The Bow (13 page)

Eventually the order came: fall back to the baggage
wagons. Slowly, quietly, in the dark, with no fires lit they prepared
to retreat. The Welsh were last to leave: ‘We bury our dead, rather
than rob our enemies’, as Yevan said. They scraped out shallow
graves for Owain and the others, wrapped them in their green and
white tunics and committed them to the earth with a muttered prayer.
The bowstaves, arrows and wallets they took, the rest they left. Any
coin was given to William Bretoun, and he had sworn to get it safely
back home to widows and kinsfolk.

By the second hour of the evening watch they had joined
up with the baggage wagons, and made camp with the rest of the army
within a walled orchard scouts had found during the battle. The
wagons had been plundered by the few French cavalry that had earlier
broken through, but there were still enough supplies left to let most
of the troops have a meagre meal of soup and trencher. Some fires
were lit, and men prepared to bed down for the night. But it was not
to be. The Earl, though wounded, was eager to march. He feared that
the French might trap him in this place in the morning, and he was
keen to use the cover of darkness to slip away.

His provosts and sergeants strode among the fires and
huddled soldiers urging everyone to their feet, and rousing them to
the march. There were curses, grumbles and even taunts, but there was
nothing for it: all men, fit and wounded, horsed and unhorsed, were
ordered into line.

Ralf and James had found their horses tethered along
with most of the others in Hungerford’s company: they were next to
a spinney of birch. Someone had brushed them down, and even left some
feed. With their mounts harnessed and rough saddled they rode through
the darkness to the van of the column where Hungerford’s banner
hung limp in the light of a single torch. There was no trumpet call
or rattle of drums, just a single cry of command, and the army
tramped away from the shelter of the orchard. They headed for the
coast.

Despite the night and their exhaustion they made enough
progress to reach the fishing village of Etretat well before morning.
It was decided not to go down the narrow, chalky valley to the sea,
but stay on the heights where they were in less danger of being
trapped. Tired, hungry and wary of pursuit, they camped in the great
forest that ran down to the cliffs, made fires in the clearings and
slept as best they could. It was cold, but the air was still and
frost would not trouble them where they lay beneath the oaks and elms
of Etretat. The following day the army woke to a bright, thin-misted
dawn. Men blinked wearily in the sunlight that streamed down into the
crowded clearings. Fires were stirred to life, knights were armed,
and common soldiers snatched breakfast before the trumpets called
them to the march.

With his captains gathered about him, the Earl discussed
the options open to them. They could head for the shore now, and make
for Harfleur along the coast; they could rest up in the forest and
hope to avoid discovery; they could line up at the edge of the forest
in order of battle and wait for the French. In the end, the Earl
chose the last option.

With banners unfurled, and horses sent to the rear, the
army advanced to the eastern side of the forest and drew up their
ranks, two deep: archers, men-at-arms and dismounted knights. All day
they waited. No one came. At sunset they withdrew, and began a long
night march, along the beach south from Etretat. In the distance they
could see the fire of Cap de la Heve, where the inhabitants of
Sainte-Adresse kept a beacon for returning ships. By first light,
footsore and complaining, they came upon Cap de le Havre. As they
made camp on the beach, baking some fish they had bought in a local
village, scouts brought news that they were only ten miles from
Harfleur. There was a ripple of rejoicing that ran along the shore.
Even the pickets shouted, and shook their lances.

But then the French came. They appeared on the dunes
that stood above the beach, and attacked without warning.

Archers scrambled for their bows, and men-at-arms seized
their weapons as crossbow bolts zipped among them. Dorset had ordered
his men to camp in line of march, so it was simple enough to quickly
dress their ranks, turn left and face their attackers.

Convinced of their advantage, the French vanguard
charged down the the face of the dunes yelling the old war cries of
‘St Denis!’ and ‘Montjoie!’ They were met with a three sharp
volleys of arrows which tore into their ranks, and reduced the
charge to a ragged advance.

