“Father Hobbe, his cassock skirts hitched up to his waist, was fighting with a quarterstaff, ramming the pole into French faces. ‘In the name of the Father,’ he shouted, and a Frenchman reeled back with a pulped eye, ‘and of… — Bernard Cornwell Copy Share Image
“Where’s your bowstrings?’ Thomas asked, for the priest had neither helmet nor cap. ‘I looped them round my…well, never mind. It has to be good for something other than pissing, eh? And it’s dry down there.’ Father Hobbe seemed indecently… — Bernard Cornwell Copy Share Image
