The Bow

by Bill Sharrock

  It was Wednesday, and although the Earl of Dorset’s expedition had just arrived in port, the townsfolk were determined to hold their usual mid-week market. The stalls were up, the goods were displayed and the market traders were calling their wares. Country folk, and villager folk, charcoal burners and woodsmen, free farmers and peasants rubbed shoulders with men-at-arms, squires, spearmen and archers. French patois, Flemish, Norman and Breton dialects mingled with all the accents of England and Wales. Sergeants pushed, soldiers idled and captains strode. Fishwives shouted, bakerboys scampered and old folk raised their eyebrows and shrugged.

  James liked Harfleur. It stank but he liked it. The citizens were tough, but not unkind, and although it had been badly damaged by the recent siege it was easier to find a billet there, than it had been in Calais.

  He eased his bowstave across his shoulder, and pulled his cloak about him. There was a cold breeze coming in off the Seine estuary, not enough to drive away the stench of the town ditch, but enough to chill him to the marrow.

  But it was good to be ashore after a long, bumpy crossing, and he was hoping if he hung around in the market place he might come across some of his companions from Agincourt. So far he had seen no one he knew. Back in Southampton he thought he had once caught sight of John ap Meredith, but it turned out to be a stranger from the borders.

  After wandering the market square and adjoining streets for a time, he found lodgings above an apothecary shop. It was just across from the house of a tailor from Ghent, and as he watched the workers stitching and cutting he promised himself that he would bring Hettie back more than just ribbons this time. This time he would buy fine cloth, colourful cloth, perhaps even a fur. That would make the burgesses of Chiswick and Isleworth chatter: a yeoman’s wife in the finest fur! And perhaps then, after all that had happened he could promise Hettie that he would go no more to France. And there would be no more tears, and he could be a farmer nothing more, and farm the five hides that ran down to Chiswick Eyot.

  There was another archer and two men-at-arms sharing his lodgings in what was little more than a store-room set above the family quarters. The men-at-arms were Scots, and said little, and that in their own heavy brogue, but were kind enough, lending James some fine wax oil when he was looking to treat his bow. The archer was a different matter, a young apprentice from Norwich, tired of his master’s beatings and eager to prove himself in the wars. He was called Ralf, he never stopped talking and he carried a bow too big for him by half a hand. His straw coloured hair stuck out at all angles from under his leather cap, and his hands and arms were stained with the mark of his trade: tanning.

  ‘I can shoot six a minute!’ he announced proudly one night as they sat about the family table eating bread and soup. ‘Six fine arrows, true to the mark at fifty paces and a draw of one fifteen pounds.’

  The apothecary’s daughters gasped, wide-eyed, but their father just nodded politely, and his wife seemed not to have heard.

  ‘What think you, James? What think you of that?’

  James looked up from his soup. ‘Six a minute, you say’, he said.

  ‘Aye, six a minute! No less! That will make Frenchie tremble.’

  'Ta’d make me tremble, if ae was next ta ye’, said one of the Scotsmen quietly.

  Ralf looked confused. He reddened. ‘How so?’

  The Scotsman just shrugged, so James answered for him:

  ‘Because, Ralf, ye have to be firing at least eight a minute if you’re going to stand any chance of stopping Frenchie at all. At six a minute ye’re a dead man.’

  The daughters’ eyes grew even wider, but Simon the apothecary just smiled and returned to his soup. With a grunt, Ralf pushed his bench back:

  ‘And how do you know that?’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ said James. ‘That’s all.’ He finished his meal, stood up, bowed to the Simon and his wife, and went out into the street. Ralf followed him.

  ‘I can shoot, you know,’ he said. ‘My father taught me. He fought in the Welsh Wars against the Glendower.’

  ‘I’m sure he did,’ replied James, looking up at the stars. It was a clear night and the moon had risen with a frost-ring.

  ‘He taught me five a minute on an old ash bow, and then when I came to Norwich, my master taught me six on a yew-wood. Only thing he ever did – apart from beat me that is. Funny thing, really. He’d kick me around all week, an’ treat me worse than his dog, then on Sundays he’d take me down to the long meadow with all the other lads, an’ teach me how to shoot. Like I was his son or something.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t teach ye enough. You put up six a minute against the French an’ the master bowman will have ye back among the baggage boys before ye can say hail Mary.’

