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With the emergence of the Gun, the renewed optimism sparked by the limited victories of Jeanne d’arc and the securing of an alliance with Burgundy the French under Charles VII finally managed to push the English from the fields of France in 1453. England, torn by the Wars of the Roses, made no further attempt to conquer France. With the loss of Calais in 1558 the Hundred Years’ War and its battles of French knights against English longbowmen were consigned to the pages of history. Or so it seemed…

Friday 19^thJuly 2002

Slipping quietly beneath the cold waters of the English Channel we made our entrance into Normandy with rather less fuss than Henry V back in 1415. Deciding against a fleet of warships, and leaving ten thousand of our closest friends at home, we opted instead for an unremarkable dark blue people mover, every available space taken up with longbows, suitcases and overnight bags, a roof box bristling with arrows and a good supply of ‘sucky sweets’ to go round. After a brief stop for lunch outside Calais we took the A16 toll road South, heading straight for the hill top town of Montreuil-sur-Mer, passing beneath its twin-towered gateway to gain access to the medieval streets perched high above the plains of Northern France.

Arriving outside ‘Les Hauts de Montreuil’, a 16^th century coaching inn situated in the heart of the old town, Martin and Alan disappeared inside to check-in, while Michael and Nick sought out the hotel car park located within a small walled and gated enclosure within the crumbling back streets. With keys obtained we unloaded our bags and marched back to the hotel entrance, bows over our shoulders presenting quite a peculiar sight to any passers by. With belongings safely stowed in rooms that were spartanly furnished, but suitable nonetheless for our needs, we regrouped in the hotel courtyard to discuss our next move. With the evening still young and the town of Azincourt only a thirty minute drive away we decided to drop in on the encampment to see if we could find out some much needed information on the following day’s events. Retaking our seats in the people mover we set off in good spirits. With the sun still high in the sky we sped off along empty straight roads across a sea of golden cornfields, punctuated by islands of green woodland and the occasional sleepy hamlet.

Before long the open fields gave way to an avenue of tall trees leading up to an old Chateau glimpsed briefly behind large ornate iron gates and plastered perimeter wall. A small sign planted in the grass verge declaring ‘AZINCOURT’ brought forth shouts of joy from within the vehicle as we passed by. If any confirmation was needed at this point that we were indeed in the right place this was soon to be provided, for as we continued cautiously down high-banked country lanes we were greeted by colourful cardboard cut-outs of Henry V, mounted French Knights and English archers advertising the coming spectacle from their positions along the roadside. The town of Azincourt is in reality little more than a one street village, a collection of modest homes and farm buildings, a unisex public toilet that was later to provide us with some amusement, a pretty little church and a small restaurant.

Its most impressive building is undoubtedly the town museum - a modern, bold creation of steel and glass that incorporates the shape of the longbow throughout to great effect. It was as we approached the museum that we spotted a large hand-written sign pointing off up a small farm track to the site of the medieval encampment. Parking the car a little further on we proceeded on foot; a mixture of apprehension and excited expectation filled the air.

The track widened out into a large, rather uneven and scruffy looking rectangular field approximately one hundred yards wide by about four hundred yards long, enclosed on all sides by hedgerows and dotted with the occasional tree. Immediately in front of us lay the English encampment, a small collection of brightly coloured medieval tents belonging to the army commanders, and an assortment of plainer, white canvas tents for the common soldiery and camp followers. A longhaired middle-aged man, dressed in baggy white blouse and red hose, sat on a wooden stool beneath the porch of his tent waxing his longbow. A few tents away a group of women in long flowing gowns sat lazily around a large wooden table, chatting quietly and drinking from earthenware jugs. The sound of children playing carried on the warm evening air, banners flapped gently in the breeze and smoke curled skywards from a number of campfires. The scene was completed by a large curved-roof beer tent, an eating area with green plastic chairs and tables positioned around a couple of drum-sized barbeques, and a very sorry looking port-a-loo positioned off to one corner.

