The Death of a King

archers were ready, arrows notched. We waited for orders as the French milled and turned in glorious colour in the valley.
    “The fools!” Hemple muttered. “They’re going to attack without waiting to deploy.”
    In fact, the French did pause to send forward their Genoese crossbowmen, who advanced steadily forward, leaping and shouting till they were within range. Then they stopped, wound up their windlasses and fired an erratic shower of arrows, which drew nothing except derisory catcalls from the lines of waiting English archers. Then our marshals shouted their orders.
    “Aim.”
    “Steady.”
    “Loose.”
    The air hummed with our shafts, which darkened the sky like clouds scudding across its surface, before falling with deadly accuracy amongst the Genoese. We never waited to see the effect of our volley for time and again we were ordered to loose until an order rang out ordering us to stop. When I looked down the slope I saw the Genoese lying in thick groups in the grass, many of them hit two or three times by our shafts, the rest were running back to the protection of the French horses, but these simply ran them down as they began their ponderous climb up the hill.
    Once again we were ordered to steady, then loose, and, although the French knights were heavily armoured, our arrows had the same deadly effect. Many of the French did make our lines, only to be hacked down, or have their horses killed under them. They were joined by fresh waves who trampled down their countrymen to get at us. The most frightening thing was their terrible anonymity. Great steel-encased figures. Visors down. They rode at us on horses like phantoms from a nightmare. They hacked and whirled sword and mace as they tried to reach us through the wooden stakes. Their great war-horses reared and snorted, flailing sharpened hooves, more wicked than any sword. Many were impaled on the stakes but more and more were getting through.
    Soon our front line was heavily engaged in hand-to-hand fighting, while our colleagues at the back poured volley after volley over our heads into the massed French knights. The evening air was filled with curses, shouts and the screams of dying men and horses. At close quarters, my bow became useless. I drew my stabbing knife, dodged sharpened hooves and hacked and clawed at anything which came near me. A French knight loomed over me but I ducked under the belly of his horse, drove my knife upwards and then jumped sideways as horse and rider crashed to the ground. The knight lay thrashing like a baby on the ground but, terrified of being cut off, I hurried back to the protection of my own lines. The situation was now becoming desperate. We had run out of arrows and, though the French were impeded by the weight of their armour as well as their dead, who clogged the ground and turned it a muddy red, it was obvious that they were going to break through our flank by sheer weight of numbers. In fact, the line was beginning to sway and buckle in the centre. Then Edward detached troops from the left flank and sent them to our help. At the same time, he brought up the reserve and the French were forced to retreat.
    The sun was now setting but the dying daylight revealed the magnitude of the French losses. The slope was carpeted with dead or dying knights, their colours sadly tarnished, while some of their great war-horses still stood pathetically beside them. We were or dered to recover as many shafts as possible and we surged forward, plucking arrows from the dead and so finishing off those wounded too badly to be taken prisoner for ransom. The marshals put a stop to any plundering and we were ordered to reform and await a fresh attack. I joined my comrade, Hemple, who, talkative as ever, vowed he must have slain a score of French knights. I wondered if the enemy would retreat, but he laughed and pointed downhill where the French assault was reforming. Up they came again, not so quickly as before, but quite prepared to trample their dead to break our lines. Once again they were met with deadly volleys of arrows before they closed with us once more. This time the full English force was committed. The front line, a mixed collection of knights and men-at-arms, held them while the archers shot over their heads. It was soon dark, but a clear night helped our archers, who had simply to aim at the French mass, confident that every arrow found its mark. It soon became apparent that the French had suffered a disastrous