things.
Later that evening a delegation of Englishmen rode deep into the orchards four miles to
the northwest of their encampment, gathering fruit for the army. They‘d grown tired of the dull
fare of army provisions, and the apples on these trees looked as tempting as any they‘d ever seen.
V
Wednesday 7th August 1381
Master Giles, Bolingbroke‘s chief engineer, flinched as yet another dull thunder rolled
over his head. He was crouched deep in a tunnel, somewhere in the noman‘s-land between the
hills of the English encampment and the western walls of Harfleur.
The thunder of London was followed a half second later by an enormous rumble, and
Giles crouched even further, his arms laced protectively over his head. Clods of dirt crumbled
over him, but nothing worse, and after a moment he dared peek out from under his arms.
The tunnel was low enough that everyone within it had to crouch, but reasonably wide, so
that they could pass each other with ease. Wood, carried all the way from England, for
Bolingbroke had long anticipated his need of tunnelling, shored up the hanging wall, or roof, of the tunnel. Dull light glowed from oil lamps placed regularly the length of the tunnel, enough
light to show that Giles was as filthy as every other man sorry enough to have to work down
here.
―How close are we?‖ muttered Jack Williamson, apprentice to Giles.
―Too close for comfort,‖ Giles replied. I don‘t want any of us in this tunnel once it gets
too much further. Hear that rumble after London fired?‖
Williamson nodded.
―That was masonry falling from Harfleur‘s wall,‖ Giles said. ―If we‘re close enough to
hear that…‖
Williamson took a deep breath, unconsciously looking over his shoulder towards their
escape route. ―How much longer then?‖
―A day. Then we set the explosives.‖
A day, thought Williamson. A day…why didn”t I take up potting, like my father wished?
Giles moved cautiously forward, murmuring to the miners before him, then shouldering
past them to inspect the face of the tunnel. ―Dig down now,‖ he said. ―About three yards. The
foundations of the wall will not be far ahead of us. Then dig the pit north. Within twenty yards
you should connect up with your neighbouring tunnel.‖
The idea was to dig great trenches, perhaps some thirty yards in length, under the
foundations of the wall. These would then be packed with explosives and, when set off, the
section of wall should, in theory, come tumbling down.
Giles murmured encouragement to the miners, clapped one of them on the shoulder, then
rejoined Williamson. ―Let‘s get out of here,‖ he said.
Williamson nodded eagerly.
VI
Thursday 9th August 1381
― s all in readiness?‖ Bolingbroke asked Master Giles.
The engineer glanced at the king. The man‘s face was tense, and the skin about his eyes
and mouth so tight that the engineer thought the king was likely suffering a pounding headache.
―Yes, sire,‖ he said, returning his gaze to Harfleur a mile distant. Both he and the king,
plus a score of commanders, messengers and assorted valets stood before Bolingbroke‘s pavilion
on the hill overlooking the town and harbour. ―I need only to give the signal.‖
And that everything was in readiness was, to Master Giles‘ mind, a profound miracle.
He‘d spent the entire night in the tunnel, a quavering Williamson at his side, setting most of the
explosives himself. Yesterday afternoon many of the miners had begun to complain of griping in
the guts. Within an hour or so, their griping had turned to such massive diarrhoea that they‘d had
to return to their spots within the encampment to rest. Giles was forced to find replacements for
them—and that was not the easiest of tasks. Few ordinary soldiers wanted to go down, or had the
ability or skills to work within, the tunnels, and so those left had to perform herculean tasks in
order to get both pits and explosives ready.
This morning Williamson reported to Giles that five of the miners struck with the griping
had died during the night.
Rumour had it that several score men had died among the entire encampment, and that
the French had resorted to poisoning in order to thwart the English attempts to broach the walls.
―The bombardment went well last night,‖ Bolingbroke said reflectively. His right hand
rubbed at a spot on his temple, and Master Giles‘ sympathy went out to him. He would not like
to be responsible for twenty thousand men and a nation‘s hopes in this dog of a country whose
natives resorted to unchivalric poisoning to repel their enemies. No wonder he had a headache.
