When Adam delved, and Eve span, who was then the gentleman? From the beginning all men by nature were created alike, and our bondage or servitude came in by the unjust oppression of naughty men. For if God would have had any bondmen from the beginning, He would have appointed who should be bond, and who free.

The truce with the heathens ended just as Harfleur received its first snow of the year, a sure sign that winter had arrived, and Nat Miller was certain there would be an action soon.

There had to be. The heathens were attempting to undermine Harfleur's walls, and the King had to do something.

Nat was betting on some form of countermining. It was what the French had done against English mining attempts when they'd first besieged Harfleur. The men in King Henry's army were all intimately familiar with tunnel fighting. They'd fought the French for every inch of dirt and still in the end couldn't get close enough to undermine the wall. It was dark and hellish. Cramped and terrifying.

No one wanted to do that again. But the King didn't have many options, so Nat assumed that was the plan.

He just hoped that he would be behind an aristocrat in a lot of armor when it was his turn to go down into the cramped hell. It was hard to kill a man in good armor when it's completely dark.

"Mark my words," Nat promised to Andy Waller and Oliver Shields. They were on the walls of Harfleur, watching the heathen siege lines as distant men ran back and forth. He turned his head to Andy. "This week, mayhaps the week after, we're going back into the tunnels."

Andy Waller shuddered. "Ole Tim lost 'is hand last time we went down," he murmured.

"He's a lucky one. Got him on a ship back to England after that," Oliver Shields said. He took a sudden interest in his shoes. "A whole lot of good lads never left those fucking tunnels."

"And that were just a handful of Frenchmen. What happens when it's all that lot down there?" Andy asked. "They'll flood us!"

"Mmmm…" Nat agreed. He rubbed his face. "Spread word to the lads. Be prepared for a fight and no drinking past nightfall. We're in for something soon. Mark my words."

The next morning, Nat was summoned to the top of a tower by Sir Thomas Erpingham. It was a long climb. Sir Thomas was in full plate harness at the top, a sign that Nat had been correct the night before.

There were three other men there as well. One was Milton Lister. He was a master archer like Nat, and he'd been fighting for as long as Nat had. Maybe longer. The other two were master archers he didn't know all that well. They looked competent enough.

"Get six hundred of your best men ready for a fight. We're going out at noon," Sir Thomas ordered all of them.

"Tunnels?" Nat asked. Six hundred men was a lot to fit into a mine tunnel.

Sir Thomas shook his head. "The King has ordered us to harass their hill camp to the west. I will be leading three hundred men-at-arms on foot to support your archers. We'll leave from the north gate and fall back to the walls once sufficient resistance is met."

Milton Lister gave Nat a look. It conveyed a lot of doubt and disbelief in a very efficient manner.

One of the master archers Nat didn't know spoke up, "Begging your pardon, my lord, but I can't see what the objective here is. Why are we attacking their western camp? They're digging at us from the east. I suppose we could have a go at their siege engines, but we'd be better off heading from the harbor gate if that were the case."

Milton Lister was quick to nod. "Not 'nough men for a run at their engines. Maybe we could get 'em at night. But broad daylight? Not a chance."

"The King's orders are for us to harass their camp," Sir Thomas said.

"At noon?" Nat asked. "Seems like a bad time for a sortie, doesn't it? Every heathen in their camp is awake, and they'll be on us like hornets if we poke at them."

The master archer who'd spoken first made a grunt of agreement. He bit his lip and said, "Look, the King's done fine commanding so far, but this seems a bit off, aye? We're certain this is what the King wants?"

"The King's orders are for-"

"We know what the King's orders are," Nat interrupted. "How does he expect us to harass their camp anyway? We don't have enough men to storm their entrenchments in daylight. We've got too many men for a quick raid on their pickets. I suppose we could stand outside and plink at their camp, but we wouldn't hit crap and all we'd do is waste good arrows. What the hell is the plan here?"

Sir Thomas narrowed his eyes. "The King is well aware of these facts. He shall be providing materials to make our attack as effective as possible."

Nat scoffed. "With all due respect, my lord, unless the King has some kind of magic he's been hiding, we'll just be pissing in the wind when we go out there."

"Better than magic," Sir Thomas snapped. "Alchemy."

"Ah…" Nat sighed, expression suddenly changing. He considered it for a moment then said, "You could have mentioned that sooner."

Once, serving as a mercenary in a Milanese garrison, Nat Miller had spoken with an old English knight who'd fought under the famous mercenary captain Sir John Hawkwood.

The old knight had told Nat of Hawkwood's great victory against the Pope at Rubiera while fighting for the Visconti of Milan. Hawkwood had spent weeks maneuvering against the Papal commander. His force was all mounted, and they'd conducted a night march to turn the Papal flank, forcing the Pope's commander to abandon the fortified camp he'd built along the Secchia River. On the day before the battle, Hawkwood had spent hours finding the perfect battlefield. He'd stayed up all night drawing up arrangements for his army. His scouts had analyzed every bit of terrain and foliage.

