Ryen De Bouriez was already awake when morning came on that fateful day in October in the year 1415. She had stepped outside her brother’s tent and her lips immediately arched down into a frown as she watched dawn break on the horizon. The muted red rays of the sun brought only a cold dampness with them, a wet chill that seeped into her bones.
She turned at the sound of hoof beats and watched two French messengers ride through the muddy field as they returned from the English camp. She had little hope that they would be successful in their negotiations; if the English commanders were anything like Bryce, they would never surrender, even if they were outnumbered a thousand to one. And from the grim looks on their faces, she knew she was right.
She looked away from the messengers to study the French positions. The constable had placed the army between Tramecourt on their left and Agincourt on their right, thus firmly blocking the English army’s route to Calais. But the field before them was restricted to about three quarters of a mile by the woods that fringed the two villages.
She frowned as she noticed that most of the French nobility seemed to have pushed themselves to the front of the line in their eagerness to participate in the expected massacre of Henry and his army. The dukes, counts, and barons had displaced many of the lowborn archers and crossbow men who were so crucial to the successful execution of the battle plan; how could they be effective if they were too far back from the line of attack? She shook her head.
“Did you hear that the constable has promised to cut off three fingers of the right hand of every archer taken prisoner so that none of them will ever draw a bow against us again?”
Ryen turned to see Andre stepping out of the tent. She pretended she hadn’t heard his query. The idea turned her stomach. “I have an ill feeling about this battle, Andre,” Ryen said, staring into the distance toward the enemy.
“I think your feeling is due more to an empty stomach.” He gently grabbed Ryen’s elbow and tried to pull her with him. “Come, Sister, let us eat before we wage war.”
Ryen resisted and stayed where she was. She turned her head, glancing at Andre from the corner of her eye. “I am not hungry.” She didn’t tell him that she had tried to drink a cup of ale when she awoke, but fearful that the queasiness in her stomach wouldn’t let her keep it down, took only a small sip.
The men grew restless as an hour passed and the English did not attack. Banners fluttered in the wind, so many of them that the constable finally had to order half of them furled so that everyone could have a direct line of sight to the English. By this time, Ryen had finished putting on her full battle armor and was in the saddle of her white warhorse.
She patted her brave steed, whispering words of encouragement to him, when a flurry of movement caused her to snap her head back to the muddy field before her.
The English were moving forward!
Her horse danced nervously beneath her as the air thickened with anticipation. She watched the army approach, felt the anxiety of the men behind her as they waited for the constable to give the order to engage the enemy.
Just as suddenly as they had started, the English stopped some two hundred yards away. Ryen watched as Englishmen ran forward with large wooden stakes. They placed them in the ground, pushing them into the mud so that the sharp spikes stuck out of the earth, angled skyward. More men charged up behind the wooden spikes and Ryen could see them preparing their bows.
Archers! And a lot of them! But under the truth powder, Bryce had told her that they would be few in number because there were not enough skilled men to be found. Perhaps this was a ploy. Perhaps these men were not archers, at all, but placed behind the stakes to intimidate the French.
Ryen’s horse pranced skittishly, feeling its rider’s anxiety. It took a stern hand to steady the animal. It was not as easy to settle the uneasy feeling inside her.
To Ryen’s left, Sir Clugnet exclaimed, “I will take some men and go around to the west to strike at the archers. Sir William, you take twelve hundred men and go east, toward Agincourt. We will cut down those English archers before they can do us much harm!” The two knights rode off with their men eagerly following, shouting defiant words for all to hear.
The English suddenly uttered a loud cry and started forward again. Simultaneously, Ryen saw a great cloud rise from the earth and come toward the French like a swarm of locusts. Arrows! She quickly lowered her head, knowing that the arrows could not pierce her armor, and spurred her armored horse on.
The animal rode forward to meet the English, but Ryen felt his hooves slip and slide in the mud. The mud was so deep he was having trouble lifting his legs. Slowly, the French trudged closer, the thick mud retarding their movement. Arrows continued to rain down upon them.
Ryen ducked again as the arrows landed around her. She could hear the screams of her countrymen, and when she raised her eyes she was amazed at how accurate the aim of the English archers was. Many men already lay dead around her, arrows protruding from exposed flesh.
Dread passed through her. Bryce had lied. He had lied under the powder of truth! The archers were not in bad form at all. On the contrary, Ryen had never seen better aim.
She did not have time to consider the disastrous consequences because her horse stumbled, jarring her. She slid her leg over the beast and dropped to her feet. The horse fell to his knees before sluggishly regaining his balance. Ryen swatted the white steed away so the arrows would not harm him.
Around her the battle raged. The French were so thickly packed that many of them could barely lift their arms, let alone control their animals. She was almost knocked over by a horse that brushed her arm as it passed. Ryen clutched her sword in two hands. To lose it now would be death. Another knight collided into her from behind. This is madness! Ryen thought. I haven’t even encountered the enemy yet and we are at war – with each other!
Amid the confusion, she heard someone shout to retreat. She tried to turn, echoing the command, but could not because of the momentum of the men surging forward behind her. The mud clung to her feet, inhibiting her steps.
Suddenly, the English charged and Ryen was immersed in battle. She was surrounded by whistling swords, clanging blades, and death cries. The mud sucked at her feet, pulling her down. Still, she managed to strike at the charging men, cutting down one only to be attacked by another.
Ryen disposed of her next opponent, then raised her head to quickly evaluate her position. All about her swords clanged. The field was littered with fallen men. Knights who tumbled in the thick mud floundered helplessly like turtles, the weight of their armor weighing them down. Ryen moved forward to help a soldier to his feet. She grasped his arm and pulled. Under the added weight, her foot slipped and she almost fell, but caught herself on his shoulder. After pulling him up, her eyes again scanned the field. She could not retreat because the anxious French, now out of formation in their hurry to reach the English and gain fame and glory, were shoving forward.
Her only option was to forge ahead into the enemy. She locked gazes with the knight standing beside her, saw the fear clearly branded in his eyes. Ryen knew he was one of the nobles not accustomed to the rigors of war and he would surely die if she did not help him. “Stay close to me,” she ordered him firmly, and he nodded.
Ryen took a deep breath, preparing to push into the fray when she noticed two foot soldiers glancing about in confusion and desperation. Somehow they had become separated from their lord. “Follow me!” Ryen commanded, and they quickly fell in behind her. With the three men at her back, she charged forward, clearing a path through the English with a swipe here and a thrust there, her warrior instincts leading her on. She could feel the men fighting beside her with renewed confidence, could hear their blades clashing with renewed vigor. She smiled grimly with tightly clenched teeth as the fighting around her intensified.
Then, Ryen caught a glimpse of Andre. He was sitting on his horse, his armor smeared with blood, when suddenly he clutched at his stomach where an arrow had magically appeared. He slumped forward, rolling off his horse into the mud.
“No!” Ryen shouted, and turned, her legs aching with the effort it took to lift her feet.
She ran as best she could toward her brother. Suddenly, an English knight blocked her path, causing her to rear back. A savage scream of frustration ripped from her anguished throat as she arced her sword toward the enemy’s head. Their swords clanged, hot blue sparks exploding from the point of impact as he expertly blocked the swing with his own blade.
Ryen’s angry glare turned fully on him. Suddenly, she froze, unable to move, or breathe. It was his eyes that gave him away. His black eyes. She recognized them through the visor he wore. “Bryce,” she gasped.
Ryen saw his lips move and recognition wash over his face before pain exploded from the back of her head and blackness invaded her vision.