Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [26]
There were close to fifty men-at-arms at the new wall, but no enemy in the breach. Yet the bells still rang frantically to announce a French attack, and Hook swung around to see a glow in the sky above the city’s southern rooftops, a glow that flickered lurid on the cathedral’s tower as evidence that buildings burned somewhere near the Paris gate. Was that where the French attacked? The Paris gate was commanded by Sir Roger Pallaire and defended by the English men-at-arms and Hook wondered, not for the first time, why Sir Roger had not demanded that the English archers join that gate’s garrison.
Instead the archers waited by the western breach where still no enemy appeared. Smithson, the centenar, was nervous. He kept fingering the silver chain that denoted his rank and glancing toward the glow of the southern fires, then back to the breach. “Devil’s turd,” he said of no one in particular.
“What’s happening?” an archer demanded.
“How in God’s name would I know?” Smithson snarled.
“I think they’re already inside the city,” John Wilkinson said mildly. He had brought a dozen sheaves of spare arrows that he now dropped behind the archers. The sound of screams came from somewhere in the city and a troop of Burgundian crossbowmen ran past Hook, abandoning the breach and heading toward the Paris gate. Some of the men-at-arms followed them.
“If they’re inside the town,” Smithson said uncertainly, “then we should go to the church.”
“Not to the castle?” a man demanded.
“We go to the church, I think,” Smithson said, “as Sir Roger says. He’s gentry, isn’t he? He must know what he’s doing.”
“Aye, and the Pope lays eggs,” Wilkinson commented.
“Now?” a man asked, “we go now?” but Smithson said nothing. He just tugged at the silver chain and looked left and right.
Hook was staring at the breach. His heart was beating hard, his breathing was shallow and his right leg trembled. “Help me, God,” he prayed, “sweet Jesu protect me,” but he got no comfort from the prayer. All he could think of was that the enemy was in Soissons, or attacking Soissons and he did not know what was happening and he felt vulnerable and helpless. The bells banged inside his head, confusing him. The wide breach was dark except for the feeble flicker of dying flames from the torches, but slowly Hook became aware of other lights moving there, of shifting silver-gray lights, lights like smoke in moonlight or like the ghosts who came to earth on Allhallows Eve. The lights, Hook thought, were beautiful; they were filmy and vaporous in the darkness. He stared, wondering what the glowing shapes were, and then the silver-gray wraiths turned to red and he realized, with a start of fear, that the shifting shapes were men. He was seeing the light of the torches reflected from plate armor. “Sergeant!” he shouted.
“What is it?” Smithson snapped back.
“The bastards are here!” Hook called, and so they were. The bastards were coming through the breach. Their plate armor was scoured bright enough to reflect the firelight and they were advancing beneath a banner of blue on which golden lilies blossomed. Their visors were closed and their long swords flashed back the flame-light. They were no longer vaporous, now they resembled men of burning metal, phantoms from the dreams of hell, death coming through the dark to Soissons. Hook could not count them, they were so many.
“Oh my God’s shit,” Smithson said in panic, “stop them!”
Hook did what he was told. He stepped back to the barricade, plucked an arrow from the linen bag, and laid it on the bow’s stave. The fear was suddenly