Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [133]
“Of mine?”
“He led the army that ruined Soissons.”
“Jesus,” Hook said, and again thought of the blind archers bleeding to death on the cobblestones.
“And each of the dukes,” Father Christopher went on, “probably leads a contingent greater than our whole army.”
“And the king accepted their invitation?” Hook asked.
“Oh willingly!” Father Christopher said. “He loves to dance, though he declined to name a place for the dance. He said the French would doubtless have no trouble finding us.”
And now, because he knew the French would have no such trouble, and because his army might have to fight at any moment, the king ordered every man to ride in full panoply. They were to wear armor and surcoats, though most armor and jupons were now so stained or rusted and ragged that they would hardly impress an enemy, let alone overawe one. And still no enemy appeared.
No enemy showed on the feast day of Saint Cordula, the British virgin who had been slaughtered by pagans, nor the next day, the feast of Saint Felix who had been beheaded for refusing to yield the holy scriptures in his possession. The army had been marching for more than two weeks, and the next day was the feast of Saint Raphael who Father Christopher said was one of the seven archangels who stand before the throne of God. “And you know what tomorrow is?” Father Christopher asked Hook on Saint Raphael’s Day.
Hook had to think about his answer which, when it came, was uncertain. “Is it a Wednesday?”
“No,” Father Christopher said, smiling, “tomorrow is a Friday.”
“Then I know tomorrow’s Friday,” Hook said, grinning, “and you’ll make us all eat fish, father. Maybe a nice fat trout? Or an eel?”
“Tomorrow,” Father Christopher said gently, “is the feast day of Saint Crispin and Saint Crispinian.”
“Oh, dear God,” Hook said, and felt as though cold water had suddenly washed his heart, though he could not tell whether that was fear or the sudden certitude that such a day presaged a real and beneficial significance.
“And it might be a good day to say your prayers,” the priest suggested.
“I will, father,” Hook promised, and he began praying that very moment. Let us reach your day, he prayed to Saint Crispinian, without seeing the French, and I will know we are safe. Let us escape, he prayed, and take us safe home. Blind the French to our presence, he begged, and he added that prayer to Saint Raphael who was the patron saint of the blind. Just take us safe home, he prayed, and he vowed to Saint Crispinian that he would make a pilgrimage to Soissons if the saint took him home and he would put money into a jar in the cathedral, enough money to pay for the altar frontal that John Wilkinson had torn apart so long ago. Just take us home, he prayed, take us all home and make us safe.
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