Read Chapter 37: The King's Thanks

The summons came before the cooking fires had burned down to ash.

Thomas had been kneeling in the mud beside one of his lads—young Watkins, who'd taken a crossbow bolt through the thigh and now lay grey-faced and shivering despite the blankets piled over him. Thomas had just finished tightening the bandage when a herald in the royal livery splashed through the mire, his voice carrying over the groans of the wounded.

"Thomas Barrow! The King requires your company. All of it."

Thomas looked up, his hands still dark with Watkins's blood. "The King requires my company, or my archers?"

The herald blinked, unused to being questioned. "He requires you, Master Barrow. And your men. Those who can stand."

Thomas glanced at the remnants of his company. Of the forty-three who had marched with him from Harfleur, nineteen still drew breath. Of those, perhaps a dozen could stand without assistance. The rest lay in the makeshift field hospital or in the long pits being dug at the edge of the wood.

He wiped his hands on his tunic. "Tell the King we'll come."

The herald hesitated, clearly expecting more ceremony. Thomas stared at him until he turned and hurried back toward the royal pavilion.

"Right then, lads," Thomas called, raising his voice over the murmur of the field. "On your feet. The King wants a look at us."

A groan went through the survivors. Jenkins, who had taken an arrow through the shoulder but could still move his arm, hauled himself upright. Old Matthews, who had somehow escaped without a wound despite being at the very front of the line, helped pull two of the younger lads to their feet.

"Should we clean up, Captain?" Matthews asked, gesturing at their mud-caked, blood-spattered state.

Thomas looked down at himself. His tunic was torn at the shoulder where a French sword had caught him. His hands were stained with blood that wasn't his. He had not slept in two days.

"No," he said. "Let the King see what we are."

They formed up as best they could—a ragged line of survivors, some leaning on bows used as walking sticks, others held upright by their comrades. Thomas walked to the front of the line and stood. He did not have to wait long.

King Henry came on foot, his crown left behind but his presence unmistakable. He walked through the morning mist with Greyhill at his side, the knight's arm bound in a sling beneath his cloak. Behind them came a small retinue: a clerk with a ledger, two priests, and a man Thomas did not recognize—thin, sharp-eyed, carrying a long leather case.

The King stopped before Thomas's line. He looked at each man in turn, his eyes moving slowly along the row of battered, exhausted faces. When his gaze returned to Thomas, there was something in it that Thomas had not seen before.

"Thomas Barrow," the King said. "I have heard your name repeated more times in the past day than the names of half my barons."

Thomas inclined his head. "The name's a simple one, Your Grace. Easy to remember."

A flicker of amusement crossed the King's face. "Modest as well. Greyhill told me you fought your way to my standard through a company of French knights. That you killed the Viscount de la Forêt himself when he tried to seize it."

"Someone had to, Your Grace. The standard seemed to want guarding."

Henry stepped closer, lowering his voice so that only Thomas could hear. "You refused a knighthood yesterday. My courtiers thought you mad."

"I've no quarrel with knighthood, Your Grace. But I've seen what comes of men raised above their station. It breeds resentment, and resentment breeds treachery. Better I stay where I'm known."

The King studied him for a long moment. Then he turned and gestured to the thin man with the leather case.

"Marcel," he said. "Come."

The man stepped forward and knelt briefly before the King, then rose and opened the case. Inside, wrapped in oiled cloth, lay a bow.

Thomas felt his breath catch.

It was a longbow, but not like any he had seen before. The wood was yew, but of a quality that made his fingers itch—the grain tight and straight, the curves perfect. The limbs had been shaped with a craftsman's patience, and the belly of the bow gleamed with a polish that spoke of hours of work. At the grip, a thin band of silver had been inlaid with a pattern of oak leaves.

"This," the King said, "was made by my own fletcher. The finest bowyer in England. He spent three months on it, choosing every inch of wood with his own hands." Henry took the bow from Marcel and held it out to Thomas. "It is yours."

Thomas did not reach for it immediately. He looked at the bow, then at the King.

"Your Grace, I've already a bow. A good one."

"This is a better one. And it has never been in the possession of a traitor." Henry's voice carried a weight of meaning that made Thomas's jaw tighten.

Thomas reached out and took the bow. The weight of it was perfect—heavier than his own, but balanced so finely that it seemed to want to rise in his hand. He ran his fingers along the belly, feeling the grain beneath the polish.

"Draw it," the King said.

Thomas set his feet, notched an imaginary arrow, and drew. The bow bent with a smooth resistance that made his arms sing. He held it for a moment, then let the string ease back.

"It's a fine bow, Your Grace. There's no question of that."

"You'll find no fault in it. I tasked my fletcher with making a bow worthy of the man who saved my standard. He took the commission seriously."

Thomas looked at the bow for a long moment, then slung it carefully over his shoulder. Behind him, he heard one of the lads whisper something, but he did not turn.

The King followed his gaze along the line of archers. "You have lost many men."

"Nineteen of forty-three came through, Your Grace. Some won't see England again even so—wounds will take them before we reach Calais."

