Authors: Michael Jecks
Fields of Glory (2 page)
I do not presume to argue the cases either way. You can find the arguments marvellously summarised in
War Cruel and Sharp
by Clifford J. Rogers, Boydell Press, 2000. In Chapter 10
‘Invasion of 1346: Strategic Options and Historiography’, he goes through them on both sides in some detail. However, it seems clear to me that the English King Edward III would have
known that he ran the significant risk of battle by taking war to the north of France. He had tweaked the French King’s tail too often already to think he would escape unhindered once more.
The prestige of Philippe VI was at stake.
For my story, I have assumed that the argument from Rogers’s book is correct: that the English King
knew
he would force the French to battle and was confident nonetheless, convinced
that his massed archers would be so overwhelming that the French must be crushed. He suffered setbacks, true, especially on the long march to the Somme, but I believe he had a strategic ambition to
draw the French to him on well-prepared ground in a planned manner.
The second issue has given me a great deal more heartache than the simple question of whether the English intended to fight.
How did King Edward dispose his troops?
I have resorted to many books in researching the battle, from Jonathan Sumption’s superb
Trial By Battle
, Rogers’s
War Cruel and Sharp
mentioned above, J.F.
Verbruggen’s
The Art of Warfare in Western Europe
, Maurice Keen’s
Medieval Warfare
, Kelly DeVries’s
Infantry Warfare in the Early Fourteenth Century
. . . all
the way to Ian Mortimer’s
The Perfect King: The Life of King Edward III
, with stop-offs at Froissart and other chroniclers.
Some think that there were three battles (groups of fighting men, in modern terms ‘Battalions’ is the nearest word), with English soldiers spread side-by-side over the top of the
hill, with groups of archers between these groups of men, and more archers at either side. I disagree, and side with those who consider the next scenario more likely: that the English had the three
battles one placed before the other, and with two large groups of archers at either flank with cannon, so as to keep up a withering fire both on the killing ground before them on the plains, and,
as the enemy grew nearer, launching their weapons and missiles directly into the flanks of the French advance. Not only is this the most likely formation to have achieved the victory won at such
low cost to the English – but also it was the formation practised and rehearsed in so many prior battles.
But after all my research, there is still a margin for error. I have occasionally guessed at mysteries such as, where precisely was Sir John in the battle-line? – and where my guesses have
missed their mark, I can only apologise. Any errors are my own.
This story, then, is the story of soldiers through the centuries, and I have unashamedly used scenes as described by George MacDonald Fraser in his magnificent autobiography
Quartered Safe Out Here
, as well as many contemporary accounts. The story of fighting men, and their experiences in battle, has not changed all that much. Their lives are full of fear,
boredom, misery and sudden horror. But they also enjoy making jokes at each others’ expense, and gradually they learn to trust and rely on one another.
Finally, I should say that when I was writing this, I had in my mind the young men and women who are fighting with the British Army in Afghanistan.
May they all return safe and well.
Michael Jecks
North Dartmoor
January 2013
St-Vaast-la-Hogue, 12 July 1346
Berenger Fripper, vintener of this pox-ridden mob of sixteen men under Sir John de Sully, ducked as another wave splashed over the gunwale and drenched him.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he muttered, wiping a hand over his face to clear it of water. White foam was everywhere, and he was already frozen to the marrow in the bitter wind. He cursed
the day he’d agreed to lead the men on this raid.
Grandarse, his centener, and leader of four more vintaines, bellowed, ‘Get ready!’ near his ear, and Berenger felt like snapping back that they
were
all ready – they had
been ready this past hour or more – but he swallowed his resentment. Discipline was all-important in the army. Any diminution of respect weakened a fighting force, which was why punishment
for insubordination was so savage, and rightly so.
Grandarse shouldered his way past. The older man was built like a barrel, with a belly that declared his love of ale and food. His eyes were blue like the sky, his skin leathery from living
rough, marching for his King. He was a hard man, used to the ways of war, but the Yorkshireman was honest enough, and kindly to men he trusted. He respected Berenger’s men: such fellows were
the backbone of the King’s army, and Grandarse knew it.