Our small party surveyed the scene in silence, each alone with his thoughts, and each hoping that maybe there was something we had missed. That perhaps this was only a small part of the encampment, that beyond some nearby hedgerow a thousand tents would stretch off towards the haze of the horizon, each complete with a throng of armour clad knights sat around their fires singing songs of war, drinking mead and eating roast boar. But slowly the  reality of it all began to sink in. This was it, not quite what we were expecting. Our subdued mood was shattered at that point by a cheerful greeting given in a broad west country accent by a ruddy faced, buxom wench who appeared from within a large green and white tent flying the banner of Sir Thomas Erpyngham, commander of the English archers at the original battle. She introduced herself as Stacey, co-organiser of the event and wife to Chris whom she called over to meet us. A large full-bearded man, Chris had a complexion like tanned leather, with deep penetrating eyes and an uncompromising manner. A fulltime re-enactor, he seemed to take on the role of Sir Thomas Erpyngham with a seriousness that at first belied his good nature.

With our introductions out of the way Chris proceeded to give us a tour of the site, and to point out the location of the growing French camp at the opposite end of the field. He explained that this was their first time at holding the event in the summer, and details were still sketchy as to how the weekend would proceed. Although re-enactors and traders had showed great interest from all across Europe few had actually made the effort to turn up. We would therefore have to play things by ear, at least until proceedings got under way in the morning and numbers could be confirmed.

That evening as the conversation progressed so our group began to warm to Chris, and any reservations we may have had disappeared along with the setting sun. A little later we were introduced to Ron, a serving police officer and fluent French speaker. Ron was an affable fellow, a bowyer and avid re-enactor who would be providing the commentary throughout the weekend. As we tirelessly worked our way through Ron’s case of French beers both he and Chris took great delight in regaling us with historical accounts of the battle of Azincourt, along with humorous anecdotes from their past displays. As the shadows and tales grew longer, so we were introduced to the delights of homemade blackcurrant mead sampled using an authentic medieval sharing cup, and proudly shown a collection of their favourite weapons from a phallic bollock dagger, a 90lb longbow and a superb fully working crossbow to name but a few.

We could have remained chatting in that field all night long, and probably would have too were it not for the growing pains in our stomachs reminding us that we had not eaten since lunch. Reluctantly we left our new found friends to their bed rolls and, promising to return bright and early for the morning meeting, we returned to our car and to the hotel, buzzing with excitement.

And so it was in high spirits, buoyed up by thoughts of coming glory on the battlefield, that we took a table in the West Indies restaurant next to our hotel, tucking in to platefuls of shark and donkey steak washed down with copious amounts of red and white wine. Then as the lights were dimmed, and accompanied by a heartily sang rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’, the waiter brought forth a surprise cake for Mike in celebration of his 66^th birthday the following day.

With fuzzy heads and full stomachs we retired to our beds, and to dreams of ancient battles in the knowledge that the coming dawn would see us take up positions facing the massed ranks of French Knights, on the exact same line as our ancestors had done almost five hundred and ninety years before!

Saturday 20^th July 2002

The new day dawned bright and clear as we assembled in the courtyard restaurant for a buffet breakfast, bleary eyed and thick headed, some suffering more than others. After a quick meal of cereal, fruit, croissants and cold meats we piled into the people mover and set off for the local supermarket, stocking up on bread and cheese for a picnic lunch, and a few cases of French beers to help wash it all down.

Arriving on the outskirts of the village of Azincourt we found the main street already busy with day visitors, a sight which only helped to increase the butterflies already busy in our stomachs. Leaving the people mover in a large field to the rear of the display area we sought out Stacey and Chris to see what they had planned over the next two days. We discovered that first up would be the archery tournament, a two part competition to be held over both days and to involve shooting at a collection of cardboard targets portraying medieval scenes such as mounted French Knights, crossbowmen and damsels in distress. The tournament would be held in the main display area providing the growing crowd with some light entertainment before the main event. With the prospect of having to perform before a large crowd keeping our pulses high we proceeded to sign in with Ron and pay our target fees of one groat or two Euros, the modern equivalent. With plenty of time to spare before we would be needed we visited the small collection of traders’ stalls before going off in search of the town museum.

