Agincourt - Cornwell Bernard - Страница 21

The cords had a faintly sticky feel because the hemp had been coated with hoof glue to protect the strings from damp. Hook found a couple of long cords and tied a loop-knot in the end of one that he hooked over the notched horn-tip of the bow’s lower limb. Then, using all his strength, he flexed the bow to judge the length of cord needed, made a loop in the other end of the string and, again exerting every scrap of muscle power, bent the bow and slipped the new loop over the top horn nock. The center of the cord, where it would lie on the horn-sliver in an arrow’s nock, had been whipped with more hemp to strengthen the string where it notched into the arrows.

“Shoot it in,” Venables suggested. He was a middle-aged man in the service of the Tower’s constable and he was a friendly soul, liking to spend his day chattering to anyone who would listen to his stories of battles long ago. He carried an arrow bag up to the stretch of mud and grass outside the keep and dropped it with a clatter. Hook put the bracer on his left forearm, tying its strings so the slip of horn lay on the inside of his wrist to protect his skin from the bowstring’s lash. A scream sounded and was cut off. “That’s Brother Bailey,” Venables said in explanation.

“Brother Bailey?”

“Brother Bailey is a Benedictine,” Venables said, “and the king’s chief torturer. He’s getting the truth out of some poor bastard.”

“They wanted to torture me in Calais,” Hook said.

“They did?”

“A priest did.”

“They’re always eager to twist the rack, aren’t they? I never did understand that! They tell you God loves you, then they kick the shit out of you. Well, if they do question you, lad, tell them the truth.”

“I did.”

“Mind you, that doesn’t always help,” Venables said. The scream sounded again and he jerked his head toward the muffled noise. “That poor bastard probably did tell the truth, but Brother Bailey does like to be certain, he does. Let’s see how that stave shoots, shall we?”

Hook planted a score of arrows point down in the soil. A faded and much punctured target was propped in front of a stack of rotting hay at the top of the stretch of grass. The range was short, no more than a hundred paces, and the target was twice as wide as a man and Hook would have expected to hit that easy mark every time, but he suspected his first arrows would fly wild.

The bow was under tension, but now he had to teach it to bend. He drew it only a short way the first time and the arrow scarcely reached the target. He drew it a little further, then again, each time bringing the cord closer to his face, yet never drawing the bow to its full curve. He shot arrow after arrow, and all the time he was learning the bow’s idiosyncrasies and the bow was learning to yield to his pressure, and it was an hour before he pulled the cord back to his ear and loosed the first arrow with the stave’s full power.

He did not know it, but he was smiling. There was a beauty there, a beauty of yew and hemp, of silk and feathers, of steel and ash, of man and weapon, of pure power, of the bow’s vicious tension that, released through fingers rubbed raw by the coarse hemp, shot the arrow to hiss in its flight and thump as it struck home. The last arrow went clean through the riddled target’s center and buried itself to its feathers in the hay. “You’ve done this before,” Venables said with a grin.

“I have,” Hook agreed, “but I’ve been away too long. Fingers are sore!”

“They’ll harden fast, lad,” Venables said, “and if they don’t torture and kill you, then you might think of joining us! Not a bad life at the Tower. Good food, plenty of it, and not much in the way of duties.”

“I’d like that,” Hook said absent-mindedly. He was concentrating on the bow. He had thought that the weeks of travel might have diminished his strength and eroded his skill, but he was pulling easily, loosing smoothly, and aiming true. There was a slight ache in his shoulder and back, and his two fingertips were scraped raw, but that was all. And he was happy, he suddenly realized. That thought checked him, made him stare in wonder at the target. Saint Crispinian had guided him into a sunlit place and had given him Melisande, and then the happiness soured as he remembered he was still an outlaw. If Sir Martin or Lord Slayton discovered that Nicholas Hook was alive and in England they would demand him and would probably hang him.

“Let’s see how quick you are,” Venables suggested.

Hook pushed another handful of arrows into the turf and remembered the night of smoke and screams when the glimmering metal-clad men had come through the breach of Soissons and he had shot again and again, not thinking, not aiming, just letting the bow do its work. This new bow was stronger, more lethal, but just as quick. He did not think, he just loosed, picked a new arrow and laid it over the bow, raised the stave, hauled the cord and loosed again. A dozen arrows whickered over the turf and struck the target one after the other. If a man’s spread hand had been over the central mark then each arrow would have struck it.

“Twelve,” a cheerful voice said behind him, “one arrow for each disciple.” Hook turned to see a priest watching him. The man, who had a round, merry face framed by wispy white hair, was carrying a great leather bag in one hand and had Melisande’s elbow firmly clutched in the other. “You must be Master Hook!” the priest said, “of course you are! I’m Father Ralph, may I try?” He put down the bag, released Melisande’s arm, and reached for Hook’s bow. “Do allow me,” he pleaded, “I used to draw the bow in my youth!”

Hook surrendered the bow and watched as Father Ralph tried to pull the cord. The priest was a well-built man, though grown rather portly from good living, but even so he only managed to pull the cord back about a hand’s breadth before the stave began quivering with the effort. Father Ralph shook his head. “I’m not the man I was!” he said, then gave the bow back and watched as Hook, apparently effortlessly, bent the long stave to unhook the string. “It is time we all talked,” Father Ralph said very cheerfully. “A most excellent day to you, Sergeant Venables, how are you?”

“I’m well, father, very well!” Venables grinned, bobbed his head, and knuckled his forehead. “Leg doesn’t hurt much, father, not if the wind ain’t in the east.”

“Then I shall pray God to send you nothing but west winds!” Father Ralph said happily, “nothing but westerlies! Come, Master Hook! Shed light upon my darkness! Illuminate me!”

The priest, again clutching his bag, led Hook and Melisande to rooms built against the Tower’s curtain wall. The chamber he chose, which was small and paneled with carved timber, had two chairs and a table and Father Ralph insisted on finding a third chair. “Sit yourselves,” he said, “sit, sit!”

He wished to know the full story of Soissons and so, in English and French, Hook and Melisande told their tale again. They described the assault, the rapes and the murders, and Father Ralph’s pen never stopped scratching. His bag contained sheets of parchment, an ink flask and quills, and he wrote unceasingly, occasionally throwing in a question. Melisande spoke the most, her voice sounding indignant as she recounted the night’s horrors. “Tell me about the nuns,” Father Ralph said, then made a fluttery gesture as if he had been a fool and repeated the question in French. Melisande sounded ever more indignant, staring wide-eyed at Father Ralph when he motioned her to silence so his pen could catch up with her flood of words.

Hoofbeats sounded outside and, a few moments later, there was the clangor of swords striking each other. Hook, as Melisande told her story, looked through the open window to see men-at-arms practicing on the ground where his arrows had flown. They were all dressed in full plate armor that made a dull sound if a blade struck. One man, distinctive because his armor was black, was being attacked by two others and he was defending himself skillfully, though Hook had the impression that the two men were not trying as hard as they might. A score of other men applauded the contest. “Et gladius diaboli,” Father Ralph read aloud slowly as he finished writing a sentence, “repletus est sanguine. Good! Oh, that is most excellent!”