He looked back to his audience. “I have brought you to this place,” he said, his voice lower now, but intense, “to this field in France, but I will not leave you here! I am, by the grace of God, your king,” his voice rose, “but this day I am no more than you and I am no less than you. This day I fight for you and I pledge you my life!” The king had to pause because the bowmen were cheering him again. He raised a gauntleted hand and waited for silence. “If you die here, I die here! I will not be taken captive!” Again the archers cheered, and again the king raised a hand and waited till the sound stopped. He smiled then, a confiding smile. “But I do not expect to be taken captive nor will I be killed, because all that I ask is that you fight for me this day as I will fight for you!” He thrust his right hand toward the archers, sweeping his fingers around to encompass them all. His horse capered sideways in the mud and the king calmed it expertly. “Today I fight for your homes, for your wives, for your sweethearts, for your mothers, for your fathers, for your children, for your lives, for your England!” The cheer that greeted those words must have been heard at the field’s far end where the French still waited beneath their bright banners. “Today we are brothers! We were born in England, we were born in Wales, and I swear on the lance of Saint George and on the dove of Saint David that I shall take you home to England, home to Wales, with new glories to our name! Fight as Englishmen! That is all I ask of you! And I promise that I will fight beside you and for you! I am your king, but this day I am your brother, and I swear on my immortal soul that I will not forsake my brothers! God save you, my brothers!” And with those words the king wheeled his horse and rode to give the same speech to the men-at-arms, leaving the archers on the right flank cheering him.
“By God,” Will of the Dale said, “but he really thinks we’ll win!”
And at the field’s far end the gusting wind lifted the red silk of the oriflamme so that it rippled above the enemy’s lance points. No prisoners.
And still the French did not move. The archers were sitting now, despite the damp ground. Some even slept, snoring in the mud. The priests still offered absolution. Father Christopher used his stub of charcoal to write the talismanic name of Jesus on Melisande’s forehead. “You will stay with the baggage train,” he told her.
“I will, father.”
“And keep your horse saddled,” the priest advised.
“To run away?” she asked.
“To run away,” he agreed.
“And wear your father’s jupon,” Hook added.
“I will,” she promised. She had the surcoat in a sack that held her worldly possessions, and now she took out the fine linen and unfolded it. “Give me your knife, Nick.”
He gave her his archer’s dagger and she used it to cut a sliver of material from the bottom hem of the jupon. She gave it to him. “There,” she said.
“I wear it?” Hook asked.
“Of course you do,” Father Christopher said. “That’s what a soldier does. He wears his lady’s colors.” He gestured toward the English men-at-arms, most of whom wore a silken handkerchief or favor around their necks. Hook looped his own strip about his neck, then took Melisande into his arms.
“You heard the king,” he told her, “God is on our side.”
“I hope God knows that,” she said.
“I pray so too,” Father Christopher said.
Then, suddenly, there was movement. Not from the French who showed no sign of wanting to attack, but from a group of English men-at-arms who had mounted horses and now rode along the army’s front. “We’re to advance!” the man who came to the right wing shouted. “Pick up your stakes! We’re to advance!”
“Fellows!” It was the king himself who had gone a few paces ahead of the line and now stood in his stirrups and waved his arms to encompass all his countrymen. “Fellows! Let’s go!”
“Oh, my God, my God,” Melisande said.
“Go back to the baggage,” Hook told her, then began wrestling his thick stake out of the clinging earth. “Go on, love,” he said, “I’ll be all right. There’s not a Frenchman who can kill me.” He did not believe that, but he forced a smile for her sake. He felt his stomach lurch. Fear was making him cold. He felt fragile, weak, shaking, but somehow he dragged the stake free and laid it over his shoulder.
He did not look back at Melisande. He started walking, struggling in the thick mud, and all along the English line men were doing the same. They moved pitifully slowly, dragging their feet out of the wet, clinging soil, and going pace by difficult pace toward the French.
And the French watched them. Just watched. “If the bastards had any sense they’d attack us now,” Evelgold said.
“Maybe they will,” Hook said. He watched the distant enemy. Some horsemen who had been exercising their destriers were walking them back toward the flanks of the army, but there appeared to be no urgency in their actions. The trumpets did not change their tune. The French seemed content to let the English march the length of the plowland, and Hook felt his mind skittering like a hare in the spring grass. Had it really been the king who came to the archers in the night? He had forgotten to whip the center of one of his spare bowstrings where the cord engaged an arrow’s nock. Would the king really pray for Michael? Would death be quick? Piers Candeler suddenly loosed a string of oaths and kicked off both boots to negotiate the plow barefoot. Hook remembered the archer he had hanged in London and wondered if that man had felt just this same fear when he watched the Scottish army come to fight on Homildon’s green hill, and then he thought of all the other Englishmen who had carried a war bow for their king. They had fought the Scots, the Welsh, each other, and always, always, they had fought the French, and still these French did not move. Their immobility was scaring Hook. They seemed content to wait, knowing that the small English army must throw itself on their blades.
Hook’s left foot was trapped in the soil’s suction so he did what other archers were doing, let the boot go. He pulled off the other boot and went barefoot, finding it easier. “If they move,” Evelgold shouted in warning, “we stop, string bows, and plant stakes.”
Yet the French did not move. Hook could see still more men joining their army, most coming from the east. The mounted men-at-arms on either flank were watching the English, but not spurring the big warhorses, which had armored faces and padded cloths over their chests and rumps. The riders’ long lances were held upright. Some of the steel-tipped, ash-shafted lances had pennons attached. The horsemen had their helmets’ visors open and Hook could see steel-framed faces. He was cold even though he was sweating. He wore a padded haubergeon over his leather-lined mail coat, and that armor might stop a sword swing, but it would easily be pierced by a lance. He tried to imagine dodging a spear’s thrust in this thick mud and knew it would be impossible.
“Slow down!” a voice ordered. The archers were getting too far ahead of the English men-at-arms who, encumbered by their armor, were making hard work of the waterlogged plowland. Yet, step by step, they advanced steadily, and the woods on either side drew closer so that the English line now filled the space between the trees. The bright group of heralds, French, English, and Burgundian, were walking their horses closer to the French, holding a position halfway between the two armies.