On ascending the throne, the fifth Henry took one look at his over-mighty subjects – all the fractious lords who thought they were entitled to a share of the pot simply because they’d joined the rebellion that placed his father on the throne – and said, ‘Sod this for a game of soldiers.’
Casting his eyes thoughtfully across the Channel, he revived the age-old Plantagenet claim to the French throne and shunted the whole turbulent bunch of them over to France where they could either get themselves killed or rich. Whichever came first.
They took Harfleur – although not easily, as Henry’s ‘Once more unto the breach,’ speech implies and, with the end of the campaigning season coming up, he had a difficult decision to make. To return home with most of his money gone and only a very moderate victory to show for it, or to intimidate the French with a show of strength and press on to Calais; a march, he estimated, of no more than five days.
He opted for Calais and got it wrong.
Reaching the River Somme, they found the ford held by the French army, leaving Henry and his army with no other option than to head away from Calais and look for another place to cross. The French, for some reason reluctant to force the outcome, followed them on the other side of the river, waiting for Henry to surrender.
By 24th October, the English were in deep trouble, many of them weak and sick and all of them hungry.
The battle of Agincourt was fought the next day – St Crispin’s Day – and the rest, as they say, is History.
Tim and I planned to conceal ourselves on the west side of the battleground, near the village of Agincourt to watch the battle from there and, with luck, get the low-down on Henry’s controversial order to kill all his French prisoners.
Tim, as a keen bowman himself, wanted to see the English and Welsh archers at their best. Or worst, of course, if you were looking at things from the French point of view. Under Henry, every Sunday (after church, naturally) was devoted to archery practice. Every man and boy took part – even girls got in on the act. It’s almost certainly true that a medieval girl could draw a bow better than a young man could today.
And don’t think – oh, bows and arrows! A practised archer could easily shoot six arrows a minute. Accurately. That’s one every ten seconds. And unlike a man at arms, they didn’t have to get close. They could wound at four hundred yards, kill at two hundred, and pierce armour at one hundred. Archers were the shock troops of the age and English and Welsh archers were the best of the best.
Neither Peterson nor I could contain our impatience.
We had a bit of a problem with Dr Bairstow, who complained that St Mary’s had invested a very great deal of money in us, all of which would be wasted if we, inevitably as he seemed to think, got ourselves punctured like colanders.
I admit we were going to be a bit close. Closer than we’d told him, actually, but no need to bother him with that now. Normally, we watch this sort of thing from a nearby hilltop or even from the pod itself, but that wasn’t possible in this case. Our assurances that we would take every precaution, were, for some reason, met with a derisory snort.
He gave in, however. Mrs Enderby kitted us out in what Wardrobe persisted in referring to as Autumn Tones. I had an ankle-length brown dress, soft boots, a linen scarf to bind my hair, and an old green cloak I was sure I recognised from my very first jump. Tim looked seasonal in russet and grey.
And that was it. I was ready. My last jump. We were going to observe one of the bloodiest battles of the Middle Ages and it was my last jump. What could possibly go wrong?
I’d asked to come off the active list but Dr Bairstow had refused, grumbling it was too much faff to get me back on again, should it ever be necessary. I hadn’t argued – just for once – but in my heart I knew this was my last jump.
Tim met me in the Hall and presented me with a single yellow rose.
To hide my emotion, I said, ‘This is two in ten years now. At this rate I’ll have the full bouquet by the time I’m one hundred and eighty-three.’
‘Don’t be so ungrateful. This is just the incentive. The rest will be presented to you on your safe return.’
I took the rose. ‘Thanks, Tim. And thank you for everything.’
‘An honour and a privilege, Max.’
We stood for a bit and then he cleared his throat and said, ‘Are you ready?’
He offered me his arm and walked me to Hawking, where I got the traditional round of applause.
I looked around the hangar. The place was packed. Historians hung over the gantry, calling advice and insults. Dr Bairstow nodded. Even Mrs Partridge was there. She looked as if she wanted to say something and I paused, but she just shook her head and stepped back. I waved, smiled, and tried to ignore the lump in my throat.
Techies pulled out the umbilicals and towed them away. I remembered not to look for Leon.
We were in Number Eight. I gave it an affectionate pat as I entered.
Dieter and Peterson checked everything while I stowed our gear.
‘Right, you’re all set,’ said Dieter, stuffing his scratchpad back in his knee pocket. ‘Take care, Max. Look after yourself.’