man!’
While he was talking, Yevan, Morgaun, Jankyn and the
others came back. They were dragging a handcart and laughing.
James went to meet them. ‘Where’d ye get that?’
'Borrowed it!’ said Yevan with a grin. ‘A passing
priest on the way to his glebe said we could borrow it, if we
returned it safe and sound in the morning.’
‘ Did ‘e now?’
‘ Aye, ‘e did. And a fine, fat fellow ‘e was too,
though ‘e spoke more of his furriner tongue than ‘e did of the
king’s English.’
James looked at the handcart, already caked with mud,
and leaning drunkenly to one side. ‘For Eric?’
'Well, it’s not for the crown jewels boyo,’ said
Yevan, and it’s sure as not for thee.’ He swept the cart clear of
dirt with the side of his hand, tossed in his quiver and bow, then
looked down at Eric:
'Up now ye laggard Englishman ! There’s a chariot to
take ye home!’
Eric grinned: ‘Another reason to hate the Welsh!’ he
said, and leaning on James struggled painfully to his feet.
Homeward
In the morning they buried the dead. They dug great pits
near Maisoncelles, filled them with lime and threw the bodies in. The
king allowed the bodies of noble-born to be taken from the field, but
all others, English and French, went into the pits. That is, save the
body of Davy Gamm, who was knighted by the king as he lay dying on
the battlefield.
It was said that the French dead numbered some ten
thousand, and the English dead just two hundred, but it did not seem
that way to James. Perhaps it was where he laboured in the centre of
the field, but he seemed to be burying an Englishman for every three
French. At times the bodies were so hacked and bloodied he could not
tell, and as the stink rose and his arms tired, he neither cared nor
noticed.
An hour past noon the job was done, and he sat under an
oak at the field’s edge and ate a ploughman’s meal. Eric was
there, and looking better for a night by a warm fire, and a quart of
friar’s wine: part he drank, and part he poured on his broken
shoulder. Old Lewis sniffed the wound, pronounced the break a clean
one, and said that Eric should make it back to England.
They took the road to Calais with the sun on their
backs, and a westerly breeze on their left quarter. The French army
had been broken, but by no means destroyed, and King Henry was
anxious to make the safety of the port before that army regrouped.
The Constable of France had died of his wounds, and along with him
near half the nobility of the French Duchies, but scattered French
forces could always pose a threat. Ambush was a constant fear.
Nonetheless, they marched in good spirits – some even
sang – and though the rutted road was difficult, it was by no means
impassable. For a time Eric endured the handcart, and the
good-humoured efforts of his friends, but in the end he took to
walking, and hobbled along next to James, who had strapped his armour
and kitbag to his own back.
The weather held, three days rolled by, and they came to
Calais, with less wounded than they had set out with, but with more
than they had hoped to keep. Fresh water and fresh food had driven
back the dysentery and fever. Even Morgaun Filkyn had shaken off the
sweats, and strode alongside Yevan and Old Lewis, talking at the top
of his voice.
‘ They’ll ring the bells for us in England, mark
you!’ he said, ‘And the girls will wave us through the streets of
every town.’
Yevan laughed. ‘Like as much they’ll run at the
sight of us,’ he replied. ‘We come stinking from the fields of
France, as ragged as any beggar band ye’ll see.’
'I care not either way,’ grunted Old Lewis. ‘As long
as Harry pays me my due, and gives me square of the ransom, I’ll
come home happy.’
'Aye,’ said Morgaun, as he stared down the road at the
towers and spires of Calais Port, ‘If the provost marshal hasn’t
played me false, I should get a tidy sum. I’ve a share in the Count
of Richemont, and if we hadn’t killed
While he was talking, Yevan, Morgaun, Jankyn and the
others came back. They were dragging a handcart and laughing.
James went to meet them. ‘Where’d ye get that?’
'Borrowed it!’ said Yevan with a grin. ‘A passing
priest on the way to his glebe said we could borrow it, if we
returned it safe and sound in the morning.’
‘ Did ‘e now?’
‘ Aye, ‘e did. And a fine, fat fellow ‘e was too,
though ‘e spoke more of his furriner tongue than ‘e did of the
king’s English.’
James looked at the handcart, already caked with mud,
and leaning drunkenly to one side. ‘For Eric?’
'Well, it’s not for the crown jewels boyo,’ said
Yevan, and it’s sure as not for thee.’ He swept the cart clear of
dirt with the side of his hand, tossed in his quiver and bow, then
looked down at Eric:
'Up now ye laggard Englishman ! There’s a chariot to
take ye home!’
Eric grinned: ‘Another reason to hate the Welsh!’ he
said, and leaning on James struggled painfully to his feet.
Homeward
In the morning they buried the dead. They dug great pits
near Maisoncelles, filled them with lime and threw the bodies in. The
king allowed the bodies of noble-born to be taken from the field, but
all others, English and French, went into the pits. That is, save the
body of Davy Gamm, who was knighted by the king as he lay dying on
the battlefield.
It was said that the French dead numbered some ten
thousand, and the English dead just two hundred, but it did not seem
that way to James. Perhaps it was where he laboured in the centre of
the field, but he seemed to be burying an Englishman for every three
French. At times the bodies were so hacked and bloodied he could not
tell, and as the stink rose and his arms tired, he neither cared nor
noticed.
An hour past noon the job was done, and he sat under an
oak at the field’s edge and ate a ploughman’s meal. Eric was
there, and looking better for a night by a warm fire, and a quart of
friar’s wine: part he drank, and part he poured on his broken
shoulder. Old Lewis sniffed the wound, pronounced the break a clean
one, and said that Eric should make it back to England.
They took the road to Calais with the sun on their
backs, and a westerly breeze on their left quarter. The French army
had been broken, but by no means destroyed, and King Henry was
anxious to make the safety of the port before that army regrouped.
The Constable of France had died of his wounds, and along with him
near half the nobility of the French Duchies, but scattered French
forces could always pose a threat. Ambush was a constant fear.
Nonetheless, they marched in good spirits – some even
sang – and though the rutted road was difficult, it was by no means
impassable. For a time Eric endured the handcart, and the
good-humoured efforts of his friends, but in the end he took to
walking, and hobbled along next to James, who had strapped his armour
and kitbag to his own back.
The weather held, three days rolled by, and they came to
Calais, with less wounded than they had set out with, but with more
than they had hoped to keep. Fresh water and fresh food had driven
back the dysentery and fever. Even Morgaun Filkyn had shaken off the
sweats, and strode alongside Yevan and Old Lewis, talking at the top
of his voice.
‘ They’ll ring the bells for us in England, mark
you!’ he said, ‘And the girls will wave us through the streets of
every town.’
Yevan laughed. ‘Like as much they’ll run at the
sight of us,’ he replied. ‘We come stinking from the fields of
France, as ragged as any beggar band ye’ll see.’
'I care not either way,’ grunted Old Lewis. ‘As long
as Harry pays me my due, and gives me square of the ransom, I’ll
come home happy.’
'Aye,’ said Morgaun, as he stared down the road at the
towers and spires of Calais Port, ‘If the provost marshal hasn’t
played me false, I should get a tidy sum. I’ve a share in the Count
of Richemont, and if we hadn’t killed
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