The Bow

by Bill Sharrock

  Simon’s daughters greeted him in a flutter. The apothecary apologised for his daughters, but welcomed the archer in. James was surprised to see John still there, by the fire, and Ralf too. It seemed so long since he had left. They greeted him. John looked stronger, and Ralf was clearly more the man than he had been before: leaner, straighter and with a calm set to his eye. ‘Well done, Yevan,’ James thought.

  'Where’s Duncan and Hamish?’ he asked.

  John stood slowly and took his hand. ‘They’re away foraging with a band of Sir Gilbert Umfraville’s men. Won’t be back for a few days yet.’ He sat down again, easing himself back into the chair. ‘It’s good to see ye James.’

  ‘And you too, John Hert. Has this straw-haired rag-a-muffin here been watching out for ye?’ He pointed at Ralf and winked.

  John laughed: ‘He has, James, he has, though the lassies here keep him busy enough. He’d wed them both if the priest’d allow it.’

  Ralf reddened, but smiled and waved the remark away. ‘Will ye be staying, James?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye, but not for long. I’m away home at the end of this week.’ He put his bow and kit in the corner and sat down on a trestle. ‘What’s tae eat?’

  He took an early supper with all the family, and then wandered off to find a tavern near the town walls. There was none that he took to: they were all too crowded, reeking and full of shouting. He turned away and headed for the Rouen gate. Passing through, he took the path that led down to the old Duke of Clarence’s camp. Perhaps as many as three thousand men had camped here during the great siege. A good number had died of the plague. Some had died of fighting. All were buried in the salt marshes. Of the rest, some had been sent home sick, some had remained to garrison the town, and the rest, like him had taken the road to Agincourt.

  Three thousand! A year ago the place had teemed: tents, siege engines, carts piled high with salted fish, flour, wine and beer. The clatter and smoke of the cooking fires, the jostle of the horse-lines, and the muddy groups of men streaming to and from the mines: all had been overshadowed and muffled by the constant roar of the great guns of the king’s camp, hammering at the walls of Harfleur. On all sides, joiners, carpenters, blacksmiths and gun crews laboured to maintain the siege works that were built under the fierce eye of Nicholas Merbury, Master of the King’s Ordnance. Even at night a strange glow had lit the sky: braziers for gun fuses, torch lines to guide in the wagon loads of gun stones, saltpetre and charcoal, fires from the pickets and lanterns at the entrance to every warlord’s tent or pavilion. Above all the flash and fire of the ordnance which continued to thunder even after sunset, day after day.

  And now it was all but deserted, save for a broken down palisade, a few ragged targets, and several archers. He walked across, half expecting to see Yevan and his friends, but it was another group altogether. They did no more than look up, nod, then turn back to their practice.

  He stood and watched them for a bit. They were Englishmen, northerners from their accent, probably Cheshire bowmen. They talked and joked as they practised, confident of their skill, and easy with their company.

  At length one of them called him across. The man had the measure of a master bowman, older with greying hair and pale blue eyes. His skin was tanned as leather, and a three day stubble covered his chin and jaw.

  ‘Name’s Richard Collin of Lealand,’ he said, ‘But men call me Dickon, and I answer better to that.’ He rested his bow across his shoulder. ‘I know you.’

  'Perhaps you do. I am James Fletcher of Chiswick.’

  'Hah! The one on the John de Groen! Is what men say true?’

  'Very little.’

  ‘Good enough! But were ye not at Valmont and the Dunes? I saw you there.’

  'You saw me.’

  There was an awkward silence. James turned to walk away, but the other reached out and caught him by the shoulder. ‘Hold, lad! Not so quick! Do ye not know one John Hert of Nantwich?’

  'I do. What is he to you?’

  Dickon smiled and his pale eyes brightened: ‘He’s my brother lad! That’s all.’

  ‘Your brother!’

  ‘Ho! That made ye blink! Aye, my brother, and likely to have died at the Cape if ye and yer friends hadn’t picked him up and carried him home. I’m grateful to ye.’

  James nodded. ‘He never said he had a brother.’

  ‘Aye, he wouldn’t. Proud as a buck hare, and not speaking to me for a while since. We had a quarrel over a strip of land back in Nantwich and near came to blows. Took separate indentures, and went to the wars. Only three days ago I heard that he’d been skittled at the Dunes. Captain William told me the whole story and where he lodged.’

  ‘But ye have not been?’

  Dickon turned and gazed at the other archers who had finished their practice and were packing up. ‘Aye . . .Aye. Not yet, leastways.’ He picked some grass and chewed it. ‘Seems there’s a bit of buck hare in both of us.’ He paused. ‘Give him my greeting when next ye see him.’

