The Old Patched Shirt
Or
Petters? Peyters? Poitiers?
By Grim Wendlewulf
The old man eased his back against the wooden wall of the barn, raised his face to the warm summer sun and smiled. He settled his buttocks into the cushion that softened the block of wood he was sitting on and examined the tired old shirt he held in his hand. The shirt was less a shirt than a collection of patches; although it still could be thought of as parti-coloured, just what the colours were seemed variable. The left side varied from burberry to sky blue; the right side from mulberry red to pink – all in a bewildering collections of patches upon patches.
‘Uncle,’ the youth said, easing the scythe across his shoulder to get it to rest comfortably. ‘We are supposed to be with the rest haymaking. Why aren’t you ready?’
‘You telling me I’m late Gareth? That makes a change for ‘tis normally I chasing thee!’
‘Hmmph.’ Gareth
gave up holding the scythe on his shoulder and leant it against the barn wall.
‘Anyway boy: aren't you late? The others left a while back.' ‘I was trimming Gifu the goat's hoves!' ‘Oh ah,' Wulf replied offhandedly. ‘Well, Uncle Wulf, are you coming haymaking or not?’ ‘I have found a
tear in my old shirt and I needs to repair it first.’ Wulf put the shirt down
and started sorting though a collection of oddments of material at his feet. ‘Why are you
repairing it? Couldn’t Aunt Lucy have done it for you?’ ‘Ah, well – she
says if I want to keep old clothes rather than scrap them, then I have to
repair them.’ Gareth squatted on
his haunches and started to examine the old shirt whilst his uncle continued to
sort through the bits of cloth at his feet that, by their colours seemed to
have been part of clothing similar to the old shirt. ‘Is it worth repairing
though Uncle? It is rather threadbare.’ Wulf held a piece
of reddish pink cloth up to the sun and gave it gentle tugs to test its
strength, rejected it and did the same to a dark mulberry piece that by its
shape had been part of the foot of a leg of hosen. ‘Old soldiers habits die
hard; waste not – want not.’ Gareth gave the
shirt another examination. ‘To be honest, Uncle, thrifty yeoman’s son that I
am, even I would not bother repairing this shirt. It is so thin in parts, I’d
even not even want to tear it up into arse wipes for fear it would fail when
most needed.’ ‘Thrifty yeoman?
And you talking arse wipes?’ Wulf put down his selected patch and pointed the stub
of his mutilated right index finger at his nephew. ‘When I was your age boy,
arses were not wiped with bits of cloth but wiped with moss when things were good,
and leaves when things weren’t so good.’ Gareth sloughed
against the wall; “I supposed the leaves were from the holly bush too,’ he
muttered under his breath, not expecting his hard of hearing uncle to hear him. ‘Only when
constipated young man! You see you could use the prickle in the end to …’ ‘Thank you Uncle,
I know what you are going to say. Anyway – how come you heard what I said?’ ‘Things that are
said in the dark are brought out into the open, so says scripture.’ ‘Does it?’ ‘Probably.’ Gareth sighed.
‘Anyway; the old shirt – why keep repairing it? I mean, even the odd scraps you
have to patch it with are threadbare.’ Geffrey Wulf
reclaimed his old shirt and checked the patch to the size of the tear. ‘This
shirt was what I wore at the Battle of Petters. That makes it special.’ ‘Petters? Do you
mean Poitiers?’ ‘That may be how
them Frogs say it boy, but Edward, Prince of Wales, God rest his soul, he
called it “Petters”, and if it were good enough for him, it be good enough for
me.’ Gareth found
himself a block of wood from a pile waiting to be split and sat himself down
beside his uncle. ‘They say the Prince of Wales used to speak English to his
English troops and French to his French troops.’ The old archer
smiled. ‘English with a London accent strong it made it hard for anyone
from north of Watford to understand him and almost impossible
for any Welsh serving him to follow what he said.’ Wulf held up his selected
patch and gentled tugged it yet again to test the material’s strength. ‘Mind he
spoke his French with a strong London accent too. Word was his Gascon troops
thought they would have better understood him if he had addressed then in
English rather than French. Funny people the French; no pleasing them – even
when they are your own loyal French.’ Wulf used a needle to ease a thread from
the cloth, having done so he passed thread and needle to his nephew. ‘Please,
the old eye ain’t the same.’ Gareth squinted
his eyes in concentration as he threaded the needle; ‘Anyway, you served the
Duke of Lancaster, not the Prince of Wales.’ ‘Family affinity
is Lancaster. Not always the in the right of it, but
affinity is affinity even though it can cause you grief, as Sir Alan de Buxhall’s
father found out at Boroughbridge – almost cost him his head that battle for
Lancaster did. One advantage of being yeoman boy, we are only thought of as
followers so we keep our heads if taken prisoner.’ ‘So,’ Gareth asked
as patiently as he could, for he was only too familiar with his uncle’s way of
going off at tangents and/or getting too detailed in his explanation, ‘what
were you doing in the Prince of Wales army? Wasn’t Lancaster and his army
raiding through Normandy at the time?’ ‘His Grace of
Lancaster to you boy.’ “I’ve heard you
call him a lot of other names!’ Wulf leant across
and mildly cuffed his nephew across the back of the head. ‘That’s me, an old
soldier what served him speaking. You be anything other than very polite when
referring to his Grace of Lancaster in front of Sir Alan and any hope you have
of entering his service as a household archer will vanish. Now, you threaded
that needle yet?’ Gareth passed the
needle and thread over to Wulf, who promptly made the thread double and knotted
the end. ‘Well, I was with
His Grace’s army, under Sir Alan’s banner of course. That’s the old Duke mind,
Henry of Grossmont, not John of Gaunt. We had had a right time of it chopping
through Normandy.’ Wulf used some spare needles to roughly
pin the patch in place over the tear in the sun rotted left shoulder of the
shirt. ‘We managed to relieve a couple of “English” towns that the French had
been besieging and had the horror of storming two of theirs and taking them:
try and avoid storming towns boy, not that you get the choice mind. Anyway,’
Wulf slipped a smooth flat of wood under the area he was mending, ‘we were then
stalked by the French King, Jean – a girl’s name, but then that’s the French
for you. A huge army. The French king, he sent a challenge to battle across,
but the old Duke, he weren’t daft, sent back some smart reply about being on a
certain business, which he had now done and was going back home: then we did a
midnight flit.’ Wulf saw Gareth’s puzzled look: ‘Had it away on our toes,’ he
explained to the boy. Seeing confusion still in the boys face he added; ‘Legged
it, snuck away, left very quietly.’ Seeing enlightenment in the boy’s eyes, the
old archer continued. ‘Our scouts, when they came back said the Frogs had stood
to arms all night expecting battle in the morn: daft buggers. They thought they
saw us also standing to arms, but ‘twas only the scouts and some mounted
archers on the skyline, left to fool them. I mean,’ he made his first stitch,
‘with all that loot and ransomable prisoners and them so outnumbering us, did
they expect us to stand when we could withdraw and not risk all?’ Gareth settled
himself more comfortably, for he could see his uncle was settling into
storytelling mode and it seemed so much more attractive than haymaking under a
hot sun. He nodded encouragingly at Wulf. The old man
continued: ‘We pulled back step by step, town by town till we got to where Sir
Robert Knollys had a camp set up for us at Carentan. Now there was a fighting
man, Sir Robert. Him and only seven men had just beaten up and killed 120 Froggies
…..’ ‘Uncle: Poitiers?’ ‘Right. Well we
rested up and then went back down towards the Law
River.’ ‘Loire?’ ‘Correct: ‘cos the
thing was, Lancaster, His Grace of Lancaster to you boy, was supposed to have
been linking up with His Grace, the Prince of Wales, who had been burning and
looting his way north from Gascony. But when we got there all the bridges were
broken or held in force and there were Frogs everywhere, thousands of them –
thousands upon thousands of them, wherever we turned. All them Frenchies and no
open crossing made it all too risky. You can’t get caught trying to cross
rivers when the enemy holds the banks. Mind, on the campaign that lead to Cressey….’ ‘Uncle!’ ‘Right; Petters.’