  For a while Ralf didn’t reply. He scuffed at the cobbles with his boot, and turned and stared across the street at the sign of the tailor.

  ‘Is that so,’ he said at last.

  ‘Aye, it is,’ said James.

  Ralf paused again. ‘Teach me then!’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Teach ye what?’

  ‘To shoot more than six. To shoot eight.’

  James didn’t reply. There was a group of drunken sailors coming up the street from the docks. They were singing. He watched them until they wandered by and disappeared down a side alley and into a tavern.

  ‘You want to shoot eight?’ he asked Ralf.

  'Aye I do.’

  ‘Afore we march?’

  ‘Aye, well . . .if it can be done.’

  ‘Well, ye’d need to find yourself a masterbowman, and one with time on his hands and a wallet to fill.’

  ‘Not you, then?’

  James sighed. ‘Listen, lad. It took my older brother and then my father five years to get me to shoot eight a minute on a little half bow. Then it was another three years to get to five shots on a full bow with a one -twenty pound draw. Two more years, and I was doing eight a minute on a one-fifty pounder my uncle made me. It’s the one I carry now.’

  ‘Eight a minute on a hundred and fifty pounder!’ Ralf gasped.

  ‘We all of us shot twelve a minute at Agincourt when it mattered.’

  Ralf’s face fell and his shoulders sagged. He took a few steps and sat down on the cobbles, his back to a water trough. ‘I’d never do that!’ he said.

  James came and sat beside him. ‘Not this side of Michaelmas,’ he said. ‘But a good masterbowman could see you right within a twelve month, if ye have as much willing as I think ye have.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  James laughed. ‘Get down to the bowyer and find a stave of Spanish yew that draws one-ten. That way ye’ll put eight arrows in the air, even though they’ll bounce off all but leather and mail at fifty yards.’

  ‘But that’s no good!’

  ‘Aye, you’re right, but it’ll look pretty enough, and should fool the master until you build up a bit more brawn and get back to the one fifteen or even a twenty.’

  ‘And how long is that?’

  ‘As long as ye want to make it, lad. But I wouldn’t hang around if I were you. Stay out of the taverns, leave the wenches alone and get down to the butts as much as ye can.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ll give ye a start, and then try to find a masterbowman to set ye right.’

  Almost without thinking, Ralf grabbed James by the arm and shook his hand. ‘Thank you!’ he blurted out.

  'Ah, think nothing of it!’ James got to his feet and headed off down the street. He turned and called over his shoulder:

  ‘Oh, and buy yourself a horse! You’ll be needing one for the march.’

  'A horse? A horse? Where do I find a horse?’ Ralf shouted.

  James laughed again. ‘If you have the money, lad, the horse will find you!’ Moments later he was gone, leaving Ralf alone by the water trough.

  The young apprentice looked all about him then shrugged:

  ‘I should’ve stayed in Norwich,’ he said, and went back into the house.

  For the next three weeks Ralf
trained hard down at the butts. Most of the time James was there too, keeping an eye on the young archer and looking to his own training. He had almost given up finding a master bowman to tutor Ralf when he noticed a group of Welsh longbowmen in their familiar green and white tunics. They were gathered by one of the targets on the western side of the meadow. He wandered across. As he came up to them, he recognised one straight away. It was Yevan ap Griffiths, and he was half-turned away from James, checking the horn-tip on his bow. He looked around as James greeted him:

  Hey up, there! It’s young James Fletcher! What are ye doing here, boyo? I thought ye were away to that young wife of yours, and an easy life in an English village.’

  James smiled and grasped Yevan’s outstretched arm:

  ‘Well met, Yevan! I’m here for enough to buy me some land, then I’m away back to my home.’

  ‘Hah hah! Are ye now, then? The fields of France are white with the bones of Englishmen who thought the same. I thought ye’d learnt your lesson, James. That Frenchie nearly skinned ye at Agincourt, if I remember it right.’

