The Bow

by Bill Sharrock

  ‘It’s their way,’ replied Giles rubbing the old dog’s ears.

  ‘Then they are better men than me,’ replied James getting to his feet again. ‘I’m for bed.’

  Giles decided to stay. ‘I’ll keep watch with this old fellow,’ he said. He put another log on the fire, poured one last cup of mead, and eased himself back on the rough refectory bench. James bid him good night, and set off along the dark and narrow corridors that led to the guest wing cells. It was cold and draughty, but it was dry and clean. Everywhere looked swept, and in the dim light of the torches that hung from the walls he could see the smooth white plaster and carved timberwork of the Cistercian craftsmen.

  Slowly and carefully he made his way through the monastery. He was aware of the far off sound of singing - plain chant – as the monks began their nightly rituals of prayer and praise. He had nearly reached his cell, after one or two wrong turnings, when all at once he rounded a corner and found himself looking into the eyes of a young peasant woman. He started. She was slender, dark eyed, with rich brown hair falling across her shoulders. Her faded blue kirtle was tied about the waist with a flaxen cord, and she wore a heather wreath across her brow. In her hand she held a sword. She stared at him with a fixed and level gaze. He gasped and almost cried out.

  Painted! All painted! It was a fresco. The flickering torchlight gave it life, and for one moment James had thought the girl was real. He came forward and looked more closely. There was an inscription, carefully inscribed beneath her feet: ‘Ancilla et liberator futura Gallorum’.

  He had no idea what it meant.

  There was a tap on his shoulder and he whirled around, heart pounding. An elderly monk, palm raised in sign of peace, smiled at him. ‘Do not be alarmed monsieur,’ he said quietly. ‘I heard footsteps in the corridor heading away from the chapel and turned back to see what the matter might be. And so I have found yourself. But nothing to worry.’ He paused and smiled again. ‘I see you have found our little maid.’

  James nodded. ‘Who is she?’

  The old monk sighed and walked slowly up to the fresco.

  ‘We do not know. She is yet to come. She is spoken of. By the seer Merlin. A maid of France to set France free. That’s what he said.’

  ‘When? When will she set France free?’

  ‘Aha! You believe it then, maybe, this fairy tale, this old wives story?’

  James frowned. ‘But you said . . .’

  'I told you the story, my son. That is all. It is a story no more real than this painting.’ He stood back and gestured towards it: ‘Just a painting. But see the passion in those lines. So true, so alive. Let me tell you, it is not a girl yet to come, it is one who lives already, and not far from here. She is the daughter of the miller at Goderville, and the novice here who painted this, thinks of no one else.’

  'A novice painted this?’

  The monk nodded. ‘He came to us with some skill already. His father was a craftsman, a silversmith. The abbot asked him to paint a legend. Instead he painted his soul.’ Again, he looked at the fresco. ‘I do not think he will stay with us. I think he will leave, and break his poor mother’s heart.’

  James yawned. ‘And all for a girl.’

  He shook his head sadly. ‘A common problem I fear.’ He paused and then suddenly frowned. ‘But what am I doing keeping you standing here? I too must be away. Good night, master archer, and God keep thee.’

  ‘And thee also,’ replied James putting thumb and forefinger to his forehead even as the old monk turned away,and disappeared into the shadows.

  Soon James had found his cell. He stowed his kit, bedded down, and in moments was asleep.

  By morning the storm had passed. The sky was clear, and the wind from the south. As the sun reached its first quarter, they said farewell to the abbot and his monks, who sent them on their way with a loaf of bread, a round of cheese and a quart of local wine. They also carried a letter from the abbot to the Benedictine abbey of La Trinite in Fecamp.

  With the sun on their shoulders, and a breeze at their backs, they took the path that led back to the coast. As they rode they talked. It wasn’t long before James asked Giles about the legend of the young peasant girl. The squire shrugged and said that he had heard of the story, but could not think it to be true. ‘A tale born of despair,’ he said, easing his horse through a flooded dip in the road. ‘When a nation loses hope, it loses its mind. Only a madman would come up with such an idea.’

  'But the abbot . . .’