―Aye, your grace,‖ Giles said, then continued to answer the question he knew was lurking
behind Bolingbroke‘s statement. ― London, England”s Messenger and the Beloved Mary, as well as fifteen of the smaller cannon, are primed, ready to fire. If it please God that these explosives
work, then their bombardment will complete Harfleur‘s doom.‖
―You are a good man,‖ Bolingbroke said, his fingers still working at his temple. ―I am
well served in you.‖
Giles ducked his head, both pleased and embarrassed at the same time. He had only done
his job, and he would lay down his life for this king if it were required.
Bolingbroke‘s eyes slid Giles‘ way, and he smiled. ―Perhaps a bombardment might shake
this headache loose, Giles?‖
―I pray it be so, your grace.‖
Bolingbroke smiled. ―I think only an English victory shall cure this throbbing, Giles. I
shall not rest until the mayor and council of Harfleur are bent on their knees before me.‖
He gestured at Hungerford and Suffolk, both standing close. ―All is in readiness?‖
―Aye, your grace,‖ both replied simultaneously.
Bolingbroke took a deep breath. ―Good, then let us begin. Giles, the signal, if you
please.‖
Giles inclined his head. ―Your grace.‖ He stepped over to a man-at-arms and took from
him his pike. About its sharpened end Giles fastened a length of crimson cloth, then he hefted the
pike, and waved it slowly from side to side above his head.
Behind them, in the dip of the hills hidden from French eyes, miners scurried into the
openings of mines, eager to light the fuses and then retreat back into daylight.
―Pray to sweet Jesu,‖ Bolingbroke muttered, ―that we blow up the French and not us!‖
There ensued long, tense moments of waiting. Deep beneath his feet Bolingbroke knew
that sparks were blazing along almost a mile of fuse lines, running towards six pits with their
bellyfuls of explosives.
If this did not work he did not know what else he could do. A lengthy siege was, well, too
lengthy, and he could not afford to leave Harfleur intact at his back. Sweet Jesu, hear me now,
let this succeed…let this succeed…
The earth lurched under Bolingbroke‘s feet, and he grabbed at Giles for support. There
came a low rumble, more felt than heard, and then, for just a moment, there was both silence and
stillness.
―Giles?‖ Bolingbroke said finally. ―What—‖
He stopped, mouth agape. The entire western section of Harfleur‘s walls suddenly
sagged. Then, slowly, slowly, slowly, seven of the towers along the length of that section began
to topple backwards, into the town itself. Most of the wall itself toppled into the moat,
completely filling it.
―Now!‖ Bolingbroke shouted. ―Now!‖
Giles turned about and began to wave his hands frantically. Moments later the bellies and
mouths of London, England”s Messenger and the Beloved Mary boomed and belched, sending incendiary shells hurtling towards the town. Another pause, another few heartbeats, then the
shells hit, all on the now-tumbled-down southwest gate.
Bolingbroke stared, taking one tense step forward, waiting for the smoke to clear.
Then he breathed out in relief: the incendiary shells had set both gate and the wooden
barbicans about it on fire. The entire western section, walls, towers, moat barbicans and gate,
were now destroyed.
Harfleur‘s defences were broached.
Within the hour Bolingbroke sent a message with Lord Hungerford to the mayor and
aldermen of Harfleur. It was a simple message, and honest, for Bolingbroke was well aware that
if he won this country, he would also need to win its citizens‘ love. Fear not, for I am not come to waste either your land or your lives. Surrender now, peacefully, and all will be well.
By that evening, Hungerford returned with the news Bolingbroke wanted. An hour
behind Hungerford would follow the mayor and twelve aldermen of Harfleur, delivering to the
English king the first conquest of his French campaign.
VII
Monday 12th August 1381
—i—
Philip folded the letter, then tapped it reflectively against his teeth once or twice as he
regarded the Earl of Suffolk and his five-man escort.
Then he glanced at Charles, sitting nervous and fidgety in the chair at his side. Charles
looked at him, perhaps hoping for a glance at the letter, but Philip had absolutely no intention of
allowing the man to see it at all. No, this was between himself and Bolingbroke only.