Erpingham

By Ben Elves

In an age when kings were ordained by God and the powerful waded through Europe up to their knees in blood, a wide-eyed 13-year-old boy first went to war. Over time he learned to look death in the face and, with grimace, draw his sword.

He was afraid of neither man nor God.

Surviving the Black Death, disastrous battles and campaigns in foreign lands and the machinations of kings, bishops and nobles, Sir Thomas Erpingham fought across a continent, defended the interests of England and became the unsung hero of Agincourt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398497344

Ben Elves

Ben Elves is a native of Norfolk. After spending many years in the Royal Air Force as an Armourer, then working as a technician in nanotechnology and as a photographer, he now teaches Engineering. His first love is motorcycling followed closely by history and travel. When not teaching, researching or writing he is often to be found exploring country lanes or winding roads on a motorcycle, or exploring old buildings and ruins somewhere in the world. Also by Ben Elves: Thirty Pieces of Silver. See “Ben Elves Author” on Facebook.

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About the Author

Ben Elves is a native of Norfolk. After spending many years in the Royal Air Force as an Armourer, then working as a technician in nanotechnology and as a photographer, he now teaches Engineering. His first love is motorcycling followed closely by history and travel. When not teaching, researching or writing he is often to be found exploring country lanes or winding roads on a motorcycle, or exploring old buildings and ruins somewhere in the world.

Also by Ben Elves: Thirty Pieces of Silver.

See Ben Elves Author on Facebook.

Dedication

For the man who gave me my love of history and stories – my dad,

Frank Elves

24 May 1932–2 Aug 2022

Copyright Information ©

Ben Elves 2023

The right of Ben Elves to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398497337 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398497344 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Foreword

A Short Lesson in English History

England in the 14th and 15th centuries was a country undergoing great change, suffering, disaster and turmoil which effected society at every level.

In 1066, Saxon England was invaded by the Normans from what is now northern France. Led by William the Conqueror they wasted no time suppressing the already well-established Kingdom—carving up the country between themselves and re-organising the entire structure of the state. A great programme of castle and cathedral building was pressed into action and the Saxon population was brutally put down. Evidence of this can still be clearly seen today in the City of Norwich where Roger Bigod built his fine Motte and Bailey castle slap in the middle of a bustling Saxon community—destroying the homes and graveyards of the locals to make way for his grand fortress. At the same time a great Cathedral was built, its site covering a vast proportion of the centuries-old Saxon market place and a new area was cleared in front of the castle walls for Norman traders. The Normans were making it plain they were here to stay and that they were in charge.

William the Conqueror (also known as William the Bastard), who had now become King William the First, had seized a great state and now wanted to know exactly what he owned.

While spending the Christmas time of 1085 in Gloucester, William had deep speech with his counsellors and sent men all over England to each shire to find out what or how much each landholder had in land and livestock, and what it was worth. (Anglo-Saxon Chronicle); and thus was born the Domesday Book, the great evaluation of England—what it had and how it could be efficiently taxed.

England was now working under the Feudal system which, simplified, was a system of land and population control. A Norman overlord was granted an area of land and everything and everyone on it belonged to him. What an overlord did not own, the church did, The Cathedrals, Abbeys and Priories of England were granted huge tracts of land along with the Nobles and favourites of the King. The general population were now enslaved and they owed their very existence to their Lord—in turn answerable only to the King whose very word was the Law.

In 1215, the absolute and often fickle control of the King was curtailed by a new system of law. The Magna Carta was drawn up by the powerful Barons—mostly to protect the rights and privileges of the rich and powerful, but as a result it tried to create a system where the law of the land was no longer arbitrary.

