We’re finished, thought Sir John Fastolf. I’m finished. I’m doomed. And it was close, it was so close. We almost succeeded. We would’ve succeeded, had it not been for…

We would’ve succeeded, thought Thomas Blackbourne. We would have succeeded, John Fastolf, had you not got blind drunk in every roadside tavern, you despicable old sot. Had you not indulged yourself in every local brothel, you lecherous old hog. Were it not for that, the Frogs wouldn’t have found out about us, and we’d have been among our fellows long ago. But now we’re doomed.

“How many…” Sir John Fastolf cleared his throat. “How many of them are there? And who is it? Did you see their banners?”

“There’ll be…” Reginald de Lacy stammered, ashamed for fleeing without having closely examined the French pennants. “At least two thousand. From Orléans, so it’s surely the Bastard… Or La Hire—”

Blackbourne swore. Sir John sighed furtively. He glanced at his own men. At his five-score heavy horse. Five-score foot. At the four hundred Welsh bowmen. Wagoners and camp followers. And three hundred wagons. Three hundred stinking wagons, full of stinking barrels of stinking salt herring, bought in Paris and earmarked for Lenten provisions for the eight-thousand-strong army of the Earl of Suffolk besieging Orléans.

Herring, thought Sir John resignedly. I’ll depart this life thanks to herrings. I’ll die in a pile of herrings. I’ll have a grave of herrings and a gravestone of herrings. By God! All London will split their sides laughing.

Three hundred wagons of herring. Three hundred wagons. Wagons.

“Unhitch the horses!” Sir John Fastolf bellowed like an ox, standing up in his stirrups. “Form a square of the wagons! Fasten the shafts to the wheels! Hand out bows to every man!”

He has lost his mind, thought Thomas Blackbourne. Or not yet sobered up. But he hurried to carry out the orders.

We’ll soon find out how much truth there is in it, thought Sir John, looking at his men bustling around and the barricade created from the wagons. In what they tell of Bohemians, about those Hussites from eastern Europe or Asia Minor or somewhere… About their victories, about the crushing defeats they have meted out to Saxons and Bavarians… About their famous leader, called… Damn it, what was it? Shishka?

It was the twelfth of February Anno Domini 1429, the Saturday before the first Sunday in Lent. The sun shone brightly, burning off the low, creeping fog. He had the impression the herrings had started to smell even stronger. The thudding of hooves could be heard from the town of Rouvray to the east, growing louder.

“Bows in hand!” yelled Thomas Blackbourne, drawing his sword. “They’re coming!”