The army was woken before dawn. It was a Saturday, 26 August, and men grumbled at the unseasonable chill. Fires were stirred to life, reflecting flame light from the waiting mail and plate armour. The village of Crécy had been occupied by the King and his great lords, some of whom had slept in the church, and those men were still arming themselves when a chaplain of the royal household came to say a Mass. Candles were lit, a handbell sounded and the priest, ignoring the clank of armour that filled the small nave, called on the help of St Zephyrinus, St Gelasinus and both the saints called Genesius, all of whom had their feasts on this day, and the priest also sought aid from Little Sir Hugh of Lincoln, a child who had been murdered by the Jews on this same day nearly two hundred years before. The boy, who was said to have shown a remarkable piety, had been found dead, and no one understood how God could have allowed such a paragon to be snatched from earth so young, but there were Jews in Lincoln and their presence had provided a convenient answer. The priest prayed to them all. St Zephyrinus, he prayed, give us victory. St Gelasinus, he pleaded, be with our men. St Genesius, look after us, and St Genesius, give us strength. Little Sir Hugh, he begged, thou child in God's arms, intercede for us. Dear God, he prayed, in Thy great mercy, spare us. The knights came to the altar in their linen shirts to receive the Sacraments.
In the forest the archers knelt to other priests. They made confession and took the dry, stale bread that was the body of Christ. They made the sign of the cross. No one knew there was to be a battle that day, but they sensed the campaign had come to its end and they must either fight today or the next. Give us enough arrows, the archers prayed, and we shall make the earth red, and they held their yew staves towards the priests who touched the bows and said prayers over them.
Lances were unwrapped. They had been carried on packhorses or wagons and had hardly been used in the campaign, but the knights all dreamed of a proper battle of swirling horsemen punctuated by the shock of lances striking shields. The older and wiser men knew they would fight on foot and that their weapons would mostly be swords or axes or falchions, but still the painted lances were taken from their cloth or leather coverings that protected them from being dried by the sun or warped by rain. 'We can use them as pikes,' the Earl of Northampton suggested.
Squires and pages armed their knights, helping them with the heavy coats of leather, mail and plate. Straps were buckled tight. Destriers were brushed with straw while the smiths dragged sharpening stones down the swords' long blades. The King, who had begun arming himself at four in the morning, knelt and kissed a reliquary which contained a feather from the wing of the angel Gabriel and, when he had crossed himself, told the priest to carry the reliquary to his son. Then, with a golden crown surrounding his helmet, he was helped up onto a grey mare and rode north from the village.
It was dawn and the ridge between the two villages was empty. The mill, its linen sails neatly furled and tethered, creaked in the wind that stirred the long grasses where hares grazed but now cocked their ears and raced away as the horsemen climbed the track to the mill.
The King led, mounted on the mare that was swathed in a trapper bright with the royal arms. The scabbard of his sword was red velvet and encrusted with golden fleur-de-lis, while the hilt was decorated with a dozen great rubies. He carried a long white staff and had brought a dozen companions and a score of knights as escorts, but as his companions were all great lords then they were duly followed by their entourages so that close to three hundred men trailed up the winding track. The higher a man's rank, the closer he rode to the King, while the pages and squires were at the back where they tried to hear the conversation of their betters.
A man-at-arms dismounted and went into the mill. He climbed the ladders, opened the small door that gave access to the sails and there straddled the axle as he peered eastwards.
'See anything?' the King called up cheerfully, but the man was so overcome by being addressed by his king that he could only shake his head dumbly.
The sky was half covered in clouds and the country looked dark. From the mill's height the man-at-arms could see down the long slope to the small fields at its foot, then up another slope to a wood. An empty road ran eastwards beyond the wood. The river, filled with English horses being watered, twisted grey on the right to mark the forest's edge. The King, his visor jammed up against the crown's frontal, stared at the same view. A local man, discovered hiding in the forest, had confirmed that the road from Abbeville came from the east, which meant that the French must cross the small fields at the foot of the slope if they were to make a frontal attack on the hill. The fields had no hedges, merely shallow ditches that would offer no obstacle to a mounted knight.