The 1300s arrived with King Edward the First on the throne. Edward was a King of the Plantagenet bloodline and during his reign gained a reputation for ruthlessness and being a superb politician as well as a great warrior. After crushing the Welsh and establishing strongholds in Ireland, he gained the nickname of The Hammer of the Scots due to his protracted war with Scotland which started when he was asked to intervene and act as arbiter for two rival Norman households claiming the Scottish throne—the Baliols, and the De Brus’ (known nowadays as the Bruce family). After studying both claims, Edward Plantagenet decided that the claims of both Clans were rather tenuous and considered himself to have just as much right to the Scottish throne as the other two claimants—if not more. And so began the English war with Scotland resulting in Robert the Bruce—after a series of murders, battles and the devastation of large parts of northern England, becoming King of Scotland.

The English King also still owned great tracts of land in the west and northwest of France dating back to William’s time and before—and the English nobility protected these rich lands with great enthusiasm. The King of France however, claimed he was still owed Feudal Homage by the King of England for these territories but in 1337 Edward the First’s grandson, King Edward the Third, refused to pay Homage anymore—for as it turned out he had a more legitimate claim to the throne of France than did the French King.

The French King, Phillip the Sixth, used this refusal by Edward to pay Homage as an excuse to try and confiscate the rich English lands in France but the English Normans fought back. This was the start of the Hundred Years War and in 1340 Edward III rightfully declared himself as King of France by the legitimate laws of succession.

In 1345, 1346 and 1347, great victories were had by Edward III’s armies at the Battles of Auberoche, Crecy, Calais and La Roche-Derrien and the English King fought with his teenage son and heir—Edward Woodstock, by his side. The French army was left shattered with the French nobility decimated. In 1346, the English also fought a major battle with the invading Scots at St Neville’s Cross in Durham. The Scots—thinking the English were too tied up in France to defend their northern border, invaded and were soundly beaten by an army led by the Bishop of York. The Scottish King, David II was captured and held prisoner in Hampshire for eleven years and was finally ransomed back to Scotland for the huge price of 100,000 Marks.

Then in 1347 the Black Death swept through Europe from China, wiping out as much as sixty percent of the population in a matter of months. The following year the Black Death arrived in England and English society almost collapsed because of the unprecedented death toll. There were no longer enough people to maintain the land or manufacture goods and the predominantly Saxon peasant classes found they now had leverage over their Norman masters. The overlords needed their workforce so had to provide better pay and conditions to keep them, or the common people would go and work for another. The price of labour went up.

In 1360, the English and French Monarchies came to a Truce as the Black Death had wrought so much devastation within both kingdoms that they felt unable to sustain the war any longer. A second wave of the Black Death unexpectedly swept through England in 1361 killing off a further twenty percent of the remaining population. Then in 1364 Phillip VI himself died and was succeeded by Charles V. In 1369, when the third outbreak of Black Death hit England killing another fifteen percent of the much reduced population, King Charles of France broke the truce.

And the English—with what was to become the greatest army in the Medieval world, discarded the old rules of chivalric combat and waged a bloody and brutal war against the French who were trying to seize their lands…

Let the boy win his spurs.

Edward III; 1346

The First Chapter

Being the Year of Our Lord, 1368

Thomas woke slowly, his head pounding and with a vile taste in his mouth. After a couple of minutes, he was overcome with a feeling of nausea and unable to help himself, he vomited into his bedding.

There was a cheer and laughing from the other two men in the tent and he was grabbed by the shoulders, dragged roughly outside and dumped unceremoniously on the ground.

If you are going to empty your guts, young lad, do it outside eh? said William. It will bloody stink in there now.

Thomas rolled onto his side in the mud and moaned in his misery. He swore he would never drink again. His stomach heaved and he vomited once more. William laughed and returned to the tent to resume his game of dice with John, Thomas’s father.

John sat grinning, pulling a small loaf of crusty bread to pieces and shoving lumps of it in his mouth. My boy has been taught the first lesson of Campaigning methinks. Never try and out-drink a herd of seasoned Norfolk soldiers. Especially when you are only thirteen years old.