  James smiled and shook his head. ‘Will ye not bring it yourself? You’re his brother, man!’

  ‘Aye, I am. And we both burn with the same blood our father gave us. I’ll speak to John when John would speak to me.’

  ‘Well, all right!’ With a wave of his hand, James set off back towards the gate. Suddenly he heard Dickon call out:

  ‘If ye ever need anything, James Fletcher, just ask for me at the camp of Sir Thomas Beaufort. All Cheshire fights for Dorset now.’

  ‘I will!’ replied James.

  When he reached the gate, the watch was changing for the end of the day. He entered the town, and wandered along the cobbled street, the air already heavy with the smoke of evening cooking fires. With the night drawing in, he lost his way once or twice and had to cut through some narrow alleys and rutted passageways until he came upon a street he recognised. Though he felt safe enough, he nevertheless loosened his dagger in its sheath, and held his bow in both hands. Most of the citizens of Harfleur were tolerant of their English overlords, but some were still bitter about the siege, and others were poor and hungry enough to have become desperate. At last he found a broad, open street that ran down to the market square. It was lit by torches at irregular intervals, and one or two of the houses had armed retainers lounging on the doorstep.

  One house he knew straightway: it was the house of the Ralphs.

  There were lights at the windows, and two stone statues of lions on the front step. He stopped and looked up at the first floor with its ornate carvings flanking the windows, and elaborate beam-work and white plaster finish. Even the shutters were finely crafted and painted, and through the glass of one window he could see shadows moving, and hear the faint sound of music. Above the massive, iron studded door he could see, set into the lintel the dragon crest of Wales.

  ‘Another world,’ he said to himself, and moved on.

  On the fourth day after his return to Harfleur, James decided to go and see the Earl once more, or at least confront his secretary. But when he arrived at the earl’s house, he was told very firmly by the sergeant at the door that the earl was away on a foray towards Rouen, and not likely to be back until the following day.

  He decided to return to his lodgings. As he rounded the corner of the street that led directly to his lodgings he saw a cloaked figure go up to the apothecary’s door and knock hard. By the time James had crossed the open place, the door had been opened, and the stranger was talking to Emma-Jeanne and Simon.

  The apothecary looked up as James approached, and beckoned him forward. ‘James!’ he called. ‘Come quickly. It’s news from England.’

  James hurried forward, and as he did so, the stranger turned.

  ‘Eric!’

  'It is you, James! God be praised! I am at the right house.’ The man at arms threw back his cloak and saluted his old friend with a clap on the shoulder and a vigorous shake of the hand.

  Once they were all inside and seated about the fire, Simon’s wife hurried off to pre
pare the evening meal, and her daughters slowly followed.

  'What brings you here, Eric?’ asked James.

  ‘Heavy news, old friend.’ He reached into his tunic and took out a folded letter. There was no seal. ‘It’s from your brother Simon,’ he said.

  ‘I was on my way to Southampton to sign an indenture for one of old John Cornwall’s captains, and thought I’d turn by your place at Chiswick.’

  ‘And . . .?’

  ‘Ye’d better read, James. Here it is.’ He held it out.

  'Read! I can’t read man! The priest taught my brother, but none else in my family, or most of the village. What does it say?’

  Eric sighed and frowned. ‘It says your Hettie is ill, and sick with the fever.’

  James snatched the letter and stared at it. ‘What does it say?’

  Simon leant forward. ‘Here! I can read a little.’ He took the letter. ‘Ah, it’s in Latin. I thought it might be in the English, but it’s in Latin.’

  ‘Yes, but how reads it?’

  ‘Wait now, let me see.’ He peered at it. ‘Aye, your wife is sick right enough. Took a fever a fortnight past at Saint Perpetua. A sweating sickness. She is very low.’

  James stood up. ‘I’m away home!’

  Eric caught up with him on the other side of the market square. ‘Ho! James, wait on now! Ye can’t go rushing off into the night. Ye’ve nothing but your bow, and arrow bag.’

  James kept striding along, snatching his cloak about him. ‘I’ve enough,’ he said. ‘I’ll get down to the port, and take passage with the first boat that’ll take me.’

  ‘You can’t, James! You have neither indenture nor pass. You’re the Earl’s man, and bound to him until he signs your release.’

  James didn’t reply. He skirted a vinter’s cart, bumped into a couple of arguing sailors, and headed away down towards the port. Unwilling to leave him, Eric kept up with him, but held his peace. It was not until they had reached the quayside and were about to board a cog that was loading grain, that Eric spoke again.

