Agincourt - Cornwell Bernard (читать книги онлайн без сокращений .txt) 📗

“Because we’ve chopped down all the big trees that are closer,” Hook said. He was stripped to the waist, his huge muscles driving the ax deep into an oak’s trunk so that the chips flew.

“And we’re not that far away from the camp,” Will of the Dale added. He was standing back, letting Hook do the work and Hook did not mind. He was used to wielding a forester’s ax.

Melisande spanned the crossbow. She found it hard work, but she would not let Hook or Will help her crank the twin handles. She was sweating by the time the pawl clicked to hold the cord under its full tension. She laid a bolt in the groove, then aimed at a tree no more than ten paces away. She frowned, bit her lower lip, then pulled the trigger and watched as the bolt flew a yard wide to skitter through the undergrowth beyond. “Don’t laugh,” she said before either man had any chance to laugh.

“I’m not laughing,” Hook said, grinning at Will.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Will said.

“I will learn,” Melisande said.

“You’ll learn better if you keep your eyes open,” Hook said.

“It’s hard,” she said.

“Look down the arrow,” Will advised her, “hold the bow firm and pull the trigger nice and slowly. And may God bless you when you shoot,” he added the last words in Father Christopher’s sly voice.

She nodded, then cranked the bow again. It took a long time before it clicked, then instead of shooting it she laid the weapon on the leaf mold and just watched Hook and she thought how he made felling a great oak look easy, just as he made shooting a bow seem simple.

“I’ll see if the twins need help,” Will of the Dale said, “because you don’t, Nick.”

“I don’t,” Hook agreed, “so go and help them. They’re fuller’s sons which means they’ve never done a proper day’s work in their lives.”

Will picked up his ax, his arrow bag, and his cased bow and disappeared among the southern trees. Melisande watched him go, then looked down at the cocked crossbow as though she had never seen such a thing before. “Father Christopher was talking to me,” she said quietly.

“Was he?” Hook asked. He looked up at the tree, then back to the cut he had made. “This great thing will fall in a minute,” he warned her. He went to the back side of the trunk and buried the ax in the wood. He wrenched the blade free. “So what did Father Christopher want?”

“He wanted to know if we would marry.”

“Us? Marry?” The ax chopped again and a wedge of wood came away when Hook pulled the blade back. Any moment now, he thought. He could sense the tension in the oak, the silent tearing of the timber that preceded the tree’s death. He stepped away to stand beside Melisande who was well clear of the trunk. He noticed the crossbow was still cocked and almost told her that she would weaken the weapon by leaving the shank stressed, but then decided that might not be a bad thing. A weakened shank would make it easier for her to span. “Marry?” he asked again.

“That’s what he said.”

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t know,” she said, staring at the ground, “maybe?”

“Maybe,” Hook echoed her, and just then the timber cracked and ripped and the huge oak fell, slowly at first, then faster as it crashed through leaves and branches to shudder down. Birds shrieked. For a moment the woods were full of alarm, then all that was left was the ringing sound of the other axes along the ridge. “I think, maybe,” Hook said slowly, “that it’s a good idea.”

“You do?”

He nodded. “I do.”

She looked at him, said nothing for a while, then picked up the crossbow. “I look down the arrow,” she said, “and hold the bow tight?”

“And you squeeze gently,” he said. “Hold your breath while you squeeze, and don’t look at the bolt, just look at the place where you want the bolt to go.”

She nodded, laid a bolt in the groove, and aimed at the same tree she had missed before. It was a couple of paces closer now. Hook watched her, saw the concentration on her face and saw her flinch in anticipation of the weapon’s kick. She held her breath, closed her eyes and pulled the trigger and the bolt flashed past the tree’s edge and vanished down the gentle farther slope. Melisande stared forlorn at where it had gone.

“You haven’t got that many bolts,” Hook said, “and those are special.”

“Special?”

“They’re smaller than most,” he said, “they’re made specially to fit that bow.”

“I should find the ones I shot?”

He grinned. “I’ll chop off a couple of these boughs, and you should find those two bolts.”

“I have nine left.”

“Eleven would be better.”

She laid the crossbow on the ground and picked her way down the slope to vanish in the sunlit green of the undergrowth. Hook cocked the crossbow, winding the cord back easily, hoping that the continual stress would weaken the stave and so help Melisande, then he went back to lopping branches. He wondered why the king had demanded so many pieces of straight timber the height of a bowstave. Not his business, he decided. He made short work of a second branch, then a third. The great trunk would be sawn eventually, but for the moment he would leave it where it had fallen. He lopped off more of the smaller branches, and heard the long collapse of another tree somewhere along the ridge. Pigeons clattered through the leaves. He thought he might have to go and help Melisande find the bolts because she had been gone far too long, but just as he had that thought she came running back, her face alarmed and her eyes wide. She pointed down the westward slope. “There are men!” she said.

“Course there are men,” Hook said, and sliced off a limb the size of a man’s arm with a one-handed stroke of the ax. “We’re all over the place.”

“Men-at-arms,” Melisande hissed, “chevaliers!”

“Probably our fellows,” Hook said. Mounted men-at-arms patrolled the surrounding countryside every day, looking for supplies and watching for the French army that everyone expected would come to Harfleur’s relief.

“They are French!” Melisande hissed.

Hook doubted it, but he swung the ax to bury its blade in the fallen trunk, then jumped down and took her arm. “Let’s have a look.”

There were indeed men. There were horsemen in a fern-thick gully that twisted through the high wood. Hook could see a dozen of them in single file, following a track through the trees, but he sensed there were more riders behind them. And he saw, too, that Melisande was right. The horsemen were not wearing the cross of Saint George. They had surcoats, but none of the badges was familiar, and the riders were armored in plate and all wore helmets. They had their visors raised and Hook could see the leading horseman’s eyes glitter in the steel’s shadow. The man held up his hand to check the column, then stared intently up the slope, trying to discover exactly where the sound of ax blows came from, and as he stared, so more horsemen appeared from the far trees.

“French,” Melisande whispered.

“They are,” Hook said softly. Most of the horsemen carried drawn swords.

“What do you do?” Melisande asked, still whispering, “hide?”

“No,” Hook said, because he knew what he must do. The knowledge was instinctive and he did not doubt it, nor did he hesitate. He led her back to the felled tree, snatched up the cocked crossbow, then ran along the ridge. “The French!” he shouted. “They’re coming! Get back to the wagons! Fast!” He shouted it over and over. “Back to the wagons!” He first ran to his right, away from the wagons, to find Tom Scarlet and Will of the Dale standing and staring. “Will,” Hook said, “use Sir John’s voice. Tell them the French are here, and get everyone back to the wagons.”

Will of the Dale just gaped at him.

“Use Sir John’s voice!” Hook said harshly, shaking the carpenter by the shoulders. “The goddam French are coming! Now go! Where’s Matt?” he asked the last question of Tom Scarlet, who mutely pointed southward.