Then went hym forth, owre king comely, In Agincourt feld he faught manly; Throw grace of God most marvelsuly, He had both feld and victory. Deo gratias!

Henry, King of England and France, watched from the parapets as the heathens released a flock of white doves in front of Harfleur's west wall. There were six heathens in total, standing just out of bow shot. They wore no armor and carried no weapons. One of them carried a scroll in his hand.

"This must be a trick," Sir John Cornwall spat from beside Henry. "The birds are enchanted by their devilry and will carry fire into the walls, or perhaps they are diseased and will bring plague. We should sortie out and ride down those heathens before more birds are brought."

King Henry gave the knight a doubtful look. But he said nothing and returned his gaze to the heathens who were now walking towards Harfleur's walls.

Edward, Duke of York, was on the other side of Henry, and he shook his head. "If that were the case, then why are there so few of them?" he asked. York smiled and continued, "We hurt them dearly yesterday. They may be the Devil's minions, but they are still men. Any tricks would come after they had time to rest and recuperate. I believe this is a peaceful envoy."

The heathens kept walking forward. They were now well within bow shot, and the archers on the walls all nocked their bows. One of the master archers looked to King Henry for orders.

Henry glanced briefly at York and said, "I concur; if this was a trick, they wouldn't do it after sacrificing five hundred men." He raised his hand and called to the archers, "Hold your arrows! The heathens come to negotiate."

Some of the archers looked antsy. To allow Lucifer's minions to speak their piece was dangerous and possibly sacrilegious. But they obeyed their king regardless.

The heathen emissaries stopped just before the walls and shouted in their strangely accented Latin, "In the name of Molt Sol Augustus, Emperor of the Grand City of Sadera, Ruler of all from the Blue Sea to the Western Desert, Hegemon of Falmart, the Chosen of Flare himself, his excellency Legate Marius Co Pictor requests that whomever commands your fortress present himself so that a peaceable meeting may be held between them under honorable terms of truce!"

King Henry looked between York and Sir John. The archers on the wall seemed utterly confused at the foreign speech, but Henry, York, and Sir John were educated in Latin as was typical for nobility. Written Latin at least. To hear it spoken outside of a church context was a somewhat unique experience.

"It's a trap, your majesty," Sir John muttered in English. "The Devil has no honor. They just want to lure you out and kill you since you've been doing such a good job at hurting them."

The Duke of York shook his head fervently. "With respect, Sir John, this is not a trap but a sign of desperation in the face of repeated defeats. Your majesty, you should accept this meeting, if for no other reason than to learn more of our foe. We know little other than what our captives have told us, and that leaves much to be desired."

King Henry grumbled in assent. They had roughly a hundred heathen prisoners but none of them were men of status or nobility. Most weren't literate, and their knowledge was limited to vague generalities of an 'Empire' beyond the 'Gate' which was, depending on the man, described as corrupt and failing or almighty and the pinnacle of civilization.

None had admitted correspondence with the Devil thus far.

"Fine then, send someone to meet with the heathens," Sir John conceded, "but do not meet them yourself. Your majesty, you are too valuable to risk in this manner."

York nodded in agreement. "Sir John's reasoning is well thought. If this is indeed a trick then allow some worthy man the honor of taking your place. There are many who would eagerly do so, myself included."

Henry gazed over the wall at the heathen emissaries. They stood with uncertainty, awaiting a response while English archers eyed them with nocked bows.

"If their commander wishes to meet me in person then I shall meet him in person. I want to know who I am facing in this struggle, and to endanger a lesser man for that task would be…" King Henry gave a soft smile. "It would be unkingly. Remember gentlemen, we must act as we mean to appear. Otherwise we are nothing more than mummers playing a part. I will meet with this 'Legate Marius' and demonstrate to the heathens that I am king, not some mere warlord."

York began to form a protest on his lips, "Your majesty, your safety-"

"Is of the utmost importance; yes Edward, I am aware," Henry interrupted. "To that end, I will meet the heathens halfway between the walls and their siege lines, armored and with a full complement of men-at-arms to guard my person." He looked over to Sir John. "And with this brave knight commanding five hundred mounted men-at-arms ready to sortie from the gates in case I am endangered."

