The Bow (5 page)

At the same moment someone grabbed him by the collar of
his shirt, hauling him upright. It was a noble lord. It was Baron
Talbot, knight of the royal guard, and keeper of a great war-dog that
shadowed his every step.

‘
Up lad! Up! No time for less than fighting!’ He
grinned through his stubbled beard and shoved James forward. The dog
snarled and leapt into the press.

And then through the din came the sound of steel on
steel ringing about James’ head, and the breath of a blade as it
swept across his face. He ducked, cut wildly with his sword, and
pushed on into the sea of visored helms and staring eyes.

All about him nobles, knights, squires and common men
fought with demented fury, screaming and shouting as they lashed
about with daggers, maces, axes and mauls. Some fought with
short-hafted war-hammers, others with falchion-swords. A few fought
with their bare hands. The mud consumed them, and the rain began to
come down again in gusting torrents. Those who fell beneath the
piling bodies were drowned or suffocated. Those who became isolated
from friends or shield bearers were quickly clubbed down, or hacked
about from every side.

A small group of archers, Thomas Tudur and David
Whitecherche among them, along with the king’s brother Humphrey of
Gloucester,fought their way forward to claim a Lily banner, and would
have been overwhelmed if the king himself had not led a party to
their side. It was then that a French knight seizing his opportunity
attacked the king, and gave him such a blow that it struck a fleuron
from his helmet, and brought him to his knees.

James, only three paces away and trapped in the press,
could only stare in dismay as he saw the Frenchman step back and
swing his sword high for the death cut. Someone cried out in alarm,
‘A Talbot! A Talbot!’ – and even as the sword swept down –
‘To the King!’

But before the blade could bite an archer had flung
himself in its path, taking the full force of the blow. As the archer
fell, his brigandine already bright with blood, and the knights of
the king’s household swarmed about their lord, James saw that it
was Davy Gamm. The Welshman had come from nowhere at the last to give
his life for his king. It was the stuff of ancient songs and
dreamers’ ballads, but it had happened: and all in an instant soon
swept away. Davy Gamm was gone.

King Henry staggered to his feet, glanced down at the
dying archer, muttered something James could not make out, and hurled
himself back into the fight.

All those about him followed, pushing against the French
ranks like frenzied hedgers hacking and hewing all about them. But it
was a hedge that refused to give way, and seemed to grow with each
passing moment.

Men fought to stay on their feet, and fought to stay
alive. It was no longer about winning. It was simply about taking
breath in the bloody crush, and clearing a space around you in the
chaos. Out of the corner of his eye, James could see arrows still
flickering in from the left flank, but here at the centre, beneath
the banner of the king, it was hand to hand: friend heaped on foe,
and foe on friend. He tore a buckler from the body of a man at arms,
and hammered it against the falchions and maces that came at him. His
sword was chipped and jagged at the point, but the blade still held
true, and he struck again and again at breastplate, helm and
iron-bound glaive.

Increasingly, his arms felt leaden, and jarred with
every stroke. Although he could scarcely miss, he knew that nearly
all his blows skidded, dented, and bounced against the plated armour
of these aristocrats and chevaliers who were trying to bring him
down.

For his part he sensed that survival lay in agility. One
good thrust or single slash-cut from good French steel would be
enough to finish him. His poor brigandine would be no defence.

Five times he parried a sword with his buckler,
deflecting it to lessen the blow, just as his uncle had taught him.
Twice the sword crashed full on against the narrow boss: his whole
body shook, and his forearm felt as though it had been broken. He
reeled back on the second stroke, and would have been done for if
Yevan ap Griffiths had not leapt to his defence. With a shout the
master bowman cracked the knight on the side of his helmet with a
bowstave and knocked him into the mud.

‘
Are ye right, boyo?’ he laughed.

James nodded. ‘Right enough, Yevan.’ They both
turned instinctively to the fight. ‘I think they like this less
than us.’ James shook his arm and stared at the bruising about the
wrist. ‘But I thank ye for your staff.’

