

Gillet of Azincourt

Ancestors Book 2

By W.H. (Wade) Johnson

Copyright © 2019 by W.H. (Wade) Johnson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at whjohnson@shaw.ca

ISBN-13: 978-1096443452

ISBN-10: 1096443457

First Edition

### Ancestors – The Series

'Ancestors' is a multi-volume anthology of one of the branches of my family tree. The lives of my French ancestors, the Charrons and Ducharmes, are portrayed as fictionalized accounts within actual historical events. Sixteen generations of my family are brought back to life in the times and at the places where they lived and where they easily could have participated in or at least been witness to upheavals that altered history, such as the Battle of Azincourt and the capture and trial of Joan of Arc.

Pierre Charron (1448) was my 14th Great Grandfather. He was a real person. In the series, the two generations before Pierre, his father and grandfather, are made up, though the historical events their stories are built upon were real. Prior to that, the series skips back twenty odd generations to the 9th century, when another very distant ancestor of mine, Hrólfur Rögnvaldsson, encountered a Frankish maid, while he was between sieges of Paris, and fathered a bastard child, who became known as the first Charron, Karfan framleiðandi, the cart maker. Hrólfur was my real 29th great grandfather, from the Icelandic side of my family. He was known by many names: Wendafoot; Göngu-Hrólfur; Gaange Rolf; Rollon; and was most famously known as Rollo, the Viking who terrified multitudes in the French kingdoms of the day. Of course, it is highly implausible that Hrólfur actually sired my French line, but it makes an interesting story and it connects two sides of my lineage at a time and place where they could have (however implausible) come together. Here is the list of the Ancestors:

Göngu-Hrólfur Rögnvaldsson (Rollo) – (abt. 846 – abt. 931)

Karfan framleiðandi (abt. 886) (fictional)

About 20 intermediate generations

Gillet Charron born abt. 1370 - 1415 (fictional)

Robert Charron born abt. 1415 (fictional)

Pierre Charron (1448 - 1500)

Pierre 'le fils' Charron (abt. 1485 - 15 Oct 1543)

Gilles Charron (abt. 1515 - 09 Jan 1582)

Etienne Charron (1545 - 29 Oct 1610)

Gilles 'l'aine' Charron (1580 – 1651)

Pierre 'l'aine Charron (Jan 1607 - 05 Jun 1638)

Pierre Nicholas 'le jeune' Charron (21 Oct 1635 - 25 Dec 1700)

Francois Charron dit Ducharme (02 Jun 1678 - 29 Mar 1746)

Jean Charron dit Ducharme (26 Jan 1715 - 25 May 1794)

Charles Charron dit Ducharme (Abt. 1737 - 04 Mar 1804)

Antoine Charron dit Ducharme (05 Sep 1777 - 31 Dec 1850)

Jean Baptiste Ducharme (06 Jan 1813 – abt. 1885)

Pierre Ducharme (02 Jun 1867 - 22 Mar 1939)

Clarinda Ducharme (09 Feb 1912 - 31 Mar 1937)

Mary (Helen) Wong (22 Aug 1935 - 09 Apr 2004)

W.H. (Wade) Johnson (12 Nov 1953 - alive & well)

## Contents

1 – Ambush

2 – Henry

3 - The Healer

4 -The Wedding Fine

5 – Soissons

6 – Marshalling the Force

7 – Horseface

8 – Gob

9 - The Alehouse

10 \- The Southampton Plot

11 – Painted Words

12 \- The Siege of Harfleur

13 \- The Surrender of Harfleur

14 – Edward of Bar

15 \- The Tale of Two Wives

16 – The March to Calais

17 \- The Squire of Rouen

18 – The Shadow Army

19 \- St Crispins Day

20 \- The Battle

21 \- The Prisoners

22 \- The King Returns

23 – Home, Alone

24 – The Siege of Meaux

Glossary of Characters

Thank You

# 1 – Ambush

It began in my grandfather's time, with the English King already ruling a large part of France; it ended with him ruling hardly any. I am Gillet Charron.

April 1415, near Meaux, France

We lay in wait that mid-day. The ground still damp from the morning mist. The moldy stink of wet leaves clung to the heavy air. Chill leaked through my wool tunic and stuck to me like lard on bread. Fingers of sunlight poked through the forest canopy, offering scant light, but no warmth. Me and my five companions crouched along a wide berm overlooking the forest road that connected the villages along the Marne. We waited for the English pillagers. The forest was ripe with the smell of fresh green life mixing with the fusty perfume of dead fallen trees and rotting vegetation. The smell of life and death stirred together in the slime of wet sphagnum.

A flight of starlings swooped through the tree tops chirping wildly as a pair of magpies squawked in pursuit. Then all was silent. I motioned to my companions to shush. Through the thick air, we heard the faint murmur of voices mixed with the clopping of horses' hooves on the hard pan.

Brasseur and Rousseau readied their bows. In that moment, I cursed myself for not sending Charpentier and Cordier to the other side of the road to create a cross fire. Bonin could have swung down from that side to cut off a retreat. 'My goatish inexperience in organizing proper tactics will be our bane someday,' I thought. Still, we did the best we could.

This was not a thing I loved to do, ambushing Freebooters. There was little choice. Our Bailiff was a drunkard, and many speculate a coward as well, and the Castellan was only interested in collecting the Lord's taxes and kissing the boots of anyone that might sponsor his entry into the Count's court. Besides, he was away in Paris, wenching or gambling or probably both. Who would do this, if not me and my men of The Circle. Who would keep these English thieves from robbing travelers coming to our market, or worse, who would keep the foreign bastards from coming into our town to wreak havoc and steal from our shops and stores with no consequence.

At the curve of the forest road, five hundred paces distant, a troop of six riders ambled slowly toward us in a single line. Within a trained archers' range but too far away for any of my men. The leader rode a massive black destrier. Flecks of sunlight twinkled off fine burgundy leather tack and the white polished breast plate on the front horse. His five companions were each mounted on a lighter rouncey, two white, two brown and a black. The rider on the black followed just behind the leader and wielded a tall flapping banner with symbols that I could not make out in the dim light at that distance.

"They are six and we are six," Rousseau whispered.

"Hold until they are closer, I will give the word," I said. A small flying insect lodged in my beard. I picked it out and flicked it away, keeping my eyes on the approaching riders.

"Is that a blue banner they carry? I think it's blue. Hey," Rousseau complained as the flicked insect lodged in his curly red hair.

"Hold until we can see them clearly and they're in range," I whispered.

Charpentier and Cordier drew arrows from a shared quiver and readied themselves. Soldat Bonin, my large barrel chested brutish looking friend, with a thick forehead, the only one amongst us with real soldiering experience, pulled his short sword up and down in its scabbard to make sure he could draw it quickly, then gripped his battle axe with both hands. My blade was poorly forged and could break if hewn upon a stronger steel edge. But it was longer than most swords and could keep me at a good distance while thrusting into a back or belly.

"It's blue, there are gold fleurs-de-lis. They are French," Rousseau whispered.

"Looks like a nobleman of some sort and his bodyguards," I said.

"Codswallop," Bonin grumbled. "I was looking forward to laying waste to some English cockers this day."

I pushed myself from prone to a crouch. The front of my tunic was wet and my leggings soaked through at the knees, from the damp ground. "We don't want to startle them and have them think we're highwaymen and set upon us. I'll go down alone and greet them and find out what their business is."

As I rose to greet the riders, arrows whistled through the air. I ducked instinctively. The riders' horses jostled, whirling up road dust as one guard fell from his saddle, then another, then another, two impaled with shafts through the neck, the other through the eye. All were down to the ground within seconds. Except the lead rider. Struck by an arrow in his right buttock, he screeched in pain then pulled his destrier around to face the danger behind him. Before he could draw his sword from his scabbard, a pair of brigands dressed in red and blue tunic and dark leggings, pulled him from his mount and wrestled him to the ground. Four others followed, a pair from each side of the road. I recognized them as English mercenaries. 'The ones that had been harassing our farmsteads, no doubt.'

I held an arm out to motion my men to stay low and keep their cover on the berm. 'Ambush,' I thought. 'Crossfire. Like I should have done.'

"They are six and we are six," Rousseau repeated himself.

I pointed at Bonin, Charpentier and Cordier and motioned for them to sneak across the road. I knew that the English would kill the riders and once finished looting the bodies, they would pass right in front of us. 'Now is our chance to make a crossfire,' I thought. "We must be on the mark. They are battle hardened soldiers looking for plunder and booty. If we miss, they will be on us and will surely out match us," I whispered to my men as they snuck away.

Bonin sneered his doubt that any Englishman could best him hand to hand.

The English laughed at the nobleman's' misfortune of taking an arrow in his backside. It had been a planned shot, no doubt, and true to the mark. They left him living on purpose; ransom their plan, no doubt, and a dead noble would fetch no coin.

"We should help," Brasseur said.

I shook my head. "We're too late to help those unfortunate souls already struck down. We'll slay those English dogs when they pass."

"They are very quick about their business," Rousseau said.

"Brigands you think?" Brasseur asked.

"No. They're uniformed. They're English soldiers. The ones we heard about," I said.

"Bastards." Rousseau pulled a ball of snot from his nose and flicked it towards the English.

"Looks like they've left the nobleman alive," Brasseur said.

"Ransom. He's worth more to them alive than dead." I motioned for them to ready their bows.

Boots were pulled from the bodies along with their weapons and armor. The booty was lashed together and thrown over the back of the horses along with packs of travel goods. The nobleman had his hands bound in front and strung by a long tether to the back of his destrier. They kept him on his knees while they finished their looting. I could see that the noble was a young man, stout and fit, not more than twenty-five.

I caught Bonin's eye, now safely on the other side of the road with Charpentier and Cordier. I used hand signals to have them hold until my command.

"We'll take them when they're not prepared," I whispered to Rousseau.

The horses were nervous from the rough actions about them. One of the whites tried to pull away but was held fast by a short gaunt Englishman. He tried to whip the horse with a leather thong but it just made the horse pull further away. "You loggerheaded yard. Get here. I'll whip some sense into you." His companions laughed at him.

"Not a bad haul," came from a large churlish man as he climbed onto the destrier. "We'll take this one to Chambry and have the Captain tell us where we can collect for him," he motioned to the bound nobleman.

The young noble was dressed finely. Close woven hose, heavy gold embroidered cloak with a rare white sable collar over a velvet doublet. His riding boots matched the burgundy tack on the destrier. The English let him keep the boots, for now. His black wavy hair was combed neatly back and his face looked clean shaven this morning. His square jaw and unscarred look had me conclude the young man to be fine born, clearly never put to work in hard sun or freezing rain. The young man's face was pinched in a tight squint. 'From the arrow lodged in his backside', I thought.

The English, all mounted, moved up the road toward me and my men. The nobleman followed behind on the tether, limping, howling every second step.

"Squawking like a woman is only going to raise the dead, your highness," the large Englishman mocked.

"I can't walk with this arrow in my ass, you peasant. I'll bleed out," the nobleman hissed in English.

The big Englishman slid off the destrier. "You foot licking baby. I'd leave you here to rot with your bloody friends if it weren't for the coin your ass will fetch. Bloody hole in it or not. I suppose you expect to ride to Chambry, thinking you're some sort of king." He looked down the line of his companion riders deciding which one of his soldiers he would make walk so the wounded noble wouldn't die before they could collect for him.

"I'm no king," the young man said. "But I am Lord of these parts."

"Not worth much then, you're saying."

"You'll get enough, don't worry. But you'll get nothing if I bleed to death on this road."

"Fletcher, give the boy your mount."

Fletcher, the gaunt man, tossed his head and rolled his eyes in disgust. "Why am I always the one to give something up."

"Because you're the easiest for me to kick about if you don't listen."

"Why can't he ride on the back of the big horse with you?"

"Because I'm no sod and I'll have no mewling maggot gorging on my back." He patted the destrier's neck. "Nor bleeding on this fine animal."

"It's not fair. Just because I'm the smallest. Make Thatcher walk."

The big Englishman growled, "get off and make your way back to our own horses and fetch them here. They can't be more than a league away."

"I'll get lost. They're tied off in the woods way back there," he whined.

"Move your arse you feckless cockroach!"

It was that moment of argument that I called for the attack. The English had moved close enough to touch and Charpentier and Cordier had no trouble taking two out of the middle with first shots. Rousseau missed with his first arrow but he nocked and dispatched his second quickly and it flew into Fletcher's ear. The thin gaunt Englishman squealed like a pig about to be slaughtered as he fell from his horse.

I jumped from the berm, my long sword held in front, more like a spear than a sword. Hearing the rustling foliage, the large Englishman turned toward me, drawing his blade, a grimace of rage on his face, his body ready for fight. His mouth opened in a wide roar as he rushed forward, closing ground with me. Just as the howl came from his gaping maw, Brasseurs arrow penetrated the back of his thick neck and lodged, half exited from the big man's mouth. He dropped like a stone at my feet.

The two at the rear, seeing they were now outnumbered, pulled the reins of their mounts around to flee back up the road. As the first rider passed, Soldat Bonin sprung from the far berm taking the man's head off with a single stroke. The first horse passed him bearing a headless rider. Before the head had reached the ground, Bonin landed and crouched, swinging the double sided battle axe at the leg of the second rider's horse. The blade of the axe head caught the white rouncey at the knee, separating the bottom part of the leg from the horse. It balked, lurched over and fell onto its side. The rider was trapped under the beast momentarily, but as the animal screamed and flailed trying to gain purchase with its remaining three legs, the rider pulled free. Blood gushed from the horses wound. The rider, dazed from smashing his head on the hard pan, spun about trying to gain focus on his attacker. Clumps of loose horse dung flew off his tunic as he spun, splatting against Bonin's leggings and dropping onto his boots. The white rouncey, blood smeared across its bottom half, flopped like a fish on the road, squealing and gasping in panic.

"Sard! You shit on my boots." Bonin swung his big axe around and cleaved the riders head in two, one eye popping from its socket as the blade made contact. "Or maybe that's shit from your horse. Apologies friend," he said as the man's body slumped to the ground.

Bonin kicked away the half of the man's brain that had fallen onto the road. He lumbered to the horse. It continued to thrash, though with less vigor, as its life blood slowly drained. Bonin knelt beside the horse's head, speaking in a low gentle voice to calm the terrified animal.

"I am sorry my friend," he stroked the animal's mane, "I think we shall all be casualties of this endless war. It's sad for you to go this way but I promise you will not be a waste. You will fill many empty bellies my friend. Let me take away your pain." Bonin pulled the short sword from his belt and deftly nicked open the horse's jugular. The blood flowed freely out and the horse lowered its head to take its long sleep. "My village thanks you for this sacrifice."

Fletcher, an arrow through his ear and lodged in his brain, was still alive. The gaunt man splayed prostrate on the road, one hand clutching the shaft of the arrow embedded in his head. His visionless eyes stared skyward as he mouthed low guttural curses through his frothing mouth. Thin yellow goo, streaked with blood, leaked from the hole around the shaft impaled in his ear.

I untied the young noble from his binding, looked down at the large blood soaked stain on the back of the nobleman's hose, drew the short sword from my belt and handing it to the young man, tilted my head toward the dying Fletcher.

"They are low life's and our enemies, but still the merciful God demands that we not let him suffer long. It is your earned right to put him out of his misery," I said.

"Slimy codpiece," the young noble said, as he slid the blade into Fletcher's gullet and pulled it from one side to the other as easily as a knife through suet. "Robert of Bar," he said as he handed the short sword back to me. He kicked the dead man in the side. "I was hoping to have none of this today. I prefer to take my glory on the field of battle, not ambushed on a back road in the middle of nowhere." He spit on the dead Fletcher. "The likes of these would have no hesitation to make us suffer long, if they had their way. I free him of his life just the same."

I nodded at the young man in agreement. "There is enough wrong doings on all sides in this endless war. Best if we have some mercy on the lives we take from each other, for whatever that is worth. Gillet Charron," I held my hand out. "My companions Brasseur, Charpentier, Cordier, Rousseau and the big man is Soldat Bonin. Our village is Meaux, two leagues hence."

We stood face to face. Me being a good fifteen or twenty years older than the young noble, we could have been like father facing a son, except for the clear difference in our stations. Me, with my grizzled short beard, short cropped hair, heavily salted with creeping grey, my clothing, rough sewn, fit for long wear and hard use. The young noble was finely clothed in rich garments of smooth textile, adorned with calf leather and polished buckles. Wavy dark hair neatly cut above his ears, smooth pink cheeks. I thought I smelled perfume on the young man.

"I am in your debt," Robert said. "I was traveling to Meaux, with my companions."

The five bodies of his squire and guards lay thirty paces down road, stripped of their belongings.

"Apologies to disturb your late friends Lord, but we will have to be pulling the arrows from them for later use. The English make fine shafts which are not to be wasted," Rousseau said.

"Are you robbers?" Robert asked. "We carry very little coin or precious wares but I will see that you are rewarded for coming to my aid. I have been inspecting my estate properties."

"This is what I call booty," Rousseau held up a full quiver of arrows from the back of one of the English dead. "This is worth a Lord's ransom." His quick smile dropped as he looked towards Robert. "Sorry Lord. No offense. These arrows will all find their way home into a deserving English in due time. Has anyone seen the bow to go with these arrows?"

"You don't have enough strength in those chicken wing arms of yours to pull back on an English longbow," Bonin teased his companion.

"No reward is necessary," I said. "We are countrymen. You're wounded."

"My first battle wound," Robert grunted out, "other than nicks and cuts from careless sword play. In my ass of all places. I hope that's a story that will not spread. I have a reputation to keep."

"You're a Lord. Not from these parts."

"I'm from Bar. Robert of Bar," he repeated his name and Duchy.

"Bar is to the east, you've come from the north."

"Yes, I was at Soissons. We have recently taken it back from the English and traitorous Burgundians. Now that we have sent them fleeing like rats back into their dark holes and recovered what is rightfully ours, I am inspecting my properties and letting my people know that their rightful Lord is back in the high seat." His hand pressed his bloody flank. "Do you have a physician in your village? I would not like it said that I bled to death from an ass wound."

"We have a healer. A woman though. If you don't mind a woman groping around your backside."

"I'll suffer through it," he grinned at me.

Blood seeped from Robert's wound. Luckily it was a bodkin point at the end of the ash shaft and not a barbed broadhead that would rip flesh apart when removed. Still, the arrow was deeply embedded and probably lodged against a hip or pelvis bone.

"We'd best get you mounted, it's too far to walk with a hole like that in your arse end."

We lifted him onto the destrier. It was clear the pain was overtaking him.

"We have heard stories, from travelers, about a great slaughter at Soissons. Fanciful exaggerations I'm sure. It would be good to hear the news from someone who was actually there, if I am not too presume more than I should, Lord," I said.

We gathered in a circle around the mounted young nobleman. He swayed dizzily side to side as we waited for him to speak.

"I take it that you are our Lord as well," I continued, "otherwise there would be no need for you to inspect our town. We have not had a Lord come to Meaux for a very long time."

"I have lordship of the county through my marriage. The Lady Jeanne de Bethune. Do you know of her?"

In the sixth year since marriage, Robert was only now making a tour of the estates west of Bar. Rents and taxes and other goods from Meaux had been collected by the Duchy tax collector in the past, though more recently taxes were paid to John of Valois, Duke of Burgundy, who was said to be in occupation at Soissons, in league with English mercenaries. It made no difference to us who collected the tax money, it was all the same except for the color of the banner pitched at the tax table at collection time. We came as required, gave our money without incident, so there had been no need to send a force to extract it from us.

"There hasn't been a Lord or Lady in Meaux for some time. Not since the Viscount Robert moved his lodging to Flanders," I said.

"My wife's father, Lord Robert of Bethune has passed and my wife's mother, Lady Isabelle, is now under my care. I am inspecting our properties. To see if the proper rents are paid. I've come from our reclaimed estate in Soissons. I have Marle and Oisy as well as Meaux, and many other estates." He pointed up the road, grimacing in pain, "If the castle at Meaux is suitable, I shall move my wife there. She is disquieted by the bad memories and many ghosts haunting Soissons. We look for a more suitable home for the son I hope we will be blessed with."

Young Robert of Bar was a sight. Disheveled, covered in dirt, horse shit and twigs, pebbles from the road embedded in his velvet doublet and blood drying and caking from his buttock down into his boot. 'A handsome lad,' I thought, 'and not so haughty, like some that have come by this way. Common enough spoken and not so high born that he won't talk civilly to the likes of me.'

"If the Castle is adequate, I may settle here for a while with my Lady Jeanne. Our first child will be born soon," he smiled proudly. "I would like to settle someplace quiet and out of shot of the English, where I can raise a son away from constant danger and too much pomp and bustle of the Duchy court. Too much spoiling and pandering goes on for my taste. It's taken only six years of bedding to get the job done. I'd almost lost hope. It would be a shame to have to swap Jeanne because she's barren. I rather like her." We laughed. There were not many barren folk in Meaux, though common enough for babes to go to the Lord before they could walk or chew, some dead straight from the mother's womb, sometimes stealing the mother's life with them. I knew this too well myself.

"You'll be staying then?" I asked.

"If the place is livable."

"I'm afraid Lord, the Chateau Castle is just a burnt out empty shell. Torched in a battle long before my time and never brought back to life. Nobody has lived there, in my lifetime, except perhaps a few ghosts and a small garrison of soldiers that never leave the place, except to gather more meat and ale. But there is a fine Manor House, put up by a Lord and Lady in the far past. It is well kept by our Bishop."

"I'll have to see about the Chalet Castle sometime later then. In the meantime a Manor House might do. I'll return to Soissons and fetch Jeanne. Perhaps engage some good trades to restore the Chalet Castle to my taste, in time." Robert swayed like a long tree in the wind, atop the large horse.

"Plenty of tradesmen right here Lord," I said.

"Good ones?" he asked, as he began to teeter like a drunkard.

"Right here before you." I motioned to my circle of men. They all looked sheepishly at Robert, eyes flitting to him then quickly looking away, then scrambling off to gather more spent arrows and our new Lord's rider-less horses.

Robert of Bar eyed our small band of men that saved him from the English. "I'm in good hands then, thank you."

I stood stunned, slack jawed, for a moment, that a Lord of the Manor, a Viscount no less, would say 'thank you' to the likes of me.

"We'd best move along. It will take some time to get there and have you looked at."

"What about my body guards, and Gaston, my poor squire; they should be buried. I should have never ventured out with such a small force."

"We will send folk to retrieve the bodies and provide them all a proper Christian burial, along with the English."

"The English are filthy dogs. Let them rot. The carrion can have them," Robert said.

"When a man is dead, he is dead, Lord Robert," I said. "There are no countries or borders between souls in heaven, nor hell. We've all done good and we've all done bad. We all deserve to be put in the ground proper and have pious words spoke over us so our souls can make their way to wherever they are due, in their afterlife."

"I suppose there is some wisdom in that, Gillet Charron."

"No distance between noble and common either, I would guess, once a body is dead."

Robert pondered. "Perhaps," he said, though I could tell he was not in full agreement.

"We'll send carts to haul them in. The horse too." Bonin pointed at the dead rouncey. "Your horse will feed many. We'll dine on him tomorrow, with luck."

"We best make our way then. This will all be maggot food soon if it doesn't get tended to," I said.

Robert of Bar nodded. His eyes rolled back into his head as he slumped forward onto the neck of his destrier. Blood from his buttock wound pooled and leaked over the edge of his saddle, trickling in a thin rivulet down the side of his horse. He jerked himself upright, determined to remain conscious.

"Yes, we'd best make our way to your physician," Robert said.

I grinned. "She's not exactly a physician, Lord, but she shouldn't have much trouble patching up an arse wound. Good thing there are not vital organs there."

Robert nodded again and feigned a smile.

"You're not afraid of a needle and thread, are you Lord?"

The young nobleman slurred something incoherent then slumped on to the neck of his mighty war horse.

# 2 – Henry

April 19, 1415, The Palace at Westminster

He stood at the head of the long table with his back towards the seated men, his Magnum Concilium, his Great Council, high born men and clergy. He turned slowly to face them, his eyes locked in a wildcat-like stare. The angry scar beneath his right eye, like a permanent red snake slithering down the side of his face in a mottled crevice, a reminder of Shrewsbury, a statement to the Council that he did not shrink from confrontation or battle.

"I've said from the moment this crown was placed upon my head, and before that, I will take back what is rightfully mine, rightfully England's."

He was imposing, in his dark velvet and gold ornament, like a black knight rising above his seated Council. Strikingly handsome, except for the vicious bodkin scar beneath his right eye, a trophy from his bravery at the Battle of Shrewsbury. Slim, with dark hair cropped in a ring above his ears; he was clean-shaven. His ruddy complexion, his face lean with a prominent and pointed nose. His eyes flashed chameleon between the mildness of a dove's to the brilliance of a lion's, depending upon the mood of the words coming from him.

A hand taller than most, two hands taller than many, he towered over them by choosing to stand rather than sit. Stand, as if he had little time to waste in idle discourse and their consent was a mere formality. But depending upon which side of the table you sat, you saw the face of the thoughtful handsome monarch, the inspirational leader, or the frightening provocative warrior that would suffer no insolence from underlings.

It was a learned Council gathered in the windowless chamber. An hours meeting with a large body of men had the grey stone walls sweating, the air dense with uncirculated breath. The heavy oak doors barred any sound escaping the room. The guards at the door sworn to silence, on pain of death. There would be no foreshadow to the French of King Henry's discussion, his intention and declaration this day. Not all favored his opinion and when he last assembled the Council to support his plan of invasion, they convinced their King to continue negotiation and seek a compromise that would avoid a military confrontation. But the French delayed, obfuscated and made a mockery of his offer to negotiate. This time the parliament conceded to his demand and all Henry wanted from his Council was their agreement to support the effort with men at arms and archers and the other necessities of war. He had already taken steps.

One by one, he pressed each man at the table for their agreement. His brothers, Thomas, Duke of Clarence, John, Duke of Bedford, and Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester; his uncle John Holland, the Duke of Exeter and cousin Edward of Norwich, Duke of York; Richard of Conisburgh, Earl of Cambridge, Henry Scrope, Baron of Masham, Sir Thomas Grey, Michael de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk, the Earls of Westmoreland, Salisbury, Warwick and Edmond Mortimer, the Earl of March. At the end of the table was his Archbishop of Canterbury with his subordinate Bishop.

"I have been two years with this crown. Before it leaves my head I will, by means of war or marriage or both, take France and put an end to this war that has been going on for lifetimes before me. I am like you. I seek peace. I seek the prosperity that comes from it. But you can see, as well as I, that my French cousin leaves no alternative but war, as the means to earn the peace that we all desire. I am no war monger, but neither will I shrink away from retrieving what is mine, what is ours."

"Why not just sue for peace and leave ownership of lands in the hands of who now possesses them," Henry Scrope offered. Scrope had long been a trusted advisor and friend. He supported Henry's father, was appointed treasurer on Henry's recommendation and stood as a Knight of the Garter.

"My dear Scrope. You know that I always listen to your advice and give it due respect. But this time, I know what is best. It is not just for my claim, there will be money and lands for all in the success of this venture."

Henry Scrope nodded support for his King.

But there were some in the Council that saw the plan as reckless, especially as they did not consider his claim as King of England to be legitimate, let alone any of the territories in France, though they would never speak this publicly. Most at the table nodded agreement to their King. A few stared blankly, as if they were in contemplation as to whether their agreement would be given. Henry nodded to each around the table, in their turn, then slammed a fist onto the oak boards, waking a daydreamer from his reverie.

"Your support, Richard?"

The Earl of Cambridge startled in his seat. "Of course, your highness. My full support. I am with you, we are with you."

In fact Richard of Conisburgh, Earl of Cambridge and others were not truly with their King in this expedition.

Henry V's original offer, in negotiation with France, was mocked, treated with an insolent counter offer, a pittance of what he sought. His offer was fair, made in all good faith and generous, considering his belief that he had a rightful claim to a great deal more than he asked. He was furious at the response he received and determined that French blood would spill and heads would roll on the field of battle.

Henry offered to give up his claim to the French throne if the French paid the one million six hundred thousand crowns outstanding from the ransom of John II, captured at the long ago Battle of Poitiers, and concede English ownership of the lands of Normandy, Touraine, Anjou, Brittany, Flanders and Aquitaine. He offered to marry Catherine, the young daughter of Charles VI, King of France, and receive a dowry of two million crowns. The French responded with what they considered generous terms; the marriage with Catherine, a dowry of 600,000 crowns, and an enlarged Aquitaine. The divide was wide between them and tainted with a further ridicule from the Dauphin, heir apparent to the French throne.

A year of talk towards a reasonable claim, negotiations had ground to a halt. In the December past, the English parliament was persuaded to grant King Henry a double subsidy, a tax at twice the traditional rate, to finance a war effort to recover his inheritance from the French.

Now, in this spring of 1415, Henry again asked the Great Council to sanction war with France, and this time there was little choice but to agree. This time they must agree. He had already made the decision to war against France but needed their military as well as financial support.

"Good. That is good. There is no time for pussyfooting. Richard Cliderowe is already assembling ships from Holland and Zeeland and my Admiral, the Earl of Dorset, is arresting all ships over 20 tons to have them at Southampton by May 8th."

All at the table were attentive to this new news, some surprised that their King had begun preparations without their agreement, though Henry's brothers, had already been taken into confidence.

"This final mockery from our French cousins, to our offer of peaceful negotiation, is the last straw. A barrel of tennis balls. The Dauphin remembers me as an impetuous haughty adolescent, eager to involve in games and play. It is England's game that I play now and I will claim all of France, as is my right, earned from my grandfather. I have sent out advance scouting parties to reconnoiter."

The King would accept no rejection or delay at his request, from his Council, this time.

The men of the Council rose. One by one they bowed to their King for permission to leave his presence. One by one they filed from the meeting chamber. All except Edmund Mortimer. Younger than Henry by five years and long in the King's service and debt, Edmund, cousin to the King, was a loyal counsel and, he believed, friend of the monarch. Henry was ambivalent towards the young Earl. He showed favor at times and at other times treated Edmund with disregard. Still, Edmund Mortimer felt it his duty to present situations that might challenge the King's considerations. Alternatives, just to make certain his King had thought through all possibilities that might present themselves in his planned invasion.

"Perhaps some assurance from the nobles would confirm their commitment your highness. A venture of this magnitude will need every available bow and sword."

"You doubt their support? You doubt my preparation, Edmund?"

"Never sire. But two nails will hold better than one."

"You don't think I can trust their commitment. Are there some whose fealty is in question?"

"Not that I know Sire and I would be the first to say if I should hear of such a thing. Perhaps some insurance by having them marshal at Southampton a week before you plan to launch the invasion. If someone does not show, there would still be time to exert pressure to comply. Every single man at arms and archer will be needed."

Edmund was a head shorter than Henry. His dark hair cropped below his ears, kept long to conceal a small patch of balding. The pallor of his face juxtaposed against deep rose cheeks and wispy orange whiskers that made him appear even younger than he was. He was modestly clothed in a blue doublet with yellow trim and dark hose.

Henry studied Edmunds face as if searching for confirmation of his loyalty. He positioned himself in front of the shorter Edmund, subconsciously knowing that his size alone could often intimidate the truth from a conversation. Edmund stood his place. Though Henry trusted Edmund, there was always a hint of suspicion that the young Earl of March might someday make the claim that his Uncle had made against Henry's father, disputing Henry IV's claim to the throne of England.

Both Henry and Edmund had lines to the crown, but through different lineage. It was Henry's father, Henry of Bolingbroke, who deposed then King Richard and usurped the crown, claiming that his father, John of Gaunt, as son of Edward III, had more right to the throne than Richard II, who was only a grandson and not next in line at the death of King Edward. Bolingbroke had been exiled but returned to England amid uprisings and a traitorous alliance with Wales involving Edmund's uncle.

King Richard was extravagant, unjust and faithless. When the peasants revolted, Richard put down the rebellion with great severity. He had fits of instability and when his first wife, Anne, suddenly died, he became completely unbalanced. Extravagance, acts of revenge and tyranny turned Richard's subjects against him. When the nobility entreated Henry Bolingbroke to return from exile and depose Richard, he led an uprising that easily removed the King. Richard was imprisoned in Pontefract Castle. Some contend he was murdered there, by starvation.

Edward III had reigned for 50 years before Richard. It was his ambition to conquer Scotland and France that plunged England into the war that had been going on almost a hundred years. Though Edward engineered two great victories, at Crecy and Poitiers, the war was very expensive. To add to the troubles brought on by war, an outbreak of bubonic plague, the Black Death, visited itself upon England, decimating half the population.

It was his descendance from Edward III that made a few on the Council, insist that Edmund Mortimer had the stronger claim to the throne. This insistence was motivated by their desire to avoid an unnecessary continuation of the war with France. There was little in it for them, other than a drain on their coffers and a culling of their knights, archers and other men at arms from their retinue. Even the odd ransoming of a French noble was more an element of chance rather than opportunity. Edmund listened to their cajoling, casually, but gave no serious heed. He made it well known that his loyalty and fealty remained with Henry. The contingent of decenters continued to circle and hover about him like flies circling dung, continuous in their attempts to persuade.

"After all Mortimer, you are descended from Edward's second son," Richard of Cambridge said. "Though King Richard was from the first son, he is long dead. Henry is only descended from the third son. He is only King because of the illegitimate usurpation of Richard's crown by his father. You are the rightful King. It is your duty to take your place on the throne and relieve us from the folly of this madman. There is no need to drain our treasuries further. He should leave France alone and be satisfied with what he has here."

Edmund was a descendant of King Edward III through his paternal grandmother Philippa of Clarence, only child of King Edward III's second surviving son, Lionel. Because King Richard II had no issue, Edmund's father, Roger Mortimer, 4th Earl of March, was heir presumptive during his lifetime, and at his death in Ireland his claim to the throne passed to his eldest son, Edmund. By the terms of male primogeniture, it was argued that Edmund was rightful heir to the throne.

However, when Edmund Mortimer was not yet eight years of age, his fortunes changed entirely. When Richard II was deposed by Henry Bolingbroke, who became King Henry IV, his own son, Henry V, became heir apparent. Henry IV put the young Edmund and his brother Roger into custody. The boys were treated well, and for part of the time even brought up with the King's own children.

Though he did not believe his young cousin would attempt to usurp his crown, still a cautious suspicion lingered at the back of his mind. Henry touched the scar beneath his eye as he spoke with Edmund. A reminder that it was Edmund's Uncle, Sir Edmund Mortimer, that betrayed England when he was captured by the Welsh rebel Owain Glyndŵr, at the Battle of Bryn Glas. Henry's father accused Sir Edmund of deserting to Glyndŵr, refused to ransom him, and confiscated his property. It must have been true, as Sir Edmund then married Glyndŵr's daughter, and proclaimed in writing that his nephew Edmund was the rightful heir to King Richard II and not Henry IV.

Sir Edmund's sister, Edmund's aunt, was married to Henry 'Hotspur' Percy. It was the Percys that rose in rebellion in collusion with Glyndŵr and Sir Edmund against Henry's father. It was young Henry, still just a Prince, who led the force on his father's left flank that defeated Hotspur at Shrewsbury. It was there that Prince Henry took an arrow in the face. Rather than withdraw from the field of battle, Henry continued to lead his knights, refusing to let the physician tend his wound, until Hotspur was slain and the battle won.

"When will you assemble the force at Calais?" Edmund asked.

England had very few strongholds remaining in France. Calais, on the northwestern coast remained secure in their possession. Henry could land his force uncontested and begin his march through France capturing and securing territory all the way to Paris.

Henry motioned Edmund to sit. The King took a rolled parchment from his satchel and spread it on the table. He smiled, cocky and self-assured.

"I intend to go directly to the mouth of the Seine and follow it straight to Paris, like a dagger plunging straight down the throat to the heart of the beast."

Edmund's eyebrows raised.

"That could be very risky, your Highness. The fleet could be bottlenecked in the estuary and defeated before you have a chance to land and come ashore. Calais might be a better choice. It is already ours."

"Calais sits there like a cemetery of old tilted grave markers, where a cadre of long forgotten souls lay buried, Edmund." Henry pressed his finger to a spot on the parchment at the mouth of the Seine. "Harfleur. I will take Harfleur and establish my beachhead there. It will be my port where I will land my army . We will march east from there and take Rouen and then Paris. The towns along the Seine are rich with food and plunder. Our enemy will feed my army as we go, thus saving a great deal of time and money in provisioning. I will have Charles head on a spike before the leaves of autumn and I will stuff the Dauphin's tennis balls down his gullet."

Edmund leaned forward for a better view of Henry's map.

"It is my understanding, Highness, that Harfleur is very well fortified. It may take a great effort to capture. A lengthy siege perhaps. They appear circled on three sides by water. If they flood this area, he pointed to ground north of the town, they will surround themselves like an island. It looks very difficult."

"You have no nerve Edmund and it appears very little confidence in my ability as a general. I have a great deal of experience at this and I will not shrink away from a fight just because there are difficult obstacles.

Edmund lowered his head. "Of course Highness. I have no doubt of your skill in battle. I am at your side."

Henry reached over and patted Edmund's shoulder.

"My scouts will have every inch of ground surveyed and mapped for us long before we put ashore. I will know every weakness, every hole in the wall, every crevice and lose brick, before we begin our siege. They will stand no chance."

Edmund nodded.

"And you, my young Earl, will visit the scouts and make certain we have gathered every sliver of intelligence we need to assure victory before the battle begins. I have confidence in you Edmund. There are very few I trust."

But deep in the back of his mind a voice whispered to Henry, 'beware of the Mortimers'.

"Thank you Highness, you have my devotion of course."

Edmund's head was bowed.

"That is good. You are my Knight of the Bath, you and your brother. Even though I am your Lord, our lives are in each other's hands."

Edmund looked up at Henry, not certain what to make of such a remark. His King was all powerful, he felt no power over him, no consideration that Henry's life would ever be in his hands, other than how men were always in each other's hand when in battle, how they relied on each other to defend their back or flank from a charging enemy.

Richard of Cambridge, Henry Scrope and Thomas Grey retired to the Peers Lobby, an antechamber adjacent to the Lords Chamber. Richard instructed the doorkeepers not to allow anybody to pass inside unannounced.

"I do not have the means to participate in this expedition," Richard said. "He knows that. It will be my humiliation when all see that I can deliver neither men nor coin to support this invasion. It is an unnecessary thing in any case."

In the Parliament of 1414, Richard was appointed Earl of Cambridge, a title formerly held by his elder brother, Edward, who had resigned the position. However, there were no accompanying grant of lands or revenues given and it would be known that Richard of Cambridge would be the poorest of the earls who were to set out on Henry V's invasion of France. Richard believed he held the confidence of Edmund as he was married to Anne, Edmund's cousin. They were family. He was confident that, should Edmund be King he could persuade him to leave things be with France. Once the crazy old King Charles died it would be easier to make a peaceful settlement between the two countries. They should just let him die of old age and there would be no need for furtherance of this war, which Richard had no means to support.

"The King doesn't seem to heed your advice," Thomas Grey said. "Even though he is your cousin."

"Just a cousin once removed," Richard said, in an attempt to justify the lack of influence he had on Henry.

Sir Thomas Grey was brought into the discussion through no real choice of his own. Richard being his wife's father. As for Henry Scrope, his contention arose from the execution of his Uncle from a failed revolt, ten years earlier. They all had some reason to be against the King but there was great peril for all of them in any talk of standing against Henry.

A knock came on the chamber door. It opened slowly and Edmund Mortimer stepped in to the room.

"We were just talking about you, Mortimer," Richard said. "Come in and close the door."

"I am on an errand for the King. I cannot visit with you now." Edmund closed the door behind him.

"We were discussing the King's plan," Richard said. "We have an idea that would benefit from your opinion."

"I have no time right now," Edmund repeated. "Any talk of the King's plan should be had with the King, not me."

"Of course, but as you have the King's ear these days we thought it best to discuss this idea with you first, rather than waste the King's time with something that may not be useful."

The three men stood in a huddle in the corner in the great room of the Peer's Lobby, as if they were sharing secrets in the dark.

"I have no time right now," a tone of annoyance in Edmund's voice.

"Yes of course, Mortimer. Your errand for the King. Soon then. I will send word soon and we can gather again to discuss."

"Fine," Edmund said. They are up to something, he thought as he left them to their secrets.

# 3 - The Healer

Hovel of Gillet Charron, Meaux France

As wounds go, Robert's was one of those that would earn him a good mocking. 'A woman's wound' they would call it, 'taken while fleeing from danger'.

By the time we arrived at my hovel, Robert was beyond dizzy and weak and could not sit square on his mount. His right side from toe to armpit was stiff as a spear shaft and had no feeling. He was alive and conscious but had lost enough blood that his lips were blue and those extremities that he could still feel were like numbed icicles. Each step his mount took, stabbed through his hip joint and squeezed tears from his wincing right eye. By the time we reached Meaux, a river of tear tracks carved through the dirt on his cheeks down to his chin. Me and Soldat eased Robert off his destrier, braced and carried him into my hovel.

My home was a simple place, very small but clean and well kept, built behind the old Carriage House where I worked building and repairing carts for the villagers and travelling merchants. A door with leather hinges opened into a single large room with a single small window at the front. Outside, one wall held up the lean-to that housed the egg chickens. Inside, the opposite wall was a simple hearth, a modest wooden bed pallet beside it with the cradle I crafted standing empty at its foot. A ladder near the door led to a high-pitched loft where all my children slept. The main fixture in the room was our oak board table, fitted with benches down both sides and the single armless chair at the head. This is where Simone prepared our food, and where we ate it, discussed our family business, took our entertainment and where 'The Circle' sometimes gathered as our village council. Pottage always stewed at our hearth and throughout the day Simone tossed in a leek or an onion, beet tops or other vegetables and sometimes the odd marrow bone or chunk of meat or suet, if there was some to be had. Our hovel was always filled with the smell of comfort, the smell that I recognized as home. It was a simple place, but kept the wind and rain away and it was our home.

This day, when me and Soldat Bonin hauled a handsome young noble through the door, Simone sat in the head chair nursing our infant. Simone's belly was large again and soon our infant would have the company of a new sibling.

"What's this then?" Simone barked, looking up.

"We found the English. It seems as they found our new Lord before us though. They laid waste to his guard and planted a shaft into his arse." I pointed with my eyes to Robert's injury.

Simone's eyebrows arched upward. She covered herself and placed the baby in the cradle. My Simone was a short woman, with deep brown eyes that looked into the wince frozen into Robert's face. I could tell that Robert recognized Simone's probing stare immediately as the same his own wife Jeanne must give to him when he has done something foolish. All women are the same in this, thinking men are not as smart as we are, or that we are all dullards in some manner.

"Our ride was long; our attention had waned somewhat. We were caught off guard." Robert squeezed out his excuse to Simone. "I'm in need of a healer."

"You are looking at your healer Lord," I said. "Clear the table love, we'll lay him there."

Simone pulled back her long black hair and tucked it into her short-tailed hood. She removed her wooden mug and a basket with the remainder of the breakfast bread and allowed me and Soldat to lay the young noble face down on the table surface. As he lay prostrate, Robert's dammed-up tension flooded away from his body like air escaping a water bag. The daylight poking in through our lone window dimmed as if a curtain were pulled across the sun. The last thing Robert heard, before the weariness of pain overcame him, was Simone.

"A Lord are you. Well, you'll live. It's a shame about your hose but we should be able to sew that up as well. Let's get them off."

Robert of Bar, Count of Marle and Soissons, guardian and regent of his wife's estates, as Viscountess of Meaux and Countess of Ligny, lay face down on my straw and horse hair bed mattress with his bare buttock exposed to the air for healing. Simone had expertly sewn together his torn flesh and poulticed the wound with green herbs and honey to suck away any festering that might grow there. Today the poultice was off so the air could dry the wound and begin to knit the skin together enough that the thread could be removed, in time.

Seating his horse was out of the question, for some time, though he was well enough to be moved to the Manor House and give me and Simone back our bed. I had sent word to Bishop de Saintes of Robert's coming and he had removed himself from the master room and taken a lesser room as his sleeping chamber in the Manor House.

I pulled the head chair to the side of the bed where Robert lay. I propped it against the stone wall beside the hearth and turned in slightly, so I could see Robert's face.

"Your arse is getting better. Still should be careful over the chamber pot though," I said.

"It would not be good for word of this to spread," Robert motioned at his exposure. "It's shame enough to be overcome by brigands on the road. I should have sent a scout ahead. At least I got to dispatch one of them. I thank you for that small honor."

"It's right for us to defend ourselves, but killing for the sake of honor alone would be a sin, as far as I can tell."

"This is my land, Gillet. The English have no right here," Robert said. "There is honor in killing our enemies and driving them off."

"I don't have knowledge of these things, Lord. We just grow our grain and vegetables, tend the beasts and try to have enough to make life tolerable. The lands we use never belong to us. I'm not clear how any person can lay claim to the dirt and the sky above it. Seems to me that all belongs to God."

"It's the land that makes us strong," Robert disagreed. "The more land we have under our alliance, the more we can protect ourselves from those trying to steal it from us. These things are all passed down through the ages. From one generation to the next. We grow our domains when possible, through marriages and alliances. Like a growing family."

"Or you take them from your neighbors."

"Sometimes." Robert rested his head on his arm. "More often by marriage."

"Why?"

"For growth and prosperity."

"The tax money and rents," I said. "And power too."

"That as well. The larger and stronger the alliances the better we can protect our people, like you and the families of this village."

I nodded. "It has been many years now Lord that we have been protecting ourselves."

"Yes. But the English have returned to these parts, or soon will. Claiming rights to lands that belong to my family. Bad enough that we're always fighting off the Burgundians, now we have to contend with the English again too. I have the feeling they are together against us."

"They raid our crops and steal our beasts and are no better than common highwaymen. We've lost townsfolk on the road too, throats slashed, robbed of the few meagre coins they might have had, even their shoes stolen."

"We used to be allied with them. Deaths and shifting borders and new marriages and alliances move power from one place to another. It can all be a tangled mess Gillet. I confess there is much that doesn't make sense to me. We all seem to be related to each other in one way or another. Not to you of course, I mean the noble houses. These are things you wouldn't understand, of course."

"I understand," I blurted, then was unsure I should speak out so boldly. "Sometimes we make alliance with our neighbors but mostly just to share the plowing of a field or split a harvest, combine our sheerings for a better price on the wool. We don't have any need for land we never plan to use."

"We share too. Some things. It doesn't matter if you use the land, only that you possess it. I don't plough fields, I rent them out for use by the common folk. You get to use it for your needs and I get mine satisfied as well. You see, it works for both of us."

"We get our wealth without having to wage war upon each other."

"What wealth? You live in a hovel and scratch out subsistence from the earth."

"We have the wealth that comes from the love of our families and neighbors every day that we live. We have the power of being a living, breathing soul. We may not have a purse filled with coin or a store house filled with more food than we can eat. But we have this." I opened my arms wide to encompass Simone and my children seated at the table, laughing while they played a game of pegs. "Tell me, how many haunches of beef can you eat at one time and how many fancy horses can you ride at once. What is the purpose of owning land so far away that you cannot even see it? You must have this," I pointed to my infant in Simone's arms, "to have wealth."

"I do not have this, yet," Robert admitted. "But my wife is with child, as your wife is. Soon I will know this too. I will have a son to take my name to inherit my lands and to pass it on. I will have legacy. My name and heritage will carry on after I am gone. That is something you will not know."

"It is the carrying on of your blood that counts. Yours will carry on through your children, as mine does. In this way we are the same."

I found it curious that a nobleman would bother himself to speak to the likes of me about such things. I would continue, as long as he cared to, though I cautioned myself not to offend my young Lord.

"Legacy for a noble house is a complicated thing," Robert said. "These arrangements are planned out and there is manipulation and positioning, like a game of pegs. These alliances take place over many years. Each new child becomes a piece in the game."

I shook my head. "How can this be? You marry, you have children. What was yours becomes theirs. Using children like pieces of a game, it's not right."

"It's not as simple as that Gillet. My mother, Marie de Coucy, Dame of Coucy and d'Oisy, Countess of Soissons, wife to my father, Henry of Bar, is the granddaughter of the late King Edward of England. She became Countess of Soissons, almost twenty years ago, upon the death of her father, my grandfather, Enguerrand of Coucy. Can you imagine, my own mother has the blood of an English King in her, which means that I have it as well. English blood, yet I am French and the English are my enemies, as they are yours. The union of my mother and father joined all the lands from Oisy to Bar along the northern border. My union with Jeanne expands our lands from Marle and Soissons in the north all the way here, to Meaux, in the south. Our strength by joining the noble houses in this formidable domain has doubled and then doubled again. My father and mother married by arrangement of alliance. I too was betrothed for alliance and was married only by luck to my lovely Jeanne. She was then fourteen and I nineteen. I have been Count of Marle and Soissons these past two years, since my twenty third year. Jeanne brought with her the noblewoman titles of Viscountess of Meaux and Countess of Ligny."

Robert saw that my eyes were glazed. His explanation of bloodline was more than I could fathom.

"There is much more but I can see this makes no sense to you," Robert said. "of course, my new friend, I do not expect you to understand how important these things are."

"It is a web, Lord. My head swims. It doesn't mean that much to me, but what does it mean to you?"

"It means we have the strength of all the noble houses in our domain. We can call on many earls and barons and their knights and men at arms if we need to defend ourselves against the English. We have had to do this for many years, well before my time and even though you are old it was before yours too."

I did not think myself old.

"I don't see why defense against England should be needed if a dead English king was your mother's grandfather and your great grandfather. Does this not make this domain a cousin of England?"

"One would think it should. But now we have Henry of England, the King in this day, a great grandson of Edward as well. I have heard he makes claim to much of the lands of France. He claims they belong to England through his own long lines of marriage and alliance."

I shook my head again. "What difference does it make who speaks of ownership of the land? The land is the land, it cannot be moved from France to England. To kill each other over this is silliness. It is not worth the life of a single person. And it is certainly not worth the trouble and destruction it brings to the innocent people of Meaux and the other towns and villages around these parts."

"You are right. But the tithes and taxes and tributes flow to he who holds claim and the others get nothing. This is our land by right and the English shall have none of it."

I pulled a straw from the top of my boot and picked my teeth. "And the war goes on. It has been waging from before my time. I pray to God for peace in my children's time."

"I pray for this as well, Gillet. Our new sons should enjoy this peace together. And they will, once we win this war."

Even though it was not my place to speak of these things, I felt free to speak my thoughts, to the young Lord, as long as he allowed it.

"There are no winners in war, Lord. Even the victor loses. Let us pray for peace and freedom from English mercenaries and brigands of all kinds. Still, my sons shall till the earth and send grain and coin to your son as Lord of this Manor. My daughters will scrub and clean and cook as your servants, if they are lucky. We are happy enough with this life and are thankful we do not have the troubles that come with the lives of Kings and courtiers."

Though he was a nobleman and I just a peasant, the difference in our age and life experience was clear. The difference in our station less so apparent, in that moment, with Robert's bare buttock exposed to the air for healing, his arse no different than mine or anybody else's, rich or poor. Simone had painted the wound with honey, to prevent infection, and now a black fly had imprisoned itself upon it like a thief locked in a pillory.

"That is the way Gillet," Robert shrugged. "But I am grateful to you for my rescue from the English and for your friendship and I will entreat my son to have friendship with yours."

I stared at the young nobleman and then at the trapped fly. "Such a bond would be unusual indeed, from a noble house. Such a gesture would mean a great deal to us common folk. You would be well thought of and have our loyalty. I have no recollection of a Lord of the Manor ever walking among us as a friend. I would think that such a friendship would not be viewed kindly by your princely friends."

"Perhaps. But I am a man, just as you are. There are many in my court with a different view."

I looked at Robert's bare arse and the fly desperate to escape its sweet bond, nodded and wondered if he really believed what he spoke.

"It is the right thing Lord. We all came from the same dust and we shall all return to it."

Robert reached out a hand. I took it in mine, squeezed it firmly and it was like we were bonded.

"You must call me Robert when I am amongst you. No need to call me Lord, unless we're amongst my wig wearing friends." We chuckled at each other.

"Tomorrow Lord, Robert, we shall move you to your Manor House. You will have the proper room to recover your injury and Simone and I shall have our bed back."

"I am in your debt Madam," Robert said to Simone. He looked back at me, "What is the point of having more? I can only ride one horse at a time, sleep in one bed at a time. I can fit only one leg of fowl into this mouth at a time." He thought a moment. "Perhaps two legs, but surely no more than that." We laughed.

The next morning Robert woke with two waifs standing at the bedside, one taller than the other, both with hair pointing in many directions. Their gaze shifted between Robert's sleepy face and his exposed buttock.

"Pere says not to wake you," came a tiny voice speaking in a whisper.

Robert looked from one child to the other. "I am already awake," he whispered back.

"I can see your bum."

"My wound needs the air to make it better."

"Mere had to sew your bum."

"Yes, and I am grateful to her for fixing my injury."

"I don't want her to sew my bum. My poo couldn't come out if my bum was sewed shut."

My two small boys turned and ran passed Simone and I, awake but still laying on our rough blanket and a bed of straw on the floor near the hearth. They flung open the door to our hovel and scrambled out into the morning.

Our breakfast was a plain porridge. It was Robert's first time to take a meal with my family. He sat in the middle of the bench at the table, a small boy on each side, Simone across, nursing our infant, our daughter on one side of her, while I sat in the head chair. Robert dipped his wooden spoon into the top of his bowl and saw that Simone had placed a cooked egg atop his breakfast meal. There was an egg in my bowl as well. Robert saw that the children's smaller bowls of gruel were eggless, as was Simone's. Around the table we all sat silent with hands clasped in our laps, except Robert, who sat with spoon poised at the ready.

I spoke in a low monotone. "The Lord merciful and compassionate, has continued the memory of His wonders. He has given food to them that fear Him."

All our mouths, except Robert's, spoke in unison, "grazie."

Robert skimmed our faces as we stared at him in anticipation.

"Grazie?" he said, and my children dug into their breakfast. "That is a word from Roman times," he looked at me.

I acknowledged this news with a nod.

"It means thank you," Robert said.

"That would seem right then. Thanking the Lord for this bounty. We have always ended the table prayer with 'grazie'. Perhaps it is a left-over word from the times when this was a Roman village, more than a thousand years ago, I'm told."

"A thousand years." Robert imagined an ancient time.

"There was a time when there were no English or French on these lands and who knows who was here before the Romans. Eat your egg and I'll take you to see the Bishop at the Manor House. We've told him of your coming."

Robert tapped the back of his spoon on the yolk of the egg floating on top of his gruel. He cut the egg in two and scooped half into the bowl of each of my small boys seated at his sides.

"I shall bring sugar and cinnamon for your porridge, when I return here with my wife and child," Robert said.

"What is sugar," a small voice asked as he devoured the half egg in a single swallow.

"What is cinnamon," said the other small boy as he did the same with his egg.

"They are tastes that will make you smile," Robert promised. "Though you cannot eat the cinnamon by itself. You must mix it with the sweetness of the sugar or it is not pleasant at all."

"Is sugar sweet like the honey that mere put on your bum," one of my boys asked.

Robert nodded.

"I don't think I should like that then," my other boy added with a wrinkled nose.

# 4 -The Wedding Fine

April 1415, Westminster Palace

Like Richard of Cambridge, Edmund Mortimer was not a wealthy Earl, but there was a weighty difference between them. Edmund owned significant family debt, which continued to grow with the expense of upkeep of his estates. There had been discussion of an arranged marriage that might bring needed wealth into the family, but Edmund chose to marry for love instead. He sought and received dispensation from the Pope to marry 'a fit woman', related to him in the third degree, his second cousin once removed, Anne Stafford. She too was descended from the late King Edward.

For now, Edmund and Anne were housed in a modest apartment in a remote wing of Westminster. The rooms were dark and damp and the smell of sewage and rot from the river lingered in the air. It was adequate but more importantly, for Edmund, it was close to the King and his court. There were two rooms in their apartment, a sleeping chamber and a parlor. Each had a tall window, which allowed for good lighting, but also gave up cold evening air.

Anne sat bundled in a feather duvet on a settee near the parlor hearth. Edmund stoked it with wood and charcoal, though the supply was running low. He crouched, moving the fuel with an iron poker. There should be a servant to manage this chore, but they were spread thin, with so many extra visitors attending the King's court, along with the regulars.

"I want to go home Edmund," Anne said. She pulled the duvet tight around her, up over her rose petal lips. She shivered. The large blue saucers of her eyes peered over the top of the coverlet, her dark hair framed the delicate milk white skin of her face.

'She is like a tiny bird,' Edmund thought. 'So frail and delicate.' He did not want to share the news with her, but he knew he would have to, sooner or later. He pushed the embers to the back of the hearth and placed a fresh log over them. He lay the poker against the hearth and sat next to her. Staring into the flame, not wanting to look Anne in the eye.

"We're going to France," he said. "The King has decided we must move in force to recover his inheritance."

Anne looked at the side of his face.

"It will mean war. The French have refused to negotiate in good faith. It has pushed the King into an untenable position. He has no choice."

"You will go," she quivered, her voice a whisper.

"I must, of course."

"What about me?"

"I will arrange for your return to Cambridgeshire, or you may prefer to stay here, amongst the other ladies."

"This place is like a mausoleum, so dingy and cold. Like a great many of the women at court. But there is nobody at Cambridgeshire, if you are not there. Just the servants. How long will you be away?" Anne slid across the settee and pressed herself against Edmund, tilting her head onto his shoulder.

"I am not yet privy to all of the King's plan, but it looks like he intends to make landfall and go straight away to Paris. He seems as though he will go straight for the head of the snake rather than make a slow chevauchee across the land. He believes there is little need to take each village and town along the way. If he takes Paris, takes the crown from the head of Charles, then all the small places will be his anyway. It is a good plan. I must be with Henry in this."

Anne sat back. The fire in the hearth building, she dropped the duvet away, her linen night dress sufficient in the warming air.

"Why do you need to go? Haven't you had enough living under their roof, under their thumb. From the time you were a child, you and poor Roger. It is like they own you, like you are chattel. All because of your traitorous Uncle."

Edmund turned his head to face Anne. Her eyes questioned him, as if looking for an answer or agreement that she was correct, as if she were trying to understand where this loyalty to Henry came from.

"It could have been much worse for me and Roger."

"He doesn't own you, own us. Does he?" she asked. "It would be different if it was the other way around, the way it is supposed to be. If he was your subject."

Edmund placed a hand over hers. "It is the way it is, my love. I am thankful that he treats me well. I am a Knight of the Bath. It is my duty and honor to stand with my King in battle."

"I will never see you again. I will be a widow before we even have our first child."

Anne turned her head down in a sulk. "Then I will go to Cambridgeshire and make our home welcome for your return. I can't stay here without you. We don't even have our own servants here, and I will not shovel coal into the hearth."

'She is such a lovely thing,' Edmund thought as he gazed upon his young wife. 'Of course she could not stay at Westminster when I am gone to France. She must go to our home and be the Lady of the Manor.'

A knock came on the apartment door. Just a light tapping at first. Edmund was not certain he heard it. Then it came louder.

"Sir Edmund." It was the voice of a young man, speaking through the closed door.

Edmund went to the door and opened it a crack. A page, dressed in the household uniform, stood in the hallway. Edmund look the young man in the eye. The Page dropped his gaze downwards.

"Sir Edmund, the King summons you to his privy-chamber, Sir. Shall I wait and show you the way?"

The Palace of Westminster was an enormous, foreboding place with many rooms and dark hallways. Edmund had little opportunity to explore much of it.

"The King," Edmund said. "Did he say what he wanted, why I should attend?" Edmund asked, even though he knew the Page would not have been told such things.

"No Sire, I am just to deliver his summons."

"Of course. Wait here, I will get my coat. You can show me the way."

When Edmund and his brother Roger were under the King's authority, as boys, kept under the guise of wardship, though they were held more in custody at Windsor and Berkhampstead castles, under Sir Hugh Waterton, as security against further uprisings and betrayal from the Mortimers, they were like younger brothers to Henry, as near as family, as could be supposed, though clearly at arm's length in any discussion of royal lineage. Edmund understood well enough his lines to claim of the throne of England, but he was not inclined to make this claim. He saw Henry as an elder brother, in many ways, and felt the loyalty of a sibling even deeper than his obligation of fealty as a sworn Knight.

When Henry's father died, two years previous and Henry ascended to the throne, he granted Edmund livery of his estates. The properties and holdings had questionable financial value, but Edmund was still grateful that the family holdings were given back into Mortimer hands. This was not something the King was obligated to. Edmund saw this gesture of generosity as a sign the King considered him a trusted advisor and loyal servant of the realm, perhaps the same way he saw his own brothers.

The Page announced Edmund to the Doorkeeper at the King's privy-chamber, who in turn announced to the King's guard. It was a long room. Tall windows lined one wall. All along the opposite hung large paintings depicting famous battles engaged in by ancestors from the House of Lancaster. Between each scene hung the portrait of the ancestor who was the chief Lancaster attending the battle. The last was Henry's late father. The paint appeared still fresh to Edmund. Beyond that, the large room was empty except for the ornate table at the far end where Henry sat, scribing his signature on the letters of the day. There was a single chair in the room, upon which only the King sat.