Another big wave, another wipe of his face. Berenger hated ships. This was no way to go to war. The rolling decks and constant spray, the sound of horses whinnying, almost screaming in fear
belowdecks, the constant taste of sickness in his throat and the smell of vomit all about him . . . it all reminded him of Sluys, two years before.
Christ’s ballocks
, that had been a
fight! He was an old man now. Already six and thirty, and a fighter for his King for the last eleven years. He knew he shouldn’t feel such trepidation at the prospect of battle.
Yet he did.
He shifted the strap of his pack where it had rubbed a sore patch at his collarbone. The salt in the air was making it sting. Another wave crashed at the side of the ship, spume exploding into
his face and beard, and he swore viciously.
Beside him, young Ed was kneeling and retching, his belly emptied many long hours before.
‘Get up, boy!’ Berenger snarled. ‘You want to kneel when the French come and beat you all about your bleeding head?’
He hauled on the boy’s arm until Ed was up and could lean on the wale himself, his fist clenched in white determination about a rope.
An odd boy. Too young for this kind of fight, Berenger told himself again. The lads had thought he’d make them a good mascot if nothing else.
They had found him lying in the gutter outside a Portsmouth tavern, dazed from the blow that had broken his tooth and bloodied his face. If he was the victim of a robbery, the thief had poor
judgement in selecting his victims. A lad that old could have little indeed worth taking. Clip had wanted to see if he had any money, but Geoff shouldered him aside and picked up the pathetic
bundle, carrying Ed back to their lodgings with a gentleness that surprised the other men. With luck, Geoff said defensively, the boy’d earn his keep by fetching and carrying. They could do
with a lad to bring arrows or water in battle, and bear food on the march.
Well, that was as may be. As far as Berenger was concerned, Ed was a waste of space. He was a boy, and they needed men. Grandarse didn’t care: he would get money for the extra head, and
that was all
he
cared about; but Berenger felt responsible for the fellow. Just now the boy’s head hung low, drool trailing from his chin. How, in God’s name, the son of a
fisherman could be so useless and pukey on board a ship, he didn’t know. The lad was the most cack-handed prick he had ever met. He wouldn’t meet Berenger’s eyes but stood
shivering, staring miserably at the land ahead, as did all the others.
‘Not long now,’ Berenger said, more kindly.
The others, he thought. They had all survived the sailing, thank the Lord. His glance ran over the vintaine. Although he wouldn’t let it show, Berenger felt a flare of pride to be leading
them. At least they were all fighting men.
Beside him, Grandarse stood rolling with the deck, hoarsely singing a crude marching song, his enormous belly constrained by his thick leather belt. Behind him stood Geoff, the square-faced,
impassive son of a miller from Tewkesbury, flanked by the lanky form of the grey-eyed Jack Fletcher and the shorter, wiry Will the Wisp. Wisp was scrawny and looked always on the verge of toppling
over, but he had muscles like steel cords and could have been pegged to the deck.
Behind him, lumbering helplessly from one man to another with every plunge of the ship, and swearing all the while, was Clip, the shortest of them all. Clip had the pinched wizened features of a
beggar. This last winter, the scurvy had laid hold of him, and now he had few teeth remaining. His brown eyes were red-tinged, and he tried to cower behind Wisp, keeping his scrawny arse sheltered
from the water, but was flung around by the power of the waves like a rag doll.
And then there were the others: Jon Furrier with the dropped shoulder, the always-limping Eliot, Oliver with the squint and fretful chewing of his inner lip, Matt, Walt, Luke and Gilbert and the
rest. All waiting, all watching, veterans of battles in France and Scotland. Geoff met Berenger’s eyes and nodded, his mouth twisted at one side as usual. They would soon be fighting: the
King had promised them. This was to be the chevauchée that proved once and for all that the English King was rightful King of France as well.
Well, so long as there was wine and plunder in it, the men would be content: him too. Berenger narrowed his eyes against the spray. Since his parents’ death four and twenty years ago, he
had spent his life searching for adventure. Now, perhaps, it was time to stop. He could buy a little house, find a woman. Brew ale, make friends, raise children. Aye –
mayhap!
he told
himself sardonically.
