Bowmen of England
By the same author
War Games
Tackle Model Soldiers This Way
Naval War Games
Air War Games
All For A Shilling A Day
First published in Great Britain in 1968 by Clarkson N. Potter, Inc.
Reprinted in 2003 by Pen & Sword Military Classics
This edition first published in Great Britain by
Pen & Sword Military
an imprint of
Pen & Sword Books Ltd
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Copyright © Donald F. Featherstone 1967, 2003, 2011
9781844685998
The right of Donald F. Featherstone to be identified as Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Illustrations
Author’s Introduction
Prologue
Part I - The Birth of the Bow
Chapter 1 - The Earliest Days
Chapter 2 - The Welsh Wars – Late Thirteenth Century
Chapter 3 - The Armies of the English and the French
Chapter 4 - Their Way of Fighting
Chapter 5 - The English Archer
Chapter 6 - His Longbow
Part II - The Tactics are Forged
Chapter 7 - Falkirk sets the Pattern – 1298
Chapter 8 - Bannockburn – 1314
Chapter 9 - Halidon Hill – 1333
Chapter 10 - The Archer at Sea: Sluys – 1340
Chapter 11 - Morlaix – 1342
Part III - The Years of Victory
Chapter 12 - Crécy – 1346
Chapter 13 - Neville’s Cross – 1346
Chapter 14 - Mauron – 1352
Chapter 15 - Poitiers – 1356
Chapter 16 - Homildon Hill – 1402
Chapter 7 - Agincourt – 1415
Chapter 18 - Verneuil – 1424; and Rouvray – 1428
Part IV - The Tide Begins to Turn
Chapter 19 - Patay – 1429; and Formigny – 1450
Part V - The Last Victories
Chapter 20 - The Wars of the Roses – 1461
Chapter 21 - Flodden Field – 1513
Chapter 22 - The End of the Road
Epilogue
Bibliography
Index
Illustrations
Siege of Mortagne. From Chronique d’Angleterre by Jean Wavrin
Edward III. Electrotype from the gilt copper tomb effigy
Effigy of the Black Prince, Chapel of St. Thomas Becket, Canterbury Cathedral
Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick. From his monument in St. Mary’s Church, Warwick
John Lord Montacute. From his monument in Salisbury Cathedral
Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmorland. From his monument in Staindrop Church, Durham
Henry V. Artist unknown
Tilting helmet by tradition worn by Henry V at Agincourt, flanked by his saddle and shield. From the Chantry Chapel, Westminster Abbey
A bascinet shown with and without its visor
This Gothic armour shows a ‘barded’ horse
Yew bow found during the excavations at Berkhamsted
Captain Jack Churchill shoots for Great Britain in the World Archery Championships, August 1939
Sir Laurence Olivier’s concept of the English archers at Agincourt. From Henry V
Author’s Introduction
At some time in their history nearly every race on earth has used the bow and arrow, but nowhere did they reach the pitch of skill and perfection as in England during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In that period the English bowman dominated the wars of Europe as no comparable force has ever done since.
It was a time when England was a young nation, feeling her feet and still a little unsteady. The triple victories of Crécy, Poitiers and Agincourt stoked up the fires of national consciousness to forge a pride that has never left these shores. Directed by brilliant, brave and far-seeing captains, the English army did not lose a major battle between Morlaix in 1342 and Patay in 1429. The best professional fighting man of his day, the English yeoman, and his longbow were the most significant single factor that changed all the old traditions and concepts of mediaeval fighting and warfare.
The English archer was not a peasant to be lorded over by the higher born and arrogant of the land; he was a freeman, a respected yeoman possessing a proud and dignified status. He exchanged his exceptional skill and talents with the six-foot yew stave for specified pay and terms of military service. That he was a powerful, muscular man is obvious – only the biggest and the strongest of men could pull a hundred pounds and draw a full clothyard shaft to their ear. His background encouraged him to show initiative and resource, so that, when the occasion demanded, he would drop his bow and nimbly lay to with sword, axe and the murderous five-foot maule or mallet.
The successors of the English archer fought with Marlborough at Blenheim, Wolfe at Quebec, Clive at Plassey and with Wellington in the Peninsula. Their bones also salted the Sudanese sands and whitened on the rugged hills of India’s north-west frontier; they amazed the Germans at Mons with their rapid rifle-fire and built up a reputation for dogged tenacity amidst adversity in two world wars. In the beginning the longbow brought the first immortal fame to the common soldier who might otherwise have hardly rated a mention in the history books.