"Highness," Edmund said. He tipped his head in a bow and clasped his hands behind his back.

The King continued receiving letters from the Chamberlain, with a brief explanation of each. Henry signed, the Chamberlain sanded the wet signature, each in turn, and affixed the royal seal. After many minutes of Edmund waiting silently, Henry placed his quill on the table and looked at Edmund sternly.

"I have just heard the news," Henry said.

"Highness?"

"You are a married man."

"Yes your Highness. More than two months now."

Henry stood.

"You have my congratulations, of course, Edmund."

"Thank you your Highness."

"Stafford's daughter, I'm told."

"Yes your Highness. Lady Anne."

"I don't recall her but I'm told she is your cousin."

"Second cousin, your Highness. Once removed."

"I'm told you sought and received the Pope's blessing, to sanction this marriage."

"His dispensation your Highness, as required for a marriage to a cousin."

"Yes, of course."

Henry walked around the table and stood next to Edmund. Edmund stood stiff as a stone statue.

"Yet my dear Edmund I am only now learning of your betrothal and marriage."

"Yes your Highness. Not something important enough to trouble you with."

"Trouble," Henry said, his voice raising. "You married months ago. You took the Pope's dispensation yet you did not seek my permission."

It hadn't occurred to Edmund to ask Henry's permission to marry. He assumed that with the granting of the livery of the Mortimer estates, that all his rights, as were under the authority of Henry's father and the Queen Joan, at Henry IV's death, were now ceded back to him. But now, as his King's sharp stare and harsh voice confronted him a cold doubt crept into his belly. Had he assumed wrongly? Had he offended his King?

"Have I not been more than generous Edmund? Have I not always treated you like a young brother, with the benefit of my consideration and guidance?"

It was true that Henry could take the posture of an elder sibling, though, in Edmund's mind, he was never considered with the closeness of Thomas or John or Humphrey. He was never a real brother.

"Yes Highness," Edmund submitted.

"Yet you have married without my permission. Like a thief in the night. As if you were stealing away with my own property."

"I didn't..."

"You didn't know? You didn't care? What, Edmund?"

"I didn't realize I was to beg your permission Highness."

"Well whose permission did you think was needed? The Pope's? My dead father's? Authority over your marriage was ceded to me years ago. I was still Prince of Wales when that authority came to me, along with many, many others. You must have realized that Edmund. How could you not. Did you think you would own this right onto yourself?" Henry returned to the backside of the table and sat.

"My humblest apology your Highness."

"Never mind. It's too late now. The deed is done. Your apology has no value to me. You will pay me a wedding fine of 10,000 marks."

"Highness?"

"Ten thousand. Be thankful that your thoughtlessness will only cost you money. If I didn't consider you part of this household, your disobedience would cost you much more dearly."

Ten thousand marks was of course well beyond Edmund's means. He had no ability to reach into his coffers and provide such a sum. Henry knew this, and agreed to allow Edmund to make smaller payments, over time. If he failed in this, his estates would be forfeit back to the King.

The panic within him was replaced by a small flame of resentment. Edmunds' jaw clenched involuntarily.

"I've always felt a measure less," Edmund said.

"You are a measure less, Edmund. But haven't I always treated you like a brother. Were you not fostered under my father's roof, when you could have been discarded into peasantry for the betrayal done to us by your family. You and your brother should be thankful."

"I am thankful, your Highness. Grateful as well, loyal to you too."

There was a great tear in Edmunds gut. He was distressed to learn that he bore the obligation to seek the King's permission to marry, yet at the same time, he was grateful that Henry agreed to a simple, if somewhat exorbitant fine, for his misdeed. More than that, he was still in the King's company, still with the honor to serve. He had not forfeited his Knight ship or any position at court. Yes he was grateful. Despite this momentary discord, Edmund Mortimer remained entirely loyal to Henry V.

The money from Edmund's fine would not go to the King's treasury to pay for oxen or boar to feed the court or pay stipends or pensions to those growing fat on the back of England. This money and much more that Henry seconded from other fines, the double tax, agreed by parliament, would go to his war chest, to pay for arrows and armor, horses and carts and many other devices needed to secure his victory over France.

"Don't be so glum Edmund. It's just money, it's not your life blood. I'm letting you remain married after all." A grin came to Henry's face. "That's if you wish too."

Henry dipped his quill into the ink jar.

"I have made a new will, Edmund. In preparation of our expedition. You will bear witness to my signature."

A great honor. Edmund moved himself around the table and stood behind his King.

Anne was dressed when Edmund returned. She stood at the parlor window looking at the grey brown water of the Thames as it meandered past their apartment on the river front side of the palace. She gasped and turned away from the window as the bloated carcass of a drowned creature drifted past beneath her. Edmund looked over the ledge to the river below.

"A sheep or a goat perhaps," he said. "Some poor soul has lost a good deal of income, is my guess, with that beast gone."

Anne held a hand to her mouth. "I thought it was a child," she said, stifling a sob.

"Just a goat my dear, or maybe a full grown lamb," Edmund said as he put an arm around her shoulder and guided her from the window. It was best she thought it an unfortunate farm animal rather than know it was the corpse of a waif making its way to the sea.

"Why were you summoned?" she asked as she sat at the corner of the settee. "What did the King want?"

Edmund sat beside her, sighing, his shoulders sinking.

"The King has imposed a fine."

"A fine?"

The hearth held just the remnants of the earlier fire, a few stubborn embers. Edmund would stoke it before they went down for the late evening meal. They would have a warm chamber for sleep when they returned.

"For marrying," he said.

Anne did not understand.

"It seems that I was to receive the King's permission to wed."

"But you are an Earl in your own rights. You are your own master. Why should you need permission. The Pope allowed it."

"The King reminded me that it was his prerogative to decide my union." Edmund rose and put a split quarter of dried wood onto the near dead embers in the hearth. "Of course he is right."

"Does that mean we are not wed?"

"No my love. The King has generously just imposed a wedding fine. All other rights and properties remain intact."

"A wedding fine? We have to pay money? But the Pope gave his blessing. Surely that carries more weight than the King. The Pope speaks for God."

"Yes my love but the King by his divine right also speaks with the authority of God."

"It's not fair. How large is this fine?"

"The financial dealings of my estate are not your concern. It doesn't matter the amount of the fine." Edmond poked the embers trying to stir some life into a flame. "It is large."

Anne clucked and rolled her eyes. "As if our household can afford a fine of any measure. Yet you seem as if this is not a burden. We are not rich Edmund, you are not rich. This is just another thing to deal with. If you perish while you fight for your King on foreign soil, will the debt fall to me?"

"You needn't worry."

Anne huffed and snorted her displeasure. "The King. You should be the King. His family has wronged you from the beginning, why do you have such loyalty. He is not your friend."

"No," Edmund said, "perhaps not, but he is my King."

"I want to go home."

They took their own knives to the supper meal every evening. A substitute could be provided if a guest misplaced or forgot to bring their own eating knife. But one could not be certain that a substitute would bear sufficient ornament or it might even have a spot of rust on the blade. Some made great show of their ornate handles, crafted in bone or antler, some with gemstones or signets embedded, with blades of steel that had been folded and pounded a hundred times, polished and sharpened like ribbons of mirror. Edmond and Anne's knives matched. A wedding gift from Richard of Cambridge. Richard's wife, Edmund's sister, also named Anne, dead from child birth, these past four years.

Richard sat next to Edmund at table. Anne, on Edmund's other side, spoke across her husband to Richard.

"The King has levied a fine upon us Richard," Anne said. "A wedding fine, because he was not asked for his permission. It's not right. It is an abuse. Did you have to receive his permission when you wed your poor Anne?"

Richard was not comfortable with any discussion of his departed wife. The memory of her bleeding out before him still haunted his thoughts. He could not remember the lovely young face that always greeted him, when they were newly married, just the deathly pallor that grew upon her cheeks as the blood pumped from her body. It was a miracle that she survived the night after their boy struggled to be born from her. It was as though she lingered just long enough to see that her son would survive. Then she faded and did not regain consciousness.

Richard passed the drinking cup to Edmund.

"We did not even have parental consent," Richard said, "though we did secure Papal dispensation shortly before our nuptial."

The dining hall was crowded with visitors as well as the regulars of the court. The King was not present. Unless there was special occasion he took his meals in his privy chamber. Unless there was a special feast, the dinner meal was taken in the common dining hall and though there were servants to bring the food and drink, they sat at table and took their meals in the same room as their noble masters. Todays dinner was bread and fowl and fish. All cattle, pork and mutton had been sent to Southampton to feed the gathering army. Venison was kept for the King.

"You must be livid Edmund. How much was this fine?" Richard asked.

Edmund did not answer.

"Ten thousand marks," Anne said across her husband.

Richard shook his head. "That is not right. To levy a fine on the likes of you. Did it make you want to smash his face?"

Edmund stared harshly at Richard but still said nothing.

"Well you are not alone my brother. He does these unkind things to all of us. It is more like he is our enemy than our King. He is thoughtless to his subjects and reckless with the kingdom. Like this ungodly war he is thrusting us into. He is like a child waving a blade blindly about with no consideration of the harm it does. Greed and avarice, I say. Hubris, I say. Pure arrogance and conceit. We must do something before we are all ruined."

Edmund held the flat of his palm towards Richard.

"Be careful with your words. There are ears all about this place and lips that might take great pleasure speaking your animus to our King."

"We are family, you and me, Edmund. I only say this because I know, on the soul of your dead sister, that I have your confidence. Something must be done." Richard reached across the table and took a boiled river eel from the platter. He held it on his plate, took his meat knife in his other hand and severed the head of the cooked fish. He took a large bite and threw the remainder onto the floor, quickly devoured by a roaming mongrel.

Resentment and contempt was clear on Richard's face as he scoured the dining hall. He shifted the meat knife in his hand to a position more fit for stabbing than cutting.

"If he were here right now," Richard growled as he drove the blade of his meat knife into the breast of a roasted hen in front of him on the table. "He does not even sup with us."

"He is our King," Edmund said.

"Yet he treats us no better than this groveling cur."

"Be careful of your words Richard," Edmund said.

"If he was here," Richard waved his meat knife at the hall of diners.

"You don't mean that Richard."

Richard of Cambridge did not sense a shared animus of Henry in Edmund. His own claim to the throne was too many steps removed to ever be sanctioned by parliament. If there was to be a successful removal of reckless Henry, it would have to be Edmund Mortimer. His line could be claimed legitimate over Henry.

I will go to Southampton for the assembly, as I am ordered by the King," Richard said. "But we should meet with others that share my sentiments. Perhaps there is a better plan we could suggest to Henry."

"He is done with negotiations Richard. They have gone on long enough. He sees taking the crown of France as the only remaining option. Charles is mad anyway. He is not a fit monarch for his people. If he dies and the Dauphin assumes the throne, the task will become even more difficult."

Edmund wasn't certain what he should read into Richard's words. Was he suggesting usurping Henry of the crown of England, as Henry's own father had done before him? Was he suggesting the people rise up against their King? Another rebellion? Was Richard insinuating a plot to assassinate Henry, by plunging his knife into the breast of the hen? Was he suggesting that he and others would support a move for him to take the crown for the Mortimers?

Edmund Mortimer decided it was his duty to know the real intent before making a careless commitment.

"When?" Edmund said.

"Southampton. Before we sail. Grey and Scrope will join us."

At least two others. Their names were spoken.

# 5 – Soissons

Charron Hovel, Meaux, France

"I have managed to boil most of the blood from these," Simone said as she handed Robert's hose to him, "but the damage from the arrow could not be fixed better than this."

"You have my thanks madam," Robert said. The blood from his wound was no longer visible on his hose, though the shade of the garment seemed different than Robert remembered. The rent in the seat of the fine fabric was now closed shut with a woolen thread much thicker than the original material and a much different color. It had the appearance of a short stubby worm embroidered onto the buttock. Robert smiled. He was happy for the return of his garment and glad he would be able to return the loose fitting heavy woolen pantaloons I had lent him. As soon as his hose was dry I would have my breeches back. Being shorter and wider than Robert, I had no clothing to share that made a good fit on Robert's frame. I too would be glad for the return of the loaned pantaloons as they were my only good pair. I had taken to wearing my old worn through pair, recovered from the rag bin, while my good pair were on loan to my Lord.

"You are as good a seamstress as you are a healer," Robert said.

He pushed himself up from the bench slowly, the muscle along his side and back tightened in resistance. He winced.

"You still need to go slow," Simone said. "That will open if you are too strenuous too soon."

Robert stretched until he felt the stitches begin to pull on his backside. He wondered if Simone used the same thread on him as she used on his hose.

"It is usually a badge of honor to show and tell about wounds taken in battle. I won't be showing this one to many, I think," Robert said.

I had returned with a loaf of coarse bread in each hand.

"The baker's oven is busy this morning," I said. "He's claiming the bread tax has gone up. Rousseau was arguing and refusing to pay. Some can't pay more. Madam Toussaint was chasing him around the market with a stick, calling him a thief. A funny thing to watch, until you thought about it. Bad enough already, the taxes and tithes we pay. Who can afford it."

"It's just greed," Simone said. "Sucking us dry, like a bat on an oxen's neck."

"It's the war," Robert said. "It is a costly thing, in money and blood and lives."

"They should just stop," Simone said.

I gave her a stern look and shook my head in admonishment. It was not a woman's place to speak of such things.

"It's been going on too long," Simone said, returning the stern look to me. "They should just stop. The people don't want it, don't need it anymore. There is no point to this endless carnage and thievery. Bread tax; more like blood tax."

Robert looked to me, expecting me to reprove my wife to silence, even if she had mended his wound and clothing.

I handed the loaves to Simone and sat in the head chair.

"It seems to serve little purpose Lord," I said. "It's why we have to constantly be on our guard and go out to ambush the brigands and robbers, to keep them off our backs and away from the farms. It's not like they just pillage a chicken here and there, they swoop in and take everything. We have no defense, except what we can muster ourselves. We are not soldiers or knights. Just farmers and tradesmen, builders and weavers, merchants and bakers."

Robert returned to the bench.

"We must strike first," Robert said, "before they have a chance to set upon our people and steal from you. We must exact revenge upon them and take back what is ours. There is much going on that you don't understand. It's not just the English. There are those families of France that take advantage of our King's condition. Uncles and cousins, even his own brother. Some even align themselves with the English."

A moth fluttered down out of the thatch and settled atop a loaf. Simone brushed it away. "Revenge," she said. "It just continues the cycle."

Robert said, "Like we did at Soissons. Where I was coming from when the English set upon me on the road. They seized the town under the guise of the Burgundians, our cousins. Making it appear as though it was French upon French, but it was the English mercenaries that were behind it. Making it appear as though it was all John of Burgundy. John the Fearless they call him. I call him John the Traitor."

A flat chunk of daub fell from the wall behind me, exposing the wattle beneath. Robert looked at the grey brown of the original plaster beneath the whitewash that I had painted over top of, to brighten the inside of our mean home.

I turned to look at the small hole left by the fallen daub. "Easily fixed," I said. "Not like Soissons, I heard."

"What do you mean?" Robert asked.

Simone turned away from us and began chopping a turnip on the cutting board, as if the act of cooking made her deaf to the conversation in the single room of our hovel.

"It is said there was great carnage and brutality put upon the citizens of the town. Unspeakable things." I looked to Simone, whose back was to us. "Hangings, slaying of innocents in the streets, beheadings," I leaned close to Robert and whispered, "the rape of nuns from the convent and other despicable acts of terror. Against the citizens. As if they themselves were any threat."

"It was the English," Robert said, "and the traitor John of Burgundy. It was my people that liberated the town from the occupiers."

"It is said that it was French on French as well as the English," I said. "It is said that when the English and Burgundians took Soissons, things were bad. But when the Armagnac purged Soissons of the English, things grew even worse. The citizens were treated as if every one of them was a collaborator with the enemy, even though they were the victims. Bad to worse, it is said. It was our own lords that slaughtered the common folk alongside of the English dogs."

"They should all just stop," Simone said in a low voice, her back still to us.

"It is said babies and small children were impaled on spikes and some women slit their own throats rather than be taken for rape. It is said the citizens expected liberation but what they got was carnage, from their own people, their own Lords."

Robert drew stiff in his seat, indignant against the suggestion that it was the Armagnac with allies from Bar and other Duchies that were the root of the savagery.

"There would be nothing left of Soissons if it wasn't for us," Robert said. "We took back what was rightfully ours. Expelled the traitors and English mercenaries. There was no honor amongst them, they didn't come to stand against us on the field of battle, they did not even properly defend the walls against us. They were cowards in the face of danger. They would not even stand and defend the women. There may well have been savagery but it was met upon collaborators, traitors."

"Traitorous nuns," Simone growled between her teeth as she chopped the turnip vigorously.

"Shush," I rebuked her. "I heard there were bad things at Soissons."

"There were bad things on both sides," Robert said. "You have to remember that this was begun by our Burgundian cousins. They are French. They are supposed to be on our side."

"Perhaps they were seduced by promises from the English," I offered.

Robert shook his head in disagreement. "It's not like that," he said.

"What is it like then?" Simone blurted as she turned to face us, her face a mask as evil looking as a gargoyle on the cathedral.

My eyes widened, my jaw dropped, that my wife would speak in such a manner to a Lord.

"Forgive her Lord," I apologized.

"Forgive me Lord," Simone conceded. "I can't imagine that it was your doing."

Robert glanced down at his repaired hose, at the deftly crafted stitching and imagined the same stitching in his backside. "I am in your debt. There is no need to beg forgiveness. There were heroes and villains on all sides."

We sat in silence for a time that seemed endless. The only sound inside our small hovel was the crackle and pop of the embers in the low hearth.

I finally spoke. "We heard it was bad. A slaughter that made no sense. It is said that the town was retaken by the rightful Lords after being held for many months by a cadre of English and French with the blessing of Duke John."

"It has been almost a year since we took back Soissons," Robert said. "We had the blessing and support of the Dauphin. In fact he made money and provisions available. You have to understand that there has been conflict between Burgundy and we Armagnacs. We have traded positions in Paris for several years, each House vying for the King's pleasure, to serve France."

"Each family wanting power, it sounds like," I said.

"The King, our King, is not a well person. Strange things have invaded his mind, demons perhaps. He endures long periods of madness, then like a candle illuminating by the will of God, he becomes himself again. When he is lucid he can make sound decisions and rule properly. It is a great risk to all, when he falls into madness. Contesting factions fight each other to take regency. It seems from time to time, whoever has the Queen's favor will gain her support and gain power for a time. It is said that sometimes it is whoever she takes to her bed during the King's madness is the one who will seat the throne, at least until the next time the King emerges from a wave of possession. It could have been Louis, the King's brother, but John had him slain, murdered as a coward might do. It should have been the King's first son Charles, though he was young and died of a malady before he could take the throne. Now it is the younger son, Louis, the Dauphin, himself too young to be of real consequence. His time will come, if he survives. John, by right of being a first cousin to the King has seized the reins of power, for now. But we are taking back ground, as we have done in Soissons."

I sighed, turning my head to the small square of blue sky, visible through the window opening in our hovel.

"French on French," I said. "You make war on your brothers while the English scour the land and purge it of the beasts and crops we need to feed our own. Fight them, as we fight them. And we are not even soldiers or knights. Yet we know who our enemy is."

Robert rubbed his wound, it was beginning to itch.

"Of course we fight the English. We made a great dent in their force by killing many of their archers garrisoned at Soissons."

"We have heard those stories too," I said. "They do not tell of French bravery against the English archers you speak of. It is said they were murdered." I inched closer to Robert and spoke quietly. "We are removed from Soissons, here in Meaux. But we hear things. At first we did not believe the brave knights of France would partake in cowardly acts not only upon our enemies but upon the innocent citizens of Soissons. Cowardly acts that were worse than what the English brought."

The blood of anger rose in Robert's face, that a commoner like me might suggest his Lord showed any sign of cowardice. But Robert withheld himself until the anger passed and he was calm. It was not insolence that made me speak the words. It was the truth heard from messengers with no cause to speak anything but truth.

The truth is there was murder. Not just the slaying of enemies in battle or dispatching of foes through honorable and chivalrous warfare, but savage, ruthless slaughter of disarmed prisoners. More than that, Robert's Armagnac brothers decided that the once loyal citizens of Soissons had allied themselves with their Burgundian and English occupiers. Even though it was those citizens that sabotaged the supplies and armories of the Burgundians at every chance. It was those citizens that stole from Burgundian food stores and secretly murdered an English and Burgundian who had become friendly to each other. Their bodies purged of their goods and clothing, carved up by the butcher at the back of the abattoir and fed to the hogs, their heads sunk into the muck of the cesspit. The citizens were indeed allies of the House of Bar and the Armagnacs, yet they suffered a fate that might be suffered had they been an English village captured and free for looting and the taking of booty.

When he was there, at Soissons, during the fight, Robert caught a corporal mercilessly ravishing a nun in a back room of the small convent. He struck the man's face with his gauntlet but the violence on the woman had already been consummated. He caught another of his own men about to impale a boy on his lance. The boy was fleeing from his own home where an Armagnac soldier had just severed his father's torso to the spine, while the mother and sister hid in the loft above the goat shed. The repatriation of Soissons was brutal and the acts against their own citizens were cruel and senseless, wreaked upon them by men acting like packs of wild dogs desolating body and property, beyond thought or control. Robert had seen this type of thing before, but never on his own people by the soldiers that were supposed to protect them.

Robert dropped his head and sighed. "Perhaps we were brought to our own madness by this endless war."

"It's the act of drawing blood that brings the madness," Simone said. "You should all just stop. Just put down your weapons and stop fighting each other. There can be plenty for all if you just put down your sword and pick up a ploughshare or scythe."

Robert shook his head. "That is not our way. Soldiers can no more be farmers than farmers can be soldiers. Both are needed."

I waved my hand at Simone, with a scowl on my face. She was to say no more.

"Duke John sits with the Queen. He speaks with the King's voice, for the time being. It's not just Soissons. He imposes heavy taxes on the citizens, imposes stern, unreasonable laws and even suborns trials and executions. It was only right for us to take back Soissons. We have done little to help other towns in the Duchy. It is true that most of you have been left to fend for yourselves, but I will change that."

My small circle of townsmen fought secret warfare against the écorcheurs, the English freebooters, who roamed the countryside robbing and murdering. It could not go on much longer. By the grace of God we had not had to defend ourselves against our own French Lords.

"I commend you," Robert said, "for the defense you provide the people of Meaux. I will bring forces here to relieve you of that burden. As far as Soissons, I do feel shame at the atrocities committed against innocent towns folk. It is like cannibalizing our own children. I have no regret for slaying the English or traitorous Burgundians. Other happenings are just the collateral of war. I don't expect you to understand this."

"We can do better," I said. "We are all brothers and sisters of each other. We wouldn't slay our own brother. Even if he had done evil; we would not condone him, but we would take him under our cloak and try to expel the demons from him that cause him to do evil and try to make him whole, so he could lend himself to better things."

Although the English had maintained a small garrison, Soissons had not been heavily defended. Authorities maintained offices for tax collecting and meting out fines and levies for violations against church ordinances and practices. It was a simple village, like Meaux, at a crossroads that supported travelers and trade and fulfilled basic needs of commerce and religion. The citizens were, in general, oblivious to the machinations of lordship over them and had paid little heed to the toing and froing between Armagnac and Burgundian claims.

At first the citizens were pleased to have John of Burgundy make claim and move out the Royal administrators. The English were pressing at the walls and the threat of violence was imminent. John made an alliance with the English, which he claimed would maintain peace and safety for the citizens. The claim was true, for the most part, though the taxes became a heavier burden and curfews and other ordinances, much stricter.

The occupation of Soissons was much more a contest between the claims of John of Burgundy, and those of Louis of Orleans, brother of King Charles. John had positioned himself in a seat of power as Regent of France in place of King Charles during the Kings bouts of mental incapacity. He took as much liberty as he could, until protests of other noble houses grew loud and the plight of the citizens grew desperate under the heavy thumb of Burgundian Administrators. The King's brother Louis was most vocal of the nobles. He intended to take the seat of power from John. But John the Fearless, feigning conciliation, invited him to meet but then had Louis assassinated and removed from contention for the throne.

For some, too sick to work a field or trade, diminishing charitable support drove them into destitution and forced them to commit acts against the laws of the land. A starving peasant ran from the bakers oven with his loaves, unable to pay the bread tax. For this sin he lost a hand to the law, in the public square. The taking of limbs and even heads in view to the citizens became common. The square became the place of punishment where blood drained into the street forming into pools of coagulating red muck that the town mongrels and curs came to lick up. The levies forced many into starvation and drove them to the dung heaps in search of dead horses, dogs, cats and even rats, to quell their hunger. Lucky ones scrounged offal discarded into the street by butchers, some boiled nettles and weeds into thin soup. Their lot was poor and they expected the return of the Armagnacs to return some small measure of prosperity. But they were wrong.

The savagery inflicted upon the French townsfolk shocked people across Europe, including King Henry of England. He noted that the town of Soissons was dedicated to the Saints Crispin and Crispinian and claimed he would avenge the honor of the saints when he brought his forces against the French armies. But what angered Henry more than the ruthless slaughter of innocent civilians was the torture and murder of three hundred English archers, garrisoned at Soissons.

"Where does it all end," Simone said. "Or does it end?" She waved her chopping knife in the air as if she were fending off a flying insect.

I rolled my eyes, that my wife continued her rant, despite my admonishment. I glanced sideways at Robert, wondering if the young Lord was about to command me to strike my wife into obedient silence. Robert's head hung over his chest, as he stared at the dirt floor.

"Perhaps it was us that drove the English out into the country side to raid from the farms and villages," Robert conceded. "Would it have been better if we had slain them all instead of letting them flee from Soissons?"

"A treaty of some sort might have avoided having them scurrying into the country side like insects fleeing from a lifted rock. Perhaps then we wouldn't have to turn ourselves into killers, no better than the English," I suggested. "Unlike nobles and knights, we common people do not find glory and honor in killing. The Freebooters are terrifying, especially when they breakdown doors in the dark, screeching like banshees, shattering the still of night, butchering us in our beds. We only take English lives out of fear, not revenge. But we know if we do nothing, the English will just take it all, and leave our women and children destitute to starve and die in the streets. We can't let Meaux become another Soissons."

"Perhaps you are right," Robert said, "but there is a deep conflict. Our knightly code demands that we respect all weakness and that we be the defender of them. Taking back Soissons was meant to do this, but we failed to manage the lunacy of our common soldiers against the population. We did not recoil before our enemies but we did not give largesse to those whose salvation we came to deliver. For that I have shame."

Simone dropped the chopped turnip into the iron cauldron hanging in the hearth. She stared sharply at the young noble and decided he did have a degree of remorse for the acts of his soldiery. She relented, that he had regret, and dropped a ball of suet into the pot, deciding it would be God's will to share what we had with the young man who appeared remorseful and repentant.

"It is a sad thing," I said. "The common soldiers are not trained in war, as you are Lord. They are common, like us. They have little, like us, so it is not surprising they become crazed when it appears that bounty is before them for the taking."

"Booty you mean," Simone sneered, "in goods and flesh."

I clucked, "Mon dieu woman, can you not hold your tongue. I beg your forgiveness Lord. I know I should beat her for her disrespect to you."

Robert shook his head. "No, my friend. She speaks the truth. Your Simone is like my Jeanne in many ways; good and kind and often more a champion of the right and the good against injustice and evil. Sometime more a defender of the code than we are." Robert motioned with a hand to include me, as if I too were a knight.

"She has good sense then," Simone said, "your wife."

Robert smiled as the image of his wife's face came to him.

"Yes. She is young but she has good sense. Learned probably from her own mother, as her father was away campaigning against the English most of her life. He died the year before I was wed to Jeanne. I am thankful the marriage was contracted before his death, or I may not have my lovely wife. Meaux is hers in fact. Left by her father. She is your suo jure Viscountess. Of course it cannot be expected that she would inspect the estates. As husband, that is my duty." Robert rubbed his wound.

"Now that Soissons has been retaken, I have settled my Jeanne in the Manor House there. She is with child. Our first. Her physician tells me it will be a boy. All of her midwives agree. What greater thing can there be than to have a son to carry on your name and blood. It makes me proud just to think of it. I have great plans for the boy. I will train him myself in the arts of war. He will be a great warrior and leader."

Simone stirred ground grain into the pottage in the cauldron. "Maybe you could teach him that there is more to be gained for all, through kindness and charity. You cannot get blood from a stone, but you can use the stone in the building of a strong foundation."

I dropped my head to the table top, knocking my forehead against the planks in exasperation. "Do I have to get your needle and thread and sew your mouth shut, woman?"

Robert laughed at me. That I, a leader of men with the strength and bravery to battle vagabonds, highwaymen and freebooters, did not have the wherewithal to silence this small woman.

"I will return to Soissons soon," Robert said. "I hope to return before the birth of my son."

"I will send a needle and thread with you Lord, so you can sew the rent in your arse that will burst open from riding too soon." Simone pointed her stirring paddle at Robert. "Your skin and flesh are not as strong and ready as you think."

I clasped my hands in prayer.

"You can make your recovery in your Manor House here Lord," I said. "It is well kept and will be made ready for you."

"Yes," Robert said. "I will convalesce there and give you back your bed. Your generosity is received with my gratitude."

"At least you may have some silence there," I gave Simone the eye.

Simone snorted and huffed through her nose indignantly.

"What we have in this place is what we have. It is little but it is ours," she said.

"How long will it take before I can ride, madam?" Robert asked.

"It will take as long as it takes," Simone said. "It all depends on how reckless you are with your own care."

"Perhaps you will choose to settle here," I said, "where there are not so many forlorn memories and ghosts as there are in Soissons. Perhaps you could bring your knights and men at arms to protect the walls of Meaux, so that the farmers and merchants don't have to stand against the English. Our local garrison has proved mostly useless."

"Perhaps," Robert said.

# 6 – Marshalling the Force

Summer 1415, Southampton

The stink of burnt flesh was in the air. A hare on a stick, left propped over open flame, absently left to burn while the cook wrestled in the mud with a vagabond that he caught pillaging from his meagre provisions. It was raining again, it was raining still.

They had been gathering for a fortnight; streaming into Southampton and the surrounds like a dozen rivers and a hundred tributaries, from all the corners of the land. Like water flowing, like a massive herd of migrating beasts, walking, marching, riding to the coast, to the muster points, called to war by their King. Thousands were gathered, thousands more still approaching, men and goods and beasts. An army must be fed, even if it is not yet fighting. But many were not fed.

The Earl of Oxford mustered his forces at Wallops Wood. It had been two weeks for some. The early arrivers. The provisions they carried in on their backs were all but gone. Goods and food were steady in coming in, some consumed as it arrived, much stored and secured. The Sheriff of Hampshire charged with escorting two hundred oxen for meat, had them penned and guarded. They were to provide for the army once they were across the channel and engagement with the French had begun. For now, only the King's household and other nobles that had provided for themselves had meat, unless they had caught a wandering hare or a stray dog.

The bakers and brewers worked under the direction of the Sheriff. The efforts of their labor were stowed in commandeered storehouses or quickly built shacks. Some were sent to transport ships, already moored in the harbor. All made ready to supply the army once they were in France. All except those stores seconded to feed the King's household, while he waited for the army to assemble. The Sheriff brought more live animals from Alresford, Lymington, Romsey, and Fareham, to supply the army.

It was a great assemblage, as all musters are. The gathering of great hordes of fighting men, gathered for a common purpose, though their motivations were not common. The Dukes, the Earls and Barons assembled out of fealty, their obligation to the realm, to provide men and support in times of war. Their knights came in duty to their lords and for honor and chivalry. Many relished the fight. The men at arms and archers were well trained at their skill and they were paid for their service, 3 pence a day for foot soldiers, 6 pence a day for an archer. The King had made it known he would pay extra for any Welsh archer who had stood with Owain Glyndŵr against him at Shrewsbury, for he knew their skill and was forever reminded of it by the deep scar on his face.

The bands of fighting men assembled at Southampton and other nearby places, most within a days march of the port, the sea. Nobles and knights, their soldiers, their horses and other beasts, along with wagon trains of supplies. The population of Southampton grew exponentially. It was clear, early in the muster, that Southampton, though a port well experienced and equipped for steady trade, was not adequately provisioned to support a great army for any period of time, while they gathered in wait to cast off for France.

Henry was experienced with the logistics of war and knew well that a strong army must have supply at every step. Some of this was managed and some not as carefully. Some pillaging took place, and there was a modicum of drinking and fighting amongst the men. Henry ordered examples made in order to maintain discipline. There were significant differences between the provisions and conditions provided to the nobility and those given to the common soldiers, this leading to fighting amongst the soldiery and laborers recruited to the work to support the fighting force. Many had little enough, some had nothing and were forced to scavenge for muscles, crayfish and other meagre seafood that might be gathered along the shoreline, some of it mixed with the raw sewage carried to the harbor from Southampton and those other surrounding towns.

Many ships arrived, many more were anchored elsewhere. Only a small number were fitted with canon. There was no expectation of a battle at sea against a French armada. Most vessels came to carry fighting men, horse and supply from one shore to the other. It was one of the largest armies and fleets assembled in a very long time.

Some said this invasion was reckless and unnecessary, but for many of the soldiers, it was their daily life, their means of earning their living; for many it was just about the pay and booty. Most of the nobility were keen to support their King and relished another opportunity to challenge their enemy, the King's enemy, and support Henry's claim to France as well as England. For most, there was no questioning of their King, simply the fact that he was the King was enough for them to serve the war. The knights and nobles were well trained in combat, their skill would serve them well in slaying the common soldiers of the enemy. For many, the contest of battle brought a thrill to their soul; facing death made them feel most alive; for many the contest was between their courage and their fear, a competition and they thrived on it; their purpose for being, there was nothing foreign about it. It was another chance to prove their valor and allegiance. For some, there was the existential pondering of life and death. For many, there was simply dread and uncertainty.

Edmund Mortimer dismounted. He stepped through the puddles and mud and retrieved the stick with the burning hare meat. A waste of good food otherwise.

"Get out of the muck," he ordered the cook and vagabond. "Who belongs to this?" he raised the hare, now shriveled and blackened with char.

The cook, a larger man, rotund about his middle, rolled from his back to front, propped himself on his knees then stood. The vagabond, much thinner, tried to slither away into the nearby brush, like a fleeing snake. Mortimer stepped on the man's mud soaked tunic to prevent his escape. The thin fabric, more a rag than a piece of clothing, seemed to dissolve beneath Mortimer's boot. He kicked the vagabond's leg. The man stopped, turned and looked sheepishly at the Lord standing over him.

"You'll have enough fighting when we cross the channel," Mortimer said. Save your efforts for the French. Who claims this meat?" Mortimer waved the carcass between the two men."

"That is mine Sire," the cook said.

The vagabond gulped and swallowed deeply.

"Then why have you let it burn away? A waste of food. Why are you fighting this man? He is no match for you. Look how thin and disheveled he is. He could use this meat more than you, I say."

"It was my hare, Sire," the vagabond said. "I trapped it in the woods there."

"He sold it to me," the cook said. "I paid a good farthing for the thing, nothing more than skin and bones, once the fur was off it. I caught him rooting in my things, when my back was turned. Stealing coin from my own purse, he was. Caught him dead to rights."

"He cheated me on the money Sire. The farthing was no good. It wasn't even real money. And it wasn't enough. I sold the hare for a ha'penny and all he put in my hand was this fake farthing."

He showed the coin to Mortimer. It had the markings of English coinage but appeared to be cast in lead.

"The work of an artisan," Mortimer snickered. "The craftsmanship is worth more than this coin itself." He tossed it to the vagabond. He tore the burnt hare in two and gave half to each man.

"Thank you sire," the vagabond said.

"Half?" the cook protested.

"You can share this meat then take yourselves to John Renawd, the Lord Mayor. You are to tell him that Edmund Mortimer says to make an example of both of you. You," he pointed to the vagabond, "for trapping a beast in your Lord's forest," he pointed to the cook, "and you for agreeing to buy the ill-gotten goods and also for swindling a fellow Englishman."

"Please Sire," the vagabond pleaded, "I was just trying to earn enough to buy bread for my child and to pay the bread tax."

"I was just making a fair transaction," the cook offered.

"Be thankful. I expect the Lord Mayor will be more lenient on you than if I sent you before the King for punishment. Now give me your names, for if you do not report yourselves, I shall hunt you down and deliver a very unwelcome punishment myself."

The vagabond gave his name. The cook pulled on his chin whiskers, gave a name, but Mortimer saw easily that it was a false name. He ordered the man to give it again, with an oath to God that it was his true name. The cook called himself differently, the second time.

The days passed quickly for some. For others the drudgery of the camps as the mustering of retinues dragged on, was mind numbing monotony. Some formed circles and exercised their training to keep their martial expertise honed and ready for the battles to come. Others played dice, drank liquor, stole sausage from the supply wagon and fought amongst themselves.

It was not just the gathering of forces in Southampton. Bivouacs were struck around most of the villages in the region. For the locals it was as if a foreign army had invaded them. Stealing, pilfering, seducing the young women. Most of the village sheriffs and reeves were not equipped to deal with the rabble. If lucky, they could make a case before the Lord of the retinue to contain their men and hold them back from the populace. For some, the pleas worked, for others, not so much. Worst of it was the rising stink of sewage from ditches, alley ways and clefts or wherever thousands of soldiers could find ground to relieve their bowels.

They came like armies of ants crawling across the plains of England, converging towards the central calling point. All came. By mid-July the muster of several retinues took place at Swanwick Heath in Hampshire, under the banners of Hugh Mortimer and Robert Castel, including the retinues of John, Earl of Huntingdon, coming to his first military expedition at twenty years of age, William, Lord Botreaux, John Grey, son of Lord Grey of Ruthin, Sir Roland Lenthale. These Lords of the realm and many others assembled in force, in wait. As well as the fighting men, came much of the royal household contingent; the cofferer, and several yeomen of the household, from the bakehouse, the buttery, the spicery and others came as commanded. The King expected to live well on campaign, and though the supply of food for the armies had begun, it was not as substantial or lavish as that found in the royal larder.

Two days later, the retinue of Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, the youngest brother of the King, took place at Michelmersh, three miles north of Romsey in Hampshire. As a brother of the King, the retinue he had intended to raise and which he now mustered, consisted of himself, six of his knights, almost two hundred men-at-arms and six hundred archers, more than eight hundred men in all, the second largest retinue after that of his elder brother, Thomas, Duke of Clarence.

Humphrey was well known to be reckless, unprincipled, and fractious, but was also respected for his intellect. Unlike his brothers, deep in their devotion to the church, Humphrey leaned strongly toward the Humanist beliefs. Also, unlike his three elder brothers, Humphrey had been given no major military command by their father, instead receiving an intellectual upbringing. He was a rash, impulsive, unscrupulous, and troublesome figure and quarreled constantly with his brother, John, Duke of Bedford. He was pleased, this time, to be called by Henry, to show himself on the field and prove his worth as a warrior as well as an intellectual, though he did not possess the pure courage of his brothers.

While Humphrey mustered his men, Henry lodged at Titchfield Abbey, for reflection and the preparation of his mind for the coming campaign. He amplified his propaganda war against the French. He was particularly keen to show other European rulers how the French had reneged upon their promises, in particular the restoration of the Duchy of Aquitaine, which the Armagnacs had promised in return for military support against the Burgundians, in what many called a civil war between the French. But there was more than just Aquitaine. Henry was intent to convince the other Kings of Europe that the throne of France was his by right of succession. He presented his case in letters, to solicit their support or at the very least convince them not to side with the French.

There was great cost in the mounting of such a campaign. A prodigious drain on Henry's treasury. He took loans and gifts and was required to make further pledges of jewels as security. Possessions, such as a silver gilt tabernacle, set with sapphires and pearls, once the property of the Duke of Burgundy, were transferred to the custody of the Dean and Chapter of Exeter, a gold circlet was given up to the aldermen of Norwich, and many other precious articles were given up to other individuals, against loans given for his expedition. These loans were essential as a way of ensuring ready cash to pay the troops assembling for the campaign. They would only answer the call on the promise of fair pay. There were few volunteers, except those that were forced or offered release from prison or servitude.

Fifty Lancashire archers under Robert Lawrence and fifty more, under Sir Richard Kyghley, Michael de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk and Sir John Grey of Ruthin, mustered at Southampton. Sir Thomas Epringham, Sir Charles de Beaumont, Sir John Robessart, John Rothernale, John Strange and John Fastolf, mustered their men at Southampton Common. More continued to follow and filled the lands around the port and harbor.

In the last week of July, Henry remade his will, in the presence of Edmund Mortimer, Sir Thomas Erpingham, Bishop Caterick and Bishop Partington. He sent a final letter to Charles of France. The last demand and warning of imminent threat. Henry knew this would go unanswered but such warning was required as a rightful step in his declaration of war. He was meticulous in his preparation. Every step, every contingency, every element of logistics carefully thought out, planned and communicated. The enormous flotilla assembled in the harbor, like whales and porpoise, herring and mackerel, ships large and small, came ready to transport men and beasts and supply across the channel.

Even in these last days before setting sail, Henry solicited support, financial and otherwise, to grow his army as large and formidable as it could be. He continued to gather gifts and favors and make loans and call in debts owed to him. He called Edmund Mortimer before him again.

"I have not seen a mark in the register for payment Edmund. Have you forgotten your debt to me for the violation of your marriage?" Henry looked up from his table, quill in hand. He stared long at Mortimer. The room was silent for many moments.

"I do not have the ten thousand, your Highness, I am asking for loans, to make payment," Mortimer said.

Henry rose and stood over Mortimer.

"I am taking an army to war Edmund. This is an undertaking of great expense. It requires extraordinary sacrifice from all. I have given much of what I own as collateral to fund this expedition. My own personal property. To buy arms and horses and bread to feed an army. The pay for the army itself. I have cleaned my cupboards bare so that the rightful claims of this household can be upheld. You must make this same commitment to our cause Edmund. For England. I do not ask for more than you can give, merely the same that I give."

Mortimer shuffled nervously.

"All I have is yours, Highness."

"It takes silver to pay an army Edmund. I do not want your house or stables, your farm beasts or livery. Coin. I cannot pay the army or the merchant men with empty promise."

"I will give you all that I have your Highness."

Henry returned to his seat, opened his register and lifted his quill.

"How much is that Edmund? I have already given you leave to pay your debt in portions, yet I have received nothing."

Mortimer thought briefly. "I could provide perhaps £1000, your Highness, on this day."

"One thousand of ten thousand?"

"More over time."

Henry wrote in the register, a task he took to personally, rather than have his Exchequer perform it, this time.

"An installment," Henry said. "I'm not unreasonable Edmund. We are family, cousins, though I often consider you a younger brother. As I have already said, I will allow you to pay an installment. Two thousand, before we sail. You will pay the balance when we return. If you return. If you do not, your estates will come to me."

This was Henry's way, he knew no other. He knew best. Always. Even when he was still just a Prince of the realm, heir to the throne. During his father's serious illness, Henry usurped authority and commanded as if he were King already. He was young and rash. There was no question of his courage in battle, but he had not yet learned the subtleties of being the monarch. Some decisions and commands had to be reversed, when his father recovered from his illness and was able to resume the throne.

Edmund was family, to be certain, but Henry knew well the dangers that power could produce, the seduction of ultimate authority. His trust was like a measuring stick, only those closest to his hand had his true confidence, such as his brothers John and Thomas and Humphrey. All others were a measure less.

Mortimer departed his King's company. In his chamber, by the yellow light of a dim flickering candle, he penned a summons to his own Exchequer, to gather together all silver and sell whatever property or belongings he could, to make £2000 for collection to the King's treasury.

Henry ordered his household moved to Portchester Castle, so he would be nearer the port at Southampton and ready for the coming departure to France.

He did not knock, just pushed his way past the King's guard. They knew him. Knew not to block his way, or else face his petulant insults or perhaps even a slap across the face with his leather riding glove. Humphrey called to the King, his brother, as his boot heels clicked across the cold stone floor of the King's privy chamber. Henry sat at his table, penning a letter to King Charles. 'Charles the Mad' he called him.

"Brother," Humphrey yelled as he approached. "I've searched high and low for any sign that our brother John has brought his retinue to the fight. Nothing. No sign of him from here to Romsey. It may be he intends to cower in some dark corner out of your sight."

Humphrey and his elder brother John, Duke of Bedford, were known to frequently have heated arguments. They often came down to insults, John admonishing Humphrey for his absence from military service, insulting him to be a coward, and Humphrey challenging John's intellect, accusing him of being a dullard and ham fisted brute, his only skills being cracking skulls and drawing blood. It often came to Henry, the eldest brother, to command them to comport themselves in a manner befitting their station. They were not enemies but a sibling rivalry was deep.

Henry looked up from his page, a hint of disdain on his face. He sighed.

"I have sent John north to guard the frontier against incursion from the Scots. He will not be coming with us to France."

"He fears the larger fight," Humphrey said, mockingly.

"No, brother. He is to guard and govern my kingdom while I am away. There must always be a Lancaster on the throne here. The minute my back is turned the 'ne'er do wells' think they can seize power. I will not have another fiasco like the one fomented by Hotspur at Shrewsbury," Henry absently touched the scar on his right cheek.

The Auld Alliance between Scotland and France meant that the northern border was vulnerable to Scottish attacks, particularly when the King was overseas. Sheriffs in the northern counties were instructed to inform men in their areas to be ready to support the King's brother, John, who had been appointed Keeper of the Realm, in Henry's absence.

Humphrey clucked his disappointment. He was keen to have John see that he was no coward and that he had come to the fight. He wanted John to see the size of the retinue that he had assembled in support of his King, his brother. Humphrey sat across from Henry.

Papers and letters, maps and parchments were spread across the table. Henry's Chamberlain sat at the end of the table, sanding freshly inked letters and affixing the royal seal next to the King's signature.

"I have ordered the ships to assemble and provisions loaded," Henry said.

"Have you been down to the harbor? There are so many boats the water beneath them is barely visible. They have trouble positioning themselves dockside. It is quite a site to watch them board the horses, more than a few have fallen from the gangway into the sea. If we can't seize a port with good dockage, we will never get them ashore in France." Humphrey leaned forward to see what Henry was writing. "Your Chamberlain can do that," he said.

Henry dipped his quill. "Writing the words, putting my quill on the page, is an elixir that stirs and formulates my thoughts. I can see the whole thing as I write. Like an image coming to my mind, like a dream coming to life before me. I can see what I want and how I will make it happen. I do not have that perspective when I just speak the words, when I dictate my thoughts."

Humphrey nodded. As a learned man, educated to high standards himself, he appreciated the skill of composition. He favored the power of the pen over the sword. Henry understood the power of both. Before he could justify the invasion he was about to bring upon his French cousin, it was required that he offered the argument of his claim and made open an offer for Charles to resolve without forcing battle. He knew this would not happen, but his letter was a necessary formality.

Outside the door of the King's privy chamber, across a wide hallway, the French Ambassador sat in a gilded parson's chair, waiting for the King's letter, which he was to deliver to 'Charles the Mad', before the English arrived on the shores of France.

In his letter, Henry invoked the law of Deuteronomy, offering peace before his imminent attack. He knew this would be refused and provide the justification he required before putting the French to the sword. It was, for all intents, Henry's declaration of war. It was his final demand for the rights which he believed were due to him as 'King of France', a title he believed rightfully his, thanks to the claim of his ancestors from Edward III onwards.

Earlier that same day, Henry dispatched John Honyngham and Simon Flete to negotiate an alliance with the Duke of Brittany. Henry was keen to ensure that the Bretons did not fight against him. The Dukes of Brittany had often been English allies in the past and the King's own step mother, Joan of Navarre, was the widow of the previous Duke John. Henry was confident he could strike an alliance.

The Chamberlain rose and placed before Henry a document for signature. Henry read and signed the pledge of his betokened collar, the 'Pusan d'Oor', to the City of London, as security for a loan of £10,000, which they had granted to him.

"You will have nothing left brother, if this campaign is not successful," Humphrey said.

"My mind does not entertain that possibility." Henry looked at his brother, stern faced.

Humphrey could see that the competitive glint that once filled Henry's eye was now replaced by a look much more serious and deadly, like the cold stare of a beast about to kill its prey. It was a look that often possessed the elder brother, since his near death at Shrewsbury, when he led the knights at his father's left flank against the uprising of Henry Hotspur Percy. He was changed since then, in many ways. He was changed from a reckless youth, invincible, impervious of any thought of defeat, to a man capable of inflicting exquisite cruelty against any that stood in his way, because he understood that if he was not ruthless in his endeavor that he was certainly vincible.

Henry, King of England, was not alone that day, with quill and ink. At a small makeshift table, in a tent fashioned from a torn ship sail, in a bivouac on the muddy flats near Portchester Castle, Michael de la Pole, the younger, penned a letter to his young wife Elizabeth, to be delivered once his ship had sailed for France. The rain was warm. Sheltered beneath the cover shared with his father, of the same name, 2nd Earl of Suffolk, he was twenty one, had seen battle before but this would be his first across the water. In the company of his father, he brought twenty men-at-arms and sixty archers to the summons of their King. His retinue was to be split across two small frigates for the crossing, to assemble on the other side, under the faces of the three leopards of the de la Pole banner.

He was proud. He was young, not yet needing to shave the fuzz from his cheeks every day. There were few dents in his armor. Each time away from Elizabeth, he wrestled between the thrill and exhilaration of battle and being amongst the swell of men fighting for common cause and the hollow emptiness left by the absence of his young love. And now too, in the absence of their sweet baby girls, Catherine and Elizabeth. He pondered long. Their faces fixed in his thoughts. He prayed hard, that in his absence they would be protected by the shield of God, to the same manner that his own shield would protect them had he been there, with them, in the presence of their chirps and giggles, their little feet running the hallways of the Manor, playing, laughing, loving each other as innocent children do.

Dearest Elizabeth

We are not a large contingent here, amongst the great force that has gathered, but still I have great pride that our family answers the call and can contribute a meaningful retinue to the campaign. Though there is nothing so good that it cannot be made better, but the men are well exercised in their battle skills. We are ready.

Yes, my love, I have great pride, but as in any war or crusade, many will not survive, not return. Last night I was visited with a dream in which I saw before my eyes, the slaying of my father. I would save you from my awful vision but I feel compelled to share what I saw. His head cleaved in two, his body floating in a pool of his own blood. He lay before me and though dead on the ground, words came from his mouth. 'I can see the light above me, the sin that is in us is left when we rise to heaven. Stay true to God and King.'

And then, my love, through my father's dead eyes, I saw myself slain, and as my body fell broken to the earth, it dissolved like dust in the wind, before it met the ground. It was the most enormous battle the world has ever beheld. Many will never be heard from again and the fate of many will not be known, though it may be reasonable to assume they have fallen in battle. If they were fortunate, they received a Christian burial or perhaps a cremation with others on the funeral pyre. Still, there will be some that become buried in the mire of the field, trampled under the horses hooves and cart wheels, buried just beneath the visible surface. Their bones will not be seen again for another thousand years, just as we now see the bones of the Roman soldiers and their Saxon, Pict and Briton foes who fell, buried on the fields of battle so long ago, bones now uncovered by a rooting dog or a piece of skull or tooth beneath a rock turned in a field by a plough. Dead, long dead; anonymous now, but once were someone's son or husband, father or brother.

This will be our fate and the fate of our enemy. Many who have never died before will die now.

If this is my fate, as I have witnessed in my dream, then I beg you to cherish and protect our children and do not let them fall prey to the Lollards. If this is my fate, I will carry our love with me in my soul as I leave this world. I have sadness that I would not leave a son to carry forth my name and blood but I have gladness that you and Catherine and Elizabeth would carry forth my spirit.

Blessed be our love, Michael

# 7 – Horseface

Charron Hovel

I braced Robert as we made our way from the hovel around to the front of the Carriage House.

"This is where I work," I motioned toward the front door of the building. "We'll just make way inside for a moment. You can see that we've stabled your horse and the others, and I have something for you."

The carriage house was a sturdy stone building with a high thatched roof over a large loft that ran the length of the building. The high wide door opened into a great central work area with a work bench down the length of one wall. My tools rested on the bench, placed in an orderly line along its length. Saws, chisels, drills, hammers, axes and my prized wheel jigs with their iron shafted clamps. Along the other wall, four large horse stalls were built in place with oak studs and iron hinged gates. A covered carriage, propped on blocks with its wheels removed, was parked at the far end, my current work. The slate floor was swept clean, as always, except for stray chaff that had made its way out of the front stall. The air was filled with the fragrance of fresh cut straw and new horse dung.

Robert braced himself at the gate of the front stall. His destrier swung quickly to greet him.

"My Baiard, you are well kept I see," he said, as he stroked the big horses' mane.

I huffed through my nose. "We have been calling him Le Poulet Gras," I clucked. "He has been too afraid to make friends with any of us. Only started eating yesterday."

"Yes, he can be a big chicken," Robert laughed as he patted the horses' neck, "but when I've had him on the line, he can be as fierce as any. Baiard I call him. It means 'foolhardy'. This was the name of a magic horse from the legends of the ''Chansons de Geste'. A horse with the ability to grow larger or smaller depending on the size of the person mounting it. One of its foot-prints may still be seen in the forest of Soignes, and another on a rock near Dinant."

I nodded my acknowledgement at the fable.

"I have this for you." I handed an oak walking stick to Robert. It was a strong staff with ornately carved cherubs on the upper part of the shaft, the lower part turned to a smooth cylinder. The L-shaped grip resembled the head and face of Robert's destrier. It was hardened with varnish and polished to a golden bronze. A hard leather boot tipped the bottom. "We have no gold or jewels to embed as you may be used to. This is the best we could do. It will aid your walking until you are well enough."

Robert examined the delicate expert carvings on the walking stick. It was heavy and rich and as beautiful as any he had seen from a craftsman of the court, I'm certain.

"I thank you very much Gillet. You needn't have done this for me. An old branch would have served as well. But this is magnificent, and I do appreciate it. You are a true artist and a fine craftsman. If your work on the wheels and carts is the same, then we have the finest cartwright in all of France."

"You are right that my work is good, but you are wrong if you think an old branch would bear your weight." We laughed, though I imagined him toppling over a splintered tree limb crutch, and his arse wound splitting open.

Robert held the stick on his left side keeping it in stride with his injured right side as we made our way to the Manor House. The first few steps were easy, but Robert soon felt the pinch in his backside with each stride. His eyes squinted and teeth gritted with each step.

"Is it far?" he asked me.

"It is a few hundred paces, maybe half a league, but we don't have to cross the river. Are you in too much pain to walk? We can hook a cart together if needed."

"The walk is good, it will help strengthen my broken ass."

"We shall walk slow. If your stitching tears, you'll be starting your healing all over."

"Half a league is a fair distance between the Manor House and outbuildings," Robert said.

"The Lord's residence used to be right there," I pointed to the abandoned Chalet Castle just past the Carriage House. "It burned out on the inside from a battle long ago. The Lord chose to build a new home, closer to the cathedral and left the old castle unrepaired. Now just the Bailiff and the men he calls his soldiers occupy it, though none have made an effort to pick up a hammer or chisel to make repairs."

Robert wore a borrowed cloth tunic, loaned from the poor box from the church, and the ragged heavy brown woolen pantaloons that I had worn, retrieved from the rag bin, when my good pair were sympathetically loaned to my Lord, while Simone mended and washed his hose. The hose were being boiled again to remove more of Robert's stubborn blood; he would no longer keep me from my good breeches and thus offered the swap, which I accepted. Our young noble wore his fine burgundy leather boots, which placed his feet at odds with his coarse outer wear.

"Is there a new Carriage House built next to the new Manor House?" Robert asked.

"There was to be a new one built close to the Manor House, but the Lord left the village and took a new residence. We haven't been blessed with a Lord living in Meaux since nearly twenty years. This remains the only Carriage House," I said.

As the path curved past a grove of aspens, the spire of the cathedral came into sight.

"The Manor is just west of the cathedral," I pointed at the towering spire that poked above the tree tops like a giant standing in a hedgerow.

Four mounted riders ambled around the grove and down the roadway towards us. Three were dressed in the same red tunics and black leggings as those that had attacked Robert and his entourage on the road from Soissons.

"English," I whispered as I placed a hand on Robert's arm.

We moved aside and stood off the road to let the riders pass. But the riders stopped beside us. The lead rider was a tall leathery horse faced troll of a man, scarred on both cheeks, with short cut greasy hair. He wore a soiled breast plate over his red tunic and the boot on the side facing me and Robert had a hole worn through where his small toe showed. He looked down from his mount on us, drew back a gob and hawked it over our heads.

The last rider was dressed in blue, with a white feather in his cap. He was clean.

"A Burgundian," Robert whispered. "A Frenchman with English. Just like at Soissons."

I squeezed his arm to signal he should remain quiet.

"We're looking for our friends," the Horseface spoke in broken French. "nous recherchons pour nos amis," he repeated loudly in an accent so English that I could barely understand his words.

The Burgundian did not come forward to translate.

"They rode this way many days ago. Found their horses tied in the woods up that road, half-starved and parched nearly to death." He pointed in the direction of the road to Soissons. "But no friends." He gobbed again. "Comprendre?"

I shook my head.

"Dressed like me."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Maison de la bière, peut-être." I pointed back up the road toward the alehouse.

"What did he say?" the Horseface asked the Burgundian.

"Alehouse. They have a tavern," the Burgundian said. The tenor of his speech was high born. His eyes passed over Robert, head to toe. He stared long at Robert's boots, then back to his face. He studied Robert thoughtfully, trying to recall if he had seen him before. His expression changed from contemplation to recognition. He said nothing, just stared at Robert. Robert stared back.

I saw this change of expression on the Burgundian. The beating of my heart grew loud in my ears, apprehension gripped me like the fingers of a wraith around my being. I thought we should ready ourselves to flee, but there was no way, of course, that Robert could run at all. I imagined the English surrounding us with their horses, circling us, holding us fast like animals in a cage, drawing swords and hacking Robert and me into a bloody mass right there on the Rue St Remy.

"A tavern. Time we had some breakfast anyway," Horseface sniggered. "Useless as tits on a boar, these Frenchies." He hawked and gobbed again but this time his spittle was so weak that it just dribbled onto the front of his dirty breast plate. He wiped the remnant from his chin.

The riders turned and made their way back up the road, their horses kicking a cloud of dust into the air.

After the riders moved away, I pointed down at Roberts lordly boots, a poor match against the common clothing he wore.

He shook his head and said, "English. They have a nerve, to just ride into a French village. Just four of them."

"They know we have no real soldiers to speak of, no defense. They have no fear of our little village. But they should have." I drew back and hawked a gob at them, now too distant to see me.

"We will change that, my friend," Robert said. "I will bring men at arms here when I am well. There will be a proper garrison here. Those bastards won't dare venture here then."

We continued to make our way to the Manor House. The English ambled up the road ahead of us, making their way to the alehouse. It would hurt nobody's feelings for them to spend their day amongst jugs of ale and pots of mead. Heavily drunken sods would be no harm to anybody but themselves. We were out of their earshot but their rabble rousing was loud enough to wake the dead.

As the English passed between the blacksmith and the tent maker, Madam Toussaint was leaned over her wash bin, scrubbing newly woven cloth. They pointed and laughed at the disheveled old woman. Her son, a boy of ten, stood in the middle of the road, his eyes bright and wide at the sight of military horses parading down a narrow street in our village. He jumped with excitement, hoping to run beside the small band of riders as they passed, his bare feet scrambling through the road dust, to keep up. Horseface pulled hard on the reigns, spinning the head of his horse sideways far enough to knock the boy from his feet, sending him rolling in a heap in the dirt. The riders guffawed and laughed loudly at the boys misfortune. The Burgundian did not laugh.

A half-height brown mongrel dashed out from between the shops, growling, teeth gnashing and snapping at the horses hooves. Horseface's mount lurched upright on its hind legs, almost spilling the Englishman from his saddle.

"Feckless hound," Horseface cursed.

Horseface pulled his broadsword from his scabbard, leaned over, reached down and hacked the dogs neck half through. The dog howled once, whined, whimpered, slumped to its knees, then fell dead in the road. The English roared. The Burgundian did not. Madam Toussaint's boy ran to the dead dog, lifted its head to his lap, the animals blood soaking his thin breeches. His eyes fill with tears but he did not cry out loud.

Robert was breathing hard. I could tell that his wound must feel like it had a flame inside it by now. His teeth were gritted so hard I thought they might crack.

With teeth clenched Robert hissed out, "we must go back so I can fetch my weapons and put these cowardly tormenting English to their shame."

"Soon," I said. "This is not our time, but it will come."

Bishop de Saintes greeted Robert and me the moment Robert placed his boot on the doorstep of the Manor House. Robert was soaked with sweat. His breathing was fast and hard, as if he had just spent half the day in strenuous battle.

The Bishop was an older man but fit and meticulously dressed. His pure white hair crowned a clean face that held clear blue eyes so pale they were almost as white as the Bishop's hair. He dabbed his nose with a white lace handkerchief, as he opened the door and quickly tucked it into the pocket of his scarlet cassock. He looked at me then at the roughly dressed young man standing beside me, then back to me, with a questioning look on his brow.

I tilted my head sideways at Robert, to indicate to the Bishop that 'this was the man'.