The old man re-examined the patch and moved it slightly and re-pinned it.
‘Where was I? Oh yes: so seeing as His Grace couldn’t make the link up, word
had to be sent to the Prince of Wales so as he knew to turn back to our own
French lands rather than get cut off.’ ‘And, Uncle, and
..’ ‘And Sir Alan volunteered me and a few of my squadies
to take the message.’ *** Edward,
Prince of Wales, son of King Edward III, King of England and rightful King France, Lord of Ireland,
Overlord of Scotland, sat with a bored look on his face as two cardinals,
their faces as red as their garb, spoke on and on about making a truce with the
French King, whose armies were closing in on Edward’s. The Prince stifled a
yawn, turned to a page at his elbow and indicated the youngster should offer
his unwanted guests more wine. ‘Wine your? Honours? Graces? Excellencies?’ The cardinals looked puzzled at the boy’s English
words. ‘Don’t worry young Piers; they no more understand your
words than they understand that I want to fight the French King, not make a
truce with him. Just fill their goblets and hopefully they will take the hint.
Some decent strong wine may dull their wits even more – they may even fall
asleep with luck.’ Edward’s voice was as flat and devoid of meaning as his
face. Seeing the cardinals accept the proffered wine he let his eyes wander
over the green fields of Montbazan. His mind pondered the contrast between the
pristine scene and the stench of the military camp with the rich smell of
cooking fighting against the stink of human occupation and the
always-underlying stench of the horse lines. He glanced at the cardinals, who
seemed to have used the wine to refresh their vocal cords and appeared to be about
to renew their attempts to gain a truce between the English and French armies. Someone coughed discretely near his ear and the Prince
looked up with relief and smiled at his favourite Captain, Lord Audley. Edward
held out a flat hand towards the cardinals, stalling any attempt for them to
start talking again. ‘Your Grace: a messenger from your cousin, the Duke of
Lancaster.’ ‘And not before time. I’ve stalled here waiting for
news. Bring him in, but keep him at the entrance till I get rid of these idiots,’
he indicated the cardinals. The cardinals looked at the Prince expectantly.’ ‘I am sorry Your Eminences: the truce cannot be
agreed to. You see, I just don’t have the authority. Naturally I will send your
request and advice on to my father the King for, you see, only he can say “yea
or nay” on a truce of this nature that involves another king. Sorry.’
Edwards stood, gave a curt drop of his head and left his pavilion, collecting Audley
and Lancaster’s messenger on the way out, leaving the
cardinals struggling to understand the Prince’s strangely pronounced French. Edward indicated with his head for the messenger to
walk ahead of them. ‘Well James, is he one of ours? Not a French spy?’ the
Prince hissed ‘Your Grace, he wears the Duke of Lancaster’s colours,’
Audley hissed back ‘Easily taken from a body. Does he have paperwork?’ ‘Indeed, though he says he has other words he was to
keep only in his head and for your ears only.’ ‘Could be misinformation. Does he speak proper
English, like what I does?’ ‘Not quite; sort of soft southern county with an
overlay of London.’ ‘Who does he say he serves?’ ‘Sir Alan de Buxhall.’ ‘That rogue? No one would lie about being identified
with him!’ ‘True.’ ‘A rogue, but at least he is our rogue and a very
valuable and loyal rogue at that. If Alan sent him he must have some useful
characteristics. Right, let’s see what his missive says.’ The Prince caught up
with the messenger. ‘Right man, this is private enough place. Pass on your
message.’ The messenger stopped, turned and went on one knee. He
proffered up a creased and rather battered piece of parchment. Edward took the parchment and examined the wax seal,
in particular checking whether it had been tampered with. ‘You are?’ ‘Geffrey ðe Wulf, Household Archer to Sir Alan de Buxhall,
in the army of his Grace, Henry, Duke of Lancaster.’ Edward ran his eye over Wulf, taking in the fact that
he had a red scar running from his forehead to his chin on the left side of his
face, the scar being interrupted by a leather patch where his eye had once
been. ‘You know what is written here?’ The Prince tapped the parchment against
his cheek. ‘Your Grace, I don’t read or speak French.’ ‘Nor should you still be an archer with only one eye.’
Edward re-examined the seal for interference. ‘How do you know it is written in
French if you haven’t opened it and then resealed it?’ ‘I was there when it was writ Your Grace, and I
couldn’t read it then, no more than I would be able to read it now.’ ‘You read English though?’ ‘I am a yeoman, Your Grace, I need to know my
letters.’ ‘Hmm: true.’ Edward broke the seal and perused the
correspondence. ‘Hmm. You took your time in getting here, weeks rather than
days.’ ‘Frenchies like fleas on a dog’s back Your Grace. All
bridges down or guarded, fords blocked or broken. We had to go miles west along
the River Law till we could find a place unguarded and could swim the horses
across. As it was I lost two men in a skirmish. It was only by great guile I
made it through to your camp here, Your Grace.’ ‘And the words for my ears only?’ Wulf looked up at the Prince. ‘Yes you can rise and approach.’ Wulf rose and whispered in the Princes’ ear. Edward winced at what he heard. ‘Right Wulf by name,
wolf by nature. Take yourself off to get fed and rested. If I want to get a reply
back to Lancaster, where would I send a messenger?’ ‘Punts dew Shay, though the bridge over the River Law is guarded.’ ‘Ponts du Cė,’ Audley clarified, ‘the other side
of the River Loire.’ ‘That’s what he said,’ dismissed the Prince. Wulf limped away in search of food from the field
kitchen. ‘James?’ ‘Your Grace?’ ‘Message to my loved cousin of Lancaster: meet me at Chatellault. I expect to be there 14
September and will wait three days. If you do not appear, I will take it you
have tried your best, and understand. I must then remake my plans for engaging
the false French king.’ Edward rocked on his heels in thought. ‘James: I was
going to send the wolf back to his pack with the message but, if the French are
swarming around the River Law, then we would be better to use a more discrete
messenger. We need a Gascon, a loyal Gasocon.’ Audley raised an eyebrow. The Prince inclined his head knowingly ‘One of Captal
de Buch’s boys.’ Audley let out an audible sigh of relief. ‘I need someone who knows the local dialect. He is to
have no livery, plain horse, man to be nothing noticeable to look at. Plain
horse; plain man.’ ‘And well rewarded?’ ‘If he makes it there? Yes. I only pay on results.’ ‘And the verbal message from His Grace of Lancaster?’ ‘For my ears only James, for my ears only.’ *** ‘You are leaving.’ Mark the Archer stirred Geffrey de
Wulf with the toe of his boot. ‘His Nibs of Wales is letting me and my mate to get
back to our own army?’ ‘No,’ the Devonshire man
drawled. ‘Weem to provide escort to his wains full of booty and head to Petters,
whilst those with horses go with him off to chase the Froggy King.’ ‘Mark,’ Wulf held out his hand to be pulled up.’ We
have horses.’ ‘True, but if we are to escort the wains, we need them