'If I was Philip,' the Earl of Northampton suggested, 'I'd ride round our north flank, sire.'
'You're not Philip, and I thank God you're not,' Edward of England said. 'He's not clever.'
'And I am?' The Earl sounded surprised.
'You are clever at war, William,' the King said. He stared down the slope for a long time. 'If I was Philip,' he said at last, 'I would be mightily tempted by those fields,' he pointed to the foot of the slope, 'especially if I saw our men waiting on this hill.' The long green slope of the open pastureland was perfect for a cavalry charge. It was an invitation for lances and glory, a place made by God for the lords of France to tear an impudent enemy to ragged shreds.
'The hill's steep, sire,' the Earl of Warwick warned.
'I warrant it won't look so from the foot,' the King said, then turned his horse and spurred northwards along the ridge. The mare trotted easily, revelling in the morning air. 'She's Spanish,' the King told the Earl, 'bought off Grindley. D'you use him?'
'If I can afford his prices.'
'Of course you can, William! A rich man like you? I'll breed her. She might make fine destriers.'
'If she does, sire, I'll buy one from you.'
'If you can't afford Grindley's prices,' the King teased, 'how will you pay mine?'
He spurred the mare into a canter, his plate armour clanking, and the long train of men hurried after him along the track which led north on the ridge's summit. Green shoots of wheat and barley, doomed to die in the winter, grew where the grains had fallen from the carts carrying the harvest to the mill. The King stopped at the ridge's end, just above the village of Wadicourt, and stared northwards. His cousin was right, he thought. Philip should march into that empty countryside and cut him off from Flanders. The French, if they did but know it, were the masters here. Their army was larger, their men fresher and they could dance rings about their tired enemy until the English were forced to a desperate attack or were trapped in a place that offered them no advantage. But Edward knew better than to let every fear prey on his mind. The French were also desperate. They had suffered the humiliation of watching an enemy army wreak havoc across their land and they were in no mood to be clever. They wanted revenge. Offer them a chance, he reckoned, and the odds were good that they would snatch at it, and so the King dismissed his fears and rode down into the village of Wadicourt. A handful of the villagers had dared to stay and those folk, seeing the golden crown encircling the King's helmet and the silver curb chains on his mare, went onto their knees.
'We mean you no harm,' the King called airily, but by morning's end, he knew, their houses would have been ransacked thoroughly.
He turned southwards again, riding along the ground at the foot of the ridge. The valley's turf was soft, but not treacherous. A horse would not flounder here, a charge would be possible and — better still, just as he had reckoned — the hill did not look so steep from this angle. It was deceptive. The long stretch of rising grass looked gentle even, though in truth it would sap the horses' lungs by the time they reached the English men-at-arms. If they ever did reach them.
'How many arrows do we have?' he asked every man in earshot.
'Twelve hundred sheaves,' the Bishop of Durham said.
'Two carts full,' the Earl of Warwick answered.
; 'Eight hundred and sixty sheaves,' the Earl of Northampton said.
There was silence for a while. 'The men have some themselves?' the King asked.
'Perhaps a sheaf apiece,' the Earl of Northampton said gloomily.
'It will just have to be enough,' the King said bleakly. He would have liked twice as many arrows, but then he would have liked a lot of things. He could have wished for twice as many men and a hill twice as steep and an enemy led by a man twice as nervous as Philip of Valois who, God knows, was nervous enough anyway, but it was no good wishing. He had to fight and win. He frowned at the southern end of the ridge where it fell away to the village of Crécy. That would be the easiest place for the French to attack, and the closest too, which meant the fight would be hard there. 'Guns, William,' he said to the Earl of Northampton.
'Guns, sire?'
'We'll have the guns on the flanks. Bloody things have to be useful some time!'
'We could roll the things down the hill, sire, perhaps? Maybe crush a man or two?'
The King laughed and rode on. 'Looks like rain.'