"I would be honored," Sir John said, seemingly placated.

The Duke of York looked ready to protest further, but he sighed, "If this is your will, your majesty, then so be it."

King Henry nodded. He leaned out from the wall and shouted in Latin to the heathen emissaries, "Your offer of meeting has been accepted! Return to your camp. A herald shall be sent to you by nightfall to specify the terms of this meeting."

The emissaries looked between each other briefly and whispered words. Slowly, they seemed to come to a consensus and one stepped forward.

"We will await your herald! Ensure that he is unarmed and unarmored, or he will be struck down as a combatant."

And with that, the emissaries turned to leave.

King Henry sighed. He looked to York and commanded, "Find me a man who speaks good Latin and has an heir to succeed him. Make sure he knows the danger."

The Duke of York bowed his head. "Of course, your majesty."

A large tent was erected at the middle point of the ground between the harbor gate and the heathen siege lines. One long table was placed inside the tent with three chairs on both sides. It had been agreed that each commander would be allowed two companions with him for the meeting; the rest of their escorts would remain outside. Servants, both English and heathen, worked jointly to prepare the ground as was agreed. There were no refreshments of any kind since a compromise on that matter had not been found.

King Henry rode from Harfleur atop a white stallion. He was bedecked in the finest plate harness in all of England and possibly all of France. His arm and leg harness were of shining steel, freshly polished by a dozen pages, accented with gilded contours, and with spurs of pure gold attached to his sabatons. He wore a great bascinet of modern make with a raised visor that dazzled in the morning light complete with a gold circlet inlaid into the steel signifying his authority as king. On his torso, the quartered royal arms of England and France were displayed in vivid blue and red.

With the King were a hundred belted knights, hand chosen for their prowess to accompany their king. Each was fully armored, riding warhorses and carrying longswords at their sides. Directly beside the King were the Duke of York and Sir Thomas Erpingham, his companions for the meeting, both carrying royal standards flapping proudly in the wind.

Back in Harfleur, the Baron of Camoys held temporary command of the town, and Sir John Cornwall waited like a guard dog at the gate for the slightest sign of hostility with five hundred mounted men-at-arms at his back.

King Henry slowed his horse as he approached the tent. The heathens had arrived first, and there were a hundred legionaries waiting on their side of the tent. Two gold on purple dragon banners, the coat of arms of the so-called Empire, were held high above the tent by standard bearers. A wreath of laurels had been placed on the tent's peak.

Henry dismounted; every man with him did likewise. York and Sir Thomas handed off the royal standards to other men. Henry approached the tent and entered without hesitation.

Inside were three heathens. On the left was a boy standing with a wax tablet in one hand and a stylus in the other, clearly a servant of some kind. On the right, a gruff looking heathen with a gap in his front teeth sat lazily at the table. Finally, in the center was a man standing in armor with a red cloak over his shoulders and a plumed helmet at his side.

The boy was the first to speak. He cleared his throat and announced, "I present to you Marius Co Pictor, Legion Legate of the Imperial Army and Hero of the Algunan Conquest, on behalf of his Imperial Majesty, Molt Sol Augustus."

The man with the plumed helmet slightly inclined his head at Henry.

Henry flicked his eyes over to the Duke of York at his side.

York immediately bowed slightly. He rose and declared, "You stand before his royal majesty, Henry, King of England, Rightful King of France, Lord of Ireland, and Duke of Aquitaine."

There was a brief silence. Then the man with the plumed helmet, Marius Co Pictor, set his helmet on the table and took a seat.

"Shall we begin then?"

King Henry nodded and took the center chair. "Gladly."

The Duke of York and Sir Thomas waited until King Henry was seated before taking their own seats. The heathen boy was the last to sit, having waited until his elders were seated.

