Agincourt - Cornwell Bernard - Страница 30
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“I’m curious,” Hook said.
“Worried because she’s a lord’s daughter?” Sir John asked shrewdly.
“Yes,” Hook admitted.
Sir John smiled, then pointed over the Heron’s bows. “See those small sails?” Far ahead of the English fleet was another spread of ships, far fewer and all much smaller, nothing but a scatter of tiny brown sails. “French fishermen,” Sir John said grimly, “taking news of us to their home ports. Let’s pray the bastards won’t guess where we’re coming ashore, because that’s their chance to kill us, Hook! As we go ashore. They know we’re coming! And all they need do is have two hundred men-at-arms waiting on the beach and we’ll never manage a landing.”
Hook watched the tiny sails that did not appear to be moving against the sea’s immensity. The western sky was still dark, the east was glowing. He wondered how the sailors of the English fleet knew where they were going. He wondered whether Saint Crispinian would ever speak to him again.
“There,” Sir John said softly. It seemed he had decided to ignore Hook’s question about the Sire of Lanferelle and was instead pointing straight ahead.
And there it was. The coast of Normandy. It was nothing but a shadowed speck for now, a scrap of dark solidity where the clouds and the sea met.
“I talked to Lord Slayton,” Sir John said. Hook stayed silent. “He can’t travel to France, of course, not crippled as he is, but he was in London to wish the king well. He says you’re a good man in a fight.”
Hook said nothing. The only fights that Lord Slayton would have known about were tavern brawls. They could be murderous, but it was not the same as battle.
“Lord Slayton was a good fighter too,” Sir John said, “before he got wounded in the back. He was a bit slow on the down-stroke parry, I remember. It’s always dangerous to raise a sword above your shoulder, Hook.”
“Yes, Sir John,” Hook said dutifully.
“And he did declare you outlawed,” Sir John went on, “but that doesn’t matter now. You’re going to France, Hook, and you’re no outlaw there. Whatever crimes you’re accused of in England don’t count in France, and even that doesn’t matter because you’re my man now.”
“Yes, Sir John,” Hook said again.
“You’re my man,” Sir John said firmly, “and Lord Slayton agreed that you are. But you’ve still got a quarrel. That priest wants you dead, and Lord Slayton said there were others who’d happily fillet you.”
Hook thought of the Perrill brothers. “There are,” he admitted.
“And Lord Slayton told me other things about you,” Sir John went on. “He said you’re a murderer, a thief, and a liar.”
Hook felt the old flare of anger, but it died instantly like the spume of the waves. “I was those things,” he said defensively.
“And that you’re competent,” Sir John said, “and what you are, Hook, is what le Seigneur d’Enfer is. Ghillebert, Lord of Lanferelle, is competent. He’s a rogue, and he’s also charming, clever and sly. He speaks English!” He said the last three words as though that were a very strange accomplishment. “He was taken prisoner in Aquitaine,” he explained, “and held in Suffolk till his ransom was paid. That took three years. He was released ten years ago and I dare say there are plenty of small children with his long nose growing up in Suffolk. He’s the only man I never beat in a tournament.”
“They say you never lost!” Hook said fiercely.
“He didn’t beat me either,” Sir John said, smiling. “We fought till we had no strength to fight more. I told you, he’s good. I did put him down, though.”
“You did?” Hook asked, intrigued.
“I think he slipped. So I stepped back and gave him time to get up.”
“Why?” Hook asked.
Sir John laughed. “In a tournament, Hook, you must display chivalry. Good manners are as important as fighting in a tournament, but not in battle. So if you see Lanferelle in battle, leave him to me.”
“Or to an arrow,” Hook said.
“He can afford the best armor, Hook. He’ll have Milanese plate and your arrow will like as not get blunted. Then he’ll kill you without even knowing he fought you. Leave him to me.”
Hook heard something close to admiration in Sir John’s tone. “You like him?”
Sir John nodded. “I like him, but that won’t stop me killing him. And as for him being Melisande’s father, so what? He must have littered half France with his bastards. My bastards aren’t lords, Hook, and nor are his.”
Hook nodded, frowning. “At Soissons,” he began, and paused.
“Go on.”
“He just watched as archers were tortured!” Hook said indignantly.
Sir John leaned on the rail. “We talk about chivalry, Hook, we’re even chivalrous! We salute our enemies, we take their surrenders gallantly, we dress our hostility in silks and fine linen, we are the chivalry of Christendom.” He spoke wryly, then turned his extraordinarily bright blue eyes on Hook. “But in battle, Hook, it’s blood and anger and savagery and killing. God hides His face in battle.”
“This was after the battle,” Hook said.
“Battle anger is like being drunk. It doesn’t go away quickly. Your girl’s father is an enemy, an enemy of charm, but he’s as dangerous as I am.” Sir John grinned and lightly punched Hook’s shoulder. “Leave him to me, Hook. I’ll kill him. I’ll hang his skull in my hall.”
The sun rose in splendor and the shadows fled and the coast of Normandy grew to reveal a line of white cliffs topped with green. All day the fleet beat southward, helped by a shift of wind that flicked the tops of the waves white and filled the sails. Sir John was impatient. He spent the day staring at the distant coast and insisting that the shipmaster get closer.
“Rocks, my lord,” the shipmaster said laconically.
“No rocks here! Get closer! Get closer!” He was looking for some evidence that the enemy was tracking the fleet from the clifftops, but there was no sign of horsemen riding south to keep pace with the fleet’s slow progress. Fishing boats still scattered ahead of the English ships that, one by one, rounded a vast headland of white chalk and entered a bay where they turned into the wind and anchored.
The bay was wide and not well sheltered. The big waves heaved from the west to roll the Heron and make her snub at her anchor. The shore was close here, scarce two bowshots distant, but there was little to be seen other than a beach where the waves broke white, a stretch of marsh and a steep thick-wooded hill behind. Someone said they were in the mouth of the Seine, a river that ran deep into France, but Hook could see no sign of any river. Far off to the south was another shore, too distant to be seen clearly. More ships, the laggards, rounded the great headland and gradually the bay became thick with the anchored vessels.
“Normandie,” Melisande said, staring at the land.
“France,” Hook said.
“Normandie,” Melisande insisted, as though the distinction were important.
Hook was watching the trees, wondering when a French force would appear there. It seemed clear that the English army was going to land in this bay, which was little more than a shingled cove, so why were the French not trying to stop the invasion on the beach? Yet no men or horses showed at the treeline. A hawk spiraled up the face of the hill and gulls wheeled over the breaking waves. Hook saw Sir John being rowed in a small boat to the Trinity Royal where sailors were busy decorating the rails with the white shields painted with the cross of Saint George. Other boats were converging on the king’s ship, carrying the great lords to a council of war.
“What will happen to us?” Melisande asked.
“I don’t know,” Hook admitted, but nor did he care much. He was going to war in a company he had come to love, and he had Melisande, whom he loved, though he wondered if she would leave him now she was back in her own country. “You’re going home,” he said, wanting her to deny it.
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