Then, suddenly, it was too late.
Figures moved among the trees.
A shout rang out. Those who could grabbed their swords. A woman screamed.
The trees were suddenly alive with men – not men-at-arms, but French peasants, poorly dressed and barefoot but clutching knives, scythes, and clubs.
Whether they were under the instructions of the main French force or simply engaging in a bit of private enterprise has never been clear. Even as I watched, three of them turned on a small boy and hacked him down. An elderly chaplain approached them, holding out his arms in protest, and he was stabbed too.
People scattered, screaming, trying to escape into the trees. One woman seized an old pike and stood defiantly over her unconscious man. Not everyone was running.
She jabbed and swung. Like most women of her age, she knew how to defend herself.
No one deserves to die. But some people deserve to live. I said, ‘Go,’ to Peterson, who leaped across the space, roaring like a bull. He thumped two of them with the flat of his blade. Painful, but not fatal. The rest fled.
I picked up a piece of wood and swung at them as they passed, making contact with at least one of them.
I wanted to see what the prisoners were doing. They’d surrendered; taken themselves out the fight. Everyone knew the drill. The rules of war. What would they do? Would they join in?
Of course they would. They must have been convinced Henry and his rabble army were, at that moment, being cut to pieces by their countrymen. They weren’t going to sit around and wait for humiliating rescue.
Suddenly, Henry really did have another army at his back. This was the moment when it could have gone either way.
We should have gone. We should have left them to get on with it. But most of the people in the baggage train weren’t soldiers, or warriors, or noblemen – they were the little people. Just like me.
I laid about me as hard as I could. Others were fighting back as well.
The attackers were greedy, fortunately. They’d come for whatever they could scavenge. Most of them were more interested in the contents of the wagons or making off with the spare horses than massacring old men, small boys, and women. Someone pulled out a pack. The contents tipped all over the ground and suddenly they were fighting each other and not us.
Peterson pushed me against a wagon and stood in front of me, sword raised. He looked big enough and ugly enough to be avoided for the minute.
French peasants were overrunning the whole camp. Later estimates put their numbers at several hundred. That was a lot – and if you added the seventeen hundred odd prisoners – this was no place to be.
‘This is no place to be,’ shouted Peterson. ‘Move. Do not stop to save anyone or subvert the course of History in any way. Just move.’
And immediately disobeyed his own orders.
A man lay dead, his guts spilling everywhere. Lying amongst a tangle of bloody intestines was a horn. Peterson grabbed it and blew.
The first sound was just a bubbly squeak, but he tried again. The second attempt was better and the third had the whole Robin Hood thing going for it. Faintly, in the distance, I heard a reply.
He tossed the horn to someone else. Help would come. Henry would despatch some two hundred desperately needed archers from the front to quell whatever was happening at the rear – and order the execution of French hostages. Most of me didn’t want to see that, but part of me did.
His actions were understandable. He was fighting for his life. He couldn’t afford to have over two thousand hostiles behind him. Some reports say the order was obeyed. Some say it wasn’t. Some say a few were killed, but not many. This was my own theory – it would take two hundred men a very long time to kill two thousand other men. And the French would hardly sit still and wait to be slaughtered. I was desperate to know what would happen next, but Peterson had hold of my arm. He was just pulling me around the side of a wagon, when, from nowhere – I swear I never saw him until he was right in front of us – some stunted peasant swung his rusty scythe at Peterson, partially severing his arm.
It went deep. I could tell. A great gout of blood sprayed through the air, all over both of us. I grabbed Peterson’s sword as he dropped it, but the peasant was gone. I never saw him go, either.
Peterson collapsed against me, unable to stifle his cry of pain.
Now we were in trouble.
We had to get out of here.
Now.
He was almost a dead weight. I dragged his good arm around my shoulders and tried to take his weight on my hip. Thank the god of historians he’d always been skinny.
He was conscious. He knew what was going on. He tried to help.
I got him just far enough away from the baggage train and into the trees before he collapsed. I ripped the linen scarf off my head and tied it around the wound. He barely made a sound. I suddenly became aware of tears running down my cheeks.