How the word spreads on a battlefield, in the thick of combat, is a mystery fit for church; yet within the hour, as sure as the armies know it's cold, every soldier in Shrewsbury knows that Hotspur is lost. How he's died, no one's certain, but his absence is keenly felt, for the king's men gain heart, suddenly, and the rebels begin to flee. The Earl of Worcester is taken prisoner, and the king passes death upon him, and Sir Richard Vernon. The Douglas flees pell-mell with his Scots, and neither Northumberland nor Glendower are within five counties of the fray.

The Prince of Wales, thanks be to God, has found his brother, John of Lancaster, and both hobble over the field toward King Henry's camp. John frowns, not only at Hal's weight slung about his shoulders, but at the figure that swift approaches. "Did you not tell me this fat man was dead?"

"I did," says Hal slowly, staring. "I saw him dead, breathless and bleeding on the ground." He halts, and hails the monstrous knight, moving at speed towards them. "Art thou alive? I prithee, speak: we will not trust our eyes without our ears!"