to stay above the dust.’ ‘Oh well. This Petters? North towards the army of Lancaster?’ ‘South towards Bordeaux.’ ‘Oh well, I suppose the weather will be warmer.’ Wulf
kicked the leg of a young man sleeping cuddled up to his war bow as if it were
his girlfriend. ‘Oi wake up.’ ‘Ah bugger to be sure,’ the stirring youth muttered. ‘What ‘im say?’ asked Mark. Wulf shrugged. ‘Who be you?’ Mark asked the youth. ‘Airka Eóganachta Mór.’ ‘What?’ the Devonshire man asked. ‘He said he is Irish.’ Wulf enlightened. ‘That explains a lot.’ Mark offered the youth his hand
and helped to pull him to his feet. ‘Does his Nibs know it is the middle of the night?’ Wulf
asked Mark as they headed off. ‘I understand he has no problems with his eyesight.’ ‘Lucky him.’ Wulf stretched and then groaned and
massaged his back. ‘Maybe the ground is softer down south.’ ‘Well at least the roads won’t be too rutted if we are
ahead of the army.’ ‘Lucky us. Though not so lucky if the army succeed in
catching the French King and taking him. They will get the booty.’ ‘Booty?’ asked Airka, his eyes brightening at the
thought. ‘Or lucky us if they get drubbed by the Frogs. Just
think: if we are all that get back to Bordeaux all the
loot already taken gets divided between us few rather than the six thousand odd
in the Princes’ army.’ ‘And us?’ questioned the Irishman. ‘We are now part of his army, are we not?’ Wulf informed
him. ‘True,’ Mark confirmed. ‘Come Gef we need to move –
the main army gets going at dawn and we need to be long gone by then.’ *** ‘They’re back Gef.’ Wulf joined Mark
Archer and watched the dusty columns of riders come up the hill towards the
lager of wagons on the top of the hill south of Poitiers. One column rode up the Nouaille
Road towards where it cut
through the hedge than ran along the full length of the ridge. The other column
came along the Le Gue de L’Homme
Road and its gap in the
hedge. As the first riders rode through the Le Gue gap men ran up asking for
news. Weary looks spoke louder than words. ‘Don’t look like
they got the Frog King then Mark.’ ‘Well, there,
there,’ Mark pointed Wulf to two very fancily armoured men with expensive
horses. 'They don’t look English and by their faces, they ain’t happy to be
here. They may have missed the King, but they got a couple of valuable
prisoners.’ ‘Not that we will
see any of the booty I suspect.’ ‘Booty?’ Arika
asked hopefully. ‘You never know:
If they pool the ransoms and plunder,’ reassured Mark. ‘Meantime it’s
back to digging trenches to protect the supply train lager.’ Wulf bent his back to dig
another shovelful of earth, watched by Airka who was leaning on his shovel. ‘Well’ Mark
drawled, ‘better than digging the latrines, for they be already in use.’ ‘Praise God for
small mercies.’ Wulf emptied his shovel over Airka’s foot. *** Edward, Prince of
Wales, sat with a bored look on his face as the two cardinals, their faces as
red as their cassocks, spoke on and on about making a truce with the French
King, whose army was camped very near Edward’s. He stifled a yawn as they
extolled the virtues of peace. His eyelids flickered as he fought off a desire
to sleep whilst they explained the advantages of a truce, one that, in exchange
for his booty and a few unimportant castles, very unimportant they emphasised,
he and his men could return to Bordeaux unmolested. ‘Fine, a
parley, in the no-man’s land between our camps. Noon.’ The cardinals
thought and mentally translated the unusual French into more understandable
French. Having grasped the meaning they smiled and left, heading for the camp
of Jean, King of France. Sir John Chandos
snorted down his nose: ‘You agreeing to a truce?’ ‘Just buying time
John: I want all scouts pulled back for I know where our enemy is. I want that
trench round the lager deepened and stakes set in it. My left flank is
protected by marsh but my right is vulnerable without something we make
ourselves.’ He turned and waved James Audley over. ‘James get the loot wagons
away as soon as the light has gone: not the supply train: that stays. I want my
men fed and I want them to have easy access to whatever arrows we have left.’
He turned back to Chandos; ‘John stand the men down and get them checking
harness and weapons. God willing we fight tomorrow. I have been trying to temp
Jean into battle and now I can almost smell it.’ ‘Your Grace,’ Sir
John Chandos left. ‘Its after a battle you get the smell,’ he muttered as he
walked towards the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury who were drinking and laughing with other nobles and knights
bannerette who had gathered around a fire. *** Edward, Prince of
Wales, sat with a bored look on his face as the two cardinals, egged on by the
French nobles at their side, spoke on and on about making a truce with the French
King, whose army would crush Edward’s in the morning unless said truce was
signed. Edward laughed out
aloud. ‘I am sorry Your Eminences: the truce cannot be agreed to. You see, I
just don’t have the authority. Naturally I will send your request and advice on
to my father the King for, you see, only he can say “yea or nay” on a truce of
this nature that involves another king. Now piss off.’ Edwards stood, gave
a curt drop of his head and left his pavilion, collecting the Earls Warwick, Oxford and Salisbury, Sir James Audley and Sir John Chandos on
the way out, leaving those still in the pavilion struggling to understand his
strangely pronounced French. ‘All ready?’ the
Prince asked. ‘As best we can be
Your Grace,’ Warwick answered. ‘Warwick: your Battle to take the left flank. Salisbury yours the right. Leave a space between you, but not
for my Battle. I will be centre but back and will hold
my troops in reserve. You have all the archers. Usual form, wedges on your
flanks. As usual all men-at-arms dismounted but spured up and horses to be held
by pages in the wood to our rear, ready to go if we need them. We will stay
formed up south of the hedge that runs along the ridge.’ Edward turned to Warwick. ‘My Lord you will use spare wagons and brush wood to
block the gap where the road in your centre goes through.’ He turned to Salisbury; ‘My Lord you will leave your road unblocked.’ Salisbury looked puzzled. Edward smiled and
ran his hand through his white gold hair. ‘With luck those French that survive
the archers will get through the gap and we can pin them against the hedge and finish them off.’ *** ‘I’m never happy
shooting alongside those I don’t know.’ Mark the Archer carried on passing
sheaves of two dozen arrows down to Wulf and Airka from the bed of the wagon.
‘We all know how much space to give each others so the bows don’t clash and all
that.’ ‘Job has to be
done Mark. You will just have to get used to us two. We have the same concern
for you and yours but they do say Warwick’s men are
top men, English and Welsh.’ ‘Welsh: good
archers and I suppose they be more reliable then the Gascons and we’ve plenty
of them in this army.’ Airka contributed. ‘What him say?' queried Mark ‘Watch your back with the Gascons,'Wulf translated. Mark jumped down from the bed of the waggon
and, together with Wulf and the Irishman, tramped towards their position on the
Earl of Warwick’s far left flank a sheaf under each arm. ‘Hurry up you three:
maybe you can slack in Lancaster’s army, but you need to learn to jump in Warwick’s,’ a sergeant archer yelled as he jogged past, two
sheaves under each arm. ‘Bloody show off.’
