Agincourt,
Agincourt!
Know ye not
Agincourt?
Never to be
forgot
Or known to no
men?
Where English
cloth-yard arrows
Kill'd the
French like tame sparrows,
Slaine by our
bowmen
Bowman's
Glory. c. 1600
Until the year 1415, October 25th was known only for the
Feast of Saint Crispin and Saint Crispinian.
The significance of those saints was lost among most, because every day
was a feast day for one saint or another.
After 1415, the day would be celebrated as the greatest victory in
English history. In France it was mourned
as the day that the flower of French nobility was lost on the killing fields of
Agincourt.
"Keep your
heads lads and nock a bodkin," William called out. "There is Lord Erpingham. Now we will provoke the French into moving." The old knight strode quickly out in the
field in front of the line where all could see him. He tossed a baton high in the air to draw the
attention of all the archers.
"Now
strike!" The old knight bellowed at
the top of his lungs.
In unison, five
thousand archers muscled bow cords to their ears and launched arrows high in
the air towards the French lines. It was
a long shot, so the high arching arrows took several seconds to ascend before
they started their deadly fall to earth.
Hedyn could see a faint shadow that drifted across the wheat field
created by the mass of five thousand feathered missiles. Like a
great flock of starlings, he thought.
Before the first
arrows began to thud into men and horses and to clang against armor, the
archers were sending more arrows on their way, each man shooting at his own
pace. Within a minute 60,000 arrows were
in the air or scattered across the battlefield.
Some in dirt, some in men.
For
many months after his return, Hedyn seldom smiled or shared mirth with family
or friends. He somehow thought that
happiness was disloyal to the grief that he felt for Roger, and Lawrence and
other lost friends who were in lonely, anonymous graves at Harfleur. Only through prayer did his sadness finally
subside. Christ brought him the
understanding that his duty was to the living, and not to the dead.
But
he never shook the demons that came to him in his sleep. Each night was a dreamy torment of charging
black nights, clouds of arrows, blood and lifeless bodies. Only his bride knew of his suffering. The ivory handle dagger remained hidden under
his sleeping matt. It seemed the only
thing to bring him at least a tiny bit of refuge from his dread of the
night. Even as an old man, fifty years
after Agincourt, the dreams sometimes came to torture him. . .
In
later life, small boys would sometimes shyly approach the gray haired old man
and ask, "Hedyn Archerson, you were there?
You were with Henry at Agincourt?"
They would puff themselves up and try to appear older as they clutched
their little bows.
He
would sigh and respond, "Aye. I was
there. I was at Agincourt." But he told only stories that made him laugh
or made him happy or brought him pride.
He told no tales that brought him sadness.
The Archer's Son will
go to the editor in November and be released in mid 2014.
A fully armored knight as they would have appeared at Agincourt. The armor of the English and French was essentially the same. The colorful surcoats gave the identity (and nationality) of the knight. |
A young page assists his lord in donning his armor |
An archer takes aim with his longbow |