First published in 2017 by Greenhill Books,
c/o Pen & Sword Books Ltd,
47 Church Street, Barnsley, S. Yorkshire, S70 2AS
www.greenhillbooks.com
B. Renfrew 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
ISBN 978-1-78438-212-4
eISBN 978-1-78438-214-8
Mobi ISBN 978-1-78438-213-1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in Publication Data available
PROLOGUE
24 OCTOBER 1415
Blangy, Northern France
They look like condemned men going to their graves, the knight grunted as he watched the passing column of English soldiers. Not one of them thinks he will see England again.
A young monk beside him glanced up from a small prayer book; he had not found any comfort in its pages for many days. He looked at the lines of men filling the rutted track. The soldiers faces were rigid with hunger and exhaustion, hollowed out by weeks of marching. Grey, lice-ridden skin peeked through holes in the mens ragged tunics and filthy leggings. Some of them were barefoot; blood dripped from a gash in an archers foot, the red drops blossoming on the track like poppies in a wheat field.
A dung-brown sea of mud, broken only by clumps of lifeless trees, stretched in every direction. Dark clouds filled the irongrey sky ahead, hurrying towards them with more of the autumn rain that had beaten down on their bowed heads and shoulders for days.
For more than two weeks the little English army had been marching across northern France, trying to reach the sea and the ships that would snatch it from destruction, but the enemy had blocked the way at every turn.
Even the lowest-born soldier had come to France with dreams of adventure, and of going home with a little honour and booty.
Now it seemed their only reward would be to leave their butchered corpses lying unburied in some French field.
There is always hope, Sir John, Brother Thomas Elmham said. Heaven favours our kings cause.
Spare me your preaching, monk, Sir John Cornwall retorted. It should have taken eight days to reach Calais. We have been marching for seventeen now. Our supplies gave out after a week, and the French have stripped the countryside bare. The men cant march much further unless we find food.
Thomas knew protest was pointless. In the abandoned villages the English soldiers found nothing but a few worm-infested apples that had fallen from the trees weeks before; only the hungriest tried to force down the rotting slime.
At that moment a tall archer stumbled from the column. The man pulled down his grimy hose as he hurried to the side of the track to relieve himself. He had gone just three steps when yellow slime exploded from his shrunken buttocks; the mess trickled down his bare thighs, coating the wool hose now bunched around his knees.
Such a spectacle would have normally brought laughter and jeers from the soldiers, but they marched past silently. Too many men had died from the sickness that had devastated the army; there was no longer any novelty in seeing a man crap himself to death.
Thomas muttered a blessing over the whimpering archer, making the sign of the cross with the prayer book. Abbot Henry had given him the volume with its beautiful hand-illustrated pages when he left the abbey at Canterbury to serve the army as a clerk. In his usual caustic way, the old man had said it would bring Thomas safely home because God would never allow so precious a thing to fall into the hands of the blasphemous French.
Cheer up, Thomas! boomed the knight, forgetting his own gloomy musings of a moment before. We did not follow young Harry all this way just to lose everything.
Sir John Cornwall commanded the armys vanguard. He had been a soldier all his life, serving three English kings in the wars of Scotland, Wales and France. Stocky and of middling height, the knights never-handsome face was leathery and battered from years of hard campaigning: his slate-grey hair was shaved almost to the scalp, and a spiky moustache framed protruding lips; one ear had been half severed by a sword stroke years before. But his light-brown eyes glinted with vigour and curiosity. Where other knights boasted of mastering wild horses and unwilling women, Sir John had a passion for learning and ideas. He had sought Thomas out after hearing of the monks reputation as a scholar. The pair soon became one of the armys odder sights: the lanky young monk, with the perpetual smile and cornflower-blue eyes of an innocent, hurrying to keep pace with the knights rapid stride and equally swift thoughts.
A band of Welsh archers cursed as the two men nosed their horses into the column. Sir John was amiably retorting that their mothers must have been the ugliest whores ever to work a country sheep market when shouts distracted him. A mounted scout dashed down the column, gesturing wildly behind him.
All the world is coming against us! cried the rider, his eyes bulging with fear.
What is it, fellow? Talk sense! demanded Sir John as the scout drew up.
All of France is come, wailed the man, pointing at a nearby hill.
Curious soldiers ringed the three horsemen. Some shouted questions at the scout; others further back demanded to know what the man was saying. Sir John cursed as the clamour drowned out the scouts gibbering.
Best we look for ourselves, Thomas, the knight called. It will be quicker than trying to make sense of this fellows ravings.
Forcing their horses out of the throng, the two men rode towards the hill. The army had halted even though no commands had been given; soldiers eyed the surrounding fields for signs of the enemy. Captains of the stationary contingents shouted questions as the riders passed. One young lord, flushed with his own importance, bellowed at them to halt. Sir John, flanked by men of his own retinue, galloped past without reply.
A broad plain came into view as the little band of riders reached the top of the hill. An enormous army covered the fields below: the silvery-grey armour of the advancing men resembled a mighty river snaking across the landscape. Hundreds of flags and banners flapped over the ranks of cavalry and infantry as the blare of trumpets and the beat of drums filled the air.
Jesus save us, whispered one of the awed Englishmen. Some of the watchers mumbled prayers; others stared silently, faces frozen with disbelief and fear as they gaped at the approaching human tide.