For the next hour or so we amused ourselves in air-conditioned comfort, watching a three part movie depicting different aspects of the battle, its history and the characters involved, before moving upstairs to the arms and armour section. It was here that we had most fun, wielding contemporary weapons, putting our heads within different designs of helmet to marvel at the limited field of view that each provided, and working a couple of machines that simulated the differing amounts of force required to pull the longbow and crossbow.

Emerging back into the oppressive midday heat we retired to the people mover for an alfresco lunch of bread and cheese, with sun-warmed French beer drunk furtively as it was not strictly allowed for combatants until the battle was over. It was during our lunch that Martin struck up a conversation with a guy who turned out to be a cameraman for Channel 5. He had been working in a field just behind the one in which we stood, and he explained that his team were in the process of making a documentary about famous battles and were hoping later to film some longbows in action. The series was to be called Battlefield Detectives, and they hoped to screen it around October or November on a Friday evening at 8pm.

With the time of the tournament fast approaching we thanked him for the information before kitting up and making our way back to the encampment, bows strung and quivers loaded. The competition was to be organised on similar lines to that of a field shoot. Each target would be shot at from three different positions identified by pegs hammered into the ground. The archer would take his first shot from the furthest peg from the target. Regardless of whether he scored a hit or not he would then move up to the second peg arranged slightly closer and at a slightly different angle to the first. Upon loosing his second arrow he would then proceed to the final and closest peg. High scores would be given for each arrow considered as entering the ‘Kill’ zone, and lower scores would be awarded for arrows on target but outside the zone. In some cases scores would be deducted if any innocent persons depicted on the targets were accidentally hit. As the archers gathered for the start of the competition it soon became apparent that Waterside would be the only target archers present. The rest of the competitors seemed to be from those participating in the re-enactment, all of whom were clothed in period costume. The organisers therefore decided to bill the event as ‘A Competition Through The Ages’, a contest showing how the longbow remained in use from its days as a weapon of medieval warfare, through to the modern day pursuits of sport and leisure. The pressure was therefore on us to prove that modern day longbowmen were just as good as our ‘medieval’ counterparts! To provide the audience with the best possible view of proceedings the various targets were arrayed at a modest range, which as the contest got under way proved a little troublesome at first especially as we had been shooting at much longer distances throughout the summer. However it wasn’t long before we adjusted to this new challenge and by the end of the first session we left the field with a respectable collection of hits, each of which had been applauded enthusiastically by the audience seated behind our backs.

With the competition over for the time being we had time to do some sight seeing before the main event. Driving a little way out of town we found ourselves in the midst of the battlefield proper. A vast sprawling landscape devoid of trees or buildings, flat, featureless bar the ancient woods of Tramcourt on the right flank, and what was left of those at Azincourt on the left. Beside a small innocuous road junction we came across a large burial mound surmounted by a roughly carved stone obelisk some fifteen foot high; a last resting place for just a fraction of the many thousands of French soldiers who gave their lives that day. The mound offered an ideal vantage point from which to view the field, drink in the atmosphere and reflect on the events that were played out on the innocent looking piece of ground that now lay before us.

