Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [62]
“We’re going to kill the turd-sucking bastards,” William of the Dale said in his uncanny imitation of Sir John. Matt Scarlet laughed.
“Quiet,” Hook said sharply, “and go faster!” If crossbowmen were waiting then it was better to move quickly rather than present an easy target, but his instincts were telling him that there was no enemy in these trees. The wood felt deserted. When he had hunted deer-poachers on Lord Slayton’s land he had always felt their presence, a knowledge that came from beyond sight, smell, or hearing; an instinct. Hook reckoned these woods were empty, yet there was still that smell of woodsmoke. Instinct could be wrong.
The slope flattened and the trees became sparser. Hook was still leading his companions to the east, anxious to stay well away from a nervous English archer. Then, suddenly, he had reached the summit and the trees ended to reveal a sunken road running along the ridge. “Bows,” he told his companions, though he did not unsheathe his own stave. He had heard something off to his left, some noise that could not have been made by any of Sir John’s men. It was the thump of a hoof.
The four archers crouched in the trees above the road. The hoofbeats sounded louder, but nothing could be seen. It was one horse, Hook thought, judging from the sound, and then, suddenly, the horse and its rider were visible, riding eastward. The rider was swathed in darkness as if he wore a cloak, but Hook could see no weapons. “Don’t shoot,” he told his companions, “he’s mine.”
Hook waited till the horseman was nearly opposite his hiding place, then leaped down the bank and snatched at the bridle. The horse slewed and reared. Hook reached up with his free hand, grasped a handful of the rider’s cloak and hauled downward. The horse whinnied, but obeyed Hook’s touch, while the rider gasped as he thumped hard onto the road. The man tried to scramble away, but Hook kicked him hard in the belly, and then Thomas, Matthew, and William were at his side, hauling the prisoner to his feet.
“He’s a monk!” William of the Dale said.
“He was riding to fetch help,” Hook said. That was a guess, but hardly a difficult surmise.
The monk began to protest, speaking too quickly for Hook to understand any of his words. He spoke loudly too. “Shut your face,” Hook said, and the monk, as if in response, began to shout his protests, so Hook hit him once and the monk’s head snapped back and blood sprang from his nose, and he went instantly quiet. He was a young man who now looked very scared.
“I told you to shut your face,” Hook said. “You three, whistle! Whistle loud!”
William, Matthew, and Thomas whistled “Robin Hood’s Lament” as Hook led the prisoner and horse back along the road that lay sunken between two tree-shrouded banks. The track curved to the left to reveal a great stone building with a tower. It looked like a church. “Une église?” he asked the monk.
“Un monastère,” the monk said sullenly.
“Keep whistling,” Hook said.
“What did he say?” Tom Scarlet asked.
“He said it’s a monastery. Now whistle!”
Smoke came from a chimney of the monastery, explaining the smell that had haunted Hook as they climbed the hill. No one else from the landing party was in sight yet, but as Hook led his small party toward the building a gate opened and a wash of lantern light revealed a group of monks standing in the gateway. “Arrows on strings,” Hook said, “and keep goddam whistling, for God’s sake.”
A tall, thin, gray-haired man, robed in black, advanced down the track. “Je suis le prieur,” he announced himself.
“What did he say?” Tom Scarlet asked.
“He says he’s the prior,” Hook said, “just keep whistling.”
The prior reached out a hand as if to take the bloodied monk, but Hook turned on him and the tall man stepped hastily back. The other monks