With a shout the English now charged, rushing at the
slope and half-stumbling, half-running up the dunes. The French met
them head on, and showed some skill with sword and axe, but their
ranks were too broken to withstand the English counter-attack for
long. Soon they had been reduced to scattered groups of men fighting
for their lives, and shortly afterwards the last of them fell. He was
a young knight bearing on his shield the towers and golden scallops
of Sainte-Adresse. When challenged to ‘cry craven’, he merely
took off his helmet so that his blond hair fell across his shoulders,
raised his sword in two hands and rushed against the soldiers
surrounding him. He wounded two archers before a knight of Dorset’s
household cut him down.

With the death of the young knight, the English paused,
leaning on their swords and catching breath. Then once the wounded
and the English dead had been carried down to the beach, the archers
and men-at-arms set about stripping the dead.

James found a wallet with silver marks and a few
pennies. He took the money, thrust it into his own purse, and threw
the wallet away. Next he found a lucky charm made of pewter and
semi-precious stones in the shape of a dolphin. ‘This’ll fetch a
pretty sum at market’, he said ripping it from around the neck of a
crossbowman and tucking it under his belt.

Moving on, he came across John Hert, a Cheshire bowman
who he used to chat to down at the butts of Harfleur.

‘
What ho! John! I see they have not trimmed ye yet!’

The other smiled. He was tall, lean and gaunt with an
easy frame, cropped black hair and deep set dark eyes. ‘Not for
want of trying, Chiswick-James. There’s a knight here dead at my
feet near ran me through with this fine sword.’ He held it up. ‘The
point caught the buckle of my belt. And so he is dead, and I live.’

James laughed. ‘Then your good wife back in Nantwich
burns more candles to Mary, than that poor fellow’s beloved ever
did.’

Reaching down to loosen the poignard from the dead
knight’s scabbard, John straightened up. ‘Candles be blowed!’
he snorted. ‘It was chance and that’s all there is to it. He was
a better man than me, and quicker on his feet, but a tin buckle found
him out.’ He slipped the poignard into his belt, and gave James his
hand. James felt the strength of the grip, and remembered that he had
seen John pull one eighty pounds draw weight at Harfleur.

They moved together among the dead, picking their way
among the bodies, and checking all the while for anything of value
that could be carried away. Neither of them however took rings. They
left those for the spearmen of Wales and Ireland who feared no curse
of the dead, and felt no shame in taking a lover’s gift. When they
had almost finished, and stood awhile to let the sea breeze play
against their faces, there came a cry of alarm:

‘
Armagnac! Armagnac!’

Everyone stopped and spun round to look up the slope.
They saw at once the reason for the cry.The top of the dunes was
covered with the lance points and pennons of the Constable’s main
force.

There was no time to form array. The enemy was upon
them. They heard a call to arms, that was all, and saw Hungerford’s
standard heading up the slope.

‘
It’s us, lads!’ shouted John. He turned to wave
the archers on. As he did so a crossbow bolt caught him in the
shoulder and knocked him down. With a roar the others charged. James
turned back to help John, and got a blow round the ear, and a curse
for his trouble from a burly captain of pike:

‘
Up, damn you! The French are upon us!’

Shaking his head and blinking, James went up the dune
with the others, short sword in his left hand, buckler in his right.
It was an old trick, taught to him by William Bretoun: to reverse his
grip and fight left handed. That way it was easier to get under the
guard of a charging enemy who was often off balance. It didn’t
always work.

What happened next was never clear to James no matter
how much he thought about it, or talked it through with others who
made that charge.

The French, mostly on horseback, with crossbowmen among
them began to descend the dunes. Then all at once they hesitated,
slowed their charge and began to scramble back. It may have been the
steepness of the slope, it may have been the unexpected aggression of
their enemy. The Earl’s priest said it must have been an angel of
the Lord stood in their way. It was not clear.