"I would like to extend an offer of surrender," Marius began. "Your situation is hopeless. We outnumber you in both men and monsters, and we have you surrounded on all sides. There is no relief force coming to your aid. You say you are the king of this land called France? Just recently my colleague to the east smashed a French army, took thousands of prisoners, and now has the city you call Calais under siege. No matter how long you hold out, this fortress will eventually fall. So why delay the inevitable? Surrender now and you will be treated with dignity."

The Duke of York glanced subtly over to King Henry. It seemed the heathens were ignorant of Henry's actual position in France.

"I reject your offer," Henry said simply. "You are the servants of the Devil, and to surrender would be to betray God himself."

"I haven't the slightest clue as to what you mean by that, but it is in your interest to surrender," Marius replied.

Henry shook head. "My words were clear. You serve the Devil's ambitions to destroy Christendom, and I refuse to give myself and my subjects to you heathens. God supports us. You say that there will be no relief force? I say that the whole of England and France, united in holy righteousness, shall come to drive you from this earth and back into the hell where you were spawned. This is God's will."

Marius furrowed his brow before speaking carefully, "I serve Emperor Molt Sol Augustus, not this 'Devil' you claim. As for your gods, surely you cannot pretend that you know their desires. No mortal army has the absolute support of the gods, and to claim otherwise is sheer hubris."

"There is but one God, heathen," King Henry declared. "You and your kin have been deceived by Satan's machinations. Repent in the name of our Lord and Savior, and your souls may yet be saved."

Marius took a deep breath. "Regardless of your faith in the matter, you must admit that your material situation is hopeless. The Saderan Empire is vast, and I can call upon limitless resources to break your fortress. You cannot win."

"Oh?" King Henry raised one eyebrow. "Is that why there are hundreds of your Saderans rotting outside our walls?" He gave a calculated grin and said, "We have food to last a year and men willing to endure longer. You have failed thus far to beat us through sheer force, so now you try to inspire dread in the hope that we give ourselves up. But I tell you now, Marius Co Pictor, every one of us would rather die a horrible death twenty times over than even think of surrender. God is with us, and it is God's will that we do not give up."

Marius sunk back into his chair with a sigh. He and his companions were silent.

"Now then," Henry said pleasantly, "was there anything else you wished to speak of?"

Marius and the gruff looking heathen looked at each other for a brief moment. Finally, Marius gave a nod and the other heathen sat forward.

The heathen smiled showing the gap in his teeth. "We'd like a truce," he said without preamble. "Just something temporary. We'd like to grab the bodies we left behind, and we'd rather we didn't get filled with arrows while doing it, eh. Your lads can do the same and grab the fellows who didn't make it back from your raids. Good for morale on both sides. No need for this to be nastier than it needs."

"Done," King Henry replied. "Three days to bury the dead."

The heathen nodded. "Good." He looked at Marius. "That's all I wanted."

"Then I believe that is all," Marius sighed. He met Henry's eye and said, "If you'd like a future meeting then send an unarmed herald. I'll do likewise. Good luck to you."

Both parties exited the tent. Immediately, servants stepped forward to begin dismantling the meeting site. King Henry and his companions went to mount their horses. The hundred English knights escorting them did likewise, and soon they were riding for the harbor gate. As they rode, the Duke York indicated his head toward King Henry.

"You were laying it on a bit thick, your majesty," York said, now out of earshot of the heathens. "Do you really think our men will fight to the very last, even if this is a holy cause?"

King Henry gave a triumphant smile. "Perhaps not. But I want the heathens to believe we will never surrender. It will help as the siege drags on, and they have to consider if this town is worth the effort."

York nodded. "Very good, your majesty. God be with us in the days to come."

A curious look came across King Henry's face. "God is with us."

Perrin, sire de Godefroy, was making a slower pace than he had hoped. He was on the way south, to Paris, with Marcel and Daniel on a mission to inform the King of France of what had occurred at Agincourt and Audrehem. He was one of twelve couriers with that mission.

The journey to Paris should have taken a mounted man only five days, six days if he was slow. With remounts, that could be cut in half without risking the horses. Perrin, Marcel, and Daniel were all mounted, but they had no remounts. At Audrehem, they had lost their baggage train and with it all of their spare horses. Clignet de Brabant had found them three riding horses to allow them to spare their warhorses, but extra horses were a limited commodity and that was all he could give.

