‘Sea salt?’
‘Aye, sea salt.’
Simon looked about him uncertainly. ‘Ah, sea salt’, he said at last. ‘Sea salt mixed with wine to purge a wound! Aye, I know it, though on the second day I would staunch the salt and wine with fresh moss and a sprig of rosemary.’ He took a breath, and went on. ‘On the third to the fifth day, take more strong wine, mix it with walnut oil and pour across the wound, but keep the moss as a poultice throughout. After that, pray God it heals.’
It was Yevan’s turn to clap his hands. ‘Ahah! Just so! Then lay on, Master Apothecary! I leave my friend with ye, and bid ye good night.’ He reached into his wallet, and put two silver coins on the table. ‘For your trouble’, he said.
Simon swept the coins into his palm as he bowed. ‘But first you must eat’, he said. ‘No, no! I will not hear of it. Soldiers home from the wars, and word of a great victory too! No, I will not have ye leave without something warm in your bellies.’ He turned to his wife and daughters: ‘A supper for my lords!’ he said. ‘Quickly now. The fire’s a smouldering and there’s soup in the pot. Quickly now! Away with ye!’
The girls attempted a curtsey, and flew away giggling as they went. Their mother was somewhat slower, but with a little frown and a little bob, she turned about and vanished into the pantry.
It was nearly midnight before Yevan and Daffyd took their leave, and set off for the camp. Simon gave them a lantern to light their way, and warned them to keep to the main street, and hail the night watch if it happened by. ‘Best to make yourself known, before they jump to conclusions’, the apothecary said with a last smile, as he showed them through the door.
And so the Welshmen went, and made the camp, and found a billet with some bowmen from Somerset.
James, Ralf and the others stayed up talking until the second hour of the third watch, and then went to bed. All the while, John Hert had not stirred, but slept on by the fire. His fever was down, there was colour in his skin, and his limbs no longer shook. ‘He might just live’, said Simon to his wife, as they climbed into their bed. Margrette clicked her tongue:
‘Good then! There’s more silver in a living archer than a dead one.’
The apothecary sighed: ‘Woman, you’re so full of common sense, you’ve got no room left for anything else.’
‘Bah!’ she replied, rolled over and went to sleep.
Peace and Home
In the morning, James awoke to a household full of bustle, and the streets full of chatter. He went downstairs to a kitchen filled with smoke and steam and the smell of fresh bread. John was still asleep but the family were hard at work preparing breakfast. Simon had come back from the market with the news that the Earl of Dorset’s men were in the streets calling all soldiers to the muster. They were to meet at the hour before noon in the great field by the Earl’s banner.
'That’s it, then’, said James as he broke a piece of bread, and slid the trencher across to Ralf.
‘There’s more’, said Simon, giving his daughter a look as she nearly tripped with a bowl of hot porridge. ‘The word is out that John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy has moved his troops into the Ille-de-France. King Henry won’t stand for that! Oh, no, not since Agincourt, and not since the German Emperor himself has agreed to come to England to discuss Henry’s claim to all of France. There’s fire in your English king, and he won’t sit by while the Burgundians chase mad King Charles around the Hotel Saint-Pol in Paris.’
‘You mean the war goes on?’
‘Aye, Master James, I do. And there’s a reason for the muster, I’ll warrant.’
Duncan, who had come down earlier with Hamish and was sitting by the fireside warming his hands, yawned and stretched. ‘Why is it,’ he said, ‘that citizens know more than soldiers?’
‘So they know when to run away,’ replied Ralf with a grin, but he ducked his head when everyone stopped and stared at him.
Finally Simon spoke again: ‘I’m less a citizen and more a soldier than ye’ll ever know, young man,’ he said. ‘I’ve plucked a knight or two from his horse with my crossbow, and I kept the battlements of Harfleur when you were but a tanner’s lad and good for nought but whipping.’
Ralf kept his head down, but the apothecary leaned across and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Up, Master Ralf. I would not have ye sorry. You’re a man now, and all is past – and if that’s the only slip of the tongue you ever make, you’ll be as good as the archangel Gabriel.’