Arriving back at the encampment we dressed for battle, donning hats and jackets as extra protection against incoming arrows. After a brief chat with Ron and Stacey we were shocked to learn that we were the only outside group of archers to have turned up, and would therefore have the honour of representing the entire English contingent on our own! As this was our first experience of re-enactment, and as we were without period costume, they decided to position us to the rear of the English formation and behind the white tape that separated the battlefield from the encampment. From there we could shoot over the heads of the English, thus keeping our arrows at a minimum angle of 45˚ to the ground to keep things as safe as possible. As the armies marched onto the field in full armour, banners flying in the afternoon breeze, we each collected a handful of rubber-tipped arrows and stood ready. The battle unfolded with the leaders of each army meeting in the middle of the field to parley, before letting their respective champions engage in hand-to-hand combat in a bid to resolve their grievances. On this occasion the French champion won, but as he returned to his line he turned to the watching English soldiers and taunted us with rude gestures. In retaliation ‘Sir Thomas Erpyngham’ ordered his front ranks to part and make way for the archers. Calling us forward of the tape he ordered that a volley be shot at the French champion as he swaggered from the field. Straining our bows to maximum draw to take account of the heavy arrows we let fly at eighty yards. As he retreated our arrows struck up plumes of dust around his feet. Then with an audible crack an arrow loosed by Martin scored a direct hit upon his left arm. A roar of approval went up from the English line and the crowd soon followed suit, erupting with applause. Now it was the turn of the English men-at-arms to get stuck in, and with Dutch pole men to their flanks they marched forwards to join battle with the French - the Battle of Azincourt had begun!

It is difficult to recall with any certainty how long the battle lasted that afternoon. No one takes much notice of time when dodging incoming arrows and approaching knights seem of more importance. Above the clamour of steel against steel and the cries of men feigning anger or pain, it may just have been possible to hear the cries of delight issued from a half dozen longbow men as they ventured briefly beyond the tape barrier, scavenging spent arrows before loosing them back with unashamed glee. At the outset of the battle we had been told to restrict our aim to a shallow depression on the left of the field where French archers would take up position. However on hearing this the French decided on a safer position further back, believing our bows would not make the distance. In reality it was they who could rarely reach us, and so it was with near impunity from retaliation that we shot back, switching from targeting the main combatants one minute, to the archers the next, and enjoying every minute of it.

On this occasion it was the French who would win the day (by prior arrangement), and on cessation of hostilities the joint armies of the French and English performed a march past in all their splendour before the cheering crowd. We stood on the sidelines and applauded in similar fashion until Ron surprised us with his address to the crowd. Announcing every sentence in both French and English so all could understand he beckoned us to take the field, and to the crowd he asked for their appreciation of the “English archers of Waterside!” With hearts racing and heads held high the six of us formed up in line and performed our own mini march past, chests swollen with pride and faces covered in broad grins from ear to ear.

Having marched from one end of the field to the other we found ourselves in the heart of the French encampment, and making the most of the situation we decided to have a good look round. A group of French soldiers noticing our presence came over to shake hands and introduce themselves. Although neither party could speak much of the other’s language we muddled through as best we could and had a good laugh about the battle. They seemed genuinely impressed by the range and accuracy we had displayed, and were keen to experience more the following day. Suddenly the French champion made his entrance, and with mock displeasure asked to meet the archer who had hit him earlier. Pushing Martin to the fore we laughed as he displayed the damage the arrow had caused to his gauntlet, stripping the armour plating completely off one finger. He said the blow had caused him some pain but mostly surprise, but remarkably he asked that if he presented himself at closer range the following day we could shoot directly at his armoured chest for he wanted to experience something of the real force an English longbow could deliver. It would be our pleasure!

On the way back to our camp we were accosted by a trio of French maidens who explained excitedly thatsome of our arrows had travelled the full distance of the field. One such arrow had come down through the branches of a tree they had been seated beneath, striking a wine bottle upon their table and spilling its contents!

