“God be with you, John,” Sir William Porter said nervously. He had moved to be next to his friend.

“I think God will let us win,” Sir John said loudly.

“I wish God had sent us a thousand more English men-at-arms,” Sir William said.

“You heard what our king said,” Sir John shouted in response, “don’t wish for another man on our side! Why share the victory? We’re English! If we were only half our number we would be enough to slaughter these turd-sucking sons of rancid whores!”

“God help us,” Sir William said softly.

“Do what I say, William,” Sir John said quietly. “Let them come at you, step back, then strike. Once you have the first man down you’ve made an obstacle for the second. You understand me?”

Sir William nodded. The two sides were now close enough for men on either side to recognize each other by their jupons, except the surcoats of the French were so spattered with mud that some were hard to read and nearly every surcoat had two or more arrows caught in its folds.

“Then kill the second man,” Sir John went on. “Don’t use your sword. A sword’s no good in this fight. Hammer the bastards down with a poleax. Stun them, break their legs, crack their skulls. Put the second man down, William, and the third can’t reach you without stumbling over two corpses.”

“I’d rather use a lance,” Sir William said diffidently.

“Then stab at their visors,” Sir John said. “That’s the weakest point in armor. Ram it home, William, and make the goddam bastards suffer.” The French were fewer than fifty paces away. The arrow strikes had almost stopped, though a few bodkins still streaked across the face of the advancing enemy to strike from the flank. The archers posted between the battles were readying to file back between the men-at-arms so that the English line of fully-armored men would be continuous. Those archers still had a few arrows left and were shooting them fast before they were ordered to the rear. More Frenchmen went down. One, an arrow deep in his belly, knelt and then opened his visor to vomit a mix of puke and blood before the men behind trod him into the furrows.

“We’re three ranks deep,” Sir John said, “and they’re at least twenty ranks deep. The men behind will push the men in front and so they’re going to be forced onto our blades.” He grinned suddenly. “And we’re sober, William. We ran out of wine so we’re fighting sober, but I’ll wager half their army is soaked in wine. God is with us, William.”

“You believe that?”

“Believe it?” Sir John laughed. “I know it! Now brace yourselves!”

The noise was rising as the enemy shouted their war cries. Off to Sir John’s left where a thick crowd of Frenchmen was advancing on the king’s banner, he could see the oriflamme, red and wicked, high on its pole, and then he forgot that symbol because the enemy in front had summoned a last great effort. They were shouting, they were even trying to run, they were coming to take their victory.

Their lances were poised to strike. They were screaming. “Saint Denis! Montjoie! Montjoie!” and the English were howling like huntsmen closing on their prey.

“Now!” Sir John bellowed. “Now!”

Sir Martin shoved Melisande down, planting his hand between her breasts and thrusting hard and quickly so that she fell back between the trees on the stream’s bank. “There,” he said, “you just stay there like a good little girl. No!” he held up a hand as she tried to scramble away. There was a terrible threat in that raised hand and Melisande went still again, making Sir Martin smile. He had yellowed stumps for teeth. “I’ve got a knife somewhere,” he told her, “I know I do.” He fumbled in a pouch at his belt. “A good knife, too. Oh! Here it is!” He smiled as he showed her the short blade. “Put a knife to thy throat, the holy book says, if thou art a man of appetite, and I am, I am, but I don’t want to cut your pretty throat, girl. It does spoil matters if you’re scrambling about in blood. So just be good and lie there like a nice little girl and it’ll soon be over.” He laughed at that, then knelt over her, his knees either side of her belly. “But I do think we want you naked. Naked is blessed, girl. In nakedness lies truth. Those are the words of our Lord and Savior.” He had invented the text, but in his mind it still had the ring of scriptural truth. He planted his left hand on her breasts, making her whimper. He was grinning, and in his deepset eyes Melisande saw the glints of madness. She hardly moved, she hardly dared move because the knife was coming toward her throat, but she groped to find the neck of her sack and slowly pulled it toward her.

“And what shall divide us from the love of Christ?” Sir Martin asked her in a hoarse voice, “tell me that, eh?” He grinned still, reaching for the neck of her dress with his left hand. “That’s what the holy scriptures ask us, girl, they ask us what shall divide us from Christ’s love! What shall divide you and me, eh? Not tribulation, the word of the Lord says, nor distress, nor persecution, nor hunger, are you listening to me?”

Melisande nodded. The sack inched toward her and she felt for its opening.

“The words of God, little girl,” Sir Martin said, this time relying on genuine words of scripture, “written for our comfort by the blessed Saint Paul himself. Neither danger nor the sword shall keep us from Christ’s love, and nor, the apostle says, will nakedness!” And with that he slashed at her dress with the short knife and, with a twitching grimace, ripped the cloth down so that her breasts were exposed.

“Oh my,” Sir Martin said reverently, “oh my, oh my, oh my. Nakedness will not keep you from Christ’s love, my child, that is the promise of the scripture. You should be glad of my coming. You should rejoice in it.” He no longer straddled her, but knelt beside her as he tore the linen dress down to its lower hem and then he stared with awed reverence at her pale body. Melisande lay still, her right hand inside the sack now, but not moving.

“We went naked, girl, before woman brought sin into the world,” Sir Martin said, “and it is only meet and just that woman should be punished for that first sin. Don’t you agree?” A vagary of the wind brought the sound of shouting from the high plateau and the priest turned and looked at the distant crest for an instant. Melisande thrust her hand deeper into the sack, fumbling for one of the short leather-fledged bolts. She went still again as Sir Martin looked back to her. “They’re having their games up there,” he said. “They do like to fight, they do, but the Frenchies will win this one! There’s thousands of the bastards! Your Nick will go down, girl. Down to a Frenchie’s sword. Cos you’re a Frenchie, aren’t you? A pretty little Frenchie. I’m just sorry your Nick will never know I’ve punished you for your sins. Woman brought sin into the world and woman must be punished. I’d like your Nick to die knowing I’d punished you, but he won’t, and so it is, so it falls out, so the good Lord disposes. My Thomas will probably die too, and that’s a pity, cos I do like my Thomas, but I’ve other sons. Maybe you’ll have one for me?” He smiled at that idea as he fumbled to hitch up his robe. “I won’t die. The Frenchies won’t kill a priest cos they really don’t want to go to hell. And if you’re nice to me, little girl, you won’t die either. You can live and have my little baby. Maybe we’ll call him Thomas? Right! Get those pretty legs apart.”

Melisande did not move, but the priest kicked at her knees, then kicked harder and so forced his foot between her thighs. “Our Henry has led his men into the devil’s shit-pot, hasn’t he?” he said. “And now they’re all going to be dead. They’re all going to be dead and there’ll just be you and me, little girl, just you and me, so you might as well be nice to me.” He pulled the black robe above his waist and grinned at her. “Handsome, isn’t he? Now, little one, make him welcome.”