The waiting was truly the hardest part, and the French showed no sign of movement. Now that he had a moment to think, Henry was daunted by the enormity of his own folly. He had already told his men he would rather die than be captured, and he had meant every word of it. But look at what he had wrought! His crown, his very dynasty hinged on the result of this battle, and the odds were immeasurable. Blinking, he looked back on his own pitifully small army, eroded by disease and desertions. Damn that Harfleur! If only the siege had gone according to plan, he wouldn't be in this impossible situation today. Was God testing him, or was he suffering the consequences of his own hubris?

Henry sighed, pursing his lips. Now was not the time to give in to self-doubt. Too many men relied on him. One slip and they all would falter. He straightened up, adjusting his shoulders inside his armour. The greater the challenge, the greater the glory.

"Why aren't they attacking?" the king said out loud to no one in particular.

Erpingham, standing beside him, let out a grunt. "It's been three hours at least," he said. "I believe they are waiting for reinforcements."

Henry glanced at him worriedly. "While we stand here, letting our courage seep away. This is no good."

"They can stay there all day," said York from the other side. "They have nothing to lose, while we sit here and starve to death."

"Agreed," Henry mused. "But to attack with our archers? They are always used defensively."

"Maybe not in this case!" said Erpingham, perhaps a little too vociferously.

"It's a risk. The cavalry could ride them down."

"But look at that field." York pointed to emphasize his words. "No one is going to move quickly. It's not like they can charge us. Those horses will be knee-deep in mire."

Henry stared at the mud, ploughed in furrows still full of water. "You're right. That settles it. Take your places, my lords. Sir Thomas, inform the archers we are moving forward and that they are to pull their stakes and take them along. We will advance until we have reached extreme arrow range."

Having decided, Henry felt a surge of excitement. He was a man of action, after all. Indecision was not natural.

 Word was sent back through the ranks for everyone to prepare. Most of the soldiers dropped to their knees and kissed the ground, putting a tiny piece of earth in their mouths. Ashes to ashes, Dust to dust, the chaplains always said. Never did it seem more real than now.

Thus fortified, the men go to their feet with resolution, taking courage from experience. All knew they would need to hold their line as they advanced—not an easy task with such soft footing. But their movement need not be rapid. It was more important that they maintain their formation, for a fighter depended as much on his neighbour as himself.

Once Erpingham determined the archers were ready, he dismounted and placed himself near the king. Henry bellowed, "Avaunt banners! In the name of almighty God and Saint George!" Trumpets blasted, drums rolled, and the men roared their battle cries. Archers pulled their stakes from the ground. With a mighty jolt, the English army pushed forward.

              
Paperback, EBook
Amazon.com
Amazon.UK
Amazon.CA