‘There,’ said Peterson, pointing, as Henry, bareheaded, rode out with his entourage to meet them. The great banner of St George streamed out behind him. ‘There he is.’
The two parties spoke together, a little patch of brilliant colour in the dull landscape around us.
We could hear their voices, clear in the cold air, but were unable to make out the words. The meaning was clear however. Henry shook his head and spoke briefly. The French spoke again. They were urging him to surrender. Henry responded.
Come on, come on. Just turn your head this way. Just a little. I really wanted to see his face.
‘Are you getting this?’
Peterson nodded, not taking his eyes from the scene. I didn’t blame him.
Finally, the heralds turned back. As did Henry and his entourage and I finally got to see the mighty Henry V. The hero of his age. And yes, he really did have that bloody awful pudding-bowl haircut. They all did. Whether Henry was a royal trendsetter or it was practical under their helmets, I didn’t know. I certainly couldn’t think of any other reason for having the most hideous hairstyle in a History that includes Donald Trump.
His face was very long and badly scarred down one side. He’d caught an arrow in the cheek at Shrewsbury in 1403 and had been lucky to survive.
The king was on his way back to his own lines which were already opening up to receive him when a great cry of outrage rose up from the English ranks.
He wheeled his horse. Swords were drawn.
One of the French heralds, secure in his immunity, was standing in his stirrups. He held his right arm above his head, the first two fingers extended. With his other hand, he made a chopping gesture.
It was true! It was true after all! It’s moments like this make me realise why I don’t have an office job.
Legend says that the French, secure in their assumption of triumphant victory had threatened to chop off the first two fingers of every captured archer, thus ensuring he could never again draw a bow. The truth of this had always been hotly debated. Not least because the more normal fate of captured commoners was death rather than mutilation. Plain and simple.
As one man, the English roared defiance and Henry galloped back to his own lines, flourishing his sword over his head.
Preliminaries over. Time for the main event.
Trumpets sounded. Orders were shouted. Someone was banging a drum.
The French cavalry lined up, each beneath his own banner. Horses reared and plunged, impatient to be off. I heard no orders given, no trumpets sounded, but suddenly, like thunder, they were on the move. Lying prone, I could feel the earth tremble beneath me.
They weren’t fast, but they were unstoppable. A giant wall of men and horses bearing down on the tiny English force.
Amongst the English, the order was given and seven thousand archers let fly.
I’ve pulled a bow myself and I’m not bad. Nowhere near as good as Peterson, but I’m not bad. I was watching the English archers now and I’ve never seen anything like it.
I know you don’t just pull with your arms – all your back muscles come into play, as well. These archers pulled with their entire bodies – backs arched with the strain as they aimed high into the air. The force generated was such that on shooting the arrow, their feet actually left the ground.
And they were fast. Five or six arrows pulled from waist quivers in less than a minute. The air was thick with the sight and sound of arrows, shot high into the air. We could hear screams and shouts as they fell amongst the advancing ranks.
For the cavalry, it all started to go wrong from this moment. Unable to outflank the archers because of the trees, and forced forwards by the pressure behind them, they were pushed onto the pointed stakes. Their horses, unarmoured except for their heads and bleeding from numerous arrow wounds, milled around, screaming and panic-stricken. Knights crashed to the ground. Many never rose again. The English archers poured arrows into them at point-blank range. Injured and riderless horses tried to barge their way back out of the conflict, trampling the fallen and hindering those attempting, and failing, to retreat in good order.
It was no longer possible to hear any commands given from where we lay, but suddenly the first rank of French men-at-arms was on the move towards the English lines. Squeezed tightly together as they were, any movement other than forwards was almost impossible. The unending hail of arrows from above meant they not only had their visors down, but also actually had to lower their heads as they marched. They couldn’t see. They couldn’t hear. They couldn’t breathe. And thanks to the French horses having chopped up the ground so badly, they could barely move, either. Unable to avoid the suddenly retreating cavalry, many were ridden over by their own countrymen who were fleeing for their lives.