Then, the next day, Hawkwood crushed the Papal army. It was entirely decisive. He managed to outflank the Papal forces on both ends of the line and blow through their center. Hawkwood's knights had enveloped them before they'd even known what was happening. All of the Papal officers were captured along with most of the army. A perfect victory. But, as the old knight explained, it was all meaningless. The city-states of Italy had no interest in allowing the Pope to lose to the Visconti, and within weeks the Pope had a new army financed by his new allies. Instead of crushing the Pope, Hawkwood's perfect victory did little more than extend the war a few months. Eventually the Pope and the Visconti agreed to a truce, and the war had resolved nothing. Hawkwood's perfect victory was pointless.

At noon, Sir Thomas Erpingham led three hundred men-at-arms and six hundred archers out of the north gate. They swept over the open ground between Harfleur and the heathen siege lines, crushing the forward sentries, pushing toward the heathen camp like an arrow in flight.

Sir Thomas's force had put a lot of work into their plan. They'd practiced their movements and discussed contingencies, surveyed the terrain and chosen a perfect spot to attack. But like John Hawkwood at Rubiera, it seemed to Nat that, no matter how hard they prepared, it'd all be for naught.

"Halt here!" Sir Thomas called.

They were a hundred yards from where the siege lines merged with the palisade wall of the heathen camp. Beyond that wall were lines of linen tents packed together alongside cleanly arrayed streets. Temporary structures with thatched roofs served as storehouses for the heathen quartermasters. Bales of hay were stacked alongside hitching posts for pack animals.

Nat halted his archers beside the men-at-arms. The center of their line was made up of Sir Thomas's men-at-arms, and on either flank were the archers. Nat was on the right, alongside Milton Lister and three hundred other archers.

He knew that they were being watched. The heathens had seen them as soon as they'd left the north gate. Sooner or later, someone would come to confront them. Nat took a dozen arrows, good livery arrows with steeled bodkin heads, and stuck them point down in the ground by his back foot.

"Now's the time," Sir Thomas ordered.

At that, every archer nocked an arrow on their longbow. They didn't nock normal livery shafts. Each arrow had a long iron head with an alchemical compound attached with and coated in resin. A short fuse trailed from the compound. They had been provided by the King's alchemists along with instructions on how to use them. The men who'd given them had promised that, when ignited, the heads would burn with a fierceness that not even water could extinguish. Every archer had two.

Nat felt the fire arrow on his bow and bit his lip. He looked down the line to Milton Lister and asked, "Ever use one of these things?"

Milton shook his head. "Haven't shot naught but bodkins and broadheads. You?"

"Once," Nat said with some hesitation. "In Italy," he added.

"And?"

"We torched a peasant's field. Had to pay him back in silver."

Milton grinned, showing his missing teeth. "They work then."

"Aye," Nat sighed. "They work."

Two dozen pages ran down the line with slow matches. They lit the fuses from one end of the line to the other so that by the time the men on the far right had their fuses lit, the men on the left were already shooting.

Nat was one of the first to have his arrow lit. The fuse burned for the time it took to say Ave Maria then, with a flash of sparks, the flame entered the resin. The arrow burst into fire in a violent hiss. Fire shot from the arrowhead like steam from a kettle.

Nat raised his bow and drew. He drew all the way back to his ear, despite the heat coming from the arrow. Molten resin dripped to the ground.

With a grunt, he loosed the arrow.

It arced into the air, flying high above with a visible trail of smoke, over the heathen palisade wall then down, into the camp, still burning. Onto, perhaps, something very flammable. Linen tents. Thatched roofs. Bales of hay.

Six hundred burning arrows loosed in a rapid succession rained down onto the heathen camp.

A thousand shouts of alarm erupted all at once.

Within a minute, smoke started to rise like fog from the camp. Wisps of flame were just visible over the palisade wall. There was a lot of activity on the other side of that wall. Nat could hear them; the hurried movement of soldiers mixed with the barked orders of officers. Water was being brought to douse the fires. Men were rescuing barrels of supplies.

And somewhere there was an officer preparing to retaliate against the English archers.

"Kicked the hornet's nest with that!" Milton Lister shouted over the commotion. He turned to face the other archers and ordered, "Save yer other fire shaft! We can kick 'em twice!"

Ahead, Nat saw a block of heathen legionaries emerge from a gap in the palisades and earthworks that served as the gate into the camp. They marched out and formed up in good order. An officer dressed their ranks while they waited for another block to emerge.

Nat put a bodkin shaft on his yew bow. He judged the distance against the wind then shouted, "Here we go boys! Pick your shots nice and slow!"