Still, even without remounts, Perrin's party was taking longer than ideal. They weren't on a direct route; it had been decided that each courier would take a different path to increase their chances at evading the heathens. In exchange for avoiding the main heathen army, Perrin's route added three days, at least, in clear conditions.

Of course, the conditions were anything but clear. It rained often and sometimes snowed. The roads were either muddy or poorly maintained and unmarked. Winter was rapidly approaching, and they were cold often. Their horses were cold too, which meant their pace slowed dramatically. When it rained, they had to spend time resting and drying the horses before bed to keep them healthy. When it was cold overnight, they spent time in the morning warming them.

It sometimes seemed that the whole world had conspired to slow them.

Five days into the journey, and they were only twenty miles south of Audrehem, having finished their detour around the heathen army. They were somewhere east of Agincourt, where the heathens had established a fortified outpost. It had rained the night before, and the road they were traveling on was difficult to go over. None of the villages they came across were still inhabited. Heathen foragers had driven the peasants away.

There were also a great deal of burned settlements. In some, mass graves dotted the outskirts. In most, the corpses had simply been left to rot.

Perrin kept them going south. He knew this area, vaguely, and wanted to put distance between them and the heathens. They spent the night in an abandoned farmhouse which was comfortable enough. In the morning, they built a huge fire to warm the horses then continued riding.

The sun was finally shining for once. It felt good to feel it on his face.

Half a day's ride put them a good way from Agincourt and, by extension, the center of heathen activities. Perrin took the liberty of stopping at midday to rest the horses. He used that time to drill Marcel and Daniel in swordplay. Then they continued south.

By nightfall they were all in much better spirits and, like a miracle from the Lord almighty, they found a village with people in it.

It was a tiny thing, really more a hamlet than a village, but it was a wonder to see new faces after riding through abandoned countryside for so long. Perrin spoke with some of the peasants and learned that heathen horsemen had come once already and stolen much of their winter stores. They were considering fleeing south too.

Perrin got Marcel, Daniel, and himself a room in the nicest house in the village. They slept on fresh straw and ate lentil stew made from the stores that hadn't been stolen. He paid in hard silver for everything.

The next day, they left the village at the end of matins.

After a few hours of riding, Perrin could tell that something was on Daniel's mind. The boy wouldn't stop fiddling with his sword.

Perrin turned to his page and asked, "Something the matter, Daniel?"

The poor boy wouldn't meet his eye. "Nothing important," he muttered.

"A knight's strength comes from both his body and his mind," Perrin counseled. "For a knight, nothing that troubles him can be discounted as unimportant or else he risks lessening his prowess. What troubles you?"

"Well," Daniel started, "those people back at the village. They're at the mercy of the heathens, and we're just leaving them. A knight should protect them, shouldn't he?"

Marcel's head swiveled over. "We have more important tasks than protecting peasants. We are on a mission to the King. To the Pope!"

"We also have a duty to protect those who cannot protect themselves," Perrin said to him gently. "But you are correct; we have a duty to serve our lord and another to defend the faith." He turned back to Daniel. "We have many duties and little time to fulfill them. Would that we could, it would be right of us to defend the peasantry as we are sworn to do. As it is, we cannot afford to be delayed. In this, we may fail some of our duties in order to adhere to others. We are only men. What matters is that we strive to do as much as we are able in the circumstances we find ourselves in. That is honor."

Daniel was quiet, but he gave a small nod. Marcel was quiet as well, and the three of them continued riding in silence.

At noon they passed by a burnt out barn, proof that heathen patrols had reached this far south. Daniel wouldn't stop staring at it as they rode by. Even Marcel seemed unsettled.

Perrin bit his lip and kept them moving.

Sometime after, it started raining. At first it was a light misting, but, in the time it took to hear mass, it became a torrent pouring down on them. Perrin was soaked through his armor as were Marcel and Daniel. Their horses were no better.

There was nowhere to shelter which left nothing to do but continue onward through the misery. The road became muddy again.