Wulf sped up from an amble to a walk. ‘Me in Lancaster’s army?’ said a hurt Mark. ‘A step up is
that,’ Airka reassured him. *** ‘Dress ranks,’ the
Captain of Archers shouted. ‘Dress ranks.’ The archers
shuffled inexpertly till they were in a reasonably military shape. A group rode up on
splendid horses, at their head the unmistakably handsome face of the Prince of
Wales, his blond hair glittering in the sun. Edwards stood in
his stirrups: ‘All right you horrible smelly lot; I don’t know if you frighten
the Frogs but you sure as Hell frighten me. The smell alone should make the Frenchies
falter! I won’t tell you how to fight ‘cos I know that you know how to do that
only too well. Back home most of you would be dangling from the gallows by now.
Anyway me beauties: we kicked their garlic tainted arses at Sluys, Crecy and so
many other places so I know with you archers here we will do it again. You also
know the odds: lose and we die. But win, oh yes win and glory will be ours.’
The Prince paused and looked at his archers’ bored faces. ‘Just joking. Oh yeah
me old muckers: bugger the glory – think of the booty!’ The archers
cheered enthusiastically. ‘What did he say?’
Wulf asked Mark. ‘I didn’t catch it all. Hearings never been the same after I
got hit on the head a few years back. The steel helm may have stopped me brains
falling out but the ringing sound is still there.’ ‘Why not ask your
mate,’ Mark asked indicating the sleeping Airka at their feet. ‘Can’t understand
much of what he says: seems a mix of English, German and the tongue twisting
speech he assures me is Irish.’ ‘Well, anyway; don’t
worry Gef,’ Mark assured Wulf, 'here come the sergeants, repeating his message
for those what didn’t hear it. Earlier he gave the whole army a talk all full
of “band of brothers; we few, we very few and honour & glory” and all that
stuff as I understand. This talk was a special wind up for us archers that they
say that is nearer the truth.’ *** ‘Food,’ said Wulf. ‘Food?’ ‘Food!’ Wulf
insisted. ‘But Uncle,’
Gareth whined. ‘The battle is about to start.’ ‘Food is essential
to a soldier, as are other things.’ Wulf put down his partially patched shirt
and stretched his legs. ‘Remember the four S’s?’ ‘Yes Uncle Wulf,’
Gareth agreed in a bored voice. ‘Sleep; Shit; Stew; Stuff.’ ‘Every chance that
offers, for you never know when you may get the next chance to sleep, shit, stew
in a bath or stuff your face.’ ‘Only chance of a
stew on campaign is when you burn down a French peasant’s house to heat the
water,’ Gareth muttered as he started towards the house. ‘I heard that boy!
If you can’t get hot water use cold, even if it means standing in a river to
wash! Nothing worse than sweat burn: try marching 20 miles a days with it, or
riding a horse for 40 with it! Stew is best, but cold wash will do.’ The boy turned: ‘Your
hearing, Uncle, is very selective isn’t it? When Aunt Lucy wants something done
you never seem to hear, but when I mutter a comment you do!’ Wulf smiled in a
hurt way. ‘Talking of Aunt
Lucy: hasn’t she taken the prepared food to the fields with her and the
others?’ ‘Bound to be some
cheese and bread around; maybe some apples too. Oh,’ Wulf added. ‘Don’t forget
some beer.’ Gareth started off
towards the house. ‘That’s another
thing boy: avoid drinking just water when you can. One can never be sure about the
quality of the water.’ *** ‘What’s
happening?’ the supposedly sleeping Wulf asked. ‘Nothing that I
can see,’ Mark informed him. Airka slept on. *** ‘What’s
happening?’ the dozing Mark asked, shifting his body on the hard ground. ‘Nothing that I
can see,’ Wulf informed him. Airka slept on. *** ‘What’s
happening?’ Wulf asked, his voice muffled by the arm that draped over his face
covering his eye from the summer sun. Beside him Airka snored gently, his
outward breath raising the edge of the hood he had drawn over his face, his in
taken breath sucking it back into place. ‘Our lot, that is
Warwick’s, are still watering the horses and filling casks on the other side of
the river whilst the other lot, Salisbury’s, are further up on this side and
are starting to come back,’ Mark replied. ‘I was worried
they were doing a runner at first.’ Wulf wriggled his body into a more
comfortable position. ‘Not with each
rider taking three other horses with them.’ Mark shielded his eys and scanned
the scene at the bottom of the hill. ‘The first were
armoured and without additional horses.’ ‘True Gef, but
they must have been the escort.’ ‘I’ll go back to
sleep then. Wake me if anything exciting happens.’ Wulf let out a gentle sigh
that contrasted with Airka’s snores that were becoming louder and more
discordant. ‘Best wake now then,
for looks like a body of mounted Frenchies have arrived to have a go at our
lot.’ Wulf sat up
reluctantly, rubbed his right eye, shifted the leather patch over his missing
left into a more comfortable position then stood up. He squinted at the distant
river. ‘Too far away to see clearly. Though if Warwick’s men get done up it would let the Frogs come up this hill from the
rear.’ ‘Doubt it; there’s
only a narrow gap they can come up with that wood behind us. A few archers
there and they would all be dead before they could do anything. I know the
French can be daft, but even they wouldn’t be that stupid.’ ‘They are French.’
Wulf insisted. ‘True, but it
doesn’t look like it will be an issue as our lot seem to be sorting the Froggies
out and Salisbury’s guard are riding over to help them.’ ‘Good, I can get
back to sleep. I just hope some of that water is for us and not just for the
nags!’ Airka snored on. *** ‘Still nothing
happening Gef?’ Mark was lying with his head propped on his right hand, eyes
closed. ‘Not from the
French side. A lot of milling around, especially in the two mounted troupes.
Most of their army seems to be on foot. Nothing organised seems to be happening
though.’ ‘Well,’ Mark
drawled. ‘Them be French, disorganised milling around is their thing isn’t it;
they are famous for it – that and bad cooking.’ ‘True: everything
ruined with rich spiced sauces and garlic. I suppose though you have to do
something when the meat is inevitably rotten.’ Wulf changed his glance to the
rear of the English forces. ‘Something going on with our side though. Looks
like supply wains are on the move.’ ‘Ah: hopefully
they are bringing us food rather than arrows.’ ‘Food? did you say
food?’ asked Airka, waking at last. Wulf turned back
to his front, intending to make a derogatory comment to his mate when he
spotted something in the French lines. ‘What, what, what? Ho, ho! Not sure what
they think is happening up here but the Frenchies are all pointing toward the
supply wains and their cavalry are forming some sort of line; I think that at
last they may be going to attack.’ Mark struggled to
his feet and stared at the enemy, his better vision getting more detail than
Wulf could. ‘You are right; blow your horn, get the Captain’s attention, this
could be it.’ Geffrey ðe Wulf, raised
his hunting horn to his lips and expertly blew the alert. Seemingly dead
archers and men-at-arms suddenly sprung from the ground, strung bows and
checked weapons. More horns sounded and soon the whole English army was battle
ready. The French cavalry
advanced in two columns, one towards each of the gaps in the hedge made by the
roads that came up the hill. Out of bowshot they walked the horses then, as
they felt they came into arrow shot, they started to trot. Behind the hedge
the archers waited. ‘Nock,’ shouted
the Captains of Archers in Warwick’s Battle.