Whatever the reason, most of the French suddenly turned
and fled, apart from a few cavalry and footsoldiers who rushed on
down. One of them, a young squire on a floundering grey mare, came
right at James and two other archers. They caught the mare by the
bridle, and hurled the squire from the saddle. He was on his feet in
an instant, lashing out with his sword and laying the arm of one of
the archers bare to the bone. James closed with him, took a blow on
the buckler, and struck under the squire’s guard. His head flew
back as James’ sword caught him high on the breastplate, and he
fell against the slope. The other archer raised his axe to deliver
the death blow, but James held him back, and levelled his sword at
the squire’s throat.

‘
Yield!’ he said.

The squire looked up at him, his pale blue eyes
unflinching.

‘
Yield!’ repeated James, putting the point of the
sword on the squire’s adam’s apple. ‘Cedez ou mort!’ He was
aware of the fighting continuing around him, and the nervous anger of
the other archer, who was calling out: ‘Finish the toss pot! Finish
him!’ while he looked wildly around.

For a moment the squire stared beyond James as if
looking at something over his shoulder, then he closed his eyes and
opened them again: ‘Je me rends’ he said.

With a sharp intake of breath, James pulled back the
sword and hauled the squire to his feet. He scratched his initials on
his breastplate, and let the other archer do the same. Then he bound
his hands, and pointed away down the slope. ‘Par la!’ he said and
gave him a shove. The squire nodded and walked away, head hung low.

The fighting was all but over. Most of the French had
fled, and were being pursued by a good number of the archers and
men-at-arms. Word soon spread that cavalry were seen approaching from
Harfleur itself, and that they too were taking up the chase.

There seemed little else to do, but pick up weapons,
help the wounded and wander back down to the beach. On his way, James
met Ralf who was dizzy with excitement and a glancing blow he had
taken from a French mace. He paused in his chatter to throw up, and
then held his hand to his head. ‘It hurts’, he said.

‘
Aye it would. You’ve a lump as big as an apple on
the side of your skull. Lucky he didn’t brain you.’

‘
Didn’t even see it’, muttered Ralf. ‘Came out
of nowhere.’

‘
That’s the way it is. You never see the one that
gets you. Now away with you to the barber-surgeon. He’ll have some
herbs you can put in a poultice for that, but whatever happens, don’t
let him bleed you.’

As Ralf stumbled off, James caught sight of John Hert.
He was sitting propped up against a dead horse. The crossbow bolt was
sticking out of his shoulder, just above the right breast. He was
deathly pale, and his teeth were clenched. James came and knelt
beside him: ‘Ho, friend! How goes it?’

John looked up. ‘Good enough, I s’ppose. Better than
old Richard over there. He copped an axe right through the brisket.
No more songs from him.’ He tried to laugh, and winced with pain.

‘
It’ll have to come out, and soon’, said James
looking closely at the bolt. ‘The wound’s still bleeding, and the
arrow’s deep.’

John tried to sit up, and grimaced. ‘There’s the
truth’, he replied. ‘It won’t pop out on its own, will it? And
we won’t be talkin’ it out either.’ He eased himself back until
he was nearly lying down. Beads of sweat were standing out on his
forehead, and his lips were bloodless and trembling.

‘
The surgeon, then,’ said James.

‘
A plague on the surgeon. That Gascon butcher! He’d
kill me to save the arrow!’ His voice was harsh with effort, and he
swallowed hard as if he were choking. James propped him up again:
‘You can’t leave it there, John. It’s killing ye!’

‘
I’m half killt already, man!’ He smiled weakly.
‘Listen! No surgeon. I’ll take my chances with one such as ye.’

‘
You mean . . .’

‘
Aye, you can take it out. You, James. Get a good
grip, give it a twist and pull the beggar out! I’ve seen it done.’
He coughed, but there was no blood: the lungs were sound at least.

Standing up slowly, James looked down at him. ‘Well,
all right’, he said. ‘But not on my own. I’ll get Yevan. He’ll
know a thing or two.’