Read Chapter 23: Closing the Gate

The eastern sky had not yet bled color, but Thomas felt the change in the air—that thin, cold breath before first light. The muster horn had sounded four times now, and the camp around him moved with the urgent shuffle of men shaking sleep from their bones. He did not need to see the horizon to know he was running out of time.

He found his archers where he had left them, huddled among the baggage carts with their longbows oiled and strung. Jack was there, and a dozen others—men he had trained with, bled with, trusted with his life. They looked at him with the flat, tired eyes of soldiers who had learned not to ask questions.

"The tunnel," Thomas said. "It's open. We seal it now, before the French decide to use it."

Jack spat. "And what do we seal it with?"

"Trees. The woodline is thick with them—the same wood they dug from. We'll fell enough to block the passage and brace the palisade from our side."

The archers moved without further word. They gathered axes and ropes from the baggage, and Thomas led them at a jog toward the eastern hedge. The camp was coming alive around them, men forming into companies, sergeants shouting orders, the clatter of pots and the low murmur of prayers. Thomas kept his eyes forward.

They reached the hedge gate. It still stood unbarred, exactly as he'd left it. Thomas cursed under his breath and hauled the beam into place himself, driving the oak bar home with a thud that felt like a small victory. Then he climbed the rise beside it and looked out toward the woodline.

The tunnel mouth lay thirty yards beyond the palisade, hidden in a fold of ground. Even now, knowing it was there, Thomas almost missed it. He pointed, and his archers spread out along the hedge, nocking arrows as they moved.

"Jack, you're with me. The rest of you, cover us."

They went over the hedge at a low crouch, moving fast across the open ground. The grass was wet with dew, and their boots left dark trails behind them. Thomas reached the tunnel mouth first and dropped to his knees, peering into the black. The scent of turned earth and cut roots rose to meet him. He could see the faint light of the French campfire beyond—still burning, still manned.

"Logs," he said. "Start cutting."

The archers set to work, axes biting into the nearest trees. The sound was loud in the pre-dawn stillness—too loud. Thomas knew it would draw attention, but there was no other way. He worked beside them, hauling on ropes, dragging felled trunks toward the tunnel mouth. The wood was green and heavy, and his hands burned with the strain.

They had stacked three logs across the opening when the first arrow hissed past his ear.

"Contact!" Jack shouted, already drawing his bow.

Thomas spun. A line of shapes moved at the edge of the treeline—French scouts, half a dozen of them, emerging from the shadows. They had bows of their own, shorter and less powerful than English longbows, but deadly enough at this range. Another arrow thudded into the log beside Thomas's head.

He dropped to one knee and notched an arrow, but his hand went to his belt and found only the sword Greyhill had given him. No quiver. No bow. He was still unarmed for this fight.

"Jack, put me to work!"

Jack didn't answer—he was already loosing, his first arrow taking a scout in the shoulder and spinning him into the dirt. The other archers followed, a steady rhythm of draw-and-release that filled the air with the hum of death. The French scouts faltered, breaking for cover.

But they did not retreat.

And then Thomas saw him.

The man who had called himself Jean—the man who had taken Will, who had killed Ashworth, who had whispered lies into the heart of the English host—stepped out from behind a broad oak. He wore the simple leathers of a scout, but he carried himself like a knight. His face was half-lit by the dying fire behind him, and he was smiling.

"Barrow," he called, his accent thick and mocking. "I wondered when you would come."

Thomas rose to his feet, his hand going instinctively to the sword at his hip. "Let the boy go, and I'll let you walk away."

The Viscount laughed. "The boy is already gone. I sent him back to you—a gift. But you were too busy chasing my arrows to notice."

Thomas's blood went cold. Will. He had sent Will back ahead of him, toward the camp, to find Greyhill. If what the Viscount said was true—

"Don't believe him," Jack growled. "He's playing with you."

But the Viscount was already raising his hand. Behind him, more scouts emerged from the trees—a dozen, now, maybe more. They carried torches as well as bows, and Thomas saw the flicker of flame catch on the dry grass at the treeline.

"You will seal the tunnel," the Viscount said, his voice carrying across the open ground. "But it will not matter. The English will march today, and they will die today. Your King will kneel to France by noon, and your longbows will be kindling for our fires."

Thomas took a step forward, drawing Greyhill's sword. The blade felt strange in his hand—heavier than he was used to, wrong for a man who had spent his life with a bow in his fist. But he held it steady.

"You're not going to win this," Thomas said. "You've been seen. Your name is known. Whatever lie you've built, it's crumbling."

The Viscount's smile wavered. For a moment, Thomas saw something flicker behind his eyes—doubt, or calculation. Then the smile returned, harder now.

"Names mean nothing on a battlefield, fletcher. Only bodies. And yours will be counted among the dead."

He turned and disappeared into the trees. His scouts followed, loosing a final volley as they went. One arrow caught an archer in the thigh, and the man went down with a grunt. Jack answered with a shot of his own, but the shadows swallowed the Frenchmen before the arrow could find its mark.

The skirmish ended as suddenly as it had begun.

Thomas stood in the silence, breathing hard, the sword still in his hand. He watched the treeline for any sign of movement, but there was nothing—only the dying glow of the fire and the mocking echo of the Viscount's words.

Jack crouched beside the wounded archer, tearing a strip from his own tunic to bind the leg. "He's right about one thing," Jack said quietly. "We're running out of time."

Thomas sheathed the sword. He turned to the tunnel, where the logs now sealed the opening—not perfectly, but enough. It would hold. He took a breath, then another.

"Will," he said. "He said he sent Will back."

Jack looked up. "You think the boy reached camp?"

Thomas didn't answer. He was already moving, stepping over the felled logs and starting back toward the palisade. His archers followed, two of them supporting the wounded man between them.

They reached the hedge gate, and Thomas unbarred it with shaking hands. The camp beyond had transformed—the tents were down, the carts were loaded, and the army was assembling in its full array for the march to Agincourt. Banners snapped in the morning breeze. Horses stamped and snorted. The sound of thousands of men moving to war filled the air.

And there, at the edge of the forming column, was Will.

The boy was running toward them, his face pale and streaked with dirt, his eyes wide. He reached Thomas and grabbed his arm, gasping for breath.

"Master Barrow—Greyhill—the King—" Will choked out. "They're asking for you. The whole camp is forming, but there's something wrong. The arrows—the ones we checked—there's more. Wagon Seven. The one the merchant marked. We missed a batch."

Thomas felt the ground shift beneath him.

"Show me," he said.