That evening we joined the rest of the re-enactors in the beer tent, trading our warm bottles of French beer with the Dutch for some cold German variety. As we sat and drank beer making conversation with anyone close at hand we got word that an ancient ceremony was to be held that very evening in the village church, and that if we wanted to see something special we should come along. Before long people began to leave for the church and so we stood and followed suit, making our way in procession down the now quiet main street. Filing inside the little stone church we sat in expectant silence like school children in assembly waiting for the headmaster to arrive. The spell was broken by the sound of large wooden doors being thrown open, and of steel shod feet clanking against stone paving. Following the lead of others we stood as a group of 6 French knights strode in, resplendent in full plate armour and mail, white capes flowing behind them, their surcoats displaying the cross of St. George. After the Knights came the standard bearers, closely followed by ladies dressed in long flowing gowns and tall headdresses. We later learned that the ceremony was called a “Dubbing”, where two young squires who had now come of age would be welcomed into the Knightly order and could therefore bear arms in battle. They would have earned this honour through years of faithful service and would have spent the day performing acts of penitence. The ceremony was conducted in French though the basic theme was easy to follow. The squires were brought in one at a time to kneel before the head of the order who read out the significance of their achievement. As they knelt they received the customary sword blade upon each shoulder before standing and being dressed and armed by a squire. Once dressed they recited an oath of allegiance before receiving a heavy blow, dealt with the flat of the hand, upon their backs. This was to signify the last time they could be struck without recourse to armed combat. Their final act was to be welcomed into the order by the other knights, this being achieved by the clasping of hands in the way of warriors (instead of shaking hands you clasp the others forearm instead). The ceremony was a short one, taking no more than half an hour, but it was something we all felt privileged to have witnessed.

Afterwards we returned to the beer tent to enjoy a free meal of steak and chips, provided by the townspeople in thanks for our participation in the weekend’s events. To the accompaniment of a thunderous electrical storm overhead we continued our conversations, straining to be heard above the din of raindrops against tent fabric. Later a great cheer erupted as the jousters promised for earlier in the day finally arrived, their lorries splashing though the many puddles that now covered the sodden field. It wasn’t long before the rain clouds made their departure for the evening, and sat around the focal point of Chris’ green and white tent we watched the sun set and the stars appear. Continuing our conversations by candle light and joined by a collection of other souls looking for company, we chatted away the hours until with heavy eyelids we wished all a good night and left for bed, in the knowledge that we would need all our strength for another busy day tomorrow.

Sunday 21^st July 2002

Dragging ourselves from our beds beneath a cool grey sky we breakfasted early before checking out. After an early morning walk around the quiet streets of Montreuil we made our way to the town of Crécy in search of the high ridge that was witness to the first and largest battle in The Hundred Years War in which longbowmen fought and won against overwhelming numbers.

Parking in the small empty car park by the side of the road we climbed a wooden tower that marked the position of a former windmill in which King Edward III quartered and oversaw the battle in 1346 to enjoy panoramic views of the landscape below.

Returning to ground level we walked the field, heads bowed and eyes scouring the ploughed earth for a glimpse of some recently unearthed arrowhead, laughing until it hurt at the futility of such endeavours. Unsurprisingly we found nothing, and so returning to the people mover we drove off towards the town of Hesdin, munching our way through Mike’s seldom offered stockpile of wine gums! Stopping briefly to stock up on our usual fare of bread, cheese and French beers in the local supermarket we continued across country to Azincourt in rapidly improving weather.

Picking our way through a mass of tents and spectators we were greeted warmly by Stacey who feared we might not show up for the second part of the contest. Assuring her that we wouldn’t miss this for the world we went back to the vehicle to sit and enjoy a beer beneath a clear blue sky, taking the opportunity to watch the jousters thrill the crowds. All too quickly it was our turn to attempt the same level of spectacle and excitement, though with the jousters tilling equipment taking up most of the field we had to arrange the targets even closer than before.