They trudged onward for another hour. Eventually, they found a thick copse of trees which was enough cover for Perrin to decide to halt. They had no tents, so Perrin and Marcel worked to create a shelter with wool blankets and tree branches. Daniel tried to make a fire despite the dampness of everything around them. He was failing.

Then there was a scream.

Perrin's head shot up instantly. It had come from the direction of the road. He couldn't see through the thick foliage.

"A heathen patrol?" Marcel questioned from beside him.

Perrin tried to think of alternatives. "Must be," he said.

"What do we do?"

The scream came again, and Perrin didn't even need to think. "Get ready to ride," he ordered. "Daniel, my helmet and gauntlets!"

Daniel, ever dutiful, already had them out. He put the helmet on while Perrin fiddled with his gauntlets and Marcel searched for his own helmet. Once Perrin was fully armored, Daniel pulled on a visorless bascinet for himself as Perrin gathered their warhorses.

It took less than a minute for them to be ready, but in that minute they heard the screaming continue to ring out.

Perrin mounted Goliath and took off riding. Marcel and Daniel followed close behind.

They came to a bend in the road where two wagons were stopped. The wagons were full of wine barrels. One had been knocked over, mixing its contents with the rain.

It took a moment for Perrin to determine what was happening, because he'd come expecting a patrol of heathen cavalry yet there wasn't a heathen in sight.

Instead, there were two men, wagon hands clearly, and a young woman with an embroidered cloak. Across from them were a mounted man-at-arms in plate harness, a squire with a brigandine, and an unarmed page. The young woman was standing above the corpse of a finely dressed merchant. She was clutching the dead man's dagger.

The man-at-arms had a bloodied longsword in his hand. He didn't notice Perrin.

"Look what you've made me do," the man-at-arms sneered in French. "All I wanted was some wine."

"Murderer!" the woman screamed. "Murderer!"

The man-at-arms laughed. He turned to his squire. "Kill them," he ordered.

Perrin sat on his horse, stunned, for a long moment, because he recognized the man-at-arms' surcoat. He was Jacques, sire de Heilly, and he was one of the other couriers going to the King. He was a belted knight, sworn to chivalry and God. Sworn to defend the weak.

It was only when the squire gutted one of the wagon hands that Perrin moved.

"Sire de Heilly!" Perrin called. He was too late to save the second wagon hand; the man tried to flee and de Heilly rode him down. "Sire de Heilly!" Perrin roared.

The squire heard him and stopped just as he was approaching the woman. De Heilly's head snapped to Perrin and his party. He squinted.

"De Godefroy? Where the hell did you come from?"

Perrin rode forward so that he was horse to horse with de Heilly. "What is this?!" Perrin shouted. "You are sworn to protect these people!"

"They refused to obey," De Heilly said with a shrug. "I asked for wine, and the greedy merchant refused me."

Perrin narrowed his gaze. "That does not justify murder."

De Heilly scoffed. "You're too soft, Godefroy. These peasants were being belligerent, so I've shown them their place in the world. Now get out of my face. Go bury your head in the mud if this hurts your conscience too much, you pious fuck."

"I will not let you do this," Perrin hissed. He was angry. Angry at this false knight. Angry that God allowed such men to pollute the world. His voice showed it.

"You'll let me do whatever the hell I want," De Heilly boasted. He pointed at the woman with his bloody sword. "Maybe I won't kill her after all. It's a long road to Paris and I could-"

Perrin pushed his arm across the false knight's throat and spurred Goliath forward. De Heilly wasn't prepared for it. In one motion, Perrin dragged him from his saddle.

De Heilly impacted the muddy road with a splat.

Perrin turned Goliath to face him. The squire with the brigandine moved to help his master, but Marcel, armored head to toe in Milanese plate, drew his sword and glared. De Heilly's squire and page took a step back.

"Fuck you, Godefroy!" De Heilly raged from the ground. He found his longsword and got to his feet. "I'll cut off your ears! I'll pull out your guts and feed them to you! You'll beg me for death when I'm done! You and your peasant whore!"

Perrin dismounted from Goliath. He said nothing but drew his longsword and dropped his visor shut.