The archers nocked an arrow on their bowstring, looked over the hedge and
mentally judged the distance to the enemy. ‘We wait till the middle ranks pass
that first tree. Shoot only on my command. Volley shoot till they close and
only individual shoot when I say you can. Wait for it.’ ‘Anyone would
think we were novices,’ Wulf muttered to no one in particular. ‘Very soon boys,
very soon.’ The archers gently flexed and released their shoulder muscles. ‘Take
the leaders. Almost there.’ The Captain’s voice became almost seductive.
‘Almost there.’ He took a deep breath and tightened his grip on his own bow
stave. ‘DRAW!’ The massed archers drew the strings of their massive war bows to
their ears and raised the weapons to the sky. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky darkened
with arrows as both Warwick and Salisbury’s archers released their bowstrings at
almost the same time. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘HOLD.’ Cried out
the Captains of Archers. ‘HOLD.’ Repeated
the Sergeants of Archers. ‘HOLD.’ Responded
the archers. ‘The Earl of
Oxford says the arrows are bouncing off their breast plates. They bloody well know
it and are protecting the infantry that is following them up the hill, we are
wasting arrows. Go for the horses; go for their bloody horses,’ the Herald told
the Earl of Warwick. ‘Sodding Oxford telling me what to do.’ The Earl took a deep breath,
realised the value of the information and slowly expelled before filling his
lungs again, ‘Tell the archers,’ Warwick yelled to his Captains; ‘get the horses.’ ‘GET THE HORSES,’ cried the Captains of Archers. ‘GET THE HORSES,’ cried the Sergeants of Archers. ‘GET THE HORSES,’ confirmed the archers. ‘On my command,’
yelled the Captain of Archers. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The archers
nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. Below them the
French had reached the hedge and were trying to force the gap which Warwick’s men had blocked with upturned wagons and brushwood.
As they rode parallel to the English army the other side of the hedge they made
an easy target for the archers. Horse after horse was hit: few died but many
were hurt and started becoming uncontrollable. ‘You lot! You lot,
You lot.’ A Captain of Archers ran along the wedge of archer’s on the left
flank of Warwick’s battle telling off rows of archers. ‘You
lot! You lot! You lot!’ He stopped and faced the men he had named. ‘Grab two
sheaves of arrows each and follow me.’ He left at a trot
towards the far end of the hedge and down hill into the marsh. ‘I bloody hate
running, but I suppose we would be in too much trouble if we didn’t go.’ Wulf
grabbed two sheaves from in front of him and followed the other archers as they
jogged off in the trail of the Captain. Behind them the remaining archers
continued to shoot, but now shooting as marksmen rather than in volleys. The flanking
archers soon found their pace slackened as the ground got softer as they
entered the marsh, but soon they made up a somewhat ragged double line. ‘Form up, form
up,’ yelled the Captain of Archers. ‘Not a bloody
parade ground,’ Wulf muttered to himself as he shuffled with the others to form
a more defensive stand. ‘Get the horses as
they pull back. I want crazed animals crashing into those bloody French
bastards in armour toiling up the hill on foot. Our arrows may not punch
through their plate, but those animals with trample them down..’ The Captain
took one final look to make sure he was happy with his men. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘On your own boys,
pick your target, make each arrow count.’ On the other flank
the remains of those French horsemen that had ridden through the gap in the hedge
on Salisbury’s front fled back though the gap followed by an arrow storm of
volley shots. Loose horses, hurt
horses, uncontrollable horses with terrified riders on them, all pounded down
the hill to escape the arrows and smashed into the ordered ranks of dismounted
French advancing uphill towards the English. ‘Let the front men
go past, let the front ranks pass: too armoured. Hit the softer targets in the
rear ranks.’ The Captain of Archers quickly cut the sheaf string holding his
last two dozen arrows. Whilst still watching the approaching infantry he jammed
the arrows into the ground in front of him. Around him the other archers were
all doing the same. He stood up and cast a look along his ranks to satisfy
himself all was ready. ‘On my command: volley shots rear ranks.’ Mark looked over
at Wulf and Airka and winked. ‘Easy as Sunday practice at the butts.’ ‘Till the arrows
run out.’ Wulf pulled an arrow from his belt and held it ready. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky darkened
with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. As the front ranks
of French neared the hedge Warwick’s men cleared the road in front of its
obstacles and joined Salisbury’s men-at-arms as they poured out through
the gaps and formed up in front of the hedge. The volume of
arrows being shot slackened and then stopped. ‘Individual shoots
till the arrows are gone and then get stuck into them from behind lads,’ the
Captain of Archers commanded. ‘After you me old
son,’ Wulf commented. ‘Not till I can find something with more whack than me
short sword. In front of the
hedge the English and French men-at-arms locked in a crashing, clanging, clashing
dance of death. Wulf and the other
archers on the flanks watched; selected targets and shot till all their arrows
were gone. ‘I wonder if it be
worth going back to the lines and seeing if they have any more arrows Gef.’ ‘I’ll go!’
volunteered Airka, whose stomach was already starting to rumble from lack of
food. ‘Doubt it Mark,
for archers are coming out to join the men-at-arms and they wouldn’t do that if
they had arrows.’ ‘Well, looks like
we had better do the same. I just hope no one nicks my bow in the meantime;
special bow is that – not your standard issue.’ ‘Know what you
mean; I’m more concerned about not getting killed though. This is not my
favourite bit of fighting: the further away I can kill ‘em, the happier I be.
This up close and smell the stale urine and garlic is not what I like at
all.’ ‘Come on, you
archers. Come on,’ ordered the Captain of Archers. ‘Come on; come
on,’ mocked Wulf in a low voice. ‘Gef?’ Mark tossed
over a pole-arm. As expected it
landed at Wulf’s side as catching things had proved to be very hard since the
loss of his left eye. He bent and picked it up, played with it to find its
point of balance, smiled at Mark in thanks. Airka, fondled a
rather wicked long bladed dagger that had appeared from somewhere about his
person and started talking to it in a loving voice. All three ran at
the back of the French line. Wulf levelled the
pole-arm and jammed the end spike with great force into the back of a man
wearing only a padded jack for protection. The Frenchman crumpled with a gurgle
onto the man in front of him. Wulf twisted his weapon sideways and yanked it
free. Bringing it into a high guard he then swung it and removed the front
man’s head. Around him other archers were creating similar mayhem. The French
flank started to roll up, but as it rolled the plate armoured front rank came
to face the unarmoured archers. Wulf found himself
facing an inhuman suit of steel that suddenly lunged at him with a shortened
lance. He jerked back and to his left then smacked the lance away with his
pole-arm. Then another short lance narrowly missed his neck. Wulf tried to step
back but was held in place by other archers behind him fighting their own
battles with armoured foes. A third French man-at-arms tried to spit Wulf with
a sword; suddenly the man’s head twisted sideways as a broken lance was shoved
up the underside of his bassinet helm. ‘Gef; fall back,’
yelled Mark as he let go of the broken lance that was now jammed under the
Frenchman’s helm. ‘Fall back
archers; fall back,’ screamed the Captain of Archers. ‘Fall back and make way.’ Gasping for breath
Wulf and Mark fell back as the pressure behind them eased. Through the
withdrawing ranks of the archers stepped English men-at-arms: ‘A Wales, a Wales’, they shouted as they made contact with
the French ranks. ‘A what?’ asked
Wulf as they finally got away from the fight. ‘A Wales, Gef. A Wales – the visors
muffle their voices.’ Mark swigged what liquid remained in his leather bottle. ‘Must
be from the Prince of Wales Battle come to reinforce us.’ ‘Must be desperate
if they have chucked in the reserves; if this push fails we are lost.’ ‘I 'opes not,' commented Mark.