A surprised 'O' formed on the Bishop's mouth. "Jean de Saintes," he said grasping Robert's free hand with both of his.

I could see that the paleness of the Bishop's eyes shocked Robert, as if he was looking into the eyes of a spirit. He was careful not to grasp the Bishop's hand too tightly, lest he crush the fragile bones or cause the spirit to vanish into mist.

"Come, come," de Saintes waved us inside.

Robert kicked the dust from his boots on the door sill and stepped into his Manor House.

"We have some nice white bread for you and some grape compote. Some wine for your refreshment," his eyebrows raised and a short smile came to his face, "or some sweet mead if you prefer." The clergyman grasped his hands behind his back and stooping forward led Robert and me into the front Tea Room. "I confess, you know," he said sheepishly, "that we have continued to use the Manor oven for the baking of bread. And we have allowed the village the use, of course," he swallowed, "but we have not taken the bread tax these many years as we had nowhere to send it to."

"We've had our breakfast, Bishop," I said.

"Yes, yes, just the same, help yourself," the Bishop said. "Sit, sit," he waved us to the settee, pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his nose again.

Robert propped himself on his walking stick and carefully lowered himself onto the settee, letting out a deep sigh, as if he was at the end of his strength.

"Lord Robert will be moving in today, Bishop," I said.

"Of course, of course, all is ready for you," he nodded and smiled.

"You've taken good care of the house, Excellency," Robert said.

"I have many helpers, they are always cleaning and sweeping and washing things. I have concerns though, I confess. Cleaning your Manor house and the cathedral is one thing but our building has slowed somewhat. The tradesmen have dispersed and we have not been able to progress on the cathedral renovations let alone begin building a Bishop's Palace. You can see that is why I am still a squatter in your house. But no worry in that, you won't even notice me about. Quieter than a mouse, I am. Not even a squeak."

"Your Chapter House and dormitory are finished," I put in.

"Yes, yes, but that is only half the job. Work on the inside still needs to be done. Not yet ready for use."

"You can't expect men to work for no pay, Bishop. We have families to feed. Fields and beasts to tend, looms and forges to work. Even the masons can't spend all day carving stone, for no pay. With all respect, Excellency, the Archbishop must have a deep purse that he could reach in to for some offering."

"No blame to you or the men, Monsieur Charron. The money has run out for now. My worry is this encroachment of these Englishmen. That can just cause disruption and delay. You can't let them come here." He looked at me, then Robert. "Just yesterday a gang of them burst in here. Looking for some cohorts of theirs, they said. We hadn't seen them of course. Just the same, they helped themselves to a good amount of our smoked meats and bread. Your meats, Lord Robert. Who knows how many jugs of our good wine have vanished. I fear this is just the start. We haven't had this trouble since before my time here but," he repeated, "I fear this is just the start." The Bishop poured himself a full cup of mead and drank it down. "Now that our Lord of the Manor has returned, or come a new, should I say, I pray that our troubles have ceased. These English men can be dealt with and the taxes and tithes should be rejuvenated, now that we have a Lord. You are so welcome here Lord Robert." The Bishop leaned forward nodding his appreciation to Robert.

"We'll do our best Bishop de Saintes. Not much in the short term I'm afraid. Once my wound is healed enough to ride, I shall return to Soissons for my wife. I have a small court that will attend us and we shall have a new son. I have a small cortege that should satisfactorily defend the town. Good men, though not many."

"Good, good. All is ready for you here. But there is no garrison for your soldiers. The castle burned away inside. All that is left are the stone bones of its shell standing against the village wall. The Bailiff and his band of thugs stay there. They are not real soldiers or knights willing to defend us. Cowards and drunkards and mean spirited hooligans, not much better than the English."

Robert had no large garrison of soldiers to bring to Meaux. He was yet to assemble many knights and conscripts to service. "I hope it will not be too harsh for you to relocate yourself Bishop," Robert said.

"I have been six years in this place, with these people. I've had three priests in that time but all three have been consumed with the sweating sickness and joined our father in heaven," he paused in reflection. "I've lived in the Manor House, such as it is, with your blessing I hope, but now as the Chapter House and Dormitory are close to being properly finished, we could be taking our place there, inside the construction, such as it is, the moment your family arrives. As I said, there is no proper Bishop's Palace to serve the diocese. None at all. I've had to carry out my parochial duties from the cathedral and your Manor House, as best I could. But there really should be a palace for our exquisite cathedral. The ground for it is set aside and prepared, just north of the cathedral. I can show it to you. There is even a small supply of stone and marble piled at the ready for construction to begin. All we need is your support, and the money of course."

Robert nodded. "You have served the diocese and manor well, using what has been needed for construction, storing and selling grain, produce and goods. Hiring tradesmen. I expect there is a cache of coin and full storage bins?"

"No, no coin. That has all been used I'm afraid. Some grain and vegetables, a few beasts." He waved his arm in the direction of the larder at the back of the house. "Some smoked meats, whatever was left by those English cur. Mostly just gudgeon from the river I expect." He dabbed his nose.

"We shall do what we can Bishop. A proper Bishop's Palace in due course. Will you show me the house?"

"Thank you, thank you, Lord Robert, my son," he said, pleased. "Yes, yes, of course, of course."

Bishop de Saintes invited us to follow him. "This is an old place," he said, "Not the house I mean, the village. It has been here since Roman days, more than a thousand years. Here and there you can still see orderly outcrops of stone, that used to be walls in their houses. Even some of the road you would have come in on would have been laid by the Romans, or their slaves most likely."

We toured Robert's Manor House. It was slow, as Robert could now only manage to limp and hobble. I was afraid his wound would rip open as we climbed the stairs to the upper floor. I cajoled him to leave it for another time, but he insisted. I could see by his expression that the Manor House was much smaller than he was used to. Much smaller than the castle at Soissons or his birth home at the family chalet at Bar. Not large enough for a full court or even a large retinue. Large enough though for necessary attendants and servants. He would have to build proper outbuildings and a new carriage house closer than half a league away, and a barracks for the few soldiers he could bring.

Bishop de Saintes opened the door to the Master Room, the room that had been his room the past six years.

"Your chamber, Lord."

"It should be comfortable enough," Robert said. "Jeanne should not mind the smaller space too much."

He prodded the bed mattress with his walking stick, nodded approval. He sat on its edge. The soft cushion eased the stiffness in his side. He swung his feet around and lay full out and exhaled a deep sigh.

"Gillet, my friend, would you?"

I drew the bed curtains and left the chamber with Bishop de Saintes.

They pushed their way through the door of the alehouse. Madam Hainault, a crotchety hag of an old woman, looked up from the hearth at the back wall. She pulled the stirring ladle from the cauldron of stew she was cooking to sell patrons when they came in for a late day supper and drink. An English rider smiled to her, pushed her aside and reached for the cauldron. The skin of his hand sizzled as he lifted the hot handle. Madam Hainault slapped his arm with her ladle. He cursed and pushed the old crone away again, with force, as if she had inflicted the burn onto his palm. He used a rag to lift the hot handle on his second try.

He was fat, bulges splitting the seams of his tunic. Sweaty, bald to his scalp and missing eyebrows and most of his front teeth. He poured the stew onto the middle of a long plank table. Chunks of meat, offal and suet spilled onto the surface in a pool of thick gravy. He sat and picked through the contents, tossing aside the onion, turnip, leak and potato and settling on a pigs knuckle.

The second English rider, tall and thin with a long nose and patchy sparse beard, went straight for the ale pots. Horseface slapped dust from his leggings with his mismatched riding gloves. His eye squinted as he scoured the room, suspiciously inspecting each patron, as if they were guilty of a crime or subversion of a secret sort. One by one they removed themselves from the alehouse. All except Soldat Bonin.

The Burgundian rested himself outside the alehouse on a bench. He claimed he would tend the horses while the others took their supper. He drew an apple from his rucksack, removed his chapeau, leaned back against the wall, the midday sun on his face and his wineskin at his side. He closed his eyes.

Soldat sat alone, quiet, with a jug of ale, a pair of boiled eggs, a plate of roasted oxtail and a loaf of coarse bread. He looked up at the rabble rousing of the English but remained silent, with his meal. Horseface strutted along the walls, circling the inside of the room. His thumbs tucked into his belt, he hovered, like a vulture circling its carrion, descending in a spiral until it was upon it. The alehouse empty, except for the English, Madam Hainault and Soldat. Horseface pulled a chair and sat across from Bonin. Soldat said nothing, just looked up at the Horseface Englishman, with a stare as cold as death.

# 8 – Gob

Portchester Castle, Southampton

He woke from a dream with a flush of excitement. As if he'd had a miraculous vision, an insight into the future, to thoughts so new and revolutionary they confused him, yet they were terribly exhilarating. He was drawn to the window like a moth pulled inexorably to the flame, believing it to be the guiding light of the moon or a lodestar. Henry leaned across the balustrade, searching in the still darkness before the dawn. His window, high above, overlooked the empty courtyard, market stalls still had their curtains drawn closed from the end of yesterday's business. Merchants and shop keepers were yet to rouse from their beds to tend their stalls.

'He must be there, somewhere,' Henry thought. He squinted, looking hard, expecting to catch a glimpse of some movement somewhere in the courtyard. Then he saw it. Not certain at first. Perhaps just a cloud passing over the moon, casting a moving shadow on the ground. Then he saw it again, a shape, a figure, a man, a monk dressed in a dark burlap cassock, a hood pulled over his head, the rope waist belt of a Cordier, his face invisible.

"Hey," Henry called. "You there."

The monk stood still, turned his hooded face upwards to Henry. But the features of his face were still not visible. Henry could see only the man's eyes staring up at him from the black hole inside the hood. It could have been an evil specter, a phantom creeping amongst the shadows of the predawn, planting evil trickeries, to lure unsuspecting citizens into misdeeds. But Henry was not frightened. He had seen this monk in his dream just passed. It was this monk that roused him from sleep and drew him to the window as if there was a conversation meant to happen between them, as if the monk was to convey some portend of the future that Henry must hear. An admonition or prediction.

"I know you," Henry called down. "I've seen you. I've dreamt you. Tell me your name."

The monk moved closer beneath Henry's window. He remained still for many long moments, nothing spoken from him.

"Who are you? Tell me your name. I know you," Henry said, as his thought trailed off, "I think."

"Yes," the monk spoke, a gravelly voice, though his words were clear and articulate. "I am the one you saw, the one you dreamed. I am come to tell you."

The monk pulled back his hood. Henry was startled at the look of his face. From Henry's high window, the monk's face appeared misshapen, disfigured, but not ugly. His jowls sagged, his jaws, upper and lower, protruded from the flat of his face, pushed out yet snubbed off, like the face of a bulldog. His lower eyelids drooped, sagged down as if they were too loose and heavy to stay near his eyes. He had no eyebrows, just a few long strands protruding above each eye, like a dog's whiskers. His eyeballs were much larger than most, like blue green glowing orbs, with almost no whites around them. He was not a good looking man, yet he was not ugly. Though the face of the monk was quite unusual to see, it brought a wave of comfort and calm upon Henry to behold it, as if he was looking upon the face of an old friend.

"Are you an apparition?" Henry asked. "A ghost, a spirit? Have you come to haunt me?"

"No," the monk said. "I am none of those. I am Gob. You will know me from before and you will know me from after. I am come because this is the time." He returned to silence, looking up at Henry.

"Time? This is the time for what?" Henry asked.

"Let me in," Gob replied.

At that moment the guard posted outside the King's bedchamber knocked at the door. The sound of it startled Henry, in the still night.

"Your Highness, are you well? Is everything okay? We hear voices. Are you alone? Shall we enter or call your Chamberlain?"

The latch on the door began to open.

"Leave me," Henry yelled. "All is well. Go to the outer door and allow the monk waiting there to enter. Bring him to my chamber. Do not rouse anybody else. Do not tell anybody you have brought him to me."

"Yes your Highness."

Both guards departed, leaving the King's chamber door unguarded.

He was not solemn or dower. Though he was homely in the truest sense, the monk's disposition filled the room immediately with calm and comfort. It was as though Henry had known this person always, as if he were an old friend, even though this was the first meeting he recalled with this strange little man. The monk sat, restful, as if he had just returned home after a long journey. He let his hood fall back. His round head was nearly bald, save for very short coarse hair that more resembled fur than a man's hair. His smile was wide and exuded friendliness. But most of all, his eyes, so large, larger than anything Henry could recall, other than perhaps the large innocent eyes of a milk cow.

"Who are you?" Henry asked.

The King moved quickly to stoke the hearth and bring warmth to the chamber, a task he had not done since he was a boy. He felt a sense of awe at this monk. He felt beneath him in reverence, as though this meagre monk was supreme over him and he was just a lowly King. Henry looked about his chamber for some refreshment he could offer.

"It's just me Henry, Gob."

"Brother Gob?"

"Not Brother. I am not a devotee of a monastic order. Just Gob. You will remember me in time."

"You were in my dream and then all of a sudden you were there in the courtyard. As if you had escaped my dream and come to life. Perhaps I am dreaming still."

"Sit. Relax. Let's catch up."

Henry threw another faggot into the hearth. He sat in a large wingback chair, not a throne, but more elegant than the plain wooden chair that Gob was seated on. But this made Henry uncomfortable, as if he should offer to exchange seats with this lowly monk-like man.

Gob's feet barely reached to the floor. More the height of a child than a man, he was a dwarf in stature, beside Henry.

"What do you want? What are you doing here?" Henry asked.

"In time," Gob smiled.

"Why are you dressed like a monk?"

Gob opened his hands, palms upward, as if offering an honest explanation. "It's all I could find."

The dawn was breaking.

"Yes, your dream, you say. You saw me. Dreams are such wonderful things, aren't they. They make us see things, give us insight, expose us to apparitions, good and bad, that we might not otherwise imagine. In a way they expand our thinking, don't they."

"How do I know you? Do I know you?" Henry asked.

Gob looked about the room with admiration upon his face. As if the spartan chamber at Portchester Castle that King Henry occupied, on this occasion, were a magnificent apartment, luxurious and comfortable. He waved his hand, as if Henry's question was inconsequential.

"In time," Gob said. "It will all come to you in time. Don't worry about that. I've come to talk to you about your coming invasion."

Henry's brow furled with suspicion. "How would you know anything of my plans? A dusty monk aimlessly wandering through an empty courtyard in the midnight hours."

Gob waved him off. "Not a monk, as I've already said. It doesn't matter anyway. Just listen. I've seen the outcome of your plan. It doesn't end all that well for us. But no matter, it is what it is."

"For us? For who?" Henry's confusion grew.

Gob opened his arms to the room, empty except for he and the King, his stubby fingers fanning the air as if he were including the world beyond the room.

"There are things you know, though you don't know them at this moment, but the knowledge of them will return to you."

"Things? What things?"

"Many things. All things. Like if you sail westward in your magnificent Trinity Royal, you will not fall off the edge of the world into the abyss."

Henry shook his head in confusion.

"It doesn't matter now anyway. You are sailing east. You plan to take the crown from Crazy Charlie. Things will not turn out as you imagine they will."

The dawn cast a thin pillar of light into the room. Amber and rose. Flickering as morning mist rose across it, throwing shadows onto the floor that appeared to dance like small animals waking to the day. Voices could be heard in the courtyard as the merchants began to open the market stalls and commence their business.

"This is crazy," Henry said. "I don't know you. You're just a crazy monk come into my presence with wild fantasies." But in the back of Henry's mind he felt that he did know this man. And more than that, he felt it would be misguided of him to treat him less than graciously. "I beg that I mean no offense."

"Don't concern yourself with this Henry," Gob said. "I am the bridge, that is all."

"A bridge? To where?"

"From where you are to where you'll be." Gob leaned forward in his chair. "Do you have any biscuits and clean water?"

"I don't understand. What bridge?"

"Henry, you will see, in time, that all things are one thing, all of what we know in nature, in which there are many worlds, orbs of light in the immensity of space and time. This is your time, I will be with you as you move through it. Don't be afraid, it's not magic or witchcraft. It very simply 'is what it is, always has been and always will be. You'll see, again, soon."

Henry rose. Gob slid from his chair and stood in front of the King. Gob was like a stump standing beside a tall tree.

"Come, we'll find the kitchen," Henry said. "Tell me more."

They left the bed chamber, Henry still in his night shirt. Gob pointed to Henry's face, as they walked.

"You're lucky that you turned your head," Gob said. "A fraction less and that arrow would have gone straight through your spine. Still it left you ugly in the face, at least on that one side."

Henry looked down at the stub of a man walking at his side. Gob himself was ugly enough to live beneath a bridge, like a troll that creeps out to frighten women and small children. But he was a curious thing also; amiable enough and he seemed to know things.

"What can you tell me about my plans? Will I be successful?" Henry asked.

Gob simply shrugged.

The bread was not yet cooked. A scullery maid stirred a porridge, nervously glancing at the servants table where King Henry sat speaking with a dwarf, waiting to be fed. The turnspit, a boy of ten, had just mounted a haunch of mutton, but it was long from being cooked enough to eat. He fanned the peat and wood but the hearth flame had not grown enough yet to braise the meat for such an early feeding. The cook placed a platter of fruit and dried fish before the King, apologetically. Gob reached over but the cook deftly slid the platter more to Henry's reach, away from the uninviting creature.

Gob tapped his hairy fingers on the oak planks of the table. Henry crossed himself, took a dried gudgeon from the platter and called for a goblet of wine. The cook poured the wine, leaving the flask near the King, with nothing for Gob. The cook stood back of the King's shoulder, waiting to see if Henry would complain that the fish had spoiled. Henry pushed the platter to Gob, inviting him to eat. The cook scowled and turned back to her bread oven.

"What else can you tell me, my little soothsayer?" Henry asked.

Gob crunched down on a gudgeon, taking the fish head first into his mouth.

"I can say this. Those that seek to understand the future without stepping through the present will discover secrets that oppose earlier ignorance. Secrets that may be for the better or for the worse. But I am no soothsayer. I am just Gob."

Henry took a pear from the fruit basket. It was turning brown.

"From France," Henry said as he held the pear up. "It is near the end of its time. Like Charles."

"Crazy Charlie," Gob said.

"Once the old has served its time, it is replaced with something new and fresh and full of life. We will go to chapel presently and pray for this. And for taking food so early in the day. We are many hours away from midday."

"Are we not breaking the fast from all the time going without food during slumber?" Gob said.

"It is not necessary to eat so early in the day," Henry said. He motioned to the hearth. "The meat is hours away from being cooked and the bread has just gone to the oven."

Gob inhaled. "And yet they already smell so delicious."

"What else?" Henry said. "You come out of my dream to become flesh and blood; you talk of secrets, yet you have said nothing. What else?"

"You will not make it to Paris," Gob said. His large eyes stared unblinking, at Henry.

"Am I killed, in your vision? Will I die before Paris?"

Gob open his palms and shrugged. "Well, you will die from this life, sooner or later. Everything that lives and has not died will eventually die. And you will eventually pass through the gates of Paris. But not this time."

"No, you are wrong," Henry said. "The plan is well thought out. It is set. We will lay siege to Harfleur and establish our beach head. Some will sail up the Seine and some of the army will march overland and take Rouen, then on to Paris. Charles and the Dauphin have ignored me, mocked me and obstructed long enough. I have offered fair terms and they have consistently rejected them. Now I will take by force that which is mine."

Gob shook his head, slightly and calmly, so as not to show vigorous disagreement.

"You will not even make Rouen," he said. "Sorry. But not to worry. All will come in time. Just not this time."

"We will pray harder."

"It won't help."

"My piety is not simply put on for show," Henry insisted. "In my most intimate moments, it is what shapes me. I often muse alone and then pray, heartfelt, for help and forgiveness for my father's sins as well as my own. I truly love the Holy Church. We will pray to the Saints and to God, as we are wont to do every day of our life. You will come with me."

"I will come, but it won't help."

Henry knelt at the alter in the small chapel within Portchester Castle. Gob stood beside the King, now just a bit taller than the kneeling monarch. Henry was deep in the reverie of meditation. Thick beeswax candles wavered on each side of a statue of Saint Crispin placed at the center of the alter.

Gob whispered, "this makes me think of your tree of life. Which makes me think about fruit trees, in general. Living things. It's pretty incredible if you think about it. Seeds. It all starts from seeds, just like the ideas that form in a person's brain. Just as men start from seeds. Which start from the death of something that lived before, if you think about it."

Henry turned his face to Gob. A harsh frown upon his brow, admonishing his companion to silence in the presence of Saint Crispin. But Gob continued.

"Like an apple falling to the ground from the tree of life. Falling because it has served its time on the branch and now, unconsumed, it must give itself up to the nature of all things. And once there on the ground it molds and rots, perhaps gnawed on by a few gathered insects or a passing rodent, leaving nothing of its flesh, just the seeds from its core. And the seeds sink into the earth, impregnating the soil."

"Shush," Henry hissed.

"Seeds to saplings that grow into fruit bearing trees, that flower beautifully, bear fruit, with their own new seeds inside them. But then, as all life does, the ripe and ready fruit is taken to be consumed by a need, and the uneaten fruit hangs on the tree until it is too old to hang on any longer. Falls to the ground, enriches the earth, its own seeds impregnate the soil and give birth to the next generation of new fruit trees. And as the old tree is spent, it too withers and dies and gives itself back to the earth, to enrich it and give nutrients to the soil that will feed new seeds and other forms of life, so they can be born. And thus the cycle of life continues. You and me are like that, though not just of this earth. And though you might have legacy and leave some remembrance of your time, I will live much much longer than you." Gob grinned.

Henry stood. He grabbed the hood hanging at the back of Gob's cassock pulling him, as they left the chapel.

"You sound like Humphrey, when you talk that way," Henry said.

"Wise, is he, your young brother?"

"There are times when he talks as if there is some power other than God. I fear for his eternal soul. I fear for his flesh and bone. There are many that would call him a blasphemer, a heretic, and say that he should be put to punishment, torture, until his thinking was made right. Or if it could not be corrected then he should join others on the gallows."

Gob rubbed at the front of his neck.

Henry let loose of Gob's hood.

"I have work to do," Henry said. "I have audiences. You will have to make your own way out."

"No," Gob said. "It's alright, I have time. I'll join you. There is more."

"I have no time to hear about rotting fruit." Henry quickened his pace. His long strides forced Gob into a run, to keep up. "You have snuck into my dream; I have allowed you into my presence with your promise of a message and you have told me nothing. I have given you my time and you have given me nothing. You may leave now or be taken away."

"You will slay a man, in the coming months," Gob said.

"I hope to slay many," Henry replied.

"Yes, but this man will be of the same continuum as you, though he is just a peasant dressed as a knight. You will free him from this life but you will be one with him and me again. You will see yourself in his eyes. You will see me in his eyes as his life fades from them."

Henry returned to his bedchamber. The door was still unguarded. He would dress properly for the day and begin his business. Gob climbed onto the King's bed. He lay back, his eyes closed.

"Everything in time," Gob sighed. "What is time anyway, but one thing unmeasured."

"What are you talking about now?"

"You know those things in your past time. You foresee things in your future time, your plans. But you cannot measure those things. And most of all, my young King, tell me, how long is the present? How many grains of sand pass through the glass at the moment the present occurs. How long will the prime bell strike as the measure of the present time. Will it last through matins, terce, sext all the way to vespers? Or will it come and go so quickly that it cannot be measured at all?"

"Time belongs to God." Henry replied.

"Then it is not yours to waste, just yours to use."

Henry paced to all corners of his bedchamber, a candleholder in his hand, the candle burned down to a stub, giving very little light.

"Where is my wardrobe? How am I to dress without my wardrobe. Where is my valet? Probably still asleep. Guard," Henry yelled. "Guard go summon Richard, my valet. Tell him to get out of bed and come and dress me. Guard," he yelled louder.

Gob opened his eyes from his repose. "There is no guard. They can't hear you. I told them they were relieved when they brought me to you." Gob grinned.

Henry clucked as he strode to the chamber door, flung it open and yelled down the hallway. "Guard!"

"I can't even have you dress me," Henry said as he turned back into the chamber. "My wardrobe isn't even in this room."

Gob rolled his eyes. "I can't even properly dress myself. Besides, I'm not your nursemaid. I won't chew your food for you either, nor will I wipe your arse. If you are old enough to chop people up with your sword, then you are old enough to dress yourself."

Henry pulled off his night shirt.

The chamber door flew open, crashing against the stone wall. Richard Dresser, Henry's personal valet, was first through the door. He was followed by Davy Gam, Captain of Henry's Welsh archers and Henry Chichele, the Archbishop of Canterbury. The three stopped just inside the door, to see their King, standing half naked with a homely dwarf watching them from the King's bed.

The Archbishop's first impression was that the King was alone in his bed chamber with some sort of beast. A sheep perhaps. Davy Gam, on the other hand saw this as an animal, that had perhaps entered through a window and was attacking the King. He pushed the Archbishop aside, scrambling towards the King's bed, pulling his dagger from its scabbard. Richard Dresser, squealing like a frightened woman child, remained in the doorway with the King's day garments in his arms.

Davy Gam drew his arm back, the point of his dagger ready to plunge into Gob's heart. But Gob was quick. Though short and stubby, he bounded from the bed and hopped to the back wall of the chamber. Davy Gam's dagger plunged into the King's bed at the spot where Gob had lay. It was as though the dwarf creature disappeared from one spot and appeared instantly in another. Quicker than a leaping frog or jumping hare.

Davy Gam, a mountain of sinew and muscle, leaped upon the bed, leaped off the other side and continued his chase, roaring, as if the fury in his voice would, by itself, scare the creature away from the King and dispel it from being a further danger. Gam was very quick for a man of his size. He imposed himself, like a ferocious bull, hate filling his eyes, focus solely on the threat to Henry. He slashed at the air; his pursuit relentless. Dresser, a delicate man, hid himself behind the King's wing chair.

"Stop," Henry yelled. "There is no danger here."

Gam stumbled over the wooden chair that Gob had sat upon earlier. The wood shattered and splintered as if it were made of brittle glass. Gam cursed. "Come here you little rodent, I'll gut you from groin to chin.

Gob popped in front of the prostrate Gam, grinned and popped away.

"No need to get yourself all worked up," Gob said. "You are a violent sort, aren't you. You will bring a pestilence to your body organs with such blackness in your heart. Just calm down. Relax."

Davy Gam propped himself to hands and knees and chased after Gob once again, as if he were a hound in pursuit of a fox.

"Stop," Henry ordered again. "Gam get off your knees and leave us."

The Archbishop moved himself slowly beside Gob, reached over as if he were about to pat his furry head but grabbed the hood of his cassock instead. He looked down his nose at Gob's dog face and declared him an evil menace, probably infected with some sorcery and sent to harm the King.

"This thing is not a man," Archbishop Chichele said. "He is not even a real dwarf."

"Leave him," Henry said. "He is harmless. Just a visitor come with some news."

The Archbishop shook his head.

"I'm afraid, your Highness, he has bewitched you, clouded your mind. Whatever news he gave you must be a devious plot to misdirect your thinking. Look at him, his face. He is clearly an evil spawn of Satan sent to confuse you, perhaps give you false messages about your coming foray into France. A deceit. False hopes or false warnings. But do not have concern. I will get to the bottom of this. We will make a visit to the Inquisitor and extract the truth of this false monk's purpose."

"He is not a monk," Henry said. "At least he has not declared himself a servant or messenger of God, from any church or order. Though I suspect his monk's robe is stolen." Henry looked to Gob. "By the by, where are your own clothes, if this cassock is 'all you could find', as you've told me. Where did you find it? Hanging on the drying line at the monastery, perhaps?"

At that moment Gob ducked himself out of the cassock, leaving it empty in the hand of the Archbishop. He stood naked. His short body covered with thick dark hair, like the wild men, said to live in the recesses of the highlands in the north.

"You can have it back, if you wish," Gob said, "but this is what you'll get." He pointed to his nakedness.

The Archbishop held up the empty cassock, squawked in disgust and threw it back at Gob.

"You will come to the Inquisitor," Chichele demanded.

Henry put up a palm to negate the demand. "There will be no questioning, no Inquisitor." He looked at Gam. "And no need to gut this man. He is harmless"

"Man?" Gam questioned.

"Satan's minion I suggest," Chichele said.

Henry waved them off. "Leave me. Not you Richard. I am still in need of dress, as you can see. And see if you can find some proper clothing for," he paused.

"Gob ," Gob said. "Just Gob . Not Sire Gob or Lord Gob . Certainly not King Gob . Just Gob. Something warm, if it isn't too much trouble." Gob grinned. "And a felt hat, if you could find one. Or should I say a chapeau, since we're going to France."

"You are not going to France," Henry said.

Oh yes," Gob waved him off. "You will see me there. On this side or that."

"You should allow me to take him," Chichele said. "Otherwise you shan't be rid of him. Like stink on soiled breeches."

Henry dressed with Richard's aid.

"No, we will leave him, for now. He is a curious thing. Come from out of my dream to manifest himself. I should think that is a good omen. To have this oracle speak to me of future things. I may have need of specific knowledge, some time. But not this time. You will not be coming to France."

Gob smiled. "Not to worry, I won't be in the way, you won't even know that I am there. I will be in France; it is already decided. Consider that it is already happened and you need not have any more concern."

Henry buttoned his doublet.

"Enough of this," Henry said. "Release him with whatever provision he requests. Give him clothing, food, money, if he desires, though I do not know why a monk would need money, and transport him wherever he is going, but not to France."

"Not a monk," Gob repeated. A smile came to his face, from cheek to cheek, his eyes brightened. "I will be there."

Henry should have been angered at the defiance of this small man, but he was not. He was curiously calm and serene in Gob's presence, as if he was under a spell or had drank deeply from a mind grasping potion. He could see the many details and countless logistics of his invasion plan come into clear focus. Clearer when Gob was with him than before. It must be a good omen. Henry looked into Gob's eyes. They stared silently at each other, hypnotically, a long while, as if their thoughts transferred between them across the empty air in the bed chamber.

The Archbishop watched in suspicious silence. His King appeared to be fixed in a trance.

"There will be people dying this time that have never died before," Gob said again, in a whisper the Archbishop could not hear. "We are like seeds. I will be there."

# 9 - The Alehouse

"They bust in here like they are lords of heaven," said Madam Hainault, the keeper of the alehouse, an old woman, bent and feeble. "Drink freely of my best mead. Piss in the corner. Smash benches and jugs and refuse to pay for any of it. They taunted him," she pointed to Soldat Bonin, "once too often, and look what happened."

In the corner of the single room alehouse the leathery horse faced Englishman was on the floor propped against the wall. Two bloody holes were left where eyes had been, his head twisted far enough around that it was clear his neck had been broken.

"They went on jabbering something in that bastard language nobody can understand. And look what happens," the old woman cackled.

"Were there four of them?" I asked.

"Yes, four." She wiped her nose on her dingy red apron. "Check that prigs purse and see if he has coin to pay for this."

"Where are the others now?" I wanted to know.

"They ran off like the sniveling cowards you would expect from an English," she said.

Soldat sat at a small table, leaning over a large mug of ale. Both of his thumbs were still red with the Englishman's blood. The big man looked up at me, "Rousseau has gone to fetch The Circle to track them down. They were on horseback, they may get away and bring others," Soldat said. He huffed and snorted, as an angered bull might.

"We saw them earlier. They were looking for those ones we dispatched on the road," I said, as I patted Soldats' shoulder.

Bishop de Saintes sat himself at the small table across from Soldat. "Mead, Madam, if you please. Large." He placed his hand on Soldats'. "Our good lord forgives these kinds of things my son," he reassured him.

"I'm not worried about this," Soldat jerked his head at the dead man. "I'll see him in hell and give him more of the same."

The Bishop drained his cup of mead. "Another Madam."

Madam Hainault eyed him suspiciously. "You better have money for this," she murmured, "man of God or not."

Bishop de Saintes was known to often ask for credit or forgiveness of a debt.

"We'll open the pit and bury him with the others," I said.

"Do you think we'll see more of them?" Soldat asked. "There was a Frenchman with them."

"I'm certain of it. Not a sign of good things when we start to see them in growing numbers. In times past it was a portend of much larger forces to come. Let us pray there is not a storm of them about to flood over us. Our small band is no match."

"Fool born miscreant. Haul that lout out the door before this place gets crawling with flies and maggots," the old woman pointed a crooked finger at the dead man. "And boil some lye to pour on that piss. Place already stinks like a piss pot." Her order was to the crowd of gathering onlookers, though none acted.

Bishop de Saintes drained his second cup of mead.

"I suppose I could say some words over him, when he is placed in the pit," the Bishop said. "Let's go before the old woman suggests that the church should pay for the damage."

Madam Hainault overheard the Bishop.

"And why shouldn't the church pay?" she said. "It was God's will that allowed these devils into my place. If I was younger I would have killed that slime myself." She pointed a bent finger at the dead man. "And that traitorous dung heap of a countryman who was with them."

It was then that they returned. My men of The Circle had the French Traitor. They had wrapped him tightly with a length of twine, the way you might bind a sheaf of hay. Rousseau was wearing the Traitor's blue hat. The white plume was bent in half.

"He was alone," Rousseau said. "Walking his horse back towards town. We didn't even have to draw weapons; he just lifted his arms in surrender. He said he escaped them and was coming back to us. I think he is meant to be a spy."

The Frenchman was covered in road dust, his coat torn, all the buttons gone from his doublet and his leggings ripped up the side. He looked worse for wear, but uninjured.

"You can't bring him in here," Madam Hainault asserted.

Rousseau's victorious expression turned to a frown. He expected to be invited to sit inside the alehouse, with an appropriate beverage, so he could recount the capture of our enemy. Charpentier, Cordier and Brasseur were equally forlorn.

Rousseau's brow lifted. He remembered seeing a small purse tucked inside the Traitor's waist belt. He removed it and poured six livres into his hand. Madam Hainault snatched them from him.

"This will pay for the damage," she said.

"And," Rousseau said.

"One jug of ale, but that's all."

""Six livres, madam. Surely that will fix the damage and provide a bucket of ale for me and my friends. The strong ale, mind you, not that watered down piss you serve to strangers."

Madam Hainault relented. My men entered , took a table on the opposite wall from the dead Englishman. Charpentier and Cordier shared a stool, each with half a cheek on and half a cheek off. Brasseur and I shared a bench. The French Traitor stood at the end of the table, still tightly bound, his hands beginning to turn blue. Madam Hainault made two trips to our table; first, with four pewter ale mugs, then with the bucket of ale promised to Rousseau. A small bucket.

"He doesn't drink," Madam Hainault snarled towards the French Traitor.

The crowd was growing. The old woman declared that only paying customers were allowed inside, all others were welcome to gather on the street beyond the door. Those that said they had come to drink were made to show their coin before she allowed them in. They had come, of course, by curiosity and to witness the interrogation of our prisoner. Some came just to view the eyeless body of a dead English.

They argued over the few chairs that remained unbroken. One pair pulled apart the last remaining stool, one left holding the seat with a leg attached, the other left holding a pair of disembodied legs. All clambered to get as close to the French Traitor as possible, to be within earshot to hear his defense for being caught collaborating with our enemy.

There were those in the crowd that called for us to not bother questioning the Traitor, just get on with the hanging or a public flogging. Some were keen to have the man bound to a stake in the center of the market and flayed until all the flesh was stripped from his back. Others demanded a slow public torturing until every secret had been extracted from the Traitor and every mercy under heaven could be begged from his lips. Some had been victims of English vagabonds and sought revenge for crimes committed upon them, some were merely bloodthirsty curiosity seekers hungry for a spectacle to entertain them and satiate their lust to witness pain and suffering. My fellow townsfolk that did not embrace these pleasures or care to witness any suffering, simply did not come to the alehouse. They remained at their work or went to their church to pray.

"Who are you," I asked.

The Traitor was about to speak when Rousseau chimed in.

"We ran hard, after them," Rousseau said. "We went by way of the east gate, across the river. We caught him just where the road turns west, at the monastery. There he was, dismounted, walking his horse, heading our way. Of course we hid ourselves, though he saw us do so. We had no way of knowing where his two companions were. Hiding in ambush we guessed. You know how cunning and devious those English are. We guessed it was a trap. But he just let go the reins of his steed, lifted his arms and gave himself up. Of course we are no stranger to this kind of English deception. We expected that once we showed ourselves, his companions would loose their arrows into us. So I told Charpentier and Cordier and Brasseur to remain hidden while I confronted the Traitor."

The gathered crowd nodded and murmured amongst themselves that Rousseau was smart not to let our small band be exposed to danger. Caution, a wise plan.

"He dropped to his knees, arms still in the air. I approached cautiously," Rousseau said, then whispered, "keeping my eyes sharp to any sudden movement from the shadows where the English might be hiding in wait."

The gathered crowd inched closer to the table, to better hear Rousseau's account.

"Where are your friends, I say," Rousseau continued. "They have gone on to Chambry he says. I told them my horse had gone lame, he says. And they should go on without him. They should save themselves from the vigilantes that would certainly be pursuing them, he says."

I looked at the Traitor again and asked, "who are you?"

"Benoni Pétain," was his answer.

"I saw you before," I said.

"Yes," he said.

"On the road near the Manor House."

"Yes," he said. "You were with your companion with the walking stick."

"You remember us," I said.

"Your companion was dressed like a beggar, but he wore the shiny boots of a wealthy nobleman," Pétain added.

"You saw," I said.

"I saw," Pétain said. "But the English did not and I did not tell them."

When I first saw the Traitor riding with the English, I felt more anger against this man than I did even against the English, perhaps even more than I felt against Horseface. Though he remained at the rear of their contingent and was not pompous and aggressive, as their leader was, my instant feeling was against him. He was worse than the English. At least they were an enemy we could see and face. They were an enemy who stood clearly against us. He was a traitor, an enemy from within, cowardly, deceptive, devious and dishonest in his complicity.

"Complicity carries consequences, Monsieur Pétain," I said.

"I could have fled with them," he said.

"And why did you not?" I asked.

"Because I am French, like you."

"You are Burgundian. You were with the English, on their side."

"Burgundian or Armagnac, we are both Frenchman. Charles is King to both of us."

He wiggled his fingers, flexing them, trying to encourage blood to flow into his blue hands.

"Loosen his bonds," I said.

"He will escape," Rousseau objected.

I motioned to the crowd that was now gathered around us, thicker than a dense stand of trees. There was no way for Pétain to flee. He was trapped by the mob that circled our table.

"Shall we find him a chair, pour him a draught as well," Rousseau said, a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

"Yes," I said. "That would be a French thing to do. There is more to this man's story than we yet know. It could serve us well to hear all that he has to say. We can judge whether we believe his words to be truthful or not. If we hang him before he has spoken, we will lose that opportunity." I turned to Pétain. "What is your story?"

A stool was passed over the heads of the crowd, amongst their jostling and complaining. Rousseau sliced away the twine that bound our prisoner. Pétain sat.

"My home is Soissons," Pétain said. "We have had much trouble there, this past year. More than a year perhaps. I claim to be neither Burgundian or Armagnac. Just a simple merchant, a haberdasher. I make hats and other things."

Rousseau removed the hat that he had taken from Pétain. He examined it closely and agreed that it was finely made, except for the broken plume.

"I pay my taxes to the Lord Mayor, which goes to whatever family claims our territory as their land, it makes no difference to me. My allegiance belongs to whomever the declared lord is. As is only right. It seems the English made an alliance with Duke John, John the Fearless, as he is known. They came to our town like a fast moving tide, displaced our Bailiff and Magistrate and assumed the seats of power. I was forced into their service as a translator. I have the skill of speaking both English and French."

"You speak two tongues," I said. "A very useful skill in these times." It seemed to me that Pétain's skill to speak English and French would make him a spy of considerable value.

"I speak them both because as a younger man I had the good fortune of traveling with my father to the English territories, around Calais, to sell his goods to their courtesans. He too was a haberdasher. His chapeaus were known to be the finest anywhere. He was summoned there. I travelled with him. I was just his apprentice back then. My father was well paid. He set up a new millinery at Lord Beaufort's court. He was very expert in crafting elegant hats for the ladies. They loved his work and made us stay a very long time. But he was an old man then. His mind was not so quick as mine to pick up their language. So I learned and was able to speak between us, the English and my father."

"Where is your father now?"

"He died there. When word came that my mother had fallen ill with the sweating sickness and died, his life no longer had meaning. He only went to the English territories because they loved his work and his fortune was to be made there. He planned to make his fortune and return home with wealth for him and my mother, to live their old age in comfort. When he died they had no use for me, my hats were not as fine as his, I do not have the same artistry, so Lord Beaufort allowed me to return to Soissons."

"You make hats?" I repeated what Pétain had confessed.

"And suits of clothing. Pantaloons, leggings, hose, waistcoats, doublets and hats, of course."

"But yet you have become an English spy."

"Not a spy. I simply translate for them. None of them can speak our language. It makes it easier for them to make their demands understood. I'm sure that I have prevented the killing of many, just by being able to make both sides understood to each other. I have had no choice in this."

"They threatened you with pain or death?"

"The English have forced my cooperation by holding my wife and children hostage. They say that when they are done with me I will be allowed to ransom them back."

Madam Hainault's earlier irritation turned to delight. The alehouse was full of paying patrons. She wiped her nose and sweating brow with her red apron as she hurried to keep up with orders for ale and mead. When the goblets and mugs were empty, more orders for liquor were called to her from the crowd. When the drink was slow in coming, the shouts became louder, angrier, entreating her to get off her slow horse and provide them service. Her purse was bulging with their coin. Gaston Pirie drank so quickly that he spewed his liquor vomit out onto dead Horseface then passed out drunk on top of him.

"I was taken to accompany them, the English, when they were ordered to make a reconnoiter. They have done more pillaging than reconnoitering. I have not seen my home in some time. Not since the Armagnacs have driven the English and Burgundians away. I have heard there has been a slaughter of the towns people. Innocent people. I fear for the lives of my wife and children. I must return to Soissons and find them."

"So you waited for your chance and you escaped them?"

"The two corporals are in disarray. Since their sergeant was killed, they argue what to do. They decided to make way to Chambry, to their Captain. I claimed my horse had gone lame and I would have to find another. They decided to go on, not to wait for me, because of the danger to themselves from pursuers. I took that as my chance, to make my way back to friends," Pétain looked around us, deciding if we were friendly faces, "I hope."

"He's lying," a drunk voice yelled from the middle of the crowd.

I looked into the sea of faces for the man that made the claim of lies. The crowd had grown thick, every face looked ready to cast judgement on Pétain. Every face believed the men of The Circle had captured a traitor. The simple fact of being a prisoner meant he was guilty. Some had seen him with the English, though claim he waited outside the alehouse when they first entered. But he was guilty, because he fled with the corporals when they fled. They claim there was fighting and monstrous thundering of voices, like bulls snorting and roaring, crashing of benches and tables and the cackling squawk of Madam Hainault ordering them to leave her alehouse. Then a muffled scream, then silence.

I looked to Pétain to see if his face said there was truth in this account. He did not deny it.

"Why did you run with them, if you only planned to escape later?" I asked.

"I didn't know, at that moment that the sergeant had been killed. I thought he was right behind them, the corporals. I had to flee with them. They have my family."

The air inside the alehouse grew dense and hot, thick with malodorous spirit, as if it had all been breathed in and used and all that was left in the room was the spent breath of the crowd. Sweat beaded on Pétain's forehead.

"Hang him," came a voice from the back of the throng.

I did my best to ignore the growing ambivalence but it was clear that as the liquor flowed there was a steadily building interest in putting Benoni Pétain to penalty. There seemed to be little interest in his story or the plight of his family. He could have been speaking truth, but the mob did not care. They continued to press closer, tighter around us, so tight that I doubted a hair or a sliver could fit between them, so tight it was as if they were a fluid belligerent mass. I had seen this before.

"What do you know about the band of English that came before? The ones your sergeant came looking for," I asked.

"They were sent to reconnoiter. To see if there was danger between Soissons and Paris. But they were gone too long. It was thought they had run off, turned to freebooting. There has been little order since the Armagnacs expelled them from Soissons. We were sent to find them."

"Did you find them?" I asked, knowing the band that attacked Robert, that we had dispatched, were the companions that were being sought.

"No. But their horses were found, tied in the woods, wanting for water and food."

"Put him in the stocks," called a drunken voice.

The ire of the crowd grew stronger when Madam Hainault announced there was no more liquor, all that she had was now consumed. She had nothing more for their cups. It was time for them to leave and they should take the dead Englishman with them. Rumblings grew to curses, there was pushing and elbowing, kicking at shins.

The fluid throng began to waver with the jostling. There was nobody departing, as Madam Hainault had commanded.

"He is a spy," came a voice from the crowd.

The men standing nearest me were pushed apart. Charpentier and Cordier fell from their shared stool. Pierre Rivet pushed his way to the front. He lunged across the table, slashing at Pétain with a fish knife. Our prisoner drew back, out of range of the wild thrashing of Rivet's blade. Rousseau was quick to seize Rivet's arm with one hand, dislodging the knife. His other hand grasped the hair on the back of Rivet's head, pushing his face into the oak boards of the table. Rivet's nose snapped, crackled, split open and blood popped out across the table, like a water bag bursting.

"He's a spy," Rivet gurgled through the blood filling his mouth.

I shook my head at Rivet's drunken stupidity.

"He's right," Pétain said. "I am a spy. But not in the way he thinks." He looked down at Rivet's blood that had splattered onto his chemise.

"Get out," Madam Hainault screeched, her crone like voice cracking as she strained her order.

Pétain sat stiffly in his chair. It was clear that the growing animosity of the mob caused him considerable angst and that he greatly feared for his safety.

"I confess," Pétain stuttered, "I am a spy. But it is for France that I spy. I have gained much knowledge of secret plans the English have. A threat is looming. They are planning to come in force. An invasion against King Charles. I have learned some secrets, that must be shared with the Marshals of France. We are in great danger. The threat is near."

"Kill him," came a shout.

The unruly crowd had become more than a simple annoyance. I sensed that violence was at hand from the mob and that soon I would not be able to hold them back. I raised my hands to halt their protests.

"Monsieur Pétain," I said, "the threat is always near. It has been with us as long as I have lived. This war between English and French has been with us since my grandfather's time. I can well imagine that it will still be with us to my own grandchildren's time. War, it is the way of men, it is in the nature of many. A sad thing, it is, that killing each other is our way of life. How much better it would be if we could just satisfy ourselves living in harmony, the way the beasts of the forest do."

"Unless they're eating each other," came a voice from the crowd.

"I also confess," Pétain continued, "that I am Burgundian by the blood of my birth, but my wife is Armagnac. Our children share our blood, they are both." Pétain's chin dropped to his chest, his eyes downcast. "They are both if they still live."

Rivet removed himself from the table, clutching his shattered nose. He turned away and disappeared into the parted crowd. The alehouse was half cleared, as Madam Hainault had swept away those patrons nearest the door, with her whisk broom.

"I am French," Pétain said. "I have escaped the English so I can find other Frenchmen like me, that despise the English. Every day, all day long, I pray to our God in heaven that they have not harmed my children and my wife. But whether or not I find that is the awful truth, I must tell our country that the English plan is to overtake us all. I have escaped the English and come in search of friends that will help me tell this."

"He's lying," came a shout.

"We are simple people Monsieur Pétain. But we are not so simple to think that just because someone speaks words that those words are true. There is deception all around us. You may say you are French, but those are just words. You can see that many here are not convinced."

It was clear to Benoni Pétain that many of the men surrounding him did not care about truth. They were only interested in witnessing the agony of another man, for whatever thrill or pleasure or morbid curiosity that satisfied. There were many that were too simple in their thinking to understand the larger danger that could befall them in days ahead. They just wanted to hear Pétain scream for mercy, to see his blood and sense his pain. But there were others that well understood the threat and that Pétain's warning should be heeded. I was one of those.

"They are coming," Pétain said. "They are assembling an enormous force to swoop down upon us like banshees out of the mist and spread across France, killing and raping until they have seized the crown from King Charles. None of us are safe. It will not be just my wife and children in peril, it will be all of ours." Pétain pointed to the men surrounding us. "Yours and yours and yours."

"What things do you know?" I asked.

"These small bands of English that are roaming about the country side are just the advance guard, their reconnoiter. They are the spies. They are the ones gathering information about the strength of our garrisons, the deployment of our forces. They are the ones saying where we are strong and where we are weak. I know this. I have heard them talking. Orders from Captains to Sergeants about where to reconnoiter, what information is sought. It will be a merciless slaughter."

"Why should we believe you?"

"The English are ordered to reconnoiter for a coming invasion, but most of the scouts are simply pillaging. The ones chased from Soissons are the worst. Many are bent on exacting revenge for the unjustly executed archers. To me it seems like their deaths were more of an internal civil confrontation, a civil conflict between Armagnac and Burgundian, rather than against the English. The Armagnacs would have been just as happy to slay Burgundian archers as English ones. They see no difference between English and Burgundian."

"Perhaps French should stop killing French," I said. "We should look toward our common English enemy. Still, the archers have been slain, executed like criminals. There was no chivalry shown, though that peculiarity is considered above people low like us".

"It wasn't peasants that murdered the archers," Pétain said.

The crowd had thinned to less than a dozen. Soldat Bonin pushed through the bystanders. Bishop de Saintes was at his side, holding his empty cup.

"What are their plans?" Soldat asked.

Pétain looked up at Soldat then across the room at the body of dead Horseface.

"They are assembling a force at Southampton in England. They will sail across the channel and lay siege to Harfleur, at the mouth of the Seine. They will secure that fortress and open a gateway to Paris. All of France will be at their mercy after that. There will be no stopping them."

Soldat sneered, showing his doubt. "I have served in our army. We are strong. It will not be so easy for the English or anybody to take us by force."

"They are coming," Pétain said again.

Pétain looked deeply into my eyes. I knew then that he spoke true. I nodded.

"I will take you to tell your story. There is someone that I know who will be interested to hear what you have to tell."

"The boots," Pétain said.

"Yes," I said.

# 10 - The Southampton Plot

Itchen Ferry - Late July 1415

"The muster has been called, it's now or never," Richard Cambridge said.

The three men gathered themselves at Itchen Ferry before making their way into Southampton. None were contented to be there; all had their own but separate reason. Cambridge was the chief voice amongst them. With him was Henry Scrope, 3rd Baron of Masham, the eldest of the three, but clearly Cambridge, an Earl, was the man in charge, by the weight of his peerage. Thomas Grey, a King's Knight, the youngest, at thirty one, drawn to this secret meeting by his obligation to the Earl.

It was raining and though late in the day the sky was still light for hours yet to come. Thomas Grey's armor was packed securely to the back of his mount. His red and blue tunic, emblazed with the coat of arms of his family on one quarter, the cross of St George on another, was soaked through. At least the rain was warm. Cambridge and Scrope remained dry, having stayed under the shelter of a goat shed roof.

"You are suggesting an act that could be taken by many as treason, if it were to fail," Grey said.

But Thomas Grey was beholding to Richard Cambridge. Three years previous, he betrothed his eight year old son and heir, Thomas, to Isobel, Cambridge's three year-old daughter. As part of the marriage settlement, Grey acquired the lordship of Wark-in-Tyndale at a 'bargain price', but which was still more than he could afford, leaving him forever in the debt of the Earl, making him his dupe, by way of his covetousness and poverty. His voice carried less than the other two men.

"None here are afraid to ride with Henry. That is not the point," Cambridge said. "This costly expedition is unnecessary. Henry's foolish extravagance is driving us all into poverty. There will be nothing left in any of our coffers should this silly idea of his fail. Not only do we risk life and limb for a worthless cause, but our whole fortunes are at stake. He should be satisfied with what he has here. It is up to us to take action and prevent this calamity for all. All three of us have reason enough to withhold support for this King. We must think of our families, the ghosts of betrayed ancestors, their honor and ours. It is not just us. There are many others, high born enough. I have spoken with many and we will have their support."

"But we are assured to add to our holdings and honor with victory," Grey said.

"Think of all the ransoms to be gained," Scrope added. "Those Frenchmen flaunt their riches in our face. The ransom of a single Earl could go a long way. Just think of what the capture of a French Duke could bring. When I look into my treasury all I see is a stack of ha'pennies and a pile of old potatoes. I could use an injection of French silver." His small mouth pursed in the middle of his round face.

"We need to get Henry off the throne." Cambridge's brow furled, he squinted determinedly through the falling rain. "We need a new King."

Grey's eyebrows raised. This truly was a line of treasonous talk coming from Cambridge. The knight felt a divide in his loyalty, as if it were cleaved in two by his Earl. Thomas Grey and his father before him had always been loyal to the men of the Lancaster line. They had given their support against the Percys and even in the overthrow of King Richard, before Henry's father seized the crown from him.

A twist of wind blew rain into Cambridge's face. He flinched, his eyes shut, he continued. "We cannot carry on until all is lost. Think of the disaster to us if Henry's folly ends in defeat. Not only will we have spent all and gained nothing but we could forfeit our holdings to those French pissants."

"Are you saying we should raise an army against the King?" Scrope asked.

"None would stand for that," Grey said. "The risk of failure is too great and it would mean dishonorable execution."

"No, not by itself," Cambridge said. "The best way is to make our case. We must present a viable and legitimate alternative for the parliament to accept. I'm telling you we have support of many. There will be arms enough when needed."

"Who has given support?" Grey asked.

"Many," Cambridge insisted.

"There is nothing legitimate about overthrow of a rightful King," Grey said.

Richard Cambridge grinned and shook his head. "Henry is descended from the third line of the long dead King Edward. The deposed King Richard, usurped by Henry's father, descended from the first line. He is gone and he had no issue. But," Cambridge glared sharp and pointed daggers at Scrope and Grey, "Our young Edmund Mortimer is descended from the second line."

"What of this?" Grey asked.

"We call Mortimer away from here. Take him to Wales perhaps, convince him of his claim and build two cases in his support. First we petition the parliament with Mortimer's rightful claim, but secondly, we must prepare a strong force in support, if Henry can only be removed by arms or if his supporters resist."

"Another uprising?" Scrope objected. "My own uncle lost his head when he tried that against the King's father. This is not something wisely undertaken"

"It is your own future, your own fortune at stake my dear Henry. Your Baronage itself could vanish and make you a pauper."

"Or my head could vanish," Scrope said.

"Your head and your holdings," Cambridge suggested. "But if Henry himself is removed in body first, then putting our man on the throne will be much easier."

The rain began to let up. It became just a drizzle so faint it was more a mist than a rain. Cambridge faced Thomas Grey. "You will approach Mortimer and invite him to dine with us before ships sail. Tell him we have important business that requires his consideration. He has taken a room at the Greyfriars Monastery at Southampton. Call him to sup with us at Cranbury."

"What if he asks what it is all about?" Grey asked.

"Just tell him there is something of great import afoot that might very well involve him. Tell him he must come to hear the details from me," Cambridge said.

Thomas Grey was filled with reticence. But his Earl had commanded him. The man who would be the father-in-law of his son, the man to whom he was beholden for the property and estate he was afforded, had given his direction.

"Cranbury," Grey said reluctantly.

"Cranbury," Cambridge repeated. "Two days hence."

Scrope nodded his agreement, but just the same committed this talk to his secret memory, in case the undertaking fell apart and he was required to recall it for a later defense.

Greyfriars Monastery

Thomas Grey was a tall man. He was sinewy and athletic, his lean body and taught muscle earned through years of martial training, which he used expertly in the field against enemies of his household. He was thirty one, born at Ainwick Castle, seat of the Percy's in Northumberland. But his family had not been part of the Percy's uprising against Henry's father. Instead they sided with the Lancasters. Grey saw himself in Henry's good favor. He had been in his service seven years and was regarded highly, due to the loyalty of his father in support of Henry's father in the usurpation of the crown from King Richard many years before.

He made his way to the Greyfriars monastery, bringing with him the seed of the dire plot, discussed at Itchen Ferry with Cambridge and Scrope. Each had their own reasons to withhold support from their King and now, it seemed, even plans to turn away.

Edmund Mortimer lodged at the Greyfriars in Southampton, summoned there as part of the King's muster. His room was nothing more than a monk's cell, three high stone walls, the fourth wall just an open doorway. Windowless. The smell of lye soap so thick in the air it was like a mist, the only light coming from the dim yellow flicker of a candle flame. None the less, this was a place of repose for Mortimer, before leaving for the trials of war, with his King. He was not afraid but still there were thoughts that weighed heavy on him.

"Thomas Grey," Mortimer said, as he rose from his cot. "Have you come to turn yourself into a monk?"

Grey looked about for a chair. A three legged milk stool was pushed beneath a small writing tableau, upon which was a single sheet of parchment, an ink bottle with quill and the stub of the sallow candle. Grey pointed to the stool with his eyes, requesting Mortimer's invite for him to sit.

"I will never be pious enough for that calling," Grey admitted. He pulled the stool and sat. Mortimer sat on his cot.

"What brings you here then?"

"Just an invitation from my Earl, Richard Cambridge, to sup with him at Cranbury, before the sailing."

An unusual invitation, Mortimer thought. He knew Cambridge, through his late sister, knew him well, though was not friendly enough with him to earn a dining invitation or even time to spend in casual conversation. But he was curious.

"Dinner," Mortimer said. "With Richard of Conisburgh, Earl of Cambridge. What brings this honor to me?"

Grey shrugged. "I believe it is just to talk of the French war and the invasion we are about to embark on."

"What of it?"

Grey shrugged again.

"I don't know that I would want to miss out on another monk's supper. The turnips are mashed with butter, the onions roasted soft and yesterday there was even wine with the meal. I heard next evening there might even be a small taste of meat or suet." Mortimer grinned. "A dinner feast at your Earl's expense would be a welcome treat."

"Come to Cranbury."

"Does he wish to give me more advice about my fine, or lament more on my sister's death?"

Grey shrugged again.

Edmund Mortimer was a young man, just twenty-three, but he was not naïve. Within him there was a deep suspicion that his brother-in-law was not just content to make complaints. There was something else afoot. Perhaps this was the revelation of something sinister, bringing into life those things suggested by Richard at their dinner recently past. A plot.

"I am always happy to dine at Richard's expense, Thomas," Mortimer said. "All the way to Cranbury?"

"We can't expect him to come here and dine on the monk's stale bread. Besides, I'm just the messenger."

Mortimer understood well enough the claim that Richard Cambridge held over Thomas Grey. It was a pitiful thing, to see a King's Knight have to grovel to the wishes from a man of peerage, as if he were his lap dog. It was not even a machination of power or lineage, just money and debt. Like the wedding fine he owed to his King. But there was something afoot in this invitation. The timing of it was curious.

"I accept the invitation," Mortimer said.

"We must leave now if we are to make it by the dinner hour."

Cranbury

The ride from the monastery to the Red Lion at Cranbury took them north through fields already crowded with bivouacs of the assembling armies. There were differences of demeanor in the camps. Some ordered and civil, lining for meals prepared by household men in service, some even brought women to cook and bake. Other camps jostled and fought each other, drunk and impatient, abandoned of leadership, some with priests walking amongst them trying to create order.

Mortimer knew that Henry would not tolerate disorder and disobedience. His King was a skilled and demanding military leader of men and he suffered no fools. He knew that Henry would grant extra rations to those who showed respect to the grave venture at hand and those that were less than adequate would suffer humiliation or pain and surely be sent for penance at the feet of the priests, or worse.

There were few words shared between Mortimer and Grey as they rode, though Mortimer scowled at comments from the retinues, that he was the squire to the Kings Knight. Mortimer made effort to keep his mount side by side with Grey, so that he didn't lag behind as a servant or valet might. Though he was younger than Grey by many years, Mortimer was an Earl, in his own right and Grey just a Knight. It annoyed him that Sir Thomas would ride ahead of him, breaking custom with his rank.

They rode south along the river for most of an hour, crossed the river on the Itchen ferry and rode north to where the river began to wind like a snake then narrow. No shortage of encampments all the while of the journey. The pair walked their mounts into a small hamlet, with a single street lined with cruck houses, none with new thatch and only a pair of buildings with a second floor above the first. It was at one of these, the Red Lion, a meagre inn and tavern, where Thomas Grey led Edmund Mortimer to meet with his Earl, Richard Cambridge and the Baron Henry Scrope.

Cambridge and Scrope were seated in a back alcove, a plate of eels and muscles shared between them while they waited. Scrope emptied his goblet and rose as Grey and Mortimer entered the drinking parlor of the small inn. The ceiling was low, with heavy brace beams. Grey had to tilt his head to avoid the low rafters. Henry Scrope held his arm to guide Mortimer to a seat against the back wall. Mortimer squeezed past the Baron and seated himself. Scrope sat, trapping Mortimer between he and Cambridge. Grey pulled a stool and closed the huddle. Cambridge, Scrope and Grey leaned in. Cambridge spoke quietly against the background din.

"We are glad you came Edmund," Cambridge said. "There is something of great import to discuss with you."

Mortimer looked to the eyes of each of the men but said nothing.

"We all have our stories," Cambridge continued. "Poor treatment, unjust dealings, not befitting our station."

Scrope and Grey nodded agreement.

"There are demands upon us, Edmund, that are not fair in any way. Monetary fines and demands of fealty beyond our means. For what? So the King can satisfy a self-serving fantasy that all of France belongs to him. He already has Aquitaine and Calais. Why not be satisfied with that and leave well enough alone. Wouldn't it make more sense to ally with our French cousins against our common enemies rather than poke a sleeping bear? For us to join this charade is folly. You of all people must see that Edmund."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Mortimer said.