De Heilly saw he was serious and dropped his own visor. He got into a high guard when Perrin started advancing.

Perrin pressed straight in, not waiting to circle. The instant he entered de Heilly's measure, the false knight threw a massive blow from his right shoulder.

It was fast and strong; De Heilly had clearly practiced it often. Perrin stepped off line, his sword raising to cover the blow, and de Heilly's blade rolled harmlessly off his own, like rain from a good tile roof, just as Perrin finished his step. Perrin's arms pivoted, snapping an immediate riposte.

It struck. Hard.

De Heilly's helmet rang as the false knight stumbled. He quickly shifted to face Perrin again and met Perrin's second cut at the hilt. Perrin was weaker in the bind.

De Heilly pushed.

Perrin fell back. De Heilly's point went for his eye slits, winding against the weak of Perrin's blade. Perrin had to stagger away to avoid it. His sword came off of de Heilly's blade.

Perrin regained his balance. He held out his longsword, point forward, to deter an advance.

De Heilly immediately tried to swat it away with a cut, and Perrin's blade deceived it. His point rolled under de Heilly's then came up again, leaving the false knight's sword cutting air. Perrin stepped in, thrusting for de Heilly's armpit.

It pricked into the mail just below de Heilly's right shoulder. The very tip of Perrin's sword came away bloody. Not enough to end the fight.

"WHORESON!" De Heilly screamed.

De Heilly attacked with a flurry of two-handed strikes. They were fueled by anger, fear, and desperation, but that did nothing to take from their potency.

His first came down from the right shoulder then the second up from the left waist. The third up from the right waist, and the fourth down from the left shoulder. Like a boy cutting at a pell, de Heilly hacked away, over and over.

Perrin covered the blows and gave ground. They were predictable but too strong and too fast to ignore. For all that de Heilly was a poor knight, he was a fine man-at-arms.

Another covered retreat gave Perrin time to prepare.

When de Heilly went to make another strike from the right shoulder, Perrin stepped back and cut into the strike, twisting his sword as he did. Perrin's cut deflected de Heilly's blade off line. The false edge of his own blade landed squarely against de Heilly's wrist.

"Fuck!" De Heilly spat as Perrin backed away again.

His gauntlet had stopped the blade from removing his hand, but every blow still counted for something. Armor could protect against many things; pain was not one of them. The false knight breathed and breathed.

Perrin breathed as well. He could barely get enough air through his visor, and he could feel his body tiring.

But something in the other man's body language told Perrin that their next exchange would be the last.

Perrin entered a guard that the Italian masters called vera croce. The true cross. He gripped his longsword halfway up the blade in his left hand and put his pommel forward. His weight was back, his right leg forward.

Suddenly de Heilly shot forward like a charging bull. He thrust, two-handed, right for Perrin's visor.

Perrin made a passing step and crossed his sword, parrying de Heilly's thrust between his hands. In the same tempo, Perrin thrust his longsword like a shortened spear underneath de Heilly's aventail.

Under the aventail was de Heilly's throat. He fell to the ground, blood spilling into the mud. Dead.

Perrin raised his visor and sucked in air.

He sank to his knees and felt the rain wash over his face.

"He made us do it!" a voice suddenly said from behind. Perrin turned to see de Heilly's squire had thrown down his sword and was on his knees. De Heilly's page also knelt.

Perrin stood from the ground, sighing. Everything was suddenly cold again, and he was all too aware that his arming doublet was soaked through by the rain.

"What was that?" he asked.

The squire trembled. "He made us, my lord. Sire de Heilly was a cruel master, and if we didn't do as he demanded he'd have killed us as well! Please have mercy on us, my lord!"

The squire nudged the page, as if urging him to speak, but the page remained silent.

Perrin approached the woman. She was still clutching the dagger in her hand, and she shivered beneath her embroidered cloak. Her eyes met Perrin's.

"Is he telling the truth?" he asked gently. "Were they forced?"

She shook her head.

"Wait!" the squire shouted. "She doesn't know! She-"

Perrin killed him.

