Azincourt

‘Perhaps God wanted their fate to be a sign,’ Father Ralph suggested.

‘A sign?’

‘Of the wickedness of the French, sire, and thus the righteousness of your claim to that unhappy realm’s crown.’

‘My task, then, is to avenge the nuns,’ Henry said.

‘You have many tasks, sire,’ Father Ralph said humbly, ‘but that is certainly one.’

Henry looked at Hook and Melisande, his armoured fingers tapping on the table. Hook dared to look up once and saw the anxiety on the king’s narrow face. That surprised him. He would have guessed that a king was above worry and aloof to questions of right or wrong, but it was clear that this king was pained by his need to discover God’s will. ‘So these two,’ Henry said, still watching Hook and Melisande, ‘are telling the truth?’

‘I would swear to it, sire,’ Father Ralph said warmly.

The king gazed at Melisande, his face betraying no emotion, then the cold eyes slid to Hook. ‘Why did you alone survive?’ he asked in a suddenly hard voice.

‘I prayed, sire,’ Hook said humbly.

‘The others didn’t pray?’ the king asked sharply.

‘Some did, sire.’

‘But God chose to answer your prayers?’

‘I prayed to Saint Crispinian, sire,’ Hook said, paused, then plunged on with his answer, ‘and he spoke to me.’

Silence again. A raven cawed outside and the clash of swords echoed from the Tower’s keep. Then the King of England reached out his gauntleted hand and tipped Hook’s face up so he could look into the archer’s eyes. ‘He spoke to you?’ the king asked.

Hook hesitated. He felt as though his heart was beating at the base of his throat. Then he decided to tell the whole truth, however unlikely it sounded. ‘Saint Crispinian spoke to me, sire,’ he said, ‘in my head.’

The king just stared at Hook. Father Ralph opened his mouth as though he were about to speak, but a mailed royal hand cautioned the priest to silence and Henry, King of England, went on staring so that Hook felt fear creep up his spine like a cold snake. ‘It’s warm in here,’ the king said suddenly, ‘you will talk with me outside.’

For a heartbeat Hook thought he must have been speaking to Father Ralph, but it was Hook the king wanted, and so Nicholas Hook went into the afternoon sunshine and walked beside his king. Henry’s armour squeaked slightly as it rubbed against the greased leather beneath. His men-at-arms had instinctively approached as he appeared, but he waved them away. ‘Tell me,’ Henry said, ‘how Crispinian spoke to you.’

Hook told how both saints had appeared to him, and how both had spoken to him, but that it was Crispinian who had been the friendly voice. He felt embarrassed to describe the conversations, but Henry took it seriously. He stopped and faced Hook. He was half a head shorter than the archer, so he had to look up to judge Hook’s face, but it appeared he was more than satisfied by what he saw. ‘You are blessed,’ he said. ‘I would wish the saints would speak to me,’ he said wistfully. ‘You have been spared for a purpose,’ he added firmly.

‘I’m just a forester, sire,’ Hook said awkwardly. For a heartbeat he was tempted to tell the further truth, that he was an outlaw too, but caution checked his tongue.

‘No, you are an archer,’ the king insisted, ‘and it was in our realm of France that the saints assisted you. You are God’s instrument.’

Hook did not know what to say and so said nothing.

‘God granted me the thrones of England and of France,’ the king said harshly, ‘and if it is His will, we shall take the throne of France back.’ His mailed right fist clenched suddenly. ‘If we do so decide,’ he went on, ‘I shall want men favoured by the saints of France. Are you a good archer?’

‘I think so, sire,’ Hook said diffidently.

‘Venables!’ the king called and the ventenar limped hurriedly across the turf and fell to his knees. ‘Can he shoot?’ Henry asked.

Venables grinned. ‘As good as any man I ever did see, sire. As good as the man who put that arrow into your face.’

The king evidently liked Venables for he smiled at the slight insolence, then touched an iron-sheathed finger to the deep scar beside his nose. ‘If he’d shot harder, Venables, you would have another king now.’

‘Then God did a good deed that day, sire, in preserving you, and God be thanked for that great mercy.’

‘Amen,’ Henry said. He offered Hook a swift smile. ‘The arrow glanced off a helmet,’ he explained, ‘and that took the force from it, but it still went deep.’

