Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [76]
“I just warned our fellows,” Hook said.
“No, you didn’t. You told them to get back to the wagons, is that right?”
“Yes, Sir John.”
“Why?” Sir John asked belligerently.
Hook frowned as he remembered. At the time it had seemed an obvious precaution, but he had not thought why it was so obvious. “Our bows were no good in the trees,” he now said slowly, “but if they were back at the wagons they could shoot. They needed space to shoot.”
“Which is just what happened,” Sir John said. The archers, gathering at the wagons, had driven the raiders away with two volleys. “So you did the right thing, Hook. The bastards only came to make mischief. They wanted to kill a few men and have a look at what progress we were making, and you saw them off!”
“I wasn’t there, Sir John,” Hook said, “it was the other archers what drove them off.”
“You were with the Sire of Lanferelle, I know. And he let you live.” Sir John gave Hook an appraising look. “Why?”
“He wants to kill me later,” Hook said, not sure that was the right answer, “or maybe it’s because of Melisande?”
“He’s a cat,” Sir John said, “and you’re his mouse. A wounded mouse,” he glanced at Hook’s right hand, which was still bandaged. “You can still shoot?”
“Good as ever, Sir John.”
“So I’m making you a ventenar. Which means I’m doubling your pay.”
“Me!” Hook stared at Sir John.
Sir John did not answer straightaway. He had turned a critical eye on his men-at-arms, who were practicing sword strokes against tree trunks. Practice, practice, practice was one of Sir John’s constant refrains. He claimed to strike a thousand blows a day in never-ending practice and he demanded the same of his men. “Put some muscle into it, Ralph,” he shouted at one man, then turned back to Hook. “Did you think about what to do when you saw the French?”
“No.”
“That’s why I’m making you a sergeant. I don’t want men who have to think about what to do, but just do it. Tom Evelgold’s now your centenar, so you can take his company. I tell him what to do, he tells you what to do, and you tell your archers what to do. If they don’t do it, you thump the bastards, and if they still don’t do it, I thump you.”
“Yes, Sir John.”
Sir John’s battered face grinned. “You’re good, young Hook, and you’re something else.” He pointed at Hook’s bandaged hand. “You’re lucky. Here,” he took a thin silver chain from a pouch and dropped it into Hook’s hand. “Your badge of office. And tomorrow you build a sow.”
“What’s a sow, Sir John?”
“It’s a pig to build, I’ll tell you that much,” Sir John said, “a goddam pig!”
It began to rain that night. The rain came from the sea, carried on a cold west wind. It began softly, pattering on the besiegers’ tents, and then the wind rose to tear at the banners on their makeshift poles and the rain hardened and came at an angle and drenched the ground into a morass of mud. The flood waters, which had largely subsided, began to rise again and the midden overflowed. The gunners cursed and raised awnings over their weapons, while every archer carefully hid his bowstrings from the soaking rain.
There was no need for Hook to carry a bow. His job was to raise the sow and it was, as Sir John had promised, a pig of a job. It was not intricate work, not even skilled, but it needed strength and it had to be done in full view of the defenders and within range of their cannons, springolts, catapults, and crossbows.
The sow was a giant shield, shaped like the toe of a shoe, behind and beneath which men could work safe from enemy missiles, and it would have to be built strong enough to withstand the repeated strike of gun-stones.
A white-haired