‘Airka! Airka!.’
Wulf yelled at the top of his voice. ‘Oi; you bloody Irishman. Get off him and
get back here.’ Airka looked up
from where he was sitting astride the breastplate of a fallen Frenchman rhythmically plunging his dagger into the eye slit of the man’s dented visor. Slowly getting up, completely oblivious of mayhem going on behind him, the
Irishman strolled over the other archers. Wulf slumped to
the ground and held his own bottle to his lips, only to find it empty. He
looked to Mark, but his mate shook his head and confirmed by tipping his empty
costrel upside down with not even a drip of liquid emerging. Suddenly trumpets
sounded and the French disengaged and slowly and in good order began to move
back down the hill. The archers
watched them go with almost disinterest for their attention was on the pages
who were rushing towards them carrying buckets of water. ‘Drink up, fill up
your bottles then forward and retrieve arrows,’ the Captain of Archers advised
them. ‘Plenty more Frogs around and they may be back.’ ‘Bugger,’ said Wulf. ‘Bugger,’ said
Airka. ‘Bugger,’ said
Mark. ‘Bugger,’ agreed
all the surviving archers. *** ‘Well?’ Edward
Prince of Wales looked up at the dusty rider on his equally dusty horse.
‘Well?’ ‘At least two more
French Battles. One would appear to belong to the Duke of Orleans. It is larger
than our army, but seems disorganised, even by French standards, Your Grace. I
think the survivors of that cavalry charge fled through their ranks headed for
who knows where. It seems to have unsettled them.’ ‘And the second
Battle John? Is it the French King’s?’ Sir John Chandos
eased his rump with a creak of saddle leather. ‘Well Sir John? Is
it?’ ‘I think so Your
Grace, but we have lost track of it for the while. My scouts are still
searching.’ ‘Orleans does not concern me. In fact I doubt he and his Battle will concern anyone other than the local peasantry
whose crops they will destroy and who daughters they will chase. Find me the
French King! Drive him to me!’ *** ‘Fall back,’
yelled all the Captains of Archers discordantly at the scattered archers
collecting arrows from where they had landed amongst the French near the hedge.
‘Fall back, fall back.’ Wulf looked up
from where he was yanking arrows from the churned turf. ‘What’s up?’ Airka continued
plucking arrows from the ground, ignoring those stuck in dead Frenchmen. Mark shielded his
eyes against the lowering sun; ‘Looks like another French army has found us.’ ‘Big?’ Wulf wiped
dirt from an arrowhead on a dead Frenchman’s tabard. ‘Bigger than you
would want to imagine. They are all over yonder hill like ants on a dead
badger.’ ‘Oh nice image
Mark, nice image.’ The archers forced
their at times damaged arrows through the backs of their belts as they moved
their weary legs back up the hill towards the now somewhat battered hedge. ‘So, bigger than
before then?’ Wulf asked pessimistically. ‘Yes Gef, bigger
than before.’ ‘And we with less
arrows. Even against the last lot we ran out.’ Wulf shook his head
despondently. ‘It does not look good Mark, it does not look good.’ ‘Form up in front
of the hedge, three lines; three lines.’ Yelled all the Captains of Archers.
The call was echoed by their sergeants. The archers all
formed up. Towards them the French started their slow advance on foot towards
the English. The front ranks carrying lances that had been shortened. ‘Don’t plant your
arrows – keep them in your belt,’ instructed the Captain of Archers as he
walked along the line, repeating the instruction every five or six men. Suddenly through
the gap on Salisbury’s flank the Prince of Wales and an escort
of a dozen knights rode out. They turned right and the Prince addressed his
archers. Next he rode left and addressed the rest of Salisbury’s archers. Next were Warwick’s right flank archers. Eventually he
reached the left flank where the exhausted Wulf, Airka and Mark stood. Prince Edward stood
up in his stirrups’: ‘You are a knave
if you say we can be conquered whilst I still live. They are on foot. They have no
archers to speak of. We have them! Archers: volley,
volley, volley then close and pick them off. My men-at-arms are
to horse! They think we are
going to wait here whilst they crush us with numbers. They are wrong. We charge!’ The Prince turned
his horse, made it stand on its hind legs and waved his sword towards the
lumbering French staggering up the steep hill, its grass slope churned up by
the day’s earlier fighting and their path impeded by their dead predecessors. The trumpeters at
the Prince’s side lifted their long trumpets and brayed a long high note.
Suddenly horses started to come through the gaps in the hedges and formed up in
front of the archers’ ranks. The trumpets
sounded again. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘NOCK.’ The
archers nocked an arrow. ‘LOOSE.’ The sky
darkened with whistling arrows. ‘CHARGE!!!!!!!’
screamed the Prince. ‘CHARGE!!!!!!!’
