And that day, Saint Raphael’s Day, Thursday the twenty-fourth of October, 1415, Hook’s prayers were answered.
They were riding through a region of small, steep hills and fast-flowing streams, guided by a local man, a fuller, who knew the tangle of bewildering tracks that laced the countryside. He led Hook and the vanguard’s scouts along a wagon path that twisted beneath trees. The road to Calais was some distance to the west, but it could not be followed because it led to Hesdin, a walled town on the bank of a small river, and the bridge there was guarded by a barbican, and so the guide took them toward another crossing. “You go north after the river,” the man said, “just go north and you find the road again. You understand?” He was frightened of the archers and even more scared of the men-at-arms in royal livery who rode just behind and made the decisions about whether the fuller could be trusted.
“I understand,” Hook said.
“Just go north,” the man insisted. The path dropped into a valley where a village lay on the southern bank of a river. “La Rivière Ternoise,” the man said, then pointed to the far bank where the hills climbed steeply. “You go up there,” he said, “and find the road to Saint-Omer.”
“Saint-Omer?”
“Oui!” the guide said and Hook remembered his journey with Melisande when Saint-Omer had been their goal and Calais had lain not far beyond. So close, he thought. The nervous fuller said something else and Hook only half heard and asked him to say it again.’ The local people,” the man said, “call the Ternoise the River of Swords.”
That name sent a shiver through Hook. “Why?”
The man shrugged. “They are all mad,” he said, “it’s just a river.”
The river was shallow despite the recent rain and the knight commanding the men-at-arms ordered Hook to take his archers across the ford and up the farther slope. “Wait at the crest,” he said and Hook obediently kicked Raker down to the River of Swords. His archers followed him, splashing through water that barely reached their horses’ bellies. The slope beyond the river was steep and he and his men climbed it slowly on their tired horses. The rain had stopped, though every now and then a spatter of drizzle would sweep from a sky that grew ever darker. The clouds were low, almost black, and the air above the eastern horizon was the color of soot. “It’s going to fairly piss down,” Hook said to Will of the Dale.
“Looks like it,” Will answered apprehensively. The air was oppressive, thick, full of a strange menace.
Hook was scarcely halfway up the slope before a whole band of men-at-arms splashed through the river and spurred up the hill behind him. Hook turned in the saddle and saw the column closing up on the Ternoise’s far bank as though a sudden sense of urgency had overtaken the army. Sir John, his standard-bearer close behind, thumped past Hook, riding for the crest that was outlined against the slate-dark sky and a moment later the king himself galloped up the slope on a horse the color of night. “What’s happening?” Tom Scarlet asked.
“God knows,” Hook said. The king, his companions, and every other man-at-arms had curbed their horses at the hill’s crest from where they now gazed northward.
Then Hook himself reached the skyline and he too stared.
Ahead of him the ground fell away to a village that lay in a small green valley. A road climbed from the village, leading onto a wide reach of land that was bare earth beneath the glowering sky. That bare plateau had been plowed, and on either side of the newly cut furrows were thick woods. The battlements of a small castle just showed above the trees to the west. A banner flew from the castellated tower, but it was too far away to see what badge it showed.
Something about the lay of the land was familiar, then Hook remembered it. “I’ve been here before,” he said to no one in particular. “Me and Melisande, we were here.”
“You were?” Tom Scarlet answered, but he was not really paying attention.
“We met a horseman here,” Hook said, staring north in a daze, “and he told us the name of the place, but I can’t remember it.”
“Must have a name, I suppose,” Scarlet said absently.
More Englishmen reached the crest and stopped there to stare. No one spoke much and many made the sign of the cross.
Because in front of them, and as numerous as the sands on the shore or as the stars in the sky, was the enemy. The forces of France and Burgundy were at the plowland’s far end and they were a multitude. Their bright banners boasted of their numbers and their banners were uncountable.
The might of France blocked the road to Calais and the English were trapped.
Henry, Earl of Chester, Duke of Aquitaine, Lord of Ireland, and King of England, was given a new and savage energy by the sight of the enemy. “Form battle!” he shouted. “Form battle!” He galloped his horse across the face of his gathering army. “Obey your leaders! They know where you should be, form on their standards! By the grace of God we fight this day! Form battle!”
The sun was low behind the lowering clouds and the French army was still gathering under banners as thick as trees. “If every banner is a lord,” Thomas Evelgold said, “and if every lord leads ten men, how many men is that?”
“Goddam thousands,” Hook said.
“And ten’s a low number,” the centenar said, “very low. More like a hundred men for every banner, maybe two hundred!”
“Sweet Jesus,” Hook said and tried counting the enemy flags, but they were too many. All he knew was that the enemy was vast and England’s army was small. “God help us,” he could not resist saying, and once again he had the shivering recollection of the blood and screams in Soissons.
“Someone has to help us,” Evelgold said briskly, then turned to his archers. “We’re on the right. Dismount! Stakes and bows! Look lively now! I want boys for the horses! Come on, don’t dawdle! Move your goddam bones! We’ve got some dying to do!”
