The Bow by Bill Sharrock Read Free Book Online Page A

Hunte appeared, holding up the injured Eric,
and supporting his bandaged shoulder.
    ‘ Saw it all! Heard it all!’ he said with his broad,
toothless grin. There was a jagged cut over his eye where the flange
of a mace had nicked him.
    ‘ King Harry an’ that Frenchie,’ he went on. ‘They
was right in front of me, well near enough. They stand back from the
banners, an’ Harry says:
    “ How come you, Mountjoy?” An’ the Frenchie says:
“To let you know whether the field be yours or no.” Then Harry
sort of grins, but ‘e’s angry see, and a bit cut about and
bruised. “I know not whether it be for England or for France,” he
says, but he aint laughing. So at last the herald gives a kind of sad
nod, an’ says back:
    “ The field is yours.” Now the king just stares at
him, so the fellow says again: “The field is yours great Harry!
Give us leave to book our dead.”
    ‘ Then Harry falls down on his knees, and says
something like “Sweet Jesu, God be praised!” but I can’t
rightly hear him, ‘cos he’s got his face near down in the mud.
But the Duke of Bedford, ‘e’s there, ye see, an’ he hauls the
king to his feet, and shouts an’ slaps ‘im on the back, like
they’re all lads in a tavern! And old Mountjoy just standing
there, and ne’r moving a muscle, but I swear there were tears
a’starting. Never seen the like!’
    Old Lewis looked about him, and carefully lowered Eric
to the ground, and propped him against a broken shield and buckler.
‘A hard day, lads, but a good ‘un.’
    Jankyn Fustor nodded, and taking off his leather cap,
rubbed his brow.
    ‘ Aye, hard for some and good for t’others. John
Grafton copped it, and young Richie Walsh too. Saw ‘em go down.
Will Glyn took a clip but ‘e’s all right: just a little lighter
on one side.’ He laughed and knelt down by Eric who was ashen pale.
    ‘ And how are you, soldier?’
    The man-at-arms tried to smile. ‘Never better, Jankyn.
Never better.’
    From across the field, hard by the royal banner came the
sound of singing: rough, guttural but rising to a tune. Yevan ap
Griffiths came up with Morgaun. He paused and put his head to one
side:
    They’re singing a Te Deum,’ he said.
    ‘ What’s that?’ asked James.
    Yevan smiled: ‘It’s a hymn, that’s what, you
heathen Englishman. Te Deum, and then Te Domine. “Te Domine, non
nobis.” That’s how it goes. Not for us the glory, Lord, but to
You.’
    They all stood for a time, listening. A few of the
knights and men-at-arms nearby, and one or two archers who knew the
tune, took up the hymn and began to sing as well.
    'Strange,’ muttered Jankyn, ‘Never ‘eard that
afore.’
    ‘ What, a Te Deum?’ asked Yevan.
    ‘ Nay, lad. Just the singing. Singing, that’s what.
Never heard it so after a fight. Heard it afore, aye, afore. There’s
many a time ye’ll hear them sing afore a fight, but nay afterwards.
Strange.’
    Yevan shrugged. ‘Well, they’re singing now, Jankyn,
and there’s a fact. And they’re giving God the glory which is
rare enough these days.’
    Jankyn looked across at Morgaun and winked: ‘It was
our arrows but, and we shot ‘em.’
    ‘ Aye,’ replied Yevan, ‘But it was God sent the
rain, and He made the mud.’
    ‘ True. He made that all right, and it saved our bacon
right enough, but see what a pigsty we’ve made of it.’ He
sniffed. ‘Stinks like a midden.’
    They were all silent for a time. The muffled cries and
groans of the wounded rose about them, and the first of the great
black crows came flapping down onto the field.
    Suddenly James needed to sit down. Somewhere. Anywhere.
His body felt taut, his limbs shook, and his throat was as dry as an
August ditch. He put his hand to his stomach and felt the wound
smart.
    ‘ Here lad!’ It was Eric. ‘Sit beside me, an’
we’ll prop each other up.’
    James sat down. ‘My prisoner,’ he said, looking over
his shoulder.
    'Don’t worry,’ grunted Yevan . ‘I’ll see to him.
The