[FICATHON] Sans peur et sans reproche, for shayheyred
Title: Sans peur et sans reproche
Author: lareinenoire
Play: Henry V
Recipient: shayheyred
Characters/Pairings: Constable of France
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: A disease in the blood, some whispered. A curse on the house of Valois. Perhaps that was what had brought the English, for, surely, the son of a man who had murdered an anointed King should have been struck down long ere this.
Notes: Your proper fic will be up shortly. We just wanted to make sure everybody got something today.
The rain, which had plagued them ever since their departure from Péronne, had finally spent itself, content to spit a few fitful drops every now and again across the camp. Their proud blue banners barely stirred in the sluggish breeze, concealing the golden fleurs-de-lis within its soggy folds. If Charles d'Albret had believed in omens, no doubt he would have crossed himself and muttered a prayer, a firm reminder to God to smile upon their just cause.
But the High Constable of France was not a superstitious man. Nor was he, in these dark watches of the night, altogether sure that their cause was just.
He would fight on the morrow, of course. It was his duty and his pride, never mind that he had advised against pitched battle just days before. Let the English spend themselves in marching. Let hunger and illness take them on the road. It was their land--they could afford to wait. But the Dauphin was determined to meet King Henry in the field, to prove once and for all that the other was no less dissolute than he.
"You are too hard on him, I think." The voice and its unsurprising sentiments belonged to the Dauphin's cousin, Charles d'Orléans, with whom the Constable shared a Christian name, a hatred of the Burgundians, and little else. "He's just a boy."
"The English do not care. They see only his foolishness, think it is only a matter of time before he follows his father." Not for the first time, the Constable wondered what it might be like to serve a king who was not mad, who had not abandoned his kingdom for a world of shadows impenetrable to all but himself. The flashes of lucidity were growing fewer and farther between, and it seemed the entire court watched the Dauphin's every move with dread.
A disease in the blood, some whispered. A curse on the house of Valois. Perhaps that was what had brought the English, for, surely, the son of a man who had murdered an anointed King should have been struck down long ere this.
The Constable sighed. "It does not matter. We shall meet them at sunrise."
"Mountjoy has returned, then?" At the Constable's nod, Orléans shook his head. "Perhaps he too is mad."
"Bold, certainly. Also ambitious and without scruple." A scrap of rumour came to mind then, a story that had flooded the court soon after news arrived of the old king's death. "They say he stole the crown from his dying father's very hands. He hadn't even the decency to wait till the corpse was cold."
"Do you expect any better from the son of an accursed usurper? And now he seeks to steal a throne from another rightful king. Mort-Dieu," spat Orléans, "it cannot be permitted!"
"No, it cannot. And, indeed, it shall not be permitted. I merely regret that it should come to this, that starving men should die in their own filth for the pride of two brainsick boys." The Constable's lip curled in scorn. "There is no honour in such a victory."
"You'll think differently when we've won. You'll see."
He dredged up a smile for Orléans, but the other had already turned away, calling for his squire. Through the distant trees, he could see the first streaks of dawn snaking across the horizon. Whatever the English were, whatever God had in store for both or either side, it was time to meet them.
***
The showers of arrows rained down on their men as the storms had in the days before the battle. Around him, the other commanders were shouting, incoherent cries mingling with the screams of the dying. The Dauphin was all but clinging to the Constable's side, eyes wide as saucers, the armour in which he'd had so much pride dented and bloodstained.
At least, the Constable thought dourly, this suggested the boy wasn't mad.
He heard his own voice cutting across the throng, urging them to follow him into the fray. There would be no earthly victory today, but out of scourges were martyrs made. And the wheel of fortune could not but turn downward for Harry of England after such a day as this.
He had, in the end, offered his King the greatest service that ever chevalier could render. The rest was out of his hands.
Author: lareinenoire
Play: Henry V
Recipient: shayheyred
Characters/Pairings: Constable of France
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: A disease in the blood, some whispered. A curse on the house of Valois. Perhaps that was what had brought the English, for, surely, the son of a man who had murdered an anointed King should have been struck down long ere this.
Notes: Your proper fic will be up shortly. We just wanted to make sure everybody got something today.
The rain, which had plagued them ever since their departure from Péronne, had finally spent itself, content to spit a few fitful drops every now and again across the camp. Their proud blue banners barely stirred in the sluggish breeze, concealing the golden fleurs-de-lis within its soggy folds. If Charles d'Albret had believed in omens, no doubt he would have crossed himself and muttered a prayer, a firm reminder to God to smile upon their just cause.
But the High Constable of France was not a superstitious man. Nor was he, in these dark watches of the night, altogether sure that their cause was just.
He would fight on the morrow, of course. It was his duty and his pride, never mind that he had advised against pitched battle just days before. Let the English spend themselves in marching. Let hunger and illness take them on the road. It was their land--they could afford to wait. But the Dauphin was determined to meet King Henry in the field, to prove once and for all that the other was no less dissolute than he.
"You are too hard on him, I think." The voice and its unsurprising sentiments belonged to the Dauphin's cousin, Charles d'Orléans, with whom the Constable shared a Christian name, a hatred of the Burgundians, and little else. "He's just a boy."
"The English do not care. They see only his foolishness, think it is only a matter of time before he follows his father." Not for the first time, the Constable wondered what it might be like to serve a king who was not mad, who had not abandoned his kingdom for a world of shadows impenetrable to all but himself. The flashes of lucidity were growing fewer and farther between, and it seemed the entire court watched the Dauphin's every move with dread.
A disease in the blood, some whispered. A curse on the house of Valois. Perhaps that was what had brought the English, for, surely, the son of a man who had murdered an anointed King should have been struck down long ere this.
The Constable sighed. "It does not matter. We shall meet them at sunrise."
"Mountjoy has returned, then?" At the Constable's nod, Orléans shook his head. "Perhaps he too is mad."
"Bold, certainly. Also ambitious and without scruple." A scrap of rumour came to mind then, a story that had flooded the court soon after news arrived of the old king's death. "They say he stole the crown from his dying father's very hands. He hadn't even the decency to wait till the corpse was cold."
"Do you expect any better from the son of an accursed usurper? And now he seeks to steal a throne from another rightful king. Mort-Dieu," spat Orléans, "it cannot be permitted!"
"No, it cannot. And, indeed, it shall not be permitted. I merely regret that it should come to this, that starving men should die in their own filth for the pride of two brainsick boys." The Constable's lip curled in scorn. "There is no honour in such a victory."
"You'll think differently when we've won. You'll see."
He dredged up a smile for Orléans, but the other had already turned away, calling for his squire. Through the distant trees, he could see the first streaks of dawn snaking across the horizon. Whatever the English were, whatever God had in store for both or either side, it was time to meet them.
***
The showers of arrows rained down on their men as the storms had in the days before the battle. Around him, the other commanders were shouting, incoherent cries mingling with the screams of the dying. The Dauphin was all but clinging to the Constable's side, eyes wide as saucers, the armour in which he'd had so much pride dented and bloodstained.
At least, the Constable thought dourly, this suggested the boy wasn't mad.
He heard his own voice cutting across the throng, urging them to follow him into the fray. There would be no earthly victory today, but out of scourges were martyrs made. And the wheel of fortune could not but turn downward for Harry of England after such a day as this.
He had, in the end, offered his King the greatest service that ever chevalier could render. The rest was out of his hands.