  ‘He is a kind and good man, rare enough these days among church folk, but he is also a dreamer. Too much time alone in that grey, stone box.’

  They rode on, and by noon had reached a high point from where they could see the spires of Fecamp, and beyond the broad reach of the sea.

  They stopped for lunch, sat underneath an oak tree, and looked out towards the west.

  'Your home,’ said Giles gesturing.

  'Aye, somewhere out there.’

  'You think of it sometimes, perhaps.’

  ‘Every day.’

  ‘I think of mine,’ replied Giles, ‘but soon I will be there. God willing you also will see your home before a long time.’

  James smiled, and rolled a piece of bread in his hand. ‘I sometimes think I might never walk up that Chiswick road again. Never see my Hettie, nor she me.’

  ‘Then you are a dead man already,’ snorted Giles. ‘The best way to get home, is to be home. In your head, that is.’

  James glanced at the young squire. ‘Someone told you that?’

  Giles laughed. ‘My father told me. I overheard him say it to my elder brother before he went away to the wars.’

  ‘You have an older brother?’

  ‘He was killed. In the wars. Ironic, n’est ce pas? Never came home.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘It is all right. It was some time ago. Maybe five years. Fighting in Burgundy.’ He paused and looked down. ‘I still miss him. He used to look out for me. Make sure the older squires didn’t push me around.’ Picking up a tuft of grass he threw it against the breeze: ‘Mother used to cry most every day after he was gone. But father said he died as a man should.’ He stood up. ‘Come, let us be going. We started well, and must finish well if we are to make the castle by sunset.’ Calling to his horse, he gathered shield and sword, and was in the saddle before James had even begun to be ready.

  They reached Fecamp late in the day. The smell of sea salt and herrings hung in the air, but the town, so recently destroyed, had been rebuilt and its clean, dressed stonework glowed in the setting sun. The great square tower of La Trinite loomed above the walls and the town gates were defended by barbican round towers. Stand-guards in civic livery stood either side of the open portcullis.2

  ‘I am your shepherd now. We head for the abbey in the centre of the town,’ said Giles quietly as they walked their horses across the narrow bridge towards the gateway. ‘Stay close and say nothing. These folk have no love for an English archer. They still talk of Robert Knollys in these parts, and call him a servant of the devil.’

  James did not reply. He was watching the guards watching him. In one easy movement they shifted their shields to their shoulders, and took their pikes in both hands. ‘Professionals,’ he thought. ‘And not to be fooled with.’

  The guards challenged them as they approached, calling out in a rough, clipped Norman dialect. They halted and Giles spoke, lifting his lance so that the pennon of Fecamp floated free. One of the guards scowled, the other laughed and waved them through. As they clattered across the drawbridge under the stone vaulted arches of the barbican, a ragged sutler on a donkey pushed by them. He went by eyeing James suspiciously and spat at his feet.

  ‘What did you say back there?’ asked James, ignoring the sutler.

  Giles grinned. ‘I told them you were a poor, idiot English archer who had come to claim ransom, but was instead being delivered to prison.’

  ‘Like as not,’ replied James with a shrug.

>   The streets of Fecamp were crowded with the end of market day, but the people fell quiet and drew back muttering as the two men made their way to the town square and abbey church.

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t touch your bow,’ hissed Giles. ‘They would tear you apart in an instant.’

  Carefully, James eased his cloak across his chest till it covered the badge of St George. They went on. Soon they had reached the square, and were almost across it, making their way between the awnings, stalls and two-wheeled carts, when suddenly, someone called out, and threw a stone. It struck James on the back, making him pull down on the reins so that his horse reared. He swore, and instinctively reached for his sword.

  ‘No!’ shouted Giles, as his own horse danced sideways. Another stone flew over their heads and bounced off an awning.

  ‘What then?’ James ducked to avoid two more stones, and a handful of animal dung. The crowd started to close in. The shouting had become a chorus of jeers, taunts and high-pitched yelps.

