Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [161]
“God be with you, John,” Sir William Porter said nervously. He had moved to be next to his friend.
“I think God will let us win,” Sir John said loudly.
“I wish God had sent us a thousand more English men-at-arms,” Sir William said.
“You heard what our king said,” Sir John shouted in response, “don’t wish for another man on our side! Why share the victory? We’re English! If we were only half our number we would be enough to slaughter these turd-sucking sons of rancid whores!”
“God help us,” Sir William said softly.
“Do what I say, William,” Sir John said quietly. “Let them come at you, step back, then strike. Once you have the first man down you’ve made an obstacle for the second. You understand me?”
Sir William nodded. The two sides were now close enough for men on either side to recognize each other by their jupons, except the surcoats of the French were so spattered with mud that some were hard to read and nearly every surcoat had two or more arrows caught in its folds.
“Then kill the second man,” Sir John went on. “Don’t use your sword. A sword’s no good in this fight. Hammer the bastards down with a poleax. Stun them, break their legs, crack their skulls. Put the second man down, William, and the third can’t reach you without stumbling over two corpses.”
“I’d rather use a lance,” Sir William said diffidently.
“Then stab at their visors,” Sir John said. “That’s the weakest point in armor. Ram it home, William, and make the goddam bastards suffer.” The French were fewer than fifty paces away. The arrow strikes had almost stopped, though a few bodkins still streaked across the face of the advancing enemy to strike from the flank. The archers posted between the battles were readying to file back between the men-at-arms so that the English line of fully-armored men would be continuous. Those archers still had a few arrows left and were shooting them fast before they were ordered to the rear. More Frenchmen went down. One, an arrow deep in his belly, knelt and then opened his visor to vomit a mix of puke and blood before the men behind trod him into the furrows.
“We’re three ranks deep,” Sir John said, “and they’re at least twenty ranks deep. The men behind will push the men in front and so they’re going to be forced onto our blades.” He grinned suddenly. “And we’re sober, William. We ran out of wine so we’re fighting sober, but I’ll wager half their army is soaked in wine. God is with us, William.”
“You believe that?”
“Believe it?” Sir John laughed. “I know it! Now brace yourselves!”
The noise was rising as the enemy shouted their war cries. Off to Sir John’s left where a thick crowd of Frenchmen was advancing on the king’s banner, he could see the oriflamme, red and wicked, high on its pole, and then he forgot that symbol because the enemy in front had summoned a last great effort. They were shouting, they were even trying to run, they were coming to take their victory.
Their lances were poised to strike. They were screaming. “Saint Denis! Montjoie! Montjoie!” and the English were howling like huntsmen closing on their prey.
“Now!” Sir John bellowed. “Now!”
Sir Martin shoved Melisande down, planting his hand between her breasts and thrusting hard and quickly so that she fell back between the trees on the stream’s bank. “There,” he said, “you just stay there like a good little girl. No!” he held up a hand as she tried to scramble away. There was a terrible threat in that raised hand and Melisande went still again, making Sir Martin smile. He had yellowed stumps for teeth.