The Bow by Bill Sharrock Page B

was
gone.

Valmont
    In the morning they broke camp, and marched to the
south-west, arcing back towards Valmont and Harfleur. The land fell
away before them in a series of icy, open fields flanked by hedges
and scattered groves of birch trees. The road was still firm with the
early morning frost, and the wagons bounced and crashed along the
rutted surface.
    Sir Walter Hungerford’s Company was in the van,
followed by the mounted archers from Cheshire and Morcambe. Then came
the Welsh, and with them three companies of men at arms and spearmen,
drawn from the Eastern Counties. The cavalry, a poor thin detachment
of armoured horse, scouted along the flanks and to the rear. The way
ahead was covered by two trumpeters, and a Dorsetshire knight who
rode within a bowshot of Hungerford’s banners. The Earl himself and
all his retinue held march at the centre to protect the wagons and
the baggage.
    They made good progress, sensing they were on the road
back to Harfleur. Some of the men began to sing. It was a ballad of
Robin Hood, one that their fathers had sung in the days of the
Peasants Revolt. The sun crested against a milky sky, and the early
chill melted away. By the afternoon they had five miles under their
belt, and the talk was that they would make camp early, at the next
broad reach.
    It was then that they saw the French. Or so it was that
the French saw them. There were two horsemen, one a banner bearer,
etched out against the low ridge top directly athwart their line of
march. The army shambled to a halt, and watched as the Dorsetshire
outrider galloped back. Sir Walter rode out to meet him. There was a
brief exchange, and then the outrider spurred away towards the centre
battle where the Earl was waiting.
    The archers sat their horses and talked quietly among
themselves. At length, Sir Walter cantered his warhorse up to the
company, and swung out of the saddle.
    'Heads up, lads!’ he shouted. ‘There’s work up
yonder. Armagnac in all his glory.’
    ‘ How many?’ someone called.
    Sir Walter smiled. ‘More than you could ever count,
John Hert! But I tell ye this, there’s like to be more of them than
us. My lord Armagnac would never come against us with anything less
than a host.’
    There was a pause, then the captains began shouting, and
the army shuffled forward and began to uncoil itself into order of
battle. The archers dismounted and sent their horses to the rear. The
men at arms formed into echelons four or five deep and marched to
left and right across the open fields led by their sergeants. Even
before Sir Walter’s company had taken station either side of the
road, the baggage boys were running up with bundles of arrows from
the wagons.
    As James took a bundle and handed Ralf another, the two
trumpeters who had scouted ahead came galloping back. They skittered
their horses to a halt not ten paces away, and called out to Sir
Walter. He turned and came hurrying across.
    ‘ What news?’ he said.
    ‘ They come on at even pace, my lord,’ replied one of
the trumpeters.‘There’s at least four times our number, and
mostly horsed.’
    Sir Walter frowned. ‘Any archers?’
    ‘ Some crossbowmen, my lord, but precious few.’
    ‘ And infantry.’
    'It was hard to say. There must have been some, but
their cavalry were in the vanguard for the length of their line.’
    ‘ They advance against us formed for battle!’
    ‘ Aye, my lord. They are in array. And not more than a
mile beyond that ridge.’
    For a moment Sir Walter just stared, then he reached and
took the trumpeter by the shoulder:
    'Quick man! Hurry now and tell my lord of Dorset, the
French come on apace. No time to lose!’ He turned to the other
trumpeter. ‘Up now! Sound alarum, and keep sounding it until I say
no more!’
    As the trumpet sounded, the old warlord of Hungerford
looked around. He caught sight of James who, along with others had
begun to dig a shallow pit ahead of his place in the line.
    ‘ Ahah! Fletcher is it not? Fletcher