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By Root 1366 0

Englishman, and their forces were still arriving at the northern end of the field. Hook dropped to one knee on the wet ground, made the sign of the cross, and prayed to Saint Crispinian. He was not the only archer who prayed. Dozens of men were on their knees, as were some men-at-arms. Priests were walking among the doomed army, offering blessings, while the French walked their horses across the plowland, and Hook, opening his eyes, imagined their laughter, their scorn at this pathetic army that had defied them, had tried to escape them and now was trapped by them. “Save us,” he prayed to Saint Crispinian, but the saint said nothing in reply and Hook thought his prayer must have been lost in the great dark emptiness beyond the ominous clouds.

It began to rain properly. It was a cold, heavy rain and, as the wind dropped, the drops fell with a malevolent intensity that made the archers hurriedly unstring their bows and coil the cords into their hats and helmets to keep them from being soaked. The English heralds had ridden ahead of the array to be met by their French colleagues, and Hook saw the men bow to each other from their saddles. After a while the English heralds rode back, their gray horses spattered with mud from hooves to belly.

“No fight tonight, boys!” Sir John brought that news to the archers. “We stay where we are! No fires up here! You’re to stay silent! The enemy will do us the honor of fighting tomorrow, so try and sleep! No fight tonight!” He rode on down the archers’ line, his voice fading in the seethe of the hard rain.

Hook was still on one knee. “I will fight on your day,” he told the saint, “on your feast day. Look after us. Keep Melisande safe. Keep us all safe. I beg you. In the name of the Father, I beg you. Take us safe home.”

There was no answer, just the intense hiss of rain and a distant grumble of thunder.

“On your knees, Hook?” It was Tom Perrill who sneered the words.

Hook stood and turned to face his enemy, but Tom Evelgold had already placed himself between the two archers. “You want words with Hook?” the centenar challenged Perrill.

“I hope you live through tomorrow, Hook,” Perrill said, ignoring Evelgold.

“I hope we all live through tomorrow,” Hook said. He felt a terrible hatred of Perrill, but had no energy to make a fight of it in this wet dusk.

“Because we’re not finished,” Perrill said.

“Nor are we,” Hook agreed.

“And you murdered my brother,” Perrill said, staring at Hook. “You say you didn’t, but you did, and your brother’s death makes nothing even. I promised my mother something and you know what that promise was.” Rain dripped from the rim of his helmet.

“You should forgive each other,” Evelgold said. “If we’re fighting tomorrow we should be friends. We have enemies enough.”

“I have a promise to keep,” Perrill said stubbornly.

“To your mother?” Hook asked. “Does a promise to a whore count?” He could not resist the jibe.

Perrill grimaced, but kept his temper. “She hates your family and she wants it dead. And you’re the last one.”

“The French will like as not make your mother happy,” Evelgold said.

“One of us will,” Perrill said, “me or them,” he nodded to the enemy army, though kept his eyes on Hook, “but I’ll not kill you while they fight us. That’s what I came to tell you. You’re frightened enough,” he sneered, “without watching your back.”

“You’ve said your words,” Evelgold said, “now go.”

“So a truce,” Perrill suggested, ignoring the centenar, “till this is over.”

“I’ll not kill you while they fight us,” Hook agreed.

“Nor tonight,” Perrill demanded.

“Nor tonight,” Hook said.

“So sleep well, Hook. It might be your last night on earth,” Perrill said, then walked away.

“Why does he hate you?” Evelgold asked.

“It goes back to my grandfather. We just hate each other. The Hooks and the Perrills, they just hate each other.”

“Well, you’ll both be dead by this time tomorrow,” Evelgold said heavily, “we all will be. So make your confession and take mass before the fight. And your men are sentries tonight. Walter’s men take first watch, you take second. You