"This fine, Edmund. This ridiculous wedding fine. This outrageous, inconceivable demand upon your purse that you cannot possibly satisfy. What is to be gained from you other than your humiliation and compliance. Humiliation upon you Edmund, the man who should be our King."

Mortimer's jaw dropped slightly.

"He treats you like a child, like a servant. Nothing better than a footman."

"He is my King," Mortimer said. "He can and will treat me in any manner he wishes. As his loyal subject, I am pleased to do whatever bidding he commands. It is not only my duty; it is my privilege. The fine is just money."

Cambridge straightened himself.

"It should be the other way around Edmund," Cambridge said. "Who, more than you, has the right to seat the throne of England? Yet he treats you like this and makes these ridiculous demands of the rest of us to give ourselves to his war, to give our money and our blood. Yet I know in my heart Edmund, that if the true and rightful King were upon the throne," Cambridge's finger slowly pointed to Mortimer, "we would have peace with France and we would all be left to manage ourselves and try to build our meager fortunes. We could all have peace and prosperity, if we just served the true King of England, Edmund Mortimer."

'So that is it,' Mortimer thought. 'There is a plot afoot and they want me at the heart of it.'

Mortimer tried to stand but there was no room in the small space between Cambridge and Scrope for him to rise.

"Sit Edmund. We will sup and make conversation. There is no need for you to bolt from our company. Hear this out."

The innkeeper placed a large wooden bowl of boiled cabbage, potato, turnip and onion in the middle of the table. A boy of nine or ten, the turnspit most likely, carried a platter of roasted meats. Fowl, mutton, pork and a loaf of offal and ground suet stuffed into a sheep stomach. After the few days of simple fair at the Greyfriars, the aroma of the meat made Mortimer's mouth water. Cambridge, Scrope and Grey placed their eating knives on the table, waiting for Mortimer to do the same, so they could give the meal blessing and sup while they talked.

"I have arranged a place of refuge, Edmund. We will take ourselves to Wales and rally support for your cause. You have us at your back. There are others that I'm certain will follow. Let Henry take his war to France. In the meantime we will assemble a force strong enough to usurp his position. If he survives his little war and were to return from the continent, we would have not only a military force at our back, but also the backing of sufficient peerage of the realm to claim the throne for you with the voice of parliament behind us. The throne Edmund, the seat that rightfully belongs to you. Or perhaps an even better plan. An immediate act. One that will not lead us to France at all. Henry's demise would mean the head of the snake is severed and our plan made much easier. You see Edmund," Cambridge smiled confidently, "all possibilities have been thought out. There is no risk."

"My cause? You speak revolt? Treason?" Mortimer stared hard at Cambridge, uncertain if this talk was a jest or the making of subterfuge. Perhaps Cambridge, his elder brother-in-law was mocking him, making light of his youth and naiveté. Or perhaps there was a serious plot afoot.

Henry Scrope remained silent, as if he was a mere observer. Thomas Grey appeared in reluctant agreement with the plan being laid out by Cambridge.

"Not conspiracy Edmund. It is certainly not treason to take what is rightfully yours. If not for yourself Edmund, think of your country. Think of the good you could do. Leadership from a man such as you could only bring a measure of vitality and prosperity back to England. We are withering under Henry and the Lancasters. We shall all be nothing soon but a bag of bones. If Henry has his way we will all be paupers in the street."

"I cannot go against my King," Mortimer said.

"He doesn't care about you Edmund, or any of us. You must face the fact that the King is a fawning, preening, supplicant of his own selfish desires, bent on serving his own avarice and mindless indulgence."

Mortimer looked to Scrope. The Baron stared back blankly, uncommitted to either argument.

Mortimer looked to Grey. The King's Knight nodded his head, though not so strongly as to say that Cambridge had his full support.

"Perhaps," Mortimer said, as he looked back to Cambridge. "But there is mortal risk in such a venture. I would have to give this proposition some thought."

"Yes of course Edmund," Cambridge said. "You must think about the Kingdom. You must do it for the people." Cambridge pushed the meat platter in front of Mortimer. "But do not take so long in your contemplation that our ship sails."

Mortimer looked at the meat placed in front of him. The luxuriant supper had turned plain and grey before his eyes; his appetite vanished.

Edmund Mortimer ate little. Before his companions had finished their own dining, he thanked Cambridge for the fine meal and excused himself, to return to the Greyfriars, a long ride in the dark. Cambridge insisted they share a room above the hall, for sleep. Plenty of daylight for a ride in the morning. But Mortimer said the return journey, with just his own company, would give his mind clarity to consider the proposal. He promised there would be an answer before the sailing.

Mortimer retrieved his horse from the stable down from the Red Lion. He mounted and took himself from the hamlet, but he did not turn to the road to Itchen Ferry. At the crossroad, Edmund Mortimer turned west in the pitch black, towards Portchester Castle.

Portchester Castle

"Speak the truth, Edmund, even if it makes you choke," Henry said.

Mortimer stood nervously; his hands clasped in front. Henry sat impatient. Maps and scrolls on the table before him.

"I have only just learned this your Highness."

Henry's jaw clamped tight like a vice. His glower burned into Mortimer, as if his young charge had confessed his own sin of conspiracy and guilt.

A chamber maid placed a pair of fresh faggots onto the diminishing embers in the hearth. She scooped spent charcoal into a bucket, trying to conceal any noise of her work. She did not dare to look at the King or Mortimer. She tried, as she might, to have her ears as deaf as she made her eyes blind to the men. But the fury in the King's voice, as he rose to charge at Edmund Mortimer, gave her such a fright that she screamed reflexively and fled the room.

As she scurried away, a thin dog crept into the King's chamber through the open door. It made its way along the wall then snuck beneath Henry's table. The hound quickly gobbled scraps of food that had fallen to the floor. It circled the King's feet in a hungry search for more leavings. In his fury to confront Mortimer, Henry kicked the mongrel in the ribs to move it from his path. The starving dog squealed in pain and fled the chamber, its tail tucked firmly between its legs.

Mortimer tensed. Henry rushed in front of his young charge and seized him by the throat. Mortimer did not try to defend himself.

"I will crush the life from any that oppose me," Henry roared. The vein in the center of his forehead swelled and pulsated, his faced deepened into furious red, the scar beneath his eye throbbed and wriggled like a worm on fire.

"I do not," Mortimer managed to choke out.

Henry held Mortimer in his grasp until the young man's face began to turn blood red. After many moments, conceding that Mortimer was just a messenger, an ally revealing a conspiracy, his stony grimace eased and slowly left his face, his clenched jaw began to slacken and he released his grip on Mortimer's throat.

"It is because of money, isn't it?" Henry claimed. "It could only be worse if they were cowards fleeing the field. You too are in my debt Edmund. Am I to suspect you as part of this conspiracy as well. Can you not all see that I have spent every waking hour begging money from all corners, cajoling and pleading and by all suffering even praying to God, and for what? Just money. Everybody just wants their purses and pockets taken care of and nobody has the heart of England in their mind. They are all so short sighted they cannot see that true wealth, long lasting wealth comes from the possession of power, strength comes from power. That power only comes from possession of the minds and bodies of those we subjugate. Our life, our legacy, our history comes through domination of the land that has been possessed by so many before us. We must have it, we must hold it, to have our place in history, though the cost may be a wound or limb or even our life. At all costs. It is worth these lives, there must be loyalty or all is lost. Loyalty Edmund. You are with me at all costs or you are against me. Which is it?"

Henry drew his short sword, bejeweled, sharpened, its edge never wasted on anything but human flesh. He held it against Mortimer's' throat, ready to draw it from ear to ear.

"You have my undying loyalty your Highness. If you doubt me then you must take my life as I stand before you." Mortimer tilted his head backwards, exposing his jugular to the King.

"We will do this for the ghosts of our ancestors Edmund. We owe them nothing less."

"Yes your Highness."

"It is true Edmund that your line would have been before mine, had the Black Prince lived. But it was my father, not yours, that claimed his place from King Richard. Richard who should have never sat the throne in the first place. You know this Edmund."

"Yes, I know this your Highness. That is why I bring you this dower secret, this plot bubbling in the pot, soon to boil over. I am with you until the end."

July 31st, 1415

The nobles of all retinues assembled at Southampton and vicinities were summoned by their sovereign to attend a meeting of the Royal Council at Portchester for discussion of the invasion plans. The King's Knights were called as well along with all high members of the clergy that would accompany the army to France. Such meetings were common, with much to arrange in connection with the coming expedition.

The Council members took their places in the great hall of Portchester Castle. An impressive group of leadership and soldiery. These were proud men, some arrogant, independent; all claimed to be men that the King could trust to support him with courage and loyalty. Yet, before many minutes passed, they learned that there were some among them capable of treachery.

When Henry had succeeded to the throne on the death of his father, two years before, he well knew of the dangerous weakness in his position. His father, Henry IV, son of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, had usurped the crown, deposing Richard II, who died childless, in captivity. By strict rule of inheritance there was one who had a stronger claim to the throne than Henry; this was Edmund Mortimer.

Richard Cambridge had agreed to serve Henry in the French campaign, reluctantly promising a force of two hundred knights and archers. Now he, Henry Scrope and Thomas Grey came to Southampton, seemingly to make preparations for the expedition. They came believing that time and place to move on Henry was before them, that once the coup began that Mortimer would be convinced of his destiny.

There were others present that day, that remained secret, but that had been also recruited by Cambridge to take part in the overthrow. The path to the crown was not as simple as the mere assassination of Henry V, Henry's child, young Henry, and brothers John, Thomas and Hugh must all be eliminated from claim. Not all had yet been communicated. Cambridge planned to use their presence at this assembly to see that all conspirators were ready to take their part at the right moment.

The collaborators agreed that the King and his brothers must die. The royal massacre was to be the signal for a general uprising. Cambridge dispatched messengers with secret orders to the conspirators' agents throughout the muster. The plotters were satisfied that Mortimer was with them.

It was the following day, at the assembly of the Council, with the three unsuspecting leaders of the conspiracy, in company, that Henry calmly informed the Council that he had received a report of a plot against his life and asked their advice as to what steps he should take. A hush followed. The truth exposed itself in Henry's stern gaze at Cambridge, Scrope and Grey, compelling the guilty three to see the game was up. Without waiting to be accused, all three stood and confessed before the assembled Council.

Henry stepped down from his dais and approached the three.

"I would kill you all with my bare hands," Henry growled from his throat. "I would rip the heart and lungs from your chest, for your despicable treason against England. I would do it now, before this council, in this great hall and make you bleed your life away, before all present, so they would know that I will suffer no disloyalty against the crown. I would do this as one animal takes the life of another. But I am not an animal. You will receive a fair trial by your peers and then you will be executed for your duplicity.

All three were hurried off to the dungeons.

Two days later they stood trial before a court of two judges, ten nobles and a jury of twelve local men. In his defense, Henry Scrope now claimed that he had not known that the plot involved the King's assassination, and that he had in any case intended to expose the conspiracy. Cambridge and Grey made a full admission of their guilt. Sir Thomas Grey, King's Knight, was immediately convicted of treason and sentenced to death. He was taken to a place of execution and his head was severed from his body. Cambridge and Scrope, being Peers of the Realm, insisted on their right of trial by their peers. Soon after, a new court of 20 Lords condemned Scrope and Cambridge to follow Grey to their death.

Thomas Grey was beheaded on August 2nd. His body was drawn and quartered. His head mounted on a stake at Newcastle, as a warning to others who may conspire, and as an example of the fate that would await them. Cambridge and Scrope suffered their fate three days later in front of the Bargate at Southampton. On August 7th, the King formally pardoned Edmund Mortimer for any nominal involvement in the plot.

Less than one week later, King Henry V stood on the docks at Southampton with Edmund Mortimer at his side. He stood beside his magnificent Trinity Royal, largest ship in the fleet, satisfied that all was ready for him to take France.

# 11 – Painted Words

I had seen words painted before, though never from as close as this. There was a nervous, excited feeling inside my belly as I sat at the polished cherrywood table in the dining hall of the Manor House. Bishop de Saintes had decorated the room in red velvet tapestry and long curtains, befitting an Archbishop, a post that he was hoping to be appointed to. Trappings he expected to move to a proper Bishop's Palace, if God would have it. The dining hall in the Manor House was many times larger than my hovel. For Robert, seated across from me, I'm sure the room was just a dining hall, no larger than most, decorated tastefully but not gilded, and just a fitting size and décor. The Manor House was much smaller than the chalet castle at Soissons.

"Tomorrow I shall seat Baiard and see how much more healing my wound shall require before I am able to journey home," Robert said. "I expect I am some time away from that ride though." He patted his right flank.

I nodded my agreement. I was doubtful that bouncing a few minutes on the road in front of the Carriage House would be enough indication of riding the day and a half it would take to return to Soissons.

"I am grateful for all you have done for me Gillet. You and Simone. And I've enjoyed your children very much. It would please me greatly if you would bring them here for a feast before I leave."

"They would like that very much Robert, though I'm not certain your Manor House will survive their attention. The children that is." I grinned. "Simone can usually be trusted to contain herself."

I studied Robert's face, thinking how young he really was and how different our stations and that it was never heard of for a noble to have a peasant in his house except as a servant. I wondered what Robert's elders would think of such an invite.

"I will prepare correspondence to Jeanne to let her know I am in 'mostly' good health and that I shall be in her company soon. Hopefully her health is also good and my son hasn't come while I have been away. I am also keen for this news of the English incursions. I will hear your prisoner. The English must be close by. Does the village have a rider that could carry my messages to Soissons and return with news?"

"You'll have no trouble finding an eager lad here for such a journey, a few even have experience with a horse. A good pace could see a round trip in two days, if your correspondents in Soissons can write their replies promptly."

"Perhaps you could find a pair willing to go. Less danger for two, than a lone rider. They could use the rounceys, of course. I wouldn't expect them to walk or work their own animals on my behalf. I will pay them."

"That will be easy to manage, Robert."

"I will write my letter then."

He asked Bishop de Saintes for a quill, ink pot, parchment and sealing wax.

"Yes, yes of course," said de Saintes and had an attendant bring the Bishop's own personal writing tableau.

Benoni Pétain stood in the street, outside the door of the Manor House, his hands bound, a rope around his neck, secured to the hitching post, as you might secure a horse. Rousseau sat on the ground beside him, as his guard.

Robert rested his back in the tall chair, deep in thought for several minutes. It was as though he was composing his entire letter to Jeanne in his mind before he put quill to page. I sat across watching the young man flick the feather quill across his nose, up and down both cheeks, under his chin and tap it on his eyelids as he thought. This pondering and speculating was the part of writing that I believed I could do just as well. The part I did not have any mastery of was the actual scribing of words onto paper. This was the achievement that I thought must be a blessing gifted by God only to those that had the good fortune of high birth. Given by grace, the benefit of a technology so powerful that a person's thoughts could be drawn as words on paper and conveyed to another person far distant and communicated to them without even having to be in their presence. How much superior this expertise is than having to carry thoughts by word of mouth alone, with opportunity to misspeak or misinterpret. To be able to write words and to be able to read them back with understanding.

"May I watch you write?" I asked.

"Write? Write a letter?" Robert said, surprised. "It may be quite boring for you to watch me write but you are welcome to do so if you wish." He dipped the quill tip into the ink pot. "If you come to this side, by me, you'll be able to better read my words."

I shrugged my shoulders. "I cannot read words Robert. Nor write them. But I find great beauty in watching them put down. Like watching a great artist paint a masterpiece."

"You don't write, of course." Robert said, realizing that no peasant would have such a skill. "Sit by me anyway and I will tell you what I am writing as I write it. At least you can see what the words look like."

I moved around the table and sat enthusiastically beside Robert.

" _My Dearest Lady Jeanne_ ," he spoke as he wrote, _"I have been delayed on my tour of our estates. Laid upon by English brigands and wounded slightly. There is no need for you to worry, I am in good body and spirit. I have been taken in and mended by a fine family and am convalescing here in our village of Meaux. I shall return to you shortly. Hopefully before the birth of our son, as I would very much enjoy to be present at the time of his arrival."_ Robert held his quill up, turned and looked at me. "I would name him after you. With your permission?" he asked me.

I was taken off guard. I fumbled with my words, "Such an honor. Of course, Lord, Robert." I thought a moment then said, "and I shall name my new son for you, if that is suitable."

"An honor for me as well," Robert said, "unless your child is a girl." We laughed. "If mine is a girl, I shall name her after my precious Jeanne. Then I will have two of the most wonderful ladies living in my own household." He dipped the quill, "and you shall have all the others."

Robert continued his letter.

" _The Manor House in Meaux is not large but is of recent construction, as I am told the Chalet Castle was taken by fire. You will find it suitable to your taste and quite comfortable. The people of the village are most hospitable and the local Bishop, a kindly man, will serve our Godly needs well. I have not made acquaintance at any of the baronages or knightly holdings in the county but that shall come. In all, I believe this estate fits the view we share in which to raise our son. I feel that I shall be fit to travel to you by the next new moon._

Until then my dearest and lovely Lady.

Robert-"

I nodded. "Your manner with words deserves high praise."

"I must also draft a letter to my Chamberlain. Matters of business and such. And I am curious of any news he has about this English invasion. The last I had heard was of a possible landing at Chef-en-Caux or perhaps a siege at Harfleur with a sizeable force. Some say they will cross the channel at Calais, it is much closer to England. You say that your prisoner possesses some knowledge of this."

"Yes. Harfleur he says. Up the Seine and straight for Paris perhaps." I said, "One could hope the English would stop and dine at our King's table and not bother coming further east to trouble our small village."

"I must have the proper news if a fight is imminent. I shan't miss a chance to show my worth and be given a place in the van, should there be a battle. I am keen to see more English life blood on my blade and more of their ransom in my coffers."

"I know they are our enemy and that I am just a peasant and know nothing of real battles and war, but my blade against the English is only in defense; and of course for you to put that Englishman out of his suffering. I see no honor in killing. Each life that I have taken has surely lessened my own soul. I have no training or great skill ,as you do, nor do I relish drawing blood. I will only take a life if I must."

"I kill when I must as well. This war against the English is always defense. We do not go to their homeland and raid their villages, destroy crops and farm beasts, burn their homes and rape their women. For me there is honor and courage in it. If you or I were not to take up arms, we would be seen as a coward. There could be nothing worse."

"What about Soissons," I said.

Robert ignored me. "If my father were alive perhaps my chance to be in the vanguard in a battle would have already come. Instead I am held protected behind my uncles' skirts. But I will have my glory and the ransoms that I will capture by taking English nobles. For that to take place I must be in the van or all the rich pickings will be claimed before I can make my mark. This is our way, Gillet."

I couldn't help but think it strange that there was such opposite difference in our young noble. He welcomed the violence of battle, the gruesomeness of bloodletting, for the opportunity of the prize of ransom, yet he was able to make such beauty in his drawing of words with ink.

"Blood and ink," I said.

"Both hold their own beauty for me," Robert said.

"It is enough struggle for us to draw food from the soil."

I watched him a long while. At one point, Robert gave me my own parchment and encouraged me to draw my own words. But I confess there was no beauty at all in my drawing. My marks looked like chicken foot scratchings in the dirt. At one point, Robert held his hand on mine, guiding the form of my letters on the page, as a parent might hold its child's hand, with spoon, to show it how to lift its food. Still there was no comparing my scraping of the black ink to the beauty of Roberts writing. But Robert of Bar did educate my hand sufficiently that I was able to draw a G and a C. This, he said, gave me privilege to sign my name official, with the G of Gillet and the C of Charron. This, he said, rose me above the class of men that had to make their mark with a simple X. Such was befitting the Reeve of Meaux.

Robert folded his letter, melted sealing wax on the edge and pressed the seal from his signet into the soft wax.

Robert had me bring the prisoner, Benoni Pétain, before him. He had stood bound all the while to the hitching post. Rousseau had fallen asleep against the wall of the Manor House.

"He is French," Robert said.

"He is the one that rode with the English, that we met on our way to your Manor House," I said.

"You are a traitor," Robert said to Pétain.

"I did not ride with them by my own choice, Sire," Pétain said. "I went for fear of my family's safety. Terrible things can happen to innocent people at the hands of barbarous savages. Despicable, cruel things. Murder and even worse."

"Take the rope from his neck," Robert said. "And unbind his hands."

"I was seconded as their translator, Lord. Praise goes to God for the opportunity to make my escape from them." Pétain sat himself across from Robert.

"And now you are brought here before me as a prisoner. I can only take this to mean that you have not convinced Monsieur Charron of your total innocence, that there is still some suspicion about your circumstance."

"That is why I have brought him to you Robert," I said. "This is your domain. I am no bailiff or magistrate. It is not for me to say he is innocent or guilty, though he did ride with the English. He says he is from Soissons. Perhaps you know him."

Robert did not recognize Benoni Pétain, but the prisoner knew of Robert.

"I had no choice, Sire," Pétain said. "But as troubled as my days have been, it must be through God's grace that he placed me amongst the English. I have learned much about great danger that approaches. Secrets that must be shared quickly or all of France is in danger."

"Tell me these secrets," Robert said. "I will decide if there is danger. But I warn you, if you lie or say false things, it will cost you your tongue."

Pétain rubbed his wrists where his bonds had chaffed away his skin.

"The citizens would have him hanged straight away," I said.

"He's not to be trusted," Rousseau said, from the back of the room. "I captured him. It was too easy. Don't trust this man."

Pétain rubbed his neck, where the noose had burned a red rash collar.

"I'm just a haberdasher," Pétain said. "I am no soldier or English spy. I just want to return to my home and find my wife and children safe. But knowing what I know, I can say that none of us will be safe if we don't prepare for the English attack that is coming."

"Monsieur, the English have been here for so many years there is no news in their attack. All that would be new would be which side they favor on this day. Are they with us or are they with the Burgundians. To my best knowledge they were not with us when we expelled them from Soissons. When we took back what is ours."

Pétain sat stone faced.

"John of Burgundy sits in Paris, at the Queens pleasure, no doubt, while we fed the enemies of France from our own properties." Robert shuffled in his seat, his buttock wound beginning to discomfort him.

"Precisely Sire," Pétain said. "The worst is yet to come. It is imminent. Warnings must be sent."

"Don't trust him," Rousseau grumbled.

I was forced to shush my compatriot and signal him to leave the room.

Pétain continued. "The garrison was commanded by Enguerrand de Bournonville. A very fine man-at-arms and a respected captain who carried out many actions for Duke John. A veteran of many battles. He had a small force of men from Artois and Picardy along with the English freebooters that had been sent to reinforce him, as part of the alliance that Duke John had arranged with the English. The English bastards have played us against each other for a long time now. They mock us, for the conflict between Burgundian and Armagnac, our little civil war they call it. Happy they are, to have French setting on French. But the Captain did not have sufficient force, even with the English, to defend against the Armagnac, against your people. Soissons was taken in a violent chevauchee, breaching all chivalric conventions. Men were slaughtered. Not just the soldiers but plain citizens, like me. Women were raped, even nuns, churches were ransacked and burned. Small children fled the town into the hills and woods. Some were thrown into the river. The Armagnac claimed all people of Soissons to be traitors, even though it was not our place to choose any side at all. We just wanted to go about our daily lives in peace. It was not war; it was worse than war."

"Yet you are here, Monsieur Pétain."

"I left, when the English fled. Fled with those that weren't captured and executed. I had no choice. The Armagnacs accused me of being a collaborator. My Burgundian neighbors supported this claim. But they said this only so they could save themselves and their property from the Armagnacs."

"You say that your family was taken hostage."

Pétain grew silent, his eyes fixed in a distant stare as he thought of the faces of his wife and children. His eyes glistened with sorrow.

"I am resigned that I shall never see them again, until we are all together in heaven." Pétain's head lowered as he slunk in his chair.

"So it is that you would share the secrets you have learned about a great English invasion about to come over France. I have heard some rumors of this." Robert stood and walked around the table to the front of Pétain. "I was in Soissons," Robert said. "We reclaimed what had been taken from us by the Burgundians and English. Our enemies and their collaborators, their spies, all received just punishment."

"The nuns were not your enemies," Pétain said. "The children held no malice towards you. Yet they suffered as if they were nothing more than cheap meat to be slaughtered and consumed."

"I was not part of that," Robert offered. "Brutal things happen in times of war. Sometimes men wander from pious ways."

Pétain looked down at Robert's burgundy riding boots.

"I hope that your family remains safe with the English," Robert said.

Pétain raised his eyes to Roberts. His face was hard and blank as slate.

"You have my pity," Robert said.

Pétain said nothing.

It seemed to me, from Pétain's story, that nothing the English had inflicted on the citizens of Soissons exceeded the miseries wreaked upon them by their own countrymen. Robert did not show this same regret. Though he was not harsh with Benoni Pétain, he continued his interrogation until he was satisfied that he had extracted every secret about the planned invasion by the English force. This was a side of Robert I had not seen until now. I understood well enough the chasm between noble and peasant but Robert had seemed well enough suited to our way of thinking, like a commoner, like one of us. But in the course of his interrogation of Benoni Pétain, another person emerged from inside him. A person that found it easy to be cruel and unforgiving. There was little left unsaid.

"I must take this news to my Uncle," Robert said. "He will send word to the King. All the Lords and nobles, knights and men-at-arms must be warned. We must assemble a force to repel the English."

"You are a month away from taking news to anybody," I said. "Write the words and let a messenger carry them to your Uncle, as we already planned to have your letter to your wife delivered."

Bishop de Saintes entered the hall carrying a silver tray, upon which was a crystal decanter, filled to the brim with wine and a pewter vase, spilling over with sweet mead. He cringed as each unsteady step sloshed precious liquid onto the tray.

"So much talk can dry a throat and make a hoarse voice," the Bishop said as he placed the tray on the table. "We must refresh ourselves."

A novice from the Bishop's deanery followed behind him with a plate of smoked meats and a pair of eating knives. Another boy followed with a plate of fruits and small cakes.

When the talking was finally done, Robert limped back to his chair and invited us to partake of the victuals brought by Bishop de Saintes.

Rousseau made his way to the table, reached for a cake, careful not to be too close to Pétain.

"I will travel with you Sire," Pétain said. "If you permit me. I could aid you in your travel, tend your wound if needed. Perhaps steer a cart so you could ease yourself, rather than seat a horse for the journey."

"I do not have patience to travel by cart, like a woman," Robert said. "Baiard can take me."

I shook my head. "You will not last two leagues. All of Simone's needlework will come undone and be for naught. Even travelling by cart would be too rough. Wait just a while longer."

I could see that Robert did not care for my advice, though he weighed it.

"This is serious news," Robert said, "If it is true. Should England be massing for an invasion the calamity that would befall us will make these skirmishes like Soissons seem like nothing more than a hard rain."

"If it is true," I said, "then it is most likely that King Charles already knows about it. He must have a bevy of professional spies that would already know about such a thing. A large invasion could not be kept secret."

Robert slid the plate of smoked meat to Pétain. Pétain's eyes went instantly to the eating knives. I watched as his gaze held steady on the blades, as his thoughts bubbled like a cauldron of boiling pottage. I made ready in case he took some dastardly action and caught us unsuspecting. He moved slowly. His arm raised, reaching toward the plate, toward the clean sharp blade of the eating knife. But as Robert spoke, Pétain took a mutton rib from the plate with a nod of thanks to Bishop de Saintes.

"I can go to Soissons and give the warning to my Uncle. He can take the news to Paris if he judges it worthy. This will allow me to see my Jeanne and make sure all is well with her. She was just settling into the chalet castle when I left to inspect the estates. But if the English are coming in force, the chalet castle will need fortification. There had been damage. I can't expect Jeanne to manage that herself." Robert tried to convince himself that this was a sound plan.

"An injured man, travelling alone on a road where English freebooters have already attacked him. Folly." I said. "You can go of course, you are the Lord, but if you were my own son I would say to find a better way."

"No," Pétain insisted. "It is a sound plan. I will accompany the Sire. If we encounter English I can persuade them to let us go about our way."

Bishop de Saintes made his way around the table, filling cups with drink.

"It is my duty to take this news," Robert said.

"Any one of us here can take word to your uncle. You can write the message yourself, in your own words. We could pass the word before you could even journey half way," I said. "Or give your correspondence to Monsieur Pétain, since he wishes to return to Soissons anyway."

"That will be the last of it," Rousseau said. "He will bugger off back to the English and betray us all."

"If that was my plan, I would not have made my way back here and allowed you to capture me," Pétain said.

"Trickery," Rousseau insisted.

"I'm inclined to trust this man," Robert said. "But Gillet is right, I'm not yet fit to travel. If I wait until the stitching is healed enough, an English invasion could be down our throats by then."

"No," Pétain said. "We must go together. Your Uncle would have no reason to trust me. You must bring the message yourself. And see your wife, as you said."

"Time, just time," Bishop de Saintes said. He slid the meat platter closer in front of Pétain. "Here, chew on some pigs ear my son."

Pétain pushed the platter away. "I can take you. We must go today; we must make haste."

A curious thing, for this man who was just a short time ago a prisoner, to make such bold suggestions.

Robert shook his head. "No, Gillet is right. I must heal fully. If there is to be an English invasion I must be ready to battle the enemy. Another week or two respite should make all the difference."

"No," Pétain slammed the flat of his hand on the table. The noise of it made me draw back with a start. "For the sake of France you must take this message to Soissons, to your Uncle or whomever is in authority. Or ride to Paris yourself and give the warning. I will go with you as your witness, as your guard, as your nurse if need be. But you must not hesitate. I would go myself, alone, but who would believe me. You yourself have encountered the English spies and been saved from your own death. You are the Lord of the Manor; they must believe you. We must make haste. Today. Have them ready your horse and mine as well. And think of your wife, as you said. What could be better than taking yourself to her in person so that she can see you are well and safe."

Robert tipped his head back and forth as if he were juggling thoughts, the good and the bad of such an idea. In the end he relented to Benoni Pétain's cajoling. I disagreed, of course, but left the Manor to make Baiard ready for Robert's journey.

Pétain took a meat knife from the plate and carved himself a slice of roasted flesh.

It was at the very place in the road where Robert had taken the arrow in his backside, that Benoni Pétain drew the eating knife from his tunic and lunged at our young noble. Had it not been for their horses haunches butting together, the blade would have found its way into Roberts neck. Baiard shuffled sideways and Pétain slashed at empty air. The destrier balked, pulling its front legs into the air. Robert slid back against his saddle and felt his stitching separate. He winced at the pain. With Robert's eyes closed, Pétain leaned forward and slashed again. But this time I rushed from my hiding place on the berm, grabbed the assailants arm and pulled him from his horse. Pétain fell to the ground on his back. I slammed my foot onto his wrist and the eating knife fell from his hand. Rousseau stepped on Pétain's throat and struck his forehead with the end of his stave.

"Was it your plan to kill our Lord on the road?" I said. "We thought you would wait at least until he slept. While he was alone, away from us, unguarded."

"He gets what he deserves. He gets his punishment on earth for taking my wife and children," Pétain said.

"He is not the English," I said. "He does not hold your family hostage."

"They are not hostage," Pétain said, the strain in his body withered away as if he collapsed further into the ground. Blood seeped from the purple knot forming on his forehead. "I said those things to get close. So I could take my revenge." He pointed to Robert's boots. "Those are the last thing I saw, from the floor of my home as my wife was taken by force, her body violated. Those burgundy boots carried my children from my house and made them disappear from my life. Why? Because I had English and could speak between both sides. I would have stayed and suffered death with my family but it was the man who wore those boots that had me expelled along with other citizens of Soissons. Citizens both Burgundian and Armagnac. Is it no wonder that I took up with the English. Now I have confessed. Take my life now, I have nothing to stay alive for." A rivulet of tear flowed from Pétain's eye and mixed with the blood flowing from his forehead.

Robert slid himself off Baiard and stood over Pétain.

"I took no woman at Soissons," Robert said. "Not your wife or any other. It is true there was savagery when we took back the town. It is true there was punishment laid upon English and Burgundian. Perhaps some of our followers even fell on Armagnac citizens of the town. Collaborators. Traitors. I am not the only man that wears boots like this. They are made special for the men of Bar."

"You slaughtered the archers. Unarmed prisoners executed like dogs in the street. Hanged, beheaded, drawn and quartered. Madness. The blood of so many will never be washed clean from the cobblestone. We had no choice but to serve whatever master claimed lordship over us. Burgundian or Armagnac. Yet you treated us like traitors, as if we were your enemy. It is you that put me with the English."

"I am sorry for your family Monsieur Pétain. I am sorry for the things that were done in the cloud of war. There was no honor in it." Robert turned away. Blood seeped through the buttock of his breeches.

"Is this fight against England or France?" I asked, looking first at Robert as he walked away, then at Benoni Pétain.

"Our families are both princes of the blood," Robert said. "The Burgundians and Armagnacs. We both have lines to the throne of France. It is as though we are poised like vultures waiting over the death of our mad King. Waiting to impose ourselves through the young Dauphin. For now that seat belongs to John of Burgundy. Only because he murdered our cousin Louis and usurped his position. We have shed him from Soissons only to have him take his court to Paris and the Queens bed. The English King knows this. That is why he uses this moment to invade us. We are weak, fighting against ourselves."

"What shall I do with him," Rousseau asked. "He will try to kill you again if I let him go."

Robert turned and looked at Pétain on the ground. "Give him whatever mercy he asks for."

Rousseau looked to me, to answer what Pétain's fate should be.

"All are guilty. There are no innocent sides in war," I said.

"I shall make my way back to Meaux," Robert said, holding his hand against the wound reopened on his backside, "and suffer Simone's wrath, no doubt."

# 12 - The Siege of Harfleur

They came across the channel like a plague of locusts.

At 3 o'clock in the afternoon on Sunday the 11th of August 1415, Henry V gave the signal to launch his invasion on France. Fifteen hundred boats and ships hoisted anchor and cast sail, making their way into the channel from the shelter of the harbor at Southampton. They were a motley collection of small merchant vessels, cogs, balingers and carracks, light Mediterranean ships, double masted, triangular sailed, some with banks of oarsmen and some mighty warships, like the King's own Trinity Royal.

At the head of the fleet, escorted by his admiral Thomas Beaufort, Earl of Dorset, and a convoy of 15 ships carrying 150 men-at-arms and 300 archers, the Trinity Royal, forged unstoppable, even against the rough waters of the channel. There was no mistaking whom she carried on board or what was the purpose of this voyage. The royal coat of arms, a shield quartered with the three lions of England and three fleurs-de-lis of France, was painted on her sail. A golden crown adorned her top-castle and a gilded scepter worked with three fleurs-de-lis decorated the capstan. Henry stood at the deckhead, just above the carved wooden figure of a crowned leopard. Painted and gilt, it bore six shields, four of which showed the King's arms within a collar of gold, another displayed the arms of St. George, the Patron Saint of England, within the garter, the emblem of English chivalry.

"This is what gives me strength Edmund," Henry said. "Taking what is mine by the right of God and birth. It makes me feel power inside, the way a King should feel. Do you know what I mean Edmund?"

"Yes Highness," Mortimer nodded, holding firmly to the gunnel, the churn of the sea and the rolling ship in his belly.

Henry looked at his green faced Earl. "I doubt that you do Edmund, but no matter."

Henry was so consumed with his venture that no wave or wind was enough to distract the thoughts that possessed him. It was a right thing to do. He had given them every chance to provide his due peacefully. As required by chivalric rule, he would offer the peace to Harfleur, by the law of Deuteronomy, though he knew they would not simply forgo their home and property. He knew then his true campaign would begin in earnest and he could commence his march into France, to Paris and seize the crown that belonged to him. He was meticulously prepared and even this final offer of peace was an exercise of the formality of war. They may resist him, but their resistance would be futile. Henry could imagine nothing less than his total victory. No thought of his own defeat ever occurred to him. God was with him.

Two days after they put to sea, late in the afternoon, the sun still just above the horizon at their back, the fleet sailed into the bay that lies at the mouth of the River Seine. There they dropped anchor in the shelter of the Chef-en-Caux, on the westernmost point at the great chalk headland of upper Normandy.

Henry's choice to land his force at Harfleur was not by chance. He saw this as a means of securing a second beachhead into France and the continent, south of his fortress at Calais. He stood on the foredeck, foot upon the balustrade, with Edmund Mortimer at his side gazing out upon the marshy tidal flats at the promontory to the walls of Harfleur. He thought he saw the monk Gob, standing at the shoreline, waving to him. Henry rubbed his eyes, squinting against the dusk to be certain he was actually seeing the curious man at the shore. But there was no waving monk.

Anchors were dropped. The disembarkation of men, horses, siege engines, canon and powder and other armaments and supplies was tedious and dangerous. The citizens of Harfleur had barricaded the inner harbor where larger ships might have had an easier time unloading their goods. The English were forced to transport all their manner of supply by barge, through the flats, to positions that were elevated and dry enough to bivouac. The King did not come to shore in the first days. He stood upon the deck of the Trinity Royal overseeing the landing. There were times where it seemed to Henry that he saw Gob the monk walking amongst his landing party, sometimes sitting at the cook fire, eating victuals and conversing with the men.

It had been the monks at the priory of Graville, from their prominence, high above the bay, that were the first to see the English fleet as it arrived. It was they that were the first to send word down the hill to Harfleur to warn that the invasion had come. Many in the town had been warned of the imminent incursion but had convinced themselves that the inevitable would not happen. But they were wrong.

It should've been easy for the French to prevent the landing. Even though not a hand was raised against them, it still took the English three days to disembark fully, during which time they were at the weakest and constantly vulnerable to attack. The French also had the advantage of an inexhaustible supply of ready ammunition, in the form of gun stones from the beach and river bed. However, as a result of their slackness, folly or at their great lack of foresight, Harfleur was left poorly defended, even when, as far as one could judge, the resistance by even a few with manly hearts, would have kept the English at bay, certainly for a long time and perhaps indefinitely. It was a mortifying failure not to offer even a token resistance at the landing site.

The time and place of Henry's landing had been highly suspected from communications given by French spies. The Constable of France, Charles d'Albret, had brought a sizeable force to the Seine estuary in anticipation of a landing. Unfortunately he marshalled his force on the southern shore of the bay at Honfleur, as it was clear that it would be folly to attempt any kind of landing and disembarkation on the northern shore at Harfleur. Harfleur was surrounded on three sides by waterways and marshy swamp. Even the tidal flats were only passable for a few hours each day. The only exposed access to the town had been sealed off by damming the river and forming a lake to that side of the city walls. But d'Albret was wrong and his force was positioned opposite to where it was needed. It was possible for him to swing his force about and cross the river, but that would have left Honfleur undefended. Henry could have easily redirected his force across the bay to Honfleur and taken that which d'Albret would have left unguarded.

When the disembarkation of men and horse was near complete, Henry departed the Trinity Royal and took up residence at the ancient priory of Graville, amongst the monks that first reported his landing. His brothers, Thomas and Hugh, found quarters nearby, but the rest of the army had to find lodgings where they could, some in the hamlets, closes, and orchards on the steep slopes of the little valley beyond the shore.

It was a meagre room, the Prior's quarters that Henry seconded. It gave the best view to the beachhead and landing, to the valley that led from the water to the walls of Harfleur. To see the landing, twelve thousand men, twenty thousand horses, a dozen massive siege guns and the endless supply of goods and armaments needed to support an army, gave weight to the vision Henry had and made it real. Like all the battles he had engaged in before, it filled him with the excitement of danger. He could taste victory like sweet blood upon his tongue. It was almost as though the prize of France did not matter. It was the primordial thrill of the fight that flooded through him. It was not the thrill of victory that seized his thoughts but the trepidation of defeat that compelled Henry, the King, to oversee every aspect of the landing to insure nothing was forgotten, no element misplaced. It was on him to manipulate every piece on his side of the game of war and force victory to be his. It was the thought of failure to achieve this that drove him.

Henry turned from the window, back into the Prior's cell. He knelt at the small alter fashioned against the stone wall and gave prayer.

"God in heaven, give me victory or give me death, as I seek to fulfill the command you have given me and the promise I have made to see it through. These lands belong to England, I will bring them back to her in your name, as you have willed it."

The hair rose on the back of his neck as he prayed. He turned, expecting to see Gob behind him, watching him. But there was only empty air.

After the long wait in Southampton and the days of close confinement on board ship, there was inevitably a strong temptation to run riot and especially, to loot, take booty and other soft prizes. Few Lords bivouacked with their retinues and cared little about the inevitable looting of the common. But Henry would not allow his army to be a rabble of thieves and miscreants. There would be discipline and order.

Several properties on the outskirts of Harfleur had already been burned before Henry issued a set of ordinances and commands that were to be the code of conduct for the campaign, not just at Harfleur but to all ends where victory would be gained.

'On pain of death there is to be no more arson; churches, sacred buildings and other property shall be preserved intact; no one should lay hands upon a woman or on a priest or servant of a church, unless he happens to be armed, offers violence, or makes attack on anyone.'

Harfleur's strategic importance meant that it enjoyed the best protection that military might could devise. Great stone walls two and a half miles in circumference fortified at intervals with twenty-four watchtowers, encircled a whole town and its harbor. Many of the towers provided vantage points from which flanking fire could be rained on anyone approaching the walls. There were only three gates guarding the entrances into the town; from Montivilliers to the north, Rouen to the south-east and Leure to the south-west. Each of the three gates was protected by a bastion, a portcullis and a draw bridge over a water filled moat. These permanent defenses were also strengthened against projectile attack from catapult, trebuchet or canon, by thick tree trunks driven into the ground and lashed together on the outside with earth in timber shoring up the walls on the inside.

The defense of Harfleur had been entrusted to Jean d'Estouteville, Grand Butler of France. His garrison of one hundred men at arms could not match the invasion force. Even with civilian assistance it was not large enough to be able to offer any prolonged resistance against a determined English assault. Harfleur would have capitulated immediately had it not been for the courage of Raoul de Gaucourt, a knight from a noble Picard family with a long and distinguished record of service to the crown. Like his father before him, he was deeply attached to the Armagnac cause and had strong personal connections with the Constable, Charles d'Albret and Marshal Boucicault.

Raoul de Gaucourt, a chivalric knight, was a man committed to live out the knightly ideal. His life knew no course other than courage and bravery and adherence to the laws of war. He was forty-four; had been knighted at twenty-six on the field at Nicopolis, crusading with Marshal Boucicault against the Turks, a battle that turned into disaster. He was captured and put to ransom. With Boucicault and a dozen other French Knights, he founded the Order of the White Lady, vowed to guard and defend the honor, estate, goods, reputation and praise all ladies and maidens of noble line and fight against their oppressors. Such noble ladies were at Harfleur when the English laid siege; de Gaucourt was compelled to come to their relief.

Constable d'Albret and Marshal Boucicault had not been entirely idle during the English landing. As soon as it became clear that Harfleur was Henry's objective, they sent a stream of supplies, including weapons, cannon and ammunition, to reinforce the town. Raoul de Gaucourt, their most trustworthy knight, was chosen to take charge of the defenses.

The only access left open was through the Rouen gate on the eastern side, but with the English rapidly encircling Harfleur, time was of the essence. Fortunately the flooded fields that denied him access to Harfleur from Montivilliers also protected de Gaucourt, for the moment, from the English camped on the hillside before the Leure gate. They could only watch as he led his small retinue of three hundred men at arms unopposed down the other side of the valley and into the town.

Henry raged at this outmaneuvering and vowed that the Frenchman that executed this reinforcement would not be forgotten or forgiven for his action. But Henry was equally angered at his own force for allowing this breach to occur. It was imperative that no further reinforcements reach the town by the Rouen road. He entrusted his brother Thomas, Duke of Clarence, to secure that access and cut off all avenues to Harfleur. Thomas too, was known as a knight no less renowned in the practice of war than for his personal courage. He bore the scars of his many adventures.

Under cover of darkness, Thomas led a large force of men and artillery around the Lezard Valley, now flooded into a lake. Their route was precise and successful in cutting off the supply train that followed de Gaucourt into Harfleur. Thomas captured cannon, powder and soldiery, truncating the reinforcement of Harfleur. By dawn of the following day, Raoul de Gaucourt, standing upon the ramparts from inside the walls of Harfleur, saw Henry's force complete the encirclement of the town on three sides and the King's brother on the hillside opposite closing off the other. Trapped between two armies, the Seine blockaded by English vessels, Harfleur was surrounded. The siege had begun.

Before beginning bombardment from his heavy armament, Henry, as required by the laws of war, gave Harfleur their last chance to surrender, which he knew they could not accept, giving him the moral right to engage. Though de Gaucourt and d'Estouteville knew what consequences awaited them by their refusal, honor required them to defy the offer of surrender.

The King of England, who had failed to obtain his just rights and inheritances through diplomacy, would claim them by sword. Henry ordered all the houses and buildings outside the walls and bastions to be set to flame and burnt to the ground. This cleared the plains so that his large guns and siege engines could be brought close enough to begin bombardment of the walls and the buildings of the town within. When the assault began it was as though the fury of hell rained down upon Harfleur from the heavens. Seventy-eight English gunners worked in shifts, relentless with continuous assault. Massive gun stones fell like hail upon the outer walls and upon the homes and shops inside their protection. The main attack was trained upon the bastion guarding the Leure gate. As ten thousand gun stones pounded upon Harfleur's fortifications, they gradually weakened and crumbled the walls and shattered the buildings within into rubble and dust.

The assault was overwhelming, but de Gaucourt inspired his men to hold their posts and fight back for the honor of France. And they did fight back, with their own cannon and crossbows from the bastion and towers and crumbling walls. When it was no longer possible to defend the shattered remnants of the Leure gate, and English men at arms spewed across broken stone and wood, the French defended from behind screens and shields and through broken rents in the masonry of the town wall and other holes and torn places. There was no escape from the onslaught. Bit by bit the English artillery chipped away at the lives of the soldiers and civilians inside the town. There was no quarter given and mothers with babes in arms fell to the merciless onslaught as easily as the soldiers upon the walls had fallen.

During periods of rest and respite, while the English brought more gun-stones to the forward positions, de Gaucourt had his men repair the broken fortifications as best they could with rubble and sticks and mounds of earth. But while the French did this, the English mined beneath the walls and ramparts of Harfleur like moles digging through the dark earth to rise out of the ground and deliver themselves into the midst of their enemy as demons rising from the earth might do. To counter this effort, de Gaucourt had boiling tubs of water and urine poured into the English shafts to scald the miners at their work and send them fleeing back to their lines. He had counter mines dug beneath the English tunnels to make them collapse before they reached the walls. Brushwood and pots of flame and powder were thrown in to the mines to set the props on fire and cause collapse. Knights and squires were sent into the tunnels to engage in mortal combat underground.

The English came and then drew back, then came again and again, repelled by the diminishing defense being offered. Raoul de Gaucourt commanded his men from the front of the line. Raging like a bull, de Gaucourt cleaved skulls by axe and sword. The fight was fierce and bloody. Men fell severed from collar bone to lung, limbs hacked away, men impaled through torsos amongst screams of death and wails of agony, some begging for death to come and take the pain, others crying for their mothers. Blood pumped from open wounds swirling with piss and shit in the muddy ground.

His young squire, just made a knight, fell beside de Gaucourt, his arm hacked through, his shoulder still attached, dropped face down into the swill. His life blood leaked from the wide opening, his wound so severe that he felt no pain as the curtain of death dropped over him, taking him into his long sleep. The English were pushed back, prevented from gaining the town, but de Gaucourt knew it was only a matter of time. His small force could not endure the onslaught indefinitely. Henry knew this as well.

The siege of Harfleur continued in this manner. Attack, repel, attack, repel. After the walls had been irreparably damaged by the twelve great guns and other traditional artillery of the English siege train, Henry planned a final assault one month to the day that the town had been enveloped.

Raoul de Gaucourt, despite his courage and experience, was no match against the English. His three hundred men at arms, d'Estouteville's hundred men and the few men that could be mustered from the citizens of Harfleur could not stand against the thousands of English soldiers and mercenaries. As the situation had grown more desperate, de Gaucourt sent a message to the Dauphin pleading for assistance so the town would not be compelled to surrender. But the Dauphin delayed the messenger an audience repeatedly until finally, when he could no longer refuse their plea, he casually dismissed him with the weak assurance that 'the King would deal with de Gaucourt's request at an opportune moment.' But the King had been sheltered in his bed chamber for most of the year, suffering from a bout of madness that kept him absent from his throne. All that the messenger could do was report back to de Gaucourt that an army of forty thousand was assembling at Rouen but he could not say that it would come to Harfleur to save them.

"God has brought us to this end," de Gaucourt said. He sat haggard and weary from the long fight. He bore cuts and bruises from his many skirmishes, though he did not take notice of them.

"Perhaps the Constable will bring his army yet," d'Estouteville said.

"Jean, we both know that will not happen."

"Perhaps the King will send soldiers from Rouen."

"They are not coming," de Gaucourt shook his head. "We must seek a parlay with the English."

"Surrender?" d'Estouteville questioned.

"We must take measure. It is time."

"They will hang us."

"This English King is a man of honor and law. He offered surrender before his first attack, as is required. We must honor the law of war to submit to surrender when all is lost, so further carnage on both sides can be assuaged."

"There will be no mercy."

"We are soldiers my friend. We are due no mercy. But the citizens, the innocents, the women and children must be spared. That will only happen if we beg their cause."

The siege had taken much longer than expected. The continuous battering against the walls and incursions of English forces against French and even the hand to hand fighting of the bravest in the flickering torch light of the mines had not yet forced surrender.

"We should have sailed here months sooner," Henry reflected to Mortimer. "I should have forced the financing sooner, assembled the army sooner, provisioned it sooner and been in France no later than early summer. This delay will cost us Edmund. It will cost us time. It will cost us the entire campaign season. Winter will be upon us before we can take Rouen and make our way to Paris. We should have taken this port within a week and now it has been more than a month."

Provisions for the soldiery were strictly rationed, despite no shortage of supply of fish, wheat, corn, beef and wine and ale. Even barrels of fresh salmon were brought in large quantities. But the length of the siege against Harfleur had tapped supply that was intended for use when the army was much further inland, so meals had been cut in half to once a day. Many had taken to scavenging clams and other mollusks that were abundant on the flats and amongst the rocks on the shoreline, to fill their bellies. They did not realize that the seafood from the harbor was not fit to consume as it filtered the raw sewage that flowed down the Lezard into the estuary. Sickness spread rapidly among Henry's men. A plague of dysentery, the bloody flux, gripped the army like a fist from hell. It was hot and humid and the rainy weather of late summer spread the contamination easily and quickly, not only amongst the English besiegers but also inside the town amongst the beleaguered and battered people of Harfleur. The poor diet and lack of clean drinking water became a greater threat to the English than the French resistance. Henry knew he must move his army or they would all die in their own shit and vomit before they left the shadows of Harfleur. It was a blessing when the French emissary arrived with a suit for peace.

Henry had planned on eight days. After Harfleur he planned to quickly take Montivilliers, then Dieppe and Rouen and capture Paris and the crown in one contiguous campaign. Henry understood that would not happen now, during this season.

On the morning of September 17th, Henry sent a herald into Harfleur with a safe-conduct for de Gaucourt and representatives of the town council, so they could come to the English camp and discuss terms of surrender. His squire dead, de Gaucourt polished his own armor and made his way to Henry's camp, with d'Estouteville and a small retinue of town burgesses.

The rain was light, the cool wind of autumn blew through to the bone when de Gaucourt and his company climbed the hill to Henry's camp. Before they were allowed into his presence, Henry insisted upon a ritual humiliation of the vanquished, forcing them to walk through the victorious host, shed of their armor and weapons and all military and chivalric garb.

He was a proud man, stood straight before the King and gave all respect due to a monarch, whether foe or not. Henry expected de Gaucourt to drop to one knee and offer his sword, but the Knight of France did not. With respect, de Gaucourt presented an offer, drafted by the burgesses of Harfleur. This offer had been drafted without de Gaucourt's consultation, despite him being Captain of the town and responsible for its governance during the siege made by the English. But the civilian burgesses, having fought bravely and endured great hardship and suffering for five weeks of siege, many losing their livelihoods, their homes and many even losing their lives, had no desire to have the English take the town inevitably, by force, and have their wives and daughters raped and more citizen men murdered during pillage. Unlike de Gaucourt and the Knights and soldiers at his command, they were not accustomed to the demands of chivalric glory. They had no appetite to continue this fight to the death. Raoul de Gaucourt may well have considered this an act of betrayal and treachery but he recognized that the populace did not share his commitment of romantic chivalric honor. He could not fight on if he did not have the support of the citizens he was defending.

"You have acted contrary to God's will," Henry said, "resisting my possession of that which belongs to me. Yet you beg for mercy Sire de Gaucourt."

"I beg for the lives and property of the citizens, your Highness. I ask no mercy for myself or my Knights. But before Harfleur is surrendered to your mercy, the people beg a short respite."

"You ask me to delay my conquest so that you can regain your strength in hopes of defeating me."

"I do not ask this your Highness," de Gaucourt turned and stared at the burgesses assembled behind him, "but it is asked."

The surrender was not to be immediate. With d'Estouteville and the town burgesses, he persuaded Henry to agree to a truce for five days and allow them to send one last request to King Charles for aid. Should the King of France not deliver a reinforcing army before that time then they would lay down arms and the people and their possessions would be unconditionally surrendered to Henry's mercy. Through that request de Gaucourt salvaged a small amount of honor and the burden of responsibility for surrender and defeat did not fall entirely on his own shoulders.

Henry looked over de Gaucourt at the burgesses behind him. Merchant men, shop keepers, craft and tradesmen, all people that held some degree of property and wealth.

"I may see fit to spare your lives. But all titles and deeds of property will be burned in your public market, as all property is forfeit to me. Your life and health will depend upon the swiftness of your ransom. My Exchequer will take account. Those that agree and pay will be set free to depart this land with those possessions they can carry. Those that refuse or cannot pay will be sent to Calais or England until you can."

Henry turned back to de Gaucourt. "You and your retinue shall not escape ransom either, though yours shall be much greater than your townsmen."

The terms of truce and surrender were written under the King's seal and were carried across the soiled field of battle to the shattered Leure gate with Henry's Earl of Dorset, his Bishop of Bangor and the Knight Thomas Erpingham. As they approached the shattered walls of Harfleur, the Bishop announced with great voice, to the citizens within, "Do not fear. Henry of England has not come to lay waste to your town. We are good and proper Christians. Harfleur is not Soissons".

Five days of truce was granted for Harfleur to await an answer to their petition for support from their King and The Dauphin.

# 13 - The Surrender of Harfleur

Neither Charles, the King of France, or the Dauphin, sent a single man to the defense of the people of Harfleur and Raoul de Gaucourt. Harfleur surrendered on the twenty second day of September.

The ignominy of the surrender of Harfleur sent a wave of shock throughout France. Those who knew nothing of the carnage and destruction of the town were quick to blame de Gaucourt for his failure. There was little told of how de Gaucourt and his knights repeatedly made sorties beyond the town walls, into the midst of their English foes, or how they continuously turned back every attempt of English men-at-arms in their assaults through the breaches in the walls or of English miners burrowing beneath them to ambush them from within; how they fought tirelessly in the pitch black mine shafts, endured the pummeling of canon and catapult missiles and, with no lack of courage, faced a foe many times their own strength, until all their efforts were spent.

Even when Henry's victory was evident and it was clear all was lost for Harfleur, Henry taunted them, as a symbol to all of France that his pursuit of the French crown was just, and it was God's will. He offered leniency, then suggested that they should not consider this a sign of weakness on his part, for he could just as easily withdraw his mercy at any time and have them suffer the ultimate pain of war.

"You see this Edmund," Henry said to Mortimer. His compatriot stood slightly behind his King. His face was drawn and grey, he sagged like an old char woman. "It is not soon enough for them to know that I am their King and not the fool Charles or his weakling coward of a son. I have conquered this place but more than that it is a warning to all across this land that I have come to take what is mine by right of birth."

Henry had not planned to enter Harfleur for the official acceptance of surrender. He expected to continue to march his army deeper into France in pursuit of his ultimate triumph. But the siege had taken longer than planned. Even though victorious, his army was weak and worn. There were as many casualties from sickness amongst the ranks as there was from battle. It was clear to Henry that he would need the blessing of God to make better the ranks before moving forward.

The rain was light, though heavy grey clouds ambled eastward like a low hanging herd of migrating beasts, fat with a feast of autumn shower and winds, ready to strip the forests of their foliage. There was a deep penetrating chill in the air, but Henry had grown hard to the change of season; his mind focused on the furtherance of his campaign. Instead of making a parade of triumph through Harfleur, Henry rode to the gates of the town and dismounted. He removed his helm and armor, kicked away his shoes and walked barefoot into Harfleur like a pilgrim seeking the comfort and reprieve of the church. He made his way through the ruins of Harfleur to the church of St Martin and gave glory to God for his victory. He begged for continued grace to see him through to Paris.

"I have had a vision, Edmund," Henry said as he departed St Martin. "I will show leniency for the surrender, to show that I am a benevolent ruler; but that leniency will have borders. I will allow the poorest, the sick and the women and children to depart. I will take pity on their plight, they can take whatever belongings they can carry, I will give them a few coins for food and see they are safe guarded away from the predations of our army. The French Marshal Boucicault can meet them at Lillebonne and escort them where he sees fit. Rouen, if he wishes."

"No greater mercy could be expected from an enemy, Highness," Mortimer managed to say, before he had to excuse himself from the King's presence to relieve his flaming bowels.

"It is a vision given to me as I prayed before the alter," Henry said. "But I also saw that I must demonstrate resolve and firmness with those who resisted us by force, lest I be seen as weak by those ahead of us that we are yet to face. I will send a message to the Dauphin that his cousin Henry has come and it will take more than a barrel of tennis balls to conciliate me."

Henry turned to see Mortimer's response, but his compatriot was no longer beside him; he had staggered away to squat astride a pile of rubble, bloody stool flowing from his hind end while he dry heaved from the other. At least a thousand men of his force suffered this same malady, common amongst travelling armies, said to come from breathing in foul air or drinking bad water. A great many of his men suffered not only the bloody flux but were infected as well with the sweating sickness. Many died from their sickness and were buried beside those that had fallen in the fighting, many of those still alive were boarded onto the merchant ships returning to England, their war was over, much before it had really begun. It appeared to Henry that Edmund Mortimer would not accompany him as they marched to Paris.

A dais was prepared beneath a roofing, sheltered from the rain. Upon it was placed a throne, covered with golden silk fabric secured by braided cording. A contingent of Henry's Knights and Nobles gathered orderly on the dais. Armor was polished, the nobles were clothed in their best finery. A line of armed soldiers guarded each side of the pathway from the town to the dais, to prevent the gathering crowd from encroaching on the route that de Gaucourt and his retinue must follow to bring their formal surrender.

At one hour past midday, Henry climbed the steps of the dais built on the hillside just beyond the Leure gate and sat upon the golden draped throne. Sir Gilbert Umfraville stood beside him holding the King's helm in the crook of his arm, the circlet of golden crown affixed to the cap, gleaming, despite the lack of sun.

The Leure gates opened and Raoul de Gaucourt emerged, leading an assemblage of his Knights and town burgesses, about thirty men in all. As commanded, they approached on foot with no armor or weapons, dressed only in tunic and hose, stripped of all semblance of knighthood and honor or any mark of wealth. Each man wore a rope noose about his neck, to symbolize they were now surrendered to Henry's hands and whatever mercy he saw fit to grant or withhold.

To Henry's surprise the sickly Mortimer found his way to the dais. He stood solemnly behind his King watching as the procession of capitulated French approached.

"They are brave men your Highness. It would be a gesture of your magnanimity to show leniency," Mortimer croaked through a raw throat.

Henry turned sharply to Mortimer. "You know nothing of leadership Edmund. Do not presume to advise me how to deal with captives. Whatever I command is the way it will be. Now stand back, you have a foul odor about you."

"Of course your Highness." Mortimer wavered, his vision faded in and out. It took all the power of his will not to collapse and faint like a woman on the dais beside his King.

"You will go back to England with the other infected bodies. If you can make yourself well you may return and join the campaign. If you are lucky we will not have yet taken Paris. You must learn to make yourself strong Edmund. You are weak for allowing yourself to bring sickness to your body instead of conquering it."

"Yes, your Highness."

As the French approached, it was clear that de Gaucourt was himself stricken with sickness. He wavered; it was evident that it was only by the fierce depth of his will and courage that he was able to bring the keys of Harfleur to mark the surrender official. The blood was drained from his face, purple bags hung beneath his eyes, his hair thinned and greasy, his beard a shaggy tangle, but Raoul de Gaucourt refused to slouch or show any signs that he was about to grovel before the English.

"We are face to face once again Sire de Gaucourt," Henry said.

The Frenchman nodded and raised a pair of large iron keys hanging from a rusted circle, the same dimension as the crown on Henry's helm. They keys did not open any door or unlock any chest of wealth; they were the symbol of the consanguinity of Harfleur, now being passed to England.

"You should have brought those to me weeks ago," Henry complained. "You would have saved many from their death had you not only admitted the obvious, that your small garrison could not defend itself from such a large army as I have brought. It was a foolish thing not to have surrendered long ago."

