and run, shambling from the field as fast as their heavy armour allowed. Before the remainder could assume any sort of defensive position or formation, change their ranks or present a more united front, the English horsemen were upon them. They crashed home into the wall of yielding, living bodies with a fierce shock that tumbled men of both sides, together with horses, to the ground.

  Now ensued a hard and bloody conflict; the mounted English were still outnumbered but managed to force their way forward yard by yard. It was the closest of close-quarter fighting where the short dagger was more deadly than the five-foot lance that could not be plunged home, or the sword that lacked space in which to be wielded.

  This was the time when conflict sounded and looked possibly more deadly than it actually was, if one is only to consider those men-at-arms actually killed by opposing men-at-arms. In those cases the actual killing was seldom great but many were unhorsed or thrown to the ground, where they lay helpless until assisted to rise again; in hot weather many were suffocated or choked in blood if their visors were not unclasped. Those among them who perished by sword-cut or lance-thrust were few in comparison to the slaughter made when they found an opening in a formation of infantry, or came upon unsupported archers without having to take too many arrows.

  The mêlée surged back and forth, the ground became slippery and bloody, men tumbled noisily, to be trampled into shapeless hulks beneath the shuffling feet and hooves of the combatants; on all sides the air was full of the tumult of battle.

  Under such conditions it was not surprising that no one saw the approach of Captal de Buch’s small body of cavalry as they came in on the French left flank. They crashed into this unsuspecting part of the King’s division with a shock result, both physically and morally, far in excess of their size and numbers. Resolutely they commenced to hack their way into the mêlée. For the French it was the last straw; their great column, attacked on two sides, began to crumble like a sandcastle under the onslaught of remorseless waves. Progressively, it slowly disintegrated as men stole, stumbled and lurched from the field, seeking safety and wildly gazing in every direction for sanctuary. The more faithful followers of the King of France fought bravely around him; the Black Prince and his commanders kept their men steadily on hand, concentrating their efforts on this confused multitude who still fought on, being whittled down by sword, axe, lance and dagger. The King himself fought bravely, battle-axe in hands almost too weary to wield it; around him pressed a furious throng of English and Gascons, crying:

  ‘Surrender! Give way!’

  Anxious to save the French monarch, many English knights implored him to yield but he was unwilling to do so to anyone of inferior rank. Repeatedly he asked:

  ‘Where is my cousin? Where is the Prince of Wales?’

  A young knight of St. Omer spoke to him in French:

  ‘Sire, surrender! I will lead you to him.’

  Struck by his pure accent, the breathless, weary King asked:

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Sire, I am Denis of Norbeque, a knight of Artois. I serve the King of England because I have lost my all in France.�
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  The King sighed:

  ‘Then, to you I surrender.’

  He gave the young knight his right gauntlet and moved slowly with him towards the edge of the mêlée, where some Gascons and English claimed him and tried to wrest him away from Norbeque. The opportune arrival of the Earl of Warwick and Sir John Pelham saved what might well have been a disastrous ending. The English knights approached the royal captive with every show of respect and conducted him to the Prince of Wales.

  Slowly the battle burned itself out; the triumphant English pursued some of the fleeing French as far as the very walls of Poitiers. Amid the dead and dying, the Black Prince had his pavilion pitched and there, with darkness descending, sat down to dine with his royal prisoner of war.

  The French casualties amounted to approximately 2,500 reported killed and some 2,000 captured, plus about 4,000 wounded; no record seems to have been kept of the casualties to the infantry levies, whose battered bodies were piled into a great charnel-pit. Although no accurate figures are available, apparently the English got off very lightly.