never_promised (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
never_promised) wrote2016-03-21 03:16 pm
never_promised) wrote2016-03-21 03:16 pm
Act IV, scene iii.
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.
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.
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"I know not how I came. But I am glad indeed of't."
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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.
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