As the second part of the archery tournament got under way we soon settled down to the task at hand and all managed to surpass our previous days achievements. When the final arrow had been loosed we collated our scores before handing them to Stacey for the final results. Lined up before an expectant crowd we waited as Ron came forward to announce the positions in reverse order. As each archer’s score was read out they took a few paces forward and bowed to the crowd who reciprocated with rapturous applause. At the final reckoning Waterside emerged victorious, taking all three of the top places. In third place was Nick Birmingham. In second place and the proud recipient of an Indian Maharaja’s dagger with curved blade, donated by one of the traders, was Mike Stephens. Top honours however went to Martin Harvey who narrowly beat Mike into the top spot to receive a splendid George cross dagger with double-edged blade.

Clearing the field to make way for a display of medieval dancing we returned to our vehicle for a well-earned lunch, taken leisurely as we sprawled upon the grass discussing the tournament and watching the jousters as they returned for their second display of the day.

Eventually the time of the final battle had come, and donning our hats and jackets despite the sticky weather we marched off to the muster outside Chris’ tent. There we met up with Stacey who was pleased to inform us that due to our sterling performances over the weekend they had agreed to allow us unfettered participation in the coming battle, just so long as we didn’t proceed any further up the field than the line of standard bearers for our own protection. She also confirmed that after speaking with the French champion he had again requested that we aim to hit him square on with our arrows the moment his English counterpart had been ‘slain’.

With pure adrenaline pumping through our veins we took to the field with the other participants and made ready, bows strung and arrows nocked. The opening moves of the battle unfolded in the now familiar way, with both commanders advancing to parley before giving leave for their champions to engage. We watched the battle unfold with bated breath, fingers itching upon our strings, waiting for the moment when we would be called to action. Then with an almighty clang the French champion struck his opponent about the head with his sword, the force of the blow taking his helmet clean off. Our moment had come. Bending our bows we watched the champion lower his visor before turning to face us, his feet planted firmly apart and arms raised waving his sword and gesturing defiantly.

And so we loosed, one half dozen arrows sang through the air to miss his defiant form by a hairs breadth. The champion loved it, shouting to the crowd, dismissing our attempts to hit him with a wave of his gauntleted hand. With another arrow speedily nocked to our strings we aimed with more surety this time for now we had his range. A second loose, and with an almighty clang as if a bell had been rung one of Mike’s arrows found its mark, hitting him squarely upon the breastplate. As his ‘lifeless’ form slumped to the ground great cheers arose from the crowd, to be met with a corresponding roar from the field as the opposing forces launched headlong into the fray.

This time the jousters added their weight to the numbers upon the field, and in organised charges they thundered to and fro between the melee of struggling bodies. With a frustrating shortage of arrows to hand we were forced to use as much of the field as we dared, running between the men-at-arms to gather up spent arrows before hurling them back at the foe. This time the battle lasted much longer than before and at agreed intervals the armies would break off to return to their lines for a quick mouthful of water, before engaging once more. Unlike the previous outing this time the French archers had agreed to move forward, and to our delight their arrows found our range with ease, at times over-shooting and plunging headlong into the watching crowds, though thankfully causing no harm.

As energy levels began to wane the last remaining French soldiers were dispatched to join their comrades now scattered upon the field. The English had again won the day at Azincourt. Helping their ‘foes’ to their feet the combined armies presented themselves to the audience and took a final bow. Then to our surprise Ron called us forward and asked that we form up at the head of the line, before leading them off the field in a triumphant march past for the watching crowds. With little idea of what we were supposed to do or where we were meant to go we nonetheless strode off at the head of the procession, faces glowing and chests stuck proudly out as a crowd a thousand strong clapped and cheered us off the field!

Later that evening with the time of our departure fast approaching we sought out our newfound friends and said our farewells. With requests for us to return next year, and with the sounds of battle still ringing in our ears we left the fields of Azincourt for the road to Calais, and to the waiting train that would take us back home.

THE END?

If you enjoyed reading about our adventures at Azincourt in 2002 and would like to get involved yourself simply click on the logo above to contact Chris Skinner at the Azincourt Alliance for further details.

or select the photo to visit the Azincourt Museum website.