The Frenchman tilted his head forward. "You would not yourself have done such a cowardly thing Sire, nor would I. Our lives are worth much less than our honor and the honor of our country."

This defiance angered Henry. He had forced his enemy to take the countenance of a peasant defeated and humiliated, but this man, Raoul de Gaucourt, would not offer himself to such submission. Henry looked to the men who followed behind de Gaucourt and even though all were dressed in wet soaking clothes, it was clear and obvious which were the knights of the same breed as their leader. They stood tall, with heads upheld, proud and defiant in their surrender. The burgesses slouched and cowered, some shivering in the damp, some frightened and weeping at the fate they feared was about to befall them. Henry shook his head and clucked at the sight of the sniveling townsmen.

"You and your brave men at arms have protected a den of cowards," Henry said. "It would have been best that you had left them to the fate that now awaits them and spared your chivalrous knights any loss of their own lives." Henry let out a long sigh. "But such is the way of war. I would have done no less than you." Henry turned his head a quarter so the deep scar on the side of his face, that he had earned at Shrewsbury, was clear for de Gaucourt to see."

"You give me pause, Sire de Gaucourt. I will release you to take a message to your Dauphin. He can spare France further carnage of the lands and people. He need merely meet me man to man on the field of battle. We will face each other in single combat, the victor will claim the crown of France and spare the lives of all of those who will otherwise fall to the sword or bow."

Henry said this knowing that the Dauphin had neither the courage or ability to contest him man to man in battle.

"What of these men?" de Gaucourt motioned to those knights and burgesses that followed him.

"All men of Holy order shall go free, unmolested. Those burgesses who are prepared to swear an oath of allegiance to me may remain; they may keep their possessions but all land holdings and properties now belong to me. All other prisoners shall be divided amongst my men and held for fair ransom. Except you, Sire de Gaucourt. After you have delivered my message to your Dauphin, you will return to my bondage, as is your chivalric obligation. I may ransom you or do otherwise, as I see fit."

"And my other Knights and men-at-arms that remain?"

"Those that are gentlemen will not be imprisoned or sent to England. I release them to their families, paroled on their own recognizance to gather and bring me such ransom as deserved by their rank." Henry held his palms upward, as if granting a generous offering. His gesture, however, was less generous than pragmatic. Henry well knew that de Gaucourt's contingent bore the same disease as his own and their disease would only add to his burden should he have to provide care and feeding for them.

Rather than dispatch de Gaucourt and his followers to be caged while waiting release, Henry ordered them to be served a great banquet and treated as any guests from a noble house would be treated. They were dined, given drink and comfort and rested while Henry's seneschals drafted the conditions upon which they were to abide. After five days of custody, de Gaucourt was presented with the agreements of surrender and release. The French prisoners were to go forth, carry Henry's messages and present themselves and their ransoms to his Captain at Calais, no later than the eleventh day of November.

It was by then the twenty-seventh day of September. The morning came with a clear sunrise but by afternoon when the prisoners departed the English camp, a harsh gale from the channel began to blow over them.

It was clear to Henry that the length of the siege and the many delays would bring a halt to his plan to make Paris before the seasons end. Many in his council advised a return to England for the winter. He could return in the spring to continue the campaign. It would be folly to linger with winter coming and they could not shelter an entire army in the ruins of Harfleur until the weather allowed again for battle. Henry stood at the doorway of his shelter looking out at the rain blown sideways, turning already to sleet and snow.

'This could pass,' he tried to convince himself. 'We are two months from winter yet'. But still, if his army met similar resistance on the way to Paris, if they were blockaded at Rouen, if the army could not plunder sufficient supply to supplement their own, then the campaign would turn from delay to disaster.

He was compelled to conclude that the campaign season had come to an end. His army suffered many casualties through battle and disease and victory with such a weakened force, against the travails of an oncoming winter, was unlikely. Rather than retire directly to England for the winter, with his long and costly expedition resulting in the capture of only one town, Henry decided to take his diminished army through Normandy to the English stronghold at the port of Calais, in northern France. This he felt would demonstrate, by his continued presence in France, his right to rule was more than a whimsical and false claim. It would signal his claim of victory rather than retreat. He intended the maneuver as a deliberate provocation to battle aimed at the Dauphin, who had failed to meet the challenge of combat at Harfleur.

The English army did not leave the siege until the eighth day of October. Henry called upon his Earl of Dorset, gave him the ring of keys to Harfleur and ordered him to Captain a garrison and hold Harfleur as duly conquered English property. The King, with six thousand fighting men and a vast number of civilian persons, including minstrels and heralds, surgeons and priests, set north by the Montivilliers road. Henry's plan was to make Calais within eight days. Edmund Mortimer was not at his side. He had fallen victim to the bloody flux, his body weakened, his bowels ravaged. Henry dispatched him back to England with the others that were sick or wounded or dying.

# 14 – Edward of Bar

A long line of heavy black destriers churned up the dirt of the main street, making their way through the Marche, scrambling the vendors and shoppers. They were ominous looking, dangerous with their armor and weapons. But they were French, official and serious in their capacity. They made their way past the Chapter House and Dormitory along the front of Meaux's grand Cathedral, stopping on the road in front of the Manor House. They were a brigade of hard looking riders, though richly dressed and clad in riding armor, all bearing at least two weapons, many wielding tall banners brandishing many different coats of arms. The lead rider, taller than the rest, sported a breast plate embossed with a Roman muscle cuirass, trimmed in gold and polished to a mirror. He had the appearance of wearing a metal torso on the outside of his dress. His visor-less helmet bore a short blue plume.

Bishop de Saintes hid himself at the edge of the curtain looking up and down the line of riders assembled at the front of the Manor House.

"I don't know them; they don't look friendly. Perhaps a legion of English come to take us. You could escape through the kitchen. I could try to delay them. I wouldn't think they would harm an old vicar like me."

Robert and I joined him at the window.

"There will be no escaping this lot," Robert said. "Nor is there a need for fear, unless you fear having to listen to an overbearing boor. It is my Uncle, Edward."

The tall man wore the same white sable collar on his cape that Robert had worn.

He removed burgundy leather gloves and dismounted. Edward signaled to his companions to dismount and follow him. He pushed through the front door of the Manor, followed by a contingent. "Robert," he yelled, "where the hell are you?"

He had made his way up a few stairs when Robert called him back. "You'll not find me up there. How did you even know I was in this house?"

"I asked," he spoke in a commanding voice. Edward stepped into the dining hall. "Who is this," he looked at me then back at Robert, "and why are you dressed like a peasant?"

"Why are you here Uncle, you seldom venture away from Bar unless there is some profit in it for you."

"You are the reason of course." Edward pulled a chair from the dining table and sat. "We have been travelling all day. These men are hungry and the horses need tending to."

"You are here on my behalf?"

I removed myself to a back corner. It was clear this man, Uncle Edward, held some sway over Robert.

Edward sat cross legged, tapping a finger on his knee staring at his young nephew. "Do you recognize any of these gentlemen?" He pointed to the group standing in the hallway and outside the front door.

Robert gave a cursory look. "No. Knights and nobles obviously."

"We are assembling a force to intercept the English. They have taken Harfleur and are making their way across France. We expect them to head toward Paris and make a play for the King."

"An invasion? The English have come in force?"

"Henry of England landed at Chef-en-Caux in the Seine estuary. He laid siege to Harfleur with a force of two thousand men at arms and six thousand archers. Sieur d'Estouteville held our fortress as best he could with a garrison of less than a hundred men. Sieur de Gaucourt came with three hundred men-at-arms to reinforce and took command of the town. But Harfleur was encircled and contained and our relief convoy, bearing canon, powder, arrows and crossbows was cut off and captured on route before they could deliver aid." Edward leaned forward in his chair. "Henry turned twelve great guns and other artillery on the walls of Harfleur, inflicting catastrophic damage to stone and mortar and to the resolve of our soldiery and the defenseless citizens. Sieur de Gaucourt beseeched a parley, there was a truce, but in the end a surrender was forced."

Robert's face drew long. "Did that merciless dog slaughter innocent people?" Robert asked.

"With no hope of reprieve, Harfleur has yielded to the English. Our knights de Gaucourt and d'Estouteville were released on parole to secure their own ransom. The townspeople who swore allegiance to Henry have been allowed to remain. The rest were released to the country side with their lives and whatever belongings they could carry. And now the English are moving forward like a plague over the land."

"I knew this would happen," Robert said. He leaned forward in his chair, to be face to face with his Uncle, his interest aroused.

"Yes. We made our way through Soissons on route and you were not there. Gone on some holiday to the farmlands. Our King has commanded his armies to gather." He looked sternly at Robert, pointed his finger at our young Count, "and you, have an obligation of fealty to our King, through me and our Duchy. You will come to service. We shall not allow the English to make ruin. No doubt they will move on Paris. We shall not allow them to scrape us off our lands. We must protect our King and property."

Robert took his walking stick and forced himself to stand. "I am ready of course," he said excitedly.

Edward eyed him tip to toe. "Not quite yet, I see, nephew. But you shall have your chance."

"I am ready," Robert insisted.

"You'll be ready for the fight when you have no need of that crutch and you are not hobbling about like a cripple."

"I will not be kept from the fight."

"No, you will not be kept from the fight. While you are healing from your fairy wound you can aid in building the force. I am gathering the noblesse and our knights and seigneurs. We will organize a cavalry and assemble men at arms and archers. We will amass a formidable infantry. You and others of your rank will service this."

"You expect me to take the field with infantry?"

"We have been promised at least the second line at battle, just behind the van, if our force is large enough. You will assemble the central levies and pikemen from the common men of your estates. Two hundred is your obligation. If your serfs have no taste for the fight, then have them pay their scutage so mercenaries can be bought in their place. Do not bring shame upon us, you owe fealty to me and the Duchy and to King Charles."

"Two hundred? That seems like an unreasonably large body of men to have to draw from my small estates. I have lost my Squire and house guard to ambush and have only a pair of knights and six men at arms left at Soissons. It will take months to assemble two hundred."

"Two hundred is your obligation. I am well aware that you can provide very few fighting men. Your number is large because I expect all you can muster will be slag and farmers. The army requires shoulders to burden the supply train but it will take ten peasants to equal one man at arms. So you must provide two hundred."

"I have only just begun to visit the estates. I do not know two hundred."

"You need not know them. You are their Lord, command them."

"Two hundred? These men are not fighters. Are they to be just fodder for the English?"

"We are at war for our country and for our lives, my good nephew. There will be many on both sides that will be worm food." He waved off Robert's concern. "A goodly number of your peasants will be put to work at labor in support of the armies. Somebody has to dig the toilets and boil the meat to feed us." He looked into Robert's eyes steady and hard, "and some will be put out front as targets for English archers so the battle can unfold the way we want."

Robert nodded his agreement. "When and where?"

"We will muster at Rouen and prevent the English from making Paris. You have a week. We will join with the balance of the King's armies and annihilate the English. All houses are called to service. We will make a force many times greater than what the English have landed. The slaughter will be so boundless, Henry will fear for the soul of England. We will take the English King for ransom and push the rest into the sea."

"A week. How can I be expected to gather two hundred men in a week?"

"For France. They will fight for the love of their King," Edward sniggered, "and to ensure their wives and daughters don't become play things of the English. And you will buy their service. Money always has a way of making men move."

Robert returned to his seat. "I will find a way."

"Good. Now, we are hungry. Send your man to put your cooks to work. Shed those rags and dress yourself in decent clothing as well."

The Manor House was not a chalet castle, not built to service a court of guests nor stocked with food and drink for twenty knights and nobles. It had served as the home of Bishop de Saintes and his few attendants until most recent and was now just Robert's place of convalescence. I was not Robert's 'man', as Edward assumed, but I was his friend so I dispatched myself to the village, gathering jugs of ale and wine, late season fruits, cheeses and breads and a haunch of goat for the boiling pot. Simone and others brought their pottage and de Saintes and his attendants provided service.

When the riders had taken their fill of the hospitality they took their beds as were available in the Manor House and the Cathedral Dormitory off the Chapter House. Edward was satisfied enough to occupy Robert's master room. It was left to me and my men of The Circle to feed and brush and bed their mounts. At the days' end, I invited Robert to take his rest with me and my family. Robert accepted with gratitude and insisted that he would sleep on the straw beside the hearth and not rob me and Simone of our bed again.

The morning found Robert grooming Baiard and me greasing an axel as Edward and his entourage stopped at the Carriage House on their way from Meaux.

"You have a week Robert," Edward yelled from his mount. "A week to Rouen. Do not be a man short."

"And if I am not able to meet the obligation?" Robert asked.

"I'm not unreasonable, nephew. If you are not there in a week, we may wait an extra day but if you have still not arrived you must catch us up and be happy to serve in the baggage train or as a cooks helper. You will not take a place in the line or anywhere near the van. Make certain you come with two hundred heads and not a man less."

"Uncle, will you pass Soissons and tell my wife that I shall return very soon," Robert said.

"If time permits," Edward said, knowing that he would not journey out of the way to Soissons. With that he spurred his horse and the convoy made their way west through our town and up the road to the Compiègne-Soissons fork. He called back as they rode away. "You have a child."

Robert was out of earshot. "What did he say?" he asked me.

"I believe he said you have a child."

We watched the column depart the village leaving a wake of grey dust swirling behind them. Robert of Bar, a man of twenty-five, looked me in the eye. He spoke no words as his mind fought its own battle. One week to amass a peasant army of two hundred and march them to Rouen; he hoped for time to see his wife Jeanne and their new son before leaving for war and hoping his wound would stay bound enough that he could make these journeys.

"I have a child. My son has been born without me there to greet him." Robert's face was long and sad, his eyes dull. "I will march to fight the English. I may never see him. I may never again see the pretty face of my dear Jeanne or make a farewell."

"Your uncle says you will defeat the English. You will see your family after that."

"That could be months. My son will be chewing his own meat by then."

"The time will pass quickly enough."

"It will be an eternity."

"Then go see your wife and child before going to war."

"There is no time. I have to gather enough men to satisfy my obligation or there will be great shame on me. Shame that I could never escape." Robert shook his head. "Right now, I am an army of one. How will I gather a force of two hundred? If I do not fulfill this obligation, it will not only be the shame, there is penalty as well. I could forfeit land and titles at the King's bidding."

"We have some men," I said. "Our Circle. We are already pledged to defend our people so you are an army of almost a dozen and we will rouse others. Two hundred is a goodly number but we will do the best we can." I pulled a short three-legged stool to the cart, sat and returned to greasing the axel. "We will do the best we can," I repeated. "Go see your wife and child. Another war. You may never see your son if you don't go now."

Robert's tense shoulders dropped as the weight of this burden began to lift. "You would do this for me? You could die, my friend. The field of battle is not the same as ambushing robbers and brigands on the road. Your kindness and support overwhelms me, but you are not a fighter." Robert pulled a stool beside the cart and sat with me. "It can be quite horrific. There is chaos, the din of a thousand men yelling and screaming and crying. Men piss themselves and slide about in shit and puke and blood. The field can become a morass of hewn limbs and entrails. It is not for those faint of heart or void of courage." He looked square into my face. "But there is nothing that fills you so full of life as when you are that close to death. I confess that I have a love for it and I have not even yet had the glory of being in the van as the fight ensues." He placed a hand on my shoulder. "When you are on the field, fighting for your life with your brothers in arms, you feel as though this is what you were born for, what you are meant to do and those you fight with are one with you and you love them with all your heart and life. I do not wish to miss this chance for glory. I shall have it with your support."

I nodded. "We will raise the men and do what is needed."

"How can I ever repay you?" Robert asked.

I knew instantly what I would ask in return. "You can teach me to paint words and read them."

"That is a gift much smaller than what you give me, but I will see that you are rightly trained in this skill. Not by me as I am not a proper teacher. I will bring you the priest that trained me to write and read the words. I hope your knuckles are strong as he will strike them often if your letters are not crafted prettily," he chuckled. "But that is not enough. I will give you this as well." Robert opened his arms to the Carriage House. "This has been your place of work but if you wish you can build your home in this building. I will make a new Carriage House closer to the Manor anyway. You can work there when it is built and use this as a home for Simone and your children." He looked up the side wall with the stables built in. "You could build some fine sleeping rooms there, this could be your great room and a grand hearth could easily be built against that wall."

I had no words for a gift this great. I pinched a smile, placed a hand on Robert's shoulder and nodded to seal our bond.

Robert, me and Bishop de Saintes gathered in the Tea Room of the Manor House. The Bishop recorded, in the Manorial Register, Robert's pledge of the Carriage House and a small plot of land just outside the village walls, to me. From that day forward the building and land were mine to use as I wished and would remain gifted to my descendants, in perpetuity or until there was no longer a Charron in my line to carry on. Robert wrote this pledge on parchment as well, as a deed, witnessed by Bishop de Saintes, signed by Robert of Bar and properly sealed with wax and pressed with the signet of his own ring.

We sat in celebration that day over a jug of mead proffered by the Bishop. The air had begun to turn in the chill of autumn, the sun bright in a cloudless sky reached in through the large window of the Tea Room, settling on dusty furnishings and empty shelves.

As God would have it, Simone gave birth to our son that evening. He was hastily baptized the next day. Named Robert Charron, in the presence of his godfather Robert of Bar. That same day a rider arrived from Soissons confirming the news that his Uncle Edward had left with him already, of Robert's own new child and that his wife Jeanne was in good health. Robert had been blessed with a daughter. His child was a daughter and not a son. But Robert of Bar was not disappointed to learn his wife had given him a girl and not a boy, as I thought he might be. He vowed that he would meet up with me and our peasant army at Rouen after a detour to visit his two Jeannes. But first we had the great task of gathering enough men to fill Robert's obligation.

We went to the Grand Marche at the center of the lower village. I made ready a pedestal half the height of a man and wide enough for Robert and I to stand side by side and speak to a gathering crowd. Some of the people of Meaux already knew Robert, had seen him about, asked curious questions about him. Some came near, to be close in the presence of their Lord of Meaux, some stayed far back, too shy or afraid to be seen by a noble.

I spoke first. One by one, two by two, the crowd grew larger.

"We must come together," I said. "The English are at our door. They are coming in force and we must go forth and resist them."

"They've been no match for you Reeve, and your men of The Circle. You've shown them not to mess with Frenchmen." A hunched farmer called from the back of the crowd, a sweat rag around his long grey hair, a long-tined hay fork in his hand.

"We have you to fight the English," a woman assured the growing horde.

I raised my hand. "We are not enough. They are coming like a herd of wild beasts to savage the whole land. We cannot stop them by ourselves. We must build a force and stand together with the King."

"The King has plenty of fighters. We are not warriors or knights. I grow turnips, Bolduc makes tin pots. What about him, he is a fighter," a leathery faced man pointed at Robert. "Let them take up arms against the English. God in Heaven knows they have done little enough to protect us. We have been years without a real garrison of soldiers here. The only time we see them is when they come to collect the taxes. How many years has it been, Charron, since you and Bonin and the others have had to fend off highwaymen and freebooters. Now they want you to push back the English army. Tell them to go to hell," he turned and quickly left.

"We have to provide support, not only in our own defense but for all of France. The country is at stake. Everything we have can be taken by the English, even our lives and the lives of our children. This is not the time for us to blame our Lords. Many of you know this man. He is Robert of Bar. He is our Count, our Lord. You all know that we saved his arse. You all know that Simone sewed his naked flesh to make him whole. We could have left him to the English, but that is not our way. We take care of each other, rich or poor." I pointed to Robert's burgundy riding boots and then to my own cobbled shoes. "I have had this man in my house. He has asked for no special treatment and offers the generosity of his own house to me. He says he will do good by us. He says he will be our good and just Lord. I believe him. He has learned firsthand of the English onslaught. I heard this too, with my own ears. He is charged with gathering loyal men of France from his lands, enough to help repel the English."

The crowd had grown to fill the square in the Grand Marche. They stood packed like fish in a barrel. The din of the chatter was great amongst them as they spread word of the coming of an English army. They had grown used to small incursions and annoying harassment by a few stray riders. They had come to expect them to be dealt with, in the manner that Soldat Bonin had dealt with the Horseface Englishman.

"I am Robert of Bar," Robert finally spoke. "It is true that Meaux has been absent of a Noble House for a very long time. It is true that you have not seen our face or had a garrison of real soldiers here to protect you and it is true that only by the grace of God have you had the blessing of Monsieur Charron and his Circle, your Reeve and Council, that you have been protected until now. But you have my solemn pledge that I will change all of that. I vow to move my house from Soissons here to Meaux, the seat of my wife's ancestors, and return this to a proper thriving and protected town. But I need your help. I cannot do this with the few men I have."

"Will there be pay?" came a shout from the middle of the crowd.

"Yes," Robert said.

"How much?"

"Fair pay," Robert said. "Whatever service you provide, you will earn that wage, whether you provide labor or cartage, whether you are a swineherd or a cook, whether you carry sword or bow. I give you my promise of pay. All men who serve will be given a note of promise. Your own Bishop can write this note and I give this ring to your Reeve to seal my word."

Robert took his signet from his finger, held it high for the crowd to see, then passed it to me.

"I must leave you, for family business, but I give this signet to your Reeve, Monsieur Charron, who I give all right and trust to speak for me and make my word of promise to you. Those of you who will come and serve must come to Rouen by seven days. Come and join the largest army of French ever made to stand against a foe. With you we will turn the English back and send them fleeing like rats into the sea."

The men of Meaux were conscripted, some more willingly than others. A few had true weapons, an axe, a broadsword, an archers bow, but most had only their humble work implements to take to the fight; a scythe, a hoe or a smith's hammer. The march to Rouen began. Robert promised to arrive from Soissons in time, once satisfied to have made acquaintance with the new life he had created and to kiss the face of his lovely Jeanne once again.

# 15 - The Tale of Two Wives

Baiard was anxious to go. He shuffled back and forth, clawing at the dirt, more in anticipation than nervousness. He had been cloistered in the stable too long.

"You're not ready to ride," I said.

Baiard jostled. Robert flinched.

"My Uncle will not go to Soissons again," Robert said. "He cares less about my family than he does for the glory of the fight. He will go straight to Rouen to be among the army. To be with the King, if he shows."

Simone stepped through the doorway of our hovel to see Robert on Baiard.

"Oh mon dieu, comment pouvez-vous être si retardé," she rolled her eyes. Not a curse but she certainly did not conceal her displeasure at Robert's foolishness.

Robert's jaw dropped slightly, at the insult, then he gave an apologetic look to Simone.

"Do not expect me to wash the blood off your pantaloons," she said.

The morning air was still. No breath of wind yet to mask the smallest sound. Voices could be heard down Rue St Remy. Neighbors arguing over stray chickens, a mother scolding a lazy child. Even the rippling waters of the Marne could be heard beyond the town walls. The gate to the pont was already open, but Robert would not be crossing that bridge on his trek to Soissons. He would leave across the single track of the small east bridge, like sneaking away, concealed from the eyes of the gathering crowd in the Grand Marche. He would have to pass the Manor House and the cathedral, where Bishop de Saintes might see him. But his mind was made.

"Madam," Robert pleaded, "my Uncle, the Duke will not go by way of Soissons to pass my blessing to my Jeanne and our new child. He said he would, but I know he won't. He mocked me as he rode away, that I should spend my thoughts on a woman and an infant, instead of preparing myself to face the English threat."

My tiny Simone was like a child standing beside Robert mounted high on the mighty Baiard.

"The English have been here since before my grandmother's time," she reproved, "and they will be here long after our bones have turned to dust. One more pitiful wounded soul will not help in the fight. You'll do more harm than good. Anyway, your arse will be in shreds before you ever make it to a battle. Why not send word to Soissons and have your wife and child brought here."

Robert shook his head. "There is no time madam. The English have invaded in force. We cannot let that stand. There will be a fight. It will be soon."

"Men. Nobles. You waste your life and flesh fighting and killing each other. For what. Wealth. Power. This is the thing that will always separate your class from the real people. We just want to live our lives in peace and have enough to eat. You want another chest of silver pennies and more land than you can see the end of."

I tried to shush Simone but she cast an evil grimace at me so harsh I thought my heart would flee my body.

"I'm sorry madam, I'm sorry Simone, but that is the way of it. I must do what I must. I will see the face of my child and wife because in war there is always a chance of being killed. I will not go to heaven without having seen them."

Simone clucked and stomped away. I shrugged, helpless.

"I will talk to her," I said, "try to reason with her, but I cannot promise I will change her thinking."

"She is probably right," Robert said. "But it is the way it is. I will take my place on the field, as is my obligation and my right."

I nodded. "I will assemble the men you promised and take them to Rouen."

Robert pulled the rein, heeled Baiard gently and made his way to the east gate. "I will meet you there before seven days," he said. "Or sooner if the road is clear."

It was not that far, from Meaux to Soissons. You could gallop there, from dawn to dusk, on a strong horse, if it could survive such a fast pace, for that long. For most, a steady pace could make the journey in a day and a half. Baiard, though being a fit warhorse could carry Robert with fury and devastation for short bursts, as one would find on the field of battle, but he could not make day long sprints without bursting his giant heart.

But though the trek was not that long, as far as journey's go, the road to Soissons took Robert away from the road to Rouen, five days steady march from Meaux. Baiard carried him past the very spot where Robert was ambushed by the English, where his squire and entourage were killed, where he took a bodkin to the arse and where we saved him from capture and ransom. He stopped there, at that spot where near a dozen men were slain. There was no evidence of slaughter, no blood on the road, no remnants of broken arrows or signs of struggle and death. In fact it was the opposite.

The road was cut among the trees that stood tall as giants on either side, like guardians sheltering the travelers from the world outside. They smelled of life; like earth and clean water and the musty leaves of autumn, still clinging to their fading bits of green. The air was crisp and cool, like the crack of a whip.

A hedge of bush beside the path rustled, branches parted as if an unseen animal was walking among the growth. A boar perhaps. Robert readied his sword as wild boar were known to just as soon attack a stranger as flee from their presence; and even though mounted, should Baiard be gored in the belly by a razor tusk, an outcome would be uncertain.

More snapping of the hedge branches, leaves shaking wildly. Something heavy was in the undergrowth, following him. If it was a boar, it was unusually large; if it was a bear then it was smaller than known in these parts. There was no muzzle sound, no gulping snort of a wild beast, just grunting and wheezing, that grew louder as it came closer, like a fat man climbing a hill.

Robert pulled his sword completely free of its scabbard. Whatever was thrashing the bushes had no thought to remain stealthy and force a surprise attack, beast or man. But when it came, expected or not, Baiard's eyes grew wide, he reared back, his nostrils flared, and the thing, for that is all that Robert could think to call it at that moment, rolled from the hedgerow onto the hardpan of the forest road, on its back, and splayed itself spread eagle in front of him.

A short fat monk, his belly rising and falling as he breathed hard from his ordeal of escaping the brush. His feet appeared to be unusually large, for the length of his body.

"I was sleeping," Gob spoke skywards from his back. "It was dark, I just looked for a safe little pocket of shelter, off the road, to spend the night. How I ended up buried deep into that tangle of vegetation is a mystery. It was dark. The bush must have grown around me as I slept. But you're here now and here I am." He rolled from his back to front then pushed himself to his hands and knees. From that position he really did look the size of a wild boar, Robert thought.

Gob managed to lift himself to standing. He brushed his rough woolen cassock and a wide smile grew upon his face.

"I was coming to find you," Gob said.

Robert look down suspiciously on the strange looking monk.

"Why? Who are you? I do not know you."

"Yes, that is true," Gob said. "You do not know me, at this time, but you will know me, have known me, always."

Robert sheathed his sword. He pressed his knees into Baiard to move the destrier forward. But the horse did not move. It lowered its head, sniffing the road in search of grass or other edible morsel. Impatience rose and fell in Robert, like waves casting themselves upon a shore.

"I have urgent business, I cannot stay and dawdle with you," Robert said.

"Yes, of course, I know. That's why I woke right at this time. So I could join you on your journey and give you the insights. It's always been that way."

"What way? I don't know what you're talking about. I'm sure that I don't need any 'insights' from the likes of you. Move off the road so I can pass." He heeled Baiard firmly in the ribs, but still the destrier did not move forward. He heeled again, harder, but Baiard simply turned his head and gave Robert a look of disdain from one big eye.

Other morning travelers were making their way along the road. Some going north, some going south. Some by horse, though most walking, carrying belongings, food stuffs, goods for trading. More traffic than usual for this road. Some drew carts filled with household goods.

"See," Gob said. "They are escaping. Though it is clear they don't know which way to go to keep themselves from harms way. They just wish to be away, safe."

"What are you talking about? Safe from what?"

"Yes, all a mystery, isn't it. Help me up, I'll ride with you and give you the blessing of my insight, a small taste of what is to come."

Baiard sidled sideways and seemed to stoop, to make it easier for the short monk to be pulled up behind Robert.

"I don't know what your business is," Robert said, "but mine is in Soissons. You can ride with me a short ways, back to your monastery perhaps, if it is along this road. But you'll mind not to be an annoyance in my ear."

Robert reached down and by one arm slung the monk onto Baiard. Gob sat behind Robert. He reached around Robert's waist with both arms and grasped firmly as a wheelwrights clamp. He wasn't certain, but Robert thought he saw more fingers than was normal for a man, on each of Gob's hands.

"I will only say, what I am supposed to say," Gob said. "What I have always said."

Robert rolled his eyes. At least there would be some entertainment, some distraction on his journey. "What insights?"

"Nothing much," Gob said. "Just about the killing you are about to do. The slaughter of innocence, as you send the essence of those you slay into their singularity. As you will yourself go."

"God would not permit injustice to be brought upon innocent souls'" Robert said.

"You are young yet. You do not know much of this thing called God. You will soon face your crisis and will need love to be with you. It is good that you seek it out, take it with you because you will need it in your darkest hour.

Robert heeled Baiard and the horse finally resumed the trek to Soissons.

Gob shared many insights with Robert as they journeyed. At first Robert dismissed them as folly, vagabond tales from a mind that was not all together there. But at each new revelation from the odd looking little man, Robert grew more and more humble and his disbelief blossomed into sincere thankfulness that he had shared his ride with the monk.

Gob departed Robert's company at the crossroads before Soissons. He whispered something to Baiard then said, "I shall see you again before the time, young Lord." Then he was gone as he had come, disappearing into a roadside hedgerow.

'Before what time?' Robert wondered.

The town was calm. It was many months since Duke John had departed for Paris and the English had been expelled from Soissons. Jeanne was settled in the Lord's apartment at the Chalet Castle. She did not venture from the rooms since the birth of their child. She had her handmaid and the infant's nurse take an inside room, to be near enough to hear every sound and attend every need that might come from the girl child. Robert dismissed them to the back of the room, as he limped into the bedchamber, a smile as broad as the sun upon his face.

Jeanne smiled, from their bed, then quickly turned her face down.

"I'm sorry, my Lord," she said. "I know you planned on a son."

Robert moved quickly to the swaddled child. He knelt beside the cradle and gently reached in to touch the delicate small cheeks of his daughter.

"She is beautiful, as you are," he said.

"Your letter," she said. "You were attacked. You suffered a wound."

Robert shook his head. "All is well now," he said.

"You have a strain when you walk. I saw it."

"I am well enough."

The chamber was adorned differently since Robert last saw it. The large wall tapestry depicting a tournament at the King's court, lance's shattering upon the shields of a pair of brave knights, was replaced by a garden scene with bright flowers and a gentle brook. Opposite their bed hung the image of the Madonna and Child. The air of the room was a cloud of sweet incense and lavender.

Robert rose from the cradle side. The infant's wet nurse quickly stepped into the vacant space and examined the child, as if the man might have left a stain or soiled the infant's soft skin.

"The English have returned," Jeanne said. "The word is all about the town. The knights must be called back to defend us if the English try to recapture Soissons."

The bulk of the Armagnac force that had liberated Soissons had long departed and now amassed at Rouen to repel a different English invasion.

"It is not that band of brigands and that traitor Duke John that we have concern about. A large English army has captured Harfleur on the coast. My Uncle has called me to gather my men and meet at Rouen. We will bring together all the Knights of France to push the English back into the sea once and for all. Duke John, I'm told, has retired to Paris to coddle at the feet of the Queen. No doubt he plans to usurp the throne behind our backs while the rest of us take our duty to the field of battle."

"When will this fighting stop? Will it ever end?"

Robert took himself to the tall window, open to the west. The setting sun, just above the horizon, cast long shadows across the verdant rolling countryside.

"There is the honor of France. There is our personal honor. It is little to ask, to put ourselves at the defense of our home, our land, those we love."

"Why do men so love to make war?"

Robert turned to face his wife. But he did not look into her eyes, his vision was inward.

"We do love war," Robert whispered. "It is in us. Despite the savagery and the horror of it, we do love it. It is the thing that makes us men."

"There is nothing good in it for anybody," Jeanne said.

The wet nurse took the swaddled infant to a far corner of the room, as if the distance would save the child from any talk of the brutality of war.

"I cannot allow them to come here and force the unspeakable ravages of war upon my wife and child. There is no mercy for the innocents."

Jeanne swung her legs over the side of her bed, slid her feet into slippers, pulled a silk shawl over her shoulders and came to Robert at the window.

"It is a blessing you are safe, husband."

"I lost good men on a mission that should have born no danger at all. I must take more men now and take a stand with our other brave knights against a real danger."

"Many will perish."

"Yes."

"It would be best for us if you remained here, safe within these walls."

"There will be no safety here, for you, my lovely wife, or for our beautiful child, if the English come here. Especially here. They will know that we inflicted unnecessary brutality on their countrymen when we took our town back. They will not let that go." Robert turned away from Jeanne and returned his gaze out the window, the sun now just barely above the horizon.

"To be here, with you and our child is the most happy thing," Robert said. "I would stay here forever, if I could, but my duty as your husband and as father to our child is out there. I confess that for all the terror and suffering it brings that I do love the fight too and that is the only reason that allows me to leave this place. But I promise to return and I will not only bring myself but I shall bring whatever spoils and ransoms I can carry. We will shed the English and have the rest of our lives in peace and prosperity."

Jeanne looked west as well. Only the tip of the sun remained peeking above a distant hillock.

"Promises made against the curtain of war are hollow. I love you that you make such a promise but I know that I cannot hold you to it. But please try with all your heart and strength to make it come true."

Robert wrapped his arms around his wife in a deep embrace.

"Our child is to be named Jeanne, after her mother. You will see that she is anointed so." Robert watched the wet nurse take his daughter to her bosom.

"I will cut a lock of her hair and mine for you to take. I will wrap it in silk and put it in an amulet that you may keep close to your heart while you are in battle. It will protect you and we will be with you." Jeanne's fingers clutched at the back of Robert's doublet.

As daylight came the next morning, Jeanne stood at the window, looking west. She watched her husband on the narrow road, past the top of the ramparts of the town walls, mounted on his trusty Baiard, as he rode through the Aspen grove, through the gulley , growing smaller and smaller as he crested the hillock and then disappeared beyond. A pair of knights and six men at arms were all that were left at Soissons to ride to battle with hm.

There was little to pack in my bindle. I took no clothing except that which I wore. Just some coarse bread, a chunk of smoked mutton and a pair of onions. The food would not last long, certainly not all the way to Rouen. But it consoled Simone somewhat that I took something with me.

"You shouldn't go," she said.

I pulled my stool from under my workbench and rested myself slowly. Simone and I had come to the Carriage House to say goodbye.

"This will make a grand house," I said. "To receive such a gift. It is you that has earned it, wife. You are the one that healed Robert. I simply brought him to you."

How many years had this place been my sanctuary of toil, where I could ply the trade and skill passed to me by my own father. Would I survive to pass it to my own son? But I looked at this grand place now with different eyes. I could make it a house of luxury, perhaps not as grand as the manor house but it would be an envious place just the same. I felt an eagerness within, to bring new hearth stones and begin a chimney, to fashion planks for walls to transform the stalls to chambers for my children to sleep and perhaps one to herd the goats to in the night to keep them from ravenous jaws. It was pride I felt, in my chest, in my gut. But not just for myself. I felt proud for Simone, a small woman but big as a mountain in her deeds. She held our new infant to her bosom.

"A new hearth there," I pointed to the far wall, "and I will make this window larger. Perhaps cut a small door inside the main, so the children can come and go."

"You shouldn't go," Simone repeated.

I rose and embraced my wife and child.

"It is my pledge to Robert to lead the men to Rouen."

"There will be terrible fighting. You are not a warrior, a soldier, certainly not a knight. You build wheels and fix carts."

I shook my head. "All this time we have given protection to the town, The Circle and me. No battles, in the truest sense but still, we have killed those that might bring trouble. Freebooters, vagabonds and other small groups of raiders. Not all, but the best we could."

"I know what you've done. It has meant safety for us, but this thing that Robert asks is beyond your measure. It is not a fight; you will simply be fodder."

I felt Simone's body tremble in my embrace.

"Robert knows we are not fighters. Certainly we will be put in the back, to guard supplies and sharpen weapons, put up tents and cook the food for the army. I'm sure my only fight will be with broken cart wheels."

I looked to the stall where we had kept Baiard all these days. It needed cleaning. I wondered if I should place new straw or right now, before my leaving, take out all the old and make the space ready for a bed chamber. It would be for the children. I would make a chamber for Simone and I at the far end, near the old hearth. We could draw a curtain and for once in our marriage have privacy for ourselves. I could make a cooking table there, against the wall where my tools hung and in the center could be our great room, with a table large enough for all my family to sit at one time. I did not want to leave my Simone, my children. Not for loyalty or money.

It was fear, more than anything, that drove me to the choice. Fear that if all did not stand together against our enemy that none of this gift, given to me by my Lord, would ever come to be enjoyed. Not only would there be nothing to possess but most likely my wife and children would forfeit their lives to the brutality of war. It was not my way but it had always been like this. Man taking from man.

"I promise to return and make this place our home. A magnificent home for you and the children," I said. "I will kiss you all before I go, to bind my promise."

Instead of happy relief upon her face, Simone turned her gaze to the floor in sadness.

"You cannot make this promise, because it is not yours to keep. Only God can keep you safe and bring you home. Only God knows if you will even return."

I pushed the stool back beneath my workbench. Back into its place.

"I know," I said.

The big door of the Carriage House swung open. Soldat Bonin stood in the doorway, a giant silhouette, with the daylight behind him. He held his battle axe in one hand and my long sword in the other.

"We're ready," Soldat said. "It's time to go."

"I know," I said. I squeezed Simone and baby Robert hard, as if I was their iron gate that would protect them always. "I must kiss my other children before we leave."

Rousseau, Brasseur, Charpentier and Cordier came from behind Bonin.

"We're all waiting on you," Rousseau said. "Your time for mingling with your woman was last night. The day is upon us."

I released my embrace on Simone.

"There will be a time soon enough," Simone said to Rousseau, "when you will not be so keen for the fight."

Rousseau looked sheepishly downward. "I know," he said.

They were a small band, Robert and his men, two knights and six men at arms. A contingent not much larger than he brought when he was ambushed near Meaux. These riders, however, were all men experienced at the fight; all had seen battle before, all were on their guard, the moment they mounted and passed out the gates of Soissons. Nine men, to join the thousands of expert and experienced soldiers, battle hardened, led by the most capable generals of France. They were certain to crush and humiliate the English hoard.

They travelled the road on the south shore of the River Aisne. At the bend turning towards Compiegne, on a hillock above them, shaded by the sun so that he was just a silhouette, Robert thought he saw Gob, waving at them from the distance, pointing for them to return the way they came from. But the man was too far away to tell for sure, just a shadow in the sun. He could have been anybody, a goat herd, a beggar wanting a share of their food or perhaps a slow witted fool that spent his days waving at all passersby.

They did not stop.

I led my motley band through the streets of Meaux. We feigned to march, as orderly as soldiers might do, but I confess that we were a slovenly band of rag tag tinkers and blacksmiths, farmers and merchants, not trained soldiers. We looked more like a column of defeated prisoners than a proud force marching to the defense of our King and countrymen.

Just the same, every citizen and child came to wave our departure. Bishop de Saintes stood on the top step before the great doors of St. Etienne, dressed in his fine purple cassock, his purple biretta, his golden crucifix dangling to his chest on its chain. He crossed us, blessed us, as if attending a liturgy with God sitting in judgment of all humanity, spoke words I could not hear as we passed. It made me shudder.

The others cheered us, as if we were already heroes. I did not feel like a hero. I did not wish to go. It is not that I was afraid or had unease any greater than would be expected, but in the pit of my belly was an alien foreboding that weighted down my gut like a sack of iron. It gnawed at my innards like a forewarning of unavoidable calamity, like a carrion picking over my dead flesh calling out a warning, 'I told you so, I told you not to go'. Simone did not come to stand with the crowd.

But there was no stopping. There was no hesitation and save for the two men near the tail end of our line that stole away into a side street and did not rejoin the march, all of us were committed. There was the promise of pay, for those that survived and returned, and for those that did not, was the promise of a stipend for their widow.

We skirted north of Paris. Five days we marched to Rouen expecting to join with other trains of men and weapons descending upon the hamlets and warrens around the place. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands would be coming at the call of the King's Marshal. They would be spectacular in their numbers, in their polished armor and helms, with swords and axes expertly forged, halberds, lances and poleaxes, shields with brightly colored imaginative coats, banners and bannerets of hundreds of noble houses. Surely the greatest army ever assembled.

It was a monk that came to me from the river bank. A very short man, clothed in brown wool in what could be taken as a monk's cassock, a rope around his waist, as a Cordelier might wear. His large feet slipped on the mud of the bank and he beckoned me to give my hand and help him to level ground.

He hunched over, hands upon his knees, wheezing and breathing deeply.

"I am too fat for this short body," he finally said. "Thank you for your aid."

"You are welcome Brother.....," I waited for his name.

"Gob, just call me Gob," he said.

"God?" I asked.

"No, Gob. As in goblin or goblet or gobble, like a turkey. Just Gob."

I nodded.

"The man you are looking for is not here yet but he is coming."

"You know who I am meeting here?"

"Yes of course. The young Lord from Soissons, Robert of Bar. He told me you would be coming and to keep an eye out for you. He was supposed to join with many of the other Lords, taking commands from Marshal Boucicault. But he had not come and missed the Marshal's council. You will need to share what is planned, when he finally arrives. Tell him what the Marshal has said."

"I do not know what was said, we have just now come to this place."

I did not know how this monk, Gob, came to know Robert, but I took him at his word there was a message I was to pass.

"I followed the path through the gulley to the pavilion," Gob said. "I was barred from entering, though I stood close enough to hear some of the conversation within, Marshal Boucicault having a thunderous voice. He said this to his Captains and Generals." The short monk's voice instantly changed to a deep resonating bellow, as if coming from a person of much larger stature, ' _We were crushed at Crecy and Poitiers by these English. We will not allow ourselves the same humiliation again. Take heart, from the lessons we have learned and employ them here. Each time we try and fail, we have only truly lost if we take no lessons from our failure. It is only the victory of the final battle that has any worth, all other encounters are the lessons to be learned that ensure the final victory. This is what we have before us now, the final battle_.' The final battle," Gob said, his voice returning to his own."

# 16 – The March to Calais

"I could have carried them all there on my back by now." Purple veins bulged from Henry's neck like tree roots, a thick snake like vein pulsed down the middle of his forehead, his head red as a beet about to explode.

"We could have come and gone from Paris by now. More than a fortnight we have dawdled here, like a sow rolling in its own shit." Henry threw a goblet of wine from the map table in front of him. His youngest brother Humphrey snickered as he nodded agreement.

A cold wind blew in off the channel, slapping the sides of the Kings pavilion, ruffling and folding the canvas like a ships sail catching a gust. He had assembled his council. Henry rolled an ill drawn map onto the table, to study. There were few hamlet and village names and the distances between each could not be relied upon. Still, it was a picture of the land that was before them and made clear that it was now not feasible to make Paris before snowfall. Henry pressed his finger to the place marked as Harfleur and then to the place marked as Calais, the English stronghold to the north.

"This lingering allows the flux to spread among the men. Those that are too sick to make the march to Calais must be invalided back to England. Their horses will be retained here for the march. I have no doubt that the French will meet us in force somewhere between here and there and we will do open battle before we rest for the winter."

This command meant Henry's own brother Thomas, who had been a strength at Harfleur, but had now been sickened with the flux himself, would depart the campaign back to England. The low lying land, the heat and humidity and the close quarters of the large army with their effluent and other waste, spread the sickness like a plague.

"We have many more horses than men," said John, Lord Roos. "All can ride. We can make double time and take the French before they are prepared."

Henry gave a sideways glance, to coax the eager eighteen year old to quiet.

The young knight, John Holland, gave an accounting. "Many of the retinues are severely diminished, Highness. As much from sickness as from loss at the siege. By my estimation we are down a third of the army."

"Bardolf, our Lieutenant of Calais, has sent word that the French are already assembling, to cut us off," Henry said. "I have already sent a messenger with the order for Bardolf to send three hundred men down from Calais to secure our crossing across the Somme at Blanche Taque. Cornwaille and Umfraville will take the Van. I will follow with the main force. York and Oxford shall command the rear guard."

This alignment for the march mirrored that which was common to form on an open field of battle. Sir John Cornwaille and Sir Gilbert Umfraville, Henry's most seasoned knights and commanders were given the honor of lead at the head. They would be first to encounter an enemy and first to do battle. Their result would set the tone of any battle to follow. Edward, Duke of York, and Richard de Vere, Earl of Oxford, capable commanders in their own right, not yet with the battle scars of Cornwaille and Umfraville, were granted the honor of shielding the rear of the march.

"We will follow the coast north to the Somme and make a crossing there." Henry drew a line on the map with his finger.

The estuary at the Somme River was just more than half way to Calais. The English spies had conveyed that the bulk of the French were assembling at Rouen, east of Harfleur, on the road to Paris. If Henry's army was quick in their departure and quick in their march, the French would be at his rear all the way to Calais. If they delayed, the French could cut them off and battle would be imminent. Henry did not fear doing battle. It was his purpose for being in France. But Harfleur had diminished his force more than expected. He needed fresh reinforcement to be fully prepared. Though he would never withdraw from meeting his enemy, Henry was an astute General and knew it was unwise to take on an enemy that was greater in strength, in better health and had secured the advantaged position on the field of battle. He was not reckless in his approach nor so arrogant that he would spend soldiers without purpose.

Two weeks were lost lingering at Harfleur with no resolution towards readiness to depart. They should have been long settled in Calais by now, yet they still faced the eight day march.

Discipline. He must remind his commanders to impose it upon their charges. There would be no sidetracks into hamlets and villages in pursuit of booty or pleasures on the population. No property was to be taken, other than food and drink to quench the army. No woman, child or servant of God was to be harmed, unless they drew a weapon against them. Removing these distractions, on pain of death, would encourage his army to make haste to their destination. Should they meet the French on the way, their minds would be better able to focus on the fight.

"The men may not take kindly to limiting their take, Highness." Young John Roos offered, and quickly had all heads turn to him with expressions of disdain. He was well kept, his armor polished, his thick black hair neatly coiffed, his cheeks and chin beardless. He was young and though not a stupid man, had not yet learned not to speak thusly in the King's presence.

Henry was silent though it was clear his anger boiled. He pounded the map table with a clenched fist then pointed a stern finger at the young knight, who had now withdrawn a few paces.

"I will have discipline by God. My command will be obeyed. You, Lord Roos, will hang the first man found to ignore my order. You will make example and spread the word throughout the army. Any man that disobeys me is the same as my enemy. Worse, because he is a disease that has infected the body of the army and must be quickly cut out. It need happen just once and then the loyalty and attention of the rest will follow."

Cornwaille looked sternly at Roos. Umfraville sniggered at the young man's inexperience.

"Yes, your Highness." Roos bowed to his King as he backed himself into a shadow.

"John Holland, your retinue will guard the right flank of the main body. Humphrey, you will deploy your men seaside and prevent ambush from crags and warrens." Henry held the map up in one hand. "By this map it should take us eight days to make Calais. We should be there by mid-month, unless the French are unwise enough to challenge us."

A sharp gust blew the door flap open. A cloud of dust and small lumps of dirt wafted in, hung in the air then settled on the map Henry had placed back on the table, soiling the route to the northern fortress. Bubbles churned in Henry's gut, sweat had begun to bead on his forehead. He would not allow himself the luxury of getting sick. The flux would not have him, nor would any pox or sweating sickness. He would shed them like a weak enemy. There would be nothing to stop him until France was in his hand. Nothing now, except this delay because of the coming winter.

"Calais is the better choice," Henry said. "Better than retreating back across the channel, only to have to make the landing again in the spring. When the spring does come, we can swoop down on Rouen like a hunting bird and be in Paris before Charles has a chance to leave his chamber pot."

The army began to move. Like a giant snake, in three segments, each piece made from thousands of men and twice as many horses. The baggage train, collected at the distant end, lagged with the weight of their loads and the ruts scored into the roadway. They circled and wove inside and out slowly organizing themselves into a contiguous line.

Before the head of the convoy even made two miles, not yet arrived at the walls of Montivilliers, they came under ambush. Though wary of a constant enemy, the English were still surprised to have an encounter so soon into their march. Two dozen crossbowmen loosed their bolts upon the retinue of Michael de la Pol, following just behind John Cornwaille. The volley came quick, from a high berm, though most bolts missed any mark and once spent, took the crossbowmen too long to reload to be of use in a surprise attack. A contingent quickly turned upon their attackers and drove them off easily, but not without cost.

Geoffrey Blake lay dead upon the road, a crossbow bolt lodged deep through his eye. An esquire, two archers and three cordwainers were lost to capture as the French retreated behind the walls of Montivilliers. There was no order to make an attack upon the town, in retribution. Instead the English continued northwards in a slow climb up the Caux plateau towards Fécamp. News of the skirmish brought a rush of anger to Henry that his march met interference so soon. It also brought foreboding that Calais might very well be further away than the eight days planned and that the likelihood of battle against a large French army was high.

"I welcome them," Henry said to his brother Humphrey. "To meet them in open combat in the field will bring me more pleasure than the boring days of a long siege."

"A man can prove his manhood," Humphrey agreed. "Let them come."

The army skirted Fécamp the next day and two days further they made Dieppe on the coast. Fifty-five miles in three days was just the pace needed to make Calais in eight, though there were many river crossings to make ahead. Most shallow enough to easily traverse on horse, but carts and wagons needed bridges. Advance scouts were sent ahead to see if crossings were clear and not barricaded, defended or destroyed. The Somme estuary, still two days distant, would slow them greatly. They would be exposed, vulnerable. It would be the ideal place for the French to descend upon them, slaughter them with archers, as they made the crossing, when they could not fight hand to hand.

At Dieppe, the army headed inland along the south bank of the River Arques to find a river crossing. Four miles away at the confluence of the Bethune and Varenne tributaries they came to the small town of Arques. The bridges were barricaded but not destroyed and were useable. The small French garrison retreated inside the walls of the castle along with the towns people. But there were no walls or ramparts around the town and though the citizens were safe inside the castle keep, their property was left outside, unguarded.

News of Harfleur had already spread across Normandy. The garrison at Arques had no desire to engage with the huge English army. They lobbed a few gun stones at the column, in a halfhearted attempt at defiance, but without inflicting any damage.

Quick passage was necessary. The army must keep pace. Henry ordered his men to take up battle positions in full view of the castle. He put himself at the front of his ranks, in full battle dress, his coat of arms blazoned across his chest, his helm, with crown, upon is head and the King's banner waving in the wind like a giant hand, mocking them, teasing them into a fight. He made it clear that he would not shirk conflict with them. He threatened to burn all the exposed houses and buildings of the town if they did not allow his army to pass unimpeded. It was clear to the town Burger and the Captain of the castle that resistance would be futile and they quickly came to terms.

They cleared the obstacles barricading the bridges, provided bread and wine for the English army and provided hostages as demanded. The English passed without impediment. This became the pattern for much of the remainder of the English advance. Henry avoided major walled towns, but lone castles and towns without walled fortresses did not deflect him from his route and were vulnerable to the same demands as those made upon the people of Arques.

The bravery and courage of the English knights was never in question. Some, however, were not as quick as others to abide the chivalric code. Some drifted from the marching column and took freely from the French peasants. Some were known to take a head, without remorse and some even dared venture into churches and monasteries for plunder.

Once across the bridges at Arques, the English bivouacked for the night in the fields beyond. The next morning, the 12th of October, they continued up the coast to Eu, the last town in Normandy. They crossed the narrow La Bresele River and wound their way over hills, through gulleys and dales and found themselves at the expanse of the Somme estuary.

This is the place Henry expected to see the French. The widest divide. Of all places on the road to Calais, this was the place where his army was most unprotected and defenseless. And he was right. His scouts returned to tell their King that the French assembled in force all along the northern bank of the River Somme. They occupied every plot of land that would bear a horse and rider and left only the long wide mud flats for crossing. The bridges had not been blockaded or destroyed as the French taunted the English to funnel themselves across. The English halted, the two great armies separated by the flowing waters.

But the English were not without challenge. A lone French Knight emerged from the garrison between the English and the Somme. Eager to demonstrate his courage and prowess against the invaders, he threw down a challenge for an English knight to face him. He coaxed his mount directly in front of the English van. Cornwaille and Umfraville sat upon their destriers, amused at the challenge of the lone Frenchman. The French knight couched his lance under his arm in challenge. An English knight heeled his horse between Cornwaille and Umfraville, couched his own lance and moved to a responding posture.

The two men charged each other and as they passed, the steel blade of the English lance pierced the Frenchman's armor plates and penetrated his stomach. Alive but mortally wounded, the French knight did not surrender. He turned and the two men charged again, at full gallop. This time the lances of both knights struck their adversary at the same moment, with such force that both were impaled upon the others weapon. Both fell to the ground dead.

A small contingent of French rushed forward from their garrison to join the fray but were quickly driven back towards their walls by Cornwaille's guard. There were deaths and injuries on both sides but the sheer size of the English force sent the remainder of French into retreat. But the real danger was across the river.

It was clear to Henry that his army would have to march inland to make a crossing; further away from their destination instead of closer. They carried provision for only eight days and though they could force bread and wine from unguarded farms and villages, it was not enough to sustain his army if their trek took longer than planned. They were growing weary as well, from continued marching, and more had been stricken with the bloody flux, some cutting away the tail of their breeches to allow the grisly flow to move freely from their bowels. They grew weak.

Staring at the French, looking back at them from across the river like a mirror, Henry said to his brother, mounted beside him, "look at them, Humphrey, they look like a gaggle of indecisive women over there."

The French lined the far bank of the Somme as far as the eye could see in both directions.

"They carry the mark of stupidity and cowardice. Why would I cross here. It is stupid of them to think I would. Against the heavy current of the waters. Dragging ourselves up through the mud of the far shore only to be slaughtered one by one. Surely they don't think we are that stupid. If they had courage instead of cowardice, they would send an emissary and set a fair place where we could battle face to face, as men are supposed to. They look like a herd of displaced bovine. None the less, Humphrey, we cannot pass here. The army will turn east, inland, and find a suitable crossing, one where we will not be easily plucked like fruit from the vine."

They turned. Like a serpent, miles long, the English paralleled the winding route of the River Somme, along the south bank, as it made its way toward the heart of Picardy. On the north bank, the French army mirrored their English foe. They seemed to be a smaller force, at first, though not as weary and worn as the English. But throughout that day and the next that followed, the French army seemed to be continually growing, reinforced by legions of cavalry and men at arms.

Though the French army continued to grow, to such numbers that it appeared they now outnumbered the English, Henry had no fear of meeting them on the field. It was a challenge that he would willingly accept. Accept because Henry was convinced that he had righteousness and the strength of God behind his cause. The line of inheritance and succession showed clearly that France belonged to him, and he would have it.

As fate would see it, English scouts, from Cornwaille's van, captured a French prisoner, a Gascon gentleman, embarked on a spying mission. He divulged that the French host was poised to fight within two days and that Charles d'Albret, Constable of France, had amassed a force of six thousand men. This being a similar force to the English able bodies, encouraged the idea of battle in Henry's mind. It would be a good time, before the French army could grow even larger.

"We will make our crossing at Blanche-Taque, Humphrey. Just as our namesake and great-grandfather did at the Crecy campaign. Fitting, don't you think, that we should make the same passage. We shall be the ones that restore our grandfather Edward's blood to the throne of France. It is fitting that this be the place we battle the French."

"Perhaps they will not allow a clear passage across the river so they can be faced like men crosswise on the field. Perhaps they are cowards and will try to slaughter us as we ford the river. Perhaps they will not fight us as men should fight men."

"They will fight," Henry said. "They are as keen for it as we are."

But Marshal Boucicault and Constable d'Albret knew the English history, just as well, and had already advanced a large part of their army to the ford with the white stones, to obstruct the English passage. The crossing had been barricaded with sharpened stakes to make the route impassable.

With news of the barricade, Henry commanded the army to make bivouac for the night. They settled at Bailleul, three miles south from Abbeville. Henry convened his Barons. After two hours of debate, it was decided to abandon an attempt to cross at Blanche-Taque. They would have to journey further up river to find a safer crossing.

It was a setback. Henry knew well that the morale of the army, which had been high after the victory at Harfleur, and as they had marched unopposed through Normandy and Picardy, had been waning, with diminishing rations and growing sickness in the ranks. The news of a further detour away from Calais would cause that morale to falter even further.

"Could we not just make the crossing and take on the French?" Humphrey asked.

"We would suffer savage losses from their archers, brother. They would skewer us descending this bank, again as our crossing is slowed by the river waters and planted stakes, and yet again as we climb the far bank. They own the high ground. No, we will meet them on even ground or ground where we have advantage. We cannot go blindly into battle."

"It is a gamble either way," Humphrey said.

"I can afford no wild play or gambles. The Parliament is already wary of me. I need their support for this and other campaigns that will follow. I will not have it if I allow unnecessary loss. The only way I can return to England with honor is with victory in my hand."

"But you have victory already brother. We have left the French with the shame of Harfleur."

"Such meagre showings. The Parliament is already criticizing me, if they are not laughing, for undertaking a campaign so late in the season. Perhaps they are right to say it." Henry gazed across the plain to the distant far bank of the Somme at the French muster. His eye scanned the length from west to east, as far as he could see. "I must have a victory of honor. That does not come from a simple siege. It can only come from decisive defeat on the open battle field, knight against knight, let the body be hewn and the blood spill as it will. I can only return with honor this way, with the French crown upon my head."

As they continued their march south and east, further and further from their destination, they came to a tributary of the Somme. The French continued to shadow them. Now Henry had two rivers to cross before they could make battle.

Charles, the French King and the Dauphin had arrived at Rouen three days earlier. It was by Charles command that Boucicault and d'Albret had been dispatched to the Somme with six thousand men. That position was secured long before the English arrival. It seemed clear to Henry that the French were intent on guiding him along the river to the most advantageous place to make their slaughter. It was as though they were able to read his thoughts and already knew he was making for Calais. The French would not be chasing their enemy.

On the 15th of October, the English army detoured around Amiens and made camp at Boves. A day was spent in resupply from the farms and small settlements nearby, easily taken under threat of sacking. It was woefully inadequate, forcing a cut in rations even further than had already been made. On the 17th, Henry's army departed Boves and crossed the small Arques river returning to the banks of the Somme to resume their search for an unguarded bridge or ford. Once again they faced the shadow of French on the far side of the Somme. Boucicault and d'Albret's army were patrolling the opposite bank and every town and castle was on high alert.

As the English passed by the town of Corbie, the garrison made a sortie and a skirmish followed. The French were driven back, killing two of them and capturing two men at arms. It was a small victory and not enough to secure a passage across the Somme, but it was a stroke of luck. Upon interrogation, Henry learned the French planned to attack the English archers with heavily armored cavalry. With this knowledge, all English archers were commanded to prepare six foot long pointed stakes, which upon cavalry attack, they would plant into the ground at sufficient angle to pierce the chest of a charging horse. Seeing this 'hedgehog' defense, the French would be compelled to retreat or impale their mounts on the sharpened stakes.

The prisoners gave other information, just as valuable. They revealed that the French army was heading for Péronne, a fortified town at the top of the loop where the Somme River turned south at ninety degrees. It was therefore unlikely that the English would find any passage between Corbie and Péronne where they could cross. It was at this point that Henry made a calculated gamble.

That evening the English made camp between the hamlets of Harbonnieres and Vaullers, even further now from their destination and still in no fair position to face the French in battle. The army settled, yet was unsettled, in their weariness from the misery of the march and the knowledge their King expected they would soon come face to face against a fresh French foe. They were cold and shivering and hungry.

With the information extracted from the French prisoners, the deadly game of cat and mouse was left at the banks of the Somme as Henry commanded his army to race southeastwards, cross country, to find a crossing point deep inland before the French could make their own turn south.

It was a gamble. But the French had taken to laying waste to the country side in advance of the English march, destroying any provision that the local inhabitants could provide. The eight days planned for the march had now passed, the bulk of their provisions now consumed, Henry's army continued to grow weak from lack of food, faint from spreading sickness. Across the river, the French force grew larger in men and stronger with the collection of more engines of war to support their fight.

It was a gamble, to leave the bank of the Somme and head south, but Henry had no choice but to throw the dice. The army made for Nesle, with an advance party to Villecourt, to hopefully secure the bridge before the French could arrive. Henry sent command to Cornwaille and Umfraville to quicken the pace.