So the moment passed, breakfast was taken in good spirits, and at the forenoon hour the men went down to the muster field. They left John, barely awake, in the care of the apothecary’s daughters who danced and fussed about him endlessly, and kept poor Emma-Jeanne at bay.
At the muster field the soldiers gathered by company, and by nation: English, Scots, Irish, Welsh, Gascons, Bretons and Flemish. They stood around in groups and knots of archers, men-at-arms and knights talking in low tones in their own dialects, occasionally laughing out loud and slapping one another on the back. After the victory at Valmont, and the charge up the dunes at Cap le Havre, they were in confident mood, but still well aware that there was work to be done.
The captains and sergeants walked among them, trailing scrolls of indenture lists and calling out names as they went. Scribes and pages hurried behind them, carrying stools and writing boards, and breathless for the chance to stop and make copy.
Everywhere, and anywhere lords and knights had set their banners and planted pennons: mostly outside their pavilions but sometimes near a camp fire, or a horse line, or nowhere in particular. Their squires and servants sat about polishing armour, oiling leather straps, and checking every rivet and fastening on helmet, mail and plate. The shields, some battered and scarred, were hung outside tents to advertise their owners, and advance the family name.
In the centre of all, the banner of Thomas Earl of Dorset floated above his tent, and his great shield was set up on a pole higher than any others: red lions passant and fleurs de lys on a white field. Some said it was too boldly close to the Royal Arms, others said it showed nothing but loyalty. Most just shrugged, and said that the Earls of Dorset had always fought for king and country, and who better to bear lions on their shield? From the days of Alfred, when they bore the golden dragon of Wessex, the men of Dorset had been banner bearers to the king.
Sir Thomas was no exception. He had received his title in 1411, and had seen it as a soldier’s service to his liege lord Harry. His bluff good humour and fearless spirit were infectious, and his men liked to call him ‘Old Tom’ but never to his face. Today, he stood outside his tent, dressed in tabard and mail, his head bare and his sword across his shoulder. He drew his men about him without the need for trumpet call or herald. They were keen to hear him, and now came silently from all about the camp.
As the bells in the town rang the noon-tide, the army assembled and gathered to hear their lord speak.
He waited until all but the pickets and outer patrols had come to his banner, then he climbed onto a cart, raised one hand in a brief salute, and began:
‘My friends!’ he said, ‘for that is what you are. I have called you to this muster to give you thanks for what you have done thus far, but to appeal to you not to leave until the job be done. The first indenture, issued at Southampton has fallen well short of what we owe our king.’
There was a stirring and a shuffling of feet. The Earl raised his voice and went on:
‘We won at Valmont, and again at Cap le Havre, but we have not yet won the war. Armagnac is bloodied, but he is not beaten. Burgundy has also lifted its head. The land between here and Paris is still in dispute. No king has surrendered, no prince has sued for peace. The lords and nobles of France still gather to drive us into the sea.’
He looked about him. ‘I see the badge of St George on a hundred jacks before me, and David’s flower on the breasts of twice a hundred Welshmen. And men from the highlands north of the old wall. Will you turn away now, or will you be first to take another i
ndenture from your lord?’
There was a silence.
It is for your king,’ he said.
Again, no one spoke. Then from somewhere in the crowd, a knight shouted: ‘For the king!’ Another took up the cry, and then another. Soon it became a roar: ‘For the king! For the king!’ and the men surged forward to where the scribes and clerks waited.
After the speech, and Earl Thomas had got down from the cart, James who had been standing listening along with the others, turned and began to walk away back across the field. He had almost reached the other side where a path leads along the river bank to the postern gate when he heard steps coming up behind him. He spun round half expecting a footpad, or at least some archer about to set a prank. But it was Sir Walter Hungerford, and William Bretoun with him.
‘James of Chiswick’, said Sir Walter without waiting for James to bow or even salute him. ‘Faith, you walk fast! Thought we’d catch you up long before this. We’re nearly at the town.’
James nodded and reached to his cap: ‘My Lord . . . Captain William.’
There was a short silence. Sir Walter glanced at William and coughed. A little uncertainly, the Yeovil captain began to speak: ‘James, will you be renewing your indenture with Earl Thomas? Are you coming with us?’