Well at least he is alive. Quite a surprise really considering how much wine he threw down his neck last night. He is lucky the archers got a hold of him and not the armourers, William said.

John nodded. He is young, and the young bounce back to rude health quickly. He will be fine in an hour or so. Dear God the smell in here is dire, toss his blanket out after him would you? Then it is your throw—and I am watching you with those cursed dice of yours…so no damned cheating.

Thomas started to shiver, chilled by the stiff, wet Atlantic breeze and sat up. He was soaked through with the stinking mud. Well, so much for the stories he had been told about the weather. It was his first morning in Aquitaine—so-called land of sunshine, and it was pissing down.

England had been beautifully warm and sunny when they had boarded ship and the voyage across the sea had been easy, with calm blue-grey waters and a steady but gentle wind to fill the ship’s canvases. They had sailed from the port of Felixstowe, around the Head of Kent and westward and downward to the Bay of Arcachon—arriving at midday yesterday.

Following the orders of his father he had unloaded his equipment whilst the ship’s crew had unloaded the horses which whinnied and stamped restlessly, anxious to be stood once again on solid ground. It had then been a half hour ride to the camp and after they had set up their light canvas tents he had been dragged over to a blazing campfire by his father’s archers and men-at-arms and plied with drink. Laughter and song had had filled the air as the day darkened to night, whilst bright sparks from the fire weaved their way upward in bright showers.

Thomas stood up shakily, his stomach rumbled with hunger and his mouth tasted foul and acidic. He staggered back into the tent and sat on the remaining empty chair.

Father, is there any breakfast? he asked.

Sir John threw him a lump of bread, and pointed to a small, battered and aged oak chest in the corner of the tent.

There is some cheese and salted ham in the box, help yourself. There are a few apples in the sack behind it, if you can stand the noise crunching them will make. You want some wine to wash it down with? he said.

Thomas shook his head. No thank you sir, but a taste of ale would be fine.

William handed Thomas a mug and pointed to a cask next to the small chest.

When you have eaten put on dry clothes, go see to your horse and then to your weapons, said Sir John. And from now on your horse and equipment come before you. You can fight hungry, but your horse cannot. An Erpingham is always ready for battle, remember that.

Thomas nodded as he drew his Bollock knife and opened the food chest. He hacked off a lump of cheese and then sliced off a chunk of fatty meat from the ham he found in the sack. After he had eaten, he stripped naked and put on fresh doublet and hose, pulled on the beautiful knee length boots his father had bought him the previous month in Norwich, and slipped on his quilted green jacket.

Sir John stood and handed him his belt, his dagger and sword hanging in their scabbards.

"And another thing, you never go anywhere without these, is that clear?" he said.

Very clear, Father, replied Thomas.

William stood, pocketing his dice and the coins he had won from Sir John. Here lad, I will give you a hand with your horse, he said.

By noon, Thomas had completed his chores, spent an hour at archery practice and was feeling much better than he had when he awoke. The acid taste in his mouth had abated along with his pounding headache. His father had gone to Mass and then had been summoned by Edward Woodstock, the Prince of Wales, leaving the young Thomas with time to talk to his father’s friend—the grizzled old soldier, William.

Will you tell me of Prince Edward? Thomas asked.

What is it you wish to know? William replied.

I do not know. Tales of his battles perhaps…I just want to find out about the real man. I have heard stories as a boy and I am honoured to be on campaign under his command. I just want to find out more about him, said Thomas.

Well young Tom, there is much to tell, said William, leaning back in his chair against the thick tent-pole. "He has earned his reputation as a hero of all England. He is a brilliant commander and one hell of a fighter. He is tough, handsome and wise. But believe me, he can be vicious and ruthless too. He can be chivalrous one moment, but at the drop of a hat he can be a thug. Depends on what the situation is.

