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 centre 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 realised. 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 panelled 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 clangour of swords striking each other. Hook, as Melisande told her story, looked through the open window to see men-at-arms practising on the ground where his arrows had flown. They were all dressed in full plate armour that made a dull sound if a blade struck. One man, distinctive because his armour was black, was being attacked by two others and he was defending himself skilfully, 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!’
‘Is that Latin, father?’ Hook asked.
‘It is, yes! Yes, indeed! Latin! The language of God! Or perhaps He speaks Hebrew? I suppose that’s more likely and it will make things rather awkward in heaven, won’t it? Will we all have to learn Hebrew? Or maybe we shall find ourselves gloriously voluble in that language when we reach the heavenly pastures. I was saying how the devil’s sword was slaked with blood!’ Father Ralph chuckled at that sentiment, then motioned for Melisande to continue. He wrote again, his pen flying over the parchment. The sound of confident male laughter sounded from the turf outside where two other men-at-arms now fought, their swords quick in the sunlight. ‘You wonder,’ Father Ralph asked when he had finished yet another page, ‘why I transcribe your tale into Latin?’
‘Yes, father.’
‘So all Christendom will know what sanguinary devils the French are! We shall copy this tale a hundred times and send it to every bishop, every abbot, every king and every prince in Christendom. Let them know the truth of Soissons! Let them know how the French treat their own people! Let them know that Satan’s dwelling place is in France, eh?’ He smiled.
‘Satan does live there,’ a harsh voice spoke behind Hook, ‘and he must be driven out!’ Hook twisted in his chair to see that the black-armoured man-at-arms was standing in the doorway. He had taken off his helmet and his brown hair was plastered down by sweat in which an impression of his helmet liner remained. He was a young man who looked familiar, though Hook could not place him, but then Hook saw the deep scar beside the long nose and he almost knocked the chair over as he scrambled to kneel before his king. His heart was beating fast and the terror was as great as when he had waited by the breach at Soissons. The king. That was all he could think of, this was the king.
Henry made an irritable gesture that Hook should rise, an order Hook was too nervous to obey. The king edged between the table and the wall to look at what Father Ralph had written. ‘My Latin is not what it should be,’ he said, ‘but the gist is clear enough.’
‘It confirms all the rumours we heard, sire,’ Father Ralph said.
‘Sir Roger Pallaire?’
‘Killed by this young man, sire,’ Father Ralph said, gesturing at Hook.
‘He was a traitor,’ the king said coldly, ‘our agents in France have confirmed that.’
‘He screams in hell now, sire,’ Father Ralph