He wiped his bloody longsword on the squire's corpse then turned to the page. "Go," he ordered. "Find a better master. Learn what is good and what is just. Learn what is kind. Learn what it means to be a knight. Never forget this."

"T-Thank you, my lord," the page murmured. He stumbled to his feet and went to a horse. Perrin helped him mount it, and then the page rode away to the south.

Perrin sheathed his sword and went to Daniel who handed him a wooden canteen. He drank deeply

"What now, my lord?" Marcel asked. He was still mounted.

"Gather the spare horses and collect the bodies," Perrin ordered. "We'll give them a Christian burial at the next church we find."

"De Heilly and his squire too?"

Perrin nodded.

Marcel made a face. "But my lord, they-"

"They are Christians," Perrin interrupted, "and it is for God to decide their fates."

"And her?" Daniel asked, pointing to the woman. "We can't leave her here, but she might slow us…"

"I can ride," the woman said suddenly. "My father…" She paused, and her eyes flickered to the corpse at her feet. Her whole body seemed to shudder before she shook her head. "I was taught to ride young," she said.

Perrin looked back to Daniel. "That settles it then." He walked over to the woman and inclined his head, his best attempt at manners given the circumstances. "Your name, my lady?"

"Claire. And you are the Sire de Godefroy."

He nodded. "Perrin if you'd prefer."

Nat Miller gagged at the smell of rotted bodies.

He was walking along the edge of the heathen siege line along with three dozen other Englishmen, looking for English corpses. It was part of some deal the King had made with the heathens. There were a few hundred heathens doing the same over by the harbor wall. Both sides got three days to collect their dead without getting shot at. The fallen could get a good Christian burial after all.

Of course, it was all well and good for the King to agree to collecting the dead. But when it came to the actual work, it was the English archers who got saddled with carrying the stinking bodies full of maggots and worms back to Harfleur. Apparently the good and pious King Henry wasn't interested in testing his piety against the stench of rot and neither were his aristocrats. So it was up to the archers to bury them on consecrated ground and save the dead from purgatory.

Nat covered his nose as he and Oliver Shields approached the body of a man-at-arms. The man had died in one of the sorties last week, and the heathens hadn't bothered to do anything other than dump him over the side of their earthworks into a ditch. There were flies swarming the corpse which was bloated and green with decay. Nat and Oliver clambered into the ditch. The man-at-arms had been looted by the heathens, and he was missing his breastplate and arm harness. His spurs had probably been made of gold or silver as those were missing as well. They hadn't bothered with the helmet or leg harness which were coated in decayed gore.

Nat grabbed the corpse by its legs, and Oliver got it by the shoulders. Together, they hauled it out of the ditch, throwing it onto open ground.

"Fuck," Oliver Shields swore, showing his hands. Some of the body's decayed flesh was smeared onto his palms along with congealed and blackened blood. Oliver stumbled over to the ditch and vomited into it.

Some of the heathens popped over the side of their earthworks to see what was going on. They called out something Nat couldn't understand.

"Come on," Nat sighed as the heathens shouted in their bastardized Latin. He handed Oliver a scrap of linen to wipe his hands with.

"Yeah. Thanks," Oliver mumbled. He stumbled back over to the corpse.

They carried the body away from the earthworks, where the heathens continued to shout from, and moved it to where Richard Glover was pushing a handcart filled with other corpses. The cart was reaching capacity, filled with the bodies of archers and men-at-arms alike.

"One more here," Nat grunted. He and Oliver dumped the body into the cart while Richard held it still.

"That's this one full," Richard said. "I'll take it back for Andy and the other grave diggers."

Nat glanced briefly at Oliver Shields, still a little green in the face, and said, "No, you're with me dragging bodies. Oliver, take the cart to Andy then get yourself cleaned up a little."

"Got it boss," Oliver murmured. He took the cart from Richard Glover and started walking it toward Harfleur.

"What'd you do that for? I don't want corpse stench all over me," Richard complained.

Nat glared at him. "Shut your mouth and get moving."

