VIII

Bryan leaves, my bodyguard closes round me and we ride down to cross the river.
    Once across the water, the wagons and provisions establish themselves in defensive order out of range of the guns on the city walls; the fighting men move south to face the plain where the French will have to make their approach. It is bordered by a forest on one side and a ridge of hills on the other.
    I instruct the gunner commanders. “Use the ridge there. I want a row of the lighter guns to give cover as I send scouts forward.”
    “Sir.”
    I place a bank of archers where they can cover the plain, too. Shielded behind a hedge, they take up position, planting their arrows point-down in the ground in front of them. I ride up to Compton and say, “You and I can take the cavalry forward first, infantry following.”
    Compton hesitates, then says, “Sir, please stay back. The Council won’t countenance you riding out in the first wave.”
    “The Council be damned. I am here to lead my men.”
    Brandon, who has heard, turns his horse to approach closer, and says in a low voice, “Hal, the French are only trying to bring supplies in. If you go down in the first push, for the sake of a side of bacon…”
    I stare at him. “Christ, have you been listening to Fox?”
    He makes a movement that, if it weren’t for his armour, might be a shrug. “This isn’t Agincourt. But something else might be. Stick around for it.”
    In the distance I can see splashes of blue and gold now against the brown-green fields. It is the French cavalry, riding towards our lines.
    I look back at Brandon and, beyond him, to where the arms of England billow in the breeze, held high by Harry Guildford, to whom I’ve given the job of standard-bearer. “If I’m sitting out, then so are you,” I say. Then I turn my horse and ride away.
    From the safety of high ground, with Brandon beside me, I survey the mass of waiting troops: the mounted knights at the front; behind them infantrymen hidden beneath a forest of pikes and bills, the vicious spikes glinting silver. A dull thick heat is gathering; inside my helmet, sweat trickles down my temples.
    On the ridge to my left a flag drops and the guns fire across the plain. The French cavalry, weighed down by large saddle bags – no doubt the food for the city – have stopped some distance from our lines; it’s clear they haven’t been expecting to meet such a large body of troops in their path.
    Hesitating, they are now sitting ducks; a cloud of arrows streaks up from behind the hedge. A hundred feet up, the chisel-tipped points turn and plunge towards the French. Arrows whistle and sing; horses scream and whinny as the missiles find their targets.
    The French riders turn and begin to retreat, but they run straight into the next line of their countrymen coming on from behind. And, at that moment, my cavalrymen spur their horses into a headlong charge.
    The ground, churned by hooves, is muddy; in the melee men and animals slip and are trampled. There is shouting, metallic clanking, and the strange piercing shrieks of horses overcome with pain and fear. It is thrilling; it is like a vast, vicious tiltyard.
    Brandon points with a metal paw. “My God, the French are throwing down their weapons! Look! They can’t retreat fast enough!”
    I can see in his eyes exactly what I feel: it’s unbearable to watch.
    “Coming, then?” I say, and I see him grin.
    We slap our visors down and I signal to the captain of my guard. Then I draw my sword and spur my horse to gallop full pelt down the ridge. I yell to Brandon, though he’ll never hear – with my visor down, it’s like yelling in a bucket:
    “Who says, eh? Who says this isn’t Agincourt?”

 
♦  ♦  ♦  X   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    We pelt down the passageway, hand in hand. Catherine is half-running, skittering in soft pink slippers, her free hand supporting the curve of her belly. I’m striding, dressed all in silver cloth today, my sword wagging at my hip.
    Forest animals on tapestries bob and ripple as we pass; the dark wooden panelling is carved into trees and fruit; the light sconces jut like branches from the walls, golden flame-leaves flickering.
    We reach the double doors of the Council Chamber; I punch them open. Faces turn: a row down each side of the long table. Bony hands lie on the board, flat and dry, some stained with ink; none with blisters from handling swords or lances. There’s a shuffle and a scraping of chairs. Gingerly the