Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [82]
The far end of the tunnel was lit by horn-shielded lanterns hanging from the last beam to be propped into place. Two miners had been using pick-axes on the tunnel’s face and they gratefully put down their tools and sank to the floor as Dafydd ap Traharn, supervising the work, nodded a greeting to Hook. Sir John crouched near the gray-haired Welshman and motioned for Hook to squat. “Listen,” Sir John hissed.
Hook listened. A miner coughed. “Shh,” Sir John said.
Sometimes, in the long woods that fell from Lord Slayton’s pastures to the river, Hook would stand quite motionless, just listening. He knew every sound of those trees, whether it was a deer’s hoof-fall, a boar snuffling, a woodpecker drumming, the clack of a raven’s bill as it preened its feathers or just the wind in the leaves, and from those sounds his ear would find the discordant note, the signal that told him a trespasser was prowling the undergrowth. Now he listened in just the same way, ignoring the breathing of the half-dozen men, letting his mind wander, just allowing the silence to fill his head and so alert him to the smallest disturbance. He listened a long time.
“My ears ring all the time,” Sir John whispered, “I think because I’ve got beaten on the helmet with blades too much and…” Hook held up an impatient hand, unaware that he was ordering a Knight of the Garter to silence. Sir John obeyed anyway. Hook listened, heard something and then heard it again. “Someone’s digging,” he said.
“Oh, the bastards,” Sir John said quietly. “Are you sure?”
Now that he had identified the sound Hook was surprised no one else could hear the rhythmic thunk of picks striking chalk. The garrison was making a counter-mine, driving their own tunnel toward the besiegers in hope of intercepting the English tunnel before it could be finished. “Maybe two tunnels,” Hook said. The sound was slightly irregular, as if two mismatched rhythms were mixing.
“That’s what I thought,” Dafydd ap Traharn said, “but I wasn’t sure. The ears play tricks underground, they do.”
“Busy little bastards, aren’t they?” Sir John said vengefully. He looked at Dafydd ap Traharn. “How far to go?”
“Twenty paces, Sir John, say two days. Another two to make the chamber. One to fill it with incendiaries.”
“They’re still a long way off,” Sir John said. “Maybe they won’t find this tunnel?”
“They’ll be listening too, Sir John. And the closer they get the clearer they hear us.”
“Putrid stinking prickless rancid bastards,” Sir John said to no one in particular. He nodded at Hook. “I still can’t hear them.”
“They’re there,” Hook said confidently. They spoke in whispers, shrouded by a darkness scarce relieved by the rushlight lanterns flickering in the foul air.
One of the miners spoke in Welsh. Dafydd ap Traharn silenced him with a cautionary hand. “He’s worried what happens if the enemy breaks into the tunnel, Sir John.”
“Make a chamber here,” Sir John said, “big enough for six or seven men. We’ll have archers and men-at-arms standing guard here. Have your own weapons at hand, but for the moment, keep digging. Let’s bring that bastard barbican down.” The mine shaft was aiming for the northernmost tower of the obstinate bastion in hope of tumbling it to fill the flooded ditch. A cavern would be made beneath the tower, a cavern supported by timber balks that would be burned away so that the roof would collapse and, with it, the tower. Sir John slapped the miners on their shoulders. “Well done, boys,” he said, “God is with you.” He beckoned to Hook and the two of them went back toward the sow. “I hope to God He is