Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [134]
“Saint-Omer?”
“Oui!” the guide said and Hook remembered his journey with Melisande when Saint-Omer had been their goal and Calais had lain not far beyond. So close, he thought. The nervous fuller said something else and Hook only half heard and asked him to say it again.’ The local people,” the man said, “call the Ternoise the River of Swords.”
That name sent a shiver through Hook. “Why?”
The man shrugged. “They are all mad,” he said, “it’s just a river.”
The river was shallow despite the recent rain and the knight commanding the men-at-arms ordered Hook to take his archers across the ford and up the farther slope. “Wait at the crest,” he said and Hook obediently kicked Raker down to the River of Swords. His archers followed him, splashing through water that barely reached their horses’ bellies. The slope beyond the river was steep and he and his men climbed it slowly on their tired horses. The rain had stopped, though every now and then a spatter of drizzle would sweep from a sky that grew ever darker. The clouds were low, almost black, and the air above the eastern horizon was the color of soot. “It’s going to fairly piss down,” Hook said to Will of the Dale.
“Looks like it,” Will answered apprehensively. The air was oppressive, thick, full of a strange menace.
Hook was scarcely halfway up the slope before a whole band of men-at-arms splashed through the river and spurred up the hill behind him. Hook turned in the saddle and saw the column closing up on the Ternoise’s far bank as though a sudden sense of urgency had overtaken the army. Sir John, his standard-bearer close behind, thumped past Hook, riding for the crest that was outlined against the slate-dark sky and a moment later the king himself galloped up the slope on a horse the color of night. “What’s happening?” Tom Scarlet asked.
“God knows,” Hook said. The king, his companions, and every other man-at-arms had curbed their horses at the hill’s crest from where they now gazed northward.
Then Hook himself reached the skyline and he too stared.
Ahead of him the ground fell away to a village that lay in a small green valley. A road climbed from the village, leading onto a wide reach of land that was bare earth beneath the glowering sky. That bare plateau had been plowed, and on either side of the newly cut furrows were thick woods. The battlements of a small castle just showed above the trees to the west. A banner flew from the castellated tower, but it was too far away to see what badge it showed.
Something about the lay of the land was familiar, then Hook remembered it. “I’ve been here before,” he said to no one in particular. “Me and Melisande, we were here.”
“You were?” Tom Scarlet answered, but he was not really paying attention.
“We met a horseman here,” Hook said, staring north in a daze, “and he told us the name of the place, but I can’t remember it.”
“Must have a name, I suppose,” Scarlet said absently.
More Englishmen reached the crest and stopped there to stare. No one spoke much and many made the sign of the cross.
Because in front of them, and as numerous as the sands on the shore or as the stars in the sky, was the enemy. The forces of France and Burgundy were at the plowland’s far end and they were a multitude. Their bright banners boasted of their numbers and their banners were uncountable.
The might of France blocked the road to Calais and the English were trapped.
Henry, Earl of Chester, Duke of Aquitaine, Lord of Ireland, and King of England, was given a new and savage energy by the sight of the enemy. “Form battle!” he shouted. “Form battle!” He galloped his horse across the face of his gathering army. “Obey your leaders! They know where you should be, form on their standards! By the grace of God we fight this day! Form battle!”
The sun was low behind the lowering clouds and the French army was still gathering under banners as thick as trees. “If every banner is a lord,” Thomas Evelgold said, “and if every lord leads ten men, how many men is that?”
“Goddam thousands,