Edward can be whatever sort of man he needs to be at the time. Your father wishes you to learn the art of war and I can tell you this—if ever there was a man to learn that art from, it is Prince Edward. Remember, his great grandfather was Edward the First, Hammer of the Scots. From what I know of the Hammer, Prince Edward is much like him—a true Plantagenet, and will make a good King. England will be safe in his hands and God help any who threaten us."

Thomas nodded. You fought under him at Crecy did you not? he asked.

William nodded and grinned. "I did indeed. The Prince was just sixteen years old, and I was eighteen. Even then he was built like a plough horse. I remember we held the left flank. I was amongst the Men-at-arms. In front of us were our archers, immediately to our right were a half dozen of those noisy Bombard things and beyond them were the Men-at-arms of Arundel and Northampton with their archers in front. Christ, I remember it as if it were but yesterday. We were a fearsome sight that I can tell you. We had been running round France for days. We were tired, hungry, and I for one was scared shitless. Crecy was a bit of a last stand and few of us expected to survive it. We had hundreds more men up at the coast under Sir Hugh Despenser, but the cowardly bastard claimed he could not get to us in time.

Hmmm…now there’s a name to be wary of. Wherever there is a Despenser, there is trouble. Anyway, when the French finally turned up all my fears left me. Then the King rode up and down our lines shouting Take no prisoners! and that is when I knew we were going to win."

Thomas sat enthralled by William’s tale, oblivious to the rain drumming upon the stiff canvas of the tent and the low rumbles of thunder in the distance.

Well…King Phillip sent his crossbows and light spears at us first and as they came on the heavens opened and it rained so hard you could hardly see fifty feet, and all our bowmen hastily unstrung. You cannot unstring like that with a crossbow though, and also you see, a crossbow with a wet string is no use at all. But they kept coming anyway and as suddenly as it started, the rain stopped. Our men quickly restrung their longbows and then our Prince shoutedArchers!" and raised his arm, and they all nocked their arrows. He dropped his arm and Whoosh! Hundreds of arrows went off into the air towards the enemy. Then the Bombards opened up with the sound of thunder and the archers let off another volley and another. Before we knew it the enemy crossbows and spears were running away. Christ above, we let out a cheer.

Straight away their cavalry came at us and the archers loosed off again, the sky black with arrows. The charge was at no proper speed anyway because the previous night we had dug holes all over the place to trip the horses. Our arrows knocked them flat. There were Frenchmen and their horses lying dead and wounded all over the field in front of our line. And we hadn’t even moved back an inch."

And that’s how you won? asked Thomas.

Oh no, the battle were not half fought yet. Next came men-at-arms—heavy infantry just like me. The archers fired a good few sticks at them and then got behind us. It was now our turn to have a go at them. Well we did what we could but got pushed back away. We were heavily out-numbered see. Then I heard this shout and was told the Prince had been captured. Well, I and the lads weren’t having that. So we fought like madmen to get to him and the next thing I know his flag goes up again, Arundel’s men are with us and the French are lying slaughtered all over the place—in a far thicker layer than before.

Thomas’s eyes were wide and his mouth hung open as he pictured the carnage and the heroism. And was the Battle won then? he asked.

"Well more or less, it was not fully over by any means but by my reckoning that’s when it was won. The French sent another dozen cavalry charges at us after that but our archers cut them to pieces. We could see they had lost heart and come dusk we knew they were well and truly done in. So that’s when the King ordered us forward. Our horses were brought up, and we charged full tilt at them straight down the middle of the field—down the bit where we hadn’t dug holes.

By the time it were dark damned near all of the French army was dead or dying and Brave King Phillip of France had run away. Some of his heavy cavalry still fought well to the very end but they didn’t have a hope by that stage and were hacked down mercilessly. It wasn’t till then I realised I had a crossbow bolt stuck in my shoulder. I haven’t a clue when that happened. You do not notice things like that in a good fight. Anyway I pulled the bolt out, patched myself up and got mightily drunk. After that, we buggered off to Calais and I think I fucked myself silly all the way there. You will find young Tom, that Frenchie women are great in number and good fun in a bed. William looked Thomas up and down, and then laughed. When you are old enough that is.

