Agincourt - Bernard Cornwell [99]
Silence. Sir John had sheathed his sword, the hilt thumping loud onto the scabbard’s throat. He stared at Sir Martin, daring the priest to challenge him, but Sir Martin had drifted away into one of his reveries. “Let’s go,” Sir John had said and, when they were out of earshot of the shelters, he had laughed. “That’s settled that.”
“Thank you,” Melisande had said, her relief obvious.
“Thank me? I enjoyed that, lass.”
“He probably did enjoy it,” Father Christopher said when the tale was told to him, “but he’d have enjoyed it more if one of them had offered a fight. He does love a fight.”
“Who’s Saint Credan?” Hook asked.
“He was a Saxon,” Father Christopher said, “and when the Normans came they reckoned he shouldn’t be a saint at all because he was a Saxon peasant like you, Hook, so they burned his bones, but the bones turned to gold. Sir John likes him, I have no idea why.” He frowned. “He’s not as simple as he likes to pretend.”
“He’s a good man,” Hook said.
“He probably is,” Father Christopher agreed, “but don’t let him hear you say that.”
“And you’re recovering, father.”
“Thanks to God and to your woman, Hook, yes, I am.” The priest reached out and took Melisande’s hand. “And it’s time you made an honest woman of her, Hook.”
“I am honest,” Melisande said.
“Then it’s time you tamed Master Hook,” Father Christopher said. Melisande looked at Hook and for a moment her face betrayed nothing, then she nodded. “Maybe that’s why God spared me,” Father Christopher said, “to marry the two of you. We shall do the deed, young Hook, before we leave France.”
And it seemed that must be soon because Harfleur stood undefeated, the army of England was dying of disease, and the year was inexorably passing. It was already September. In a few weeks the autumn rains would come, and the cold would come, and the harvest would be safely gathered behind fortress walls, and so the campaign season would end. Time was running out.
England had gone to war. And she was losing.
That evening Thomas Evelgold tossed a big sack to Hook. Hook jerked aside, thinking the sack would flatten him, but it was surprisingly light and merely rolled off his shoulder. “Tow,” Evelgold said in explanation.
“Tow?”
“Tow,” Evelgold said, “for fire arrows. One sheaf of arrows for each archer. Sir John wants it done by midnight, and we’re to be down in the trench before dawn. Belly’s boiling pitch for us.” Belly was Andrew Belcher, Sir John’s steward who supervised the kitchen servants and sumpters. “Have you ever made a fire arrow?” Evelgold asked.
“Never,” Hook confessed.
“Use the broadheads, tie a fistful of tow up by the head, dip it in pitch and aim high. We need two dozen apiece.” Evelgold carried more sacks to the other groups while Hook pulled out handfuls of the greasy tow, which was simply clumps of unwashed fleece straight off the sheep’s back. A flea jumped from the wool and vanished up his sleeve.
He divided the tow into seventeen equal sections and each of his archers divided their share into twenty-four, one lump of fleece for each arrow. Hook cut up some spare bowstrings and his men used the lengths of cord to bind the bouquets of dirty wool to the arrowheads, then they lined up by Belly’s cauldron to dip the tow into the boiling pitch. They propped the arrows upright against tree stumps or barrels to let the sticky pitch solidify. “What’s happening in the dawn?” Hook asked Evelgold.
“The French kicked our arses this morning,” Evelgold said grimly, “so we have to kick theirs tomorrow morning.” He shrugged as if he did not expect to achieve much. “You lose any more men today?”
“Cobbett and Fletch. Matson can’t last long.”
Evelgold swore. “Good men,” he said grimly, “and dying, for what?” He spat toward a campfire. “When the pitch is dry,” he went on, “tease it out a bit. It lets it catch the fire easier.”
The camp was restless all night. Men were carrying faggots to the forward trench nearest to the enemy’s barbican. The faggots were great bundles of wood, bound