The Welshman did not reply at first. He had shouldered
his bowstave, and drawn a dagger from his belt. Then he spat and took
a deep breath:

‘
It’s close now we are boyo! Tusk to tusk!’ Again
he shouted, and then rushed forward, throwing himself against the
knight who had half struggled to his feet, and was resting on one
knee. They both fell sprawling.

James stood, crouched, staring uncertainly at them as
they fought on the ground. Then someone pushed him from behind, a
lance clattered over his shoulder, and he was swept into the fight
again. He was sick, tired, and almost ready to give up, but he saw
that those who faced him were even more exhausted than he was. After
their long and painful march, the shock of battle was at last
draining them of their strength to fight and their will to resist.

Dropping his buckler, he took an old knight by the
throat, and levelled his sword to drive it under the arm where the
armour was weak. With a grunt of resignation, the knight dropped his
sword and closed his eyes, waiting for the blow. For a moment James
hesitated, then cursed, and cuffed him on the side of the cheek and
threw him back, a prisoner.

Suddenly all about him was the same. The French,
overcome with weariness, were being cut down where they stood, or
stripped of their weapons and made prisoners.

Yevan had hauled his knight to his feet, scratched a
marker on his breastplate, and slapped him on the back as though he
were a brother.

A captain standing nearby gave a cheer and shook his
war-hammer above his head: ‘On lads! On! Don’t let Frenchie take
breath! We have him!’

There was a pause. Though the front ranks of the French
had melted away, the rearmost companies had fallen back and
regrouped. And then from the far side of the meadow a trumpet called,
and the sound of drums grew loud.

What see you?’ called the king as he leant on his
sword. A squire turned and cupped his hand: ‘Brabant, my lord! I
see the banner of Brabant. And Waleran de Fauquembergues. See! Five
escalopes argent! He comes on apace!’

The king straightened, but before he could reply, a
messenger stumbled forward breathless with the news that French
cavalry had broken into the baggage camp, and were advancing from the
rear.

Archers, knights, nobles and sergeants looked wildly
around. The prisoners stirred, some smiled, others just shrugged. But
the order when it came stunned all but the king: he reached his hand
to his helmet where the fleuron had been broken off. ‘Kill the
prisoners’, he said.

There were gasps and groans. Many of the archers cursed
and muttered that they had not come so far to throw away good ransoms
now.

Kill the prisoners!’ This time the king raised his
voice. ‘And any man who resists this charge will be killed along
with them!’ He waved his archer-guard forward to make sure his
command was obeyed.

The bloody business was over in minutes. Hardly any of
the French knights and lords begged for mercy, or even spoke at all.
And this made it all the harder for the archers and men at arms who
were detailed to execute any man that they had captured.

James delayed. He sensed that the king himself was
watching him, but he half turned away as though unaware of the royal
glance, and drawing his dagger wiped it slowly on his sleeve. Then he
set the edge against his thumb testing the whet, spat on the blade
and wiped it once more.

His knight waited calmly, kneeling, hands bound and face
turned towards the sun which now shone palely through the dying
showers. There were four black martlets on his shield and jupon. His
eyes were closed. Old eyes, heavy lidded and with wrinkles at the
corners from squinting into the bright light of a good many summers.
And smiling.

The lips, near hidden beneath the greying beard moved as
if in silent prayer. Or perhaps whispering someone’s name. A wife?
A daughter? A long forgotten lover?

‘
Archer!’

James started and looked to the king.

‘
Archer, do your duty.’

James bowed. ‘My lord.’ He took a step, grasped the
old knight by the hair at the back of his head, and tugged down hard.
Then he took his dagger and put it to the grizzled throat. The old
knight swallowed once, eyes now clenched tight.

There came a shout. ‘Hold my lord king! Hold! For
pity’s sake!’

Those, including James, who had still not slain their
prisoners, stopped.