They turned southeast and began the long climb up to the Santerre Plateau. Each day of the march became more arduous, as disease and hunger crept through the English ranks. The gentle undulations of the Caux gave way to a steady slippery climb, made difficult by the constant chilly fog and mist as the cold rain of October began to creep across the land. The flat featureless Caux had given way to the heavily wooded hills and steep ridges, the marsh flats had grown treacherous, forcing the English to seek higher ground in their march.

As they reached the plateau, the endless flat land stretched out before them. There were no landmarks to guide them, save the solitary church steeples standing like skeletons against the grey sky.

Henry's pavilion was set up, his table made ready. But he refused to take any food that was better than what was fed to his army. Rations depleted, they ate the remaining scraps of dried meat, hazelnuts gathered from the hedgerows and filled their bellies on water. He sat with Cornwaille, Umfraville, his brother Humphrey and his Chaplin, making plans for a river crossing. Henry was weary too, but he was resolute. He would show no weakness or waning resolve, determined that his example would guide his men, must guide them.

The entrance flap was pulled open. A gust of cold night air blew into the pavilion. A Captain from Cornwaille's retinue entered, followed by a pair of men at arms dragging a young English soldier between them. The Captain stood before his King but did not speak until Henry looked upon him, annoyed by the interruption.

"This man was caught in defiance of your orders your Highness. He was found with a pyx from the village church, just north of our camp. He has stolen it, like a common thief, secreted it on his person," the Captain said.

Henry's face grew taught with anger.

The Chaplain took the pyx from the Captain and examined it. He opened the box containing a small morsel of Eucharist bread.

"I'm sorry, your Majesty," the young soldier wailed.

"Why would you steal such a thing?" the Chaplain asked.

"The money, father," the young soldier cried. "I have a wife and a child to support. There has been no plunder worth taking."

"Why would you take a copper pyx then. It has little value other than its intended purpose."

"Copper? I thought it was gold. But if it is only a small copper box then it is hardly worth anything, your Majesty, hardly worth the trouble."

Henry slammed his fist on the table. "Yet you would take it, like a common thief, against my clear orders that nothing of church property was to be taken or destroyed. You defy my command and mock your God. I will have discipline, not defiance."

Henry moved around the table and stood face to face with the young soldier.

"I'm sorry your Majesty. Have mercy, I beg you."

"In God's despite and contrary to my royal decree, you have sinned and you have disobeyed."

Henry slapped the side of the young soldier's face, with such force that the man's nose began to instantly bleed and his eye swell as he slumped in a faint. Henry signaled an unspoken command to take the young soldier to his punishment.

The offender was promptly taken from the King's presence. His hands were bound behind his back, a rope of coarse hemp looped around his neck. He was hanged from a tree in view of the men of the English army.

Henry came from his pavilion, stood in front of the hanging soldier and spoke in his loudest voice.

"We will have victory over the French. But only if my command is obeyed and there is no insult made against the God that is with us."

The young soldier swung back and forth from the make-shift gallows of the large oak branch. The evening drizzle upon the upturned faces of the English army, already beaten down by hunger and sickness and the wretchedness of their long march. And now this. They looked upon the dead soldier, his neck broken by the thick rope, his young life gone from his body. One of their own, hung by their own King. Hung for taking a simple box from their sworn enemy.

Yes, it truly was a deadly contest, this cat and mouse, as the English pressed on further inland, now desperately searching for somewhere to cross the river. Henry thought of nothing else.

By the evening of the 18th they had reached the outskirts of Nesle. They made camp outside the fortified walls. Henry sent word to the town Burger that he was to supply bread and wine for his beleaguered army. All along their march, the French townspeople had willingly surrendered provisions to the English rather than incurring the wrath of the enormous army. But the people of Nesle refused. Not only would they not submit to the English demand, but they draped a large red cloth over the side of their walls, in defiance. The insult could not go unpunished. Henry ordered all the hamlets surrounding the fortification be burned to the ground the next morning.

Before first light, news came that a suitable crossing over the Somme had been found, just three miles from Nesle. Henry woke to the news, curious that his scouts would be reconnoitering during the night. His Captain said they hadn't been out. Perhaps a villager had passed the news, in hopes of saving his livelihood from flame.

Early on the morning of October 19th, a Saturday, under the direction of Sir John Cornwaille and Sir Gilbert Umfraville, the archers of the vanguard crossed the causeway at Voyennes, on foot, in single file, while the baggage train crossed at Bethencourt-sur-Somme, where the land was flatter.

Small groups of French Calvary emerged from the hamlets on the northern side of the river. Inconsequential skirmishes ensued between English and French cavalry. It was the duty of the men of Saint Quentin to guard the route where the English now crossed. But they failed to do so.

Boucicault and d'Albret had retained the main body of the army at Péronne, where the Somme bent south. It should have been the last route of escape for the English, to turn north, to cross and turn back towards Calais. The Marshal and Constable did not expect their enemy to turn away and go south, as if they were fleeing from combat. And now, the English had crossed the Somme.

# 17 - The Squire of Rouen

"The English are coming," an old woman cackled at us as we drew near. "They are coming, turn back."

We stopped in our tracks in the road. Coming towards us, from the west, a rag tag crowd of peasants approached, carrying bundled belongings, leading goats on tethers, oxen, some pulling loose wheeled carts. Peasants of all ages and sorts; it was clear they were in flight from their homes.

"You can't go that way," she said. "We heard a great English army destroyed the people of Harfleur. Savaged them, left none alive, stripped the land of what they could carry and burned the rest. They left nothing, and now they will come and do the same to us, like a denizen of hell, come to swallow us into the inferno." She did not stop her slow shuffle as she passed. Behind her she led three small children, looped one behind the other on a hemp tether, as if she were leading her own small herd. The children were too young and she too old for them to be her offspring. I surmised that she was the grand-mère and the parents were lost, perhaps slain.

"Where do you go?" I asked.

"Paris," she called back to me. "They must close the gates and keep our lives safe behind the walls. You must turn and come or you will surely be killed."

Many of my men had the look in their face that said she was right, that we too must turn and flee before the beasts of hell could swoop down on us and devour our souls in a storm of flame and brimstone. But we already knew, of course, about the English. That was our purpose for being on the road. Still, her words conjured fear in many of my men.

"Be safe mother," I said, as she passed from earshot.

We could hear them coming, like thunder out of the north. The hooves of a dozen horses pounding the earth. Many of my men dropped to their knees as if making their last prayer, begging absolution before the tumult fell upon us. One frightened soul fled in the direction of the old woman. But it was not a hoard of savage Englishmen descending upon us.

Robert winced through one eye, from the ache in his buttock wound; but it had not split open, with his many thanks to Simone's fine needle work and care. Baiard slathered and foamed from his mouth, sweat soaked, steam rising off him like fog lifting from a river.

With Robert rode two French Knights atop their massive destriers, hooves pounding the roadway. Behind them came half a dozen men at arms on smaller rouncey; and behind them, were a pair of common men, one by horse and one by mule, leading four pack horses, laden with provisions.

For me and the nearly two hundred men that followed, we were hours in to our fifth day of marching from Meaux. We had skirted north of Paris, though close enough to see the walls and bastions. We had made our camp, that night, close enough to see the twinkle of distant torch light, until they were extinguished for the night. I had wanted to see the great city, but that was not to be. And now we neared our destination at Rouen.

We had crossed the pont over the Oise as we had made our way north of the great forest below Chambly. It was my plan to stay clear of the dense forest, a perfect hiding place for all sorts of trouble. Many of my men complained of sore feet and bad backs and skimpy breakfasts, though many were just as happy to be on the march. Some carried provisions, though not much more than dried meat and stale bread. Some carried a weapon, a blade or mallet passed down through their family. Most brought with them implements of their trade, as they were told their role would most likely be to support the fighting men with leather work or forging or mending weapons and armor, cooking or making camp and putting up shelter. They did not expect to put their lives at risk. The promised pay was small, unless you carried a sword or pike or axe for battle, as Soldat Bonin had done.

It seemed long since Robert had left us in Meaux, to make his way to Soissons, to his wife and new child, though it had only been days.

Robert dismounted, stretching his back and rubbing his arse wound. We embraced, as if we were long separated family. From the corner of my eye, I saw the jaw of many of my men slacken at the sight of such a thing.

"You made good time," I said.

"You as well," Robert said.

"Your wife? Your child?"

Robert smiled, as if the light of heaven was within him.

"I have love in my heart, Gillet," he said. "To see such a thing, as your own child. To see her in the arms of the person you love most in the world. What better thing could there be? Was it like that for you, Gillet?"

"It is like that every time, Robert."

"I am keen to get to the fight, but I am just as keen to get back to my two Jeannes."

I slapped his shoulder. "You will do both, soon enough."

We walked together and talked. I could hear, behind me, my men of Meaux mumbling and grumbling as we went. With knights and men-at-arms joined to our retinue, it was clear now, we were bound for the fight, and not just a ridiculously large band of traveling workers.

"It is true, Gillet. About the English. Harfleur is lost. It is too late for us to go to the aid of Harfleur's poor citizens."

"They are destroyed?" I asked, to confirm the old woman's words.

"Not destroyed completely. Much damage, as you would expect in any siege and sacking. But the English King has released the citizens with their lives, though not their property. Harfleur is English now. They have left a garrison to hold the place and the army is on the move."

"Then we will meet them soon," I said.

"Not so soon. They go north."

"But Paris," I said.

"Word is that they go to their fortress at Calais. To winter. That they will descend upon Paris in the spring when the weather is good."

Relief washed through me like a flood of warm soup. "That is good," I said. "We can return to Meaux and you can go to Soissons to spend the winter with your wife and child."

"No," Robert said.

The smile shrank away from my face.

"I have heard that Marshal Boucicault plans to engage the English before they can make Calais. There will still be a fight."

The news that had lifted my spirit momentarily, now dropped it back into the trepidation that had burdened me every step of our march. But Robert did not share my gloom. He seemed uplifted, keen that there was still the chance to face the English.

"We must quicken our pace Gillet. We must join our countrymen before they meet the English."

My meagre breakfast bubbled nervously in my belly, the muscles of my whole body felt as though they were tightening, shrinking, perhaps in fear of what was to come. Meeting an enemy face to face on the field was not the same as ambushing them from behind the protection of a berm. But Robert did not seem this way. He was relaxed, loose, excited even. He wanted to be there, now. He wanted to be seated on Baiard, fully armored, beside his French knight compatriots, primed for their duty, for their honor. How different we were.

"I should have liked to have gone into Paris," I said. "I have been a couple of times, but only to the market square. I should have liked to see where the King lives."

"I have been many times," Robert said. "Even to the palace. It is not so special as you might think. Yes, there are gilded halls and fine tapestries and large rooms where his court comes to sup and tell their tales. There is even intrigue sometimes. But they are not so special, the people. Beneath their fancy clothes and jewels, they are the same as you and I. Maybe not even so special as you my friend, Gillet."

"Still, I would like to have seen it again," I said. "See where the King lives and imagine the life of my long dead ancestor."

Robert looked at me curiously. "What ancestor?"

"There is a tale from long ago, remembered by only a few, spoken inside my family, as if it were a fable from hundreds of years past. It is said my family has blood ties to the great Viking, Rollo, named by some as the first Duke Robert."

Robert made a quizzical face, as if this certainly was a wild tale. But as my friend, who would not say he doubted me, he said, "tell me this tale."

I was reluctant, in case he mocked me, but decided he could take my story as true or jest and it would make no difference to it.

"It is said that there was a Viking Earl by the name of Ragnvald and he was the dearest friend of Harald, the first King over all the small Kings of the Northmen. And Ragnvald had a son, named Hrolfur, who was a giant of a man. So big that he had to walk everywhere because he was too large to seat a horse and he became known as Gongu-Hrolfur."

Robert looked back at his mighty Baiard that he led behind us, and gave a doubtful shake of his head, that any man could be so large.

"Earl Ragnvald was King Harald's dearest friend, and the King had the greatest regard for him. Ragnvald's son Hrolfur became a great Viking, and he plundered much in the eastern sea. One summer, as he was coming from the east, on a Viking's expedition, he made a cattle foray at Viken. As King Harald happened to be in Viken, just at that time, he heard of it, and was in a great rage; for he had forbade the plundering within the bounds of the country. The King had Hrolfur declared an outlaw and banished him from the land. So Gongu-Hrolfur went over the sea where he plundered and subdued for himself a great earldom, which he peopled with Northmen, from which that land is called Normandy, this very country where we walk."

"I have heard something of this story before," Robert said.

I went on. "Gongu-Hrolfur's son was William, father to Richard, and grandfather to another Richard, who was the father of Robert Longspear, and grandfather of William the Bastard, from whom all the following English kings are descended, including this one, Henry, who fights us. From Gongu-Hrolfur also are descended the Earls in Normandy."

Robert agreed this story could be true. But there was more.

"When Gongu-Hrolfur first came to the gates of Paris and they were closed and could not be opened and his attack repelled, he made his way up river to the lands near Meaux and sacked the farms and villages and rested there before returning to finally break the gates of Paris. While he rested near Meaux, he fathered a bastard child with a woman he took by force but fell in love with. Her name was Aelis and the child was given the name Karfan framleiðandi, the cart maker, and he was the first of my family line, the first Charron."

Robert rolled his eyes. "The Viking siege of Paris is more than five hundred years past. It is not that I doubt your tale my friend, but I have never heard this part of the story before."

"I know," I said. "It is just told as a story and mostly forgotten. Gongu-Hrolfur became a sworn prince of Frankia by the King, whose name was also Charles, like our King today. The King gave him all this land on condition that Gongu-Hrolfur protect Paris and the King from any further Viking raids. And the King named him Duke of the land of the Northmen and they called it Normandy and they called Gongu-Hrolfur, Duke Robert, who became known to us as Rollo."

Robert waved me off, as if my tale was too outrageous to be true. "And what of this woman, this Aelis. I have never heard of her or this bastard child."

"Gongu-Hrolfur had many children, by wives and concubines and women taken on raids, some are known and others are not. All those known were of royal blood. Those who are not known, were scrubbed from the memory of France, their names never written, and all the bastard children remain unspoken of. But in my village, it was passed down that Gongu-Hrolfur loved Aelis more than any woman, but to keep his promise and bind him, he was made to marry the King's daughter."

"That is a most delightful story my friend," Robert said, "and if it is true then somewhere in the past, our bloodlines merged and we are brothers," he wrapped his arm over my shoulder, "or at least very distant cousins. In fact, you may out rank me and be more entitled to take my place on the line in battle."

"I gladly leave that to you," I said. "We are all brothers and sisters and cousins to each other. We are all spawned from the loins of Adam and Eve. Even our English enemies. You would think after all this time we would have learned to put aside our differences and treat each other with love and kindness, as family should."

"You forget about the lust for power and wealth," Robert said. "The thing that separates my good fortune from your poor fortune."

"My fortune is not poor, Robert. My life is full. I just measure my prosperity in a different way than you. But now, with the love you have for your wife and child, you too know there is more to life than wealth and power. You too know that we should love all men, so we can have peace among us."

"Yes, you are right Gillet. I am coming to know this too. But you forget that Cain slew Abel and from the very beginning we are known to be unkind to each other, even to our own brothers."

It was well past mid-day by the time we stopped to take food and drink. My whole troop of men gathered around the pack horses Robert brought from Soissons. Though he had brought much provision, it had not been intended to feed two hundred men. But Robert did not hesitate to break open the supply and in an orderly manner, provide cheese and meat and flat bread for all the men of my march.

Each day grew shorter, with the late season. The sun was half down in the sky, but even so, we were grateful to have its light instead of the grey gloom of cloud that had covered us since leaving Meaux. It was enough to warm the gentle breeze that bathed our faces as we took our meal. Some of the men ate then laid in the long grass. Others sat restful, sipping ale from shared cups, admiring the loveliness of the changing leaves, offering explanations why some remained green for the winter while others shed their coats in blazes of red and gold. Some of the men joked together, others pretended to battle the English with their hoes and scythes. None of us were on our guard.

Shouts rose from the front of our line. There was a great rustling and clamoring of men, scrambling for their implements or weapons if they had such. As plain and unfettered as a herd of rambling sheep, a band of English shuffled up the road towards us. There were twelve or twenty, I could not tell their number. Dressed in the red and blue tunic of the English army, carrying pikes and long lances, they shambled towards us. Not in a charge or a threatening thrust of men, but more as if they were friendly travelers meeting strangers on the road.

My men jumbled and tossed themselves here and there trying to position themselves to repel an attack. But we were a hopeless mess, except for Robert, his two Knights and men at arms. The English stopped dead, in the road, a dozen paces from Robert, whose sword was drawn and ready.

He was a skinny man. The English sergeant. He had no helm or tin hat. His scraggy beard was caked with the last night supper, his teeth were black, and I thought I could smell his stink from as far back as I was away from him. The men behind him, though dressed as fighters, were all disheveled, heads hung low and weary. The skinny man lifted both arms and waved at us, in surrender, entreating us not to shoot, if we were crossbowmen or archers. His men stopped behind him and all dropped their weapons at their feet. The skinny sergeant slowly drew his sword from its scabbard. It was warped along its length, with a large V chipped off one edge. It was dotted with rust and what might be dried spots of blood. He dropped it to the ground in front of Robert.

Soldat Bonin stepped forward to stand with Robert and his knights. I followed. After many long moments of silent stare, Robert waved the skinny man to drop his hands. Robert spoke to him in English.

"What is this?" Robert demanded.

"We surrender m'Lord." The skinny man bowed his head. "We're no danger to you. We give ourselves up as your prisoners. Give ourselves up to your mercy."

"What are you doing here? Why are you not with your army?"

Roberts first thought was that these men were a scouting party, or spies. But he could tell by their shabby appearance that they had long been on their own, not part of a main body. No doubt they had been freebooting and were not part of the English main force.

"Where do you think you are going?"

"We go to Paris, to surrender m'Lord. We have no army to go back to. They have abandoned us. You can see with just these few men, we are no threat."

"Why don't you flee back to your own. You're in no fight here. There is no need for your surrender." Robert was suspicious.

"We cannot go that way m'Lord. There was a very large French army gathering at Rouen, it is not safe. Too many of them would just as soon hack us to death as set eyes on us. All we ask is a small taste of mercy and we will take ourselves away from any fight that happens. We are no danger to you."

"You have invaded my country," Robert said.

"Kill them," Soldat growled. "English dogs. You can't trust a single word. They speak only lies." This my big friend said not knowing what the skinny man had spoken, Soldat's only English words being 'shit' and 'Jesus Christ'.

"It is not our way to slay men that have thrown down their weapons in surrender," Robert said to Soldat.

"You cannot trust them," Soldat said. "If you take them prisoner, they will find a way to cut your throat while you sleep. Or they will speak serpent words to our own men and bewitch us into killing each other."

"It is not our way. By our honor we must only take the life of the man we face in battle. All others must surrender to God's mercy."

The skinny Englishman's eyes, filled with pleading, flicked back and forth between Robert and Soldat.

"We cannot take prisoners with us," I said.

"Kill them," Soldat repeated.

"No," Robert said. "We will let them go to Paris and surrender themselves."

"Yes, we should have mercy," I said. "But we should also have caution so that we do not forfeit our own lives to undue trust."

"They are freebooters, plunders, looters," Soldat said.

"Under our clothing and armor, under our skin, we are all kin to each other, we are all just men, brothers or cousins, fathers and uncles. We all pray to the same God, even if it is by way of a different church. We should let them go to Paris and surrender," I said. "If they agree to go in peace." I looked suspiciously at the skinny Englishman.

Perhaps my look was too suspicious.

Not knowing the words I spoke; the skinny man stooped quickly and retrieved his sword from the dirt in front of him. His troop did the same. As quickly as the Englishman bent to the ground and grasped the hilt of his sword, Soldat cleaved the back of his neck and the skinny Englishman fell headless to the ground. A battle ensued.

Robert's knights were first into the fray, showing no sign of fear or hesitation. His men at arms were quick to follow, as was Soldat. Except for the men of The Circle and a few others, most of my men of Meaux backed away from the fight. It made no difference.

There were no knights among the English band. Except for one man, none of the English were well trained fighters and they were easily dispatched by Robert's knights and men at arms. Soldat slew two or three himself, I could not tell for certain as the melee was a ragged convulsion of swinging swords and axes. The pikes and long lances of the English were useless in the close quarter fray. Though I did not flee, I confess that I did not enter the fight. It is not that I feared injury or even death and I had killed English before, most often with some regret for taking a man's life. But this band of men did not appear a threat to our lives or property; they were giving themselves to our mercy and it seemed a pointless waste of life to slaughter them.

I did not disparage Robert for this act of carnage, nor did I see any joy or lust for killing in his eye. He could be right to send them to their purgatory, he knew better than me, the ways of war. It was clear that Soldat held no trust or mercy for the English, he had faced them on the field before. Perhaps it was his words that allowed Robert to have them slain, erasing any doubt that they were truly giving themselves as prisoners.

They were right. My hesitation could have led to the death of many of my men of Meaux. In fact the English had come this way as scouts, in advance of their army, they expected to follow. Once they were cut off from any retreat or return to their own side by the thousands of French mustering at Rouen, they were like rats trapped between two hounds and they would do whatever was needed to save their English skins. It was right that we killed them.

We did not leave the bodies to the vermin and carrion. Every one of them was buried in the ground at the edge of the great forest. By Robert's order, there was no plunder of their belongings, though there was little to be had, in any case. Robert spoke words over them and invited me to do the same. I had little to say and though I had gone to the funeral of many, the only words I ever heard Bishop de Saintes speak over the dead, were in a tongue I did not understand.

All I could think to say was, "Lord have mercy on their souls, even though they are English."

We rested when we could. Moved off the road often, to let troops of knights pass. All making their way to Rouen, as we were, to assemble at the King's command.

It had taken five days for my two hundred men of Meaux to march to Rouen. We were not a uniform trudge as a true army would be; we were more like a long string herd of sheep, meandering loosely, visiting with our companions, telling stories as we went, laughing, complaining, making exaggeration about our deeds. Others had joined our march, as we went. Most were true men at arms under the leadership of a French Baron or knight. Many were on horseback. Many marched in orderly fashion, with common uniform, padded tunics, leather jerkins that would provide some protection in the clash of weapons. They were serious men, trained and trusted fighters. Not like us. But seeing these battalions, all proud to answer the call of their King, made my own men walk more pompously, upright, strutting with purpose, men of France.

By the limit of the road, we banded together, with forces converging from the near counties. Our company of two hundred from Meaux had grown to near a thousand by the time we made Rouen. We made camp on a hill and in a swale around the gathering place. We expected to see tents, bivouacs and shelters of all sorts, as far as the eye could see. Thousands upon thousands of men and beasts and camp fires, hearths and roasting spits so numerous that they made the night sky glow.

"A force greater than all the armies of England," Robert said. "That is what I expected to see here."

But we were too late to go to the defense of the port at Harfleur. It had already been surrendered by the time we arrived at Rouen. It was even too late to avenge the defeat. By the time we made Rouen, the great army of French Princes was gone. Robert learned that our French Marshal Boucicault had taken the army north to engage the English as they fled to their stronghold at Calais. Harfleur was surrendered but Paris was safe, for now. Somewhere between Rouen and Calais a great battle would take place and the English would be slaughtered and pay for what they had done to Harfleur.

We broke camp. Our force of a thousand men began to move like a murmuration of flying birds, rolling and flowing in an irregular but coordinated mass. Robert and I rode side by side.

"My Uncle will not show favor for this band of men we bring to the fight, Gillet."

I turned and looked back at the line of men following behind. "Why would he not. We bring the two hundred men, as he said was your obligation. We are here to serve at your command."

Robert leaned close and spoke quietly. "They do not like to share the glory with commoners. Men of higher blood live to make war. We love it, deep in our soul. We live the chivalric code and take it as our sworn right and due to defend the honor of our land and property and women. This fight against the English has brought us together against a common foe. Otherwise we would be fighting each other. Armagnac against Burgundian, and others too, but mostly just we against the Burgundians."

"Why do you fight each other; French upon French?" I asked.

Robert pulled upon his reign. "Power. Control. Wealth. It has always been that way. But now, because our King is crazy, it is seen as an opportune moment to usurp his crown. Take it while he is weak. Before the Dauphin can claim it. The English King wants it too, but not because Charles is mad. It is said that his grandfather had rightful claim and now the English King has planned to take it for himself."

All I could do was shake my head.

Robert went on. "My Uncle will not like that I have brought peasants to satisfy my obligation. But Gillet, I've never had a large retinue of knights to call upon. I can bring just these two knights and this small handful of men-at arms. The others that were in my service were murdered, when you found me. When you saved me from the English on the road to Meaux. These men with you are not fighters. Their blood will be wasted on the field of battle and the true knights of France will not have them stand in the line. They have no right to die for our King, they are just peasants."

The rhythm of our horses gait and their clopping hooves was like a steady quiet song. I imagined the peace of it shattered by the screams and wails and crying of a thousand men caught in the clash of swords, the sickening sound of metal ripping through flesh and the stench of fresh blood and the meat of hewn bodies.

"These men will be happy to stay as clear from the fight as they can," I said. "You are right. They are not fighters, they do not have that skill, nor would many of them desire to be in the fray. They will happily tend the needs of the men at arms and knights."

"My Uncle will still not be happy."

"You have me and Brasseur, Cordier and Charpentier, Rousseau, if he can keep his mind on the fight, and of course Soldat Bonin. He is formidable in a fight, as you know. We will stand with you and tell your Uncle Edward that we are your army and he will have to be satisfied with that."

"Gillet, you know that my squire was slain on the road from Soissons by those English dogs."

"Yes, poor lad. We buried him proper and the Bishop gave him a good blessing."

"So I am without a squire now. We'll be going into battle soon and I must have a squire."

"There should be a lad amongst this rabble that would be quite pleased with such a post."

"Or perhaps," he hesitated, "you would do me the honor."

"I am too old for that Robert. I know nothing about squiring." I snorted and shook my head in refusal.

"It is not an onerous role; I could guide you with some of the duties. You would be like my second. You would be at my side in the battle. You wouldn't have to dig toilets or be a servant to the general body of knights."

"I agreed to come all this way to take up arms against the English, not to dig toilets."

"Good, then it is agreed?"

"What exactly would my duties be?" I asked skeptically.

Robert thought a moment then said, "You would have to free me if I'm taken captive. Ensure I receive an honorable burial if I'm killed. Carry my banner."

"Your banner? How will I wield my sword if I'm carrying your banner?"

"Well, perhaps you could pass it to another when the fighting begins. The banner, not your sword. You may have to guard prisoners that I take. If I lose a weapon or one is damaged, you may have to find me new ones. Or locate another mount for me if Baiard goes down."

"You want me to be your servant?"

"No, it is not like that. There is honor in being a squire. It is like you are a knight in training. And I'll need help with this." Robert pointed to a bundle stuffed with clothing and armor tied across the rear of Baiard.

"You want me to dress you? Like a woman dresses a child?"

"No, not like that. Armor must be properly fitted. It is heavy and awkward to put on. I can't do it by myself. It can be dangerous if I can't move in it properly." Robert offered a concession, "I won't ask you to clean and polish it."

"Polish it? Would I be wiping your arse as well?"

"No of course not. I only ask you because you are my friend and there is no time to secure and train a new squire."

"If I was seated on Baiard and you were here in my place, would you do this for me?"

"I would," Robert answered immediately. "And I will. If you are captured I will risk my life to free you or pay your ransom, if you are killed I shall bury you with honor or if I am able I will bring your body back to Simone. If you lose your weapon, I will give you one of mine."

"Then Robert, it is my honor to be your squire."

# 18 – The Shadow Army

October 1415

"You are not mad Your Grace," Gob said. "Even though you think it so. They fool you. Your mirror fools you. You are not glass."

"No, you are wrong. I am glass. I will shatter if I am struck or if our elbows accidentally touch. I cannot go to fight the English King."

The stone walls in the Kings chamber were soaked wet with droplets, as if it had rained inside the room. Charles sat in a gilded chair that had been pulled close to the hearth. The fire blazed. He pulled the goose feather duvet close around him. The monk, Gob, sat on a milk stool, beside the King, poking the embers with a long stick.

Charles and the Dauphin had come to Rouen for the mustering of the army, though neither had the thought they would actually join the campaign; Charles because of his malady and the many dangers that lay hidden to afflict him at the first chance; and the Dauphin, because the tremble in his belly would not subside.

"I did not come to convince you otherwise," Gob said. "I have come because I always have and always will, to give you the message as I always do."

Charles pulled his duvet tighter. "What message?" He coughed. "There must be another log for this fire. If I grow much colder, I will shatter." Sweat dripped from his brow.

"You are not mad, your Grace," Gob rose from his stool. Even though he stood at his full height, Gob's head was barely higher than the seated King. He faced the monarch, whose head bent over as if he was a beaten man. "There is a small finger of discordant brain flesh that presses here and presses there. It grows inside your head. You are not mad, you do not have a demon in your head, there is no mean spirit that possesses you then vanishes then returns again. It is just a small piece of the meat of your brain that has grown black. That is the thing that will kill you. Not the shattering of your brittle flesh, not an English bodkin or war axe. It will not happen soon, you have the same time left as the English King. You will be lucid again and you will have the appearance of madness again, before your end.

"You are a see'er, a sooth sayer, a prophet, to know these things," Charles mumbled.

"I am just Gob."

"You are God?"

"No, I am Gob. It is my name, as strange as it is. Gob, like in goblet or goblin or gobble like the tom turkey you ate at your supper last evening. I have told you this before."

"Gob the monk," Charles said.

Gob tilted his head back and forth. "I dress as a monk, yes."

Charles rolled the duvet off his shoulders. "It is too warm in this chamber."

His sleeping gown was soaked through with sweat. It clung to his thin body like a second skin. He stood. His duvet dropped to the floor. He looked almost naked, against the hearth light.

"I will get you a cloak, your Grace. Your Dukes and the Dauphin are at the door."

Just then a knock came on the chamber door. It rang loud, as if made by an iron fist. The door swung open, the Dauphin stomped into the room, a parchment scroll in his hand, his face twisted in contempt. In a procession behind him came the Dukes of Orleans, Brabant, Bretagne and Bourbon.

Gob smiled as he shrunk back out of the light and took a place in the shadow near the hearth.

"That fool Henry has dared to send us a challenge to face him." The Dauphin waved the parchment above his head, as if he were swatting flies.

Charles pulled at his damp night gown.

"Yes, I know, that is why we have come to this place. The English invasion."

"No, not that. He has sent a challenge offering to settle this dispute in single combat. Against you," the Dauphin sneered, "a sickly old man, or against me. He knows well that I do not have the training or skill in combat as he does. He knows that I am neither a war monger, a horseman or skilled at the joust. He knows that I will not accept this challenge so he gives it just to belittle and mock. Just as well they are on the move."

"They go back to England?" Charles asked hopefully.

The Dauphin stood in silence, dumbfounded, then spoke. "No of course not. He will not flee like a beaten cur. They have won Harfleur. We are too late to save the people of that town, our army is not yet ready. We are not all here yet. Now he goes north. He has left a garrison at Harfleur and he takes his army north. Boucicault says he will go to Calais. He will go by way of Blanche-Taque as King Edward did."

"Yes," Charles said. "Of course. But why send a challenge for single combat then."

"He mocks us," the Dauphin yelled. "He knows we will not accept. He plays us as cowards. But we will show him we are not. Constable d'Albret will take the army against him. Our loyal men have come to defend the honor of France and to share in the glory of crushing the English. Our Dukes and Barons and Knights have gathered from all corners, though Burgundy has not yet come. But his brother, our Duke of Brabant shows he is no coward and brought his retinue. We will sever Henry like cutting the head from a serpent."

"You, my son, will lead our men against him."

"No, I will remain here in Rouen, to protect you. The Constable and Marshal Boucicault have taken the army to engage with the English."

The Duke of Orleans stepped forward. His rugged, weathered face, stern, barely concealing his contempt for the Dauphin's cowardice.

"Your Grace," Orleans addressed his King, "your Dukes, Jean of Bourbon and I, Charles of Orleans, will each send our letter to Henry to accept his challenge of single combat, for the honor of France. He may choose whomever he wishes to fight. We will stand in your place. If he does not wish to make such a contest then it is upon his head that we will meet him in the open field and destroy his army."

Louis de Guyenne, Prince and Dauphin of France, sneered at this obvious chiding from the Duke. But Orleans, an experienced soldier, returned a stone faced stare.

"Can you beat him Charles?" the King asked.

"His offer of single combat is mere formality of the chivalric code, your Grace. He will not fight. He has no intention of risking his own life and mission, unless it is against you," Orleans turned his head to the Dauphin, returning the sneer, "or the Prince. We will halt his flight and do battle. Henry is no coward and he is also no fool. He will not fight us at disadvantage. To that end, your Grace, we will issue Henry our offer to relieve him of his life at the time and place of his naming."

Robert and I and our motley men of Meaux left Rouen and before two days we joined our great army, as if we were the small stub of a tail on the back of a dog, as if we were a forgotten after thought. But we were there, with them. Together we had become part of the massive swarm across the countryside. Our great army. Never had I seen so many men in one place at one time. But we did not go west to Harfleur, on the sea coast. North we went, like tens of thousands of fingers, creeping over the land, many single files of men, some marching with their poleaxes propped high over their shoulders, many with shields and swords at the ready, crossbowmen, archers and very many riders, more than I could count, in polished armor, riding groomed horses, with squires and body guards riding in service behind them. Thousands upon thousands, led by the Lords of our glorious noble houses of France.

'We are invincible.' I thought.

It seemed to me that even Robert rode higher in his saddle. His back straightened, his chest out, his chin tucked, he rolled in his saddle to Baiard's rhythmic stride. We did not move with great haste though our pace was strong and steady. It was here that Robert's uncle, Duke Edward, separated most of our two hundred and dispatched them to the baggage train at the rear. Only those with true weapons were permitted to go forward with the fighting men.

Duke Edward told us that day that our numbers were many times that of the English and there would be a great slaughter. He told us the English were sickly and weakened by disease and poor leadership and they struggled along the Somme, like fools, like a slow moving slug trying to escape the flame. But there was no hope for them.

Each day our army grew even larger with polished knights and lords, with so many banners and the coats of noble houses that I could not see the end of them. North we went, three days, and when we reached the bridge at Saint Valery, our great army funneled and squeezed itself over the pont and we took up station all along the north banks of the River Somme. In the distance, far across the mud flats of the estuary, the sea made a blue line on the horizon. The sea over which the English had come.

"England is there," Robert told me, as he pointed to the place where the sky met the water, and I imagined England as a thin string of land at the edge of the world.

When we were settled on the other side of the Somme and the Lords of France lined their soldiers all along the banks as far as the eye could see, the bridges were burned or taken down. The next day the English came. We stood planted like a wall, miles long, with billmen and pikemen, macemen and sergeants, crossbowmen and our knights with armor polished like mirrors. Of course the English could not cross. The water was too deep.

'They must surrender,' I thought. 'There could be no fight.' But they did not. They turned inland.

"They go to Blanche-Taque," Robert told me. "They go to the place where their great King Edward fought us, long before we were born. At least before I was born." Robert looked at me as if I were a pitiful decrepit old man. We laughed.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"My uncle has said. He knows of that old battle, where a pathetic force, such as the English King has now, defeated our men of France, even though we had many more men than they."

"But how do you know they will go there?"

"It is the place of white stones across the river bottom, making the ground beneath hard enough for horse and cart to cross. The river is shallow there. They can ford there without needing a bridge."

That is where we went, following from the far side of the river, as the English went too. They were an army and we were a shadow army, like their ghost against the land. Here and there, men from one side or the other would stand along the bank and shout threats and mock the other side, calling them cowards and women, rattling swords and hammering shields. Then both armies moved on again.

A great unease grew in my belly and in my bones as each hour passed. I wondered when the time would finally come when both armies occupied the same side of the river and we would finally have to fight. Even though I didn't want it, I did. Because I wanted it to be over. It went this way until the middle days of October. Them moving along the bank, we reflecting their movement like a mirror, like their shadow on the ground, from the other shore.

And then they disappeared. It was sudden and complete. We woke. A wet morning in deep October, and they were gone. We had come to Péronne, where the river turns away. It was the place where Robert told me they would finally have no choice but to cross and face us. But they had vanished like breath upon the wind.

We sat as a private band, Robert and me, his knights and men at arms and my men of The Circle. We crowded the fire for warmth. We had nothing to cook but were given coarse bread and wine, to fill our bellies.

"They must have turned away and gone back the way they came," Rousseau offered.

"They won't have run," Soldat said. "They're up to some trickery. I know the English; I have fought them before."

"You're right," Robert said. "Our Generals are not tricked. We must be on our guard, lest the English have devised some ambush."

"How could they ambush us," I said. "Our army is at least twice their size. It would be madness for them to strike."

"They could sneak out of the bushes and hedgerows. They could take us by night while we sleep." Rousseau looked into the grey morning at the hedgerow surrounding our camp. At that very moment, the bushes rustled and cracked with the snapping of branches. A short figure parted the undergrowth as if pulling open a curtain. Rousseau lept to his feet, drawing his dagger.

"It's them, the English," he whispered in a harsh voice. He stepped backward, stumbled over a log, dropping his dagger into the scrub, lost.

Every man in our camp stood. Those of us that had a weapon at hand, made them ready.

"It's you," Robert said, as the short man in a monk's frock came towards us, pulling leaves and twigs from his cassock and the little hair that grew upon his head.

"I need to plan better, think ahead," the monk said. "I'm always ending up in shrubbery of one sort or another."

"What are you doing here?" Robert asked.

We all looked at our Lord, surprised that he knew the short man.

"I thought you might have been an English," Rousseau said. "That or a wart hog. You're lucky I didn't stab you."

The monk waved him off, slipped a hand inside his cassock, drew out Rousseau's dagger and offered it back to him.

"I am Gob," he said. "No need to fear me, I am harmless. Just come to visit with Lord Robert for a while, before it's too late."

Robert offered Gob a place to sit around our fire. We returned our weapons and sat, all of us trying to be as close to the stranger as possible, to hear his conversation with Robert. The crackling, snapping and popping of our camp fire was so loud, I made Rousseau and Soldat move aside so I could sit closer, within better earshot of Robert and this man, Gob.

"I don't mind sharing some of your bread and wine," Gob said. He was offered a chunk from a loaf and a skin of wine.

"You didn't come here, in the middle of nowhere just to visit, and eat our bread," Robert said.

Gob tilted his head backward and looked up at the dull, cloud covered sky.

"I love this place at night," Gob said. "You can see all the lights of this universe."

We all looked skyward. But it was not night, it was morning.

"You can see all the angels of heaven looking down on us," Rousseau said, "when it's dark and there are no clouds."

"Those are the souls of the dead, painted in the sky of night," Soldat corrected him. "Even the souls of our enemies, the ones we've slayed and the ones that died because they grew too old to live."

Gob sighed. "I love to look at them." He took a stick from the ground and poked our fire. "Even when the winds of October grow cold, like this. But alas, soon the gales of November will be upon us and we will wish we were back in this time, just having to face a gloomy sky and a bit of rain."

"At least it's not raining right now," Rousseau said.

Gob smiled at Rousseau. "It will," he said. "Soon. It has been raining near two weeks at the place you go to."

"How is it you know where we go?" Robert asked.

Gob sucked at the wine skin but did not answer Robert's question. "The thing I don't care for is the rain, when the season has turned cold. It seeps into your bones and makes you stiff. And all those things that ail you are made worse by the cold and wet."

Robert passed Gob another chunk of bread. The little monk took it happily."

"Where did you come from?" Robert asked. "How did you find us."

Gob pointed the outstretched hand, that was holding his uneaten bread, at the hedgerow from where he appeared. He poked the fire once again, threw the stick into the flame and sat himself on the log next to Robert.

"Your foes have not vanished," Gob said. "They have made their way across the river, many miles south of here. They are coming. You will see them soon."

"We will finally get to fight them," Soldat said.

"You will," Gob said. "But not yet, not here. Your leaders will take you back the way you came and search for a perfect place to make your stand. But it will not be so perfect as they think."

"How do you know such a thing?" I asked. "Are you a wizard that sees our future?"

Gob reached over and snatched my bread from my hand, as if it were payment for answering my question.

"No. Nothing so romantic as a wizard or conjurer. I am just Gob, as in goblet or gobble."

"Goblin," I said.

He smiled and spoke through a mouthful of bread. "They are going to their fortress at Calais by the sea. There is nothing magical in this prediction. It is the only place where the Englishmen can be safe."

"Are you saying there will be no fight?" I asked.

"Oh no. There will be a fight, but not here. Your leaders will take you toward Calais and look for ground that will give you advantage. The English will follow you there."

"That makes no sense," Robert said. "If we go ahead of the English, it will be like they are chasing and we are fleeing from them, like cowards."

"It will look that way," Gob said. "But there will be no escaping the battle, for any of you."

Gob stepped in front of Robert, threw his arms around my Lord, as far as they would go, and hugged him, like a child hugs a departing father.

"When you see the two-headed dog, you should turn and run," Gob said.

"A two-headed dog. Is it an omen?" I asked.

"No," Gob said. "It is just a two-headed dog, but it is your signal to flee for your life, or it will be lost."

He stayed with us that day and into the evening. He shared our supper, ordered more logs for the fire, he jigged and told stories with excited flapping arms, bulging eyes and a voice that squeaked high like a mouse then deep as rolling thunder. He frightened Rousseau when he lunged at him with his fingers curled into menacing claws, his jaw agape, with a roar like a charging bear. He told no stories of war or men battling men. Gob entertained us until we could stay awake no longer. When we woke the next morning, our fire had burned itself down to a few glowing embers and the monk, Gob, was gone.

The English morale was uplifted, after finally making their crossing over the Somme. They made their night camp at Athies, half way to Péronne, where we had waited. The English were buoyed by the thought that their journey to Calais might now be made within the week. They were hopeful that we would be disinclined to do battle now. But their hopes were dealt a blow.

With word that the English had crossed at Béthencourt-sur-Somme, Constable d'Albret and the Dukes of Bourbon and Orleans sent three heralds to the English King with a stern but chivalric message.

' _We, three princes born of the blood royal of France, are prepared to relieve your Majesty and fulfill his desire and perform that which he has sought, and if he would care to name the place and time where he would wish to fight, we will meet him there.'_

This message should have come from the quill of the Dauphin, the King's appointed Captain-General, but as he had chosen not to travel with the army, and remain behind the walls of Rouen, it fell to d'Albret and the Dukes. Henry, King of England, had no such trepidation as our Dauphin. He received the heralds, with ceremony, read their letters, with pleasure and gave them gifts. He sent two of his own heralds back with ours, to deliver his reply:

' _Since leaving the town of Harfleur, I have striven daily to reach my realm of England and have not hidden behind walls or fortresses. If the Lords of France wish to fight, it is not necessary to choose a time or place, for every day you may find me in the open fields, without difficulty.'_

With this, Henry of England anticipated that battle might come as soon as the next day. Since departing Harfleur, his men had marched in battle dress, armor, padded jerkins, kettle helmets and carried their weapons forthright. Henry now gave orders that all those entitled to wear coats of arms should put them on, so we would know they were prepared for battle and would not retreat.

On the twenty first day of October, the English army, though weary, hungry and with a body of sickness among them, left their camps around the hamlet of Athies and marched toward Péronne, Henry expecting at any moment to encounter a force blocking his advance to Calais. Tension was high. Henry anticipated seeing Constable d'Albret on the ramparts of Péronne, as they passed the massive brick walls with its huge stone towers and deep moats.

As the English skirted the fortress, they were set upon by a light sortie of our cavalry, poking at their column in an attempt to draw them from the discipline of their march. But Henry commanded his men not to respond to temptation to break their ranks. He dispatched a small force of mounted men-at-arms from the Earl of Suffolk's retinue, who easily put our sortie to flight.

Henry surveyed the landscape ahead. He expected to see our army on the horizon in the wide fields outside the walls of Péronne. They marched, at the ready to deploy the column into a wide wall to match our line. But a mile past Péronne, with no Frenchman in view, they came upon a sight that filled every English heart with dread, save Henry's and his upper most Lords. The roads were churned and rutted, scored deep into the mud, as far in front of them as the eye could see. Not a blade of green or a simple stone, just a morass of muck to the horizon. It was clear that thousands upon thousands of Frenchmen had passed that way before them to choose the site for battle that would be most favorable for us. Many in the English line turned their eyes toward heaven and begged their God to have pity on them.

They did not face us that day or the next. For three days more they made their way unimpeded towards Calais. On the evening of the twenty-fourth day of October, in the misery of sheets of rain, the English arrived at Maisoncelle and took their rest. Across the dark expanse of night, through the shower from above, Henry and all the men of his army saw a thousand lights from the torches and campfires of our French hoard.

We were a spectacle, I'm sure of it. Our camps were struck on the field, filling it from Azincourt to Tramecourt. No army could ever have been larger. No army could have ever had so many noble houses, Lords and Barons, Knights and Nobles, Generals, Captains and Sergeants. Between us all we must have fought a hundred thousand battles. As I looked into the distance across the expanse where the English gathered in small bivouacs around the hamlet of Maisoncelle, with numbers so slight compared to ours, I thought we should show them mercy and not make them have to give themselves to slaughter. There seemed no point in that to me. We should simply let them go. They should cross the channel and return safely to their wives and children and make the best they could for the rest of their short lives. There was nothing to be gained.

Charles, our King of France, did not show at Azincourt. He was sheltered in his bed chamber besought by demons in his head that gave him no reprieve and kept him from dangerous contact through the belief that he was made of glass and would shatter at any sword play. Instead, Charles d'Albret, our Constable of France, was at the head of our armies. Around him, many of our most high ranking Lords laughed at the disheveled English force, fatigued from their long march, malnourished and desperate for food, many of their men at arms in the grips of the bloody flux, with knotted bellies, pissing blood from their arse. Victory was assured. But Constable d'Albret did not laugh. Our tactician, Marshal Boucicault, drew the battle plan for our armies but declined to begin battle, as more and more of our troops arrived and our ranks swelled to bursting.

We made every effort to shelter ourselves from the wet, that night. It had rained steadily in this place, more than a fortnight.

# 19 - St Crispins Day

Morning, October 25th, 1415, Azincourt, France

"They all want to be first into the killing field," Robert said. "I would be there too but my Uncle says we are commanded to the second wave, that we have not earned the van. All the good hostages will be captured or slain by the time we make it to the fight."

Most of our two armies had spent the night before on open ground under cold pouring rain, though many of our Lords seconded shelter in the villages of Azincourt and Tramecourt, that flanked us. It was clear that our army was many times the size of the English. This gave many of us false confidence and moved many to revelry and celebration with food, wine and other drink. The English had no such luxury to enjoy.

When the morning came, our Constable of France, Charles d'Albret, initiated pre-battle negotiations, as was customary, though he used this as a delaying tactic, as our army continued to grow with new arrivals. But the English King was wise to our ruse, and ordered his army to make ready to begin battle. The English had exhausted their food, had marched for two and a half weeks, were suffering much sickness in their ranks, and now faced our much larger and better equipped army.

Our nobles believed us superior and the slaughter would come easy. Our younger noblemen, especially keen, insisted on being in the first line of attack; this against the opinion of the Constable and more experienced knights. Thousands of our troops remained in the rearguard, along with servants and the peasant pikemen and my men of Meaux. They could not be deployed because the field was too narrow for anything more than room for our knights and nobles, across the first line.

St Crispins day it was, that Friday in late October. Heavy grey clouds hung just above the tree tops, the steady wind, brutally cold, blowing through us like a stinging flight of arrows, adding to the fear in the shivering hearts of our foot soldiers. My Lord, Robert of Bar, called to service by his uncle Edward, Duke of Bar, joined with his other uncle, John of Bar, and Jean de Béthune, brother to Robert's wife. And I, Gillet Charron, Reeve of Meaux, Robert's true friend, was at his side. We waited, mounted on horseback at the north side of the long field, together with thousands of knights and men of noble houses, and bannerettes, their coats of arms and banners snapping in the chill wind.

There was excitement, confidence and impatience in our line, as many of our men on horse tried to push ahead of our Genoese crossbowmen, that had been ordered as the point of the first wave.

"There is glory and ransom to be had," Robert shouted.

I heard boasts up and down the line that we would make quick play of the English and had no need of crossbows, but I was not so certain of that.

Our first line was led by Constable d'Albret himself, Marshal Boucicault, and the Dukes of Orléans and Bourbon. At the wings were the cavalry under the Count of Vendôme and Sieur Clignet de Brebant. Robert and I were in the second line with the men of Bar, Alençon and Nevers. Our third line, the rear guard, was under the Counts of Dammartin and Fauconberg. All these men of noble houses were named to me, by Robert, so that I would know their faces once we were in the melee on the field. If he fell, I was to follow one of them. To be amongst so many men of breeding. I did not feel elevated to their equal, though within me grew a strange sense, superior to anything I'd ever known. It gave me pride to be one of this band; it emboldened me and gave me courage to come to the defense of France. But I did not sense our victory would come without price.

The peasant men of Meaux were all given position in the third wave, away from the main fight, most of them given to guarding our baggage train. Except my men of The Circle, men with experience in killing. They stood behind Robert and me, in the second wave, a position promised to Robert, just behind the vanguard.

The field was wide across the defile, more than seven hundred yards, by my estimate, but narrowed to half that width at the midpoint, pinched together by stands of densely packed trees on both sides. The ground was soft from two weeks of rain. The field was pitched, higher in the center than at the sides, making the area of level ground on which to advance even narrower. I was not a man experienced in this kind of battle formation, but to my eye this landscape appeared it would funnel a charge and squeeze together the advance of the large body of our men. If our armies met at the narrowest point, we would be even in the strength of those able to combat hand to hand. Surely our Nobles could see this.

"They look haggard and ragged. Barely a man in armor amongst them. They are just a rabble," Robert said.

"Their archers have taken position on the flanks," I noted.

"That is common practice," Robert waved off my observation. "Our cavalry will circle behind them and put them away in short order." Robert knew these tactics of open battle. "Like moving the pieces on a chess board," he told me.

"Will the cavalry ride through the thick forests at the back of the archers? I think they must face them head to head."

"Their archers will volley upon our charge. Some will fall but we will crush them with horseback and remove them quickly from the fight. I have heard that Marshal Boucicault is a master of tactics. He will have made a plan for this," Robert said.

"There are thousands of archers. I would make two to three thousand on each side of the divide. Perhaps, as you have no shield we should wait until the archers have spent their arrows before we, make our way into the mix."

The Circle and I always used tactics of concealment and surprise, attacking from cover, on an unsuspecting enemy. Openly flinging thousands against thousands seemed to me to be giving away all hint of advantage.

The rain began to ease and the clouds to thin, as we waited. A good sign, I thought. But just then, from our flank, from out of the tree line, a barking dog charged at Baiard. It stopped in front of the destrier, snarling and snapping its frothing jaws. Robert reigned his horse. My rouncey shuffled nervously in the soft ground. At Baiard's feet, the two headed dog, one head the shape of a snorting bull, the other hanging limp and somber like a beaten lamb, benign to its twin head, churned at the ground with its feet, spraying wet mud up its legs and belly. I had never seen such a thing. Fear seized my insides like a grip of boney frozen fingers. It looked like something come from the depths of hell. The thought of any good fortune on this battle day melted from me, replaced by a portend ominous and grave. Perhaps this was the sign to take to fight or flee. I tried to swallow but the juices of my throat were stuck fast.

"We'll let the cavalry go ahead," Robert said. "We will charge to the middle of their line after the first volleys have passed."

"Is it wise to go on horseback into the mire?" I asked, as I tried to move my rouncey away from the misshapen cur before us.

Robert drew his sword and swung at the angry jaws of the deformed dog. It howled, as if casting a curse upon us, though the sword had missed its face, then seemed to me that it grinned through dripping teeth and fled back into the woods from where it came.

Henry deployed fifteen hundred men-at-arms across the middle of the defile, shoulder to shoulder, four deep. His longbow men, six thousand strong, divided and took position on either flank. They buried long stakes deep into the ground with sharpened points angled and leveled at chest height of a horse. This to prevent our cavalry charging into their midst. Their backs were shielded by the thick forest. If it was Marshal Boucicault's plan to flank the archers, the woods alone would repel such a maneuver.

"They use mercenaries to launch their arrows," Robert said. "Mostly Welsh. They're cheap to hire and no doubt Henry cares little if they fall in numbers. They are a rabble but they are a formidable foe and dangerous with their weapon just the same."

The Welsh archers had fought in many battles and joined the English force for pay and booty, not for a love of England. Their skill at killing was great. Each stacked bundles of bodkins at the ready for a quick draw and loose. Each capable of launching a dozen arrows a minute at our French charge.

"We'll be wise to stay clear of them then," I said. My Circle and I had used bow and arrow often on our ambushes, but we had neither the skill or experience of those we now faced. Even the English archers had much greater skill with the bow, as they were obliged by law to train on it every day.

The light of day came about a quarter of seven as the sun rose behind the heavy cloud, turning the sky into the thick grey of morning. Though both our armies were assembled by dawn, there was no advance. We waited. Three hours passed while the formality of the pre-battle negotiations was held between the principles from each of our camps. Both sides knew nothing would come of further talk at this time and the meeting was for show and record and posturing.

Secretly, between them, Constable d'Albret and Marshal Boucicault gave strong consideration to just allowing the English to pass and make their way to Calais then back to England. They believed we could retake Harfleur and be better prepared should Henry try to regain a foothold. But the Barons and other men of council would not have it. We were there, the English were there, they had affronted our country with this invasion and they must pay. So we continued to wait. Three miserable long hours. But during that wait we saw the arrival of three more retinues, adding to our enormous army; the Dukes of Brabant, Anjou and Brittany.

Across the expanse that separated our two armies, I saw Henry, King of England, moving up and down the English line, giving speech to his men. I knew it was their King; upon his head, circling his helm, was the golden crown of a monarch. I could not hear his precise words through the din of the wind and rain, but it was clear enough that he exhorted his troops, to take their mind from their suffering and make them ready to fight for England.

Despite his drained, outnumbered and starving ranks, Henry of England rallied his men.

"For too long we have suffered indignity. These lands are our lands, the rightful property of England and we shall take them back from these cowardly French beasts. Yes, beasts, for they have sworn to cut off the two bow fingers of every archer in our band."

Three of every four men in the English force was a bowman. Without fingers to draw his bow, an archer could not make a living or earn wealth.

"We have suffered much, to come this far, surely now God will join our ranks and carry us to victory. We cannot lose, we are the strength of England, we are truly a Band of Brothers. We must fight to the last drop of blood, to the last breath of the last man among us."

He rubbed the deep scar below his right eye. A scar from an arrow through his face at the Battle of Shrewsbury. A wound that would have killed an ordinary soldier, but not Henry.

"We are not the first. In times past our brave men of England have come against France in battle. We have faced them before, with numbers much smaller than theirs. We faced them at Crecy and at Poitiers and showed them that an English army does not need a larger military to defeat them. And we will defeat them once again. They will suffer the humiliation of downfall again, because we, in our lesser numbers, though weary and starving, have the strength of God behind us."

Henry drew his sword and raised it high.

"I shall fight in the vanguard for you, and will rather die in the coming battle than be captured and ransomed."

Henry looked up and down the crowd of men gathered round him.

"We are in it all the way, men of England and Wales and all others that have joined with us. All the way because from this moment forward, death is the expected fate of any soldier who cannot be ransomed. So you fight for England and you fight for your own life. God bless us all, have mercy upon us and give us strength to overcome our enemy."

Henry dropped to one knee. Though he had already made his confession, in the privacy of his pavilion, he prayed and bade his army to make their confessions before the battle, as was customary. There were scarce enough priests among them to administer this right to all and the clergy was made to give absolution to groups of men at a time instead of the personal blessing that they might otherwise receive.

It was then that Henry released all prisoners that had been taken on the march from Harfleur. He did not wish to commit any of his precious resources to their safekeeping during the coming battle. They were bound to custom, he told them. Should he win the battle, they must return and give themselves up to him; should he lose, they should consider themselves at liberty and freed. None made their way across the field to join our French ranks. Instead they fled to Maisoncelle, huddled under shelter from the rain and waited for the battle to unfold.

Marshal Boucicault began the organization of our formations. He commanded the crossbowmen to the front of the first wave, but a great many of our Nobles and young knights pushed in front of them. Our cavalry assembled on our flanks, set to charge the English archers.

"It is hard for me to imagine the time when I will no longer be," I said. "Perhaps it comes today."

We waited.

"When will it begin?" I asked Robert.

"It is well known, Gillet, that whichever army moves first, gives up their defensive position. They become vulnerable and are more easily defeated."

"They must know this as well," I said. "If both sides just wait for the other to begin, there may never be a battle." For a moment I imagined both great armies turning away and departing the field and returning to their home. A gust of wind, just then, blew wet leaves into my face and brought me out of my reverie.

I pulled a soaked leaf from my mouth and picked the remnants from my tongue.

"I'm glad to have known you Robert," I said. "You are not like the others of high birth that I have stood before, though that is very few in numbers. You are not like them. I can't say that you are like us or like me, but you are closer than not."

Robert turned to me, surprised, I think, that I should speak like this, here, in this place, in this time, before battle.

"I'm glad to know you as well, Gillet," he said. "And your wife and children too."

"I hope your arse is better," I said and we both laughed.

"Thanks to Simone. You are a lucky man to have her. I guess I am lucky as well."

I turned my gaze back across the field to our enemy, poised for attack. "Do you suppose there will come a time when we don't do this. Men fighting men. For what purpose? Would it not be better to keep to ourselves, our families, our people, and just enjoy the short time we are given in this place."

"It is a brutal thing, what we do," Robert agreed. "It is a sad testament to what we are, I suppose. But it is our way and I confess to you, my friend, that I love the thrill of battle. You are never so close to life when you are this close to death."

"Look at us. We are divided even in our own ranks. Our shining knights are so keen to slay the English, yet these others, I think many would sooner be with their wives and children than on this cold wet field. When I look at them all I see is fear. You can almost smell the shit and piss and puke that will come from them once the battle begins. This wet air already seems filled with the rank of blood and the meat of men's flesh and guts."

"Perhaps," Robert said. "But do not forget that it is the English that attacked us. They come onto our land, into our homes, take what is ours, kill those we love. We have no choice but to defend ourselves. If there are those among us that take pleasure in this revenge, we cannot blame them. Can we?"

"You're right Robert. They did attack us. This time. This fighting has been going on since before my day and I fear it will go on after I am dead for many years, perhaps through the days of my children and theirs as well. Will it ever end?"

"Perhaps not."

"No, it will not. As long as we fight against each other, it will never end. It would be better if all arms were laid upon the ground and we walked away."

Robert held his sword low, his head tilted downward, rain dripping from his chin.

"We've made such a mess of it all, haven't we Gillet. Both sides. None are innocent. Yet still we will go forward this day; much blood will be shed and many will take their final journey. We do it each for our own reason. King, country, power, ransom, honor and glory."

"Yes," I said. "Those are some of the reasons, but most of who will die here this day do it for a few coins of pay so they can buy bread and ale for their children."

Our vanguard of soldiers on foot consisted of our choicest noblemen. We were a forest of lances and a grave multitude of gleaming shields and cavalry at our sides. Our rearguard and wings, squadrons and wedges were all on horseback, prepared for charge into the defile.

"Perhaps we will make short work of this and be home in time for supper," I said.

"Were it so, and we were done, I might kiss your head, if we were still alive," Robert said.

"I'll have none of your kissing, just the same, even if I fall behind to protect your arse from taking another arrow."

Robert reached behind and rubbed his arse.

"I hadn't thought of it until now. I can't say if my wound has opened and this is blood or if this wet is just this rain that is turning me into a fish."

"You do have the look of something that has crawled from the river, Lord."

We laughed. The weight of the rain that soaked my jerkin and my muddy boots made me too feel as though I was a creature of the swamp. I knew before the days end the cold and wet would be the least of my discomfort.

We waited still, there in the second wave, protecting the left flank of the attack. We were many mounted men-at-arms and many on foot, though my men of The Circle were horseless, their weapons spare and chipped and bent.

"I will walk into battle with my townsfolk," I said to Robert as I dismounted my rouncey.

"But you are my squire," Robert said. "You must be at my side."

"They are my friends; they are my townsmen. They have followed me into many fights, protecting our town from the English. I have known all of them all of my life, or at least all of theirs. I am your squire and I will come to you if needed, but I cannot abandon these men in this gravest battle of their life. They are like my own family, like my own brothers and nephews. There is no blood stronger than that, Robert. If it is shed this day, then we must shed it together."

Robert slid from his saddle. He took the reins of my rouncey and those of his own Baiard. He summoned a young Page and bid him to take our horses to the rear.

"I will march with the infantry," Robert said. "I will walk with my friends, with my new family." He looked across the line at his Uncle Edward, who sneered and turned away. Robert's Uncle John, who brought his own retinue to the fight, saluted Robert and nodded.

"Look, they move first," Robert said. "It will be their doom."