  ‘Aye, and it was your good self that kept me on my feet. What company are ye with?’

  Yevan put his head on one side and winked: ‘Why Dorset of course, but I fight in the pay of a young English captain fresh from Wales and eager for the wars.’

  James looked carefully at him: ‘You’re not saying .. .’

  'Aye, I am, boyo! It’s William Bretoun. Left his kin in Yeovil and came to the valleys to find men fit for the fight.’

  ‘The devil ‘e did!’

  'Ye can leave the divvil out of it, boyo! It’s Captain William now, and he’ll do me for a man to follow, and a wage to draw.’

  'It’s his indenture then, ye signed.’

  ‘Aye, and fixed to the seal of our lord of Dorset. We’ve all signed, ain’t we lads?’

  The others nodded, and turned back to their weapons. James smiled again, and took a pace back. ‘Well, ye know as well as any that I can’t leave my captain – like enough as I would – I carry the indenture of a Wiltshire man.’

  ‘And more fool you, young James, but I’ll keep an eye out for ye on the march and in the battle line.’

  For a while James said nothing, but stooped and picked the stork of a barley grass, and chewed on it.

  ‘There’s a lad over there,’ he said at last. ‘He’s shooting everything and anything at the butts.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’

  ‘Name of Ralf. Lodges with me and two others. Knows Tom Tattle about archery, but he’d like to know more.’

  Yevan grinned. ‘Go on, and maybe I’ll catch your drift.’

  ‘Well, I can train him up for brawn and puff, but I can’t teach him the tricks, see. Not like you, leastways.’

  ‘Ahah! The tricks o’ the trade! Ho, James, so this is where ye are leading me.’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘How much does this Ralf lad draw?’

  ‘Eight at one fifteen.’

  Yevan threw back his head and roared: ‘What’s this you say? Eight at one fifteen! Be damned to your silliness James Fletcher! What am I meant to do with that?’

  James shrugged and smiled. ‘As much as ye can, Yevan. There’s silver in his wallet, and fire in his belly. I’m sure you can take the one to feed the other.’

  ‘Oof! There’s a pretty speech. Still, ye’ve a nerve to ask, and it’s nerve I like. Let’s see the lad.’

  Together they wandered across the field to where Ralf was sweating at the butts. He did not notice as they approached, so they stood to one side watching him for a time. He had a bundle of about twenty practice arrows, and was using his new bow to shoot them into the straw butts from about eighty paces.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked James after a while.

  Yevan thought for a bit. ‘Well, he has some technique, though I’d say he’s not sure whether to draw to the cheek or the chest, and he hesitates a bit on the stretch. Feet a bit too square, and a shade closed for my liking.’

  As they watched Ralf loosed a shaft which caught the wind and skipped wide of the butt. He cursed and drove the tip of his bow into the turf.

  'So there’s the fire,’ muttered Yevan, ‘Let’s see the colour of his silver.’ He walked up to Ralf, and without even greeting him took the bow from his hand. Ralf went to grab it back and got a cuff on his jaw which sent him reeling.

  ‘Shoot like that, and you don’t deserve to hold a beauty like this’,’said Yevan, without even looking at him. ‘What draw weight is she?’

  Ralf looked at James who nodded. ‘She’s one fifteen pounds,’ he said, rubbing the side of his jaw. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Well laddie, I’ll tell ye. If a bowyer sells ye a bow that’ll take the strain at one fifteen, and it’s made of good bole yew, with a three year season, then ye can whip it to one thirty no bother at all. See here!’

  He snatched up an arrow from several at his feet, and in a single flowing movement bent the bow and shot. The arrow drove nearly to its fletchings in the centre of the butt.

  ‘How did you do that?’ gasped Ralf.

  'I’m Welsh,’ laughed Yevan. ‘It’s in me.’

  'Teach me!’ said Ralf.

  ‘What, to be Welsh?’

  ‘To shoot!’

  ‘Ye can shoot, ye lumpkin.’

  ‘No, to shoot like that.’