Whether the longbow really altered the course of history is debatable, nor can it be claimed that the English archer contributed towards the foundation of the British Empire. But it cannot be denied that his skill and courage may well have discouraged other, more powerful, nations from attempting to add England to their empires.
In writing of Crécy, Poitiers and Agincourt one is writing of the Hundred Years War, of Edward, the Black Prince, and Henry V, but, more than that, one must write the history of the English archer, because without him, and the tactics built around him, none of the victories in France during that mediaeval period would have been possible.
It might well be claimed that historians have engaged in numerous and fierce controversies over battle sites, numbers engaged and casualties, and that these points of disagreement are not reflected in the pages of this book. To this point it is possible to give a number of valid reasons. In the first place it is intended that this should be the story of a man and his weapon – everything else is
a background to that personalised account. Secondly, a considerable number of sources and authorities were consulted and studied during the preparation of this manuscript; many differed but none appeared to the author to improve upon or supplant the excellent reasoning of the late Lieutenant-Colonel A. H. Burne in his books on the Crécy and Agincourt wars. Therefore, much that is written and stated as fact in this book is so recorded because the author is convinced that it happened in that way – in the manner described by Colonel Burne and which requires no argument or discussion.
Further inspiration was gained from A. Conan Doyle’s book The White Company – this most fascinating and enjoyable reading provided the initial impetus to put words on paper in praise of that truly English character and his weapon – the bowman. I am grateful to John Murray (Publishers) Ltd. of London for their unhesitating permission to quote from this wonderful book.
This is perhaps the sixth book that I have written with the invaluable aid of Southampton Public Library. Volumes long since out of print have been sought and borrowed from other libraries by Bob Corlett and Bill Graham, to whom I owe a great deal.
Donald Featherstone
Southampton
Prologue
It was a good position to hold. From the top of the small hill the archers gazed around them, noting with professional eyes its defensive merits – they liked the long and gradual slope that dropped away in their front, remarked that its tangled undergrowth and stony surface would handicap the horses. The patches of soggy marshland on either flank formed a comforting guard and there was a nice convenient wood right behind them to hold the baggage-train. Yes, it had been well chosen.
Amid the bustle and preparation that ensued on all sides, the bowmen appeared calm and confident as they methodically new-strung their bows and made sure that they were firm at the nocks. From his steel skull-cap each archer removed a carefully coiled bowstring, unrolling it gently so as not to twist it more or less than the natural twist already in it. The bow end was placed against the inside of the left foot to prevent it digging into the ground, the handle grasped with the left hand so that the bow sloped away to the right, with the back uppermost. Then the top loop of the string was slipped over the upper end of the bow and allowed to drop a few inches down the stave; the lower loop put safely home in the bottom nock on the bow. Against the back of the bow, a few inches from the top, each bowman placed the palm of a horny hand, with the first finger and thumb on either side of the string about halfway down the loop, taking care that no finger got round the underside of the bow or between the string and bow. Next, he pulled on the handle with his left hand and pushed at the top with the right, sliding the right hand and the loop of the string upwards until the loop slipped into the nock. With a studied and practised nonchalance he relaxed gradually, just in case the bottom loop had slipped out of place.
Bows ready for action, the peeled six-foot poles, roughly sharpened at each end, were picked from the ground where they had been dropped by each man when they halted. Using daggers, holes were dug in front of them, and one end of the pole dropped into the small pit. Maules were then used to hammer home the stakes, the pointed ends being re-sharpened when the poles were firm. In a short time there was a barrier of threatening stakes pointing obliquely upwards, in a solid fence that undulated with the rise and fall of ground across the front of the position.
Whilst the archers worked, their officers and file-leaders moved among them, giving an instruction here, a word of advice there. The senior of the master bowmen raised his voice so that those around him could hear:
‘Now listen, me lads! Make sure you’ve got all you need … a bracer on your left hand, a shooting glove on your right … have your wax handy too. Remember, bend your bow well … nock your stave properly and lock your string well!’
‘My old dad told me them things afore I was knee-high to him!’
A roar of laughter greeted the sally, growled out by a tanned and grizzled veteran, looking up from checking string-height by his own ‘fist-mele’. The master bowman glowered at him; turning away he muttered:
‘I’ll remember you … if we get out of this alive!’ One of the older bowmen called after him: ‘Don’t pay him no heed, Master Robin! He’s a good lad at heart! Remember him an’ his mates at Crécy? Little Hal Watridge, and Perkin of Winchester … an’ Wat Purkiss who brought down the big plumed lord? God in heaven … they were men we won’t see the like of no more! I dare say they could beat any we got here at long butts or short, hoyles, rounds or rovers!’
