Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [7]
“Who are they anyway?” Hook asked.
“Lollards,” Sir Edward said.
“What’s a Lollard?”
“A heretic, you piece of slime,” Snoball said happily, “and the bastards were supposed to gather here and start a rebellion against our gracious king, but instead they’re going to hell.”
“They don’t look like rebels,” Hook said. Most of the prisoners were middle-aged, some were old, while a handful was very young. There were women and girls among them.
“Doesn’t matter what they look like,” Snoball said, “they’re heretics and they have to die.”
“It’s God’s will,” Sir Martin snarled.
“But what makes them heretics?” Hook asked.
“Oh, we are curious today,” Sir Martin said sourly.
“I’d like to know that too,” Michael said.
“Because the church says they’re heretics,” Sir Martin snapped, then appeared to relent of his tone. “Do you believe, Michael Hook, that when I raise the host it turns into the most holy and beloved and mystical flesh of our Lord Jesus Christ?”
“Yes, father, of course!”
“Well, they don’t believe that,” the priest said, jerking his head at the Lollards kneeling in the mud, “they believe the bread stays bread, which makes them turds-for-brains piss-shits. And do you believe that our blessed father the Pope is God’s vicar on earth?”
“Yes, father,” Michael said.
“Thank Christ for that, or else I’d have to burn you.”
“I thought there were two popes?” Snoball put in.
Sir Martin ignored that. “Ever seen a sinner burn, Michael Hook?” he asked.
“No, father.”
Sir Martin grinned lasciviously. “They scream, young Hook, like a boar being gelded. They do scream so!” He turned suddenly and thrust a long bony finger into Nick Hook’s chest. “And you should listen to those screams, Nicholas Hook, for they are the liturgy of hell. And you,” he prodded Hook’s chest again, “are hell-bound.” The priest whirled around, arms suddenly outspread, so that he reminded Hook of a great dark-winged bird. “Avoid hell, boys!” he called enthusiastically, “avoid it! No tits on Wednesdays and Fridays, and do God’s work diligently every day!”
More ropes had been slung from other signposts about the marketplace, and now soldiers roughly divided the prisoners into groups that were pushed toward the makeshift gallows. One man began shouting to his friends, telling them to have faith in God and that they would all meet in heaven before this day was over, and he went on shouting till a soldier in royal livery broke his jaw with a mail-shod fist. The broken-jawed man was one of the two selected for the fires and Hook, standing apart from his comrades, watched as the man was hoisted onto the stone-and gravel-filled barrel and tied to the stake. More firewood was piled around his feet.
“Come on, Hook, don’t dream,” Snoball grumbled.
The growing crowd was still sullen. There were a few folk who seemed pleased, but most watched resentfully, ignoring the priests who preached at them and turning their backs on a group of brown-robed monks who chanted a song of praise for the day’s happy events.
“Hoist the old man up,” Snoball said to Hook. “We’ve got ten to kill, so let’s get the work done!”
One of the empty handcarts that had brought the firewood was parked beneath the beam and Hook was needed to lift a man onto the cart’s bed. The other six prisoners, four men and two women, waited. One of the women clung to her husband, while the second had her back turned and was on her knees, praying. All four prisoners on the cart were men, one of them old enough to be Hook’s grandfather. “I forgive you, son,” the old man said as Hook twisted the thick rope around his neck. “You’re an archer, aren’t you?” the Lollard asked and still Hook did not answer. “I was on