Sir John, who had formed with the men-at-arms in the line’s center, walked to where the archers readied their stakes. “We wait to see if they attack,” he explained, “and if not we’ll fight them in the morning!”

“Why don’t we just run away in the dark?” a man asked.

“I didn’t hear that question!” Sir John shouted, then went on down the line, telling men to be ready for a French assault.

The archers were not in close array like the men-at-arms who waited shoulder to armored shoulder in a line four men deep. The bowmen, instead, needed room to pull their long bowstaves and, in response to shouted orders, had moved some paces ahead of the men-at-arms where they scattered, each man finding a space. Hook was at the very front with the rest of Sir John’s men. He reckoned around two hundred archers were in line with him, the rest were behind in a dozen loose ranks where they now hammered their stakes so that the points faced toward the French. Once the stakes were in place the exposed point needed re-sharpening after the hammering it had received. “Stand in front of your stake!” the green-surcoated man shouted. “Don’t let the enemy see it!”

“Bastards aren’t blind,” Will of the Dale grumbled, “they must have seen what we were doing.”

The French were watching. They were a half-mile away, still arriving, a mass of color on horseback beneath banners brighter than the sky, which was becoming ever darker as the clouds thickened. Most of the French were milling around the skyline where tents were being erected, but hundreds rode southward to gaze at England’s army.

“I bet the bastards are laughing at us,” Tom Scarlet said. “They’re probably pissing themselves with laughter.”

The nearest enemy horsemen were just a quarter-mile away, standing or walking their horses in the plowland, and just gazing at the small army that faced them. To left and right the woods looked black in the fading evening light. Some archers, their stakes hammered home, were going into those woods to empty their bowels in the thick undergrowth of hawthorn, holly, and hazel, but most archers just stared back at the enemy and Hook reckoned Tom Scarlet was right. The French had to be laughing. They already had at least four or five men for every Englishman, and their forces were still arriving at the northern end of the field. Hook dropped to one knee on the wet ground, made the sign of the cross, and prayed to Saint Crispinian. He was not the only archer who prayed. Dozens of men were on their knees, as were some men-at-arms. Priests were walking among the doomed army, offering blessings, while the French walked their horses across the plowland, and Hook, opening his eyes, imagined their laughter, their scorn at this pathetic army that had defied them, had tried to escape them and now was trapped by them. “Save us,” he prayed to Saint Crispinian, but the saint said nothing in reply and Hook thought his prayer must have been lost in the great dark emptiness beyond the ominous clouds.

It began to rain properly. It was a cold, heavy rain and, as the wind dropped, the drops fell with a malevolent intensity that made the archers hurriedly unstring their bows and coil the cords into their hats and helmets to keep them from being soaked. The English heralds had ridden ahead of the array to be met by their French colleagues, and Hook saw the men bow to each other from their saddles. After a while the English heralds rode back, their gray horses spattered with mud from hooves to belly.

“No fight tonight, boys!” Sir John brought that news to the archers. “We stay where we are! No fires up here! You’re to stay silent! The enemy will do us the honor of fighting tomorrow, so try and sleep! No fight tonight!” He rode on down the archers’ line, his voice fading in the seethe of the hard rain.

Hook was still on one knee. “I will fight on your day,” he told the saint, “on your feast day. Look after us. Keep Melisande safe. Keep us all safe. I beg you. In the name of the Father, I beg you. Take us safe home.”

There was no answer, just the intense hiss of rain and a distant grumble of thunder.

“On your knees, Hook?” It was Tom Perrill who sneered the words.

Hook stood and turned to face his enemy, but Tom Evelgold had already placed himself between the two archers. “You want words with Hook?” the centenar challenged Perrill.

“I hope you live through tomorrow, Hook,” Perrill said, ignoring Evelgold.

“I hope we all live through tomorrow,” Hook said. He felt a terrible hatred of Perrill, but had no energy to make a fight of it in this wet dusk.

“Because we’re not finished,” Perrill said.

“Nor are we,” Hook agreed.

“And you murdered my brother,” Perrill said, staring at Hook. “You say you didn’t, but you did, and your brother’s death makes nothing even. I promised my mother something and you know what that promise was.” Rain dripped from the rim of his helmet.

“You should forgive each other,” Evelgold said. “If we’re fighting tomorrow we should be friends. We have enemies enough.”

“I have a promise to keep,” Perrill said stubbornly.

“To your mother?” Hook asked. “Does a promise to a whore count?” He could not resist the jibe.

Perrill grimaced, but kept his temper. “She hates your family and she wants it dead. And you’re the last one.”

“The French will like as not make your mother happy,” Evelgold said.

“One of us will,” Perrill said, “me or them,” he nodded to the enemy army, though kept his eyes on Hook, “but I’ll not kill you while they fight us. That’s what I came to tell you. You’re frightened enough,” he sneered, “without watching your back.”

“You’ve said your words,” Evelgold said, “now go.”

“So a truce,” Perrill suggested, ignoring the centenar, “till this is over.”

“I’ll not kill you while they fight us,” Hook agreed.

“Nor tonight,” Perrill demanded.

“Nor tonight,” Hook said.

“So sleep well, Hook. It might be your last night on earth,” Perrill said, then walked away.

“Why does he hate you?” Evelgold asked.

“It goes back to my grandfather. We just hate each other. The Hooks and the Perrills, they just hate each other.”

“Well, you’ll both be dead by this time tomorrow,” Evelgold said heavily, “we all will be. So make your confession and take mass before the fight. And your men are sentries tonight. Walter’s men take first watch, you take second. You’re to go halfway up the field,” he nodded at the plowland, “and you’re not to make any noise. No one is. No shouting, no singing, no music.”

“Why not?”

“How the goddam hell would I know? If a gentleman makes a noise the king will take away his horse and harness, and if an archer squeals he’ll have his ears cut off. King’s orders. So you stand watch, and God help you if the French come.”

“They won’t, will they? Not at night?”

“Sir John doesn’t think so. But he still wants sentries.” Evelgold shrugged as if to suggest that sentries would do no good, then, with nothing more to say, he walked away.

More French came to see their enemy before the night hid them. Rain swept across the plow, the sound of it drowning any laughter from the enemy. Tomorrow was Saint Crispin and Saint Crispinian’s Day, and Hook reckoned it would be his last.

It rained through the night. A hard cold rain. Sir John Cornewaille ran through that rain to the cottage in Maisoncelles where the king had his quarters, but though the king’s youngest brother, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, and Thomas, Duke of York, were in the tiny smoke-filled room, neither knew where the king of England had gone.

“Probably praying, Sir John,” the Duke of York said.

“God’s ears are getting a battering tonight, your grace,” Sir John said dourly.

“Add your voice to the cacophony,” the duke said. He was the grandson of the third Edward and had been cousin to the second Richard whose throne had been usurped by the king’s father, but he had proved his loyalty to the usurper’s son and, because his piety matched the king’s, he was deep in Henry’s confidence. “I believe his majesty is testing the temper of the men,” the duke said.