Another messenger, this time a squire to Sir Walter
Hungerford, had all at once appeared, nearly covered in mud from head
to foot with the haste of his running. He fell on his knees before
the king: ‘My lord ! No need! No need! The French have gone. I saw
the arms of de Bournonville and de Clamasse, and precious few
besides. They but raided. No more. They have fled.’

The king listened silently, looked towards the French
lines, and then glanced at Sir Thomas Erpingham who nodded in return
and grimaced.

‘
So!’ shouted the king. ‘Their folly, their loss,
but no more slaughter lads. Hold now, and save your blades for
something better. Here comes the Duc de Brabant like a bridegroom to
his wedding. Let’s meet him with English petals made of steel.’

All those about the king gave a cheer, and soon flights
of arrows were arcing over the heads of the remnants of the second
French Battle and into the rapidly reducing company of knights led by
the Duke of Brabant.

James had lost sight of the old knight he had so nearly
slaughtered. He was back in line now, standing next to his old friend
Yevan ap Griffiths, bending, drawing and loosing to the barked
commands of the master bowmen. Again, the baggage boys were at his
back – those who had survived the attack by the French cavalry -
throwing down fresh bundles of war arrows, and cutting the leather
straps. All of his own arrows had gone. Every last one of them. And
all such good shafts. Livery shafts from his own belt and arrow-bag.
Even the swallow-tails, which bounced off plate, but bored a hole
like a man’s fist through wool or light leather. The bodkins were
gone, the clout-heads too, and the spiral fletched war arrows that
his brother had given him all those days ago just before he left
Chiswick.

Well, he would have to rely on the King’s barbs now,
and good they were, and well they sang, and how they flew on the grey
goose breeze that sucked them down upon the French. He laughed, then
spat, and shot again. To his right, old Lewis, then John ap Meredith,
and Morgaun Filkyn still coughing up the fever, but bright eyed with
the fight, and cursing every shaft. On his flank David Whitecherche
stood, still bloodied from the fight around the lily banner, and
telling all who would listen how he had pulled Humphrey, Duke of
Gloucester free from the press, and dragged him back to his brother
the king.

‘
Safe ‘e was, an’ safe ‘e be!’ he shouted as
he shot. ‘And I’m the king’s man, yes I am!’

The arrows rained down on the tattered French lines, but
still they came.

While the foremost ranks were all shot through, the
living stumbling forward over the dead and dying, the rearmost ranks
pushed forward, shouting and shoving as they advanced. And so the
crush grew, and the jostling lanes of men were driven together until
those at the flanks could scarcely draw their weapons, and those in
the centre could scarcely breathe. But the banners never fell. As an
ensign staggered or was struck down, another knight would snatch up
his flag and wave it high. Where men could go neither forward or
back, the banner-staff was driven into the mud, and held by those
around it.

At last King Henry could wait no longer. ‘Avaunt!’
went up the cry. Down went the bows, weapons were drawn and the line
surged forward once again.

Led by William Bretoun and the other master bowmen, they
plunged pell mell among the exhausted French, cheering each other on,
and striking out as best they could. The French fought back, like
animals caught in a pit, baring their teeth, and meeting the attack
with shield and sword. But their strength was fading. The lightly
armed archers darted in among them, eager to claim more ransoms to
make up for the earlier losses. A few paid the price for their
boldness, and fell among the dead, but most took prisoners like men
at market, and only killed those who resisted. And so it went on.

Then Mountjoy came. He came like a king, astride a white
horse, crossing the ploughed and bloody field as though it were a
smooth road in Summer. He bore the gold and blue banner of France,
and his chest was blazoned with the arms of a herald. No man touched
him. None dared. He was a herald, and as such had free pass over the
battlefield. Still, the last arrows from Lord Camoys’ company on
the left flank were loosed at a venture, and fell about him like a
dying shower. He did not flinch, nor did his horse which tossed its
head and snorted at the smell of death. Slowly he came, and the mass
of fighting men parted before him like a sea. He held his course,
then swerved slightly when he spied the Lion banner of England, and
next to it the red cross on the white field of St George.