  ‘They mean to have me!’ James cried, tearing his buckler from his hip, and snatching his ballock-knife. ‘I’ll not stand here and be butchered like a pig.’ His horse, reins trailing, bolted through the crowd, scattering bodies to right and left. Giles was on his own horse in an instant. ‘Quick!’ he said, and leaning down hauled James up behind him.

  They galloped across the square in a hail of stones and curses, and only pulled up when they reached the other side. To their relief they saw a detachment of the abbot’s armed retinue emerged from the abbey-hall and advance with sword and pike. There were only about twenty of them, but they came at a steady trot, spear points levelled and shields lapped.

  The crowd gave way instantly, scattering to right and left into alleyways, doorways and side-streets. Within moments the square had emptied, save for a yapping dog and two or three excitable young boys who had come to watch the fun. James took a deep breath and slipped down from the horse. He looked up at Giles. ‘That was close,’ he said. ‘How did they spot me so quickly?’

  Giles patted his horse’s neck. ‘They smelt you, my friend,’ he replied.

  With that the captain of the guard, a vintenar in brigandine and mail, came up to them. He pushed back the visor of his bascinet. ‘Welcome to Fecamp!’ he said and smiled.

  A short while later, after James had retrieved his horse and seen it safely to the stables, they were escorted to the hall of La Trinite, where they took supper with the abbot, who had just come from the evening service compline. He was a lean and spare monk, dressed in the dark habit of the Benedictines, but there was a strength in him that men sometimes called ‘meekness’. At first he listened politely to their story, nodding every so often and smiling gently at their troubles. Then he offered them more wine – ‘our famous benedictine!’ – and thanked them for the abbot of Goderville’s letter.

  ‘I must apologise for the excessive horseplay of my flock,’ he said when Giles had finished speaking. ‘The bourgeois of Fecamp love to tax those who would tax them.’

  James looked puzzled. The abbot chuckled and spread his hands. ‘The kings of England who call themselves lords of Normandy will never make Englishmen of these folk.’

  James thought of what the Cistercian abbot had said, but held his peace.

  ‘The armies of St George have been burning these lands for three generations,’ the abbot went on, ‘but they remain no less French. To conquer is not to own, to hold is not to have.’ He stopped and drew with his finger in a pool of wine. ‘In the end we will outlast you. Not because we are stronger, or braver or more skilled.’ He looked up. ‘But simply because we are French.’

  There was a silence. Giles chewed on a piece of bread, and studied the carved panels flanking the fireplace. A serving monk ghosted around the table, clearing dishes and filling wine cups. Someone in a far off corridor let a door slam, and the sound echoed, re-echoed and then faded.

  ‘But we are here,’ said James in a whisper..

  ‘So you are my son, and worthy of my respect, and due my sanctuary.’

  'It was timely, father abbot.’

  ‘Humph! It was only right! I would not have these rafters burning above my head because some silly townsfolk took it into their heads to spill English blood within my gates. Only last year, your King Henry marched past this town with all his array. I saw his banners.’ He paused. ‘If it were not for sire David of Rambures who defended this very place Fecamp would have burnt yet again. You know of sire David?’

  James shook his head. The abbot shrugged: ‘Well, it matters not. For he is dead now, you see. Perhaps you yourself struck him down. Or one of your comrades. He fell at Agincourt along with three of his sons. A great knight! Master of the crossbowmen of France, a son of Ponthieu, a hero to the people of this place.’ Slowly, the abbot got to his feet, and folded his hands. ‘The castle de Fecamp lies just beyond these walls. It would be better if you waited the night here, and completed your journey in the morning.’

  Giles also stood. He bowed. ‘Safer my lord abbot, but not better. We must decline your kind offer, and push on now. We will take our chances in the street.’

  ‘And you think that wise, my son?’

  ‘I am thinking that Fecamp asleep will be friendlier than Fecamp awake, father. Besides, I am eager to be home. How could I sleep a bowshot from the family hearth?’

  The abbot sighed. ‘Well, so be it. But if I were you I would drink no more this night. “In moderatio sana est” and you will need your wits about you.’

  Pushing back the trestle, and brushing crumbs from his jack, James now got to his feet. He belched, and put his hand to his mouth. ‘I knew a man,’ he said, ‘who did not drink at all. Not wine, nor beer, nor any strong drink.’

