Wife to Henry V: A Novel by Hilda Lewis Page B

anger, deeper and more bitter than his natural rage because they kept the city from him.
    He turned to Clarence. “No cover for a dog!” he said.
    Tom shrugged. “No food either—except what we brought with us.”
    “It will be enough.” Suddenly Henry's bitterness broke through. “To keep the city from me, Rouen, capital of my dukedom—it's an insult to me. But to burn the good land—that's an insult to God. And for both insults the Rouennais shall pay, all of them, when the city falls.”
    Clarence nodded. “Warwick should be here any day—we can do with him. And Humphrey should be close on his heels.”
    “Glory for Warwick at Domfront. Glory for our brother at Cherbourg. And we; we sit here and look at St. Catherine.” Henry stared at the great abbey fortress. From its steep hill it stared back. How could one get near it, even? Between the fortress and his armies lay a mile or more of marsh; and above the marsh, a raised causeway, ten feet high at least—the only road.
    Without St. Catherine he couldn't hope to blockade the east wall; and from the east—if from anywhere—help would come to the city; such help as the two-faced Laggard of Burgundy might be man enough to send. As long as the Catherine Fortress guarded the Paris road, so long would Rouen resist.
    “I must have it!” It was to God he spoke rather than to Clarence.
    “We shall take it.” Tom nodded. “Listen!” Even where they stood at the western gate they could hear the noise of the assault far away beyond the east wall.
    Henry shrugged. “Noise—it's nothing new.”
    “I think it is.” Clarence stood intent, “It sounds stronger, wilder...different.”
    Henry snapped impatient fingers; horse and squire came at the trot. Clarence saluted and went back to his post.
    Henry dug his spurs. At the Bouvreuil Gate the fighting was thick but Norfolk had it well in hand. At the Beauvoisine Gate his Uncle of Exeter waved a friendly hand. He was already more cheerful when he reached the Hilary Gate; here, at his own fighting station the men raised a cheer. His heart lifted further. Above the din of the battle he could hear his battle cry, A Henry, à St. George!
    He would have liked to stay a little, to show himself to the men; but he must push on. At the Martainville Gate the fighting was thickest of all. On his left, looming so near in the summer air that he was tempted to throw a stone at it, the towers of St. Catherine rose mocking.
    He found himself despondent again. Would the great fortress never fall? Did the Lord of Hosts protect it because it was holy ground? He brushed the thought away. Wherever God's Soldier treads, there is holy ground.
    Sitting there, holding in his horse, he heard a fresh wave of sound rise, deepen, boom, break into a thousand brittle splinters. Hurrah...hurrah. He rose in his stirrups.
    Salisbury came staggering a little towards his King; knelt in the dust. “St. Catherine,” he said, and waved towards the fortress; through the caked grime joy shone clear.
    “God be praised,” the King said, rigid upon the horse. “Salisbury, dear friend!” and could say no more. He swung a leg, grasped Salisbury's hand, and heavy with armour lowered himself to the ground. “Rouen is ours,” he said half in wonder. “For who will help it now? Who send relief? What fighting men? What food, even? The town is locked within itself and we hold the key.”
    “We are likely to go short ourselves,” Salisbury reminded him. “Oh there is enough at present; but soon we shall be into autumn; and then comes winter.” He stared at the blackened countryside.
    “We'll ship it from home. Land it at Harfleur; send it up the river.”
    “I doubt we should get it here,” Salisbury frowned. “There's Caudebec. The river's so narrow a man could straddle it. Our men would never get by, they'd be caught in a trap and the food with them.”
    “Then we'll take Caudebec, and take it now!”
    “Take Caudebec—the strongest of castles!