Three Great English Victories: A 3-book Collection of Harlequin, 1356 and Azincourt. Bernard Cornwell
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‘Do you really mock God?’ Eleanor asked, worried.
‘No. But we jest about the things we fear.’
‘And you fear God?’
‘Of course,’ Thomas said, then stiffened because there had been a rustle in the hedge behind him and a cold blade was suddenly pressed against the back of his neck. The metal felt very sharp.
‘What we should do,’ a voice said, ‘is hang the bastard properly and take his woman. She’s pretty.’
‘She’s pretty,’ another man agreed, ‘but he ain’t good for anything.’
‘You bastards!’ Thomas said, turning to stare into two grinning faces. It was Jake and Sam. He did not believe it at first, just gazed for a while. ‘It is you! What are you doing here?’
Jake slashed at the hedge with his billhook, pushed through and gave Eleanor what he thought was a reassuring grin, though with his scarred face and crossed eyes he looked like something from a nightmare. ‘Charlie Blois got his face smacked,’ Jake said, ‘so Will brought us here to give the King of France a bloody nose. She your woman?’
‘She’s the Queen of bloody Sheba,’ Thomas said.
‘And the Countess is humping the Prince, I hear,’ Jake grinned. ‘Will saw you earlier, only you didn’t see us. Got your nose in the air. We heard you were dead.’
‘I nearly was.’
‘Will wants to see you.’
The thought of Will Skeat, of Jake and Sam, came as a vast relief to Thomas, for such men lived in a world far removed from dire prophecies, stolen lances and dark lords. He told Eleanor these men were his friends, his best friends, and that she could trust them, though she looked alarmed at the ironic cheer which greeted Thomas when they ducked into the village tavern. The archers put their hands at their throats and contorted their faces to imitate a hanged man while Will Skeat shook his head in mock despair.
‘God’s belly,’ he said, ‘but they can’t even hang you properly.’ He looked at Eleanor. ‘Another countess?’
‘The daughter of Sir Guillaume d’Evecque, knight of the sea and of the land,’ Thomas said, ‘and she’s called Eleanor.’
‘Yours?’ Skeat asked.
‘We shall marry.’
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