He pulled back to his ear and let the shaft fly. It soared up and arced forward, traveling a tremendous distance in very little time, and nailed one of the legionaries in the second rank right through his chin.

The legionary fell and with him went several dozen other heathens as six hundred longbow shafts rained down on them. Men screamed, and their officers shouted. Their big shields went up, and they started advancing.

Nat took his time with his next shot, because it really was hard to hit a man covered by a shield nearly as tall as him. At this range, even their yew longbows wouldn't punch through enough to wound a man on the other side. But big shields were heavy, and fear made men tire quickly.

He loosed an arrow at a man who wasn't holding his shield high enough. It struck right through his throat, terrifying the two heathens next to him. He loosed again against one of the terrified heathens, but that man came to his senses and got his shield up in time to save him. He loosed a third time and watched it dent a man's helmet.

The heathens continued to advance. They dripped casualties behind them like blood from a leech, yet still kept coming forward. English archers created an arrow storm with their shooting. Heathen legionaries raised their shields and marched into it.

Soon enough, the distance wasn't so great anymore. When one of Nat's arrows punched deep through a heathen shield and into the heathen's shoulder, he decided it was time.

"As quick as you can boys!" he roared.

Down the line, Milton Lister echoed, "Fast as ye like!"

The intensity of the arrow storm increased dramatically. They didn't shoot in volleys but rather as a continuous rain that never let up. And at this range, a good bodkin arrow could pierce a shield and still kill the man on the other side.

Legionaries went down. The heathen line staggered. Then it slowed. The flanks, where the shooting was most intense, began to bend in toward the center.

A heathen officer with a gilded helmet and a magnificent purple feather plume ran out from the center, took three arrows through his rectangular shield, and raised his sword. Another arrow glanced off his helmet, but the officer turned his head to his men even as two more embedded in his shield.

"Morior invictus!" the officer called. His voice carried in the wind, and the legionaries surged forward with one last gasp.

More arrows flew into the heathen charge. Their line looked like a crescent bent inward, and their shields were filled with goose feather shafts.

They kept coming.

Nat had three arrows left by his back foot, and by his best estimate that was all he was going to get before the charge impacted. The legionaries were hard bastards, and they'd taken more than Nat would've in their position. He plucked one of his arrows from the ground.

"Everyone give them three more!" Nat called before loosing.

Those last three shots dealt more death than all the shafts prior to them. They were at point-blank range, and every man had a heavy yew bow and steeled livery bodkins. At that range, arrows went through shields and iron breastplates. Through mail shirts and padded jacks. They dented steel cuirasses and helmets. Gored flesh and bone.

Four hundred heathen legionaries died in the time it took to say a prayer. Entire ranks collapsed to the ground. The blocks of legionaries shuffled back. They hesitated. And in that moment, they were shredded.

Then Sir Thomas raised his heavy spear and led his block of men-at-arms forward.

The heathens broke. Enough was enough.

Sir Thomas's men-at-arms didn't even graze them before they'd begun fleeing back to their camp. Not a single legionary was felled by the men-at-arms. English archers loosed sporadically at the backs of the legionaries. The men-at-arms were halted and then led back to take their place again in the center.

"Again!" Sir Thomas roared. "Give them fire!"

Pages ran down the line again. Some carried slow matches; others brought bundles of arrows to replenish quivers.

Nat had his second fire arrow lit by a skinny page who couldn't have been older than ten. The arrow burst into flames once more as molten resin dripped from it. He drew back, angled his shot, and loosed.

Like the one before it, the fire arrow arced in the air with a trail of smoke. With it rose a wave of six hundred other burning arrows as the English archers let fly their alchemical concoctions. They dropped into the heathen camp like hail.

The shouts of alarm returned immediately.

Nat ran to Sir Thomas in the center. They'd done their damage, and there wasn't much use in standing around now.

"My lord," Nat addressed carefully. "We should make ourselves scarce before they come for us again. We've done all we can. No sense in dying here."

Sir Thomas turned his torso toward Nat, his great bascinet preventing him from turning his neck. He considered Nat for a moment then said, "No. We can hurt them further by standing our ground. We'll hold until I say."

"When the heathens come again, they'll gut us," Nat urged. "By Christ, Sir Thomas. Mayhaps they won't. But the next charge won't be turned back so easily."

"The King wishes for us to stand our ground," Sir Thomas insisted. He turned himself to face the enemy. "Return to your men."

Nat could see he wasn't getting anywhere with the knight, and he could already see the heathens forming a new contingent to face them. He ran back to his place in the line where the pages were still carrying bundles of arrows. He took a dozen to replace the ones he'd shot and stuck them behind his back foot.

"What'd he say?" Milton Lister shouted from his part of the line.

