Act IV, scene iii.

[never_promised]

The king himself is rode to view their battle: of fighting men they have full three score thousand. That's five to one; besides they are all fresh.

Which the English are not. Harry feels as comfortable in his saddle as--as someone who has slept in it more than once in the last month. And as comfortable staring at the French army as someone who has received the latest intelligence on their number and condition, as well as the reports of his own captains.

Was it an ill omen to see that place, with Percy in it, on the eve--the dawn--of battle? Will he end the day there himself, a laughable ghost in a laughable tavern of ghosts? But that's a foolish thing to dwell on. A sure way to get yourself killed.

He reins in his horse, pats its neck absently. (Isn't that what he's always pictured? A young king at dawn, a white horse, effortless warmth and grace?) The French there, the English there. He can't see the archers, can't hear them driving their stakes into the earth: the wind is carrying French army calls to him instead. But Erpingham knows his business--and York, and Camoys too. And so does Harry Plantagenet.

Right. Well. Back to camp. Time to do what he's here for.

Comments

[harryhotspur]

Harry Percy has a sword in his hand and armor on his back. It feels like he never left it off, though he knows in truth it has been months since he was last appareled so. And there, not far, a camp. It seems Edmund Mortimer-- or whatever spirit took his form-- promised true.

He starts towards it, and soon sees a rider doing the same. Their paths will cross, and he supposes that will be the test: can the rider see him, is he really here, or is he merely some sort of ghost?

[never_promised]

The rider sees him; the rider turns his horse to cut their paths closer. The rider is, in fact, wondering why this silly ass is off the lines. Does he think this is some pleasure-garden where he can take a morning stroll? That's a king's prerogative. If he has a message for the king, why is he not horsed?

[harryhotspur]

Percy knows the king's colors, once they're near enough to see, and almost laughs.

"Didst not wish for fresh men?" he calls.

[never_promised]

It takes him longer to recognize Percy, without colors of his own. When he does, Harry's jaw drops.

What?

[harryhotspur]

In that first moment of non-recognition, Harry glances down at himself: his tabard, which had been the familiar quartered yellow and red back in the forest, is now some unremarkable hue, some undistinguishable marks upon it. He cannot help but feel faintly disappointed, though Mortimer did warn him that this would be the price of his participation.

"Methinks you have seen greater magic ere now." He wouldn't be so sanguine himself about it ordinarily, but-- well, look where he is? How could he complain?

[never_promised]

Hal has, but at the moment he still looks as though he's seeing the Devil himself. Or perhaps a ghost from his past, a man he's killed, come to meet him on the battlefield.

"...What makes Sir Harry Percy here," he manages at last.

[harryhotspur]

What else?

"To fight. For England."

[never_promised]

But how?

Hal collects himself and dismounts. Yes, it really is Harry Percy; and yes, he looks as solid and real as he always has at Milliways. On the strength of that--and maybe, just a little, to test it, Hal claps a hand on his shoulder. (A gloved hand, an armored shoulder.)

"I cannot fathom it. But thou art come at just the time for such a fight. Look there: the French line, and our good English are there."

It's not a promising sight.

[harryhotspur]

Harry looks, and if his expression falls for a moment into dismay, it is only a moment.

"And if we triumph! Do but think what the world shall say of us."

[never_promised]

"They will say that we were lucky men to be in France." He smiles at Harry, suddenly delighted to have his company. That's the Hotspur he knows. "Come, if thou art here for a fight, I'll give thee one. But--we must see thee horsed--"

He's already walking briskly to the English lines "Thou must put down thy visor, or thou shalt put fear in the hearts of my own knights--some of them know thy face, some have seen thee dead."

[harryhotspur]

"Hast a beast to spare?" Harry asks, lowering his visor as he follows the king nearer to the camp. "Who marches with thee? Lives Westmorland yet? Came thy brother hence?"

[never_promised]

"Only just," he answers to the question of spare horses. "Thou shalt have one of my own; I cannot take time now to see who can horse a stranger. Besides, look how well the French are mounted: we shall have beasts enough soon. They say the Dauphin is uncommon fond of his warhorse. --Westmorland, yes, and my brothers Gloucester and Bedford are here. Moreover York, Exeter, Salisbury..."