A trumpet shrilled loud and clear above the clamour. Still buckling armour and testing weapons, the soldiers flowed into familiar formations, to stand at ease. The archers fell into four lines with under-officers and file-leaders in front and on the flanks; in a ripple of movement that ran down their ranks they removed the skull-caps and bowed their heads. All men stood silent, alone with their thoughts, as their leaders harshly muttered a prayer; then in a rustling monotone all repeated the Pater, the Ave and the Credo. The men-at-arms, in their dull, leaden-hued armour, the ruddy visages, craggy features and hard bearded faces joined together in a sudden hush; some of the men drew amulets and relics from their tunics, to be kissed and carefully replaced. The last ‘Amen’, deep and resonant, had barely rolled through the still air when the reverent silence was broken by the distant squeal of trumpets, the deep rolling of drums, backed by the dull monotone of footsteps and many thousands of voices.
All eyes turned towards the crest of the ridge, three-quarters of a mile distant across the valley, that lay at the foot of their own hill; it was now topped with countless lance pennons, glittering steel points, colourful surcoats and waving plumes.
‘It’s them … ’ere they are, lads!’
‘Jist got ‘ere in time, din’ we?’
They stood in silence, watching the enemy mass in their thousands, saw their formations ripple and shudder as the impatient knights tried to fight their way to the front, jealous of any others who might take from them the honour of opening the battle. In spite of the confidence that they felt, many of the English archers and men-at-arms were unable to prevent their eyes from travelling quickly over their own small force and comparing it with that of the enemy – at least four times as numerous. By now they were close enough to be individually distinguished, but still just out of bowshot. In response to murmured orders, short arrows were nocked to perhaps a thousand bowstrings, to be loosed to fall far short of the opposing army in an effort to encourage it to come closer. The challenge was accepted and now the battle was about to begin in earnest.
‘Think they’re within range?’
‘Dunno … it’s near twenty score paces. Still, we oughter be able to notch a mark at that distance. Come on, Perkin, Watkin of Fareham and Big John … let’s show ‘em they’ve got English bowmen to deal with!’
‘I’ll take the lord with the white-and-red plume.’
‘An’ I him with the gold headpiece!’
From his stock of two dozen bodkin-pointed arrows planted in the ground before him, each archer drew one, nocked it, bent his bow, and, on the order: ‘Loose!’, let it fly with thousands of others up, up into the air above the approaching enemy. It climbed swiftly with a soul-shrivelling howl and whip, like a gale in the tops of tall trees. As the enemy fearfully gazed upwards to watch them, the shafts turned, to become a swarm of black specks against the sky, plummeting down towards them. Then, together with a hundred others, the knights wearing the red-and-white plume and the gold headpiece crashed to the ground in a clanking, tumbling heap of horses and men.
‘Higher, Wat, higher!’
Tut thy body into it, Will!’
‘Forget not the wind, Arnold!’
On all sides rose a muttered chorus of advice: shrewd professional comments on their craft of skilfully using a stave of wood and a string such as they had never been used before. Above all could be heard the sharp twanging of the strings, the hiss and howl of the shafts, mingled with orders
and advice from the officers and the master bowman:
‘Draw your arrow!’
‘Nick your arrow!’
‘Shoot wholly together!’
None of the enemy cavalry got closer to them than fifty yards; most remained in their crumpled heaps on the muddy, bloodstained and scuffled slope of the hill. The archers ceased firing and rested on their bows, exultantly talking among themselves.
‘I’ve got thirteen arrows left... an’ I’ll sink every one of ’em in French flesh or my name ain’t what it is!’
‘Dickon, did ye see the black-armoured lord? I took both him and his horse with but one shaft!’
The enemy grouped, massed into an even larger formation than the first; the trumpets sounded, the horses were spurred into a trot and then cumbrously they lurched upwards towards the English position once again. The bowmen were ready, feet firmly planted, sleeves rolled back to give free play to their arms, long yellow bow-staves held out in front of them, they waited in the four-deep harrow formation which gave strength to their array and permitted every man to draw his arrow freely without harm to the men in front of him. Some of the bowmen threw light tufts of grass into the air to gauge the wind force; hoarse whispers ran down the ranks from the file-leaders:
‘Hold your arrows! Don’t loose outside fifteen score paces! We’ll need all our shafts before we’ve beaten this lot!’
‘Don’t undershoot, lads! Better to hit a man in their rear than have your shaft feather in the earth!’
‘Loose quick and sharp when they get near.’