In the growing darkness king Henry’s camp boiled with preparations for
the attack. Retinues of John Holland and the Baron of Pitchfork took position
along the stockade. The eastern part of the camp was obscured by smoke from the
heavy bombards and handguns. Before the attack the gunners doubled the efforts
to make way for the cramped men-at-arms and archers. The latter were frantically
checking up arrow fletchings and putting strings on their yew and ash
bowstaves. The soldiers were glancing upon the walls, nervously grasping their
halberds, spetums, glaives* and partisans*. The King rode
onto the back of the awaiting troops. His suite spread behind him. Mounted on
the grand steed, he looked majestic. On the tabard he had arms quarterly: 1 and
4 azure three fleurs de lys or, 2 and 3 gules in pale three lions passant
guardant or – the coat of arms of the reigning house. Henry was sitting
straight in his high-bowed saddle. He did not put the helmet on and his noble,
proud face was clearly visible in the camp’s lights. A long scar ran across his
right cheek – a strong accent in his aristocratic features. It was a souvenir
from the battle of Shrewsbury. On the king’s right hand rode Edward, the Duke
of York - Henry’s uncle. On the king’s left hand rode Humfred, the Duke
of Gloucester, the youngest son of Henry IV and the elderly, yet highly
experienced king’s counsellor – Sir Thomas Erpingham. All of the king’s closest
companions wore full plate armour and helmets.
“Sons of England!”
Henry’s words broke through the artillery’s turmoil. “The walls have been
crumbled! Harfleur welcomes us! Please accept its hospitality tonight and abandon
the comforts of your tents! I invite you to my home, Normandy, as you are now
standing on its porch!” The king spoke louder and louder and the warriors’
eager cries echoed him. “You are at home here, you just need to drive away the
intruders who invaded your household. Attack in the name of Saint George!”
A collective cry rose
in the air. Sir John Holland shut the visor of his basinet* and
twirled his high-raised sword. The English knights, spearmen and archers poured
out from behind the stockade. The latter were the most numerous and they were
the first to start the bloody craft. The bombards went silent and the night’s
sky sizzled only with arrows and bolts.
Sir Robert ran, leaning
slightly, with his visor closed. In front of him he could only see his father’s
back covered with a plate. The baron of Pitchfork ran close to him, grasping
with both hands his favourite weapon – a poleaxe* over 6 feet long.
“Gregory, stay close!”
Robert yelled to his panting squire. “And I will keep close to my cousin”, he
thought.
The first wave of the
attackers reached the rubble. It once was a deep moat, naturally carved out by
the river Leur. Holland and his knights started climbing down, accompanied by
the clanking of armour. The spearmen clambered after them. The archers were
stopping every once in a while trying to spot the defenders on the walls.
When the first wave
descended to the moat, they were showered with bolts and stones.
“Halt!” cried Sir
Ralph.
The second wave caught
up with Holland’s men, who had not yet managed to climb down the rubble.
“Scatter and take cover
until there’s place for us!” Sir Ralph shouted to the cramped knights.
“Take cover and await
the command!”, the Baron of Pitchfork echoed him in a deep voice.
Robert pushed the
squire toward the nearby pile of charred wooden stakes – the remnants of the
fortifications. He crouched himself close by. Still not all of Holland’s men
managed to get down to the moat. Robert saw his father and his cousin hiding
behind a heap of stones. In the background he spotted crossbowmen looming on
the walls. Although they were at a considerable distance, he would swore he
heard an order in French. An instant later two of Arthur’s men fell to the
ground. One, tossed with convulsions, was holding his stomach. The other lied
unnaturally still. A trickle of blood flowed from under his kettle hat*.
“Crossbowmen, behind
you!” cried Sir Robert and pointed at the walls.
Sir Ralph glanced towards the barbican and cursed. With
growing anxiety Robert watched the first wave run through the moat. Why are
they moving so slowly? He glanced back at the knights surrounding Arthur and
Ralph. Just in time to see a bolt hitting the head of Sir Thomas Crawley
crouching on the edge of the group. His father’s friend cocked his head and
fell dead, face down. Robert felt suddenly that none of this is real. Fear made
him stop thinking and start acting upon instincts. He only saw a couple archers
come to aid the knights. They covered the French crossbowmen with arrows at an
incredible pace. Finally he rose to his feet and rushed through the filled up
moat. He did not hear the cries or commands. He just ran and didn’t even notice
joining Sir John Holland’s men fighting in the crowd. The few images that he
later remembered of the assault was the second wave of men-at-arms breaking
through the torn ramparts to meet the wall of French halberds. His last memory
was of a muffled clatter, when the mighty strike of a pole-arm knocked him,
unconscious, to the ground.
