For two days after Father Simon confronted her in the chapel, Cecily moved like a ghost through Lord Esterby’s castle, hardly speaking to anyone. Her conscience was so troubled she nearly turned to the baron’s terrifying priest, but she was not so far out of her wits that she could believe him capable of giving sound advice to a young lady. Even as she thought this, she said a silent prayer and crossed herself. Who was she to judge a man of God?
She turned to Christine de Pizan for consolation, but found nothing that made her feel better.
… the women of the court ought likewise never to rebuke or defame one another … as for the fact that whoever would slyly defame another is herself defamed. For assuredly the person who knows that someone is defaming her will also slander that person, and she may even make up stories. Nor is any man or woman so upright that he or she ought to say, “I am not afraid of anyone. What could anyone say about me? I know I am blameless, therefore I can talk fearlessly about other people.” But it is foolish for those men and women who say that sort of thing to believe it, for there is always something, somewhere, for which one may be reproached.
The words stung, and Cecily cowered at the cutting knowledge that she was far from blameless. Had she not prayed for clarity? Had she not sought release from the burden of her sins? For her role in her mother’s death? And had she not known, without doubt, that to atone she was meant to guide Adeline? Her efforts to do so had been too scattered and too feeble. She would not let any distraction keep her from doing what she knew she must.
That afternoon, she asked Adeline if she might ride with her, but her friend refused. “Work on your embroidery,” Adeline said, a sly smile on her face. “I’ve other plans for today.”
* * *
The carnage of the day was evident in a glance to anyone on the field at Agincourt, but only when the roll call came did William realize how significant a victory the English had won. Not only had they lost very few men—so few, he could hardly reconcile it with the blood soaking the ground—but thousands upon thousands of the French, the mighty French, in their burnished armor and seeming endless numbers, lay dead. Not just their ordinary soldiers, but their nobles. It was said the flowers of French chivalry were destroyed that day. The English, gathering up the armor, weapons, and valuables from the corpses of their defeated enemy, were soon overburdened, and King Henry ordered no man to take anything more than he needed to rearm and resupply himself.
It took days to bury the dead. Only the bones of the most noble among them—boiled and boxed for transport—would be returned to England. Families of some of the Frenchmen came to search through the corpses, but aside from a very few, English and French alike were buried in the field in common graves, the land hastily consecrated by the local bishop.
The aftermath of battle was never pleasant, and even the king wept over the fallen. Yet no one could deny the enormous significance of the fighting. God had stood with the English, and whispers of miracles ran through the ranks of soldiers. William gave little credence to one of his comrade’s insisting that St. George had appeared next to him on the field and vanquished the Frenchman who was about to run him through with a sword. The king himself gave all credit for the victory to God, our Lady, and St. George, but no one doubted that he knew how tirelessly and with what courage his men had fought.
As the sun hung low in the sky that evening, rain began to fall again, but it would not be enough to cleanse the field of its blood and gore. While the army rested, King Henry would receive the noble French prisoners captured that day. William knew he would treat them with the humility and grace chivalry demanded, and he knew that he should try now to sleep. On the morrow, the march to Calais would resume.