  ‘Ah, ye mean to shoot to stay alive. Is that what ye mean?’

  Ralf hung his head. ‘I guess I do.’

  Yevan stared at him for a bit, them slapped him on his back. ‘Cheer up, boyo ! James here tells me you’re worth the teaching, and ye might be willing to pay for a few pointers.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘How much do ye have?’

  Ten shillings.’

  ‘It’s an honest answer, cos ye didn’t flinch. Give me five and I’ll make a Welshman of ye.’

  Ralf beamed, touched his forelock and then turned to James. ‘I’ll never forget this,’ he said.

  ‘Make sure ye live long enough to make it a memory worth having’, replied James, taking the bow from Yevan and tossing it back to Ralf..

  Yevan proved to be as good as his word. Over the next ten days he drilled Ralf as though he had been paid fifty shillings and not five. From dawn to dusk, weather permitting, they were down at the butts, or away at the bowyers’ yard. One bow took so much use it cracked and they had to get another. Some of the arrows too needed re-fletching, and Yevan showed Ralf how to wind a spiral of linen thread through the flights to hold the quills securely to the shafts. He taught him how to quickly string his bow, and then fit an arrow to the string in one easy movement. Then he showed him how to draw beyond the cheek to the ear, and loose swiftly, without pause, to lift his rate of shooting. Again and again, he corrected his stance, forcing him to stand sideways to the line of shot so that he could aim as he drew the bow up.

  Ralf took all: the warnings, the curses, the cuffs of encouragement, and the endless repetition of shot. He listened when rebuked, and made no comment when praised. Moreover, not once did he plead weariness or pain no matter how long the day, and never put down his bow until Yevan gave the nod. And always James was there, training alongside, but never saying a word. At last, one Sunday down at the far butts by the salt marshes, as the February days deepened under chill and heavy snow clouds, Yevan pronounced him a halfway decent bowman. Ralf grinned from ear to ear, and opened his mouth to speak, but simply shook his head as if in disbelief, and took the masterbowman by the arm.

  Yevan shrugged him off with a good natured smile. ‘You’re welcome, young Ralf, and I thank ye for your silver, but it’ll all be for nought if ye don’t keep to the training.’

  ‘I promise,’ replied Ralf.

  'Promising is doing, boyo! Is that not right, James?’

  ‘Aye it is, Yevan ap Griffiths, but ye’ve given this lad more than most.’

  The Welshman grinned, and put his hand on Ralf’s shoulder: ‘Ye’re a bowman now boyo, and there’s a little bit of welsh in ye, that
ye never had before. But remember this, I can do nothing for you. It’s the bow will see ye home. Take yourself down to the bowyer’s yard tomorrow, and spend what ye have on a good new bow. Not wych elm, mind, or I’ll send ye back! I want to see strong grained yew with a one twenty five draw weight at least.’

  ‘One twenty five!’

  ‘Aye, lad! And the shoulders on you tell me that you’ll whip that to one forty without so much as a blink.’ He laughed and clapped the Norwich apprentice on the back. Ralf beamed.

  They walked back to the town with an easterly at their backs, and the first flurries of snow pattering against their cloaks.

  Two days later, the Earl of Dorset called an assembly with trumpets and banners and heralds all a-scurry. The army was to prepare for the march. Knights, captains and sergeants were summoned by turn to the great coloured pavilion that the Earl had set up in the centre of his camp. Orders were given to the victuallers, requisitions for supply were written out, and bonuses on wages promised to the first companies that paraded in good order before their lord.

  Rumours flew around the town like sparrows: some said a French force was marching against Harfleur; others said that Earl Thomas had been told to launch a ‘chevauchee’ towards Paris; a few said that the army was bound for the Vexin. Beneath the town walls, battered seven months earlier by the twelve great guns of Henry V’s siege train, the townsfolk set up stalls for a last furious few days of buying and selling before the army marched.

  As the snow drifted down on the slushy streets, alleyways and paths of Harfleur, equipment and stores were loaded onto the carts and packhorses of the Earl’s household troops. All around them archers and men-at-arms gathered, leading their horses out onto the whitening field.