For a moment, James did not answer. He was confused by the question, the more so since there were hundreds of archers at the muster, and any one of them could be asked the same question. But in the end, he shook his head: ‘No, Captain William. I’m for England within the next few days. I’ll collect my pay, sign for my share of prize money, and be on my way.’
William looked at Sir Walter and frowned. Then he turned to James again: ‘But ye see where your duty lies in this, James. We need every good man. You heard the Earl.’
‘Aye I heard him, Captain, but I’m still away home.’
‘Ye are sworn to your lord, man!’
James nodded. ‘I am sworn to my lord, but promised to my wife. She is with child, and I’ll be there to see it born.’ He could feel himself reddening under the gaze of Sir Walter but kept his head slightly bowed, and turned towards William.
‘An oath to your lord’, said William quietly, ‘must come before a promise to your wife.’
James looked up. He liked this captain. Liked his strength, his honesty, his open ways. Sir Walter had chosen well. He answered him carefully. ‘My sworn duty to the king remains. My duty to Earl Thomas does not go beyond this indenture.’1
With a laugh, Sir Walter broke in. ‘Ah, bravely said, man! It’s a neat point, but there’s truth in it, and there’s no one here will force the measure of what you say.’ He shook his head, as though he had forgotten what to say, then went on:
‘So you would go home?’
‘Aye, my lord.’
‘And leave us to the feast.’
‘I go home fat enough, my lord.’ He risked a smile. ‘There’s a patch of land I’ve my eye on, and with plunder from the field, and ransom from a squire . . .’
‘Ah!’ Sir Walter held up his hand. ‘A squire ye say. The one taken at Cap le Havre?’
James nodded.
The old warlord sucked his teeth and rubbed his beard. ‘There could be a problem there.’
‘My lord?’
For just a moment, the knight of Hungerford looked at his boots. Then he straightened. ‘The squire’s name is Giles le Normand de Fecamp. He is the son of a lord of Normandy, Roger, duc de Fecamp.’
‘He fought well, sire. Myself and another archer . . .’
'Aye, I know, I know. And ye made your mark upon his breastplate, and sent him to the provost, and I as your captain in this recorded your share of any ransom.’
'I thank you, my lord.’
'No. Don’t thank me yet, lad. The point is, there will be no ransom, no prize money, nor weight of plunder from this squire . . .nothing!’
James stepped back as though he had been pushed. He stood, mouth open, not knowing what to say. In the end, it was William who broke the silence.
‘Listen James’, he said. ‘You are denied this ransom because Earl Thomas would have it so. He is keen that the duke of Fecamp take up the English cause, or at the very least do nothing to hinder it. The return of his son will be a gift, hopefully well received. There is politic in this. More than a soldier’s ransom.’ He shrugged. ‘Kings and princes, James. Kings and princes.’
There seemed nothing more that could be said. James held his peace, even though he knew his silence could be taken as insult. At last Sir Walter waved him away. ‘Go now!’ he said.
‘My lord.’
‘What is it, man?’
'Am I to receive nothing beyond my wages?’
‘What, eh? Have ye not been listening? The squire is to be freed, sans prejudice as they say. He goes home as a free man.’ He paused and brushed his moustache. ‘I am sorry, but you do a service to your lord.’
'So I am to be denied . . .’
'You are denied nothing!’ roared Sir Walter. ‘Ransom is a sometime privilege, not a right. Your lord, whom you shun to serve any longer may withdraw it as he wills. Giles Le Normand de Fecamp is no longer your prisoner.’
James opened his mouth to reply, but saw William Bretoun’s warning glance, and said nothing. Instead, he breathed deeply, bowed and walked away.
For a time Sir Walter watched him go, then he turned back towards the camp. ‘Come, captain’, he said. ‘There’s work to do.’
‘Sire’, replied William as he walked beside him, ‘Ye have not yet told that archer he is chosen to take Le Normand back to his father.’
