Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [118]
And what Henry wanted was more war.
And so the army would march into France.
PART THREE
To the River of Swords
NINE
There were to be no heavy wagons taken on the march. Instead the baggage would be carried by men, packhorses, and light carts. “We have to travel fast,” Sir John explained.
“It’s pride,” Father Christopher told Hook later, “nothing but pride.”
“Pride?”
“The king can’t just crawl back to England with nothing but Harfleur to show for his money! He has to do more than merely kick the French dog, he feels a need to pull its tail as well.”
The French dog did appear to be sleeping. Reports said the enemy army grew ever larger, but it showed no sign of stirring from around Rouen, and so the King of England had decided he would show Christendom that he could march from Harfleur to Calais with impunity. “It isn’t that far,” Sir John told his men, “maybe a week’s march.”
“And what do we gain from a week’s march through France?” Hook asked Father Christopher.
“Nothing,” the priest said bluntly.
“So why do it?”
“To show that we can. To show that the French are helpless.”
“And we travel without the big wagons?”
Father Christopher grinned. “We don’t want the helpless French to catch us, do we? That would be a disaster, young Hook! So we can’t take two hundred heavy wains with us, that would slow us down far too much, so it will be horses, spurs and the devil take the hindmost.”
“This is important!” Sir John had told his men. He had stormed into the Paon’s taproom and hammered one of the barrels with the hilt of his sword. “Are you awake? Are you listening? You take food for eight days! And all the arrows you can carry! You take weapons, armor, arrows, and food, and nothing else! If I see any man carrying anything other than weapons, armor, arrows, and food I’ll shove that useless baggage down his goddam gullet and pull it out of his goddam arse! We have to travel fast!”
“It all happened before,” Father Christopher told Hook next morning.
“Before?”
“You don’t know your history, Hook?”
“I know my grandfather was murdered, and my father too.”
“I do so love a happy family,” the priest said, “but think back to your great-grandfather’s time, when Edward was king. The third Edward. He was here in Normandy and decided to make a quick march to Calais, only he got trapped halfway.”
“And died?”
“Oh, good God, no, he beat the French! You’ve surely heard of Crécy?”
“Oh, I’ve heard of Crécy!” Hook said. Every archer knew of Crécy, the battle where the bowmen of England had cut down the nobility of France.
“So you know it was a glorious battle, Hook, in which God favored the English, but God’s favor is a fickle thing.”
“Are you telling me He’s not on our side?”
“I’m telling you that God is on the side of whoever wins, Hook.”
Hook considered that for a moment. He was sharpening arrowheads, slithering the bodkins and broadheads against a stone. He thought of all the tales he had heard as a child when old men had spoken of the arrow-storms of Crécy and Poitiers, then flourished a bodkin at Father Christopher. “If we meet the French,” he said stoutly, “we’ll win. We’ll punch these through their armor, father.”
“I have a grievous suspicion that the king agrees with you,” the priest said gently. “He really does believe God is on his side, but his brother evidently does not.”
“Which brother?” Hook asked. The Duke of Clarence and the Duke of Gloucester were both with the army.
“Clarence,” Father Christopher said. “He’s sailing home.”
Hook frowned at that news. The duke, according to some men, was an even better soldier than his older brother. Hook inspected a bodkin. Most of the long narrow head was dark with rust, but the point was now shining metal and wickedly sharp. He tested it by pricking the ball of his hand, then wet his fingers and smoothed out the fledging. “Why’s he going?”
“I suspect he disapproves of his brother’s decision,” Father Christopher said blandly. “Officially, of course, the duke is ill, but he looked remarkably well for an ailing man. And,