Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [105]
He was fast. That was why he was the most feared tournament fighter in Christendom. In the time it took a man to strike a blow, Sir John gave two. Hook saw it because, once again, it seemed to him that time itself had slowed. He was moving to Sir John’s right, aware suddenly that Saint Crispinian had broken his silence and feeling a great surge of relief that the saint was still his patron. Hook lunged with his poleax as Sir John used his double-bladed battle-ax in short brutal strokes. The first smashed the roundel protecting a man-at-arms’s knee, the second, a rising slash, gutted a crossbowman, and the third felled the man-at-arms whose knee had been broken. Another man-at-arms turned to drive a sword at Sir John, but Hook’s poleax sliced into his side, piercing the edge of his breastplate and throwing him back on the men behind. Hook just kept ramming, driving the man back, crushing him into his comrades, and Sir John was making a whooping noise, a sound of pure joy. Hook was screaming, though he was not aware of it, and using his huge archer’s strength to push the enemy back while Sir John was taking advantage of their confusion to chop, wound, and kill.
Hook wrenched the poleax back, but the spear point was trapped in the man’s armor. “Take this!” Sir John said sharply, thrusting the ax at Hook, and later, much later when the fight was over, Hook marveled at Sir John’s utter calm in the middle of a fight. Sir John had seen Hook’s predicament and solved it, even though he was under attack himself. He gave Hook the ax and, in the time it took Hook to take it, Sir John drew his sword. It was Sir John’s favorite sword, the one he called Darling, and it was a heavier blade than most, strong enough to survive hard lunges into steel plate. Sir John used it to keep the enemy off balance, letting Hook do the killing now. Hook’s first blow drove the ax into a helmet, wrenching the whole visor loose so it hung askew. “Cheap steel!” Sir John said, and his sword flickered at men’s faces, making them retreat, and Hook drove the blade into an armored belly and saw the blood well out bright and fast. “Flag!” Sir John bellowed. “Bring me my goddam flag!”
Hook was standing with his feet apart, driving the ax at men who were hardly fighting back. They were hampered by the bodies at their feet and cowed by Sir John’s sheer skill and ferocity. A determined man could have attacked into Sir John’s sword and Hook’s ax, but instead the defenders tried to back away from the blades while the Frenchmen behind pushed them forward. “Trois!” Sir John was counting the men he had wounded or killed, “quatre! Come on, you goddam bastards! I’m hungry!” Hook’s ax was the more dangerous weapon because of its power. The blade crumpled armor like parchment or chopped into flesh like a slaughterman’s cleaver, and Hook was grimacing as he swung and the enemy thought he was smiling, and that smile was more frightening than the blade. The sheer press of Frenchmen made it impossible for their crossbowmen to take aim, while the surviving rear wall and the obscuring smoke hid the fight from the bowmen on the towers of the Leure Gate. Sir John was shouting and Hook was keening a mad noise and their blades were red. Hook was not trying to kill now, he was just thrusting the enemy back and putting men on the ground to make a barrier. A fallen man-at-arms made an upward cut with his sword, but Hook saw the lunge coming, took a half-step to one side, slammed the ax down hard onto the man’s visor, heard the gurgling noise as the heavy blade crushed steel into flesh, swung the ax back to dent a man’s breastplate, and then rammed the weapon forward to push a third man backward.
“My flag!” Sir John shouted again,