Henry's men at arms began to move forward thirty or forty paces, then stopped. His archers pulled their long pointed stakes from the ground, each stake taller than the man owning it. They too moved forward thirty or forty paces but then stopped and pounded their stakes back into the ground, now deployed at the narrowest part of the defile, two batteries, each of three thousand archers or more. They re-sharpened the points of their stakes and palings, so they were like the pointed fangs of a great beast, ready to close as our army moved toward them. Protected behind their stakes, the archers could loose death upon us. Our cavalry would be forced to veer off or be impaled.

Like a reflex, our nobles flowed in front of our crossbowmen. The clank of hundreds of helm visors dropping into place, the mumble of their taunts rising into a din.

"No," Robert gasped. "We must let our crossbows loose their bolts before we march."

The English were at obvious disadvantage. Henry knew, as any sound tactician of war knew, that moving first and leaving a defensive position could be disaster; but he gave to speculation that the movement of his line might tempt us into the morass. And it did.

We marched forward.

# 20 - The Battle

October 25, 1415

There was one last thing for Henry to complete before beginning. It was required, by chivalric code, that he make one last effort to avoid battle. He sent heralds to the middle of the field. They were joined by counterparts dispatched by Constable d'Albret. Both sides offered concessions they knew would be unacceptable. Negotiation was brief but the custom fulfilled. They returned to their ranks and the battle was set to commence, even though both armies had already begun to move.

We waited three hours for the obligatory and pointless negotiations to complete. We waited for the other side to move and give up their position. It was clear to any man who was not consumed by his own pretension that the field between our two armies was as much an enemy as the force opposing. Was it greed, vain glory or just plain stupidity that allowed Henry's feint to seduce us to make our advance.

There was trepidation on both sides. The weather was bleak, the field of battle a quagmire. Marshal Boucicault was concerned about the pinch points where the woods on both sides of the field bent inwards like a crab's pincer. He was troubled by the reckless exuberance of our French nobles, who chose to ignore his battle plan formations and position themselves in the vanguard, in front of our archers and crossbowmen, so they could be first to capture English nobles, for ransom. This despite Boucicault's strategy.

Robert was concerned as well, but he too was seized by the thought of overwhelming victory.

"We will have to make it forward quickly or there will be no glory left for us," Robert said to me.

By my eye, our numbers were at least five or six times that of the English, by then. We were in the second wave, the second 'battle' Robert called it. Some mounted, though not in the squadrons of cavalry; many on foot, row upon row. To my eye it seemed we were too many, across the narrow width of the field. Our advance would have us funnel at the point where the woods on either side pinched inwards. A thousand paces separated us from our English foe. A thousand steps across the soupy ground, the quagmire.

"Jean," a voice called out. A voice different in sound than a man's voice. But it was not the voice of a woman or a child. "Jean Le Maingre, Marshal Boucicault."

Boucicault, seated atop his deep brown destrier, turned to see who called him. Approaching, on a war horse even larger than his, came a very short knight, fully armored, visor opened, through which a pair of large deep green eyes peered. Eyes that might be twice the size of any mans and certainly larger than might be borne by such a small person. Neither Marshal Boucicault or Constable d'Albret had ever seen a knight of such small stature.

"Marshal," the voice spoke, " I just came to warn you."

"Who is this," d'Albret eyed the short man up and down, "knight?"

Boucicault shrugged. "I do not know this man."

"Marshal. Jean. I just came to remind you that when the prisoners are taken, do not go with them."

Boucicault huffed. "We fly the Oriflamme. It is clear to all that we will take no prisoners until it is lowered. The English are warned. We very well may not take any prisoners at all, this day. By the look of the English, we may very well dispatch every one of them before the day is ended. Except for those taken for ransom. Who are you? Where is your banner?"

"Take, taken." The short knight wobbled his head back and forth. "It is not prisoners that you will take. I am nobody Lord. Just Gob. I have come to tell you to keep back when the prisoners are taken behind the English line. I have just come to remind you, otherwise you will forget to stay back.

Boucicault guffawed and d'Albret joined him.

"The only prisoners that will be taken this day will be English. Though by the looks of them there might not be much to take, other than their King.

The green eyes, like floating emerald orbs, held fast in a steady stare. They did not blink.

"You are brave men but you have different fates," Gob said.

"I do not know you. You are not of my retinue. You must rejoin your Lord, the battle is about to begin," Boucicault said.

"I have no Lord in this place," Gob said. "I will not be joining in your clash, but I will watch. A great spectacle of history, it will be. But never mind me. I just came to tell you to stay back when the prisoners are taken. And you will of course, when you lift yourself from the intoxication of the fight and see that what you know cannot happen is happening. These words I speak to you right now will come to you and you will retreat with those around you. You will not flee out of fear of course, you have no lack of courage, but you certainly know when the tide is against you. It has always been this way. I must go now; you are about to begin. Don't forget." With his back to the two Lords, Gob said, "Sorry for your loss Constable d'Albret, but it has always been this way. You are a brave man, Constable. A true leader of France. You will be missed."

The Constable snorted. "Do you smell that?" He tilted his nose skyward. "It is the smell of victory."

"It is the smell of inevitability. Fate. Destiny. Things that always were and always will be." Gob reigned his huge horse aside, the wet clopping of the beasts giant hooves faded into the din of the eager French nobles. And then he was gone, disappeared through the great throng of men poised for battle and then into the woods beyond.

Boucicault and d'Albret stared at each other.

"A very strange man," Boucicault said.

"A distraction," d'Albret added.

They could see in the eyes of the other, the thought that this strange knight might be an omen, a portend, sent to warn them that not all was as it seemed and they should not take their adversary so lightly as they were inclined. Boucicault turned his gaze back down the field to the English. All the English were set in a single line across the field, they were not set in waves, as were his armies. His enemy was throwing everything they had into the fight. No reserves, they held nothing back.

"It will be a great slaughter," Boucicault said. "A humiliation upon the English King."

"They deserve their fate," d'Albret said. "We will avenge Harfleur."

"Yes they do. But perhaps we should offer them a greater surprise and part our army to unblock the road to Calais and let them pass through. There is as much honor in showing mercy to an opponent so clearly outmatched as glory in defeating him."

Constable d'Albret stared passed Boucicault. "We could take back Harfleur and be better prepared when Henry returns to renew his invasion in the spring, as he should have done this time, instead of beginning a campaign so late in the season."

"We could select better ground for battle. This sodden earth takes away much of our advantage."

But the Counts and Barons and eager knights that had pushed themselves into the van, away from their own retinues, would not have it. They were poised for glory and to allow the English to pass would be surrender, an ignominious defeat, another stain on French honor. They insisted vigorously that d'Albret order the advance, erasing the Constable's hesitation.

"Raise the Oriflamme," d'Albret shouted his order across the ranks, to the cheers of those nobles gathered around him.

What is that red flag," I asked Robert. "Is it the signal to make our attack?"

"It is the Oriflamme," Robert said. "It says to our army and to the English that we will take no prisoners alive while the flag is raised. There will be no mercy to our enemy as long as the banner is lifted."

"Oriflamme, Golden Flame. It is not golden, it is red. Why?" I asked

"I do not know. It does not matter. The meaning of it is clear to all."

All my men of The Circle gathered close to hear Robert's talk of this ominous flag.

"Does that mean there will be no capture and ransom of their nobles?" Rousseau asked.

"That is what is intended. It is supposed to strike fear into our enemy," Robert said.

"Does that mean they will not be inclined to take us as prisoners either?" Girard Brasseur asked.

"Captivity is the last thing you will think of once you are deep into the battle," Soldat growled. "Every battle I've been in consumes you. There is no time to think of prisoners. It will be all you can manage to feint and duck your head and strike a blow at the next man coming on you. It is that or die."

"They will not be thinking of prisoners who are not dressed in armor and mail or who do not have a gauntlet to offer in surrender," Robert looked apologetically toward Brasseur.

Charpentier and Cordier cast sideways looks at each other, in their meagre peasant garb. Then they looked at me, dressed in the old mail and breast plate loaned to me by Robert.

"We will kill them all," Soldat said brusquely.

We gazed across the misty expanse at our enemy. There was movement in their ranks.

Humphrey, Henry's youngest brother, guided his horse between the King and Davy Gam, Henry's huge body guard.

Davy Gam, a giant of a Welshman, stood beside Henry, to guard his body in the fight. The ugly faced Goliath of a man had stayed close to Henry through the long march from Harfleur. Though he was not a countryman, he was an ally from past battles and was as loyal to Henry, as any man, loyal beyond the value of the pay he was given. He swore to protect the King's body, no matter the danger to himself.

"They are many," Humphrey said, in his casual way. "It will not be an easy day."

The Prince had thick patches of beard fuzz on his face, from weeks gone unshaven. But he was otherwise clean, and his white surcoat, emblazoned with the red cross of St George, taken from his wardrobe this very morning, shone bright against the grey drizzle. His armor was polished spotless beneath it. Humphrey looked down at the big Welshman standing beside the King.

"I see you will not require my protection, brother," Humphrey said, jokingly.

Henry kept his stern gaze toward our French line.

"God is with us. That is all the protection we will need."

"It might take good strategy and some good fortune, as well as God, by the look of things," Humphrey tilted his head toward the open field.

"Erpingham has the archers, York is in the van, Camoys at the flank," Henry said.

"All or nothing then, brother, your Highness. Nothing in reserve, unless you count our baggage train, back there."

"All or nothing," Henry confirmed. "There will be victory or death, Humphrey. I will not be taken prisoner; I will not be held in ransom at the bankruptcy of England."

"It looks as there will be no concern for that, brother. They don the red flag."

"They are French, Humphrey. They will lose all remembrance of their Oriflamme if they gain an English Prince to ransom."

Humphrey smiled at his elder brother. "They will not gain this Prince."

The scowl on Davy Gam's face remained fixed, as if it were a frozen mask. He glared at us, his distant enemy, clutching his morning star in one hand, his battle axe in the other, prepared to defend the King, to his death.

On this morning, Henry did not ride his tall war horse with its polished breast plate and head shield, it's rippling muscle and angry snorting face. Instead, he had mounted a smaller rouncey, to ride before his men and give them encouragement.

Like a mile thick wall of men, we blocked Henry's retreat to Calais. Many of us were content to delay the fight as long as possible, though Duke Edward sniggered, "the English would run away rather than give battle against so many French princes."

Marshal Boucicault worried about the tightness of the terrain. When our mounted charge finally did come, it did not contain as many men as it should have. While waiting so long for battle to commence, some of our horsemen had wandered off to warm themselves; others were walking or feeding their horses.

"They have made the fatal mistake," Robert said. "They are moving first into the field."

"It seems it is just their archers, on the flanks," I said.

We watched. The English archers pulled their long, sharpened stakes from the ground from where they had initially set them, in order to gain sufficient purchase and leverage to pull them free from the sticky clay, their backs exposed to us.

"We should attack now," I said. "While they are exposed and vulnerable."

"It is not the way of an honorable knight to attack a defenseless enemy. The Marshal rightly waits until they are ready."

"But they are on the move. They narrow the field even more than it already is." I looked curiously at Robert. His look of confidence shifted to momentary doubt then back again to assurance, like the mask of a shape shifter.

"The cavalry will take them," Robert said again.

Together we looked up and down the line. Robert's uncle, Edward the Duke of Bar, was mounted like a proud and ready statue. All the other Dukes and Counts, Earls and Barons and Princes of France were assembled.

'We must certainly be invincible'.

But I could not see the worth of it. The slaughter of men, just like us, my men of The Circle and me, who were neither present for honor and glory of our person or country, but called to arms to sacrifice our body and lives for the honor and benefit of our lords, called to give our flesh and blood to men of a station that we would never attain, nor would our children or theirs for any generation afterwards. It was not right or fair, to my thinking. No man, who was neither knight nor noble, would be permitted to take an English prisoner for ransom. At best we might be allowed to take booty from the dead left on the field after the fighting was done.

As I looked at the face of my young friend, I thought 'how different we are, yet how much the same our fates would be. All of us, rich or poor, born from the dust and ashes of the earth and to that same ground our bodies would return.

As I looked upon Robert's face, then upon that of his stern and grave uncle Edward beside us, I wondered if in heaven or hell, whatever our eternal fate, if I would still be a peasant and they the master. There was still so much youth in Robert, so much life left in him; yet of myself, I felt so old and spent, in that moment.

"There are things I never said, Robert. To my wife, my children, even to my friends, these men of The Circle. I wish that I had said to my wife, one last time, before I left her, that she is the one that made my life full and I am thankful to God for giving her to me, to love. Some of us, maybe all, will die here today, on this field of mud. Many of us have dreams that will be left unfilled. There are things I haven't said, from my genuine human being, my inner soul, more than just the sins that I confess to the priest. I wish that I had said these things, before today, to the people that matter to me."

"I am the same, Gillet. I do not wish to die today, whether it be for glory or honor. I feel that I will serve my call to duty and return to my happy life with Jeanne and my infant. I would tell you my secrets Gillet but I feel I should save them for my priest and some perhaps even for my wife. You talk as if your life will end today, but clearly it will not. There may not even be a single Englishman alive by the time we get to the fight."

It was clear to me, in that moment, that we were the same yet not the same.

I wiped the wet from my face. The rain soaking through my jerkin had me cold and heavy, as if I carried twice my own weight on my body. I knew that when the fighting began I would not feel this extra burden, until the end.

"Is this really at the call of King and country? How long have men been committing this savagery upon each other?"

"We have been doing it always, Gillet," Robert said. He shivered from the cold as he tried to wipe away the drip from his nose with his gauntlet. "Since the dawn of man, we have done this to each other. As I said, from the time that Cain slew Able, we have killed each other, for one reason or another; property, wealth, progeny, sustenance and now for King and Country. It will never end. It is the way of man. This is the way we are."

"Our curse," I said, "for having more crooked wisdom than the beasts of the field." Icy water churned in my bowels, as I looked out over the cold grey pall of that St Crispin's Day, the prospect of a savage, grizzly death at hand.

I confess, at first the sight of our army gave me some confidence that we would win the day. On our side we were row upon row, on foot and mounted, numberless by the heads I could see and those beyond my sight. Our proud, fit, Frenchmen, fed and watered, in burnished armor, our swords, axes and halberds at the ready, our bright banners and pennons rippling in the wind like waves upon our ocean of men. Cavalry, crossbowmen and archers on our wings; engines of war and mighty guns and catapults at the ready to discharge their shot upon our enemy. We had waited long enough with no movement in our midst, save the jostling horses at our sides and rear, impatient for the fight.

Across from us, separated by only the furrowed field, the seeds of winter wheat turned under, now flooded by two weeks of rain, the English had also ended their wait. They were fearsome to look at, as were we, but their look was not proud and ready; their scant armor tarnished, their surcoats tattered and filthy, they were unshaven and unwashed, grey faced with dark sunken eyes, some were even barefoot, their shoes worn through from their weeks of marching, though some had removed good footwear so they might have better purchase, barefooted in the gummy earth. The look of them made me think I could smell their stink all the way across the hundreds of paces that separated us. They bore the look of weary desperate animals, trapped, with no escape from death, except by miracle. This, I thought, could be the greatest danger to us, for I had often cornered a beast or boar on the hunt and knew there is nothing so dangerous as an animal trapped with nothing more to lose but its own life.

I confess too that I was also worried that the arrogance brought among us by our clear and overwhelming position might bring us to act without due caution. Our cavalry, on our flanks, made ready to make their charge, yet continued to hold fast.

We let the English archers pull their stakes from the ground and run freely towards us, along the edge of the woods on both flanks. They came so close I thought they might carry their stakes right into our midst. Still we waited. They came by the thousands, many more archers than the whole body of their men at arms. They came to barely three hundred paces from us and with their heavy mallets they pounded their stakes back into the earth once again. Still we did not charge.

The English archers drew swords and daggers, axes and other sharp implements and sharpened the stakes that were dulled by their mallets and like silent creatures took position once again behind the sharpened stakes. They were close, much closer than when they first began. Every one of them dropped bundles of arrows at their ready. Unfurled them, planted them point down in the ground at their feet, ready for a rapid draw. Smooth narrow pointed bodkins, shaped to pierce all but the strongest armor, and flesh ripping broadheads, cast from molten metal into death dealing barbs. Hundreds, thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of arrows, standing at the ready, like long hard shafts of grass newly sprouted from the earth, their fletchings poised at the end of their stalks like flowers of death.

It was not just the English archers on the move. Once they had pulled their stakes, run with them along the edges of the woods and hammered them back deep into the ground, deep enough to stay a charging horse, at the very points where the woods curved inwards, narrowing the field, it was then that the entire line of English men-at arms began stepping forwards, like a wave creeping over the land, a liquid forest of spears.

With my own eyes, I saw them begin their march. With my own ears I heard the English King cry out, "In the name of almighty God and Saint George, avant banner".

Trumpets broke the frozen air, drums began their muted thrumming and the whole of the English army roared out battle cries and began their advance in formation.

There was no turning back.

'God in heaven,' I thought. My heart beat so hard in my chest I thought it might erupt out of my body. Though we were in a wide open field, I was the one that felt like a trapped animal. Trapped with nowhere to run but into the gnashing jaws of the beast of war.

It began.

The English infantry moved forward step by step, closing half or even two thirds of the field, but we remained firm in our line, though ready to spring forth like a racing horse.

In unison, as if by some unheard command, the English archers bent and drew their first arrow from the ground and made them ready to launch.

Still we waited as the English came nearer and nearer.

Then, as if knowing it was their time, despite being disorganized and not at full numbers, our cavalry charged towards the English longbowmen. But it was a disaster; our knights were unable to outflank the archers because of the encroaching woodland and unable to navigate through the forest of sharpened stakes that protected the front of the archers.

I did not hear the command from our ranks, but sparse moments after our cavalry began their charge, I heard a great shout bellow from the mouth of an English noble, mounted behind the archers, no helm upon his head and no armor on his body, save a breast plate.

"Loose!" he yelled.

Like an echo from across the width of the field came a twin command, "Loose"!

The air grew thick with the reverberations of the English longbow strings and the whistling of their flights as they sped skyward; a brief moment of silence followed by the horrifying ping and thud as bodkin points tore into flesh and pierced the armor plating of our riders and the soft flesh of their mounts, followed by the screams of the maddened horses and the wails of our men as they fell from their beasts, trampled beneath flailing hooves.

The sky darkened as the black rain of death fell upon our charging cavalry. Five or six thousand English bodkins. Our cavalry streamed toward our enemy from our flanks In great numbers, but they were in some disarray. They were now blocked by the woods at the archers backs and unable to skirt behind them. They were forced headlong into the fray and the hail of arrows that were launched high, now falling upon them like darts from the sky.

No sooner than the first volley of arrows fell upon our charging cavalry, the next volley came and then the next and the next after that. As our cavalry drew closer, the trajectory of arrows drew lower and lower until they came straight into the faces of horse and riders. There were six or even seven clouds of English arrows that rained down within the first minutes of the battle, by my estimate. Thirty thousand arrows launched and fell on our charging brigade. I confess that the horrifying spectacle of it made me gasp.

Many arrows fell harmless into the wet earth but many struck our brave riders. Many more impaled their mounts, penetrating haunches, slashing into unarmored chests and heads and the eyes of the panicking beasts. Some horses fell dead into the mire, many reeled and tossed, eyes wide in fear, hurling their riders into the muck, many turned in retreat trying to escape the deluge, only to turn headlong into those charging forward from behind. Men and horses were trampled and crushed.

As our cavalry continued their charge, the longbows trained mainly on the horses, armored only on the head, shielded on the chest only with the same padding as my jerkin. Many horses became dangerously out of control when struck in the back or flank. As many from our mounted charge retreated, they churned up the already muddy terrain between our lines. Wounded and panicking horses fled back upon our advancing infantry, scattering the men of our first wave, who had come forward on the heels of our cavalry, only to be trampled down under the equine flight from the battlefield.

The plate armor of our men-at-arms, in our first battle wave, allowed them to close the gap to the English lines, even while being under the terrifying hail of arrow shot, but they had to march through thick mud, a press of comrades, while wearing armor, gathering sticky clay all the way. Increasingly they had to walk around or over their fallen companions.

As some of our cavalry was able to draw close to the archers, they too were forced to turn away or be impaled on the heavy stakes planted firmly into the ground. Those that continued forward, undeterred, had their horse skewered through chest or neck, like beasts on a spit. Those brave knights that were able to make their ride close enough to the archers, now faced the lowering arc of the English bows, the loose of their arrows plunging straight into their faces, their armor and visors were no protection from the level flight of arrows. Our cavalry charge diminished, not only from the storm of arrows but also by the absence of the many who were not present to advance in sufficient weight and numbers to penetrate the archers defense. It was catastrophic.

The archers were ruthless in their assault, many purposely targeting horses instead of riders, making the devastation more horrendous as tumbling horses collapsed on their helpless riders, crushing them or burying them so deep into the quagmire that they drowned, unable to right themselves in their heavy armor.

The advance of our men-at-arms on foot continued in earnest. Many of that first wave of our vanguard met with our retreating cavalry and were trampled. Still, most were not deterred and came man to man against the English vanguard and the clash of sword and axe, lance and halberd began. Men of both sides bellowed and screamed shouts of defiance into the air, hoping their yells might strike fear into their opponent or at the very least bolster their own courage.

The width of our advance spread across the width of the field. As our van closed on the English, our men were channeled into the space between the pinching woods, our own men forced in upon each other. They slogged recklessly through mud and mire, churning the earth into an even deeper soupy mess. To my eye, it seemed our men, in full armor, moved more slowly than the lighter clad English. To my eye it seemed we were slowed even further by having to step over or around the many bodies of our men and horses that had already fallen to the ground.

"This doesn't look good," I said to Robert.

"Have patience my friend," Robert said. "This is the way of it. Our numbers are great. Many might fall before the English line breaks, but it will break. We will be called to advance soon."

But still, our second wave waited.

Once the flight of English arrows began to mercifully diminish, as the supply became exhausted, Edward, our Duke of Bar, gave the command to advance into the battle. The entirety of our second wave, alongside the multitude commanded by John our Duke of Alençon, moved forward into the breech. Those knights with helms or bascinets, lowered their visors to prevent the last of the stray bodkins from striking their face. Those of us with nothing to protect our head and face just prayed to God to shield us from death falling on us from the sky. From the woods along the Azincourt and Tramecourt sides, English archers called for carriers to bring more arrows, but mercifully only the last few stray shafts came to meet us.

"We go now," Robert commanded those in our small group, his brother and uncle already pressed forward into the fray. I followed at his side; behind came Soldat and Rousseau and my other men of The Circle. The little breakfast I had taken that morning, swirled in my belly, churning and bubbling until I spewed it onto the ground.

The sound of the clash of men was horrifying in its volume; its scraping, screeching, the crashing of metal on metal as swords clashed, shouts vile and brutal, the chopping and hacking and tearing of human flesh, the screaming and crying and men begging for mercy, begging for surrender, begging for death, to be put out of their suffering. The worst sound to my ear was the screaming of panicked horses, stabbed and hacked and pierced by arrows; like banshees on the wind, screeching out their ghostly, haunting cries. The stench in the air was thick; a choking mix of blood and shit, piss and puke, churned together with the metallic funk of iron and steel smashed against each other and the odor of the pungent muddy clay. But of all the sickening smells, it was the fetid reek of all the human blood that not only choked the throat but also drove unearthly fear deep into my belly. All of this tumult, in just the first minutes of the battle.

Step by step we marched into the horror, barely room to stride clear of fallen comrades; men dead from arrow, dead from sword or axe, dead, their body crushed beneath a horse or face smashed to bloody pulp by flailing hooves.

I had seen death many times; had seen bloody wounds and severed limbs but never had I seen such carnage as I walked into then, with Robert and my men of The Circle. The feeling of it was beyond fear. It was like an unreal dream, so terrible there could be no truth in the sight of it, no reality in such ruthless slaughter. It made no sense to my mind. We continued forward into the battle, into the crowd of men, into the wretched stink, the stifling, thick, malodorous air, with little enough of it to breathe to fill my lungs. Each step forward more difficult than the last, as the depth and thickness of the mud grew greater, each foot of ground sucking boot or shoe deeper into its trap. It seemed to me that all the men at battle were made to be crueler as well, lest they not survive the day.

'How can Robert and these other knights, clad in their heavy armor, even move through this mire, let alone strike the enemy or even properly defend themselves?' I thought.

We, in the second wave, stumbled and slipped across the battlefield. As we struggled to maintain our footing, we also had to contend with obstacles in our path; the fallen men and horses of our abortive cavalry attack, many dead, others dying, wounded; the frantic chargers that had escaped the slaughter, many of them rider less, fleeing out of control straight into our midst; the bodies of our own comrades, fallen into the mud, unable to rise, against the crush of men pushing on them from behind. Many were not even touched by an enemy blade or arrow; they were simply pushed off their balance into the rain drenched furrows of the plough field. Many were stepped on, pushed face down into the muddy water, unable to rise in their heavy armor and drowned there before they could parry even once against an Englishman. Many lost their consciousness, unable to breathe sufficient air through the narrow slits in their visors, sweat pouring over their face and eyes, blinded, unable to see the poleaxe arching down upon their head or the lance lunged forward into the soft creases between their armor.

We pressed on, with the belief, as Robert had said, that some would fall, but our sheer numbers would overcome the English. And he seemed to be right. When our wave came face to face, shield to shield against the English, we pushed them back onto their own haunches, ten or twelve feet. We were winning the fight, even though many more of us had fallen, than English.

"That banner there, " Robert yelled and pointed to the middle of the English line. "I know that coat, it belongs to the Duke of York. He leads their van. We must go to his banner."

As we slogged toward the York banner, an impudent counterfeit of the royal standard, offset patches of golden lions on red, opposite golden fleur de lis on blue, with white bars and red dots, Robert stopped rigid in his track, as if he had turned into a frozen statue. His jaw slackened in disbelief. There, on foot, beside a banner near identical to the one carried for the Duke of York, stood Henry, King of England, surrounded by a retinue of body guards, continuously pushed away by the King himself, so he could make his way straight into the fight.

"We go there," Robert said again, though this time in barely more than a harsh whisper, pointing at the King's banner.

But even though pushed backwards, the English line did not break and though they seemed to weaken, they recovered and began to push us back, taking back their lost ground. Their press had us fall backwards over the bodies of our comrades, lying dead on the earth behind us. The fighting was the fiercest I had ever known. Far worse than any ambush The Circle and I had inflicted on English freebooters or even stray soldiers. But the worst of it came once the archers arrows were all spent.

The damage brought by the assault of the thousands of arrows, combined with the slog in heavy armor through the muck, the heat and lack of oxygen inside a helmet with a downed visor and the crush of so many numbers, quickly sapped our brave men at arms and many could scarcely lift their weapons by the time the English line was finally engaged. They were easily knocked to the ground and unable to get back up. As the mêlée built, and our band joined into the attack, we too were swallowed up.

Our first wave were mostly on the ground, heaped in piles of tangled bodies, littered with lost and discarded weapons. As our second wave advanced into the fight, we were met with morning stars, lances, sword thrusts and mighty blows from poleaxes and halberds. The English battle cry transformed from calls for victory to simple maniacal bellowing, 'kill them, kill them, kill them all'.

At our back, the deep formation attempted to push forward, without realizing that they were hindering those of us now at the front, pushing us into the English lance points. With our first wave dead and dying in the waste, those of us that followed, fought over top of the bodies of those who had fallen before us. In the press of thousands, so many fell into the soupy morass, suffocated in their armor and many were simply hacked to death or dismembered and left to bleed out into the stew of guts and shit. The field was a wild clamor of screams and wails through gasping, frothing mouths and anonymous pleas from the dying for their mama.

With no arrows left, the archers threw down their longbows and took up swords and daggers, axes and mallets. Running from behind their barricade of stakes, they attacked us with such fury and violence, for they knew that if they did not kill us there would be no mercy for themselves. They struck at the men behind us, many already trapped helpless in the mud. They hammered down on helms and bare heads with iron mallets, they plunged swords into the soft spaces between armor, they stabbed with daggers through the visors of the fallen, slashing faces into bloody shards and gouging eyes with pointed blades.

They were ruthless and brutal. There were no proud and chivalrous knights among them. All were peasant warriors, killers by trade, paid in coin for the use of their skill as bowmen and merciless treachery with a blade. Most were Welshmen, hired to travel from battle to battle for silver pennies and whatever booty they could carry. They gave no quarter to the offer of a gauntlet in surrender. Still, as they slaughtered us from the sides and rear, we pressed forward in our massive numbers, pushed ever onward by the men of our second wave. The narrowness of the field and the size of our own army became as much an enemy as the English. The heavy armor of our knights was a great disadvantage in the mire, against the lightly clad English men-at-arms and the Welsh mercenary archers. The mobility afforded by a padded jerkin proved much more advantageous than and iron breastplate or steel helm. Great heaps of bodies, living and dead, piled up behind and before us. The deafening din continued.

It seemed to my eye there were more than a thousand of my French brothers lying dead or wounded before the first clash of swords had even taken place. Our Constable, Charles d'Albret, pushed himself into the breach, leading at the front of our infantry advance, in a desperate attempt to keep the troops from retreating back on themselves and creating even more of a congested mass. Marshal Boucicault, who had been with d'Albret, fell behind, caught in a crowd of fleeing men as our second wave continued our advance forward, struggling over the dead, ourselves sinking so deep into the muck, that it took all our effort to take one step after the next. To my eye, we had become defenseless, like flies stuck on honey, many falling into the mud, so weighed down by their heavy armor that they drowned in the swill, many suffocating, trying to breathe in enough of the rank air through the pitiful small openings in their visors to keep themselves conscious. They too fell faint and exhausted into the muddy waters of the plough field. I saw Constable d'Albret fall there.

I saw Robert drive his sword into an Englishman's throat so that blood ran down the blade, over the hilt and cover my Lord's gauntlet. He pulled his blade from the man's neck then rammed it into the mouth of the next Englishman, butchering the man's lips and tongue, pushing out the back of his head. I was not innocent from the slaughter either. I fended off a poleaxe strike, then swung my longsword across the eyes of my attacker, slicing open both his eyeballs, then hacked half through his neck as he fell. There was more of it, much more, gruesome and bloody. I pulled an Englishman off his balance and held his face in a blood drenched pool, my foot on the back of his head. He wriggled and thrashed beneath my boot, until he drowned. Had I thought to be merciful in that moment I might have just plunged my sword through the back of his neck and saved him from a slow death.

Soldat led our way through the morass. He swung his axe up through one man's armpit, pulled it away than cleaved another through the hip, another at the collar and yet another down the middle of the head, as if he was chopping hearth wood. A small piece of ground cleared before us. A few seconds earned to gather our breath. My Lord wiped sweat from his brow and eyes, the blood of many men smeared from shoulder to knee.

"Two words you probably do not know my friend," Robert said to me, as he breathed deep and hard, gathering his wind. "Avarice and hubris. Even though we are stronger and in greater numbers, it may be those two words that defeat us here. But we too must make our way into the heart of the battle."

"What do they mean?" I asked, breathing hard as the work of making way through the killing was draining my strength.

"Greed and arrogance. They will be our demise."

"Then we must not make waste fighting hand to hand." I looked at my warped, rusty sword, blood and pieces of flesh covering its length. It would not save me much longer in such close quarters. "We must go straight for the head. Go for their king. We are with you."

But it was not just words that were defeating us; it was the mud and rain, the heavy armor of our knights, the narrow field, the greater discipline born by the English and the fact that their disadvantage vaulted them beyond the shackles of fear. Perhaps it was the two headed dog or the strange monk-knight Gob. Whatever the cause, to my eye, we had to take the head or all would be lost, even though our numbers were so many times that of the English.

Soldat pushed forward from beside me. He drove his battle axe down into the helmet of an Englishman poised to strike at me. He pulled his bloody blade from the split skull, raised his huge mud caked boot into the dead man's chest, kicked him backwards into his companions and stepped over him as if he was a side of goat meat.

Robert grabbed me by the shoulder, pulling me forward, to keep pace with Soldat, so he would not fight without us. A quick flash of light on blade beside Robert came off an English sword stabbing out. Robert leaned back; the blade glanced off his breast plate. He pulled me around, as if I was his shield, just in time for me to plunge my long sword into the assailants spine.

'Bastard English,' was my first angry thought, but as I pulled my blade from the man's back, the thought changed to 'poor bastard'.

Robert parried and thrust, unstopping. Gushes of blood splattered through the air, chunks of flesh, brain and bone flew from all sides, covering us with all manner of grizzly matter. Soldat pushed ahead of us, his double edged battle axe swinging left then right, hewing down men as if he was clearing a path of thin saplings before us. To my eye he was like a mountain of muscle and bone, as solid as any rock that could never be cleaved.

As we pushed forward, deeper into the English ranks, it seemed as if they closed in around our sides, engulfing us in their midst.

Henry did not cower from the fight. He strode into the middle of his van, surrounded by his household guard, the Welshman Davy Gam at their lead. The young King continued to rally his troops though the din was deafening and nothing could be heard but the continuous roar from thousands of screeching and crying throats. Beneath it was the steady hum of dying men moaning out their death rattles.

Henry fought back our Frenchmen with his royal sword, believing in his heart that was the only weapon he needed, because he knew God was with him, protecting him. His strength was renewed, his resolve unwavering, he felt joy fill him while at the same time pitying those of our army that came before him only to be slain one after the other.

Great heaps of massacred combatants grew around the three main English standards. Robert recognized King Henry's banner, the offset patches of Fleur-de-lis and golden lions. My Lord harried us to follow him toward that flag. We joined a group of Burgundian esquires being led by the Sire de Croy, who had formed themselves into a desperate cluster, determined to capture or if need be to kill the King of England and throw the crown from his head.

Engagement with the Kings bodyguard was swift and violent. The Knights protecting Henry were not only savage but also the most skilled at parry and thrust. They had little trouble knocking down every Frenchman that came near to striking distance of their King.

We came first to Henry's flank, fighting off a pair of lancers guarding the way. We were forced over fallen bodies and came face to face against Humphrey, the Kings brother, and a retinue of his body-men. Jehan, the Sire de Croy was at our lead and was the first to fall, hewn from shoulder to chest, like a split melon, by a poleaxe swung down on him from many feet away. The Sire's son flung himself over his father's body, in a fit of frenzy, lashing wildly at Humphrey's men. It was Humphrey himself that stepped forward in the fray to slay the Sire's son. Our young Burgundian knight toppled headless onto the heap of dead and dying.

Robert lept from my side and lunged at the King's brother, parrying a blow with his longsword, his short sword driving into Humphrey's groin. The young Duke collapsed, dropping his sword, clutching two handed at his wound to stem the flow of blood. Robert moved forward, over the Duke, but stood hesitating, undecided if he should bring an end to Humphrey's life or take him as his prisoner for ransom. The wealth such a prize would bring would sustain his estates for many years. But in that moment of hesitation, Davy Gam lunged across the mound of bodies like a raging bull and tackled Robert away. The English King leaped between us and his brother, swinging his royal sword in great arcs, side to side and over his head, warding us off as if we were a swarm of black flies. A pair of squires grabbed Humphrey, each under one of the Duke's arms, pulling him away swiftly from the battle, and disappearing behind the line of fighting, well beyond my sight.

It was then that Soldat Bonin rose from the mass and swung his axe at Henry's head. The blow struck the crown that formed part of Henry's helmet, dislodging a golden fleuret into the mud. Henry fell back on top of a headless knight as Soldat pulled back to finish him. Before he could swing his axe downward, the morning star mace of Davy Gam pounded into Soldats face, obliterating his nose and eyes, churning my big friend's head into bloody mush.

I gasped. My mind was confused by the sight of such a thing. I was certain, as I knew Soldat all my life, that such a thing could not happen to him. He was invincible. He was too large and fierce to be slain in battle. But Davy Gam was bigger. He fought more like a giant bear than a man. There was no sign of fear or remorse in his eye. He slew without care or feeling for any man, save his King.

Fury, such as I had never known, fell over me. I spun and with all my strength plunged my longsword into Davy's side, pulled it back and with a second blow sliced away a mighty chunk of the Welshman's arm. I stepped over corpses to come to Soldat's aid. The English guard pushed forward as I knelt beside my fallen townsman. Blood and froth gurgled from the mash of the remains of Soldat's face and I knew he was gone. An iron boot pounded into the side of my face as I leaned forward, toppling me next to the fallen Davy Gam. The Welshman, still alive, reached over with his good arm, his massive hand grasped me on the throat and squeezed.

Robert could not come to me in that moment. His own armor weighed him down, the slimy clay sucking him to it. His strength spent; my Lord collapsed face down. Rousseau bent to aid me, but just as soon as he took his eyes from the fight, he took a mace blow on the side of his head. His red hair turned an even deeper hue as blood gushed from a rent in his skull. The side of his face turned to bloody pulp. Rousseau puked his teeth onto the ground in front of Robert and collapsed to the earth. With his face sunk halfway in the mud, Robert stared helpless at me. I pulled at Davy Gam's mighty grip but it was locked solid as a vice. My air spent, a circle of darkness closed around me and I felt my consciousness drifting away. Just as the blackness was falling over me like a curtain and my mind drifting into the comfort of surrendering to all, my reverie was pierced by a dagger plunging into my side.

I came out of the blackness with the feeling of waking from a long deep sleep. Robert stood over Davy Gam, his sword sunk into the big man's heart. Next to him, Brasseur, on his knees, clutched at his belly, pulling at a lance point that had broken off inside him. He puked out his breakfast in a swill of blood then fell dead.

The tingling left my arms and legs, the sound of the battle returned out of the reverie of deep silence into a deafening roar. The wound in my side throbbed and burned. I was able to turn myself to hands and knees and then finally stand. It made no sense. It was like being born from the comfort of a soft warm womb into madness.

Lying next to Soldat, Charpentier and Cordier were embraced in death, as if they gave each other comfort at their end. Poor Charpentier's leg was lopped off below the knee and Cordier was left without an arm. I searched the ground around me for my longsword. I saw the hilt buried in the mud at my feet. The blade was sheered in two, the weapon useless now. I retrieved what little was left, with no thought to take a better weapon from the hundreds that were strewn on the ground about me, no longer needed by their perished owners.

The clash of swords, axe on mace, halberd against poleaxe, rang through my ears like dozens of iron grates banging against each other relentlessly in a strong wind. I turned to see Robert parry with the English King. The monarch, resplendent in his armor and mail, his surcoat dripping blood across the royal coat of arms, his bannerman planted faithfully at his rear, it was clear, at first sight, that he was a more skilled swordsman than Robert. Henry deflected Robert's strike and in the next instant swung back around to hammer the side of Robert's helm. The snap and crack, like the sound of a heavy branch breaking in two, came from Robert's head. The iron that had shielded my Lord's head, buckled and Robert fell stiff as an oak hewn down with a single blow. I slogged forward two steps, lunged at the English King with my broken half sword and fell amiss. My back exposed, Henry struck across my width with the flat of his sword and I fell too. I turned my face toward Henry. Our eyes met and held and I expected him to strike my death blow. He raised his sword but then held it fast.

"It's you," Henry said. "He said I would see you and know you."

In that moment, in the fog of the battle and my state of delirium, I thought I saw the green eyes of the monk Gob looking down on me from Henry's face. Then all grew dark.

It was not clear to me if I was dead or dreaming. It was not clear to me if I was within myself or floating above, looking at my body lying beside Robert as the battle raged on around us.

"You are not dead yet," I heard a strange voice say.

From my prostrate position, I could see a very short knight standing at my feet. His armor glistened, clean, polished to a mirror, not a speck of grime or blood on it, even though we lay among a sea of severed torso, limbs and heads whole and cleaved, entrails and all manner of human waste. It seemed that sunlight reflected brightly off him, even though the day was crowned with thick heavy clouds. He flipped his visor up. A pair of large green eyes filled the opening in his helmet. He had no weapon.

"You are not dead yet."

I knew that voice. I knew this man, even though I could not see his face.

"He is not dead yet either." He pointed at Robert.

It was the short monk, now dressed in armor. He stood at my feet, yet he was not sunk into the soft soil. It was as if he could walk above it. He stepped closer to my head. His armor rattled like hollow tin clanking on itself.

"What?" I said.

"This is not even the end of it," he said. "I mean to say that it is not the end of this fighting. It is the last you will do of it but this war has many years left in it."

"What?"

"Not to worry. Simone will hear of it, of you. You will actually gain a small degree of fame. Your townsfolk will speak proudly of you, boasting, as if your fame was due in part to their own sacrifice. Gillet of Azincourt, they will call you. That is the name of this place. Azincourt. That town there, the castle at its edge. This will be known as The Battle of Azincourt, because it is fought next to that town. Gillet of Azincourt. You have to be proud of that. Though, sadly that moniker will be lost in time, as time fades. Even Robert's fame will fade eventually. But the fame of that English King will never fade. He will always be known, always be famous."

"You are the monk," I managed to croak out.

"Gob. Just Gob." He stood. "I will go now and wave my finger at Boucicault. I told him to stay back, but of course he didn't. He never has and so his fate will be as it has always been.

Gob stepped away. The shiny armor melted away from his body, his shaped changed. I imagined that I saw him as the two headed dog, as he disappeared into the mêlée. I believed he went looking for Marshal Boucicault, as he said, but that too made no sense to my mind.

"So this is the end of it then," I said, my voice barely managing a whisper. "I never thought my death would be like this. I imagined and hoped that I would die an old man, laying in my bed, surrounded by my wife and children and grandchildren. It seems so pointless to die this way, in this place, amidst this horror and carnage. I am grateful though, to have my friends here with me on this sodden field. And you, Robert. What a shame for you to go so young. You should have had so much more life to live. I hope we will meet in the afterlife."

I heard music. Unlike any minstrels music played in the streets of Meaux or in the Grand Marche. Unlike the voices of any choir in the cathedral. Music from an unknown time and place. About me, the fighting waged on. I'm certain the battle cries and screams, the crying and moaning all carried on. I could see them, dimly, still clashing with each other. But all I heard in the depths of my mind was the low melodious otherworld music. The sound of love drawing me near to it. I felt no pain from my wounds. I felt at peace, resigned that this was my end and I was beginning my journey to that better place.

"Good by Robert," I said.

"Good bye, my good friend," Robert managed. He reached across and took my hand, but I could not feel his grasp.

We lay face to face soaked in the blood red mud on the field at Azincourt. I looked through Robert's eyes, staring past them to the face of my Simone, my children and the wrinkly forehead and puffy cheeks of my new born son. I felt sorrow that they would have to make their life without me, but I clung to the thought that I would see them again. As the light drained away from my eyes, I heard Robert offer, "I'm sorry."

Our army pulled back from the front of the battle, like a wave retreating from the shore. We were left there, the dead and dying, hundreds, perhaps thousands. Many more Frenchmen than English. A great many more.

'Such a waste of human life,' I thought. I could see them all, in my mind's eye, but I could not tell if I myself was dead or living.

The English came forward across the field, like ants crawling over fallen carrion.

"This one," I heard them say. "This one here. Not that one."

Many of our Frenchmen, stuck fast in the mire, with no possibility of escape or retreat, offered a gauntlet in surrender. There were those that were still alive, but their flesh too wretched and torn that they had no hope of surviving long. They were mercifully put out of their misery. If they were of noble blood and had possessions on their person worth taking, they were stripped of them and their faces slashed so they were not recognizable.

A very young English knight stood over me. His short cropped blonde hair was matted down with splashed dried blood, his surcoat caked with all manner of gruesome human refuse.

"That one," he said, pointing his sword at Robert.

He prodded me in the side with the tip of his blade.

"If you can stand and walk Sire," he said, "I will take you too. If not, I will relieve you of the rest of your life and you shall have your honor on this field."

I had no strength and I had no will to stand and go with the young knight as his prisoner. But Robert was pulled to his feet by a pair of young squires and my duty to him drew me to rise. Dried rivulets of blood crowned Robert's head, like a circle of red thorns. He was standing though he lurched like a drunkard, even under the support of the young squires.

"You won't need that any longer," the young knight said. He took the broken sword from my grip; my fingers had bound themselves to the hilt as if the remnants of the weapon had become forged to my hand. He tossed it to the ground, spent and useless now, a feeling within me that I shared.

"Take them to the rear," the young knight ordered.

We plodded and shuffled, hunched, beaten, dragging ourselves past the English line. There were hundreds of us, perhaps more than a thousand of my comrades in arms, in all states of defeat, herded like sheep, into capture.

'Perhaps I will not die today,' I thought. But I knew there would be no means to ransom me and once that was known to the English, my life could end. I had been mistaken for something more than a peasant soldier. This, no doubt, because I wore the mail and breast plate loaned to me from Robert.

Renaud, the Sire d'Azincourt, watched the battle from the ramparts of his castle at the edge of his town. His view was unobstructed from the three assembled battles, the three waves of our French army, across the thousand or more paces to the English line and Maisoncelle beyond. It was clear, though unbelievable, that the fight had turned against us. It was clear that the field of battle belonged to Henry.

But at the rear, far behind the English line, at the outskirts of Maisoncelle, the English baggage train stayed unprotected, except for a few weary men-at-arms and those tradesmen, merchants, peasant workers and priests that stayed safely beyond the fighting. There would be prizes to be had in that baggage train. The pickings would be easy and plentiful. It was known to all that a King might travel with copious jewels and treasure and chests of silver coin, even gold perhaps. It was the thought of this booty that had Renaud d'Azincourt assemble his household knights and lead them on a sortie to capture the wealth of Henry of England, even as we, his compatriots were meeting our slaughter or capture.

He led his troops down the road through the woods towards Henrys camp and the baggage train at Maisoncelle. The English peasant workers already guarding the baggage and peasants from Maisoncelle had undertaken their own pillaging of the baggage, taking what food and goods were easy to grab and flee with.

From his vantage at the center of the killing field, Henry saw the line of riders racing through the woods towards his rear. From his vantage he could see that our retreating French army already appeared to reform their numbers and regroup. Beyond them, our third wave appeared to be arranging itself into new battles, new waves of attack.

More than a thousand French prisoners were now in his capture. It became clear to Henry, a brigade of our French army was about to circle behind him and attack from the rear. Should those at his forefront regain themselves and make a second attack, his army would be at grave peril. Worse, the very prisoners he had taken, seeing their revitalized position, could be emboldened to retrieve stray weapons from the mud and join the attack, from his very midst.

His dilemma was great. It required his immediate decision or the day that was won, could just as quickly turn and all could be lost. Two dark angels sat on the King's shoulders. One charging him to remain faithful to chivalric code, the other railing him to preserve his victory. Henry was a decisive leader and though it might pain his soul, he was prepared to make a severe decision, if need be.

# 21 - The Prisoners

October 25, 1415. Late afternoon

Only God knows how many French prisoners we actually were, but we far outnumbered the men that guarded us. We even far outnumbered the English men-at-arms that were in disarray in a pitiful attempt to regroup themselves. They were a sorry sight, the English, but we were even worse. Many of the archers were picking booty off of corpses, many salvaged spent arrows from the field and from those still lodged in a perished man or beast. A cracked shaft or imperfect fletching rendered an arrow useless, even if the bodkin point or broadhead barb was still intact.

Henry called for his own horse. Not the dapple rouncey he rode before his men, before the battle, so they would see him as one of them. He called for his white horse, the King's horse, so he could see the field more clearly and so we could see him on his clean white mount, above us all, with victory in his clenched fist. So that we would see that the King of England lived and we were defeated.

But Henry knew the danger was not ended. Those in retreat would regroup. They would join our third battle wave and attack once more, this time more wary of the wretchedness of the field. Our third battle wave would not be trapped in the mire on the next attack.

There were no arrows left for his archers to rain terror down upon another wave. His own line was in disorder, many of his men safeguarding prisoners they had taken for ransom, as was their right. Most of us were bound by our wrists, but not all. A great many were still fit enough to join the fight once again, should it come. Those that were unbound could free us, we could take weapons from those scattered about the field and return to the fight. Those of us that were not too wounded or too weary. I felt that with enough rest I might regain enough strength to return to arms, but then the rent in my side reminded me this would not be. As for Robert, I felt he may never fight again. Though he was not gravely wounded on his body and the blood had stopped flowing from his head wound, he teetered. He could not walk straight up nor could he maintain clear thinking. He tried to vomit often but he had nothing left but dry heaving. My Lord's face was deeply ashen, like grey milk, his lips near the same complexion. He was like walking death.

I wasn't sure if I was still alive or if this was a dream or perhaps it was the vision I was seeing on my journey to purgatory. Robert was not the Robert I knew, in his wounded state. He drifted in and out of reason, as if he had become a man of a nether world. I feared my young Lord had lost himself, in his mind, and become a vacant shadow of a man, just like our own King Charles.

'They should have let him die there on the field, than to be alive like this', I thought. 'They can see he is a nobleman and will bring a pretty ransom, even though his mind is damaged like this'.

I wore the loaned breastplate, now disfigured with many dents from stray sword blows, smeared and splattered with the blood of friend and foe, nothing to tell if it was English or French.

They led us behind the English line toward the small hamlet of Maisoncelle. The English camp was set all about the place, the tents and bivouacs and the English King's great pavilion. The few men left in the camp were set about in a great fury, scrambling about their stores and baggage train. Though my head was bent forward, from the corner of one eye I could see a mounted charge making its way single file over the narrow road through the woods, towards Maisoncelle. They were French, though I did not recognize their banner belonging to one of the Lords in our third battle wave.

Those of our army that were able, retreated back toward our line, like a wave retreating from the shore to the safety of the ocean. I saw them as water. Many struggled to free their wounded compatriots from the muck and drag them back behind the shield of our third wave. Back behind our courageous Frenchmen that would soon deliver our revenge upon the English. But our third wave did not attack, they moved away from the field. Even though we were near a thousand paces distant from our French line, it seemed to me that our third wave grew even larger than when we began the battle. From the north and from the west, late arriving retinues joined their ranks.

'Just a matter of time,' I thought, 'until they form themselves and make the next attack. Just a matter of time until we are released from bondage and can return to our ranks and have our wounds mended. I pray that Robert will survive until then. I pray that the demon that has been inflicted upon his head can be removed and my young Lord made whole again in his mind.'

I propped myself under Robert's arm and became his crutch, as we were moved further behind the English line. We limped and struggled, prodded and harassed by our guardsmen, who shouted streams of continuous curses at us that I'm certain were foul and obscene, though I could not understand their tongue.

The battle had lasted three hours, but Henry feared all was not done. From his position, he could see our rear guard, and he dreaded they were regrouping for another attack. His troops were weary and our French army was incomparable in number and growing, still fresh and looked to be forming into battle order. The joy that had filled his heart at the sight of our retreat was quickly replaced by dismay at the sight of the regrouping. It was not done. All that had been miraculously won could be lost.

'Why would God do such a cruel thing,' Henry thought. 'To give the miracle of victory to me only to snatch it away in the next instant.'

"I am the King," Henry shouted from atop his white horse. "I am the King of England and of France."

But he was not certain that this was truly God's plan.

'It is a test,' Henry thought. 'God is testing me, to see if I have the resolve and wisdom not to lose what he has given me.'

Henry prayed. Seated on his great white horse, surrounded by his household banners, the King of England talked to his God. I thought he might be sleeping, taking rest after the days long struggle, but his lips were moving. His eyes were closed, he spoke to no person in his presence. He prayed for many minutes, until Sir John Cornwaille broke the King's contemplation.

"They will regroup, your majesty," Cornwaille said. "They have held an entire battle in reserve and others still come to join them. We have won this first sortie but they are not defeated."

Sir Gilbert Umfraville made his way to Henry's side as well. "They have retreated majesty."

"They will come again," Cornwaille said. "We must regroup ourselves. We cannot take rest yet. Some archers are recovering arrows from the field but too few of them do so. Let us pray those French bastards hold long enough to make ourselves ready for their next wave."

Henry's eyes opened as if waking from a sleep. He did not look at Umfraville or Cornwaille.

"Kill the prisoners," he whispered.

"Majesty?" Umfraville asked, not certain he had heard correctly.

"Kill them," Henry said louder.

Cornwaille stared up at his King, dumbstruck.

"Kill them majesty?" Cornwaille asked.

"Yes Sir John. We must kill the prisoners."

"We cannot majesty. They have surrendered."

"There is no other choice," Henry said.

"They are bound, defenseless. Many are wounded."

"It is a shameful thing Sir John but we have no other choice."

"We could take them behind the lines your majesty," Umfraville said. "They are already surrendered. It is easy enough to lead them away from the field. We could assemble them at the baggage train and make them ready for ransom."

"Our baggage train is already under attack Gilbert. They have swung behind us. Soon they will move on us from head and rear. We cannot let them be in our middle as well, or what we have won will be lost. We do not have enough men to guard them. Every man of us must be made ready to rejoin the battle. We cannot leave them unguarded for they would surely free themselves, take up weapons and kill us from within like a thousand ulcers in our belly. Kill them all."

"Your highness, all the glory you have won from this God sent victory will be stained by such an act. There is no glory in slaying a helpless man, a wounded man, a captive, whose only crime has been to stand against his enemy."

"It is not an easy thing for me to make this order, John, but that is why I possess the crown and you do not. I will make the choices that are right for England, I will make the ugly choices, when needed."

Cornwaille stood stiff as an indignant statue. "Your majesty, not only do our knights have the right to take prisoners, it is against all code of chivalry to slay a defenseless man."

"Would you rather they slay you, Sir John?" Henry asked.

"Yes," Cornwaille said.

"The honor of England is greater than you or me, Sir John. But I am not without some mercy. You may separate those most high prisoners and keep them aside for ransom. The rest cannot be saved. Go now and make your choice, the command to slay the prisoners is given."

"I am your loyal vassal your Majesty. Have I not always proven so? I say to you to not slay the prisoners, to leave them stand, as by your chivalric code," Umfraville said.

"They are the ones that flew their Oriflamme, Gilbert. They are the ones that declared no prisoners would be taken. It was they who first declared no mercy should be granted, no quarter given. If I do less, then I am less. Mercy for all will not be seen as anything less than weakness. It is that, or this, Gilbert." Henry pointed his royal sword to the body of Davy Gam.

"They will not slay you, your majesty," Umfraville said.

"No they will not. My fate would be much worse than death. Should I not have victory or death from this fight, it would be the shame of England that is written in the books of history. Now, gather the prisoners and make them ready. Assemble my knights to stand over the prisoners and obey my command when I give it."

But there was not a single knight or noble that would obey such a heinous act. All refused on pain of their own death. Cornwaille was certain this would be their choice and Umfraville was pleased that his King would not violate the code.

Henry stood furious at such defiance, that his own knights would refuse his royal command. But the knights and nobles, possessed their own authority, so all did not belong to the King. It was their right to refuse such a despicable unchivalrous order, for the same could just as easily befall them and their own countrymen, at the next battle, that would surely come.

"I will hang any man that refuses to obey my command," Henry yelled, face red, a thick vein bulging on his forehead, spittle flying from his lips.

His knights and nobles stood firm.

But Henry was not stayed by the refusal. He dismounted and stood over the body of fallen Welshman, Davy Gam.

"Men of Wales," Henry bellowed. "This brave Welshman, fallen at my feet, has given his life for his King. He has shown the most high loyalty. I do not ask you to throw down your lives, only to obey my command and slay these French captives."

To a man, the Welsh archers stood and stared at Henry, none moving.

"There is double pay for every man that heed this command."

His mercenary Welsh archers, who had so adeptly come into the field to slay the French, once all arrows had been spent, were quick to accept the offer, for fair pay to execute this unsavory task.

A great hue and cry erupted from the knights and nobles, many disparaging their King's disregard of his pledge to the code of chivalry, but many also in vociferous complaint at the loss of the ransoms they had earned at the risk of their own lives.

"Sir John, you may choose only the highest ranks of our prisoners to be spared their lives. The rest must make their sacrifice. Go now and choose. I can wait no longer. Our enemy will soon return in force."

With great reluctance, Sir John Cornwaille, Sir Gilbert Umfraville and other nobles of England, moved among their prisoners choosing those who would live from those who would be mercilessly slain.

"Alençon fell," I said. "I saw it. They gutted him. He fell near the Duke of Brabant. Though I did not see it with my own eyes, Robert, I have heard that your uncle Edward, Duke of Bar, has perished as well, along with your other uncle, John. Constable d'Albret was impaled early in the fight. So many. France will not recover soon, I fear. But Marshal Boucicaut lives, I saw him. The Duke of Orléans was here with us, a prisoner, though they have led him away with others, nobles and knights, all men of high station."

In that moment the vacantness that had been in Robert's eyes disappeared, as if he returned into himself.

"They are taken for ransom," Robert said. "Artois, both the Bourbons, de Richmont and I saw Harcourt surrender his gauntlet also. The rest of us will die. We are killed by the mud and our hubris."

"They argue, Robert. The English King and his knights. I saw furor in men so angry they spit upon the ground at their brothers feet. Many of them turned their back on their own King. Many of them have left from guarding us and now the Welshmen come. I fear we are to be slain."

"They will butcher us like helpless hogs, Gillet."

"Not you Lord. They take the nobles away."

A pair of Englishmen walked among us, sending those prisoners wearing the best armor or donning a high surcoat or banner to the rear, leaving those of us most common where we sat. They chose who would live and who would die.

"Take my Lord," I yelled.

The two Englishmen came near and looked upon Robert and me. They spoke briefly to each other, then one shook his head and spoke to me in my own tongue.

"I'm sorry, we can only take a few. Only those that will fetch the highest ransom."

It was clear, even though I wore a breast plate, that my armor was too simple to make me high born.

"My Lord. You must take my Lord. He is Robert of Bar, Count of Marle and Soissons," I pleaded.

The Englishman looked at Robert, at the grizzly split on his head, that had stopped bleeding, but now formed a jellied clot of matted hair. Robert involuntarily dry heaved, wavered, tilted and fainted onto the Englishman's boot.

"He will not survive," the Englishman said. "I cannot waste a place on him. He will be a corpse soon enough."

The pair of Englishmen left us and continued their search among the prisoners.

The bodies of the men of France lay strewn in the thousands. Such a sight I had never seen nor wished to see. If there was a hell on earth then surely this was it. Among them were all our best, our highest Princes lying next to my common folk. Poor Rousseau, Brasseur, Charpentier and Cordier. And my invincible Soldat Bonin. Never to see their children again in this world. These are the bravest men of Meaux.

"This then is the place I draw my last breath, this ocean of mud and blood, the place where my human existence is ended," I said to Robert. "My legacy lives on through my children and our friendship lives on through your name that I have given to my newborn son. I wish I could have known him."

Robert lay silent, his face half buried in a furrow. I could not tell if he still lived.

The ground near the English camp was wet. Water squished out beneath leather soles and bare feet with no difference. This was the sound I heard as the Welshman came behind me and stopped. Blinding white light exploded in my eyes, all sound vanished as I dropped into the mud. My limbs tingled as though thousands of bugs were crawling over them. Sharp, at first, like needles pricking from the tips of my fingers and toes then rolling up my limbs to my body, then leaving no feeling at all behind them. There was no pain, just confusion. Where was I? When the sense returned to me, I knew this was the end and the last of my life would slip away in the wretched bloody muck, far away from Simone.

I had fallen forward into the same furrow where my Lord lay. It seemed to me that the short knight, in his polished armor, stood above me, but I could not tell if he was really there or if he was imagined. But of all of the things given and not given in my life, the thing that broke my heart the most, was to not see the faces of my Simone and children in that last moment.

Now I am here, and that is where I died; at the moment of my passing, I knew that nobody is ever really gone. The brightest light, brighter than any I had ever witnessed, swallowed me, as the sea might swallow a body into its depths. I felt the greatest comfort, the greatest love, as if I was returning to my true home.

The short funny looking monk stood at my head. As I was gone, he said, "If you have lived upon the earth, whether your name is known to history or not, you are a part of it and your mark is in the world; in the hearts and mind and memories of those that loved you and in legacy for all those that come after. Be you prince or be you pauper, all that matters in life is life, all other glories are vain and soulless."

There were those that say it was right that Henry had his prisoners slayed. He prevented a rout by eliminating the risk within. But there are those that condemn his act as heinous and a violation of that which separates man from beast. They say he has condemned his own soul to hell.

Whether he was brilliant or brutal, our third wave did not attack. Together with those that came late to the field of battle, they turned away. The fight was over, the victory ceded to England and Henry made heralds of both England and France declare his victory loudly.

Even the sortie made by Renaud d' Azincourt, upon Henry's baggage train, was just to pillage goods and quickly retreat behind the safety of their castle walls. He brought no fight against the English.

# 22 - The King Returns

The fog lifted slowly from the field of battle, the morning of Saturday, October 26th . Henry left his encampment at Maisoncelle with a small cortege of French prisoners and their guards, to survey the acres strewn with corpses from the fighting the day before. It was a pitiful sight to behold. Hundreds stripped naked, their bodies and belongings already pillaged by the citizens of Azincourt and Tramecourt and even those from Maisoncelle. Many still lived, wounded. Those that were beyond saving or that would not survive the march to Calais, as prisoners, were put out of their suffering. Those that could identify themselves of noble birth, were taken prisoner, if their rank was sufficiently high.

November 1415

On November 16th , after a brief period of recovery at the English fortress at Calais, Henry, along with remnants of his army, some fit, some wounded, along with those French nobles captured at Azincourt, boarded ship and set sail for England. But the great fleet that had brought Henry's army to France in August had been disbanded and sent home long ago.