The ground is soft, the edge of a plowed field, and it's slow going; but they're nearly close enough now to see the men he names.

[harryhotspur]

Bedford? Oh, Lancaster must have gained a new title, for there he is, looking slim and sharp-eyed as ever beneath his raised visor. The group of lords are in conference, it seems. Harry glances up at the king.

"Shall I to thy tent?" It seems like it might be wise to stay out of the way.

[never_promised]

"Yes-- no, hold a moment--" Here's a boy: a quick word, and the lad is off to bring a horse. And they and that lordly company have drifted close enough together now to catch the conversation: "O, that we now had here but one ten thousand of those men in England that do no work today!"

Harry glances over to Harry, rolls his eyes, and steps over to them. "What's he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland?"

[harryhotspur]

Percy doesn't follow, though he lingers near enough to hear what the king says. It's a good speech-- yes, it is, it's the sort of thing he'd wish to say, hope he'd have the wit and smoothness of tongue to say, were he ever given men to lead in such a charge.

Well. That will never happen, now. But at least he's here to follow.

The boy brings the horse just as the men send up a cheer, and Percy thanks him with a nod.

[never_promised]

"...he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother..." Harry is flushed, glowing: nothing like the sly languid smiling prince of the Boar's Head. He looks, for once, quite happy. But now there's some other disturbance: a French herald, offering ransom.

Bidding the king mind his followers of repentance, that their souls may make a sweet retire from these fields where--wretches--their bodies must lie and fester.

It's obviously a continuation of something ongoing: "I pray thee, bid my former answer back," says Harry, "bid them achieve me and then sell my bones."

Good God, why should they mock poor fellows thus.

[harryhotspur]

Percy resists the desire to draw closer as the herald speaks. He's nothing, nobody here-- an uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling, to be sure, but one he consoles himself will last only until the battle begins.

[never_promised]

The king is sending the herald off with an earful, it seems, even if Percy can't catch all of it. He might catch the herald's parting words: "Fare thee well: thou never shalt hear herald any more." But he's already forgotten by the leaders of the English army: a confirmation of York's place in the vanguard; and how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day!

They'll be in motion soon, Hotspur. All the battle you could want.

[harryhotspur]

That's alright, Percy can wait-- he has learned how to wait. ...he's still not very good at it.

As the lords disperse to assume their places, he seizes the opportunity to slip over to the king's side one more.

"God be with you, my lord," he says.

[never_promised]

He's in good company. Harry Monmouth doesn't want to wait either. But he has the time to nod firmly at Percy's greeting. "And with you--with us all, he must needs be. But--O, what a fight it will be."

His smile is radiant, and trumpets sound just at the right time, and now they can go.

[harryhotspur]

They can go.

He could say he didn't realize how much he missed the thrill of a battle, but that would be a lie. A part of him is constantly missing it, is always aware that whatever else he is doing, he is not fully himself, he is not truly of use, until he has a sword in his hand, armor on his back, and an enemy before him. This is what he was born and bred for.

The battle is close and chaotic and within minutes the field is little more than a pit of mud. Men are pressed together with hardly room to swing their sword, but there is nothing at all that can stop or slow him. The din of the battle grows loud enough he can shout Esperance! as he used to, and even if Englishmen hear it, let them think some distant Percy cousin fights.

He is among the last to return to the camp as the trumpets sound and the day is won. The king, he sees, is in conference with his lords and the French herald. He hangs back, far enough to risk taking off his helmet.

[never_promised]

It seems as though everyone needs to have a word with the king. Harry may remember being asked about prisoners under similar conditions. Dry with rage and extreme toil, breathless and faint, leaning upon his sword? It's a long time before Monmouth is left alone, or anything like alone. Soldiers coming and going, captains embracing him, lords and knights, heralds.

Finally he gets free, and walks over to Harry, wiping mud from his face with a scrap of cloth. "Percy. Percy, how hast thou fared? Thou'rt standing, still."

[harryhotspur]

"O, I am wondrous well!" Really! It's been a long time since he felt better. "What word from the field?"