replied the mounted men-at-arms and the air was rent with the sound of pounding
horses as they charged down hill at the dismounted French. ‘Still too many of
them and too few of we,’ commented Mark as the archers jogged behind the
men-at-arms. ‘Hmm,’ agreed Wulf
as he fought for breath and tried to control his pounding heart. The sound of
impact as the English horse hit the front ranks of the close packed French
rolled back towards the archers. ‘Flank, Flank,’
instructed the Captain of Archers. The archers split
left and right and ran down the flanks past the lines of fighting men-at-arms. ‘STAND!’ the
archers halted. ‘Get the rear ranks, get the rear ranks. Shoot at will.’ The archers slowly
and methodically started to pick off the poorly armoured men in the rearmost
ranks, forcing the others in more forward ranks to close up on those in front
of them to avoid the arrows and thus cramping the ability of the more forward
ranks to fight effectively. Airka hummed a
jolly tune to himself as he sent arrow after arrow into unprotected French
backs. ‘Almost out of
arrows,’ complained Wulf as he watched his latest victim flop forward onto the
man in front.. ‘So many targets,
so few arrows; bugger,’ agreed Mark as he used his last shaft. ‘What now?’ asked Airka who after fumbling at his belt found he had no more arrows to shoot. ‘Look to horse
& escape?’ asked Wulf. ‘Run?’ Mark raised
a doubting eyebrow. ‘Well the
men-at-arms are starting to give way, they obviously can’t overwhelm so many
opponents.’ Wulf put to him. ‘Horses?’ put in Airika looking up the hill, knowing their ponies were still tethered in the woods at the rear of the original English line. ‘Horses!’ cried
Wulf pointing to the left flank of the French Battle. ‘Horses! Look!’ ‘St George! ST
GEORGE!!!!!’ riding out from cover on the English right flank a small but
determined troop of horse crashed into the unprotected French left flank and
started to roll it up. ‘Du Buch! Du Buch – St George!’ ‘Down bows lads,
grab a blade and up and at ‘em.’ Wulf drew his short sword. The other archers
gave a roar, drew their own swords, grabbed fallen lances and other weapons and
in a body crashed into the French right flank. Within minuets the
French army collapsed, discipline vanished and those that could fled; steaming
down the hill with mounted English men-at-arms riding down those they could and
the archers on foot picking off those too slow to run from the horsemen. *** In the shattered
remains of the French camp Edward, Prince of Wales,
halted his horse, causing mild confusion amongst the horsemen with him. ‘John.’ Sir John Chandos,
sweat glowing on his forehead and dripping from the ends of his sweat slicked
hair, nudged his mount forward. ‘Your Grace?’ ‘Word is some of
my dogs of war have strayed as far as the gates of Petters.’ ‘So I have heard
from my scouts, Your Grace.’ ‘Gather some “whippers
in” and round my pack of hounds up. There is no point in them winning a battle
only to have their drunken throats cut by some indignant French peasant whose
livestock they have just eaten.’ ‘Your Grace.’ Chandos
inclined his head and started to ease himself and his equally tired horse out
of the group that surrounded the Prince. Edward was just
about to move his horse forward again when a slight movement caught his eye and
a muted belch caught his ear. He looked over towards the disturbance. A seated Airka
gave the Prince an apologetic smile and hid a chicken’s drumstick behind his
back.. Mark elbowed Wulf
whose attention was dedicated to a hunk of cheese at his feet and the bottle of
wine in his right hand. ‘Gef!’ Wulf looked up,
saw who was looking at him and, together with his mates, stood and then went
down on one knee. Edward gave a
smile as golden as his now sweat soaked and tangled hair. ‘Ha: refreshment time
now the fighting is over!’ ‘Your Grace,’
acknowledged the archers together. ‘Well, you have
the French camp and its plunder. Whilst I,’ the Prince gestured behind him to a
richly armoured rider at his left hand. ‘Whilst I, have the French King and his
ransom.’ ‘Your Grace!’ the
archers’ voice raised in pitch in admiration. ‘Though with your
lot holding the camp I have had to bring my guest down to salvage some of his
possessions and some of his food before you wolves make it all disappear.’ ‘Your Grace?’ This
time the archers’ voices took on a hurt tone. ‘I know my
wolves.’ Edward smiled. ‘In fact I know one of you well: the messenger from my
beloved cousin Henry of Lancaster. You are a wolf indeed if I am not mistaken.’ ‘Geffrey ðe Wulf,
Household Archer to Sir Alan de Buxhall, Your Grace.’ ‘That old rouge.
He would have loved today. He always enjoys a good fight. He enjoys the profits
from the plunder and ransoms even more.’ Wulf and Airka
allowed themselves knowing smiles. The Prince waved a
dismissive hand and kneed his horse to move forward. ‘Give Sir Alan my
regards when next you see him,’ he called over his shoulder. *** Sir Alan de Buxhall,
Knight of the Garter, King’s Counsellor and Constable of the Tower of London to His Grace, King Richard II, looked down
from the height of his splendid horse. ‘Dear God cousin Geffrey, you are not
still using that threadbare old shirt of yours are you? More patches than
original material!’ He eased himself in the saddle then turned to his escort,
Mark the Archer. ‘I suppose you keep your old Battle of Petters shirt too?’ Mark, resplendent
in Sir Alan’s livery of parti-coloured buttercup yellow and bright blue, but on
a pony that was more practical than resplendent, inclined his head in
acknowledgement. Sir Alan shook his
head in mock dismay. ‘I should have guessed.’ He nodded towards Gareth. ‘Been
telling your nephew tall tales about what happened when you were wearing it I
suppose cuz? Don’t answer – I know you have.’ Sir Alan dismounted and indicated
to Mark to do the same. Gareth came over and led their mounts away. ‘Alone Sir Alan?’
Wulf asked, returning to his sewing. ‘Oh don’t worry,
the supply train is almost here.’ Wulf looked up and
smiled. ‘Young Columba,
Robert of Knightsbridge’s boy, is driving the wain and his army of siblings
have hitched a ride, supposedly to help unload, though not doubt in reality to
help eat the food.’ Sir Alan took over Gareth’s vacant block of wood. ‘They
stopped at the Ram in Wandsworth to collect the barrel of ale you said the
brewer owed you for a small “visit” Hakon, Lyulf and the Irishman did on his
behalf.’ Wulf inclined his
head in acknowledgement and smiled. ‘No, don’t tell me
the details; no doubt they are horrid.’ ‘No worse than
some “visits” I have done on your behalf cuz,’ Wulf said softly. ‘Yes well.’ Sir
Alan looked up brightly. ‘Ah here is young Columba now.’ Wulf put his shirt
aside and stood up, massaging his numbed buttocks as he did so as into the garth
rumbled a wagon that appeared to be loaded more with children than goods. ‘Right all you Knightsbridges:
take all that food into the barn and set it up.’ Wulf caught little Rowan
Knightsbridge by the ear as he passed. ‘Set it up not eat it. Eating come later
when the workers get home from the fields.’ He turned to Mark. ‘As soon as
Gareth gets back can you and him get that barrel of ale into the barn and
broach it? It’s too heavy for these kids and I’d rather you two check its
quality than them: their mother would go mad if I let her brood get drunk.’ Wulf sat down
again and continued sewing. Sir Alan dozed in the sun. Gareth walked back
from the horse paddock, passing young Columba, who arms were being stretched by
food laden baskets. ‘Lift up your
heart!’ ‘Emmanuel’s
Friend,’ Columba replied, giving the Lollard greeting. Wulf indicated the
waiting Mark & beer barrel with his head. Gareth gave a low groan and went
off to help unload it and roll it into the barn. Wulf walked around the garth,
doing nothing in particular until his nephew returned. ‘Oh,’ Gareth
looked at the now snoring Sir Alan. Wulf sat down and
picked up his shirt. Gareth went over
to the wood pile and found himself a new log to sit on. Putting it down next to
his sewing uncle he fidgeted it around till it sat unrockingly in the dry
summer soil. ‘Right Uncle Wulf: so what happened then?’ *** ‘On yer feet you
lazy louts,’ yelled one of many burly Captains rounding up the English troops
enjoying the delights of the French camp. ‘Work to be done, horses to be
rounded up, wagons found, loot to be pooled.’ He eyeballed Wulf, ‘and don’t
think you can hide any of it. Pooled the Prince said and pooled it will be –
fair shares for all!’ ‘Especially fair
for his Nibs,’ Wulf whispered into Mark’s ear. ‘What?’ rounded
the Captain, whose hearing was as edgy as his temper. ‘I said we’d best
get moving Captain.’ ‘I doubt it,’ the
Captain sneered. ‘Now MOVE IT!’ he kicked a sleeping Airka as he
passed. ‘All right, all
right. We are moving.’ Wulf and Mark dragged the drowsy Airka to his feet and
then they all moved off to join a group of others who were starting to back a
pair of horses up to a captured wagon. ‘You lot sorting the horses?’ Wulf asked
them. We’ll start loading the loot into the wain then.’ ‘Well,’ Mark
commented as he started to drag over a wooden chest that had fine linen poking
out from under its lid. ‘At least tonight it is sorting plunder. Tomorrow it
will be burying corpses.’ ‘Ours only though;
theirs can rot,’ commented Airka, fingering the protruding linen
appreciatively. Mark looked puzzled as he still hadn't managed to comprehend the Irishman's brogue. ‘He said he is not looking forward to it,' Wulf translated. Mark nodded his head in agreement. He then smiled. 'Not the horses mind!’ Mark ran his tongue along his upper lip. ‘Oh no,’ answered
Wulf. ‘Very nice boiled with onions and wild greens is horse.’ Mark laughed. Airka smacked his
lips in anticipation. *** ‘So Uncle you
weren’t allowed to rest that night despite being worn out fighting?’ ‘Always the same
boy. Same old, same old. Even after we got back to our camp with the booty,
work still carried on. Sentries to stand, piquet to be placed, our wounded to
be brought in. All that and tired so you could sleep for a week. Then there is the fact that you are getting stiff and achey from the cuts, blows and buffets you got from the fighting: many of which you didn't notice at the time.’ ‘What about their
wounded?’ ‘We could leave
them till next morning, despite the nuisance of their whining and crying making
it hard to snatch some sleep between sentry stands’ ‘So you tended
their wounded next morning then.’ ‘No, we went out
and killed them and stripped them of their valuables. Well, those that their
own peasants hadn’t seen to already.’ ‘You what?’ cried
the horrified Gareth. ‘You think we
could hang around and nurse them? Our scouts had come back and told us there
were still large bodies of French around, more than we had in our army. You
think we could stay put to look after French wounded whilst another French army
gathered? As for leaving them wounded: well killing was the more humane option;
saved them from the rot, which would have set in by the time their own people
got to them. Even then their peasants only see them as a source of plunder and
more like kill them, and do so less professionally than we. We only took
whatever armour was of quality and any jewellery we could see. Their peasant
would strip them naked even when the clothes were ruined and blood soaked. Realities
of war boy; realities of war. I haven’t even mentioned the stench. Bad enough
on the day with the spilt blood and guts – unbearable a couple of days later
when it all starts to rot. Forget the stories of glory and honour. War is a
dirty, smelly business. Boring most of the time and horrifying and frightening
in short bursts at other times.’ Wulf took a deep breath and looked thoughtful.
