“It is ours,” Father Christopher answered pleasantly.

Sir Martin appeared to notice Father Christopher for the first time. He peered intensely at the gray-haired man for a few heartbeats, then shook his head. “I don’t know you,” he said, “and I don’t need to know you. I need food. That’s why we came, and there,” he pointed a bony finger at the wagon, “is food. Manna from heaven. As God sent ravens to feed Elijah the Tishbite, so He has sent us Hook.” He found that amusing and laughed to himself, and in the laughter was the cackle of madness.

“But that food is ours,” Father Christopher said as though he spoke to a small child.

“But he,” Sir Martin sneered, pointing at Hook, “he, he, he,” and with each repetition he stabbed his finger toward Hook, “that piece of shit beside you, is Lord Slayton’s man. And he is an outlaw.”

Father Christopher turned a surprised face on Hook. “Are you?” he asked.

Hook nodded, said nothing.

“Well, well,” Father Christopher said mildly.

“An outlaw can possess nothing,” Sir Martin rasped, “which is the commandment of the scriptures, so that food is ours.”

“I think not,” Father Christopher replied calmly, smiling.

“You may think what you like,” Sir Martin said with a sudden vehemence, “because we’ll take it anyway, and we’ll take him.” He pointed to Hook.

“You know the livery?” Father Christopher asked gently, gesturing at Hook’s surcoat.

“An outlaw can wear no livery,” Sir Martin said. He looked happy as he anticipated the pleasure of Hook’s death. “Tom?” he twisted in the saddle to look at the older Perrill brother, “rip that surcoat off him, tie his hands tight and bring him.”

William Snoball had an arrow on his string. The rest of Sir Martin’s archers followed his example so that half a dozen arrows were pointed at Hook as Tom Perrill slid from the saddle. “Been waiting to do this,” Perrill said. His face, long-nosed and lantern-jawed like Sir Martin’s, was lit by a grin. “Do we hang him here, Sir Martin?”

“It would save Lord Slayton the trouble of a trial, wouldn’t it?” the priest said. “And remove from his lordship the temptation of mercy.” He cackled again.

Father Christopher held up a slim hand in warning, but Tom Perrill ignored the gesture. He came around the table and was just reaching for Hook when he was stopped by the sound of a sword scraping through a scabbard’s throat.

Sir Martin turned.

A single horseman watched the scene from the edge of the village. There were more horsemen behind him, but they had evidently been ordered to wait.

“I really would advise you,” Father Christopher said very mildly, “to take those arrows off their strings.”

None of the archers followed his advice. They glanced nervously at Sir Martin, but Sir Martin seemed not to know what to do, and just then the lone horseman touched his spurs to his stallion’s flanks.

“Sir Martin!” William Snoball appealed for orders.

But Sir Martin said nothing. He merely watched as the man-at-arms spurred toward him, the stallion’s hooves spewing puffs of dust as it cantered, and the rider drew back his sword arm and then, as he galloped past, swept once.

The flat of the blade smacked across Robert Perrill’s skull. The archer, whose selection had been random, toppled slowly from the saddle to drop heavily onto the street. The arrow, released by his nerveless hand, thumped into the tavern’s wall, half drilling through it. It had missed Hook by inches. Tom Perrill turned to help his brother, who stirred groggily in the dust, then went still as Sir John Cornewaille wheeled his horse. Sir John spurred again, and now Sir Martin’s archers hurriedly took the arrows off their strings. Sir John slowed the stallion, then curbed it.

“Greetings, Sir John,” Father Christopher said happily.

“What’s happening?” Sir John asked harshly.

Robert Perrill staggered to his feet, the right side of his head sheeted with blood. Tom Perrill was unmoving now, his eyes fixed on the sword that had struck his brother.

Father Christopher drank some ale, then wiped his lips. “These men, Sir John,” he waved at Sir Martin and his archers, “expressed a desire to take our food. I did advise them against such a course, but they insisted the food was theirs because it was under the protection of young Hook here and, according to this holy priest, Hook is an outlaw.”

“He is,” Sir Martin found his voice, “deemed so by law and doomed thereby!”

“I know he’s an outlaw,” Sir John said flatly, “and so did the king when he gave Hook to me. Are you saying the king made a mistake?”

Sir Martin glanced at Hook with surprise, but held his ground. “He is an outlaw,” he insisted, “and Lord Slayton’s man.”

“He is my man,” Sir John said.

“He is…” Sir Martin began, then faltered under Sir John’s gaze.

“He is my man,” Sir John said again, his voice dangerous now, “he fights for me, and that means I fight for him. You know who I am?” Sir John waited for an acknowledgment from the priest, but Sir Martin’s gaze had dissolved into vagueness and he was now staring into the sky as though he were communing with angels. “Tell his lordship,” Sir John went on, “to discuss the matter with me.”

“We will, sir, we will,” William Snoball answered after glancing at Sir Martin.

“Elijah the Tishbite,” Sir Martin spoke suddenly, “ate bread and flesh by the brook Cherith. Did you know that?” This question was asked earnestly of Sir John who merely looked bemused. “The brook Cherith,” Sir Martin said as though he imparted a great secret, “is where a man may hide himself.”

“Jesus wept,” Sir John said.

“And no wonder,” Father Christopher sighed. Then he gently lifted Hook’s bow and slammed it hard down onto the table and the abrupt noise made the horses twitch and snapped Sir Martin’s eyes into comprehension. “I forgot to mention,” Father Christopher said, smiling seraphically at Sir Martin, “that I am also a priest. So let me offer you a blessing.” He pulled out a golden crucifix that had been hidden beneath his shirt and held it toward Lord Slayton’s men. “May the peace and love of our Lord Jesus Christ,” he said, “comfort and sustain you while you take your farting mouths and your turd-reeking presence out of our sight.” He waved a sketchy cross toward the horsemen. “And thus farewell.”

Tom Perrill stared at Hook. For a moment it seemed his hatred might conquer his caution, but then he twisted away and helped his brother remount. Sir Martin, his face dreamy again, allowed William Snoball to lead him away. The other horsemen followed.

Sir John dropped from his saddle, took Hook’s ale, and drained it. “Remind me why you were outlawed, Hook?”

“Because I hit a priest, Sir John,” Hook admitted.

“That priest?” Sir John asked, jerking a thumb toward the retreating horsemen.

“Yes, Sir John.”

Sir John shook his head. “You did wrong, Hook, you did very wrong. You shouldn’t have hit him.”

“No, Sir John,” Hook said humbly.

“You should have slit the goddam bastard’s putrid bowels open and ripped his heart out through his stinking arse,” Sir John said, looking at Father Christopher as if hoping his words might offend the priest, but Father Christopher merely smiled. “Is the bastard mad?” Sir John demanded.

“Famously,” Father Christopher said, “but so were half the saints and most of the prophets. I can’t think you’d want to go hawking with Jeremiah, Sir John?”

“Damn Jeremiah,” Sir John said, “and damn London. I’m summoned there again, father. The king demands it.”

“May God bless your going forth, Sir John, and your returning hence.”

“And if King Harry doesn’t make peace,” Sir John said, “I’ll be back soon. Very soon.”

“There’ll be no peace,” Father Christopher said confidently. “The bow is drawn and the arrow yearns to fly.”

“Let’s hope it does. I need the money a good war will bring.”