"We're to hold our ground until he says otherwise," Nat shouted back.

Milton shook his head. "Aw, fuck. We're getting it then."

The heathens didn't waste time. They had more men this time; fresh blocks of legionaries had come to reinforce their line. Someone shouted, and their line began to roll forward.

Nat bellowed, "Just like before! Nice and slow!"

With a grunt, Nat let loose a livery shaft. Four men to his right, Richard Glover drew all the way back to his ear, held it a moment, and released. Two men to his left, Oliver Shields plucked his second arrow out of the soil by his back foot. Slightly behind, Andy Waller squinted a bit, carefully chose a target, and only then drew back his first arrow.

The heathen line was struck by a fury of archery.

Edwin Brewster lofted an arrow that went in a high arc but then descended down on the heathens, over their shields, like a thunderbolt from the heavens.

Milton Lister shot flat, struck a man in the shin by chance, and then shot another arrow into the gap created by the falling man.

Nat Miller had his third shaft on his bow. He raised it and leant forward, engaging all the muscles in his back, built from the decades of practice required to draw a bow as heavy as his. He let the arrow fly with another grunt.

The heathens took it all and advanced. Their shields were big, and their armor was plentiful. Men dropped but not as many as the first time. They advanced slowly, shields carefully raised, and steadily.

Richard Glover put another shaft on his bow and drew again. Oliver Shields drew back to his ear. Andy Waller squinted and drew.

Edwin Brewster drew.

Milton Lister drew.

Nat drew.

The space between the two forces was a hum of archery. The heathens approached at an ever increasing rate, walking over the corpses of fallen comrades.

"Fast as ye like!"

"Quick as you can boys!"

A blizzard of arrows erupted into the air, and all of it went one way. Bodkins pierced shields. Men were wounded. English archers drew and loosed as fast as they could.

It wasn't enough.

The heathen legionaries were coming too close. They were too brave and too disciplined to break now. They'd been overwhelmed by the power of English longbows the first time, but now they'd learned to respect the danger of English archers and had the numbers to beat them. They took their losses and stepped over them, unwilling to break again.

A cry came from the English center, "For the King and Saint George!"

To Nat's left, steel flashed as Sir Thomas led his three hundred men-at-arms directly at the center of the heathen line. Each man-at-arms was bedecked in steel harness, wielding heavy spears and vicious poleaxes or with beautifully painted shields in one hand and a variety of hand weapons in the other. They passed the lines of archers and continued onward, accelerating to a steady jog as they approached the heathens.

The heathens, hunched behind their tall shields, didn't see them coming. Or if they did, they didn't react fast enough.

Sir Thomas's men-at-arms broke into a run.

The heathen legionaries had compacted in on themselves during their advance. It was the natural reaction to being shot at by six hundred archers, and it made it so that arrows couldn't slip through the gaps between men's shields. But it also made it difficult for men to maneuver their spears. It made it difficult to fight.

Three hundred men-at-arms charged into the legionaries with a clash of steel. The legionaries weren't ready for it. Their front rankers were still flinching from English arrows, and the momentum of the men-at-arms simply knocked them over. Poleaxes swept up. Heavy spears lashed out. They reaped the front of the heathen formation and went forward.

Heathens died. The English men-at-arms advanced like an arrowhead into flesh.

Nat watched the men-at-arms push the center of the heathen line back. They were only three hundred men, and the heathens outnumbered them greatly. With each footstep they took, they moved deeper into the heathen formation. The heathen line bent inward. The sides began to envelop and surround Sir Thomas's men-at-arms. It was as if the men-at-arms were being eaten by the tide of heathens.

But in doing so, the heathen legionaries were revealing their unshielded flanks. Right in view of the English archers.

"Less watching, more shooting!" Nat roared. Many of the archers had stopped once the English men-at-arms went forward. Nat nocked another arrow, the last one by his rear foot, and shouted, "Hit them hard, boys!"

The storm of arrows resumed, and this time it wasn't at a wall of shields. Legionary armor was decent, but the English archers were almost point-blank, and it certainly wasn't the steel used by a man-at-arms. The archers poured steeled bodkins into their backs. Men went down by the dozen.

Nat had a dozen arrows in his arrow bag when he started drawing from it instead of the ground by his back foot. In what felt like the blink of an eye, he was down to eight. Then to five. Then two.

The heathen corpses were piling up; hundreds were dead and more kept dying. Their flanks began to unravel. Some clever officers tried to rally men to have a go at the archers, but in the chaos they could only gather a handful and those men were shot apart quickly.

Nat's second to last shaft nailed a big fellow who was trying to wrestle an English man-at-arms. He saw Richard Glover put one into a handsome looking officer then watched Edwin Brewster get the man Nat was aiming his next shot at. Milton Lister was out of shafts and shouting at his lads to pick their targets. Andy Waller loosed twice in rapid succession. Oliver Shields put an arrow through a legionary's eye.

