Cecily expected her penance would prove difficult, but she had not imagined it would come as it did. Not that she’d had much time to imagine it. The rain had stopped the moment she rose to her knees. She was soaked, but did not care, so full of God’s love did she feel. Instead of walking back to the castle, she went into the woods, some unknown—and, she was certain, divine—force guiding her. She went to the stream and followed its banks until she reached the clearing where Adeline liked to picnic. That was where she saw them.
Dario Gabrieli was standing close to Adeline, and there was no one else with them. Not a single lady accompanied the baroness. The couple, too, were drenched from the rain, but showed no sign of so much as noticing this. The troubadour had his lute, and was strumming it, singing softly, something about Lancelot and Guinevere. Adeline’s face glowed with rapturous joy.
Cecily stood, frozen. They had not seen her. Unsure of what to do, what to say, she started to back away, turning and running once they were out of sight. She ran until she reached the castle, then raced to her room and fell again on her knees, praying for guidance. Was this to be her cross?
She composed herself, changed into a dry gown, and sat at her table, Christine de Pizan’s The Treasure of the City of Ladies in front of her. She opened the book and her eyes rested on a passage at the end of the first part:
As people are not all the same, there are some men and women so perverse that whatever good correction and instruction they are given, they will always follow their own wicked inclinations. It is fruitless to show them the error of their ways, and nothing is gained but their resentment. We will now describe the instruction of the good lady who has in her charge and control some young princess or lady and the attitude that she ought to adopt in the event that she should see her mistress go astray in a foolish love affair and refuse her wise and good advice.
She knew then what God wanted from her. She must save Adeline from committing a grave sin.
* * *
Would this be the final assault? The king had commanded his archers to prepare flaming arrows. He had ordered the army forward, across their defensive ditches to the gates of the city. What followed passed in a blur of blood and screams and pain and death. The French proved themselves formidable opponents, but the English pressed on. William raised his sword again and again, slashing and stabbing, ignoring all cries for mercy.
Then, everything changed. He felt a sharp, searing sensation erupt in his cheek, more like heat than pain. He tasted blood. And he fell to the ground. The sounds of the battle faded to a dull din. He could hardly see. With great effort, he tried to stand, but could not get to his feet. So he crawled through the dirt, dragging himself with his arms, pushing with his legs, away from the walls of Harfleur.
A blow landed across his back, dampened by his armor. He rolled over, managed to raise himself to his knees, and lifted his sword, striking his attacker with an upward jab. He could feel rage coursing through his body, and suddenly the pain from his wound no longer troubled him. He saw the king, fighting with his men, and with a ragged cry, “For Harry!” William ran back to the front line, prepared to go on as long as necessary, not stopping until his king had achieved victory.