Sir Walter smiled. ‘One thing at a time, Captain William. If I’d told him now, I’ll warrant his response would’ve forced me to string him up from the nearest tree. No, we’ll wait for the morrow when he’s calmed down a little. Besides, I’ll pay him well for his duty.’
‘And if he had agreed to sign the new indenture, what then my lord?’
‘Hah! You are too subtle for an old soldier like me, Captain William, but I’ll tell ye this,’ and here the warlord put his finger by the side of his nose, ‘ If that Chiswick bowman had made his mark to the Earl’s seal, he’d have less to grieve over than he does now.’
The following day James went down to the docks to arrange passage to England. There he was met by the Earl’s marshal and three men-at-arms who told him that he was to report to the Dorset banner forthwith. There was to be no argument, and James knew it. He took a long look at the ships clustered along the wharf, and at the sea beyond, then he turned and went with the Earl’s escort back into the town, and from there to the camp.
When he arrived at the Earl’s tent, Sir Thomas was leaning over a table, studying a map, and running his finger between what seemed to be a river and two castles. He did not seem to even notice James. The guards left and James stood waiting. At last the Earl spoke, still looking at the map:
‘You must be James of Chiswick, the archer who refused my indenture, and stirred the anger of Sir Walter Hungerford.’
James did not reply.
'Speak up, man! There’s nothing in the statutes and ordinances of war says I can knock your head off for giving me an honest answer. Are you he?’
'I am my lord.’
‘So!’ The Earl left off the map, and straightening up, looked straight into James’ eyes. ‘Ah, yes! I know ye. At Valmont. You were there, all right. A good man, Captain William tells me, and Sir Walter too.’
‘I fought, sire.’
‘So ye did. So ye did. And now ye would go home.’
‘If ye would grant . . .’
'If I would grant? Hah! What’s to grant ye, James of Chiswick. Ye are a free man. Your first indenture is complete, but ye have refused the second. There’s nought I can do about that.’ He stopped and stared at the map again. ‘Still, there’s the matter of the ransom, and the squire of Fecamp.’
There was another silence. Again the Earl turned to his map. Out of the corner of his eye James could see a sh
ield propped against a trestle. It had on it the two golden leopards of Fecamp and Normandy: the same shield he had taken from the young squire.
‘Sir Walter has told you?’ the Earl asked suddenly.
‘Aye, my lord.’ James could not keep the disappointment from his voice.
‘Then you understand that your claim to ransom is void. Good! Now, I am going to give you a chance to at least earn something from the prize you took.’ Earl Thomas betrayed the ghost of a smile when he saw the surprise on James’ face.
'Yes, sir archer! Something out of nothing!’ He frowned. ‘Now listen! You will escort the squire Giles le Normand back to Fecamp. Yes, you! And don’t look so fish-eyed. You captured him. You return him. It’s very simple, and it’s a matter of simple honour. Knightly code, and all that. Something I don’t suppose you archer folk have much time for, but we do, and that’s the way it is.’ He stabbed one finger at the map. ‘There’s Fecamp. Just up the coast. Can’t miss it. Nice old town. Castle too. Pity we burnt both down five or so years ago. Locals didn’t take kindly to that at all, especially since Fecamp is the seat of the dukes of Normandy. And strange to say the king of England has been calling himself Duke of Normandy for the past couple of hundred years.’
‘My lord?’
‘What! Ah, yes. Forgive me, sir archer. Forgot myself there for just a moment. Wandering off talking about things you couldn’t possibly understand. Is that so?’
‘Yes sire.’
Earl Thomas looked relieved. Glancing at the map again, he waved James across to the table. ‘See here? Fecamp. Right smack on the coast. Beautiful position. Norman heartland. We’ve got it, but we haven’t, if you understand me. The local lords put up with us, but they certainly don’t support us. That’s why young Le Normand was caught at Cap le Havre. He survived, most of the others were killed or chased off. That doesn’t make us any friends around here.’
‘But returning him unharmed to his family, would,’ ventured James.
‘Aha!’ cried the Earl beaming. ‘That’s precisely so! You are the man Captain William said you might be!’ He smacked his fist into his open palm. ‘And you will of course undertake to be this young squire’s escort.’
The Bow Page 11