Nat sent his last arrow through the back of someone who'd made the mistake of putting a target on himself by wearing a plumed helmet. The man dropped, and then Nat was done. He flexed his arm, sore from the fast shooting.

But the heathens were done as well. They'd taken too many casualties, more than Nat could even count, and their flanks were already in retreat. It didn't take long for their center to fall back as well, leaving behind Sir Thomas's men-at-arms, exhausted and covered in gore.

"Arrows!" Nat demanded, as did six hundred other archers.

The two dozen pages supporting them ran forward with bundles of arrows. They gave a dozen to each man, and when one ran by Nat he grabbed the boy by his shoulder.

"We'll need more than this," Nat spat.

The boy did his best to look brave. "This is all the shafts we 'ave, master. We'd need to run to the town for more."

"Crucified Christ," Nat swore. He let the boy go.

Already, he could see the heathens gathering more reinforcements to have another go at them. With twelve shafts a man, there wasn't a chance they'd turn them back with archery alone.

Nat ran to the center of the English line, where Sir Thomas had led his bloodied men-at-arms back to. He could already see one of the master archers from the other end of the line speaking with Sir Thomas.

"We've little left, my lord," the master archer was saying. "You can't expect-"

"Lads on the right are down to twelve shafts a man," Nat interrupted as soon as he was close. "Time to get out, Sir Thomas. We won't stop the next one."

Sir Thomas seemed to be looking at the sun's position in the sky. He bit his lip for a long moment then said, "We can hold them again. We've done a wondrous job so far."

Nat narrowed his eyes. "We had plenty of shafts for the last two. Now we don't. This is foolery, and if we don't start withdrawing a lot of boys will go down for nothing."

"Your archers will flay them again, and then I'll punch through with my men-at-arms. They've been beaten twice now; they'll run again as soon as we hit them hard," Sir Thomas asserted.

"Or they don't, and we get slaughtered," Nat hissed. "Christ's cross, what the hell are we even doing out here? We've caused a little destruction with your alchemy but nothing that'll do more than sting them. At least if we retire now we'll have done it without much loss."

Sir Thomas was looking at the sun again. "The King needs us to hold a little longer. Back to your positions. We'll stop them here again."

"You just want to say you held your ground thrice, you fucking aristocrat! Men will die for your damned glory! Your arrogance! Your… your! Your fucking chivalry!" Nat spluttered with deep rage.

Sir Thomas looked through Nat, uncaring in a typically noble way. It was easy to do, protected from the world by a suit of steel that cost more money than Nat's father had ever seen in his life, and having grown up in a castle without ever having to fear going hungry.

The other master archer pulled Nat away from Sir Thomas. "You won't change anything like this. The heathens are coming again, you'd best be with your lads," he muttered

The master archer pushed Nat in the direction of his men, and Nat automatically began walking. After a moment, the rage dissipated enough that Nat decided the other master archer had been right, and he began running.

When Nat arrived back at his position, the rage was still present but dulled, and Nat was finally thinking through what had been said. Sir Thomas had insisted the King needed them to hold a little longer. Which meant they were buying time for the King. Which in turn meant…

"Fuck," Nat realized aloud, "we're a distraction."

To his right, Milton Lister cackled, "Ye didn't figure that sooner?"

Nat wanted to say something clever, but the words quickly left his lips when he saw the heathens begin advancing again. Instead, he put his dozen arrows into the ground by his back foot, nocked one on his bow, and looked to the other archers with him.

"Here we go again, boys! Nice and slow, just like the last two!"

Henry, King of England, led the assault, the real assault, in person from the east gate half an hour after noon when the heathens had just begun committing their reserves to drive off Sir Thomas Erpingham's force on the other side of the town.

Henry led his men out onto the open ground at a jog. He had seven hundred men-at-arms with him, practically every armored man he could spare from the garrison. They were divided into three roughly equal contingents. The Baron of Camoys had the left wing. Sir John Cornwall had the right. King Henry himself led the center, gleaming in the most magnificent plate harness many men had ever seen.

The King jogged forward, and his men followed. The left was lagging behind, but there was nothing Henry could do about that now. The right was with them, and that would be enough. Behind, a few dozen archers followed as best they could while carrying small wooden kegs on their shoulders.

They moved over the ground between Harfleur and the heathen siege line. Ahead, a handful of heathen sentries were posted on the palisade wall.

Henry increased his stride fifty paces from the wall. The sentries were shouting desperately, and someone was ringing a bell as quickly as he could, but the bulk of the men ready for battle were nowhere to be found. Those men were already moving toward Sir Thomas's force. Just as Henry had planned.