The horses were left in the pastures beside the village as the army climbed the shallow slope to the plateau. The enemy could not be seen from the small valley, but as Hook breasted the rise onto the plowland the French were visible again and he felt his fears crawl back. What he saw was a proper army. Not a sickly, disheveled band of fugitives, but a proud, massed army come to punish the men who had dared invade France.
The English vanguard was on the right now, and its archers were farthest to the right where they were joined by half the archers who had formed the army’s center. The other half joined the rearguard who now formed on the left. So the wings of the army were each a mass of archers who flanked the men-at-arms who made a line between them.
“Sweet Christ,” Tom Scarlet said, “I’ve seen more men at a horse fair.”
He was pointing to the English men-at-arms. There were fewer than a thousand of them and they made a pathetically small line at the center of the array. The archers were far more numerous. Over two thousand were now assembled on each flank. “Stakes!” A knight wearing a green surcoat galloped along the face of the archers, “plant your stakes, lads!”
Sir John, who had formed with the men-at-arms in the line’s center, walked to where the archers readied their stakes. “We wait to see if they attack,” he explained, “and if not we’ll fight them in the morning!”
“Why don’t we just run away in the dark?” a man asked.
“I didn’t hear that question!” Sir John shouted, then went on down the line, telling men to be ready for a French assault.
The archers were not in close array like the men-at-arms who waited shoulder to armored shoulder in a line four men deep. The bowmen, instead, needed room to pull their long bowstaves and, in response to shouted orders, had moved some paces ahead of the men-at-arms where they scattered, each man finding a space. Hook was at the very front with the rest of Sir John’s men. He reckoned around two hundred archers were in line with him, the rest were behind in a dozen loose ranks where they now hammered their stakes so that the points faced toward the French. Once the stakes were in place the exposed point needed re-sharpening af
ter the hammering it had received. “Stand in front of your stake!” the green-surcoated man shouted. “Don’t let the enemy see it!”
“Bastards aren’t blind,” Will of the Dale grumbled, “they must have seen what we were doing.”
The French were watching. They were a half-mile away, still arriving, a mass of color on horseback beneath banners brighter than the sky, which was becoming ever darker as the clouds thickened. Most of the French were milling around the skyline where tents were being erected, but hundreds rode southward to gaze at England’s army.
“I bet the bastards are laughing at us,” Tom Scarlet said. “They’re probably pissing themselves with laughter.”
The nearest enemy horsemen were just a quarter-mile away, standing or walking their horses in the plowland, and just gazing at the small army that faced them. To left and right the woods looked black in the fading evening light. Some archers, their stakes hammered home, were going into those woods to empty their bowels in the thick undergrowth of hawthorn, holly, and hazel, but most archers just stared back at the enemy and Hook reckoned Tom Scarlet was right. The French had to be laughing. They already had at least four or five men for every Englishman, and their forces were still arriving at the northern end of the field. Hook dropped to one knee on the wet ground, made the sign of the cross, and prayed to Saint Crispinian. He was not the only archer who prayed. Dozens of men were on their knees, as were some men-at-arms. Priests were walking among the doomed army, offering blessings, while the French walked their horses across the plowland, and Hook, opening his eyes, imagined their laughter, their scorn at this pathetic army that had defied them, had tried to escape them and now was trapped by them. “Save us,” he prayed to Saint Crispinian, but the saint said nothing in reply and Hook thought his prayer must have been lost in the great dark emptiness beyond the ominous clouds.
It began to rain properly. It was a cold, heavy rain and, as the wind dropped, the drops fell with a malevolent intensity that made the archers hurriedly unstring their bows and coil the cords into their hats and helmets to keep them from being soaked. The English heralds had ridden ahead of the array to be met by their French colleagues, and Hook saw the men bow to each other from their saddles. After a while the English heralds rode back, their gray horses spattered with mud from hooves to belly.
“No fight tonight, boys!” Sir John brought that news to the archers. “We stay where we are! No fires up here! You’re to stay silent! The enemy will do us the honor of fighting tomorrow, so try and sleep! No fight tonight!” He rode on down the archers’ line, his voice fading in the seethe of the hard rain.
Hook was still on one knee. “I will fight on your day,” he told the saint, “on your feast day. Look after us. Keep Melisande safe. Keep us all safe. I beg you. In the name of the Father, I beg you. Take us safe home.”
There was no answer, just the intense hiss of rain and a distant grumble of thunder.
“On your knees, Hook?” It was Tom Perrill who sneered the words.
Hook stood and turned to face his enemy, but Tom Evelgold had already placed himself between the two archers. “You want words with Hook?” the centenar challenged Perrill.
“I hope you live through tomorrow, Hook,” Perrill said, ignoring Evelgold.
“I hope we all live through tomorrow,” Hook said. He felt a terrible hatred of Perrill, but had no energy to make a fight of it in this wet dusk.
“Because we’re not finished,” Perrill said.
“Nor are we,” Hook agreed.
“And you murdered my brother,” Perrill said, staring at Hook. “You say you didn’t, but you did, and your brother’s death makes nothing even. I promised my mother something and you know what that promise was.” Rain dripped from the rim of his helmet.
“You should forgive each other,” Evelgold said. “If we’re fighting tomorrow we should be friends. We have enemies enough.”