I care not for the women, it is the Prince I want to meet, said Thomas.

You will get your chance soon enough, said the voice of Sir John as he entered the tent.

Thomas turned in his seat. I can meet him? he asked.

Tomorrow I should guess, or the day after perhaps. We ride out at dawn for a view of the less glorious aspect of war, Sir John said.

Where are we going? asked William.

Northwest for a few days. It seems that a large French raiding party has been practicing the art of Chevauchee again. Sir Petiton de Curton has had word that cavalry have attacked his lands the other side of Bordeaux. Hundreds slaughtered and virtually everything other than his castle has been burnt to the ground. De Curton is a good and loyal friend to the Prince and therefore the Prince is not happy. Get packing lads. We will travel light but well-armed. It is about a sixty-mile ride. The Prince wants to ride forty tomorrow, and twenty the day after to leave the horses fit enough in case there is trouble when we arrive.

Thomas stood up, excited at the prospect of adventure. How many of us will there be? he asked.

Sir John grinned. Not many, just a couple of thousand.

After they passed through the sleepy village of Creon, Thomas saw utter devastation for the first time in his young life. He had seen death before. Who indeed had not? But he had never seen death like this. This was utter carnage—a scene from hell. The fields were burnt, blackened and charred and the farmer’s cottages lay in smoking ruins. Here and there lay ownerless limbs and bloodied, mutilated bodies in groups of three or four—men and women of all ages. The younger women lay beaten, naked and with throats cut, whilst many of the men had been dismembered or disembowelled. Most had fearsome wounds upon their forearms from a vain defence against edged weapons, whilst others had horrific injuries to their faces and heads—victims of hefty blows from axes, maces and war hammers.

Filthy clouds of flies buzzed and hummed as they set to feasting upon the bounty of dead flesh. As Thomas looked at the scene before him hot tears moistened his eyes and an overwhelming sadness seemed to grip his soul. Suddenly he felt very alone, lost, and a million miles from home.

Thomas turned to his father and felt his voice waver. Where are the children? he asked quietly.

Sir John grunted, coughed and spat a gobbet of phlegm to the ground. French bastards round them up and put them in the houses, he said, pointing at the nearest blackened pile of stones and burnt timbers. Then they torch the place so their families can hear them scream. After that, they rape the women and make the menfolk watch. When they have finished with the women, everyone gets put to the sword, knife or axe—sometimes quite slowly. And after that they steal anything worth taking. This is Chevauchee.

Thomas felt a tear roll down his cheek. Father…this is evil! What kind of men could do such a thing?

Sir John stared levelly at his son. Men just like us young Thomas. Do you think we behave any differently? This, my lad, is the reality of war. You better get used to it. It isn’t all glory and shiny armour you know. It is grim work. But a man with a clear purpose can make a fortune.

But surely the Prince does not behave like this? Thomas asked.

Sir John laughed. Make no mistake, Prince Edward can be brutal too. He is no stranger to Chevauchee. I have seen him burn and slaughter entire towns. His nickname of ‘The Black Prince’ is not given to him without reason. With mine own eyes, I have witnessed him heap more slaughter on the French than The Plague. King Death himself is envious of what our Prince can do when he sets his mind to killing.

Thomas looked away across the now barren fields and wondered what kind of world he had entered. Was this brutality and destruction really to be his future?

There was a shout from the head of the massive column of horsemen and thirty or more armoured men spurred their horses—riding off at full gallop into the trees and ferns to their left.

Ready yourself Thomas, the Prince must think we could be in for a fight. See those men riding off? They go to scout through the woodland for soldiers, spies or signs of enemy encampments. Draw you your sword and get ready to dismount and fall in with my archers if commanded.

