The Bow by Bill Sharrock

flanked the East Gate, and there
they presented their indentures and drew their last pay before the
march.
    And there too they heard for sure where the army was
headed: the Somme Valley.
    Sir Walter told them as they lined up to collect their
wages.
    ‘ Five miles a day,’ he said in his rough Wiltshire
brogue. ‘Four abreast with bows strung. All mounted, mind you, and
all with a sharp eye. There’s French about. We march up the valley
until we bump into them.’
    ‘ And then what my lord?’ someone called out.
    Sir Walter glowered, his bushy eyebrows knit. ‘And
then, my friend we go a-fishing,’ he replied.
    There were a few ironic cheers, but mostly the men fell
silent, staring at the snow on their boots, or checking the horn tips
on bows for one last time.
    Two days later they marched. There was no send off. They
left with the rising sun, and tramped away into the river mist that
blanketed the banks of the Seine. Soon all but the tops of banners
were lost to view from the battlements of Harfleur, though it was
only the guards of the dawn-watch near the Montvilliers Gate that saw
them go.
    They marched north from the Seine towards the Somme
Valley, covering a good ten miles and then making camp outside a
small village. The following day they did the same, and the day after
– though this time they made only four miles because the weather
turned foul and the roads went to mud. The harbingers went ahead
until they found clear ground, and there they made camp again: in
open fields by the Amiens-Abbeville road. A palisade was set, and
ditches dug. Foragers were sent out. They took what they wanted, and
paid as they wished, but the Earl would not give the land over to
slaughter. He was mindful of his king’s words: that France was
England’s by sovereign right, and therefore every citizen of France
had the protection of King Harry. Some grumbled at this, most just
shook their heads. They knew that the country was easier to pass
through if they did not leave it a smoking ruin, and they also knew
that any man who ignored this king of England would soon have his
neck stretched and his goods parted.
    So they went gently through Picardy, and only looked to
war when they came upon castles, redoubts or towns that barred their
gates. Few held out for long. The castles were too small, and the
town gates too weak to withstand the shock of more than a thousand
men thrown against them. One by one they surrendered, their banners
draped over their walls in sign of submission, and their commanders
kneeling before the Earl with sword and keys.
    And so the wagons grew fat with plunder, and captains
scoured the countryside for more oxen to pull them. The men cursed
and complained as they heaved and strained at rut-bound carts, but
they worked with a will, knowing that when there was no more to
gather the army would turn for home. When the weather lifted and the
sun came out, so their spirits rose. The wind still bit hard from the
east, and the mud froze at night, but the rain and wet snow had gone,
and men could sleep dry if they found a place beneath a hedge or
under a provost’s cart.
    There came an evening, after a day’s march under clear
skies, that they made camp in open fields on a low ridge that ran
between two stands of trees. As usual, they fortified the site, and
placed guards at every twenty paces.
    ‘ Soon be a-turning!’ said Yevan cheerfully, as he
stirred the barley pottage, and kicked more twigs and straw under the
blackened crock.
    ‘ For home?’ asked Ralf, inching closer to the fire,
and screwing up his eyes against the smoke.
    ‘ Aye, for home, and keep your boots out of my fire!
I’ve enough to do to keep a blaze without your trampling it. What
say you James?’
    James looked up and smiled. ‘I’d say we was lucky to
be sharing your pot, Yevan ap Griffiths, being as we are Englishmen
and out of our company this present night.’
    The Welshman chuckled and bent to his task. ‘That’s
right enough’,