‘You should have had your visor closed, sire,’ Venables said reprovingly.

‘Men should see a prince’s face in battle,’ Henry said firmly, then looked back to Hook. ‘We shall find you a lord.’

‘I’m outlawed, lord,’ Hook blurted out, unable to conceal the truth any longer. ‘I’m sorry, sire.’

‘Outlawed?’ the king asked harshly, ‘for what crime?’

Hook had dropped to his knees again. ‘For hitting a priest, sire.’

The king was silent and Hook dared not look up. He expected punishment, but instead, to his astonishment, the king chuckled. ‘It seems that Saint Crispinian has forgiven you that grievous error, so who am I to condemn you? And in this realm,’ Henry went on, his voice harder now, ‘a man is what I say he is, and I say you are an archer and we shall find you a lord.’ Henry, without another word, walked back to his companions and Hook let out a long breath.

Sergeant Venables climbed to his feet, flinching from the pain in his wounded leg. ‘Chatted to you, did he?’

‘Yes, sergeant.’

‘He likes doing that. His father didn’t. His father was all gloomy, but our Hal is never too grand to say a word or two to a common bastard like you or me.’ Venables spoke warmly. ‘So, he’s finding you a new lord?’

‘So he said.’

‘Well, let’s hope it’s not Sir John.’

‘Sir John?’

‘Mad bastard he is,’ Venables said, ‘mad and bad. Sir John will have you killed in no time at all!’ Venables chuckled, then nodded to the houses built against the curtain wall. ‘Father Ralph is looking for you.’

Father Ralph was beckoning from the doorway. So Hook went to finish his tale.

‘Jesus weeping Christ, you spavined fart! Cross it! Cross it! Don’t flap it like a wet cock! Cross it! Then close me!’ Sir John Cornewaille snarled at Hook.

The sword came again, slashing at Hook’s waist, and this time Hook managed to cross his own blade to parry the blow and, as he did so, pushed forward, only to be thumped back by a thrust of Sir John’s mailed fist. ‘Keep coming,’ Sir John urged him, ‘crowd me, get me down on the ground, then finish me!’ Instead Hook stepped back and brought up his sword to deflect the next swing of Sir John’s blade. ‘What in Christ’s name is the matter with you?’ Sir John shouted in rage. ‘Have you been weakened by that French whore of yours? By that titless streak of scabby French gristle? Christ’s bones, man, find a real woman! Goddington!’ Sir John glanced at his centenar, ‘why don’t you spread that scabby whore’s skinny legs and see if she can even be humped?’

Hook felt the sudden anger then, a red mist of rage that drove him onto Sir John’s blade, but the older man stepped lithely aside and flicked his sword so that the blade’s flat rapped the back of Hook’s skull. Hook turned, his own sword scything at Sir John, who parried easily. Sir John was in full armour, yet moved as lightly as a dancer. He lunged at Hook, and this time Hook remembered the advice and he swept the lunge aside and threw himself on his opponent, using all his weight and height to unbalance the older man, and he knew he was going to hammer Sir John onto the ground where he would beat him to a pulp, but instead he felt a thumping smack on the back of his skull, his vision went dark, the world reeled, and a second crashing blow with the heavy pommel of Sir John’s sword threw him face down into the early winter stubble.

He did not hear much of what Sir John said in the next few minutes. Hook’s head was painful and spinning, but as he gradually recovered his senses he heard some of the snarled peroration. ‘You can feel anger before a fight! But in the fight? Keep your goddam wits about you! Anger will get you killed.’ Sir John wheeled on Hook. ‘Get up. Your mail’s filthy. Clean it. And there’s rust on the sword blade. I’ll have you whipped if it’s still there at sundown.’

‘He won’t whip you,’ Goddington, the centenar, told Hook that evening. ‘He’ll thump you and cut you and maybe break your bones, but it’ll be in a fair fight.’

‘I’ll break his bones,’ Hook said vengefully.

Goddington laughed. ‘One man, Hook, just one man has held Sir John to a drawn fight in the last ten years. He’s won every tournament in Europe. You won’t beat him, you won’t even come close. He’s a fighter.’