Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [41]
“Twelve,” a cheerful voice said behind him, “one arrow for each disciple.” Hook turned to see a priest watching him. The man, who had a round, merry face framed by wispy white hair, was carrying a great leather bag in one hand and had Melisande’s elbow firmly clutched in the other. “You must be Master Hook!” the priest said, “of course you are! I’m Father Ralph, may I try?” He put down the bag, released Melisande’s arm, and reached for Hook’s bow. “Do allow me,” he pleaded, “I used to draw the bow in my youth!”
Hook surrendered the bow and watched as Father Ralph tried to pull the cord. The priest was a well-built man, though grown rather portly from good living, but even so he only managed to pull the cord back about a hand’s breadth before the stave began quivering with the effort. Father Ralph shook his head. “I’m not the man I was!” he said, then gave the bow back and watched as Hook, apparently effortlessly, bent the long stave to unhook the string. “It is time we all talked,” Father Ralph said very cheerfully. “A most excellent day to you, Sergeant Venables, how are you?”
“I’m well, father, very well!” Venables grinned, bobbed his head, and knuckled his forehead. “Leg doesn’t hurt much, father, not if the wind ain’t in the east.”
“Then I shall pray God to send you nothing but west winds!” Father Ralph said happily, “nothing but westerlies! Come, Master Hook! Shed light upon my darkness! Illuminate me!”
The priest, again clutching his bag, led Hook and Melisande to rooms built against the Tower’s curtain wall. The chamber he chose, which was small and paneled with carved timber, had two chairs and a table and Father Ralph insisted on finding a third chair. “Sit yourselves,” he said, “sit, sit!”
He wished to know the full story of Soissons and so, in English and French, Hook and Melisande told their tale again. They described the assault, the rapes and the murders, and Father Ralph’s pen never stopped scratching. His bag contained sheets of parchment, an ink flask and quills, and he wrote unceasingly, occasionally throwing in a question. Melisande spoke the most, her voice sounding indignant as she recounted the night’s horrors. “Tell me about the nuns,” Father Ralph said, then made a fluttery gesture as if he had been a fool and repeated the question in French. Melisande sounded ever more indignant, staring wide-eyed at Father Ralph when he motioned her to silence so his pen could catch up with her flood of words.
Hoofbeats sounded outside and, a few moments later, there was the clangor of swords striking each other. Hook, as Melisande told her story, looked through the open window to see men-at-arms practicing on the ground where his arrows had flown. They were all dressed in full plate armor that made a dull sound if a blade struck. One man, distinctive because his armor was black, was being attacked by two others and he was defending himself skillfully, though Hook had the impression that the two men were not trying as hard as they might. A score of other men applauded the contest. “Et gladius diaboli,” Father Ralph read aloud slowly as he finished writing a sentence, “repletus est sanguine. Good! Oh, that is most excellent!”
“Is that Latin, father?” Hook asked.
“It is, yes! Yes, indeed! Latin! The language of God! Or perhaps He speaks Hebrew? I suppose that’s more likely and it will make things rather awkward in heaven, won’t it? Will we all have to learn Hebrew? Or maybe we shall find ourselves gloriously voluble in that language when we