He smiled. It was too late for these heathens, as God had certainly intended it. He knew God would never forsake his cause.

Henry sprinted the last few paces. In full armor, he leapt over the ditch before the palisades and clambered up the earthen rampart, not once breaking his stride.

"Saint George! Saint George!" he screamed at the heathen sentries.

With his poleaxe in both hands, Henry hacked at the wooden palisades, cleaving through the ropes binding them together. One of the heathens jabbed a spear down at him, but it deflected from Henry's great bascinet. Other men joined Henry at the palisades and the heathens cowered. Men-at-arms hacked and pulled at the palisades. Their mass threatened to topple it whole.

A few hundred heathens joined their comrades on their wall, but the palisades were already coming down. A wood post was toppled nearby, and Henry was the first into the gap. He pushed in while twenty heathens tried to block his way. The heathens were in various states of disarray with some in full kit and others missing pieces of armor or weapons, having forgone them in their rush to get into the fighting. Few had been prepared for battle.

Henry cleaved a man's head in two with the blade of his poleaxe. He raised it back and jabbed its spiked butt into an unarmored heathen's sternum then stepped forward and parried a spear thrust at Henry's visor. Another stabbed for his armpit, so Henry pivoted, deflected the spearhead, then smashed in the heathen's helmet with his poleaxe's maul.

A man-at-arms wearing a blue brigandine stepped into the gap Henry had created. He bellowed, "The King and Saint George!" before gutting a heathen with his heavy spear.

The heathens flinched at the appearance of a new threat, giving Henry time. He pushed forward again, thrusting with his poleaxe's spike at the opening between a man's shield and his helmet. When the heathen he was advancing against raised his shield, Henry pressed his foot against it and kicked the man over.

Another man-at-arms pushed through the gap. Then two more behind him.

The heathens could no longer hope to keep them contained. Henry gave and received blows. His magnificent harness allowed him to ignore most attacks while his poleaxe could strike back with powerful hits that crumpled armor. His men-at-arms were eager to prove themselves in sight of their king, and they advanced relentlessly. More gaps opened in the palisade wall, allowing brave knights and impassioned squires to storm the fortifications.

A heathen with a mattock came at King Henry. The man had no armor and had clearly been part of a work party just minutes before.

He swung his mattock two handed at Henry's head, just as Henry was finishing off a man on the ground with his poleaxe. It struck. Hard. Suddenly Henry's vision was full of stars. His magnificent helmet was dented deeply. The world seemed to be spinning.

The heathen swung again. Henry got his poleaxe up to parry at the midpoint between his hands. He stumbled from the force of the blow.

The heathen kept swinging. They were hard blows, powered by desperation and all the more forceful for it. Henry couldn't make sense of the world. All he could do was raise his poleaxe and parry.

On the fourth swing, the poleaxe snapped in half.

King Henry fell onto his back. Eight heathens saw him go down and smelled blood. They came for him like hungry wolves.

From the ground, Henry could only watch. His head spun, and his body refused to obey. The world above seemed a mile away.

A glint of rusted metal entered Henry's vision. The man-at-arms in the blue brigandine stepped over King Henry's body.

He looked at the coming heathens and saluted them with his heavy spear. The heathens hesitated but then charged forward.

Suddenly the man-at-arms' spear was everywhere, darting back and forth between heathens, threatening and parrying in equal measure. It licked forward, catching the heathen with the mattock through his throat then drew back to stop another from dragging away Henry's body. For ten heartbeats, the man-at-arms defended King Henry. He swapped blows with them like a fighting dog, his spear punching through flesh. One tried to close with him, and the man-at-arms' thrust went right into his eye. His head seemed to explode as his body collapsed.

And then King Henry felt himself dragged backward, into the mass of the English men-at-arms flooding through the palisade wall, and he lost sight of the man-at-arms with the blue brigandine.

Two men hoisted him up. They lifted his visor, and suddenly Henry's vision was flooded with light. He winced.

"Your majesty!" a man was shouting. "Your majesty! Can you hear me, your majesty?!"

Henry blinked. His mind began to make sense again. He was surrounded by terrified men.

"Yes," Henry managed. He looked around him to see the heathens in full retreat and the English men-at-arms finishing off their wounded. "I'm fine," he said louder. "Give me space!"

The men all backed a step. One of them offered a wooden canteen which Henry took. He drained it greedily.

"The mines," Henry finally gasped, his head somewhat clearer. "We need to get to the mines!"

That seemed to spur men into action.

They went forward to their target, the mines where the heathens were tunneling toward Harfleur's wall. They were only a little ways away from the siege lines, probably to save on digging. When King Henry's force reached them, Sir John Cornwall's rightwing had already arrived.

Sir John's men-at-arms had driven off a force of heathen legionaries, and the corpses littered the ground. Sir John was standing by one of the tunnel entrances, watching a few hundred men in chains.

