“You believe that?”
“Believe it?” Sir John laughed. “I know it! Now brace yourselves!”
The noise was rising as the enemy shouted their war cries. Off to Sir John’s left where a thick crowd of Frenchmen was advancing on the king’s banner, he could see the oriflamme, red and wicked, high on its pole, and then he forgot that symbol because the enemy in front had summoned a last great effort. They were shouting, they were even trying to run, they were coming to take their victory.
Their lances were poised to strike. They were screaming. “Saint Denis! Montjoie! Montjoie!” and the English were howling like huntsmen closing on their prey.
“Now!” Sir John bellowed. “Now!”
Sir Martin shoved Melisande down, planting his hand between her breasts and thrusting hard and quickly so that she fell back between the trees on the stream’s bank. “There,” he said, “you just stay there like a good little girl. No!” he held up a hand as she tried to scramble away. There was a terrible threat in that raised hand and Melisande went still again, making Sir Martin smile. He had yellowed stumps for teeth. “I’ve got a knife somewhere,” he told her, “I know I do.” He fumbled in a pouch at his belt. “A good knife, too. Oh! Here it is!” He smiled as he showed her the short blade. “Put a knife to thy throat, the holy book says, if thou art a man of appetite, and I am, I am, but I don’t want to cut your pretty throat, girl. It does spoil matters if you’re scrambling about in blood. So just be good and lie there like a nice little girl and it’ll soon be over.” He laughed at that, then knelt over her, his knees either side of her belly. “But I do think we want you naked. Naked is blessed, girl. In nakedness lies truth. Those are the words of our Lord and Savior.” He had invented the text, but in his mind it still had the ring of scriptural truth. He planted his left hand on her breasts, making her whimper. He was grinning, and in his deepset eyes Melisande saw the glints of madness. She hardly moved, she hardly dared move because the knife was coming toward her throat, but she groped to find the neck of her sack and slowly pulled it toward her.
“And what shall divide us from the love of Christ?” Sir Martin asked her in a hoarse voice, “tell me that, eh?” He grinned still, reaching for the neck of her dress with his left hand. “That’s what the holy scriptures ask us, girl, they ask us what shall divide us from Christ’s love! What shall divide you and me, eh? Not tribulation, the word of the Lord says, nor distress, nor persecution, nor hunger, are you listening to me?”
Melisande nodded. The sack inched toward her and she felt for its opening.
“The words of God, little girl,” Sir Martin said, this time relying on genuine words of scripture, “written for our comfort by the blessed Saint Paul himself. Neither danger nor the sword shall keep us from Christ’s love, and nor, the apostle says, will nakedness!” And with that he slashed at her dress with the short knife and, with a twitching grimace, ripped the cloth down so that her breasts were exposed.
“Oh my,” Sir Martin said reverently, “oh my, oh my, oh my. Nakedness will not keep you from Christ’s love, my child, that is the promise of the scripture. You should be glad of my coming. You should rejoice in it.” He no longer straddled her, but knelt beside her as he tore the linen dress down to its lower hem and then he stared with awed reverence at her pale body. Melisande lay still, her right hand inside the sack now, but not moving.
“We went naked, girl, before woman brought sin into the world,” Sir Martin said, “and it is only meet and just that woman should be punished for that first sin. Don’t you agree?” A vagary of the wind brought the sound of shouting from the high plateau and the priest turned and looked at the distant crest for an instant. Melisande thrust her hand deeper into the sack, fumbling for one of the short leather-fledged bolts. She went still again as Sir Martin looked back to her. “They’re having their games up there,” he said. “They do like to fight, they do, but the Frenchies will win this one! There’s thousands of the bastards! Your Nick will go down, girl. Down to a Frenchie’s sword. Cos you’re a Frenchie, aren’t you? A pretty little Frenchie. I’m just sorry your Nick will never know I’ve punished you for your sins. Woman brought sin into the world and woman must be punished. I’d like your Nick to die knowing I’d punished you, but he won’t, and so it is, so it falls out, so the good Lord disposes. My Thomas will probably die too, and that’s a pity, cos I do like my Thomas, but I’ve other sons. Maybe you’ll have one for me?” He smiled at that idea as he fumbled to hitch up his robe. “I won’t die. The Frenchies won’t kill a priest cos they really don’t want to go to hell. And if you’re nice to me, little girl, you won’t die either. You can live and have my little baby. Maybe we’ll call him Thomas? Right! Get those pretty legs apart.”
Melisande did not move, but the priest kicked at her knees, then kicked harder and so forced his foot between her thighs. “Our Henry has led his men into the devil’s shit-pot, hasn’t he?” he said. “And now they’re all going to be dead. They’re all going to be dead and there’ll just be you and me, little girl, just you and me, so you might as well be nice to me.” He pulled the black robe above his waist and grinned at her. “Handsome, isn’t he? Now, little one, make him welcome.”
He forced his knees between her legs.
“I’ve been wanting to do this,” he said, kneeling above her, “forever such a long time.” He gave a spasm, then leaned forward, propping himself on his left hand while still holding the knife to her throat with his right. A second pouch was about his neck, tied next to a wooden crucifix with a leather cord, and both cross and pouch swung free, annoying the priest. “Don’t need those, do we?” he asked. “They just gets in the way, girl.” He used his knife hand to take the pouch and crucifix from his neck. The pouch clinked as he dropped it on the stream’s bank and the sound made him grin. “That’s Frenchie gold, little girl, gold that I found in Harfleur, and if you’re nice to me I’ll give you a groat or two. You are going to be nice, aren’t you? All quiet and nice like a good little girl?”
Melisande pushed her hand deeper into the sack and found what she wanted.
“I shall be nice,” she said in a frightened voice.
“Oh you will,” Sir Martin said hoarsely, putting the knife back to her throat, “you surely will.”
Sir John stepped back. Two paces were sufficient. At first he thought he had called the command too soon, then feared it was too late because his feet were stuck in the mud, but he wrenched them free and stumbled back two paces and the opposing Frenchmen gave a shout, thinking the English were trying to run away, then their lances thrust into empty air and the momentum of the lunges unbalanced them, and that was when Sir John struck. “Now!” he bellowed. “Strike!” and he rammed his own lance forward, spearing the iron-tipped point into the groin of the closest enemy. The English lances, like the French, had been cut down, but the French had cut their shafts shorter and so did not have the reach of the English weapons. Sir John’s lance slammed into metal and he leaned into the blow and saw the enemy fold over the point, and he pulled the lance back, watching the man fall, then struck it forward again.
The French, wasting their first blows on air, were stumbling. They were tired and could not pull their feet out of the sticky furrows and the force of the English lance blows was toppling them. To Sir John’s left and right there were men on their knees, and he slammed the lance hard into the visored face of a man in the second rank to throw him backward. Then he hurled the lance down and reached behind with his right hand. “Poleax!”
His squire gave him the weapon.
And the killing could start.
A lance struck Sir John’s head. His visor was missing and the Frenchman had tried to skewer Sir John’s eyes, but the blow glanced off his helmet and Sir John pushed a step forward and swung the poleax in a short cut that smacked on the man’s helmet, crushing it, and so another man was down in the mud. A whole rank of men had stumbled, and Sir John made certain they stayed down by cracking the lead-weighted hammer on their helmets. The man who had folded around Sir John’s lance was trying to rise again and Sir John chopped the ax blade hard against his backplate, then shouted at his squire to finish the man off. “Open his visor,” he shouted, “kill him!” Then Sir John planted his feet and began picking his enemies.