She viewed the sky as oft before
The dark clouds gathering, grey and dim
The scent of rain hung in the air
And she closed her eyes, and prayed for him.
The rain fell soft upon the field
Where enemies had come to fight
Man to man and sword to sword
Though the sword she knew, helped not their plight.
The dark ash shafts that she had watched
Her man so gently preserve
Drops from hells own thunder clouds
Steel points without mercy or reserve.
The great yew bow of sap and heart
Its elegant curves he’d crowned with horn
The string he’d twined so skillfully
With his calloused hands, so rough and worn.
The hands with which he’d clasped her own
And pledged to love her, as he loved the bow,
And slipped a ring of silver fine
upon her hand, she loved him so.
Her heart now leapt within her breast
As mail clad men shouted hurried orders
“Women to the baggage!” She heard them say
and she turned to join her frightened neighbors.
The men had no time to say goodbye
They took up their bows and off they went
Towards the muddy field below
She knew that most to their deaths were sent.
She took her place with other girls
Beside the carts and extra mounts
A buzzing whisper of nervous speech
Drowned the men’s descending shouts.
Now and again she closed her eyes
The cross was made and prayer began
She murmured to Mary, the ****** Blessed
To guard the life of every man.
She listened hard and heard the sound
Of thousands of throats shout muddled cries
Their words were lost within the wind
And a twanging note seemed to break the skies.
She knew the archers all had loosed
Their fingers plucked at the harp strings of Death
Her man had sent his goose-fledged shaft
On a journey to leave a widow bereft.
The clash of steel and screams of steeds
shattered the note of twanging bows
And she heard the battle rage all the more
As the melee rose in the field below.
The battle seemed to last for years
The noise of combat daunting and loud
Waned and waxed as the day wore on
But her prayers continued, her head remained bowed.
Salty tears fell from her eyes to
tight clasped hands, their knuckles white
Spare him, spare him, was her cry
And then the sun brought forth its light.
The army’s women raised their heads
And watched as their tired, muddied men,
Crested the top of the trampled hill
Warriors come from death’s dark den.
She searched the ranks with pleading eyes
For the well-known face of her lover true
But it seemed that countless men came
Streaming towards her, and none she knew.
Until at last the final rank
In mud and ****** mail encased
Came into the valley, worn and weary
And she saw at last the familiar face.
A cry of joy came from her lips
A prayer of greatest heartfelt thanks
Her feet grew wings and off she flew
Into her archer’s strong embrace.
My take on the battle of Agincourt. Inspired by Bernard Cornwell's recent novel.