Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [42]
“Yes, father.”
“So all Christendom will know what sanguinary devils the French are! We shall copy this tale a hundred times and send it to every bishop, every abbot, every king, and every prince in Christendom. Let them know the truth of Soissons! Let them know how the French treat their own people! Let them know that Satan’s dwelling place is in France, eh?” He smiled.
“Satan does live there,” a harsh voice spoke behind Hook, “and he must be driven out!” Hook twisted in his chair to see that the black-armored man-at-arms was standing in the doorway. He had taken off his helmet and his brown hair was plastered down by sweat in which an impression of his helmet liner remained. He was a young man who looked familiar, though Hook could not place him, but then Hook saw the deep scar beside the long nose and he almost knocked the chair over as he scrambled to kneel before his king. His heart was beating fast and the terror was as great as when he had waited by the breach at Soissons. The king. That was all he could think of, this was the king.
Henry made an irritable gesture that Hook should rise, an order Hook was too nervous to obey. The king edged between the table and the wall to look at what Father Ralph had written. “My Latin is not what it should be,” he said, “but the gist is clear enough.”
“It confirms all the rumors we heard, sire,” Father Ralph said.
“Sir Roger Pallaire?”
“Killed by this young man, sire,” Father Ralph said, gesturing at Hook.
“He was a traitor,” the king said coldly, “our agents in France have confirmed that.”
“He screams in hell now, sire,” Father Ralph said, “and his screams shall not end with time itself.”
“Good,” Henry said curtly and sifted the pages. “Nuns? Surely not?”
“Indeed, sire,” Father Ralph said. “The brides of Christ were violated and murdered. They were dragged from their prayers to become playthings, sire. We had heard of it and we had scarce dared to believe it, but this young lady confirms it.”
The king rested his gaze on Melisande, who, like Hook, had dropped to her knees where, like Hook, she quivered with nervousness. “Get up,” the king said to her, then looked at a crucifix hanging on the wall. He frowned and bit his lower lip. “Why did God allow it, father?” he asked after a while, and there was both pain and puzzlement in his voice. “Nuns? God should have protected them, surely? He should have sent angels to guard them!”
“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 armored 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