They made their way back to the siege line together. Along the way, they passed by a group of heathen legionaries gathering their dead from the walls. They had it worse than Nat's boys. The heathens had lost many more men than the English had, and some of those corpses had been rotting under the walls since the siege began. Many of the legionaries had sullen looks on their faces.

"Sic transit gloria mundi," Nat muttered to them as they moved by each other. It was the only Latin he knew. His parish priest had said it every Sunday before all the village lads went to shoot at archery butts.

A few of the legionaries looked at him, surprised. One gave a mirth grin and responded, "Pulvis et umbra sumus."

They went along their respective ways. The legionaries headed to the walls; Nat and Richard walked to the siege lines.

The number of actual English dead was rather small, and only a handful of them had died outside the walls. One of the King's nobles had a list of all the men who'd gone out and hadn't returned, but Nat hadn't known any of the archers on it and trying to recognize rotted corpses was a lost cause anyways. Instead, Nat and Richard just walked around the ring of heathen earthworks peering into ditches.

The heathens had a tendency to dump non-heathen corpses into the ditches beyond their earthworks. Their own dead were cremated, so Nat and Richard could be reasonably certain any body they found would be English.

It took them a few minutes before they found one. The poor bastard had been an archer, and the red cross of Saint George was still recognizable on his torn gambeson. They dragged him out of the ditch and left him for when Oliver Shields came back with the corpse cart.

"I smell like a fucking carcass now," Richard Glover spat, wiping his hands on his hose.

"Stow it," Nat snapped.

The next body had been a man-at-arms. Most of his armor was gone, but the heathens hadn't bothered with the helmet that had a vicious looking dent in it. Nat and Richard clambered into the ditch together.

"Fucking Christ," Richard cursed as the smell hit him. "How long has this one been here?"

Nat ignored him and went to grab the corpse by its legs. Then he stopped.

"Shame there's nothing left on these fucks. It'd make-"

"Shut up," Nat ordered. He got closer to the ground and listened.

Richard rolled his eyes. "You know you're a real shit sometimes."

"I said shut up!" Nat repeated. He stood perfectly still, tensed and suddenly terrified.

He waited. Waited.

There it was again.

Tink. Tink.

Clink.

Richard heard it now too. All the color went from his face. "Is that…"

Nat nodded.

"The king needs to know."

"Help me with the body first."

"This is more important than the body!" Richard growled.

Nat shook his head. "We need to mark this location. Sit up the body with the helmet on, and we'll be able to see it from the walls."

Something went through Richard's head, and he finally nodded.

They hefted the body out of the ditch. Then they sat it up, rotted as it was, so that its rusted helmet was clearly visible. Nat tied a strip of white linen from the helmet just for good measure.

The two of them proceeded to walk back to Harfleur. Richard wanted to run, but Nat insisted on walking. They needed to appear normal.

They passed by the same group of legionaries as before. One of the legionaries nodded at them. Nat forced himself to give a smile in return.

Once through the harbor gate, Nat dropped all pretense of normalcy and sprinted up the stairs to the wall.

He went straight for the first archer on watch, Edwin Brewster by chance, and demanded, "Where's Sir Thomas?"

"Here!" Sir Thomas Erpingham called from one of the towers.

Nat abandoned Edwin Brewster and sprinted up another set of stairs to the top of the tower. He arrived completely out of breath.

"What is it?" Sir Thomas asked. "Have the heathens violated the truce?"

Nat shook his head, still catching his breath. He finally managed to stand straight.

"My lord… they're mining the walls."

Lots of perspectives this chapter. I'm grateful to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, because it has been fantastic motivation to keep writing. Not that I need it really, this story tends to write itself since I love the period and can't stop writing.

Before I go, I'd like to direct attention to a wonderful piece of fanart that StoneAltar12 has done for the story. I love this piece of art, because it very accurately depicts the arms and armor of this period. The historical detail is just simply wonderful, and I encourage you to check it out. I can't post links directly here, but if you remove the spaces you can use the link below. Alternatively just search up Ceebarus on DeviantArt and find the aptly named Saint George and England!

www. deviantart ceebarus/art/Saint-George-and-England-1036570219