Thomas felt an anger rise within his chest. Those poor people. They deserved justice. No. Not justice—vengeance. Vengeance against the animals that did this to them.

There was second shout and another thirty horsemen galloped off across the fields to the right. The column halted. Up ahead the road plunged into gloomy forestry and the Prince was wary of the possibility of an ambush. A hundred men-at-arms dismounted, shouldered their shields and fanned out across the fields either side of the road, forming a long skirmish line. They then advanced with heavy spears pointed forwards and shields held to their chests. The column slowly started moving forward again.

Shield up Thomas. We are now within bowshot of the treeline.

Thomas dropped his reins onto the pommel of his saddle and lifted his freshly painted shield from its hook behind his left leg, threw its strap over his shoulder and held it in front of himself. With his shield held firmly in his left hand and his sword in his right, he goaded his horse forward with his knees as his father had taught him. He looked to his left at the imposing figure of his father in full armour and wearing his family’s livery of green with white detail.

Do not look at me lad—keep an eye on what occurs ahead and to the right, Sir John said.

Thomas felt anxious, feeling the tension of the column as they passed between the dense trees at a slow walking pace—horses two abreast. The anger inside him boiled gently but in the pit of his stomach he knew fear was rising too and he realised he was sweating profusely.

The woodland seemed dark, sinister and threatening after the bright morning sunshine of the open fields. He peered into the gloom, imagining crossbowmen hiding in the undergrowth as they pointed their weapons at him, ready to fire. He felt horribly exposed, knowing an attack was most likely to come from his side of the road—the side opposite their shields.

After a mile or so, the road emerged from the trees into bright, open land again and Thomas breathed a sigh of relief, but in a small way he felt a little disappointed. The men-at-arms had remounted their horses having swept noisily but cautiously through the woodland and the column picked up speed again. He re-hung his shield on its hook and sheathed his sword, following the actions of his father. Then he picked up his reins and spurred his horse on to the trot to keep up. After another couple of miles, the column was halted again and a dozen horsemen were despatched as an advance party to scout De Curton’s castle.

Thomas knelt beside his father in the flickering torchlight of De Curton’s hall.

Please stand and tell me who this fine young fellow is, Sir John.

Thomas and his father stood. Sire this is my son, Thomas, Sir John said, and Thomas dutifully bowed.

A good looking lad—just like his father, eh? said the Black Prince, giving Thomas a hearty slap on the shoulder.

Thomas looked straight into the eyes of the prince and saw the strained look of a sick man. His dark blue eyes sat beneath black eyebrows, a creased forehead and roughly hacked hair. He wore a thick beard and moustache and had a long straight nose. His expression was jovial, but at the same time careworn and showed that its owner was in some discomfort. Thomas remained silent, knowing it would be improper to speak until he was spoken to directly.

Sir John, I am afraid the past couple of weeks have tired me greatly. Tomorrow I must return to Court in Bordeaux. I would think it a pleasure if you allowed young Thomas here to accompany me and stay a while. You told me it is both your wish and his that he learn the art of War, so it would do him no harm to learn the nastiness of the game of politics that go alongside it.

Thomas would consider it an honour, My Lord, Sir John replied.

The Black prince turned his attention to Thomas. So tell me young man, which aspects of battle interest you most?

Thomas thought for a second or two. I would have to say that tactics and the use of land, Sire, and the deployment and use of archers are what capture my interest. I am trying my best to become skilled with the Longbow myself, but my Father has also taught me much about riding and swordsmanship. I would hope to learn all the skills of war eventually.

The Prince nodded his approval. Then we shall see to it that you learn these things. But there is more to being a good general and a fine soldier than winning battles. There are also issues of power and knowing who and when to fight. You must also learn who to trust and who you must be prepared to sacrifice. Come, sit with me and eat, and I will introduce you to the owner of this fine house.

Edward winked at Sir John and turned, placing his hand on Thomas’s shoulder—guiding him through the throng of Knights and nobles who were