“You’re a doctor of medicine now, Hook?”

“You’re supposed to rest, father.”

“There’ll be rest enough in heaven,” Father Christopher said happily. He was still pale, but he was eating again. He was wearing a priest’s robe, something he had done more frequently since his recovery. “I learned something during that illness,” the priest said in apparent seriousness.

“Aye? What was that?”

“In heaven, Hook, there will be no shitting.”

Hook laughed. “But will there be women, father?”

“In abundance, young Hook, but what if they’re all good women?”

“You mean the bad ones will all be in the devil’s cellar, father?”

“That is a worry,” Father Christopher said with a smile, “but I trust God to make suitable arrangements.” He grinned, happy to be alive and riding under a September sun beside a hedge thick with blackberries. A corncrake’s grating cry echoed from the hills. Just after dawn, when the protesting refugees had been forced out of Harfleur, a stag had appeared on the Rouen road resplendent in his new antlers. Hook had taken it as a good omen, but Father Christopher, looking up at the dark branches of a dead elm tree, now found a gloomy one. “The swallows are gathering early,” he said.

“A bad winter then,” Hook said.

“It means summer’s end, Hook, and with it go our hopes. Like those swallows, we will disappear.”

“Back to England?”

“And to disappointment,” the priest said sadly. “The king has debts to pay, and he can’t pay them. If he had carried home a victory then it wouldn’t matter.”

“We won, father,” Hook said, “we captured Harfleur.”

“We used a pack of wolfhounds to kill a hare,” Father Christopher said, “and out there,” he nodded eastward, “there’s a much larger pack of hounds gathering.”

Some of that larger pack appeared at midday. The front of the long column of refugees had stopped in some meadows beside the river and now the tail of the column crowded in behind them. What had checked their progress was a band of enemy horsemen who barred the road where it led through the gate of a walled town. The townsfolk watched from the walls. The enemy had a single banner, a great white flag on which a red and double-headed eagle spread its long talons. The French men-at-arms were dressed for battle, their polished armor gleaming beneath bright surcoats, but few wore helmets and those who did had their visors raised, a clear sign that they expected no fighting. Hook guessed there were a hundred enemy and they were here under an arranged truce to receive the refugees, who were to be taken to Rouen in a fleet of barges that was moored on the river’s northern bank. “Dear God,” Father Christopher said, staring at the eagle banner, which lifted and fell in the wind that drove ripples across the river. “That’s the marshal,” Father Christopher explained, making the sign of the cross.

“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?”