  The abbot raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that so? Such a fellow is either a madman or a saint. There is nothing in between.’

  ‘Or else he is dead,’ muttered Giles. ‘But we will take your advice in this, my lord abbot: no more of your fine Benedictine, and a clear head for the way home.’

  ‘Just so. Wait here for a moment and I will send my vintenar to you. He will guide you to the stables, and to the postern gate that leads to the port. Stay away from the docks and hug the shadows. After that, the Lord be with you.’ He gave a slight bow and was gone.

  Within the hour they had left the abbey precincts, made their way through the streets of the port and cleared the outer walls via the postern gate. The vintenar farewelled them, and they took the road to the castle.

  It was a dark night with a new moon and broken clouds. They could scarcely see more than twenty paces ahead, but Giles knew the way well, and urged his horse into a trot as soon as they had crossed the old stone bridge beyond the town meadow.

  Chateau Le Normand de Fecamp was neither grand nor large. However, despite the damage suffered in the seige of 1411 it was well built and well-protected with a dry moat, high curtain walls, and four largely intact bastion corner towers, as well as a double barbican in the latest style. The owner, the duke, called himself such in careful defiance of his liege lords across the channel. With his allegiance also owed to the king of France, he kept an uneasy watch over the narrow border between the sea and the Norman heartland. He was popular in and around Fecamp because he was seen as a native Norman warlord, but he was regarded as a nuisance by any English commanders who were sent to establish their king’s authority in the region.

  And so he had sent his son to fight alongside the Armagnac at Cap le Havre. And so the Earl of Dorset had sent his son back home again.

  ‘There it is!’ said Giles suddenly, pulling his horse to a halt.

  ‘Where?’ said James staring into the blackness.

  ‘There! Directly in front, and a bit to the left. See? The shadow of a tower, and a single light. Do you see?’

  ‘I see nothing.’

  Giles laughed. ‘How do you English ever win a battle when even your archers are blind?’ He pointed again. ‘See now! Look!’

  James stared again. Al
l at once he could see it: a tower and part way up a lighted window. Not more than a slit. He nodded. ‘I see. How far?’

  ‘Not far. Perhaps a thousand paces,’ Giles replied, his voice rising with excitement. ‘Nearly home!’

  When they arrived they stood well back from the gate, beyond the ditch and hailed the guard. A torch flared into life on the battlements, and a helmeted figure bobbed into view.

  ‘Qui vive?’ The voice was heavy, guttural and full of suspicion. James could see the glint of a crossbow in the torchlight.

  ‘C’est moi, Caspar! C’est moi. Voici Giles!’

  Someone laughed – James could not tell who – and there was the sound of running on the wall-walk. A shout, the sound of hinges turning, and a clattering of arms down a staircase.

  ‘I think they are coming,’ said Giles. ‘Pray God it is Lucien who opens the gate, and not Caspar. He’s the only one who doesn’t jam the chain.’

  More torches appeared along the battlement, then at last came the sound of chainwork and the drawbridge was slowly lowered. At the same time the portcullis, immediately behind, was raised, the metal fittings sliding smoothly in the polished stone channels.

  'Lucien!’ said Giles to himself, then stood in the stirrups and called again.

  As their horses clopped across the drawbridge the guards stepped forward to greet them, reaching up to take Giles’ hand, grinning,and slapping his saddle. They looked at James, frowned, then shrugged and waved him in.

  More men-at arms appeared and some servants as well. Everyone seemed to be chattering and pointing, but James could not make out what was being said, apart from the general excitement at the return of the squire.

  When they reached the bailey, and the gate to the inner ward the duke himself appeared. He stood on the steps that led up to the great hall. A cloak was wrapped about him, and his greying hair hung tangled over his shoulders, but he stood like a king. Two spearmen either side of him, held torches.

  'My father,’ said Giles. He dismounted, motioned for James to do the same, and went forward. As he neared his father he stopped and knelt, head lowered. There was a pause, then the duke took his son by the shoulders and raised him up. ‘Mon fils!’ he said, and embraced him.