The English army, dispersed from one another, traveled home, each on their own. With little resources and even less money, the King of England had scant means to pay for return passage in a grand fleet. Each nobleman was made responsible to make his own arrangements, with just two shillings allowed for each man and each horse, to make the crossing. Henry's arrival in the homeland was greeted with little fanfare as the army did not return en masse. The grand welcoming for the victorious King was not made at the docks upon his arrival, though it was made clear there was an expectation for a magnificent victory parade and celebration in honor of the glory Henry had brought to England. As Henry's flag ship eased into the slip, the creaking planks grew silent and the flapping of sails diminished as they were unfurled, the pitifully meagre crowd that gathered dockside to heap adulation on their glorious King, shocked him.

"What is this Edmund?" Henry said to Mortimer, as he looked from the foredeck of the Trinity Royale upon the few sad souls gathered at the shore. Edmund Mortimer, after convalescing at Westminster and recovering from his flux, had joined his King as Henry returned to England.

The Mayor, the Sheriff, a few clergymen and a couple dozen shabbily dressed townsfolk, that had been recruited for the greeting, waved on command at their monarch.

"This is the praise I get for vanquishing a foe a dozen times my number? This is all I get from my loyal subjects? Am I not the King of England and France?"

"News of your departure from Calais travels slowly your Majesty. No doubt a grand celebration in recognition of your accomplishment is planned on your arrival at London," Mortimer said. "The crown of France will have to be taken from Charles head before claim to the French throne can be declared, I fear. They have suffered ignominious defeat and you have slain much of their royal blood, but Charles and the Dauphin still live. It will take more victories your majesty."

Henry turned sharply and studied Edmund Mortimer's face for traces of mockery, but there was none. As always, Mortimer, fifth Earl of March, whose claim to the English throne was even stronger than Henry's, remained a loyal vassal.

"You are right Edmund," Henry conceded. "Azincourt is just one victory."

"But a great one, majesty. An historical one, that will be spoken of in the same breath as Crecy and Poitiers. You shall be long remembered and praised. And I am certain that your victory celebration awaits for your arrival in London."

The journey from Dover to London was deliberately slow, so as to allow the citizenry to make proper arrangements for praise and for the great parade and pageant that would take place in honor of Henry's triumph.

Along the way, as each day passed, and Henry's retinue made its way toward London, more and more citizens came from their homes to lavish praise. There had been little news of the campaign, after Henry's army departed Harfleur, and the little that did arrive had not promised victory of any sort. Now, as word spread of the calamitous defeat of the French, the crowds that came forward grew to throngs, the closer their King came to London, to home, and word of his great triumph spread.

As each town on the route to London was passed through, the spontaneous celebration grew and grew. By the 23rd of November, as Henry's retinue neared Blackheath, he was greeted by the Mayor, two dozen aldermen, and an enormous number of citizens, dressed in finery, fancy cloaks and hoods of all bright colors, many proudly brandishing the ornately fashioned badges of their guild halls, cheering wildly and proclaiming their love for their King.

"This is more like it, Mortimer," Henry said. "It makes one wonder if the local constabulary has been keeping my subjects locked inside, away from showing affection for me and celebrating my victory, as is their want. Locked away, prevented from seeing me until it has become so obvious they cannot be held back from offering glory to their King. Wouldn't you say, Mortimer."

"Perhaps, your Majesty."

"But by now all of England must know the news. It's your victory too, Mortimer, in a small way."

"Perhaps, your Majesty."

Over the weeks journey, Henry's demeanor transformed from solemn disappointment to exuberance and delight.

"Bring the prisoners forward Mortimer. Have them displayed to my people, so they know I have not returned empty handed."

"Of course, your Majesty."

"My people want to see that I am their David and I have slain the French Goliath."

"Yes your Majesty. Your people will cheer madly, the day you bring them the head of Charles of France." Edmund Mortimer cast his eyes downward.

The recognition of the King's return was magnificent and to Henry's expectation. A mile from the city, at Southwark, a procession of clergy bearing relics, crosses and banners, sang the 'Te Deum' and 'Hail flower of all English'. An ever growing parade of citizens and heralds grew behind the pageant as it neared the city.

Henry was accompanied by a small entourage and his most important prisoners; Charles d'Orleans, who would turn twenty-one the next day, Marshal Boucicault and the Duke of Bourbon. Though these Princes of France were brought forth, Henry did not outwardly boast over them. In fact, as he had done when he entered the conquered Harfleur, he maintained a sober demeanor and dispensed with all the trappings that normally accompanied a parade of such celebration. He did not wear his crown, he did not bear his royal scepter, though he draped himself in his long purple velvet cape with white and spotted sable collar, as would befit a conquering emperor.

There was no glory for the three French prisoners, or for the many others that followed, every one of them of noble blood. Every one of them had faced an enemy in battle before Azincourt. In the past, most had held their own prisoners for ransom, though none for a prize as rich as they were themselves being ransomed. All had slain men, all had shown mercy to a man surrendering. Some of them had even been prisoners before, held for ransom or paroled to seek it and deliver it to their captor.

The celebrations were lavish with extravagant pageantry and boisterous demonstrations. Choirs sang, clergy recited scripture, psalms and odes of recognition, city walls were draped with tapestries and adornments; a host of boys dressed as angels showered Henry with golden coins and leaves of laurel. The parade made its way down Cheapside Street. The water tower at the entrance to the street was adorned with shields bearing the coats of arms of the city. The walls of the market buildings were draped in cloth made to look like marble and other rich stone; the lanes were full of cheering citizens. As he neared the central market square, a bevy of citizens approached, all dressed in their finest, carrying golden basins filled with gold. This most welcome offering would help to replenish Henry's coffers, depleted by the financing of his campaign. A flock of maidens, wearing crowns of laurel and girdles of gold, raised golden chalices from which they blew gold leaf upon Henry as he passed.

Further on, a choir of elder clergymen, venerable, with white hair in tunicles with golden copes, their heads wrapped with gold and crimson turbans, waited for him at the cistern that had been disguised as a great pavilion, displaying the coats of arms of St George, St Edward and St Edmund, along with Henry's own coat. As Henry rode past, they sang from the Psalm, 'O sing unto the Lord a new song for he hath done marvelous things'. At that, a huge flock of small birds was released, a few even descending upon Henry, as thousands ascended to the sky, circling and streaming in a great murmuration.

Though he was moved by the adulation, Henry remained impassive, maintained a slow even pace, with a temperate deportment, to demonstrate that his great victory came at a solemn cost to both French and English. On occasion he turned his head heavenward, to demonstrate to the throng that thanks and glory must be given to God and not just their King.

The celebrations came to a close at St Paul's and Westminster Abbey, where Henry made offerings at the shrines of St Earcinwald and the long dead King, Edward the Confessor. He retired then to his palace at Westminster

In the days following the French defeat at Azincourt, there was a great attempt to rid the field of decaying corpses before carrion from all corners could infest the land. Most bodies had long been stripped of anything of value, including all pieces of armor, weaponry, boots, mail and even underclothing that was not overly soiled or blood-soaked. There were no English corpses to sack, all that were recognizable by their livery, were taken from the field. Common soldiers were buried or set afire on one of many funeral pyres. The bodies of English knights and nobles were hastily prepared for transport back to England. Chief amongst the English dead was the Duke of York, slain early in the confrontation.

Amongst the French, many of those of higher blood, that had fallen on the field, had their faces slashed, so they were not identifiable. Their belongings pillaged, they were left naked in the cold muck beneath the thick grey clouds of late October. Those that had been taken prisoner escaped this heinous fate. Though they were unmercifully slain in Henry's attempt to prevent a prisoner uprising from within, they were spared disfigurement and plunder.

As our French army withdrew from the battle, even though they still far outnumbered the English, they were permitted to recover the bodies of some of their countrymen, so they could receive civilized requiem and committal. My Lord, Robert of Bar, was recognized and spared the pyre. His body made ready for transport to Soissons.

Though I was said to be the Squire to Robert of Bar, and bore livery and signature patches of Bar, I was seen as far too old to be anybody's Squire. Though I was found slain next to Robert, in a pose that could have been one giving comfort to his dying soul, my own body torn at shoulder, knee and side, it was conjectured that the mail and breastplate I wore, had perhaps been taken from the body of a fallen French knight. My body was committed to the fire and returned to the dust and ashes of the earth, together with my men of The Circle of Meaux.

Though our French nobility was decimated, and those taken prisoner made to endure humiliation, being paraded through the streets of London, to the jeers and delectation of the English common, then incarcerated in the Tower of London to await their fate, all was not lost. By comparison to other countries, the English had a reputation of leniency towards their noble captives. Spain and Germany were notorious for holding prisoners in shackles and fetters, in very harsh conditions, as a means of extracting higher ransoms. A high born prisoner of England could expect to live at a level of comfort similar to that of their home in France. They were limited to move unfettered within their confines, they were granted the privileges befitting their rank. They were allowed to bring possessions and servants from France, allowed to hunt and hawk on the grounds of their captors and for the most part treated as welcome guests. They were housed in the castles and manors of English nobility, in some degree of luxury. Though treated with the dignity and respect befitting their station, they were still prisoners and remained in England until their ransom could be paid. Many remained absent from their homes for years, some died in England, never returning to their families.

The victories at Harfleur and Azincourt did not secure the crown of France for Henry. His crusade could not end until Henry was seated on the throne at Paris. He called upon Parliament to sanction continuance and sought his Grand Council to prepare for another invasion. Although Henry's victory had been militarily decisive, its impact was complex. There was great furor and criticism from the Lords of England for the merciless and unchivalrous slaughter of prisoners on the field at Azincourt. The collection of ransoms could take years and Henry's alliance with the Burgundians was tenuous. It did not lead to further English conquests immediately. Henry returned a conquering hero, blessed by God, in the eyes of his subjects and European powers outside France, but he was not yet a true victor.

Our defeat at the blades of the English at Azincourt was not our only loss. Though there was a seeming alliance between the Burgundians of John the Fearless and our Armagnacs, John did not show for the battle. The fragile truce that had tarried between our two factions, in defense against the English, very quickly dissolved. Not only did we suffer our enemy from across the channel but we were returned to our own internal conflict, Burgundian against Armagnac, French against French, even in our sadly diminished state. Our mad King Charles suffered not only foreign enemies but had those within, claiming to defend his throne against usurpers, all cousins to the line. Because the Burgundians did not show themselves in force at Azincourt, it was the Armagnacs of Bar and Orleans and others that suffered the greatest loss to their noble houses. It was our own lack of unity that allowed Henry of England the time to regain a military strength and political and financial support, to swoop down onto my land once again.

My land, where the little of my charred bones that was left by the pyre, stays buried in the black earth, with the bones of my brothers, at the edge of the woods at Azincourt.

# 23 – Home, Alone

November 1415

There was a tapping at the door.

Jeanne de Bethune, the young wife of Robert of Bar, cradled her infant daughter, suckling the child. Jeanne turned from her gaze down the western road and stared at the heavy oak chamber door. A rider had come. She had watched the rider come from afar, her heart filled with anticipation that it was 'him'. But as the rider neared, she could see that it was not her Robert. The dust from his horses hooves still hung above the road, settling slowly like a ghostly cloud of dirt.

No word had come yet, no word of her husband's fate, only that the battle was lost. She had hoped deeply that it had been him riding his Baiard up the road, to his family, to his home, but it was not. She prayed to see Robert's face, his eyes, his smile, hear him remind her of his promise that he would be with her always and they could have their life as a family. She hoped for a quiet place, away from violence, where it would be just their small family. They could go to the quaint Manor House in Meaux that Robert told her about.

Perhaps the rider was a messenger, arriving with news that Robert was on his way home or perhaps with a demand for ransom, that Robert was in English hands, a prisoner, but alive and well enough to fetch a sum for his captor. They could buy Robert's freedom and he could come home to them.

She lifted her infant daughter to the window and said, "Jeanne, your father is out there. He will come soon."

There was another tap at the door.

She swung her gaze back to the door once again, her long hair whipping like a horses tail, she had worn no snood or caul to harness her hair, since word had come of the great battle. She remained in her night dress since that day, not allowing her ladies to dress her, not descending to the hall to sup. She stayed alone in her room, with her child, seated at the window in daylight hours, waiting, watching, hoping. Her pale blue eyes were wide with anticipation. She swallowed.

The rider had passed through the gates to the courtyard, was given entrance. It would be him at her door.

"Enter," she said quietly at first, then louder, "enter."

A house guard pushed open the door. Beside him stood a short man in a riding cape, clutching a leather pouch to his chest, his stubby fingers massaging the bag in such a way that it appeared to have something alive inside it. The short man smiled wide with his mouth and eyes. The wariness that she had felt flooded away, as if this strange looking messenger was a friend from the distant past, someone she had known as a child, a companion. It was if she knew him well but could not recall his name.

"Come," she encouraged him to enter. "I know you."

"Yes," he said, "you have always known me." He patted her arm, as if she were a child and he were comforting her.

"What news?" she asked.

Gob pulled a chair to the front of Jeanne and sat upon it, his legs dangling above the floor, his comforting smile never wavering.

"There was a battle between two great armies of men," he said. "This you already know. And you know that the English King Henry, or Harry as he is known by some, contrived a victory from a hopeless situation. It was something to behold. But it was not so much his military genius that won him the day but more the arrogance and hubris of the knights of France that cost them what should have been an easy triumph. Some will blame it on the foul weather, some on the sodden field, some will blame it on God. But it was the same weather, the same field and the same God that was present that day for both sides." Gob shook his head, "but just like Crecy and Poiters, my dear French friends continue to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory."

"Robert! What of Robert? Is he on his way to me? Is he captured? Don't say they have taken him to England, taken him even further away."

The smile sunk from Gob's face into a thin solemn line.

"He is on his way to you, my dear, but not in the way you wish."

"Is he injured? Has he suffered great wounds? Did they hack away his limbs? No matter."

"His body is whole, for the most part, child, but his soul is not with it. He was gone in the great slaughter. Defeated, vanquished. What shouldn't have been has come to pass. I say that I did not favor either side in such a battle, I did not wish for victory or defeat for either. Had it been my choice I would have had both sides come together in a feast and celebrate as long parted cousins would, but instead we have this. Once again we have this. We have always had this. His body is not yet here, your Robert, but what you might call his soul has been here with you since it left him." Gob opened his arms wide.

They sat in silence a very long while simply looking into each other's face.

"Then what you say to me," Jeanne finally spoke, "that it is our own willful pride that has killed Robert. I did not care for his Uncle Edward and I shall not weep that he is gone. His Uncle John was a decent man and my Robert would have been a great man and a just Lord, had he not so loved to make war."

She looked to the west. The long road that snaked its way through the alders, on its route to Rouen and Paris, was lost in shadows as the sun dipped towards its evening.

"He should have never gone. I begged him not to. But I am just a woman, I have no power to make him stay or go," she said. "Now what will become of me and this child?" Jeanne de Bethune buried her face in her infants swaddling and wept.

"It is better that he is gone than to be one of those that fled the field in defeat. It is better that he is gone than to be one of those whose fate will never be known for certain. It is better that he is gone than to be one of those languishing in an English prison, with a ransom so great that it can never be paid. It is better that he is gone than to be one of those who remained hidden behind a woman's skirts when the call came to serve his King and would suffer humiliation for the rest of his living days."

"What will become of me now? What will become of this child?"

Gob shrugged; his smile returned. His large head was bald on the top, the tufts of hair on each side stuck out sideways like tousled wings. His large eyes smiled, his mouth was pleasant and friendly. He was a comical sight, near jester like, but young Jeanne de Bethune, could not find humor in the moment, not with the news Gob brought her.

"You will marry again, of course," he said. "You are young, of noble blood. A match will be arranged, your life will go on." He slid from the chair and approached, looked upon the infant in her arms and smiled wide. "But you must love this child like no other because you will have no more."

Jeanne turned away, shielding her infant from him.

"How do you know such things? Are you a Seer?"

"No, I am just Gob. I just know these things. They have always been and always will be. Do not be morose too long over the loss of your husband. You will still have a fair life, though you will not know the kind of love you had with your young man. Just the same you will find ways to be fulfilled."

There was a tapping at the door of the Manor House. Rapid, but quietly at first. So quietly that Bishop de Saintes, lounging in the Tea Room, was not certain he heard anything at all. Elder ears are often blessed with silence from the outside world. The tapping grew stronger. Grew to a rap, then to a knock by sharp knuckles and then, eventually, to panicked pounding of a fist upon the oak timbers of the heavy front door. There was no mistaking the raucous pounding; somebody entreating entry, either angrily or with great fright. The Bishop strained and grunted in his efforts to lift his old bones from the settee. It was a struggle. He rested, waited. The pounding grew louder, with greater force. He imagined that the heavy door, with the carved upright fishes above the mantle, might come loose of its hinge and collapse into the vestibule. No lazy novice came to open the door and welcome the visitor. Not even a kitchen maid or turnspit daring to leave their duties and answer the caller.

When he could no longer bear the incessant drubbing, he managed to push himself up off the settee, slid his pale white feet into his slippers and shuffled to the entranceway. He pulled open the heavy door. There on the doorstep stood a man, shorter than even he was, dressed in the rough brown woolen cassock of a Benedictine, though over his chest he wore a polished breast plate, small enough to fit a child. The shiny armor was dented above one breast and pierced below the other, with a hole too small to even have been made by the tip of a bodkin arrow. Perhaps made by a bird's beak or a cat's tooth. He smelled of dung.

The short monk pushed back his hood, revealing a sweat covered brow beneath a balding head, which seemed a bit too large for his body. He looked up at Bishop de Saintes, rapidly blinking a pair of large green eyes. In the street, just behind the monk, a small herd of animals gathered. There were several feral cats, a chicken, a goose, a pair of suckling porcine and a pack of mongrels, one brave enough to be sniffing the hem of the monks cassock.

"Let me in for God's sake." The short monk pushed his way past de Saintes. "Can't you see my life is in mortal danger from these wild beasts?"

"You," de Saintes exclaimed.

The monk hunched over, bent at the waist, hands upon his knees, sucking and blowing air in and out of his lungs so rapidly that Bishop de Saintes thought the short monk might drive himself into a faint.

"Get me some water," the monk said. "No, bring tea. No, bring ale. No, wine. No, better bring mead or some other strong liquor."

Bishop de Saintes stood aside, scrunched his nose, as the short monk entered, waving for the big door to be closed behind him.

"What on earth brings you to my door?" the Bishop asked.

"Not your door," Gob wheezed. "This door and this house and everything in it is the rightful property of Jeanne de Bethune, the widow of Robert of Bar."

Bishop de Saints slunk at the shoulders and exhaled. "He is dead then."

"Mead," Gob reminded the Bishop.

The Bishop perked out of his slink, his eyes widened, a small smile grew upon his thin lips.

"Yes, mead. I suppose we're well enough into the day that we could offer ourselves some refreshment."

Bishop de Saintes waved Gob all the way into the Manor House, scowling as he closed the door on the small beasts that had made themselves the short monk's followers. Gob began to make his way towards the Tea Room. Wrinkling his nose, Bishop de Saintes waved him away.

"Come to the kitchen. There is no liquor in there."

The Bishop shuffled slowly, his slipper bottoms scraping along the plank floorboards. Gob, recovering his wind, plodded behind, his large bare feet slapping against the wood.

"There is nothing pure in this world," Gob complained as he flip flopped behind the Bishop.

"Never mind that. Tell me what has happened. You must tell me everything and not leave out a single detail. He's dead," the Bishop wailed. "Oh the humanity, the loss, the tragedy of it all." He shook his head as they made their way down the dark hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. "Are we all to become English now?"

There was a tapping on the door.

The thin boards at the hovel entrance shuddered and creaked as a small child pushed it open. A short haired white dog, with a patch of black fur over one eye, stood at the child's side barking at Bishop de Saintes and Gob. The dog sniffed Gob's hem and began a wild wagging of its tail, a look upon its muzzle that resembled a grin. Gob sneered at the hound.

"Paul," Bishop de Saintes said, a friendly smile on his face. "We have come to see your mother."

"No," the small boy said. "I am Pierre. Paul has a scab on his nose from the chicken."

"See," Gob said. "Dangerous wild beasts."

"Your mother," the Bishop said.

Simone Charron sat on the milk stool suckling her infant. She pulled her shawl over her breast at the sight of visitors at the door. The family still lived in the hovel, waiting for Gillet's return and their move into the magnificent Carriage House, a promise of a large hearth and separate bed chambers.

"Madam Charron, I hope you are well," Bishop de Saintes greeted. "We have come with news. This is Brother....."

"Gob. Just Gob, no Brother or Father or anything of that sort." Gob clutched his pouch to his chest, rustling his fingers over the leather.

"We bring news of your husband, Madam," the Bishop repeated.

Simone said nothing as she turned her face back to the babe at her breast. Bishop de Saintes and Gob entered. Gillet's children filled the bench at the small table, to hear news of their father. There was no place for the Bishop to seat himself. Gob stood at the end of the small table, next to young Pierre.

"The news is sad, I'm afraid. Your brave husband has perished. He has given his life in defense of France, against the very enemy that he and his circle of men have so fiercely protected our village from, these past years. He has made the most selfless sacrifice a living body can make but he shall not return. The Lord blesses him and takes him into his arms. This man," the Bishop motioned to Gob, "was with him at the end. He carries his final words."

"How do you know his final words and yet live to bring them to me?" Simone asked Gob. "How did you come to know my husband?"

"It has always been." Gob held her hand in his, rubbing it gently. A comforting warmth rose upon her hand, as if it were her own husband caressing it, assuring her that their souls remained joined.

Simone remained silent and stoic a long while. The children remained still and quiet on the bench, hands clasped in informal prayer. When the infant had finished suckling and fallen into sleep, Simone spoke.

"Where is his body? We must make a funeral."

"Alas Madam, there is no body," the Bishop sighed. "There can be no burial. There is nothing to bury, I'm afraid."

"Where is his body?" she asked again.

"It was placed upon a great pyre and turned to smoke and ash together with many thousand nameless souls," Gob said. "I saw him placed, myself."

"And our other men of Meaux? Charpentier, Soldat, the others?"

"Them too."

"Not even his charred bones for the Charnel House?"

"Nothing that could separate him from the others that were nameless."

"Then he has made his way to the bone fire already." Simone placed the infant in its cradle. "We shall make his funeral just the same."

Gob handed his leather pouch to Simone. Inside was the letter Gob promised to deliver into Simone's hand. She could not read the words so Gob recited them for her.

"They were put to paper by Lord Robert but they came from Gillet's heart. This mark at the bottom was made by Gillet's own hand, as taught to him by Robert."

At the page end was a roughly scribbled G and C.

"There is another paper inside the pouch, with writing. It is the promise of the gift of the Carriage House building that Lord Robert made to your husband. It has the words written by the Lord himself, naming your husband to the property. Upon the paper Robert placed his seal and marked his name. It is yours forever, as long as there is the bloodline of Gillet Charron to possess it."

Simone took the pouch.

"Or until the English steal it from us," she said.

Gob shrugged and turned to the children on the bench.

"Your father gave you many gifts. Knowledge, forbearance, compassion, faith. The greatest gift of them all is love."

The air was cold and still, a grey gloom hung over them.

Though he was loath to give a funeral mass with no body to speak over and though he tried to defer the ceremony to the priest at St Martin, Bishop de Saintes was made, by the will of Simone Charron and encouragement of Gob, to make the full ritual and preside at the shallow grave behind the cathedral of St Etienne.

"I see no harm in it," Gob said.

"This thing that loved is killing me." Simone sagged like a wilted rose, black, in the mourning dress loaned to her by the bailiff's wife. Her children stood around her, the infant cradled in her arms. It was not a ceremony afforded to the common folk, but all in the village, that were able, came to stand with the wife of their fallen hero.

Gob and Bishop de Saintes look down into the empty grave.

"It has not been dug so deep because there is no body to put in it, just mementos and a few cherished belongings," the Bishop said, apologetically.

"I do not know what strange forces brought us together in the beginning," Simone spoke. "Even though you are gone, I will continue to love you always. We will not be left with just this empty hole to remember our Gillet. I will plant a sapling in the place where he would have been laid to rest, if his body was here with us. It will grow tall; it's limbs and branches, its arms and hands and fingers will reach to heaven, open and giving, guiding our way to join with him, when our time comes to share everlasting life together."

Gob pushed the hood back from his head. It seemed that in that instant the clouds dissolved and the low winter sun lit upon them. The tufts of hair on the side of Gob's head sprung out, like unfolding butterfly wings. His green eyes glowed like emeralds in the rays of the sun. He smiled, broad and comforting.

"It brings great pause, this knowing that our time is so brief, like the blinking of a gnats eye. Of all the time that came before and all the time that will come after, we belong to a mere sliver. Such a sad sad thing to waste it in violence. To waste it in the pursuit of things that, in the light of everlasting time, have such little meaning. Power over other men. Possession. Wealth and luxury. How long has it been like this? How long has this been our fate? Has it always been this way? We must shed ourselves of these inner demons if we are to ever become what we can become. We will never be God-like if we cannot escape our lust for wanton violence. It is not Henry's fault, the English King, he is not the master of his demons. I am not the master of mine. Nor is there any fault to Lord Robert or the Princes of France. We have not yet come to the strength within to conquer ourselves and be true masters of our domain. So we waste our blink in time. We came from the dust of stars and to the stars we return as dust, not knowing for certain if anything of our personness remains or if all we leave are these artifacts and memories, that themselves will go to dust one day, and we will be gone, just as if we never existed at all. What should we love most, if not each other.

As each year passed and my infant son, Robert Charron, grew in his boyhood, more and more he bore exact resemblance to me, his father. When his day was come, Robert Charron would become the Reeve of Meaux, as I was before him. But long before that day he would see the face of Henry and know that though he was a King, he too was just a man.

# 24 – The Siege of Meaux

Henry's victory at Azincourt was not the end; it was not the ultimate triumph and unification of England and France. It was not the end of generations of war between our two countries. There was much more.

Everyone had expected Henry to be defeated at Azincourt. Everyone except Henry himself. Had our knights and nobles not been so arrogant, had they stayed true to Marshal Boucicault's formations and battle plan, we would have subdued the English archers and routed the English men at arms. It would have been Henry and his brother Humphrey and the cream of the English that would have been captured and held for ransom. It was his mighty victory at Azincourt that laid the foundation for future successes for Henry. By the year of 1419, all the lands of Normandy had been conquered.

But it was the assassination of the traitor John the Fearless, and the formal alliance of English and Burgundian against us, that forced our simple King to disinherit his own son from the throne, marry his daughter Catherine of Valois to the English King as a means of truce, and announce that his new son-in-law would inherit the throne of France upon Charles death. Though Henry believed his natural blood ties to the French throne were right and moral and perhaps divine, it was his victories in battle and his obsession that ultimately brought promise of the French crown to his head.

It was a difficult time for all of France. The ravages of the never ending war went on and on for generations before and after Azincourt. People perished in multitudes, of hunger, of pestilence, of their vulnerability against those who were stronger and felt no remorse at pillaging their own kin and townsfolk.

The long war and the great battle that took my life, reached its deadly fingers into the beating heart of France. Even though Charles was still King of France, the civil fight for his power was near as deadly as the English. Armagnac against Burgundian. Though John the Fearless and his Burgundians, after him, were secretly a traitorous faction of the English, they manipulated our King and controlled his court, often with great deception, subterfuge and violence, in their continued efforts to claim France under their banner. The Armagnacs, of which I suppose my people were a faction, opposed them.

It had come to pass that an accomplished Captain, protégé of the Count of Armagnac, who was slain near me at Azincourt, became Governor of my Village of Meaux. He was not a gentle man and in particular gave no quarter, no inch, to any man thought to be Burgundian or worse, of English blood. He was a bastard of a man and even though he was the appointed authority in my village, with the loss of our own Bailiff at Azincourt, the people of Meaux held no love for him. It was not only because he was unjust to all, including my citizens, but more because of the cruelty he showed towards folk that may or may not have been our enemies. He was brutal in his revenge upon any English captured and upon suspected Burgundian collaborators. He hung them on an elm tree near the village gates. The people of Meaux feared that their own neighbors might turn on them, falsely accuse them of being enemies of France, in hopes they themselves might gain the Governor's favor. The Bastard of Varus, they called him. Jean de Gast was his name.

In all, he was no better than a freebooter and pillager. From within the walls of Meaux, which were amongst the strongest in all France, the Bastard made himself known to freely come and go and render his remarkable atrocities, even in this time when the other cruelties of war were committed in all parts of the kingdom. As an adherent of the old Count of Armagnac; a Captain at his side when his Lord fell beneath Henry's blade at Azincourt, he took the mantle to avenge his master's death as he became more vicious and blood-thirsty than a ferocious wild beast. Whenever a Burgundian or Englishman fell into his hands, they could expect to be put to execrable torture, murdered on the spot or hung from the elm. At the same time, he fell upon the poor people who were of no party, peasants and common folk who were only anxious to save the little substance they still possessed. With his troop of bandits, he rode through the countryside in the regions of Meaux and beyond Paris, pillaging wantonly from our own people. He tied merchants, farmers and dealers to the tails of his horses and dragged them back to Meaux where they were held for ransom from their families or forced to reveal where they hid their wealth. When he could wring no ransom or felt the offering insufficient, he hung these captives too on the wide elm tree just outside the gates of Meaux. This savage event took place so often the tree became known as the Elm of Varus and it struck terror even through to the heart of Paris.

My boy came with other village boys to watch a spectacle at the tree. The Bastard had seized a tinker, not long married, still apprentice to his trade. He was poor. There was no ransom to make. His young wife, heavy with their first child, pleaded for the life of her young husband; begged they were poor with no possession or wealth of any kind. The tinker was hung before her eyes and when she screamed and wailed and cursed the Bastard, she was hung by her neck beside her husband and their unborn child was cut from her belly so it dropped dead onto the ground beneath her feet. This was one of the horrors that my Robert saw with his own young eyes. This story he recounted to Simone and she wept, even though she had not witnessed the cruelty with her own eyes. This stain upon humanity rendered itself deep in Simone's heart and she vowed there would be vengeance against the Bastard and that if God did not bring it then she would find a means to make it happen.

"This is not how we must be known," Simone said to Robert. "Even the Bailiff, who went and died in the same battle as your father, would not treat our enemies this way and most certainly would not have held siege upon innocent souls just trying to make their honest way. He is not one of us, he is not a man of Meaux. If your father was still with us, he would stand with our people against this cruel beast. He would say to you that you must take lesson from this bastard as the example of how men must not treat other men who are not truly their enemies."

The English had captured or laid waste to towns and villages across France. In the waning days of summer they came to the walls of Meaux and made a siege against my village with an army of more than twenty thousand. Thrice more than the size of the army brought against our great force at Azincourt. But there was more in Henry's heart than the divine privilege that drove him in his early conquest. Now, besides his own pompous arrogance he was possessed by a savage ruthlessness. He gave no quarter to those towns that would not bend at his first demand to surrender themselves. He severed heads, hanged disobedient bailiffs and castellans and made severe example of those that hesitated to turn immediately to his will. But these past years Meaux had come to know their own Bastard, their governor Jean de Gast.

As the English wave spread across Normandy and Picardy, town after town, village after village fell before Henry, our ultimate surrender appeared inevitable. Henry's early victories were made easy because of the influence of his collaborator John the Fearless of Burgundy, who had held sway inside our own King's court. The sad state of our sorry King Charles and the ineptness of the Dauphin to defend our lands gave Henry his route to Paris. Charles misguidedly believed that John the Fearless was our protector and when the Burgundian's life was taken, Charles, through questionable advice, negotiated a truce that would pass our old King's crown to Henry at Charles death. The pact was sealed by the marriage of Charles daughter Catherine to Henry. This agreement was delivered to Henry by his trusted advisor, Edmund Mortimer.

Mortimer was deeply in debt when he accompanied Henry's forces to France. He took part in several campaigns in Normandy, including the Siege of Harfleur, where he had contracted dysentery, and was forced to return to England. A year after Azincourt, Mortimer was appointed a Captain of the expedition sent to relieve Harfleur. He traveled with Henry as the army conquered Normandy over the following years. Some say it was Mortimer's debt and obligation that tied his service so close to Henry, but in truth it was Mortimer's loyalty to the realm and office of England that brought him to service, as if he had assumed his rightful place as King.

In February of 1421, Mortimer accompanied Henry and his bride, Catherine of Valois, daughter of Charles, King of France, back to England. Mortimer was given the honor to bear the scepter at Catherine's coronation. He returned to France with Henry in June, and was at the Siege of Meaux, at Henry's side, when Henry first became ill. They were mounted side by side when Henry teetered and wavered and it was Mortimer that reached across to brace his monarch, lest he fall from his horse. Henry recovered his balance and claimed his dizziness to be nothing more than spoiled meat and undigested potato that stayed and roiled in his belly. Nothing more.

The siege of my town began on the 6th day of October of that year. Early snow had come and gone but the cold air did not wane. The siege commenced with mining and bombardment and though our town walls were amongst the strongest, they were soon brought down. The Governor, though despised by the people of Meaux, proved himself to be a capable commander in keeping the English at bay. He lacked no courage and made several forays into the English lines with quick brutal thrusts and equally rapid withdrawals into his fortifications. But when the walls fell and it was clear the English would prevail, The Bastard retreated to his garrison at the Chalet-Castle and left the citizens to the mercy of our enemy.

In his hunkering, de Gast continued the fight, having his archers loose broadheads from the balustrades on the castles height and launching gun stones into the heart of the English line. It was from such a bombardment that took the life of the 17 year old son of John Cornwaille, struck in the head by a gun stone while standing beside his famous father. The Bastard watched from the rampart and laughed as the English general wept over his son's shattered body.

The monotony of the long siege was interrupted with glad news for Henry, when Mortimer brought a dispatch that in the early days of December, Catherine had born the King a son and heir at Windsor Castle. The glad tidings lifted Henry's spirit and there was celebration in his camp. But the winter had also brought sickness among his army. The long siege, short supply of fresh food, the weather and the mounting corruption of swill and human waste from a stationary army, delivered rank sickness throughout the English camp. The siege continued long, encounters between English and the Bastard continued and often the slain remained unburied so long that the rot overtook their corpses so that they appeared to dissolve into worms meat and a banquet for the carrion.

Henry's dizziness turned to a constant sweat. His lodging was moved from his pavilion to the monastery of St Faron a short distance from Meaux's eastern gate. Mortimer and an immediate retinue accompanied their King. The rest of the knights and nobles quartered themselves in the lower town in and around the Grand Marche and market hall, but the greatest part of the army remained bivouacked in tents, and in a state of much discomfort, owing to the high waters of the Marne. The fighting with the Bastard and his contingent was the least of their dangers, though skirmishes often took place in ankle-deep mud and mire. Sickness pervaded throughout the camp and many were sent away to Paris to heal, though many died before that good fortune came to them. The short days of winter and the long dark nights were a trial for those used to summer campaigning. Henry understood well that poor morale was as much danger to an army as the enemy on the field. Despite his own weakened state, Henry often walked amongst his troops. He was vigilant, gave sympathy and encouragement but kept discipline with the most unflinching sternness towards any disobedience or debauchery.

As the siege continued, Henry's own illness worsened. He drank potions offered by his physicians, permitted bouts of bloodletting and leeches, poultices and foul tasting foods and drink. Despite his growing weakness he refused to leave until the siege was ended. His malady grew worse. It was the bloody flux that descended upon the English camp like an inevitable pestilent fog. Even the King, with all his resolute determination to fend off any hint of illness, could not escape its clutches, this time. His sickness grew worse by the day, until he collapsed into his bed and was left to the sole giving of his physicians and priests.

The English onslaught upon my town continued through the winter and spring and on the 9th day of May in the year of 1422, Meaux surrendered, although the garrison, with the Bastard hidden inside the castle walls, declared defiantly that they would never surrender. But under furious and continued bombardment, the garrison too was forced to give as well and on the next day they capitulated. It had been a siege of eight months.

As the English spread their occupation over my town and constant interrogation of folk took place, it was discovered that within the broken walls of Meaux their lived a healer with renowned skill and gift. Simone was summoned to St Faron by Edmund Mortimer and entreated to make the King of England well.

My boy Robert stayed close to his mother's skirts as she was allowed by the King's physicians to come to the side of the dying Henry. All efforts had failed, and as she was said to be a healer with special skills and knowledge they were forced to relent to her giving treatment, though they claimed she must be an alchemist or maybe even a witch.

He was a pitiful sight. His body withered and emaciated, his sallow face, sunken, a pale grey.

"You have left him too long," Simone hissed at the bevy of Royal Physicians. "And now you expect me to lift him from the grave you have let him sink in to."

"We have only just learned of your gift as a healer, Madam," Edmund Mortimer said. "You are the last hope for our King. It is plain enough to all here that the specter of death is circling our poor Henry. It is clear that all is but lost for him. You will not be held to account for his demise, if that be the will of God."

The King's chamber was darkened. Pale candles kept the light low, so as to not attract further pestilence upon Henry. He lay still as a corpse upon his bed. His muslin night dress soaked to his boney frame.

"We have lost hundreds, perhaps thousands, to this savage sickness," Mortimer said. "On the road of our many campaigns. Poor Henry has stood fast and fought back this enemy often. But not this time I fear. It is God's blessing that he will not perish in a ditch or hollow, like a common soldier, though he would have wished to die amongst them if it were on the field of battle."

The air inside the chamber was heavy and stunk, not only from the loose of Henry's bowels but also from the consumption of all breathable air by the many attendants that would not leave their King.

Simone looked upon the withered man with deep pity in her heart and in her eyes, even though this was the man that had brought the great siege upon the walls of Meaux. He was the most profound enemy of France and he had led his army to the gates of our home. Here before her was the person responsible for my death. It was within her power to bring an end to his wicked life. But for Simone, Henry was a man, like any man, and though he may be a King, he was not above the will of God to escape this miserable fate.

"You must all leave this place," Simone growled. "You are using every last breath of sweet air that this man needs to sustain his life. You must all leave and pull back the window openings so this foul air can escape."

Henry remained motionless, though conscious. His eyes turned to Simone's and a wave of comfort came upon him. Just the sight of this simple peasant woman brought relief to his body that he had not felt in many days, as if she was an angel of mercy.

"I cannot make you well, Monsieur King, but I can relieve some of your pain and discomfort so that your suffering is less."

She waved young Robert forward with her satchel of herbs and medicines. It was clear the malady that besieged Henry, was as virulent as could besiege any man. Simone prepared a paste of belladonna and monkshood, some which she fed the King and some she smoothed over the chaffed and torn parts of his backside that the flux had eaten away. The analgesic brought instant relief from the fire at his anus. She made a tea of cinnamon, clove and rosemary, brewed in a small cauldron over the chamber hearth. This drink she tasted herself, blew away some of the heat and fed it to the King, propping his head in the crook of her arm, forcing him to take every drop. She sent Mortimer to the kitchen to fetch warm broth from the roasted bones of four chickens and this she fed Henry spoon by spoon throughout the day and into the night until he slept.

The physicians and priests grumbled and complained as they waited in the vestibule beyond the King's chamber. They complained louder when Mortimer told them that Henry appeared to be resting comfortably for the first time in many days.

"Witch," one sniggered as Mortimer walked away. When he turned to see who had made such a claim, all the assembled clergy and men of medicine stared forward as if the word had come from no man present.

Mortimer sneered at them and returned to the King's chamber.

Simone slept in a tall chair near the hearth. Robert curled himself on the floor near the fire until the light of dawn poked the first column of daylight through the open chamber window. He brought himself to Henry's bedside, staring deeply into Henry's sleeping face until it seemed the force of his stare made Henry awaken. Henry's eyes opened slowly. For the first time in many days he was rested and peaceful.

Robert leaned forward and whispered, "you killed my father. Killing is a sinful thing. You will go to hell for your eternity."

The words did not startle Henry, as one might suppose. Words from an insolent child? A peasant boy. The hint of a smile came to Henry's lips, his eyes gave the sign of agreement.

"I have killed many men," Henry said, his voice rumbling weakly through the gravel in his throat. "I have sent many to their death as punishment for a crime or treason. I have not been a merciful man but I have tried to be just and God loving."

"Mere says you will die anyway, even though she has given you her best medicine."

"I am grateful to your mother. She has greatly relieved my suffering. I am not cured but the pain that has gripped me for many days has greatly subsided. Your mother is a magical healer. She has done what all my learned physicians could not."

Simone heard these words as she woke from her sleep. She did not chastise Robert for waking Henry or bid him not to bother the sick King. Instead she joined our son at Henry's bedside.

"You feel better," Simone said. "It is the medicine. Your improved spirit will not last. Once your body becomes absorbed of its power, you will worsen again. I do not have the skill to cure you from your sickness, I can only bring you fleeting respite."

Henry nodded his understanding.

"We will all go to the Lord when it is our time. If this is mine, then it is mine. Still, madam, I am grateful for the relief you have brought me. I am in your debt. You shall be paid for your service."

"I do not take payment for the gift of the skill that God has given me. You must rightfully give your thanks to him." Simone looked upwards.

"He killed père," Robert said. "God will not forgive him."

"It is the never ending war that killed your father," Simone said. "It is more than just one man responsible for the hideousness brought upon us all, by this evil."

"Then he must be the devil, to be such a bad man."

Simone placed a hand on Robert's shoulder. "He is just a man. He may wear a crown upon his head but he is nothing more than any man of flesh. Just the same as you and me."

"But he killed my père. I have had no father. He sinned against our family. Shouldn't he have to pay for that. Shouldn't he be killed himself?"

"It was war that killed your father, Robert. It is a sad thing that you never knew him. Sad that all you have of him are the stories that I can tell you. Even though you never knew him, he did get to see your face and have love for you, the same as he had for your brothers and sisters."

"I am sorry that your father has died in the war. There have been so many. Beyond measure," Henry muffled.

"Then you must stop it. You must make the war stop. You are the King, you can command it," Robert said.

"I am the King, it is true. I can command many things but no man can stop war. It is the way of men. It has always been the way of men. Long before my time or my father's time, long before a hundred grandfathers before me. I can only do what is in my power. If I could provide you ease to your suffering the way you have eased mine, I would command that in an instant." Henry looked to Simone with his offering.

Simone looked down on the prostrate King for many moments, silent in her thoughts. But she knew what she would ask in payment and finally spoke.

"There is a man in our town who has Lordship over us. He is a brutal and evil man who has imposed himself and his greedy ways upon the innocent townsfolk of Meaux and the lands around. He takes and gives nothing back. He takes for his own greed and pleasure. He not only takes property that is not his, he takes the lives of innocent common folk who seek only livelihood and sustenance. Folk that have done no wrong other than not had wealth to forfeit to this bastard. It is not even like a war of King against King. He is a plague on all our houses. You could take him away from us and give us what little peace we can find in all this tragedy and conflict. He is a bastard of a man, Captain of the garrison, Governor of our town. Relieve us of him and that will not only be payment for my service, it will also be your penance and earn your absolution.

"You do not possess the power of absolution madam," Mortimer said from the back of the chamber.

"I know what she means Edmund. Make it so," Henry commanded.

"God blesses you," Simone said. "Perhaps he will bless you with a longer life for the justice you give us."

"I would ask only that God lets me live long enough to see my own son," Henry said as he smiled kindly at my boy.

Jean de Gast was taken to the elm upon which he had hung so many. He did not shudder or weep or beg mercy for his life, he remained utterly defiant against his captors. His hands were bound, a noose strung around his neck and he was pulled upwards from a high limb. He kicked his feet wildly and tried to suck in breath as the noose drew tight around his throat, his face changed hue from blood red, to blue, to the greyish white of death as the life left his body after many minutes. There was cheering from the gathered crowd; clapping, cursing, spitting and a few that gave words of prayer and thanks. A few came forward pulling on the hangman's rope to yard the bastard even higher on the elm. They pulled and yanked, jerking at the rope so strenuously that the head of Jean de Gast became severed from his body, both parts falling to the earth in a cloud of dust. Many fled the scene, though some remained to kick the head of the dead bastard, as if it were a ball to make sport with.

"Revenge is a sweet thing," came a voice from the crowd.

"Justice," Simone said, "not vengeance."

"I will give justice one day," Robert said. He held Simone's hand as they left the crowd. "I will be like that man one day, that King of England."

"I pray that you will be more like your father," Simone said. "He was more of a King than Henry. The English King has killed the Bastard's body but it will be your fathers spirit that will kill his soul and keep him from his afterlife."

The elm sapling that Simone planted at my grave began to grow, even though it had remained dormant these past seven years.

On their way back to our home, Simone and Robert passed the Manor House of my old friend Robert of Bar. A young girl, the same age as my son, standing at the window of the Tea Room, waved and smiled.

"Who is that?" Robert asked Simone.

"A child of the Manor perhaps," Simone said. "I have heard the Lady de Bethune is visiting to inspect the damage to her properties and estates. Perhaps it is her daughter. She is dressed too finely to be a servant. Someone we shall never know."

But who is to say what paths will cross.

By this time, Henry's illness had begun to return. He left Meaux, with his cortege and while en route to Cosne-sur-Loire, he found himself unable to ride, and had to be carried to Vincennes, where he arrived on the 10th day of August. Henry V, King of England, died at Vincennes on the last day of August in 1422. He was thirty-six. He did not get to place the crown of France upon his head, for even though it was promised to him by truce, once the elder King of France was passed on, the much older Charles the Mad, King of France, outlived Henry of England by fifty-one days.

The End

# Glossary of Characters

Gillet Charron – fictional 15th great grandfather of the author. Main protagonist, Reeve of Meaux, leader of The Circle, a small band of men that defends Meaux, by ambush, against marauding freebooters, highwaymen and pillagers. Recruited by Robert of Bar to serve as his Squire at the Battle of Azincourt, where he was killed October 25th, 1415.

Robert of Bar (1390 – Oct. 25, 1415) – was Lord of Marle between 1397 and 1413, Count of Marle between 1413 and 1415 and Count of Soissons between 1412 and 1415. He was the only child of Henry of Bar and Marie I de Coucy, Countess of Soissons. His great-grandfather was Edward III. Because his father was the eldest son of Robert I of Bar, Robert claimed the Duchy of Bar. He only renounced his claims after a large financial compensation and the elevation of Marle to a County. In 1412 he also became Count of Soissons. In 1409 Robert married Jeanne de Béthune, Viscountess of Meaux, daughter of Robert VIII de Béthune, Viscount of Meaux. They had one child, a daughter. Robert was killed at the battle of Azincourt, October 25th, 1415.

Simone Charron – fictional wife of Gillet Charron, townswoman of Meaux, mother of five, renowned healer and expert in the use of natural medicines.

Jeanne de Bethune \- Viscountess of Meaux, Countess of Ligny (1397-1450), was a French noblewoman, the suo jure Viscountess of Meaux. Wife to Robert of Bar and mother of Jeanne de Bar.

Henry V (9 August 1386 – 31 August 1422) - King of England from 1413 until his death at the age of 36 in 1422. He was the second English monarch of the House of Lancaster.

Bishop Jean de Saintes – Bishop of Meaux from 20 August 1409 to 20 September 1418.

The Circle – an informal assembly of townsmen who come together to defend their town against marauders, in the absence of proper protection from the town bailiff and his small band of soldiers. They are led by Gillet Charron, the informal Reeve; Soldat Bonin, retired soldier; Binet Rousseau, a tinker; Estienne Charpentier, a carpenter; Girard Brasseur, a brewer; and Symon Cordier, a rope maker.

Edmund Mortimer (6 November 1391 – 18 January 1425) - 5th Earl of March and 7th Earl of Ulster. A great-great-grandson of King Edward III of England, he was heir presumptive to King Richard II of England, his first cousin twice removed, rightful heir to the English throne before Henry V.

Edward III of Bar (June 1377 - 25 October 1415) - Marquis of Pont-à-Mousson. Uncle of Robert of Bar. He became heir to the Duchy of Bar following the death of his elder brothers, Henry and Philippe. Killed at the Battle of Azincourt.

Thomas of Lancaster, 1st Duke of Clarence (1387 – 22 March 1421) the second son of King Henry IV of England and brother of Henry V. He participated in the military campaigns of his brother in France during the Hundred Years' War.

John of Lancaster, 1st Duke of Bedford (20 June 1389 – 14 September 1435) the third son of King Henry IV of England, brother to Henry V, and acted as regent of France for his nephew Henry VI.

Humphrey of Lancaster, Duke of Gloucester (3 October 1390 – 23 February 1447) was an English prince, soldier, and literary patron. The fourth and youngest son of Henry IV of England, the brother of Henry V, Fought in the Hundred Years' War and acted as Lord Protector of England during the minority of his nephew.

Edward of Norwich, 2nd Duke of York, (1373 – 25 October 1415) was an English nobleman and magnate, a grandson of King Edward III of England. He was slain at the Battle of Azincourt.

Michael de la Pole, 3rd Earl of Suffolk (1394 – 25 October 1415) was an English nobleman. He brought 20 men-at-arms and 60 archers to France in 1415, in company with his father, who died at the Siege of Harfleur. Michael thus succeeded to his title, but enjoyed it only briefly as he was killed seven weeks later at the Battle of Azincourt.

John the Fearless (28 May 1371 – 10 September 1419) was Duke of Burgundy. A scion of the royal house of France, he played an important role in French affairs during the early 15th century, in particular the struggles to rule the country for the mentally ill King Charles VI (his first cousin). His rash, unscrupulous, and violent political dealings contributed to the eruption of the Armagnac–Burgundian Civil War in France, and culminated in his assassination in 1419.

Charles VI (3 December 1368 – 21 October 1422), called Charles the Mad, was King of France for 42 years, from 1380 to his death in 1422. In August 1392 en route to Brittany with his army in the forest of Le Mans, Charles suddenly went mad and slew four knights and almost killed his brother, Louis I, Duke of Orléans. From then on, Charles' bouts of insanity became more frequent and of longer duration. Between attacks of madness, there were intervals of months during which Charles was relatively sane.

Louis de Guyenne, the Dauphin or heir apparent (22 January 1397 – 18 December 1415) was the eighth of twelve children of King Charles VI of France and Isabeau of Bavaria. He was their third son and the second to hold the titles Dauphin of Viennois and Duke of Guyenne, inheriting them in 1401, at the death of his older brother, Charles (1392–1401).

Marshal Boucicault, Jean II Le Maingre (28 August 1366 – 21 June 1421), was a French knight who has been portrayed as an embodiment of chivalry. Renowned for his military skill, he was made a Marshal of France. In the Battle of Azincourt in 1415 he commanded the French vanguard, but was captured by the English and died six years later in Yorkshire.

Charles d'Albret (December 1368 – 25 October 1415) was Constable of France from 1402 until 1411, and again from 1413 until 1415. He was also the co-commander of the French army at the Battle of Azincourt where he was killed by the English forces led by King Henry V.

Sieur Raoul de Gaucourt, Knight from Picardy. Called to reinforce Harfleur against a siege made by Henry V during 1415. Arrived with supplies and 300 reinforcements, took command from Jean d'Esoutville but was forced to surrender after eight weeks and give himself up for ransom.

Sieur Jean d'Esoutville, Captain and defender of Harfleur during August 1415. Led a garrison of 100 men at arms and archers. Relinquished command to Sieur de Gaucourt. Was made Grand Butler of France in November 1415.

Thomas Beaufort, Duke of Exeter (January 1377 – 31 December 1426) was an English military commander during the Hundred Years' War, and briefly Chancellor of England. He was the third of the four children born to John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, and his mistress Katherine Swynford. On the accession of Henry V, Beaufort was appointed Lieutenant of Aquitaine (1413) and then Captain of Harfleur (1415). He spent the next years in Normandy as Lieutenant of Normandy (1416). He was created Duke of Exeter for life in 1416. Uncle to Henry V.

Jean de Gast, The Bastard of Varus – Governor of Meaux. Known as cruel and ruthless, tortured and hung English and Burgundians and took many for ransom regardless of their allegiance. Hung many on an elm tree, that became known as the Elm of Varus. Was captured by Henry V and hung on the same tree in 1422.

Robert Charron (1415-)- youngest child (5th) of Gillet and Simone Charron. Fictional 14th great grandfather of the author.

Gob – dwarf like traveler that masquerades as a monk, a knight and other characters. He appears before several of the main characters to provide advice or commentary about events that he pronounces 'have always been and always will be', as if he is a traveler from the past and future.

Sir John Cornwaille (aka Sir John Cornwall), (1364 — 11 December 1443), 1st Baron Fanhope and Milbroke, was an English nobleman, soldier and one of the most respected chivalric figures of his era. Led the vanguard in the march from Harfleur and fought in the Battle of Azincourt, the Siege of Meaux and many other battles.

Magnum Concilium (Great Council) – In the Kingdom of England, the Magnum Concilium, or Great Council, is an assembly that was historically convened at certain times of the year when church leaders and wealthy landowners were invited to discuss the affairs of the country with the king.

John Holland, (29 March 1395 – 5 August 1447) - 2nd Duke of Exeter, 2nd Earl of Huntingdon, was an English nobleman and military commander during the Hundred Years' War. His father, the 1st Duke of Exeter, was a maternal half-brother to Richard II of England, and was executed after King Richard's deposition. The Holland family estates and titles were forfeited, but John was able to recover them by dedicating his career to royal service. Holland rendered great assistance to his cousin Henry V in his conquest of France, fighting both on land and on the sea. He was Marshal and Admiral of England and governor of Aquitaine under Henry VI.

Edward of Norwich, 2nd Duke of York (1373 – 25 October 1415) - was an English nobleman and magnate, the eldest son of Edmund of Langley, 1st Duke of York, and a grandson of King Edward III of England. He held significant appointments during the reigns of Richard II, Henry IV, and Henry V. He was slain at the Battle of Azincourt.

Richard of Conisburgh, 3rd Earl of Cambridge (July 1385 – 5 August 1415) - was the second son of Edmund of Langley, 1st Duke of York, and Isabella of Castile. He was beheaded for his part in the _Southampton Plot_ , a conspiracy against King Henry V. He was the father of Richard Plantagenet, 3rd Duke of York, and the grandfather of King Edward IV and King Richard III.

Henry Scrope, 3rd Baron Scrope of Masham (1370 – 5 August 1415), a favorite of King Henry V, was beheaded on 5 August 1415 for his involvement in the _Southampton Plot_.

Sir Thomas Grey (30 November 1384 – 2 August 1415), of Heaton Castle in the parish of Cornhill-on-Tweed, Northumberland, was one of the three conspirators in the _Southampton Plot_ against King Henry V. Was beheaded at the North Gate of Southampton on 2 August 1415.

Archbishop of Canterbury Henry Chichele (1364 – 12 April 1443) - was Archbishop of Canterbury (1414-1443) He was in high favor with Henry V, was sent with Richard de Beauchamp, 13th Earl of Warwick to France in July 1413 to negotiate peace.

Richard Cliderowe – The man tasked with hiring foreign ships for the crossing in 1415, Henry V's invasion of France. Had held the posts of Victualler of Calais and Customs Collector at Newcastle and Ipswich, and as the owner of a ship (the Cog John) was familiar with the business of shipping.

King Richard II (6 January 1367 – 14 February 1400), - was King of England from 1377 until he was deposed in 1399. Richard's father, Edward the Black Prince, died in 1376, leaving Richard as heir apparent to King Edward III. Upon the death of his grandfather Edward III, the 10-year-old Richard succeeded to the throne.

Henry IV (15 April 1367 – 20 March 1413), also known as Henry Bolingbroke, was King of England from 1399 to 1413, and asserted the claim of his grandfather, Edward III (himself a maternal grandson of Philip IV of France), to the Kingdom of France. Henry was born at Bolingbroke Castle in Lincolnshire. His father, John of Gaunt (1340-1399) (created 1st Duke of Lancaster in right of his wife), was the fourth son (third to survive to adulthood) of King Edward III and enjoyed a position of considerable influence during much of the reign of his nephew King Richard II (1377-1399) whom Henry eventually deposed.

Anne Stafford – wife of Edmund Mortimer, second cousin once removed, the daughter of Anne of Gloucester and Edmund Stafford, 5th Earl of Stafford.

Sir Hugh Waterton (1340 - 2 July 1409) –a trusted servant of the House of Lancaster. He was appointed Keeper of Berkhamstead Castle, and Governor of Henry IV's children John and Philippa, and their cousins, Edmund Mortimer, 5th Earl of March and his brother, Roger, who were to remain at Berkhamstead until the King's return from a campaign in Wales.

Davy Gam (Sir Dafydd ap Llewelyn ap Hywel) (1380 – 25 October 1415), better known as Dafydd Gam or Davy Gam, was a Welsh nobleman, a prominent opponent of Owain Glyndŵr. He died at the Battle of Azincourt fighting for Henry V.

Benoni Pétain – Burgundian collaborator. He was a citizen of Soissons, was recruited by English as a translator and collaborator. He was forced into service to the English upon the threat to his wife and children.

Sir Gilbert Umfraville (1390 – 1421) Umfraville took a prominent part in Henry V's French wars, attended the campaign of 1415 at the head of twenty men-at-arms and ninety horse archers. During the march to Calais he shared with Sir John Cornwall the command of the van, and on 18 Oct. first effected the dangerous passage over the Somme. He fought well at Azincourt, where the ransom of two prisoners fell to his share.

Richard de Vere, Earl of Oxford, 11th Earl of Oxford (15 August 1385 – 15 February 1417) was the son and heir of Aubrey de Vere, 10th Earl of Oxford. He took part in the trial of Richard, Earl of Cambridge and Lord Scrope for their part in the Southampton Plot, and was one of the commanders at Azincourt in 1415.

Charles Duke of Orléans (24 November 1394 – 5 January 1465) was Duke of Orléans from 1407, following the murder of his father, Louis I, Duke of Orléans, on the orders of John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy. He was also Duke of Valois, Count of Beaumont-sur-Oise and of Blois, Lord of Coucy, and the inheritor of Asti in Italy via his mother Valentina Visconti, daughter of Gian Galeazzo Visconti, Duke of Milan.

Anthony, Duke of Brabant, also known as Antoine de Brabant, Antoine de Bourgogne and Anthony of Burgundy (August 1384 – 25 October 1415) Killed at Azincourt.

John I of Alençon, called the Sage (1385 – 25 October 1415), was a French nobleman, killed at the Battle of Azincourt. The son of Peter II of Alençon and Marie de Chamaillard. In 1404, he succeeded his father as Count of Alençon and Perche. He was made Duke of Alençon in 1414. He commanded the second wave of the French army at the Battle of Azincourt. He is sometimes credited with killing Edward, Duke of York, wounding Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, and cutting an ornament from the crown of Henry V of England; but was then overpowered by the King's bodyguard, and slain by the Welsh nobleman Dafydd Gam before he could yield himself. These claims are disputed.

Notable casualties from the Battle of Azincourt

### French

Charles I d'Albret, Count of Dreux, the Constable of France

Jacques de Châtillon de Dampière, Lord of Dampierre, the Admiral of France

David de Rambures, the Grand Master of Crossbowmen (along with his three youngest sons)

Guichard Dauphin, Master of the Royal Household

Antoine of Burgundy, Duke of Brabant and Limburg, and consort Duke of Luxembourg (a brother of John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy)

John I, Duke of Alençon-Perche, the second-in-command after d'Albret.

Edward III, Duke of Bar (along with his brother and nephew)

Philip of Burgundy, Count of Nevers and Rethel (another brother of John the Fearless)

Frederick of Lorraine, Count of Vaudémont (brother of Charles II, Duke of Lorraine)

Robert of Bar, Count of Marle and Soissons (nephew of Edward III, Duke of Bar).

John VI, Count of Roucy,

Edward II, Count of Grandpré

Henry II, Count of Blâmont

and some 90 bannerets and others, including:

Jean de Montaigu, Archbishop of Sens

John of Bar, Lord of Puisaye (brother of Edward III of Bar)

Jean I de Croÿ, Lord of Croÿ-d'Araines (along with two of his sons, John and Archambaud)

Jean de Béthune, Lord of Marueil

Gallois de Fougières, Provost Marshal, commemorated as the first French gendarme to lose his life in battle.

Jean V de Hangest – Consular to the Grand Chamberlain of France

Jean IV de Noyelles, Seigneur de Calonne, de Sailly, de Ricouart, Vicomte de Langle, Chambellan du Duc (along with two of his brothers, Lancelot and Pierre)

Jan I van Brederode

### English

Edward of Norwich, 2nd Duke of York

Michael de la Pole, 3rd Earl of Suffolk

Dafydd Gam (Davy Gam) Welsh hero who reputedly saved Henry V's life at Agincourt

### French prisoners

Among the approximately 1,500 prisoners taken by the English, were the following:

Jean Le Maingre ("Boucicault"), the Marshal of France.

Charles of Artois (Count of Eu), the French Lieutenant of Normandy and Guyenne.

John of Bourbon (Duke of Bourbon-Auvergne-Forez), probably the greatest lord of southern France

Charles of Orleans (Duke of Orleans-Blois-Valois), a great lord of central France, titular head of the "Armagnac" party.

Louis de Bourbon (Count of Vendôme)

Arthur de Richemont, brother of John VI, Duke of Brittany, step-brother of Henry V (he was the son of Joan of Navarre, dowager-queen of England).

John VII, Count of Harcourt, holder of the largest fiefs in Normandy, close relative of the Capetians through his mother and wife.