'It should hold off a while,' the Earl of Warwick answered. 'And the French may hold off too, sire.'
'You think they won't come, William?'
The Earl shook his head. 'They'll come, sire, but it'll take them time. A lot of time. We might see their vanguard by noon, but their rearguard will still be crossing the bridge in Abbeville. I'll wager they'll wait till tomorrow morning to make a fight.'
'Today or tomorrow,' the King said carelessly, 'it's all the same.'
'We could march on,' the Earl of Warwick suggested.
'And find a better hill?' The King smiled. He was younger and less experienced than many of the earls, but he was also the King and so the decision must rest with him. He was, in truth, filled with doubts, but knew that he must look confident. He would fight here. He said as much and said it firmly.
'We fight here,' the King said again, staring up the slope. He was imagining his army there, seeing it as the French would see it, and he knew his suspicion was right that the lowest part of the ridge, close to Crécy, would be the dangerous ground. That would be his right flank, close under the mill. 'My son will command on the right,' he said, pointing, 'and you, William, will be with him.'
'I will, sire,' the Earl of Northampton agreed.
'And you, my lord, on the left,' the King said to the Earl of Warwick. 'We shall make our line two-thirds of the way up the hill with archers in front and on the flanks.'
'And you, sire?' the Earl of Warwick asked.
'I shall be at the mill,' the King said, then urged his horse up the hill. He dismounted two-thirds of the way up the slope and waited for a squire to take the mare's reins, then he began the morning's real work. He paced along the hill, marking places by prodding the turf with his white staff and instructing the lords who accompanied him that their men would be here, or there, and those lords sent men to summon their commanders so that when the army marched to the long green slope they would know where to go.
'Bring the banners here,' the King ordered, 'and place them where the men are to assemble.'
He kept his army in the three battles that had marched all the way from Normandy. Two, the largest, would make a long, thick line of men-at-arms stretching across the upper reaches of the slope. 'They'll fight on foot,' the King ordered, confirming what every man had expected though one or two of the younger lords still groaned for there was more honour to be gained by fighting from horseback. But Edward cared more about victory than honour. He knew only too well that if his men-at-arms were mounted then the fools would make a charge as soon as the French attacked and his battle would degenerate into a brawl at the hill's foot that the French must win because they had the advantage of numbers. But if his men were on foot then they could not make a crazed charge against horsemen, but must wait behind their shields to be attacked. 'The horses are to be kept at the rear, beyond the ridge,' he commanded. He himself would command the third and smallest battle on the ridge's summit where it would be a reserve.
'You will stay with me, my lord bishop,' the King told the Bishop of Durham.
The bishop, armoured from nape to toes and carrying a massive spiked mace, bridled. 'You'll deny me a chance to break French heads, sire?'
'I shall let you weary God with your prayers instead,' the King said, and his lords laughed. 'And our archers,' the King went on, 'will be here, and here, and here.' He was pacing the turf and ramming the white staff into the grass every few paces. He would cover his line with archers, and mass more at the two flanks. The archers, Edward knew, were his one advantage. Their long, white-fledged arrows would do murder in this place that invited the enemy horsemen into the glorious charge. 'Here,' he stepped on and gouged the turf again, 'and here.'
'You want pits, sire?' the Earl of Northampton asked.
'As many as you like, William,' the King said. The archers, once they were gathered in their groups all along the face of the line, would be told to dig pits in the turf some yards down the slope. The pits did not have to be large, just big enough to break a horse's leg if it did not see the hole. Make enough pits and the charge must be slowed and thrown into disarray. 'And here,' the King had reached the southern end of the ridge, 'we'll park some empty wagons. Put half the guns here, and the other half at the other end. And I want more archers here.'
'If we've any left,' the Earl of Warwick grumbled.
'Wagons?' the Earl of Northampton asked.
