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.
“Did I?”
“I’m sure I misheard, Sir John. Raise your arms, please.” Cartwright dropped a mail haubergeon over Sir John’s head. The chain mail was close-linked, sleeveless and dropped to Sir John’s groin. The armholes were wide, so that Sir John would not be hampered by its constriction. “Forgive me, Sir John,” Cartwright murmured as he always did when he knelt in front of his master and laced the front and back hems of the haubergeon between Sir John’s legs. Sir John said nothing.
Cartwright also kept silent as he buckled the cuisses to Sir John’s thighs. The front ones slightly overlapped the back ones, and Sir John flexed his legs to make sure the steel plates moved smoothly against each other. He did not ask for any adjustment because Cartwright knew precisely what he was doing. Next came the greaves to protect Sir John’s calves, and the roundels for his knees, and the plate-covered boots that were buckled to the greaves.