"The air hung heavy with the probability of many deaths.
It mystified her why the French had not simply swept across the field and swarmed over the far smaller group of lightly armoured English foot soldiers, in front of a paltry few mounted knights who waited patiently and attentively for Henry’s command.
Above, unseen, her eyes widened with horror. A platoon of men advanced to the middle of the field and looked like a small, brackish pond, when the lake, dammed by the bottleneck of the landscape at the other end, glinted and looked fit to burst.
“They cannot hope to win,” she said to the sun as it peaked in the grey sky. The rain clouds may have emptied themselves overnight, but the late October day remained overcast. St Crispin’s day, she’d heard them call it, after the saint whose shoes and cross Tarl had claimed to own all those months ago. The co-incidence of the personal connection and this day of reckoning did not escape her notice, but she tried not to read into it as she studied the action below.
The French ignored the English jeers. Instead, they sent a volley of crossbow bolts towards them. The Englishmen’s laughter reached her as the arrows short range fell far shy of hitting any of them. Several mounted knights, commanders under the Dauphin she presumed, huddled together before cantering back to stand in front of their troops. The prince himself stayed apart from the mass, watching from his white mount and surrounded by priests in their official robes.
The small group of foot soldiers in the battlefield stepped a few paces backward and resumed their challenging taunts. She dipped, just enough to catch the English cusses shouted across the field. The straight ranks of Frenchmen rippled as a few men broke the line and strode forward, brandishing their swords and crossbows as if they couldn’t bear the insults any longer.
When they had lurched close enough to shout at the spaced out individuals, the English danced around, mocking and cussing as if they had no fear of their imminent demise. The few crossbow bolts launched were easily dodged as the lithe guards had plenty of warning before the short range shafts landed harmlessly on the ground. The archer then had to take a few minutes to reload and re-crank the weapon. Those with drawn swords were entirely ineffective from a distance, and resorted to waving them around as they stumbled up the boggy field. Few others dared to break rank and advance to support their colleagues without the official order being given.
Aioffe almost smiled. The Englishmen refused to be cowed before the overwhelming force which deafened their shouts with curses of their own. After a minute or two, during which time not one of them had been injured, the small band was led away by their mounted officer. They sauntered back up the field as if without a care they had turned their backs on the threat. The English line remained where it was, calm and alert. Silent and… small.
A trumpeted command sounded, and the French raised their weapons."