FIC: Sealed the Son of Chivalry (Shakespeare, Henry VI, PG)
Title: Sealed the Son of Chivalry
Author: angevin2
Play: 1 Henry VI
Characters: Sir John Talbot
Warnings: Contains a lot of fairly gleeful warmongering.
Rating: PG
Summary: Sir John Talbot prefers to fight the French. It makes him an unusual Englishman.
Notes: Written for fog_shadow for yuletide 2009. I hope it is all right that I spent the first half of this fic in the other tetralogy. It is likely historical canon that Talbot was at Shrewsbury, and Shakespeare canon that he was at Agincourt -- in fact, he wasn't there historically, but he gets a shout out in Henry V's St. Crispin's Day speech (possibly Shakespeare plugging his earlier play), so in Shakespeareland he clearly was. I have also played merry havoc with the timeline, but that is canon (as far as Henry VI's age goes, I have basically just picked one that seemed not entirely inappropriate). Many thanks to lareinenoire, gileonnen, and speak_me_fair for encouragement and moral support.
It was not until the gathering dusk made continuing the battle impossible that the fighting died down, but even before then, it was clear that the King's party would carry the day, for even now Harry Percy, the Hotspur of the north, lay in his blood among the men and horses and trampled pea plants scattered upon Shrewsbury field.
John Talbot had heard all about Hotspur, of course, for who had not? He was scarcely much older than John's sixteen years, but not too young to lead armies, even against a kingdom, and his fame was already widespread; it was said, indeed, that King Henry wished that Hotspur were his son, rather than the libertine Prince Harry. John had never met Harry, but if half of what he heard were true, he didn't suppose he could blame the king (if one were allowed to blame kings for anything).
Perhaps it did not matter that Harry Percy would have been a poor son, and a worse king. At Shrewsbury John had learned that the field was where he belonged, that there was nothing more thrilling than the shock of metal upon metal and the shriek of arrows flying past your ears, nothing more richly satisfying than service to the crown.
(Hotspur's family had said that King Henry was not truly king, that he had stolen the throne from the late King Richard, but perhaps that did not matter either, for Henry was king now.)
And yet, no matter the chill that ran through his blood at the rebel army's cries of "Harry Percy, king!" -- when the cry came back in response, the voice of King Henry himself calling back, rough and fierce, and the army taking up the words, "Harry Percy, dead" --
-- John could not quite stifle a pang of regret.
***
The earth of France was red today.
They had seen enough French mud, these English, to know perfectly well its ordinary hue. King Harry had promised the French herald that we will your tawny ground with your red blood discolor, and, as he had become accustomed to doing those two years, he had delivered on his promise, against seeming-insurmountable odds.
It was good to fight the French again, something the English had not done since long before John Talbot was born. In the aftermath of the battle King Harry had forbidden his army to boast of their victory, or to attribute it to any but God -- for indeed, God was an Englishman today, and not like those Englishmen living on earth, content to spend their force upon their countrymen, for of the thousands of bodies lying half-submerged in the crimson-stained mire or crushed beneath the mangled bodies of their steeds or twisted against the English palings, only twenty-five of them were King Harry's subjects.
The incessant rain and the sucking mud, the long marching and the agues and aches and occasional cases of the clap -- these things were inconsequential. Men would speak of this for years to come, and their hearts would swell with pride, for on this field of Agincourt they had shown the world what it meant to be an Englishman.
***
John Talbot's commander and liege lord was a ten-year-old boy with sandy hair and wide brown eyes who did not wear the crown because it was too large for his head. Even were he a man, he looked as though he would never be at home in the field. As John knelt before him the image came to his mind of his own son John at young Henry's age, grimly struggling to lift a sword almost as big as he was; the strain was visible, but the boy was fiercely determined. He had sent for young John to fight alongside him, for he was old enough now, and he would someday be a fine soldier.
He could not imagine that childish ferocity in the king's face.
King Henry's face lit up as John offered his homage. "I do remember how my father said a stouter champion never handled sword," he chirped, beaming, and although there was no one at court who did not know that Henry had never even seen his father, John could not imagine that he was not telling the truth. Perhaps if he could somehow remember that, he might someday understand as well what it was to lead men.
And God knows they needed it: even at the coronation ceremonies the English peers glared at each other and stood ranged together, one side wearing red roses, the other white. John was aware that the court was being torn apart by factions; he neither knew nor cared what their pretext was. France was where he belonged, for there was no better way to serve his king than with his sword. Let the noblemen fight amongst themselves: his men were worth a thousand -- a hundred thousand -- Yorks and Somersets.
***
John is an old man now. Old men do not die in battle. That is a young man's death, a soldier's death. It is how he has always known he would die. He has never felt old on the field before now.
His son was not yet a soldier, not truly. He has built his monument upon a heap of dead Frenchmen. It is hardly worth it: young John might have lived, were it not for the posturing of Somerset and York, who would abandon loyal subjects to their deaths so that they might deem themselves superior to the other. He can scarcely believe it; nor can he truly acknowledge it to himself, for if he were to face the death of his son he could never lift sword again.
Sir John Talbot was trained up in arms against his fellow Englishmen. It has been many years since that day at Shrewsbury, and when he remembers the face of his son the memory of Harry Hotspur flashes across his mind -- not Hotspur himself, but his own youthful regret that someone like that should die, and that he should die fighting his own countrymen.
