Hook dismounted. He cuffed away another curious boy, then helped Melisande from her horse. She was in a dress of blue velvet, given to her in Calais by Lady Bardolf, the governor’s wife. Over it she wore a cloak of white linen, padded with wool and hemmed with fox-fur. A beggar on wood-sheathed stumps lurched toward her and she dropped a coin into his outstretched hand before following Hook and Father Christopher into the church. “Were you there?” a boy asked the last man to dismount.
“I was there,” Lanferelle said. The Frenchman paused before entering the church to give a coin to Will of the Dale who stayed outside to guard the horses.
The church floor was rush-covered earth. Only the choir was paved. It was dark inside because the surrounding buildings stopped any light coming through the unglazed windows. A priest had been tolling the bell, but he stopped when he saw the three men and the richly dressed woman come into his tiny sanctuary. The priest was nervous of the strangers, but then recognized Father Christopher in his rich black robes. “You’ve come again, father,” he said, sounding surprised.
“I told you I would,” Father Christopher said gently.
“Then you are all welcome,” the priest said.
The main altar was a wooden table covered with a shabby linen cloth on which stood a copper-gilt crucifix and two empty candlesticks. Behind the altar was a leather hanging on which a bad painter had depicted two angels kneeling to God. The four visitors all made a brief genuflection and the sign of the cross, then Father Christopher plucked Hook’s elbow toward the southern side of the church where a second altar stood. This second shrine was even less impressive than the first, being nothing but a battered table without any covering, and with a wooden crucifix and no candlesticks. One of Christ’s legs had broken off so He hung on His cross one-legged. Above Him was a painted leather picture of a woman in a white dress, though the white had peeled and faded, and her yellow halo had mostly flaked away.
Hook stared at the woman. Her face, what could be seen of it in the dim light and through the cracked paint, was long and sad. “How did you know she was here?” he asked Father Christopher.
“I asked,” the priest said, smiling. “There’s always someone who knows about the oddities of London. I found that man and I asked him.”
“An oddity?” the Sire de Lanferelle asked.
“I’m assured this is the only shrine to Saint Sarah in the whole city,” Father Christopher said.
“It is,” the parish priest said. He was a ragged man, shivering in a threadbare robe. His face had been scarred by the pox.
Lanferelle gave a brief smile. “Sarah? A French saint?”
“Perhaps,” Father Christopher said. “Some say she was Mary Magdalene’s servant, some say she gave refuge to the Magdalene in her house in France. I don’t know.”
“She was a martyr,” Hook interrupted harshly. “She died not far from here, murdered by an evil man. And I didn’t save her life.” He nodded to Melisande who went to the altar, knelt there, and took a leather purse from beneath her cloak. She laid the purse on the altar.
“For Sarah, father,” she told the priest.
The priest took the purse and unlaced it. His eyes widened and he looked at Melisande almost in fear, as though he suspected she might have second thoughts and take back the gold.
“I took them,” she said, “from the man who raped Sarah.”
The priest dropped to his knees and made the sign of the cross. He was called Roger and Father Christopher had spoken with him the day before and afterward had assured Hook that Father Roger was a good man. “A good man and a fool, of course,” Father Christopher had said.
“A fool?” Hook had asked.
“He believes the meek will inherit the earth. He believes the church’s task is to comfort the sick, to feed the hungry, and clothe the naked. You know I found your wife stark naked?”
“You always were a lucky man,” Hook had said. “So what is the church’s task?”
“To comfort the rich, feed the fat, and clothe the bishops in finery, of course, but Father Roger still clings to a vision of Christ the Redeemer. As I said, he is a fool,” he had spoken gently.
Hook now tapped the fool on the shoulder. “Father Roger?”
“Lord?”
“I’m no lord, just an archer,” Hook said, “and you will have this.” He held out the thick gold chain with its pendant badge of the antelope. “And with the money you make from its sale,” Hook went on, “you will make an altar to Saints Crispin and Crispinian.”
“Yes,” Father Roger said, then frowned because Hook had not let go of the fabulous chain.
“And every day,” Hook said, “you will say a mass for the soul of Sarah, who died.”
“Yes,” the priest said, and still Hook did not let go of the chain.
“And a prayer for your brother?” Melisande suggested.
“A king is praying for Michael,” Hook said, “and he needs no more. A daily mass for Sarah, father.”
“It will be done,” Father Roger said.
“She was a Lollard,” Hook said, testing the priest.
Father Roger gave a quick and secret smile. “Then I shall recite a mass for her twice every day,” he promised, and so Hook let go of the gold.
The bells rang. Te Deums were being sung in the city’s abbeys, churches, and cathedral. They gave thanks to God because England had sailed to Normandy and England had been harried into a corner of Picardy and there England had been faced with the almost certain death of its king and of his army.
But then the arrows flew.
Hook and Melisande took the westward road. They were going home.
Historical Note
The battle of Agincourt (Azincourt was and remains the French spelling) was one of the most remarkable events of medieval Europe, a battle whose reputation far outranked its importance. In the long history of Anglo-French rivalry only Hastings, Waterloo, Trafalgar, and Crécy share Agincourt’s renown. It is arguable that Poitiers was a more significant battle and an even more complete victory, or that Verneuil was just as astonishing a triumph, and it’s certain that Hastings, Blenheim, Victoria, Trafalgar, and Waterloo were more influential on the course of history, yet Agincourt still holds its extraordinary place in English legend. Something quite remarkable happened on 25 October 1415 (Agincourt was fought long before Christendom’s conversion to the new-style calendar, so the modern anniversary should be on 4 November). It was something so remarkable that its fame persists almost six hundred years later.
Agincourt’s fame could just be an accident, a quirk of history reinforced by Shakespeare’s genius, but the evidence suggests it really was a battle that sent a shock wave through Europe. For years afterward the French called 25 October 1415 la malheureuse journée (the unfortunate day). Even after they had expelled the English from France they remembered la malheureuse journée with sadness. It had been a disaster.