I must have looked surprised at this concern and he laughed.
‘Ancient historian tradition. Drinks are on you when you get back.’
First I’d ever heard of that one. I made a rude noise and he let himself out, laughing.
I laid the rose on the console where I could see it.
Tim initiated the jump and the world went white.
Chapter Twenty
We landed on the western side of what would be the battlefield. We found a small hollow and established our equipment and ourselves. Peering through the silent woods, we could make out the French lines. At this moment, we were closer to the French than the English, but Henry would move his troops forward, and then we’d have the best seats in the house.
I breathed deeply, inhaling the smell of wet loam, rotting leaves, mud, and smoke. If I closed my eyes, I could have been back on assignment in 1917, at the Somme. That would be exactly 502 years in the future, but nothing ever seems to change. I know they must have seasons in France, but in my memories it’s always autumn. Always cold and damp, with the smell of wet earth and bonfires and the memory of conflict.
The long night was ending. The French camp blazed with lights and cooking fires. Music and laughter drifted through the dripping woods. The French, confident of tomorrow’s outcome, were shouting, laughing, and dicing, dividing up the prisoners they were confident of capturing the next day. Their only concern was that, because the odds were so overwhelmingly in their favour, the battle would be over before they all got a chance to display their prowess.
For most of them it was their last night on earth.
The English camp, in contrast, was nearly silent. Men gathered quietly around such small fires as they had been able to put together. They were cold, hungry, and exhausted. Many of them were sick. All of them were far from a home they never thought they would see again.
According to Shakespeare – and it was probably true because Henry was an inspired leader – the King spent the night walking from one miserable campfire to another, making an effort to talk to everyone, forgetting no one, spreading such good cheer and encouragement as he could. Putting the heart back into his troops. Shakespeare calls it ‘a little touch of Harry in the night’.
Dawn came silently. The day was mild and damp. Clouds hung low in the sky. The English rose first, probably glad to have the night behind them.
The French assembled themselves with a colossal racket. There were thousands of them. Richly decorated tents and pavilions stretched as far as the eye could see. Brilliantly coloured pennants and flags hung limply.
The knights arrayed themselves in three mounted lines. The first was led by the two big-hitters, the Constable and the Marshall of France, both of whom would have difficulty controlling the over-enthusiastic French forces.
The second line was commanded by the Dukes of Bar and Alen?on.
And, as if these two massive lines weren’t enough, a third, led by the Counts of Dammartin and Fauconberg waited impatiently in the rear. I took a moment to wonder if the latter was in any way related to our local pub – The Falconberg Arms. I’d look it up when we got back.
All three lines jostled each other impatiently. Discipline was minimal. As far as I could see, no sort of strategy had been devised. Their plan was simply to charge the English and overwhelm them by sheer numbers. They probably thought it would all be over by lunchtime.
In contrast to all this raucous clamour, the English slipped quietly into place as the early morning mist uncurled about them.
A mere knight, Sir Thomas Erpingham, led the bowmen. Unlike the French, Henry promoted by merit, not rank. They deployed themselves on each flank, digging in the sharpened stake every man had been ordered to cut, shape, and carry with him since they started out from Harfleur, all those long days ago.
Once the stakes were in place, they strung their bows and waited.
Compared with the French they were a sorry-looking lot. Few of them wore any sort of armour. Most wore a simple, mud-splattered leather jerkin over a short tunic with boots and a hood. They carried waist-quivers, stuffed full of arrows and either an axe or hammer in their belts. And that was all they had. They relied on the men-at-arms to protect them. And the men-at-arms relied on the archers to protect them.