Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [23]
Sir Roger, with three men-at-arms all wearing his badge of the three hawks, met the English and Welsh archers of the Soissons garrison in the church of Saint Antoine-le-Petit just after sunset. Sir Roger’s surcoat had been washed, though the bloodstains were still faintly visible on the green linen. He stood in front of the altar, lit by guttering rushlights that burned feebly in brackets mounted on the church’s pillars, and his face still bore the distant look of a man pained to be in his present company. “Your job,” he said, without any preamble once the eighty-nine archers had settled on the floor of the nave, “will be to defend the breach. I cannot tell you when the enemy will assault, but I can assure you it will be soon. I trust you will repel any such assault.”
“Oh we will, Sir Roger,” Smithson put in helpfully, “rely on it, sir!”
Sir Roger’s long face shuddered at the comment. Rumor in the English contingent said that he had borrowed money from Italian bankers in expectation of inheriting an estate from an uncle, but the land had passed to a cousin and Sir Roger had been left owing a fortune to unforgiving Lombards. The only hope of paying the debt was to capture and ransom a rich French knight, which was presumably why he had sold his services to the Duke of Burgundy. “In the event,” he said, “that you fail to keep the enemy out of the city, you are to gather here, in this church.” Those words caused a stir as men frowned and looked at each other. If they failed to defend the breach and lost the new defenses behind it, then they expected to retreat to the castle.
“Sir Roger?” Smithson ventured hesitantly.
“I had not invited questions,” Sir Roger said.
“Of your goodness, Sir Roger,” Smithson persevered, knuckling his forehead as he spoke, “but wouldn’t we be safer in the castle?”
“You will assemble here, in this church!” Sir Roger said firmly.
“Why not the castle?” an archer near Hook demanded belligerently.
Sir Roger paused, searching the dim nave for whoever had spoken. He could not discover the questioner, but deigned to offer an answer anyway. “The townspeople,” he finally spoke, “detest us. If you attempt to reach the castle you will be assaulted in the streets. This place is much closer to the breach, so come here.” He paused again. “I shall endeavor to arrange a truce for you.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Sir Roger’s explanation made some sense. The archers knew that most folk in Soissons hated them. The townspeople were French, they supported their king and hated the Burgundians, but they hated the English even more, and so it was more than likely that they would assault the archers retreating toward the castle. “A truce,” Smithson said dubiously.
“The French quarrel is with Burgundy,” Sir Roger said, “not with us.”
“Will you be joining us here, Sir Roger?” an archer called out.
“Of course,” Sir Roger said. He paused, but no one spoke. “Fight well,” he said distantly, “and remember you are Englishmen!”
“Welshmen,” someone intervened.
Sir Roger visibly flinched at that and then, without another word, led his three men-at-arms from the church. A chorus of protests sounded as he left. The church of Saint Antoine-le-Petit was stone-built and defensible, but not nearly so safe as the castle, though it was true the castle was at the other end of the town and Hook wondered how difficult it would be to reach that refuge if townsfolk were blocking the streets and French men-at-arms were howling through the breached ramparts. He looked up at the painted wall that showed men, women and children tumbling into hell. There were priests and even bishops among the doomed souls who fell in a screaming cascade to a lake of fire where black devils waited with leering grins and triple-barbed eel-spears. “You’ll wish you were in hell if the Frenchies capture you,” Smithson said, noticing where Hook was looking. “You’ll all be begging for the comforts of hell if those French bastards catch you. So remember! We fight at the barricade and then, if it all goes to shit, we come