Henry did a double take. Many of them were not men in fact. Some were creatures with the aspects of animals, the ears of cats or the heads of wolves. Others had long pointed ears and slim faces or short statures and thick beards.

"Your majesty," Sir John greeted. "We found these… things working in the tunnels. I think they're slaves of some kind. What should be done with them?"

Henry looked them over again. They'd clearly been mistreated by the heathens, but they were also the enemy's miners. Valuable laborers who couldn't be left to restart their work. And Harfleur's stores weren't large enough to support this many extra mouths.

"Kill them all," King Henry ordered.

Sir John's face betrayed his discomfort. "Your majesty, these are innocent-"

"They are Satan's abominations," Henry declared. "Just look at them and know that they are the Devil's work. And those of them that are human are still heathens who worship false gods. End their existence quickly."

Sir John nodded slowly. "Yes, your majesty."

King Henry turned away. The Baron of Camoys was just arriving with his force, and with him were the few dozen archers carrying kegs.

"Your majesty." Camoys did a slight bow on arrival.

Henry gave him a nod. "Have your men plant the powder in the tunnels. We need to get going."

"Right." Camoys turned to the archers and shouted, "Edd, Will! Get your lads in there and set it to blow!"

The archers took off immediately. Some pulled fuses from their pouches, and one blew on a slow match to keep it going.

Henry was already turning away, looking through the gathered men-at-arms for the one he needed. Sir John's men had begun their bloody work, and some men flinched at the panicked cries that came from it. Still, Henry searched until he found his man.

The man-at-arms in the blue brigandine was standing away from the tunnels, spear still clutched in both hands, his visor raised. Henry pointed him out to the Baron of Camoys.

"Who's that fellow there?"

Camoys leaned forward and squinted. "I believe that's Gregory Tyler," he said. Camoys straightened up. "Aye that's him. Greg used to be one of my archers, but he left me once he got enough money together to buy his harness. Always wanted to be a man-at-arms."

"Is he a knight?" Henry asked.

Camoys shook his head. "Not to my recollection."

Henry nodded. "Come with me." He strode towards the man in the blue brigandine and roared, "Gregory Tyler!"

Greg Tyler flinched and turned to face him. Sir John's men had finished with their butchery, so most men were waiting around for the archers to finish up in the tunnels. They all watched silently as the King approached Greg Tyler.

"Gregory Tyler," Henry said again. His head hurt from shouting, and he felt somewhat dizzy, but appearances were still necessary. He stopped before the man and ordered, "Kneel."

Greg Tyler knelt.

King Henry drew his sword, a well balanced arming sword that retained all the simplicity of a good blade. The Baron of Camoys watched from his left..

"In the heat of battle," Henry announced, "you have defended your king with honor and prowess. You have risked yourself and been proven worthy on the field of chivalry."

Greg Tyler looked up with disbelief in his eyes.

Henry pressed the sword down against his left shoulder. "Do you swear to uphold justice, to defend the weak, and to act with honor?"

"I do," Greg Tyler said, so quietly it was barely a whisper.

Henry pressed the sword onto his right shoulder. "Do you swear to defend the Holy Church and to be true to Our Lord in all aspects of life?"

"I do," Greg Tyler murmured. There was a tear in his eye.

"Then by the virtue of knighthood and my royal blood, I dub thee knight."

Sir Gregory Tyler burst into tears.

The Baron of Camoys smacked him across the face, hard. Camoys grinned, "Let that be the last blow you accept unanswered."

Sir Gregory smiled as he stood. He wiped the tears from his face and said, "Your majesty, I-"

"Run!" an archer screamed, fleeing from the tunnels. "Run! We've lit the powder! Go!"

Nat Miller raised his longbow with his twelfth and final arrow. Even if he had more shafts, experience told him this was the last one he was going to get. He leaned forward, engaged his muscles, and shot a heathen legionary just under his nose where the nasal of his helmet ended.

The heathen legionaries kept on coming. They'd taken severe losses once again, and yet they refused to give up. This time they'd stretched their line so that if Sir Thomas's men-at-arms charged again there'd still be men to go after the archers.

Nat tossed his bow over his shoulder. If he lived through this, he'd find it again. If not, it didn't matter. He drew his arming sword in his right hand and put his buckler in his left.

Around him, archers tossed back their bows and drew whatever weapons they had. Some had swords and bucklers like Nat. Others carried axes and maces. A few only had what they could scrounge. Mallets, daggers, even simple eating knives.

Against them were some of the most disciplined infantry Nat had ever seen.

Maybe they had a chance. English longbowmen could fight, no doubt. And the heathens had just trudged through hell to get to where they were standing. Maybe this wasn't suicide. Maybe they'd get lucky.