“I have a promise to keep,” Perrill said stubbornly.
“To your mother?” Hook asked. “Does a promise to a whore count?” He could not resist the jibe.
Perrill grimaced, but kept his temper. “She hates your family and she wants it dead. And you’re the last one.”
“The French will like as not make your mother happy,” Evelgold said.
“One of us will,” Perrill said, “me or them,” he nodded to the enemy army, though kept his eyes on Hook, “but I’ll not kill you while they fight us. That’s what I came to tell you. You’re frightened enough,” he sneered, “without watching your back.”
“You’ve said your words,” Evelgold said, “now go.”
“So a truce,” Perrill suggested, ignoring the centenar, “till this is over.”
“I’ll not kill you while they fight us,” Hook agreed.
“Nor tonight,” Perrill demanded.
“Nor tonight,” Hook said.
“So sleep well, Hook. It might be your last night on earth,” Perrill said, then walked away.
“Why does he hate you?” Evelgold asked.
“It goes back to my grandfather. We just hate each other. The Hooks and the Perrills, they just hate each other.”
“Well, you’ll both be dead by this time tomorrow,” Evelgold said heavily, “we all will be. So make your confession and take mass before the fight. And your men are sentries tonight. Walter’s men take first watch, you take second. You’re to go halfway up the field,” he nodded at the plowland, “and you’re not to make any noise. No one is. No shouting, no singing, no music.”
“Why not?”
“How the goddam hell would I know? If a gentleman makes a noise the king will take away his horse and harness, and if an archer squeals he’ll have his ears cut off. King’s orders. So you stand watch, and God help you if the French come.”
“They won’t, will they? Not at night?”
“Sir John doesn’t think so. But he still wants sentries.” Evelgold shrugged as if to suggest that sentries would do no good, then, with nothing more to say, he walked away.
More French came to see their enemy before the night hid them. Rain swept across the plow, the sound of it drowning any laughter from the enemy. Tomorrow was Saint Crispin and Saint Crispinian’s Day, and Hook reckoned it would be his last.
It rained through the night. A hard cold rain. Sir John Cornewaille ran through that rain to the cottage in Maisoncelles where the king had his quarters, but though the king’s youngest brother, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, and Thomas, Duke of York, were in the tiny smoke-filled room, neither knew where the king of England had gone.
“Probably praying, Sir John,” the Duke of York said.
“God’s ears are getting a battering tonight, your grace,” Sir John said dourly.
“Add your voice to the cacophony,” the duke said. He was the grandson of the third Edward and had been cousin to the second Richard whose throne had been usurped by the king’s father, but he had proved his loyalty to the usurper’s son and, because his piety matched the king’s, he was deep in Henry’s confidence. “I believe his majesty is testing the temper of the men,” the duke said.
“The men will do,” Sir John said. He was uncomfortable with the duke whose learning and sanctity lent him an aloof distant air. “They’re cold,” he went on, “they’re sour, they’re wet, they’re hungry, they’re sick, but they’ll fight like mad dogs tomorrow. I wouldn’t want to fight them.”
“You wouldn’t advise,” Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester began, then hesitated and decided to say no more. Sir John knew what question had gone unsaid. Would he advise the king to slip away in the night? No, he would not, but he did not voice that opinion. The king would not run, not now. The king believed God was his supporter, and in the morning God would be required to prove that with a miracle.
“I’ll leave your graces to arm,” Sir John said.
“You have a message for his majesty?” the Duke of York asked.
“Only to wish him God’s blessings,” Sir John said. In truth he had gone to
test the king’s temper, though he did not really doubt Henry’s resolve. He said his farewells and went back to the cowshed that was his own quarters. It was a miserable stinking hovel, but Sir John knew he was fortunate to have found it on a night when most men would be exposed to thunder, lightning, rain, and wintry cold.
Rain beat on the fragile roof, leaked through the thatch and puddled on the floor where a paltry fire gave off more smoke than light. Richard Cartwright, Sir John’s armorer, was waiting. He looked more priestlike than any priest, with a grave, dignified face and a quaint, fluttering courtesy. “Now, Sir John?” he asked.
“Now,” Sir John said, and dropped his wet cloak beside the fire.
He had taken off the armor he had worn during the day and Cartwright had dried it, scoured it for rust, and polished it. Now he used cloths he had kept dry in a horsehide bag to wipe dry the leather breeches and jerkin that Sir John wore. The leather was supple deerhide, and the two expensive garments had been made by a tailor in London so that they fitted Sir John like a second skin. Cartwright said nothing as he wiped handfuls of lanolin onto the deerhide.
Sir John was lost in his own thoughts. He had done this so often, stood with his hands outstretched as Cartwright made the leather arms and legs slippery so that the armor above would move easily. He thought back to tournaments and battles, to the excitement that always accompanied the anticipation of those contests, but he sensed no excitement tonight. The rain hammered, the cold wind gusted drops through the cowshed door, and Sir John thought of the thousands of Frenchmen whose armorers were also readying them for battle. So many thousands, he thought. Too many.
“You spoke, Sir John?” Cartwright said.