The Bow Read Online Free

Look!’
    Away across the field, where it narrowed between the
woods of Azincourt, James could just make out a large formation of
knights coming towards them. They were on foot, huddled behind
shields and pavisses, dark blues and greys against the farmscape.
Here and there the pale sunlight caught helmet, blade and spear
point, but it was too far away to see all the colours of their coats
and banners. There were thousands of them.
    Instinctively, James turned round. He sighed with
relief. The arrows were there: fresh sheaves brought up by the wagon
boys, and laid out every few yards. Then he remembered his debt: ‘My
thanks ta ye,’ he said to the man-at-arms.
    The man shrugged. ‘No thanks needed,’ he said. ‘Just
sorry I had to knock you down. Still all’s well, eh?’
    Yevan ap Griffiths came up. He had a rag bandage tied
around his head, and he was grinning: ‘You’re on your feet,
James? Good! I thought that great big Frenchman had you for sure. We
all saw it. Eric here brought him down with that stick of his. And
Jankyn put a shaft through the horse.
    Pity.’
    ‘ Pity?’
    ‘ Aye.’ He grinned again. ‘There’s no ransom in a
dead knight, and this horse is good for nothing but meat.’
    The captain in the red brigandine shouted a warning, and
they all looked to their weapons. The French ‘battle’ was coming
on apace now, and they could hear the distant cries of command as
nobles and knights struggled to keep order in their ranks.
    ‘ If we don’t split them, they’ll split us, that’s
for sure’,’said Yevan. He chose eight war arrows and placed them
at his feet. ‘Mind if I keep you company?’
    James shook his head slowly. The pain was easing. ‘No
Yevan, you’re welcome. I’m a bit fuddled in the head still.’
    ‘ Aye, well!’ The Welshman laughed out loud. ‘Just
make sure you shoot ahead o’ ye, boyo, and not back’ards.’
    All along the French ‘battle’ trumpets sounded.
After that, came the drums, their harsh, rattling beat urging the
knights on.
    The archers watched them come, ignoring the anxious
advice of the men-at-arms who crowded at their backs.
    ‘ We’ll wait till they cross one twenty paces,’
called William of Yeovil, and all the other master bowmen shouted the
same. The French, still some distance away, pushed forward across the
muddy field, hemmed in by the woods and jostling one another, but
nonetheless presenting a formidable hedge of jagged steel: pikes,
pole-axes, spears and flanged maces, short-hafted axes and heavy
bladed falchions, as well as two-edged swords. James had never seen
the like before, not even at Harfleurs or Blanchetaque.
    'They mean to have us for dinner,’ Yevan muttered, but
his voice was low, and he was no longer grinning.
    'And suck on our bones for supper’, replied Eric.
‘When will ye send a flight at them?’
    'When we’re told to,’ the Welshman replied. He
glanced toward his left, then leant forward and brushed the
fletchings of an arrow with the back of his hand, as though testing
the distance.
    'Wait on my mark,’ said William Bretoun quietly. ‘That
oak there. See the old one, leaning out with the bark-stripped bough.
We’ll wait till they reach that.’
    James studied the oak. What had taken that bark? A
lightning strike? Or deer? Or perhaps village kids just fooling
around. There was an oak just like it back home, by the river. It was
owned by the Bishop of Southwark.
    The first of the French neared the tree, turning
slightly to straighten the line, and then trudging on once more. It
seemed that the entire ‘battle’ was made up of knights, all in
fine plate armour and brightly coloured tabards. Every one of them
was a master of the sword, every one a chevalier par excellence, all
of them with visors firmly closed and bascinets lowered to meet the
coming storm of arrows.
    'They’ve got guts, I’ll say that for them,’
someone said.
    'They’ll have your guts, and spread ‘em all over
this field if you don’t