Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [148]
He looked back to his audience. “I have brought you to this place,” he said, his voice lower now, but intense, “to this field in France, but I will not leave you here! I am, by the grace of God, your king,” his voice rose, “but this day I am no more than you and I am no less than you. This day I fight for you and I pledge you my life!” The king had to pause because the bowmen were cheering him again. He raised a gauntleted hand and waited for silence. “If you die here, I die here! I will not be taken captive!” Again the archers cheered, and again the king raised a hand and waited till the sound stopped. He smiled then, a confiding smile. “But I do not expect to be taken captive nor will I be killed, because all that I ask is that you fight for me this day as I will fight for you!” He thrust his right hand toward the archers, sweeping his fingers around to encompass them all. His horse capered sideways in the mud and the king calmed it expertly. “Today I fight for your homes, for your wives, for your sweethearts, for your mothers, for your fathers, for your children, for your lives, for your England!” The cheer that greeted those words must have been heard at the field’s far end where the French still waited beneath their bright banners. “Today we are brothers! We were born in England, we were born in Wales, and I swear on the lance of Saint George and on the dove of Saint David that I shall take you home to England, home to Wales, with new glories to our name! Fight as Englishmen! That is all I ask of you! And I promise that I will fight beside you and for you! I am your king, but this day I am your brother, and I swear on my immortal soul that I will not forsake my brothers! God save you, my brothers!” And with those words the king wheeled his horse and rode to give the same speech to the men-at-arms, leaving the archers on the right flank cheering him.
“By God,” Will of the Dale said, “but he really thinks we’ll win!”
And at the field’s far end the gusting wind lifted the red silk of the oriflamme so that it rippled above the enemy’s lance points. No prisoners.
And still the French did not move. The archers were sitting now, despite the damp ground. Some even slept, snoring in the mud. The priests still offered absolution. Father Christopher used his stub of charcoal to write the talismanic name of Jesus on Melisande’s forehead. “You will stay with the baggage train,” he told her.
“I will, father.”
“And keep your horse saddled,” the priest advised.
“To run away?” she asked.
“To run away,” he agreed.
“And wear your father’s jupon,” Hook added.
“I will,” she promised. She had the surcoat in a sack that held her worldly possessions, and now she took out the fine linen and unfolded it. “Give me your knife, Nick.”
He gave her his archer’s dagger and she used it to cut a sliver of material from the bottom hem of the jupon. She gave it to him. “There,” she said.
“I wear it?” Hook asked.
“Of course you do,” Father Christopher said. “That’s what a soldier does. He wears his lady’s colors.” He gestured toward the English men-at-arms, most of whom wore a silken handkerchief or favor around their necks. Hook looped his own strip about his neck, then took Melisande into his arms.
“You heard the king,” he told her, “God is on our side.”
“I hope God knows that,” she said.
“I pray so too,” Father Christopher said.
Then, suddenly, there was movement. Not from the French who showed no sign of wanting to attack, but from a group of English men-at-arms who had mounted horses and now rode along the army’s front. “We’re to advance!” the man who came to the right wing shouted. “Pick up your stakes! We’re to advance!”
“Fellows!” It was the king himself who had gone a few paces ahead of the line and now stood in his stirrups and waved his arms to encompass all his countrymen. “Fellows! Let’s go!”
“Oh, my God, my God,” Melisande said.
“Go back