The Death of a King

sound tactic. It presented as small a front as possible to the enemy, who would break on the point of the wedge, only to leave his flanks exposed to a hail of arrows, as he was driven on to the lines of the waiting men-at-arms.
    As the morning progressed, Edward’s tactics became more evident. We were divided into three divisions or battles. The right (in which I was standing) was the farthest down the slope under the Prince of Wales, and had its flank protected by a river and the village of Crécy. The division on the left under the banner of the Earl of Northampton was further up the slope, its flank being protected only by a small hamlet called Wadicourt. The centre division was mainly made up of lines of men-at-arms, who stood on terraces or cultivated strips, which would impede any cavalry which survived both the steep ride up the hill as well as the steady hail of arrows from the archers on each flank. Behind the centre at the top of the hill stood the reserve under the king himself. Banners were displayed, flapped brilliantly, and then furled again because of the light drizzle. Trumpets blared and shrilled at each other, stirring the large war-horses and exciting the men. Throughout the morning, the royal broad blue and gold banner flapped near a small windmill which was Edward’s central command point. This piece of information was given to me by the archer standing alongside me, a small wiry man with close-cropped hair and a skin burnt brown by the sun. In a thick northern burr, he introduced himself as John Hemple from Pontefract. As I was “green in matters of war” (so he put it), Hemple showed me how to dig a hole in the ground for my arrows and gave a never-ending commentary of the king’s strategy. He pointed out that the most interesting feature was that the knights would be fighting on foot, as they had before at Dupplin Moor against the Scots, as well as at the recent battle of Morlaix.
    His endless chatter was brought to an end by a roar of approval which spread across the lines as the king, riding a white palfrey, passed slowly along the whole line of battle, stopping now and again to give some encouragement to the troops. As he passed our section, I lowered my eyes, heartily wishing I had the means to plant an arrow firmly in his back.
    After the king’s review, the marshals ordered us to stand down but to remain in our positions. Food and water were brought along the lines and the archers whiled away their time by throwing dice, trying to sleep, or in endless speculation about the whereabouts of the French. Midday passed and still no news arrived. I sat on a hassock of grass talking to Hemple and other archers, or gazing into the distance wondering how I could extricate myself from the trap in which I found myself. As the day wore on, my anxiety about my personal safety diminished as speculation mounted amongst the troops about whether the French would appear before nightfall. The day had started threatening and a sudden thunderstorm late in the afternoon ended our chatter and cooled our ardour. We rushed to protect our precious bowstrings. Each man unstrung his bow, coiled up the bowstring and placed it inside his cap.
    The storm was soon over. The clouds dispersed and we were beginning to shed wet leggings when a series of trumpet blasts made us all turn to the windmill. We could see figures scurrying to and fro, and then one of the archers started shouting and pointing down the valley where the road to Marcheville emerged from the wood. I looked. At first I could see nothing, but then the early evening sun caught the gleam of armour. The French had arrived. Our marshals shouted at us to take up our positions. We stood to arms and watched as the French army, division after division, debouched from the wood and began to advance across the floor of the valley. It was a splendid, terrifying sight. The chivalry from half the courts of Europe were advancing against us, banners and pennants snapping in the evening breeze. Hemple pointed out the great blue flag of France adorned with the fleur-de-lis and, alongside it, the scarlet Orifiame banner. Hemple spat when he saw it and explained that the Orifiame was only flown when the French intended to take no prisoners. It was a sobering thought and I couldn’t help shivering when Hemple pointed out that the English force only amounted to about thirteen thousand men, whilst the French must have been more than three times that number.
    By now, we