'Can't charge a horse across a line of wagons, William,' the King said cheerfully, then beckoned his horse forward and, because his plate armour was so heavy, two pages had to half lift and half push him into the saddle. It meant an undignified scramble, but once he was settled in the saddle he looked back along the ridge that was no longer empty, but was dotted with the first banners showing where men would assemble. In an hour or two, he thought, his whole army would be here to lure the French into the archers' arrows. He wiped the earth from the butt of the staff, then spurred his horse towards Crécy. 'Let's see if there's any food,' he said.
The first flags fluttered on the empty ridge. The sky pressed grey across distant fields and woods. Rain fell to the north and the wind felt cold. The eastern road, along which the French must come, was deserted still. The priests prayed.
Take pity on us, O Lord, in Thy great mercy, take pity on us.
—«»—«»—«»—
The man who called himself the Harlequin was in the woods on the hill that lay to the east of the ridge that ran between Crécy and Wadicourt. He had left Abbeville in the middle of the night, forcing the sentries to open the northern gate, and he had led his men through the dark with the help of an Abbeville priest who knew the local roads. Then, hidden by beeches, he had watched the King of England ride and walk the far ridge. Now the King was gone, but the green turf was speckled with banners and the first English troops were straggling up from the village. 'They expect us to fight here,' he remarked.
'It's as good a place as any,' Sir Simon Jekyll observed grumpily. He did not like being roused in the middle of the night. He knew that the strange black-clad man who called himself the Harlequin had offered to be a scout for the French army, but he had not thought that all the Harlequin's followers would be expected to miss their breakfast and grope through a black and empty countryside for six cold hours.
'It is a ridiculous place to fight,' the Harlequin responded. 'They will line that hill with archers and we will have to ride straight into their points. What we should do is go round their flank.' He pointed to the north.
'Tell His Majesty that,' Sir Simon said spitefully.
'I doubt he will listen to me.' The Harlequin heard the scorn, but did not rise to it. 'Not yet. When we have made our name, then he will listen.' He patted his horse's neck. 'I have only faced English arrows once, and then it was merely a single archer, but I saw an arrow go clean through a mail coat.'
'I've seen an arrow go through two inches of oak,' Sir Simon s
aid.
'Three inches,' Henry Colley added. He, like Sir Simon, might have to face those arrows today, but he was still proud of what English weapons could do.
'A dangerous weapon,' the Harlequin acknowledged, though in an unworried voice. He was ever unworried, always confident, perpetually calm, and that self-control irritated Sir Simon, though he was even more annoyed by the Harlequin's faintly hooded eyes which, he realized, reminded him of Thomas of Hookton. He had the same good looks, but at least Thomas of Hookton was dead, and that was one less archer to face this day. 'But archers can be beaten,' the Harlequin added.
Sir Simon reflected that the Frenchman had faced one archer in his whole life, yet had already worked out how to beat them. 'How?'
'You told me how,' the Harlequin reminded Sir Simon. 'You exhaust their arrows, of course. You send them lesser targets, let them kill peasants, fools and mercenaries for an hour or two, then release your main force. What we shall do,' he turned his horse away, 'is charge with the second line. It does not matter what orders we receive, we shall wait till the arrows are running out. Who wants to be killed by some dirty peasant? No glory there, Sir Simon.'
That, Sir Simon acknowledged, was true enough. He followed the Harlequin to the further side of the beech wood where the squires and servants waited with the packhorses. Two messengers were sent back with news of the English dispositions while the rest dismounted and unsaddled their horses. There was time for men and beasts to rest and feed, time to don the battle armour and time for prayer.
The Harlequin prayed frequently, embarrassing Sir Simon, who considered himself a good Christian but one who did not dangle his soul from God's apron strings. He said confession once or twice a year, went to Mass and bared his head when the Sacraments passed by, but otherwise he spared little thought for the pieties. The Harlequin, on the other hand, confided every day to God, though he rarely stepped into a church and had little time for priests. It was as though he had a private relationship with heaven, and that was both annoying and comforting to Sir Simon. It annoyed him because it seemed unmanly, and it comforted him because if God was of any use to a fighting man then it was on a day of battle.
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