Blood Royal. Vanora Bennett
with his sword held high in front of him, he roared to the joyful infantrymen crowding behind him, ‘Henry! Henry!’, and, without Owain quite having understood that the battle was beginning, led them in a surging charge over the soggy ground towards the French.
It was still raining. Water dripped into Charles, Duke of Orleans’ eyes from his helmet. He was running through the October woods, panting like an animal, as wet under his armour as everything in the watery gloom outside. He was running through branches looming out of the fog like outstretched arms, hooking at him, hooking at his sword.
He couldn’t breathe. He stumbled; stopped; crawled into the doubtful safety of a leafless bush; and lay there, shutting out the world with arms over his head, sobbing in air, feeling the boom of his heart against his breastplate, not listening to the noises behind him.
He knew what he’d see if he looked back again. A grey-brown writhing hell of dying men, with Englishmen crawling all over them. He knew what he’d feel, too: a grey-brown horror of shame.
His men would be back there somewhere, still.
He should have stayed with them.
All the princes of the blood should have stayed with their men.
But none of them had. They’d all ignored the Constable’s orders. They’d all left their men. They’d all jostled to the front line in their heavy armour, kicking and whacking and hacking at each other to get a place. They all wanted the glory.
He’d felt the glory, all right: when the horn had sounded and his horse had surged forward at a furious gallop, thundering over the mud, with its red and gold caparison flying, while he crouched over the pommel, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, ready for combat, ready for death. There’d been glory surging through his veins like alcohol; a red haze in front of his eyes.
But only for a moment.
Then his horse had sunk into the mud under him.
He’d managed to roll free. But it was a long, dazed moment before he’d got shaking to his feet, leaning on his lance. His knee hurt.
It was only then that he saw the charge was over. All the other horses were down in the mud, too, wherever he looked, hundreds of them, squealing and screaming and flailing their damaged legs. And some of the screams were human.
With all the mud and drizzle and confusion, and everything so grey and brown, Charles of Orleans hadn’t understood straight away what was happening. Then he’d seen an arrow shaft land squarely in his horse’s chest. Its feathered tip quivered. Pegasus rolled his head and rolled his eyes and died.
The English weren’t charging. There was death in the air. The death of common men. The sky was full of yeomen’s arrows.
He’d sheltered behind Pegasus’ warm body disbelievingly, waiting for the danger to pass. Still calm; able, for a moment, to despise the enemy’s failure to engage as the laws of chivalry demanded. It was only when he’d seen the grey and brown ants crawling out of the distant fields and tents and swarming towards him at such speed that, before he knew it, they became thickset English rustics wielding axes and pikes, led by a terrifying glinting war god in glittering armour, and heard the blood-curdling yells of, ‘Henry!’ and ‘St George for merry England!’, that Charles, Duke of Orleans, grandson and great-grandson of kings of France, whose veins coursed with the noble blood of Charlemagne and Brutus, panicked and ran for his life.
The news of Azincourt spread through France like the bitter autumn wind; the rains battering the windows felt like tears. Ten thousand Frenchmen had died and fifteen hundred been taken prisoner. Among the dead were the King’s commander for the day, the Constable of Albret, and his two brothers, the Duke of Bar and the Duke of Alençon. The young Duke of Orleans, who’d written such lovely poetry in the style of Madame de Pizan, was a prisoner. So was the Duke of Bourbon, the Count of Richemont, the Count of Eu, and Marshal Boucicault. The sound of weeping drifted out of every open window. In just three hours, Paris had become a city of widows. There wasn’t a noble house in France left untouched by the tragedy.
Even the Duke of Burgundy – who had not volunteered for the King’s army, and who had locked his fifteen-year-old son up to stop him running away to fight – had lost two brothers.
The city whispered. The people of Paris could sense weakness in their rulers. Even in their grief, the mourners sensed trouble would be coming their way soon.
Catherine was at Mass with her parents when the messenger came.
There was a scuffle at the door. Then a dozen heads were pushed inside. ‘Sire,’ the voices said. The priest looked up through the incense at the expectant eyes. The King looked away. Catherine could feel how much her father, who was still frail and slow-moving as he convalesced from his bout of illness, didn’t want to be interrupted. ‘Sire,’ the voices said, insistently.
It was clear to all of them that it must be bad news. Catherine could feel her heart quicken. Catherine’s mother wheezed and heaved herself up. She put a hand out to the King, who was staring at his hands. ‘Afterwards? Surely?’ he said piteously, indicating the priest and the chalice; but she only said impatiently, ‘Come,’ and began tugging at his arm.
When they told him, he did nothing. It was the Queen who rushed out of the room, with big tears pouring down her face, yelling, ‘Call the council!’ and ‘Send word to Prince Louis to come!’ and ‘Why weren’t we informed earlier?’ and ‘Condolences to the widows! A list of ransoms! Mass at Notre Dame! Full mourning for the court!’ The messenger and the courtiers rushed after her, remonstrating or agreeing or making busy suggestions; a wind of noise and importance. But King Charles just sat, with empty eyes, on his bench.
Timidly, Catherine reached out her hand and put it on his trembling liver-splodged one. Her head was spinning. She’d danced with Charles of Orleans only last week. He’d told her about his war horse. Pegasus, he’d said easily: the closest thing to a winged horse on this earth. He’d smite the King of England to the ground with his hoofs alone. ‘It’s my dream to bring him down myself in the thick of battle, with a single blow of my sword’. Catherine had admired the ambition. Charles of Orleans had been wearing blue velvet sewn with pearls. Now she was trying to imagine him in chains, being marched through the mud to Calais and roughly embarked on an English ship, but found that her imagination failed her. This couldn’t be real. There must be a mistake.
Her father twitched his head and said nothing.
‘It’s hard to believe,’ Catherine murmured; stroking his papery skin; remembering how just a few years ago her father had lifted her into the tree she could see through the window, roaring with laughter. How strong he’d been then. How young. He seemed like an old man today. He didn’t seem to be listening.
‘It will be all right, Father; you mustn’t worry …’ she ventured. He was shocked, she thought. How hard it must be to bear the burden of all this on your own shoulders; how heart-breaking to be a king in times of trouble. ‘We’ll raise the ransoms. We’ll get everyone back. Henry of England isn’t a bad man. He knows the law of war. Even if it takes time …’
Quietly, her father said: ‘Not Henry of England.’ But it wasn’t really an answer. She had a feeling he was thinking of something quite different. He gave her a knowing look. He grinned. ‘George.’
‘George?’
He grinned again. ‘Me.’
She stared. Had she misheard? He burst out laughing. Then he looked cunning. Then surprised. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know,’ he said, and winked at her. ‘I am Saint George of England.’
She didn’t know what to do.
She didn’t understand what he was saying.
She just knew she needed help. Father needed help. He wasn’t himself.
She