[never_promised]

He wheezes out a bit of a laugh. O, Harry Percy. "Ay, thou lookest wondrous well, thou glowest like a bride. --But hast thou heard the number of the dead?" His face is sober by the time he finishes.

[harryhotspur]

His bright expression falters. "No, I have heard nothing of it."

[never_promised]

"It is a wonderful thing," he says slowly. Someone had taken the lists from him, but he remembers the essence of it well enough. "Ten thousand French, the greatest part of them princes, lords, knights, squires, gentlemen of quality. Five hundred who were dubbed knights but yesterday." He goes back to wiping his face. "Our losses number fewer than thirty. York and Suffolk, Sir Richard Ketly, a gentleman named Davy Gam. Some five-and-twenty others. --The French who ran from battle, they struck at our camp. There were none but boys there."

[harryhotspur]

Harry laughs-- "O, it is a miracle!"-- but his expression darkens at the mention of the boys. "Why, that is a wicked thing. But look you-- they have paid for't."

[never_promised]

"A miracle indeed." He can't think what else to call it. How do you explain something like that, without the work of God? "I did think, when I saw thee, that it was an ill sign: a man I did kill, come here before the battle. But now I think it not the strangest news I have had today."

[harryhotspur]

Harry looks slightly affronted. Yes, seeing men you've killed is rarely a good sign, but-- "And what have I ever been but a loyal soldier of England?"

(Well, a rebel. But, details.)

[never_promised]

Hal laughs a startled laugh. "Thou--thou hast been--in thy time, Percy, thou hast been a rebel. A very valiant rebel--"

Oh, this is a conversation he never thought to have. He puts his hand on Percy's shoulder and finds that he can't stop laughing. Which is most unseemly--most unkingly--they are singing Non nobis--non nobis, Domine, but to thy name give the glory--

He rests his forehead on Harry's armored shoulder and tries to smother the helpless laughter.

[harryhotspur]

Harry is no less startled by the laughter, but he of anyone can understand the strange giddiness that can overtake a man after a fight.

...and yes, alright, he was a rebel.

"Come, my lord," he says, amused, bringing a hand to rest on the back of Hal's head. "Up, your men shall think you faint."

[never_promised]

At least it's silent laughter by now; Hal's shoulders are heaving. He waves a hand, vaguely. "Ay, and we must to the village, in procession--Agincourt, they call the castle there--"

[harryhotspur]

Harry nods, following Hal's vague gesture towards the castle.

"Go you first. I shall follow some ways behind."

[never_promised]

"I think I have not slept more than three hours in three days." He straightens up, wiping his eyes. "O, but--Harry, what will we do with thee?"

[harryhotspur]

Harry claps him on the shoulder, but once again, his smile falters.

"I-- I am sure I cannot long remain," he says. That was the promise, one last battle. Not one last campaign. "Think not of me, do what you must."

[never_promised]

"O, there is everything yet to do." His face settles again into weariness. "I ask not how thou camest here, Percy, but it was in a good hour. I could kiss thee," he adds--and does so, on the cheek, a kingly token of esteem.

[harryhotspur]

And in return, Harry offers a bow-- a little, shallow one, far less than a king merits. But it's still a bow, with no mockery in it.

"I know not how I came. But I am glad indeed of't."

[never_promised]

"I too. You are the most loyal soldier of England." A loyal fighter for England past the grave. "--but my brother Gloucester comes; see how he is grown since thou wast in England? He will know thy face, Percy; I will go to meet him--"

He places a hand on Percy's chest, just for a moment, taps his fingers restlessly, before turning away and hurrying over to Humphrey. "Well, brother, we live!"

He'll--he'll catch up again to Harry Percy.

[harryhotspur]

He will eventually, at any rate. Harry turns away and ducks his head. It would seem too conspicuous, he thinks, to put his helmet back on, so as he falls into step with the procession into the village, he just keeps his head lowered. And as he walks, so slowly and smoothly he hardly notices at all, the ranks of men around him seem to thin, the trees begin to change, the mud begins to dry-- and when he looks up, he is in France no longer.