Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [52]
“It would save Lord Slayton the trouble of a trial, wouldn’t it?” the priest said. “And remove from his lordship the temptation of mercy.” He cackled again.
Father Christopher held up a slim hand in warning, but Tom Perrill ignored the gesture. He came around the table and was just reaching for Hook when he was stopped by the sound of a sword scraping through a scabbard’s throat.
Sir Martin turned.
A single horseman watched the scene from the edge of the village. There were more horsemen behind him, but they had evidently been ordered to wait.
“I really would advise you,” Father Christopher said very mildly, “to take those arrows off their strings.”
None of the archers followed his advice. They glanced nervously at Sir Martin, but Sir Martin seemed not to know what to do, and just then the lone horseman touched his spurs to his stallion’s flanks.
“Sir Martin!” William Snoball appealed for orders.
But Sir Martin said nothing. He merely watched as the man-at-arms spurred toward him, the stallion’s hooves spewing puffs of dust as it cantered, and the rider drew back his sword arm and then, as he galloped past, swept once.
The flat of the blade smacked across Robert Perrill’s skull. The archer, whose selection had been random, toppled slowly from the saddle to drop heavily onto the street. The arrow, released by his nerveless hand, thumped into the tavern’s wall, half drilling through it. It had missed Hook by inches. Tom Perrill turned to help his brother, who stirred groggily in the dust, then went still as Sir John Cornewaille wheeled his horse. Sir John spurred again, and now Sir Martin’s archers hurriedly took the arrows off their strings. Sir John slowed the stallion, then curbed it.
“Greetings, Sir John,” Father Christopher said happily.
“What’s happening?” Sir John asked harshly.
Robert Perrill staggered to his feet, the right side of his head sheeted with blood. Tom Perrill was unmoving now, his eyes fixed on the sword that had struck his brother.
Father Christopher drank some ale, then wiped his lips. “These men, Sir John,” he waved at Sir Martin and his archers, “expressed a desire to take our food. I did advise them against such a course, but they insisted the food was theirs because it was under the protection of young Hook here and, according to this holy priest, Hook is an outlaw.”
“He is,” Sir Martin found his voice, “deemed so by law and doomed thereby!”
“I know he’s an outlaw,” Sir John said flatly, “and so did the king when he gave Hook to me. Are you saying the king made a mistake?”
Sir Martin glanced at Hook with surprise, but held his ground. “He is an outlaw,” he insisted, “and Lord Slayton’s man.”
“He is my man,” Sir John said.
“He is…” Sir Martin began, then faltered under Sir John’s gaze.
“He is my man,” Sir John said again, his voice dangerous now, “he fights for me, and that means I fight for him. You know who I am?” Sir John waited for an acknowledgment from the priest, but Sir Martin’s gaze had dissolved into vagueness and he was now staring into the sky as though he were communing with angels. “Tell his lordship,” Sir John went on, “to discuss the matter with me.”
“We will, sir, we will,” William Snoball answered after glancing at Sir Martin.
“Elijah the Tishbite,” Sir Martin spoke suddenly, “ate bread and flesh by the brook Cherith. Did you know that?” This question was asked earnestly of Sir John who merely looked bemused. “The brook Cherith,” Sir Martin said as though he imparted a great secret, “is where a man may hide himself.”
“Jesus wept,” Sir John said.
“And no wonder,” Father Christopher sighed. Then he gently lifted Hook’s bow and slammed it hard down onto the table and the abrupt noise made the horses twitch and snapped Sir Martin’s eyes into comprehension. “I forgot to mention,” Father Christopher said, smiling