‘Hard work when push comes to shove: exhausting even.’ Wulf smiled as he held
up his shirt, the new patch of mulberry standing out against the pink and rose
coloured patches beneath it. Suddenly he looked up towards the entrance to the garth
and sniffed. ‘Smells like our hard workers are back from the fields.’ Gareth looked and
saw a long line of workers enter the garth. Herding them at the rear was Wulf’s
son John. In front of him were the freemen of Half-Farthing and Garret manors and
various others, a cloud of gnats hovering over them. Heading the tired column
was the formidable Aunt Lucy, Wulf's wife; no gnats dared to bother her. ’Hello my love; a
good day?’ Wulf enquired. ‘A good day
indeed, but one without your company. “Just have to patch me old shirt” you
said, and yet, here you still be.’ ‘Just finished it
my love. Still, I’ll be with you in the fields tomorrow.’ ‘No need: it is
all done.’ ‘Well I must admit
I am pleased. The extra help I got us eased your workload I trust?’ ‘Seb Wulfson and Eirik
Edwardson pulled their weight.’ Lucy confirmed. ‘And the
retainers?’ ‘After strong
words from me; yes.’ Lucy looked aggressively at Hakon, Lyulf and Airka, who
stood together with their heads hung in exhaustion. ‘That Irishman needed extra
words mind.’ ‘Good, good.’ Wulf
stood and embraced his wife. ‘Did you have anything in mind about food for this
evening’s meal?’ ‘Don’t you start
me on that! I have spent all day overseeing workers haymaking and you expect me
to …’ ‘No I don’t my love.
See, here is Sir Alan come to see us.’ Wulf eased his foot back and gave Sir
Alan’s foot a shove. Sir Alan woke with
a grunt and a start, ‘Eh? What? Oh - Lucy? How are you Lucy? What a hot and
bothersome day.’ The old knight lumbered to his feet, embraced Lucy and kissed
her noisily on each cheek. ‘I have come a visiting and brought you food. Indeed
food fit for a king!’ Sir Alan swept his left arm in an arc and stopped with
his hand pointing to the barn door. ‘His Grace the King dined at The Tower last
night and there was more than enough left over to feed the garrison and to
spare, so I though of you and the pleasure of your company.’ Sir Alan offered
his arm, Lucy rested hers over his and the knight escorted her into the barn.
The workers, headed by Wulf’s always hungry retainers, followed. With a wisp of
light brown hair coiling out from under a headscarf and entwining itself around
her neck a slim young woman came and stood squarely in front of Wulf, hands
firmly on her hips. She shook her head in disapproval. ‘Really Uncle, you
should have been with us in the fields, Aunt Lucy was most upset.’ ‘Yes Gwyn,’ Wulf
answered his pretty niece. ‘I’ve already been updated on that fact.’ ‘Ach aye tis this
the way tae the feastie?’ A tall gangly young man came and stood at Gwyn’s side
indicating the barn with a pointed and dirty finger. ‘Lachlan: you are a serf – this food is for the free!’ Wulf
informed him in a mock stern voice. ‘Uncle!’ Gwyn’s
eyes blazed. ‘Alright Gwyn, you
can take him in; just make sure his manners aren’t an embarrassment.’ ‘Uncle!’ Gwyn took
the young Scots serf’s arm in hers and lead him into the barn where cheering by
Wulf’s retainers and Mark announced the pouring of the first black jacks of
ale. ‘Uncle!’ Gareth
mocked in a very poor imitation of his sister’s voice. ‘Smelly old serf; I bet
he sits at her feet.’ ‘As long as he
doesn’t fondle her ankle whilst there boy. Anyway, he is a hard worker and deserves reward. I am only talking about him having some food here mind. If only I could understand what he says sometimes.’ Wulf folded his old shirt, put all
the remain scraps of cloth that might be used for later patches on top and
headed back to the homestead to put it all back in his clothes chest. ‘Uncle?’ ‘Yes Gareth.’ ‘You never
intended to go haymaking today did you?’ Wulf looked at his
nephew with a hurt look. ‘You planed this
didn’t you; even the food.’ ‘Sir Alan owed me
a favour for a small discrete job I did for him a week or two ago and the King
always has food over after a banquet.’ They ducked their heads as they passed
under the door lintel. ‘I had a plan yes, but like all plans it had to be
flexible to match changed circumstances. If one pulls the same tricks each
time, one’s opponents know what to expect. In the end the best plans are often
those which strike not from the front, but from the flank.’ Gareth smiled,
cleared his throat and started to sing in his clear boy’s voice: We hadn’t gone a
month past two or three Before we were
caught by thirty thousand French And they were five
times more than we Throw down your
colours you English dogs Throw down your
colours don’t refuse Throw down your
colours English dogs Or else you
precious lives you’ll lose Our Commander
being a most valiant man And a well
bespoken man was he Said it never will
be said we died like dogs We’ll fight this
battle manfully So climb the hill
my most valiant boys And stand by the
hedge row way up on high Form wedges on
each of our flanks We’ll win this
battle or we’ll die The fight began
about the forenoon It went till the
setting of the sun And by the rising
of the morning Of the French
there could be seen not one Most we had killed
boys, some we had caught The rest we had
caused to flee away The French King we
carried home to England For to let ‘em
know we had won the day If anyone asks you
just who we be And who our
Commander is by name Edward Prince of
Wales is our chief commander And we the archers
who won him fame (Tune: The Royal Oak)
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
‘DRAW.’ The archers drew back their strings and raised their bows.
As we were raiding all through the French lands