The Death of a King

vomited like a drunk, then I closed my eyes until the troops were across the square and back into the winding streets. The troops, mainly hardened professionals from the northern march, remained impassive but Sir Edmund, white-faced and tight-lipped, ordered us not to stop for anything till we had left the town and re-entered the countryside. Here we began to meet roughly built hospitals for the English wounded. The latter informed us that the king was marching for the river Somme with the English fleet sailing along the Normandy coast. The English were sacking every port and hamlet on their route. The wounded also informed us that Caen had been sacked because it had refused to surrender. Sir Edmund nodded wisely, but I wondered if the little baby beside the horse-trough had understood the rules and uses of war. I said as much to Sir Edmund but all I received were dark looks and an order to dismount and help with making camp.
    A week after we had landed at Harfleur we reached Poissy and turned due north, still following Edward’s march to the Somme. Although I had served in a few minor campaigns a decade earlier, the carnage I witnessed on our ride through Normandy sickened me, men, women and children swinging from trees, grim monuments to Edward III’s claim to the throne of France. After a while I stopped looking and hung on grimly to my tired hack. My arse and thighs ached with saddle-sores, while my tired brain seemed capable of nothing more than concentrating on the road in front of me, too tired to think of the impending interview with the King. On 20 August, we reached Oisement and the rearguard of Edward’s army, long dusty columns of pikemen and archers with mounted men-at-arms guarding the flanks. One of these informed our group that Philip VI with a massive French army was preparing to block the English march north. At first, Philip had tried to stop Edward from crossing the Somme but Edward had seized and held the ford at Blanchetaque and was deploying his troops on a hill outside the village of Crécy. We pressed on and, as we approached Blanchet-aque, we realized that the struggle for control of the ford had been a fierce one. The dead lay in heaps on either side of the river and corpses, half-submerged, still bobbed and floated among the reeds. The crossing was heavily guarded by archers and pikemen wearing the bear and ragged staff of the Earl of Warwick. They told us that they were acting as a corridor to the main English army and urged us to hurry as roving bands of Hainaulters, Philip VI’s allies, were still trying to capture the ford and cut off any English stragglers.
    On the evening of 24 August, we entered the main English camp. We satisfied the commander of the picket line and passed on through lines of foot-soldiers to where the royal pavilions stood. Sir Edmund dismissed the escort and, after a hurried conversation with a royal sergeant-at-arms, escorted me into what I knew to be the royal tent. Flickering cressets revealed a group of nobles dressed in half-armour sitting round a trestle table littered with plates, goblets and pieces of parchment. They were engaged in furious debate and totally ignored our entrance. I stood there trying to calm my mounting panic by looking at the half-open trunks and caskets, which lay scattered around the tent. Eventually the curtain separating the sleeping quarters from the rest of the tent was pulled aside and the king entered. He was accompanied by Sir John Chandos and a hawk-faced, cold-eyed young man, the eldest son of Edward III’s brood, the Prince of Wales. They too were dressed in half-armour and I realized the whole camp must be on a war footing, expecting the French to attack at any moment. The king studied me for a moment before turning to his nobles.
    “My lords,” he announced, “my scouts have repeated that the French have left Abbeville and mean to bring us to battle.” He silenced the rising clamour with a gesture. “We are in a strong position,” he continued. “You have your orders—I beg you to retire and inform your marshals.” The nobles rose, bowed to the king and trooped out of the tent led by the king’s principal commanders, the Earls of Warwick, Oxford and Northampton. I recognized these by the devices emblazoned across their breastplates. At a sign from the king, Sir Edmund also left with a brief nod towards me and a look which almost mounted to pity. I stood there, too exhausted to speculate on the future.
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