The Bow by Bill Sharrock Read Free Book Online

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.
    James paused as he led a young lord, hands roughly
bound, to an old marker stone where most of the prisoners were
gathered. Never had he seen such a knight as Mountjoy. Earlier in the
day, he had viewed this herald from afar, dismounted, but now he saw
him from twenty paces and in the full glory of a chevalier. How could
these English scarecrows have stood against men such as Mountjoy?
    Closer he came. Closer, until James had to step back to
let him pass. For a moment the herald glanced down at him. Returning
the gaze, James saw nobility and sorrow all at once. ‘We’ve won!’
he thought, and raised his hand in a kind of vague salute, but
Mountjoy had gone.
    'Did ye see him?’ said Jankyn Fustor in his easy Devon
drawl. ‘He’s bound for the king right enough. See! There ‘e
goes now. Dancin’ over the dead like ‘e was bound for to see ‘is
sweetheart.’ He laughed, and looked towards the fighting. ‘We’d
better be back there, young’un. If King Harry catches sight of us
meandering over here, he’ll have our guts for bowstrings that’s
for sure.’
    James nodded, and they began to make their way back,
pushing past the archers and men-at-arms who were bringing in
prisoners, and joining those who were headed for the press. But they
had scarcely arrived when a trumpet sounded, followed by a ragged
cheer. They all stopped and turned towards the sound. There by the
royal banners the king stood. Mountjoy was with him, and the lords of
England too. One of them was waving. It was Sir Thomas Erpingham. The
trumpet sounded again. And then they heard it:
    'No more, lads! No more! The field is ours!’ The old
marshal was shouting and all about him men were putting up their
weapons. A few shouted with him. One or two shook spears or swords,
but mostly all were silent, staring dumbly around or hanging their
heads and leaning on whatever weapons they carried.
    Old Lewis