The Bow by Bill Sharrock Page A

he said. ‘Hungerford’s men are half a bowshot
from here, and nibbling mouldy bread in a mud puddle. Poor divvils.’
    'It’s nay that bad,’ said James. ‘but we’re
happier here, that’s true enough, as long as your brothers are
happy to have us so.’ He glanced at the other Welshmen gathered
around the fire. They nodded, smiled, and returned to their muttered
conversations.
    ‘ Faith, but ye are slow witted, even for an
Englishman!’ laughed Yevan. ‘If I didn’t count ye for a friend,
I’d never have fished ye out of the mud at Agincourt.’
    James waved his hand, but said nothing.
    'Tell me!’ cut in Ralf suddenly. ‘Agincourt. What
was it like?’
    For a time no one spoke. Yevan broke a branch, shoved it
under the pot, and held it there until it blazed. ‘Twas all mud and
arrows,’he replied. ‘The French came at us and we shot them down.
But they damn near had us. Good they was, and gutsy too. Six deep the
bodies lay before our battle, but still they came.’ He stopped and
stared into the flames.
    Ralf gave a short laugh. ‘As long as we have the yew
bow they can never beat us.’
    'Who’s that would say so?’
    They all turned at the sound of the voice.
    It was William Bretoun. Ralf scrambled to his feet.
‘Sire!’ he said.
    ‘ Don’t sire to me, lad!’ snapped the Devon
captain. ‘I’m as common as ye, but longer in the tooth, that’s
all. Now, what’s this I hear ye say about the French?’
    Ralf blushed and ducked his head. ‘They can never beat
us ‘cos we have the bow,’ he mumbled.
    ‘ Hah! Is that so? Well, when ye see them come at you,
and their sword points are damn near up your nostrils, then tell me
how much use your pretty bow’ll be.’
    He turned and disappeared into the shadows.
    Ralf stood awkwardly for a bit, then sat down heavily by
the fire.
    Don’t mind the captain, boyo,’ said Yevan quietly.
‘It’s just he lost some good few mates at Agincourt. He knows the
measure of the French.’
    ‘ But at Agincourt . . .’
    ‘ At Agincourt we had the mud.’
    ‘ Aye!’ a Welshman by the name of Owain ap Glyn broke
in, ‘We had the mud and King Harry’s prayers.’
    Stretching his hands to the fire, Ralf shook his head.
‘But eight shafts a minute, sometimes twelve, there’s nothing can
stand against that!’
    ‘ We’ll see, boyo!’ laughed Yevan. ‘When Frenchie
hasn’t got mud on his boots, ‘e can skip across the ground like a
jackrabbit. The more especial when ‘e’s coming at you on ‘alf a
mountain of horseflesh!’
    Away in the darkness a trumpet sounded for the end of
the first watch, and there was a clattering of arms somewhere behind
them and to the left: the pickets were being placed for the night.
    'Learnt that hymn’, said Yevan suddenly. He grinned.
    'What hymn?’
    'The one we sang at Agincourt. After the battle it was.
Remember? Harry the king sang it, and we sang it too. Well leastways
some of us.’
    'The Te Deum?’
    'Aye, the Te Deum, ye laggard! Ye’re not the wax head
I took ye for after all, James!’
    James shrugged and bent his head to the fire. In a
little while he was aware that Yevan had begun to sing: humming at
first, then mumbling a few words, and finally lifting his voice:
    ‘ Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto Thy Name
give glory, for Thy mercy and for Thy truth’s sake.’ He stopped,
looked about him and winked cheerily:
    'Like gods we was,’ he said.
    ‘ We were dead on our feet,’ muttered James. No one
replied.
    James gazed beyond the firelight. In Chiswick all the
folk would be long since home, and Hettie would have cooked the
evening supper. He wondered how she would manage bringing the milch
cow up from the deep meadow in the evening. It was a tricky beast and
skittish near the byre. Still, there was Simon. He would always help
out, and Hettie was not too proud to ask.
    A man at arms tramped by, and James looked up: it was
one of the Scotsmen from the lodgings in Harfleur. He waved and