Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [87]
“Down!” Saint Crispinian said.
And the earth was shaking now, and the thin scream was lost in thunder, only the thunder was not from the sky, but from the earth, and Hook obeyed the saint, crouching down beside Robert Perrill as the tunnel roof collapsed.
It seemed to last forever. Timbers cracked, the noise groaned and boomed, and the earth fell.
Hook closed his eyes. The thin scream was back, but it was inside his head. It was fear, his own scream, his terror of death. He was breathing dust. At the last day, he knew, the dead would rise from the earth. They would come from their graves, the earth making way for their flesh and bones, and they would face east toward the shining holy city of Jerusalem, and the sky in the east would be brighter than the sun and a great terror would swamp the newly resurrected dead as they stood in their winding sheets. There would be screaming and crying, folk flinching from the sudden dazzle of new light, but all the dead priests of the parish would have been buried with their feet toward the west so that when they rose from their tombs they would face their frightened congregations and could call out reassurance. And for some reason, as the earth collapsed to make Hook’s grave, he thought of Sir Martin, and wondered whether that twisted, sour, long-jawed face would be the first he would see on the last day when trumpets filled the heavens and God came in glory to take His people.
A roof timber slammed down, and the earth fell and Hook was crouched and the thunder was all around him and the scream in his head died to a whimper.
And then there was silence.
Sudden, utter, black silence.
Hook breathed.
“Oh, God,” Robert Perrill moaned.
Something pressed on Hook’s back. It was heavy, and seemed immovable, but it was not crushing him. The darkness was absolute.
“Oh, God, please,” Perrill said.
The earth shuddered again and there was a muffled bang. A gun, Hook thought, and now he could even hear voices, but they were very far off. His mouth was full of grit. He spat.
The poleax was still in Hook’s right hand, but he could not move it. The weapon was trapped by something. He let go of it and felt around him, conscious that he was in a small, tight space. His fingers groped across Perrill’s head. “Help me,” Perrill said.
Hook said nothing.
He felt behind him and realized a roof timber had half fallen and somehow left this small space where he crouched and breathed. The timber slanted down and it was that rough oak that was pressing into his spine. “What do I do?” he asked aloud.
“You’re not far from the surface,” Saint Crispinian said.
“You must help me,” Perrill said.
If I move I die, Hook thought.
“Nick! Help me,” Perrill said, “please!”
“Just push up,” Saint Crispinian said.
“Show some courage,” Saint Crispin said in his harsher voice.
“For God’s sake, help me,” Perrill moaned.
“Move to your right,” Saint Crispinian said, “and don’t be frightened.”
Hook moved slowly. Earth fell.
“Now dig your way out,” Saint Crispinian said, “like a mole.”
“Moles die,” Hook said, and he wanted to explain how they trapped moles by blocking their tunnels and then digging out the frightened animals, but the saint did not want to listen.
“You’re not going to die,” the saint said impatiently, “not if you dig.”
So Hook pushed upward, scrabbling at the earth with both hands, and the soil caved in, filling his mouth and he wanted to scream, but he could not scream, and he pushed with his legs, using all the strength in his body, and the earth collapsed around him and he was certain he would die here, except that suddenly, quite suddenly, he was breathing clean air. His grave had been very shallow, nothing but a shroud of fallen soil and he was half standing in open air and was astonished to discover that full night had not yet fallen. It seemed to be raining, except the sky was clear, and then he realized the French were shooting crossbow bolts from the barbican and from the half-wrecked walls. They were not shooting at him, but