CHAPTER 10
AGINCOURT, 1415.
“By God, John, there’s a lot of them,” the one eyed knight said.
“Aye, Lloyd, a great many,” John replied to his friend.
Beside them stood their fellow men at arms, Tobby the Bold, Roger of Penrith and Taffy the Scott, and their commander The Duke of Cumberland; the only survivors of a unit of thirty men at arms who had set off from the north of England to France. Ahead of them King Henry the Fifth paced up and down the lines, sword in hand. All around them nine hundred more men at arms and knights stood waiting.
Lloyd’s disfigurement, which brutally marked his sleek and handsome face, was not uncommon amongst the men. It was John, with only a few scars on his hands and face, who was out of place in that battle mauled force.
To either side of them, a vast force of archers prepared themselves. Over five thousand men from England and Whales armed with longbows.
But across the water logged field, as far, far greater force waited impatiently to do battle with them.
Thirty thousand Frenchmen, almost all men at arms and knights, many on horseback. The knights resembled a massive wall of polished silver, above which hundreds of bright banners flew. On the flanks stood small groups of men with bows or crossbows. The sounds of their many drums, trumpets and flutes drifted across the field.
They had already performed their heathenish earth Mass and committed their lives to the Will of God. They waited for battle, and with it victory or death.
“We need ale,” Lloyd said. “When this is over, we must loot us some ale…”
“Silence you cur!” The Duke shouted. “The King is speaking.”
All fell silent and stared as King Henry prepared to make his speech to lead them to slaughter.
“Get thee at them!” Henry roared.
And that was it. With a clanking of rusty armour and stomping of iron shod boots on muddy ground, they advanced towards the French. At the range of a longbow’s arrow from the enemy, and flanked on either side by trees, they halted.
They could see the enemy force now. Bowmen, crossbowmen, men at arms and the endless legions of mounted knights whose steeds pawed the mud. They could make out the coats of arms of the leading nights, and knew that all of the most renowned warriors in France faced them.
The British archers gave the French their usual greeting. The two fingered V sight salute which showed that they still had the fingers used to draw a bow- the fingers which the French cut from prisoners.
The French force stirred. With a great waving of banners and sounding of trumpets, the leading divisions advanced in a disorganised mass.
Henry gave the word, and the archers fired. The sky turned black with arrows.
Like those ancient warriors of Sparta, they would fight in the shade.
The French broke into a charge as the arrows rained down on them. Men at arms on foot slipped in the mud, and knight’s horses stumbled and fell. Hundreds died in the cloud of arrows.
The English men at arms stood to receive the enemy- a fraction of the force which had first advanced on them.
“Harry, England and the girls back home!” The Duke of Cumberland shouted.
“The girl’s back home!” John, Lloyd and the rest of their men chorused.
Wooden shields clashed together, iron bit iron and the English and French met in combat.
John braced his shield against a charging French man at arms and blocked the man’s sword with his own. He braced himself, pulled his sword free and then down into the man’s head. As the Frenchman stumbled, he kicked his legs from under him, knocked him out of the way and defended himself against the next attacker.
Beside him, Lloyd dragged his sword free of a dead man’s chest. Roger fell back wounded, and Taffy, Tobby and The Duke fought on.
More of the French charged into the fray, but they were unable to bring their missile weapons to bear because their own men were in the way. The first wave had made the mud even worse as the French stumbled and trampled their own wounded comrades to death
The English men at arms stood like a wall of flesh and iron as waves of the enemy fell upon them.
Evidentially sheer weight of numbers and brutality of combat forced the English back, one blood soaked foot at a time.
After twelve hard fought feet of retreat, the English stood their ground. Many of the arches, armed with weapons looted from the French dead, charged into the slaughter.
The French could not stand this fresh assault. Inch by agonising inch, the English took back their land, trampling the bodies of the dead on the way.
John and his men stood on a mound of their enemies. He raised his battered shield to block a French axe, then cut across at the man- breaking him.
That was the last of their immediate enemies. Across the field of churned mud and broken men they could see the distant enemy line where yet more of the French waited.
“How goes it?” John asked Lloyd, who stood, breathless, leaning on his sword.
“Will be alright when I have some ale,” he replied.
Then the French charged again. And again the sky went dark with English and Welsh arrows.
A group of mounted knights galloped at John’s men. The leading horseman fell to an arrow. That madly thrashing steed, combined with the terrible mud, took down the next two knights, but two more charged on.
A knight rode straight at John, the steed’s eyes mad with fear as it climbed the bodies of the dead. It reared up on its hind legs, pawing at the air with its hooves- catching John’s iron helmet and knocking him down.
Lloyd leapt over his comrades body and protected it with sword and shield, whilst Taffy hamstringed the beast and Tobby cut down the rider. The Duke took care of the other knight.
Lloyd threw down his shield and took up John’s sword in his left hand. Wielding both weapons he guarded his friend from a group of French men at arms who followed the knights.
“England and ale! England and ale!” Lloyd shouted at he cut down the enemy.
Tobby the Bold fell beside him to the assault of two tall Frenchmen, but Lloyd, Taffy and The Duke took care of the rest.
It was then that The French- battered and exhausted and with many of their leaders slain- surrendered.
Many prisoners were taken; French knights and Counts who would fetch great ransoms.
Two men at arms threw down their swords and surrendered to Lloyd.
The days seemed to be won, but then banners waved on the distant French lines.
“The French assault!” King Henry was heard shouting. “Kill the prisoners!”
Lloyd looking into the desperate eyes of his prisoners, then at his Duke, who nodded. Lloyd was too tired to care. In two swift strokes he murdered the men.
All around them hundreds of Frenchmen were put to death. All except the most valuable who were dragged behind the lines to be ransomed later.
The French counter attack was pitiful. A few hundred troops who were cut down by arrows.
The battle was over.
Lloyd looked down at John. His friend breathed still, but was unconscious and had several wounds from stray boots and swords as well as the blow to his head. Lloyd ripped off scraps of his cloak to cover the worst of the cuts and then called for a priest to see to him.
“You own me John,” he said.
Then he strode over to the abandoned French baggage train and searched it until he found a drink. There was no ale to be found, so he settled for a bottle of wine.
He smashed the neck of the bottle open with his dagger, sat down on a dead horse and took a swig from the bottle.
He looked around him.
Twelve thousand of the French lay dead or dying, beside them only a thousand of the English and Welsh.
All around him men and horses screamed in pain.
His skin was filthy with sweat, mud and gore. His armour was battered and he bled from a dozen minor wounds.
Blood mixed with wine in his mouth and he laughed.
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