But that, it seems, is the English way.
He raises his sword and turns to face the encroaching French.
Author: angevin2
Play: 1 Henry VI
Characters: Sir John Talbot
Warnings: Contains a lot of fairly gleeful warmongering.
Rating: PG
Summary: Sir John Talbot prefers to fight the French. It makes him an unusual Englishman.
Notes: Written for fog_shadow for yuletide 2009. I hope it is all right that I spent the first half of this fic in the other tetralogy. It is likely historical canon that Talbot was at Shrewsbury, and Shakespeare canon that he was at Agincourt -- in fact, he wasn't there historically, but he gets a shout out in Henry V's St. Crispin's Day speech (possibly Shakespeare plugging his earlier play), so in Shakespeareland he clearly was. I have also played merry havoc with the timeline, but that is canon (as far as Henry VI's age goes, I have basically just picked one that seemed not entirely inappropriate). Many thanks to lareinenoire, gileonnen, and speak_me_fair for encouragement and moral support.
It was not until the gathering dusk made continuing the battle impossible that the fighting died down, but even before then, it was clear that the King's party would carry the day, for even now Harry Percy, the Hotspur of the north, lay in his blood among the men and horses and trampled pea plants scattered upon Shrewsbury field.
John Talbot had heard all about Hotspur, of course, for who had not? He was scarcely much older than John's sixteen years, but not too young to lead armies, even against a kingdom, and his fame was already widespread; it was said, indeed, that King Henry wished that Hotspur were his son, rather than the libertine Prince Harry. John had never met Harry, but if half of what he heard were true, he didn't suppose he could blame the king (if one were allowed to blame kings for anything).
Perhaps it did not matter that Harry Percy would have been a poor son, and a worse king. At Shrewsbury John had learned that the field was where he belonged, that there was nothing more thrilling than the shock of metal upon metal and the shriek of arrows flying past your ears, nothing more richly satisfying than service to the crown.
(Hotspur's family had said that King Henry was not truly king, that he had stolen the throne from the late King Richard, but perhaps that did not matter either, for Henry was king now.)
And yet, no matter the chill that ran through his blood at the rebel army's cries of "Harry Percy, king!" -- when the cry came back in response, the voice of King Henry himself calling back, rough and fierce, and the army taking up the words, "Harry Percy, dead" --
-- John could not quite stifle a pang of regret.
***
The earth of France was red today.
They had seen enough French mud, these English, to know perfectly well its ordinary hue. King Harry had promised the French herald that we will your tawny ground with your red blood discolor, and, as he had become accustomed to doing those two years, he had delivered on his promise, against seeming-insurmountable odds.
It was good to fight the French again, something the English had not done since long before John Talbot was born. In the aftermath of the battle King Harry had forbidden his army to boast of their victory, or to attribute it to any but God -- for indeed, God was an Englishman today, and not like those Englishmen living on earth, content to spend their force upon their countrymen, for of the thousands of bodies lying half-submerged in the crimson-stained mire or crushed beneath the mangled bodies of their steeds or twisted against the English palings, only twenty-five of them were King Harry's subjects.
The incessant rain and the sucking mud, the long marching and the agues and aches and occasional cases of the clap -- these things were inconsequential. Men would speak of this for years to come, and their hearts would swell with pride, for on this field of Agincourt they had shown the world what it meant to be an Englishman.
***
John Talbot's commander and liege lord was a ten-year-old boy with sandy hair and wide brown eyes who did not wear the crown because it was too large for his head. Even were he a man, he looked as though he would never be at home in the field. As John knelt before him the image came to his mind of his own son John at young Henry's age, grimly struggling to lift a sword almost as big as he was; the strain was visible, but the boy was fiercely determined. He had sent for young John to fight alongside him, for he was old enough now, and he would someday be a fine soldier.
He could not imagine that childish ferocity in the king's face.
King Henry's face lit up as John offered his homage. "I do remember how my father said a stouter champion never handled sword," he chirped, beaming, and although there was no one at court who did not know that Henry had never even seen his father, John could not imagine that he was not telling the truth. Perhaps if he could somehow remember that, he might someday understand as well what it was to lead men.
And God knows they needed it: even at the coronation ceremonies the English peers glared at each other and stood ranged together, one side wearing red roses, the other white. John was aware that the court was being torn apart by factions; he neither knew nor cared what their pretext was. France was where he belonged, for there was no better way to serve his king than with his sword. Let the noblemen fight amongst themselves: his men were worth a thousand -- a hundred thousand -- Yorks and Somersets.
***
John is an old man now. Old men do not die in battle. That is a young man's death, a soldier's death. It is how he has always known he would die. He has never felt old on the field before now.
His son was not yet a soldier, not truly. He has built his monument upon a heap of dead Frenchmen. It is hardly worth it: young John might have lived, were it not for the posturing of Somerset and York, who would abandon loyal subjects to their deaths so that they might deem themselves superior to the other. He can scarcely believe it; nor can he truly acknowledge it to himself, for if he were to face the death of his son he could never lift sword again.
Sir John Talbot was trained up in arms against his fellow Englishmen. It has been many years since that day at Shrewsbury, and when he remembers the face of his son the memory of Harry Hotspur flashes across his mind -- not Hotspur himself, but his own youthful regret that someone like that should die, and that he should die fighting his own countrymen.
But that, it seems, is the English way.
He raises his sword and turns to face the encroaching French.