Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [147]
“They’re not moving,” Hook said.
“So what will happen?”
“We’ll have to attack them.”
She shivered. “You think my father’s there?”
“I’m sure of it.”
She said nothing. They waited. Waited. The trumpets and drums still sounded, but the musicians were tiring and the music was less exuberant. Hook could hear robins singing fitfully among the trees, some of which had already lost their leaves so that their branches were gaunt as scaffolds against the gray sky. The glistening wet plowland between the waiting armies was flitting with fieldfares and redwings that sought worms in the furrows. Hook thought of home, of the cows being milked, the sound of rutting stags in the woods, the shortening evenings and firelight in the cottages.
Then there was a stir and Hook, startled back to reality, saw that the king, mounted once again on the small white horse and accompanied only by his standard-bearer, had ridden out ahead of the army. He was coming toward the archers on the right flank and his horse, troubled by the uncertain footing, was lifting its hooves high. The king had taken off his crowned helm and the small wind tousled his short brown hair, making him look younger than his twenty-eight years. He curbed the horse a few paces in front of the foremost stakes and the centenars shouted at their men to take off their helmets and kneel. This time the king accepted the obeisance, waiting until all two and a half thousand archers were on their knees.
“Bowmen of England!” the king called, then was silent as the men shuffled closer to hear him. Cased bows and poleaxes were slung on their shoulders. Some men were armed with foresters’ axes or lead-weighted mallets. Most had a sword, though some carried nothing except a bow and a knife. Those with helmets had taken off their bascinets and others clawed back their mail hoods as they stared at their bareheaded king.
“Bowmen of England!” Henry called again, and there was a catch in his voice, so that he paused again. The wind stirred the mane of his horse. “We fight today because of my quarrel!” the king shouted, his voice clear and confident now. “Our enemy deny me the crown that God has granted me! Today they believe they will humble us! Today they believe they will drag me as a prisoner before the crowds in Paris!” He paused as a murmur of protest went through the hundreds of bowmen. “Our enemy,” the king went on, “have threatened to cut off the fingers of every Englishman who draws a bow!” The murmur was louder now, a growl of indignation, and Hook remembered the square in Soissons where the cutting off of fingers had just been the start of the horror. “Of every Welshman who draws a bow!” the king added, and a ripple of cheers sounded from among the archers’ ranks.
“All that they believe,” the king called, “yet they have forgotten God’s will. They are blind to Saint George and to Saint Edward who watch over us, and it is not just those saints who offer us their protection! This day is the feast of Saint Crispin and Saint Crispinian, and those saints want vengeance for the evils done to them at Soissons.” He paused again, but no murmur sounded. To most of the archers Soissons was a name that meant nothing, but they were still listening intently. “It has fallen to us,” the king said, “to wreak that vengeance and you must know, as certainly as I know, that we are God’s instruments this day! God is in your bows, God is in your arrows, God is in your weapons, God is in your hearts, and God is in your souls. God will preserve us and God will destroy our enemies!” He paused again as another low murmur sounded among the archers. “With your help!” the king shouted loud now, “with your strength! We will win today!” There was a heartbeat of silence, then the archers cheered. The king waited for the sound to die away. “I have offered peace to our foe! Grant me my rights, I said to them, and we shall have peace, but there is neither peace in their hearts nor mercy in their souls, and so we have come