But a voice in Nat's head told him he was about to send his lightly armored archers into the teeth of the enemy's heavy infantry where they'd be slaughtered like hogs at a fair. All because a damned aristocrat was using them as bait. And if he didn't do it, he'd probably be hanged for leaving the stupid fucking noble bastards to die.

Nat saw the men-at-arms to his left, the armored aristocrats, charge forward at the center of the heathen line.

He sighed, bit his lip, then raised his sword and yelled, "At them, boys!"

The English archers surged forward.

Nat Miller ran full tilt at the heathen legionary in front of him. It was the only way he'd get past their long spears. He parried a spear thrust, buckler parallel with his sword, stepped past the spearhead, into their close reach, kicked against man's shield and cut at his head immediately after. His blade rang off the man's helmet, and Nat stepped in to break the man's nose with his pommel. Then he thrust at the legionaries beside him.

To his left, Edwin Brewster tried to run in as well and was gaffed like a fish by two legionaries with their spears. He was dead before he hit the ground. An archer Nat didn't know tried to grab for Edwin's corpse, but he was speared through as well.

Andy Waller went forward with his big falchion. He hacked at spearshafts, aiming for mens' hands, only to find that the heathens were experienced professionals who didn't make beginner's mistakes. A spear tip entered Andy Waller's throat when he pushed ahead, and Oliver Shields stepped over his corpse and put the tip of his sword into the killer's eye.

Richard Glover was forced back by the spears, and he resorted to staying at a distance and only parrying, unable to strike back. Milton Lister had a thrust glance off his helmet.

All around Nat, the English archers charged into the legionaries and died for it. Roger Baker, a London apprentice turned soldier, died with a spear in his chest when he cut at a heathen's shoulder. Angus Webster, who'd just turned seventeen, bled out from the wound in his gut. Walter Graves screamed for his mother as he tried to hold in his organs. Clark Fuller was gutted by a legionary's short sword. Godwin Walker took a spear to the shoulder and stumbled back. Jacob Drage died in the dirt.

A hamlet's worth of English yeomen, farmboys, apprentices, servants, and soldiers died on the spears on the heathens. Virgin boys and grizzled veterans were killed alike. Men, some of whom Nat had known for ten or even twenty years, went down in the time it took to say Ave Maria.

And yet, far to the left, the God damned aristocrats were shouting with exhilaration, "Saint George! Saint George!" because they, in their suits of steel, were carving through the legionaries and taking minimal losses.

Nat took a shield rim to the face and spat blood. He parried a thrust with his buckler and then cut uselessly with his sword at a legionary's shield. The archers were being pushed back, and Nat had no choice but to give ground. He watched Henry Wayne, a Bristol shop boy who'd always said he was going to make his fortune in France, take a spear to his thigh and then another through his chest.

There was nothing he could do. Men, his men, were being killed all around him. They were being sacrificed for the damned noblemen.

He gave ground, parried with his buckler, and cut with his sword even as hate spread through him.

Fucking heathens.

Fucking aristocrats.

Then, a titanic boom echoed across the entirety of Harfleur and the fields around it.

Every man heard it. The noise washed over them like a gust of wind. The heathens, who had been on the verge of breaking the English archers, heard the noise and stopped. Many of the English stopped too, as if the voice of God almighty had washed over them. It may very well have been the voice of God.

A moment passed. Then another.

Finally, as if by common consensus, the heathen formation began to back away from the English. They stepped away silently, not once turning their backs on the English. Many had looks of immense fear on their faces. They backstepped until they were a hundred yards from what remained of the English line and then turned to flee to their camp.

It was, by all accounts, a miracle made manifest. Some English archers knelt where they stood and began to pray.

Nat Miller knelt in the blood of hundreds of English archers and did not pray. He looked over the field of dead men, and he let his hatred grow.

Then he stood up, found his discarded longbow, and led his men back to Harfleur.

Chivalry is an interesting thing. On one hand, it has many admirable features. Defend the weak, protect the innocent, uphold justice, ect. On the other hand, the Black Prince massacred innocent peasants, burned towns, and yet was considered a paragon of chivalry. Henry V, also a paragon of chivalry, ordered surrendering French knights to be murdered at Agincourt, fearing that the prisoners would outnumber his tiny army. Chivalry provided war with rules, and yet those rules were often broken. Does that make chivalry useless? Are the Geneva Conventions useless just because they are often ignored? Like I said, an interesting thing.

And then of course there are the commoners. The 14th century was a hotbed of lower class uprisings in Europe from the Jacquerie in France to the Great Rising in England. Much of that history would have still been in the living memory during the time this story takes place in 1415, so we'll see how that progresses.

Anyways, thank you for reading and please review. I enjoy reading reviews immensely, and it is great motivation to write. I appreciate it.