“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-armored 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 rumors 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 said, “and his screams shall not end with time itself.”

“Good,” Henry said curtly and sifted the pages. “Nuns? Surely not?”

“Indeed, sire,” Father Ralph said. “The brides of Christ were violated and murdered. They were dragged from their prayers to become playthings, sire. We had heard of it and we had scarce dared to believe it, but this young lady confirms it.”

The king rested his gaze on Melisande, who, like Hook, had dropped to her knees where, like Hook, she quivered with nervousness. “Get up,” the king said to her, then looked at a crucifix hanging on the wall. He frowned and bit his lower lip. “Why did God allow it, father?” he asked after a while, and there was both pain and puzzlement in his voice. “Nuns? God should have protected them, surely? He should have sent angels to guard them!”

“Perhaps God wanted their fate to be a sign,” Father Ralph suggested.

“A sign?”

“Of the wickedness of the French, sire, and thus the righteousness of your claim to that unhappy realm’s crown.”

“My task, then, is to avenge the nuns,” Henry said.

“You have many tasks, sire,” Father Ralph said humbly, “but that is certainly one.”

Henry looked at Hook and Melisande, his armored fingers tapping on the table. Hook dared to look up once and saw the anxiety on the king’s narrow face. That surprised him. He would have guessed that a king was above worry and aloof to questions of right or wrong, but it was clear that this king was pained by his need to discover God’s will. “So these two,” Henry said, still watching Hook and Melisande, “are telling the truth?”

“I would swear to it, sire,” Father Ralph said warmly.

The king gazed at Melisande, his face betraying no emotion, then the cold eyes slid to Hook. “Why did you alone survive?” he asked in a suddenly hard voice.

“I prayed, sire,” Hook said humbly.

“The others didn’t pray?” the king asked sharply.

“Some did, sire.”

“But God chose to answer your prayers?”

“I prayed to Saint Crispinian, sire,” Hook said, paused, then plunged on with his answer, “and he spoke to me.”

Silence again. A raven cawed outside and the clash of swords echoed from the Tower’s keep. Then the King of England reached out his gauntleted hand and tipped Hook’s face up so he could look into the archer’s eyes. “He spoke to you?” the king asked.

Hook hesitated. He felt as though his heart was beating at the base of his throat. Then he decided to tell the whole truth, however unlikely it sounded. “Saint Crispinian spoke to me, sire,” he said, “in my head.”

The king just stared at Hook. Father Ralph opened his mouth as though he were about to speak, but a mailed royal hand cautioned the priest to silence and Henry, King of England, went on staring so that Hook felt fear creep up his spine like a cold snake. “It’s warm in here,” the king said suddenly, “you will talk with me outside.”

For a heartbeat Hook thought he must have been speaking to Father Ralph, but it was Hook the king wanted, and so Nicholas Hook went into the afternoon sunshine and walked beside his king. Henry’s armor squeaked slightly as it rubbed against the greased leather beneath. His men-at-arms had instinctively approached as he appeared, but he waved them away. “Tell me,” Henry said, “how Crispinian spoke to you.”

Hook told how both saints had appeared to him, and how both had spoken to him, but that it was Crispinian who had been the friendly voice. He felt embarrassed to describe the conversations, but Henry took it seriously. He stopped and faced Hook. He was half a head shorter than the archer, so he had to look up to judge Hook’s face, but it appeared he was more than satisfied by what he saw. “You are blessed,” he said. “I would wish the saints would speak to me,” he said wistfully. “You have been spared for a purpose,” he added firmly.

“I’m just a forester, sire,” Hook said awkwardly. For a heartbeat he was tempted to tell the further truth, that he was an outlaw too, but caution checked his tongue.

“No, you are an archer,” the king insisted, “and it was in our realm of France that the saints assisted you. You are God’s instrument.”

Hook did not know what to say and so said nothing.

“God granted me the thrones of England and of France,” the king said harshly, “and if it is His will, we shall take the throne of France back.” His mailed right fist clenched suddenly. “If we do so decide,” he went on, “I shall want men favored by the saints of France. Are you a good archer?”

“I think so, sire,” Hook said diffidently.

“Venables!” the king called and the ventenar limped hurriedly across the turf and fell to his knees. “Can he shoot?” Henry asked.

Venables grinned. “As good as any man I ever did see, sire. As good as the man who put that arrow into your face.”

The king evidently liked Venables for he smiled at the slight insolence, then touched an iron-sheathed finger to the deep scar beside his nose. “If he’d shot harder, Venables, you would have another king now.”

“Then God did a good deed that day, sire, in preserving you, and God be thanked for that great mercy.”

“Amen,” Henry said. He offered Hook a swift smile. “The arrow glanced off a helmet,” he explained, “and that took the force from it, but it still went deep.”

“You should have had your visor closed, sire,” Venables said reprovingly.

“Men should see a prince’s face in battle,” Henry said firmly, then looked back to Hook. “We shall find you a lord.”