Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [51]
A small group of horsemen appeared at the end of the village street. Hook glanced at them, but none was wearing Sir John Cornewaille’s livery, so he turned back to the priest.
“God had saved the brothers from the torture and from the drowning and from the fire,” Father Christopher said, “but for some reason He let them die anyway. They had their heads chopped off by the emperor, and that stopped them singing. It would, wouldn’t it?”
“But it was still a miracle,” Hook said in wonderment.
“It was a miracle they survived so long,” Father Christopher agreed. “But why are you so interested in Crispinian? He’s really a French saint, not ours. He and his brother went to France, see? To do their work.”
Hook hesitated, not sure whether he wanted to confess that a headless saint talked to him, but before he could decide either way a voice sneered. “God’s belly!” the voice said, “look who we have here! Master Nicholas Hook!”
Hook looked up to see Sir Martin leering triumphantly from his horse. There were eight horsemen and all but Sir Martin were wearing Lord Slayton’s moon and stars. Thomas Perrill and his brother Robert were among the riders, as was Lord Slayton’s centenar, William Snoball. Hook knew them all.
“Friends of yours?” Father Christopher asked.
“I thought you were dead, Hook,” Sir Martin said. He was in a priest’s robe that was tucked up so his skinny legs could straddle the horse and, though priests were forbidden to carry edged weapons, he wore an old-fashioned sword with a wide crosspiece on the hilt. “I hoped you were dead,” he added, “doomed, damned and dead.” His long face grimaced in what might have been a smile.
“I live,” Hook said curtly.
“And you wear another man’s livery,” Sir Martin said, “which is not right, Hook, not right at all. It defies law and the scriptures, and Lord Slayton will not like it. Is this yours?” He pointed to the wagon.
“It is ours,” Father Christopher answered pleasantly.
Sir Martin appeared to notice Father Christopher for the first time. He peered intensely at the gray-haired man for a few heartbeats, then shook his head. “I don’t know you,” he said, “and I don’t need to know you. I need food. That’s why we came, and there,” he pointed a bony finger at the wagon, “is food. Manna from heaven. As God sent ravens to feed Elijah the Tishbite, so He has sent us Hook.” He found that amusing and laughed to himself, and in the laughter was the cackle of madness.
“But that food is ours,” Father Christopher said as though he spoke to a small child.
“But he,” Sir Martin sneered, pointing at Hook, “he, he, he,” and with each repetition he stabbed his finger toward Hook, “that piece of shit beside you, is Lord Slayton’s man. And he is an outlaw.”
Father Christopher turned a surprised face on Hook. “Are you?” he asked.
Hook nodded, said nothing.
“Well, well,” Father Christopher said mildly.
“An outlaw can possess nothing,” Sir Martin rasped, “which is the commandment of the scriptures, so that food is ours.”
“I think not,” Father Christopher replied calmly, smiling.
“You may think what you like,” Sir Martin said with a sudden vehemence, “because we’ll take it anyway, and we’ll take him.” He pointed to Hook.
“You know the livery?” Father Christopher asked gently, gesturing at Hook’s surcoat.
“An outlaw can wear no livery,” Sir Martin said. He looked happy as he anticipated the pleasure of Hook’s death. “Tom?” he twisted in the saddle to look at the older Perrill brother, “rip that surcoat off him, tie his hands tight and bring him.”
William Snoball had an arrow on his string. The rest of Sir Martin’s archers followed