It was a cold night, the air stagnant with anxiety. The clean, crisp starry sky held a strange sense of wisdom, almost as if it knew what the future held. The trees were standing proud, high above our camp, as if over-looking the whole situation, oblivious to the insecurity hanging above the English troops like a dull cloud.
The light from the tents shone out, highlighting my features and glittering in my highly polished, steely armour; glinting over my face and reflecting off my eyes like the morning sun which brings with it the prospect of death under the five French swords longing for my demise.
I sit and watch the horses nervously wandering around, returning the cries of the French steeds. It just adds to my sense of fear.
My senses seem to be heightened.
I listen to my heartbeat as it thunders in my ears like a war drum, beating a marching time as if counting down to one final moment. Death or glory. The sounds of the armourer’s hammer beating rivets with ringing blows, echoing through the dull lifeless night.
The smell of charcoal on the burnt out fires of the English, a faint reminder of the log fires back in the English dining halls of home; the place which seems so far away. The delicious smell of meat roasting which is a thing I may never taste again.
The feeling of fresh, crisp grass as I sit on the stone cold earth. I feel as if it’s draining all the feelings and thoughts of joy and happiness I ever felt. The steely spearhead in my hand, I grind away the blood stained dull surface to find a new layer of more lustre, as keen as I to slay the French. The rough bark on the tree pressing against my back, embossing its image into my tired and weary flesh. I cannot wait for the morning sun to rise: even though it brings with it the probability of my death. It is better than sitting here waiting for the unknown.
I look around me and see all the other men, all of whom must be feeling the same sense of insecurity as I. Over the field from the French I can hear shouting and chanting. I can see their lights burning brightly, unlike ours, they have time between worrying about tomorrow to keep their fires burning. The faint outline of clouds skipping across the sky, obscuring the refreshing monotone light from the moon, making the ground look like the dappled light on the ground of a summer orchard.
I dream of the heroic deeds I will perform during battle, although I know that they are just that. Dreams. This however is the only place I feel truly safe: In my own mind. Then my mind skips and I see my family waiting for me. I must fight as I do in the dreams for their sake. Soon though, the moment will be upon us. Will I be able to find myself an unknown inner strength and battle as I did in these dreams? Only God can answer that. Tomorrow I shall find out what God has planned for my life and in him alone I trust.