Henry's expression flickered. "Their names will be recorded. Their families will receive compensation."

"I thank you for that, Your Grace."

The King paused. Then he said, "I have been told you wished to speak with me about one of your men."

Thomas felt his heart quicken. He had not asked—had not even planned how to approach the King about Will. Greyhill must have spoken to him.

"Aye, Your Grace. One of my lads. Will Fletcher—no relation to me, though he's taken the name as a trade. He was accused of theft before the war. Accused, not proven."

Henry's eyes narrowed. "I am told of many accusations in times of war. Most are forgotten in the press of battle."

"This one will not be forgotten, Your Grace. Will was condemned to hang after the war. The charge was brought by a man who had a grudge against his family—a land dispute that was never settled. Will swore he was innocent, and I've served with him for three campaigns. I've never seen a man steal so much as a crust when honest work would earn it."

The King was silent for a moment. "You ask me to overturn a legal judgment."

"I ask you to look at the evidence, Your Grace, and to judge whether a man who has fought and bled for you—who shot three French knights dead at Agincourt with a broken arm—should hang for a crime he did not commit."

Henry's eyebrows rose. "He fought with a broken arm?"

"He took a fall two days before the battle. His arm was splinted, but he insisted on shooting. He used his teeth to draw the string when his arm would not bend." Thomas paused. "He killed a dozen men with that arm before it gave out. He's in the field hospital now, having it re-set."

The King turned to the clerk. "Fletcher. William Fletcher. Find the record of his charge."

The clerk opened his ledger and began thumbing through pages. After a moment, he looked up with a pinched expression.

"A charge was filed, Your Grace. Theft of a silver cup from the household of Sir Edward Mawle of York. The defendant denied the charge, but the evidence was... circumstantial. Sir Edward claimed to have witnessed the theft himself."

"Sir Edward," the King repeated slowly. "I know that name. He was with the household troops at Harfleur. He distinguished himself—" Henry paused. "He distinguished himself as a coward. Fled the field before the walls when the French sortied. I had him stripped of his rank."

Thomas felt a stone lift from his chest. "Then perhaps, Your Grace, you might see that Sir Edward's word is not beyond question."

The King looked at him for a long moment. Then he raised his voice to the line of archers.

"Will Fletcher! Is he among you?"

A murmur passed through the line. Jenkins stepped forward and said, "He's in the hospital tent, Your Grace. His arm's broken and he took a mace to the head in the melee."

The King turned to his clerk. "Then we will go to him." He looked back at Thomas. "Lead the way."

Thomas moved through the field with the King at his side, the archers following behind. The hospital tent was a sprawling structure of canvas and rope, filled with the stench of wound-rot and the low moans of the dying. The King's nose wrinkled, but he did not stop.

Will lay on a cot near the back, his arm splinted and wrapped in clean linen. His face was pale beneath the grime, and his eyes opened slowly as the King approached.

"Your... Your Grace?" Will tried to rise, but Henry put a hand on his shoulder.

"Stay still. You've done enough service for one day." The King looked down at him, then at the clerk, who had followed with the ledger. "Read the charges."

The clerk cleared his throat. "William Fletcher, accused of the theft of a silver cup from the home of Sir Edward Mawle. Said theft witnessed by the complainant. Sentence: death by hanging, to be carried out upon the army's return to England."

The King looked at Will. "Do you deny this charge?"

Will's eyes were wide. "With all respect, Your Grace, I deny it. I never saw the cup. Sir Edward's land bordered my father's, and we'd quarreled over grazing rights. He swore he'd see me ruined."

"He appears to have done his best." Henry looked at Thomas. "You vouch for this man?"

"I do, Your Grace. With my life."

The King thought for a moment. Then he turned to the clerk. "Strike the charge. The man has served his king with honor, and I will not have his life taken on the word of a known coward."

The clerk's quill scratched across the page. Will stared, unable to speak.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Thomas said. The words felt small, but they came from his chest.

Henry looked at him for a long moment, and there was something in his eyes that Thomas had not expected—a weariness, and beneath it, a gratitude that had nothing to do with crowns or banners.

"You saved my standard, Thomas Barrow. You saved my kingship." The King's voice was low. "A knighthood you refused. Gold you refused. But this—a man's life, and a man's honor. That is a gift I can give freely."

He turned and walked away, leaving Thomas standing beside Will's cot. The lads had crowded around the tent entrance, their battered faces lit with something that looked like hope.

Will looked up at Thomas, his eyes bright. "What do I call you now, Thomas? The man who saved the King's archer from the gallows?"

Thomas shook his head. A weight had lifted from him, a thread that had been pulled tight since the long march from Harfleur. He looked down at his hands, at the new bow slung across his shoulder, and thought of the arrows that had flown through the night—and of one that had found its mark at last.

"You call me by my name," he said. "And when your arm heals, you'll pay me back by buying the first round of ale in Calais."

Will laughed, a sound hoarse and exhausted, but real. "It's a bargain."

Beyond the tent, the mist was lifting. The day was growing bright, and the road to Calais stretched out through the morning fields, waiting for men who had earned the right to walk it.