Valois

I did not scream when the fire started. A flaming bush burned relentlessly in the distance, its shadows creating an unpredictable flame against the moonlight. It was a night of terror from seeing my brother’s men run helplessly around the camp in the late hours of the evening. We were awoken by hooves beating against the ground outside the tents, appearing as if thunder. I grabbed my cloak, threw it around my shoulders, and stepped into the clearing to see the English coming towards us, clutching their charred wooden torches, lighting anything that was in proximity on fire. I only remember running, getting lost in the sounds of despair and confused Frenchmen struggling to wake themselves from their cots before having their throats slit. The broch around my cloak was cold and hard as I ran to where my tent lay barren. My heart felt as if it had burst when I entered and found everything as it was. It was one of the well-furnished huts with every type of valuable made of gold laid out on tables and dressers. Everything of value would be taken, including hostages. My maids were not in their beds beside mine, they were sent out into the nearby lake to collect water and have not yet returned. I muttered a silent prayer for each of them, my throat clenching harshly at the thought of the women being slain. I coughed and spurned when I moved to huddle underneath a pile of linen that was tucked into a corner of the tent, ignoring the sharp mulch that poked beneath the light fabric.

I knew the importance of tonight. A mere three days ago as it was still light, my brother, the dauphin, Charles, had rode towards Agincourt for the south of France. Taking a number of men with him for his campaign against the English army. I thought I counted the whole of France in his guard as they all marched with their silver gauntlets shining in the summer’s heat while the golden fleur de lis hung proudly above. He had left me behind at camp where only the sickest of men, those who could not possibly fight any longer remained. And of course, the female servants who could not quell their anxiety of having no choice but to follow their lady into this skirmish. I believed I was going to be ill as well when the most terrible sounds came from outside. Sceams from the dying and a drenched smell of burning wood claimed every part of the camp. We had left the injured on palettes, their limbs were amputated while others were simply trying to recover from a fever. For days I stayed by their side along with other serving maids who washed the blood and pus from their wounds. But now I could only lay here frightened as I heard the sound of the men being slaughtered, their internal pain now being silenced. My tent would be next, I could see a faint glow through the curtains where a torch burned from outside.

I stifled my breath, clutching onto the metal cross that dangled around my neck after hearing someone enter. They moved in groups, each rowdy with no thought of smashing the gold and silver onto the ground, taking at least some of it for themselves. My silence was bolstered as I gave a loud shriek from the men flipping over the beds and lighting their torches in the corner of the tent, setting a strip of light material ablaze. In moments the linen was ripped from my body and I stared terrified at the English soldier who glared down at me. He was a large, older man dressed in chainmail who shouted at me in English. I only managed to understand some of his language, his guttural voice becoming foreign and scrambling into ugly vices. But the context of his fury was clear after identifying me as the sister of the Dauphin from my more than simple garments and the jewel on my finger. I moved further into the corner, trying to defend myself when he lunged for me. He grabbed me by the wrist and hoisted me up from my fetal position, prepared to throttle me senselessly when the other man who stolen every valuable from the tent prevented him from doing any further harm by speaking, “Do not kill her. We will take her to his majesty.”