“The marshal?”
“Jean de Maingre, Lord of Boucicault, Marshal of France,” Father Christopher said the name and titles slowly, his voice betraying admiration for the man who wore the badge of the double-headed eagle.
“Never heard of him, father,” Hook said cheerfully.
“France is ruled by a madman,” the priest said, “and the royal dukes are young and headstrong, but our enemies do have the marshal, and the marshal is a man to fear.”
Sir William Porter, Sir John Cornewaille’s brother-in-arms, led the English contingent and he now rode bareheaded to greet the marshal who, in turn, spurred his destrier toward Sir William. The Frenchman, who was a big man on a tall horse, towered over the Englishman as the two spoke, and Hook, watching from a distance, thought they laughed together. Then, invited by a gesture from the courtly Sir William, the Marshal of France kicked his horse toward the English troops. He ignored the French civilians and instead rode slowly down the ragged line of men-at-arms and archers.
The marshal wore no helmet. His hair was dark brown, cut bluntly short and graying at the temples, and it framed a face of such ferocity that Hook was taken aback. It was a square, blunt face, scarred and broken, beaten by battle and by life, but undefeated. A hard face, a man’s face, a warrior’s face, with keen dark eyes that searched men and horses for clues to their condition. His mouth was set in a grim line, but suddenly smiled when he saw Father Christopher, and in the smile Hook saw a man who might inspire other men to great loyalty and victory. “A priest on a destrier!” the marshal said, amused. “We mount our priests on knackered mares, not on war chargers!”
“We English have so many destriers, sire,” Father Christopher answered, “that we can spare them for men of God.”
The marshal looked appraisingly at Lucifer. “A good horse,” he said, “whose is it?”
“Sir John Cornewaille’s,” the priest answered.
“Ah!” the marshal was pleased. “You will give the good Sir John my compliments! Tell him I am glad he has visited France and that I hope he will carry fond memories of it back to England. And that he will carry them very soon.” The marshal smiled at Father Christopher, then looked at Hook with apparent interest, taking in the archer’s weapons and armor, before holding out a steel-gauntleted hand. “Do me the honor,” he said, “and lend me your bow.”
Father Christopher translated for Hook who had understood anyway, but had not responded because he was not certain quite what he should do. “Let him have the bow, Hook,” Father Christopher said, “and string it first.”
Hook uncased the great stave, placed its lower end in his left stirrup, and looped the noose about the upper nock. He could feel the raw power in the tensed yew stave. It sometimes seemed to him that the wood came alive when he strung the bow. It seemed to quiver in anticipation. The marshal was still holding out his hand and Hook stretched the bow toward him.
“It is a large bow,” Boucicault said in very careful English.
“One of the largest I’ve seen,” Father Christopher said, “and it’s carried by a very strong archer.”
A dozen French men-at-arms had followed the marshal and they watched from a few paces away as he held the stave in his left hand and tentatively pulled on the string with his right. His eyebrows lifted in surprise at the effort it took, and he gave Hook an appreciative glance. He looked back to the bow, hesitated, then raised it as though there were an imaginary arrow on the string. He took a breath, then pulled.
English archers watched, half smiling, knowing that only a trained archer could pull such a bow to the full draw. The cord went back halfway and stopped, then Boucicault hauled again and the string kept going back, back until it had reached his mouth, and Hook could see the strain showing on the Frenchman’s face, but Boucicault was not finished. He gave a small grimace, pulled again, and the cord went all the way to his right ear, and he held it there at the full draw and looked at Hook with a raised eyebrow.
Hook could not help it. He laughed, and suddenly the English archers were cheering the French marshal, whose face showed pure delight as he slowly relaxed his grip and handed the bow back to Hook. Hook, grinning, took the stave and half bowed in his saddle. “Englishman,” Boucicault called, “here!” he tossed Hook a coin and, still smiling delightedly, rode on down the line of applauding archers.
“I told you,” Father Christopher said, smiling, “he’s a man.”
“A generous man,” Hook said, staring at the coin. It was gold, the size of a shilling, and he guessed it was worth a year’s wages. He pushed the gold into his pouch, which held spare arrowheads and three spare cords.
“A good and generous man,” Father Christopher agreed, “but not a man to be your enemy.”
“Nor am I,” a voice intruded, and Hook twisted in his saddle to see that one of the men-at-arms who had followed the marshal was the Sire de Lanferelle who now leaned on his saddle’s pommel to stare at Hook. He looked down at Hook’s missing finger and a suggestion of a smile showed on his face. “Are you my son-in-law yet?”
“No, sire,” Hook said and named Lanferelle to Father Christopher.
The Frenchman looked speculatively at the priest. “You’ve been ill, father.”
“I have,” Father Christopher agreed.
“Is this a judgment of God? Did He in His mercy strike your army as a punishment for your king’s wickedness?”
“Wickedness?” Father Christopher asked gently.
“In coming to France,” Lanferelle said, then straightened in his saddle. His hair was oiled so that it hung sleek, raven black and shining to his waist, which was encircled by a silver-plated sword belt. His face, so strikingly handsome, was even darker after a summer in the sun, making his eyes seem unnaturally bright. “Yet I hope you stay in France, father.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“It is!” Lanferelle smiled, showing very white teeth. “How many men do you have now?”
“We are counted as the grains of sand on the seashore,” the priest answered blithely, “and are as numerous as the multitudinous stars of the firmament, and are as many as the biting fleas in a French whore’s crotch.”
“And just about as dangerous,” Lanferelle said, unbitten by the priest’s defiant words. “You number what? Fewer than ten thousand now? And I hear your king is sending the sick men home?”
“He sends men home,” Father Christopher said, “because we have enough to do whatever must be done.”
Hook wondered how Lanferelle knew that the sick were being sent home, then supposed that French spies must be watching Harfleur from the surrounding hills and would have seen the litters being carried onto the English ships that could at last come right into the walled harbor.
“And your king brings in reinforcements,” Lanferelle said, “but how many of his men must he leave in Harfleur to protect its broken walls? A thousand?” He smiled again. “It is such a little army, father.”
“But at least it fights,” Father Christopher said, “whereas your army slumbers in Rouen.”
“But our army,” Lanferelle said, his voice suddenly harsh, truly does number as the fleas in a Parisian whore’s crotch.” He gathered his reins. “I do hope you stay, father, and come to where the fleas can feed on English blood.” He nodded to Hook. “Give Melisande my compliments. And give her something else.” He turned in his saddle. “Jean! Venez!” The same dull-faced squire who had gazed at Melisande in the woods above Harfleur spurred to his master and, on Lanferelle’s orders, fumbled his jupon over his head. The Sire de Lanferelle took the gaudy garment with its bright sun and proud falcon and folded it into a square that he threw at Hook. “If it comes to a battle,” he said, “tell Melisande to wear that. It might be sufficient to protect her. I would regret her death. Good day to you both.” And with that he rode on after the marshal.