  ‘It won’t work James. You’re an archer, it’s as clear as day. The captain will want to see your pass.’

  James shrugged. ‘I’m a free man,’ he said. ‘I go where I please.’ He strode up the gangplank, dropped down onto the deck and hailed one of the crew. Moments later the captain came. He was thickset, grey-bearded and balding with a hook nose and sharp eyes. ‘What’s this then?’ he said.

  ‘I’m bound for England. I need passage,’ replied James.

  ‘Oh, do ye, now! And where’s yer silver, and where’s yer pass?’

  James frowned. ‘I’ve silver enough for twice the crossing, if ye’ll take my word as my pass.’

  The captain gave James a long hard look. ‘You’re in the service of Sir Thomas Beaufort?’

  ‘I am, but he has promised me release this very week.’

  ‘Then ye must wait.’

  'I cannot.’

  ‘Hah! Cannot, or will not?’

  ‘I cannot. My wife lies ill, and I am away home.’

  Again the captain looked at James. ‘Well that’s as maybe, but ye won’t be away home on this ship. I’ll nay lose my licence because I gave passage to a man who has no pass.’ He put his fingers to his lips and gave a high-pitched whistle. As if from nowhere, three men-at-arms and a crossbowman appeared on the quayside. They were wearing the livery of the Earl of Dorset.

  'I told ye,’ muttered Eric, putting his hand on James’ shoulder. ‘I told ye!’

  Moments later the soldiers were on the ship’s deck, and James was under arrest.

  The following day, early in the afternoon, James was brought before Sir Thomas. The Earl was not in a good mood. He had returned to Harfleur that morning from a fruitless patrol, and had only just got off his horse when he heard the news.

  ‘I will not brook desertion!’ he roared, thumping the table in front of him, so that the clerk jumped and scattered the papers and ink. ‘It is the stuff of treason, and poison to any army.’ He waited for the clerk to gather himself and the papers. ‘My lord king hangs runaways, and so should I.’

  He glared at James who stood on the other side of the table between two guards. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’ James knew the measure and reputation of this warlord. He knew he would have to choose his words carefully.

  ‘My lord, I came to claim what you had granted me earlier. I came, but you were not there.’

  ‘Then you should have waited.’

  ‘I did my lord, but you were late.’

  ‘What!’ roared the Earl again.

  ‘Delayed my lord, you were delayed.’

  Sitting back, the Earl raised his eyes to the ceiling: ‘St George’s Teeth!’ he sighed. ‘Where did we get this fellow?’

  He looked over to where Captain William Bretoun was standing:

  ‘He’s one of yours is he not, captain?’

  ‘I count him a friend, my lord. He’s a good man. He fought at Agincourt and . . .’

  ‘What now! Has this vagabond got an advocate, that you should speak for him? Are you here to explain his crime? Come captain! Explain his innocence. Play the part!’

  ‘I cannot my lord.’

  ‘Hmmph! Just so.’

  ‘Except to say . . .’

  ‘What? Eh?’

  'Except to say his wife lies gravely ill in England, and he would see her. As you would yours, my lord, if God forbid she . . .’

  'Ye gods! What’s this you say? Am I now on trial here?’

  The room fell silent.

  Sir Thomas scowled down at the list of charges on the parchment before him, and then stared around the room.

  ‘This man broke the law,’ he said. ‘To break the law is to invite punishment. To be apprehended is to suffer it.’ Picking up the parchment he stabbed at it with his finger. ‘Men swing for this.’

  ‘And good men are excused.’

  The Earl looked up.

  It was Bartholomew Ralph. He was standing, cap in hand, just to one side of James and his escort.

  'Ah, Ralph!’ said the Earl. ‘What the devil do you want?’

  ‘Your good offices, Sir Thomas.’

  The Earl raised a quizzical eyebrow, so the young merchant went on:

  ‘I have come to make two pleas, my lord.’

  ‘Say on, master Ralph, but make it brief. As you see, I have business at this present.’

  Bartholomew bowed. ‘Thank you sire. The first plea I have written down and left with your clerk. It is that you give me leave to ship wool to Harfleur from Southampton, and then onto the staple at Calais, and to receive cloth from Bruges under the same licence.’

  ‘And the fee payable to . . .’ Sir Thomas looked interested.

  ‘To yourself, Sir Thomas, as agent of the king, and protector of Harfleur.’

  'Ah, . . .I see.’ The old knight scratched his beard. ‘And the guilds approve?’

  ‘They encourage, my lord.’

  ‘Do they, indeed?’ He glanced at his clerk who nodded, and with a slight smile lowered his head to his work once more.

  ‘Well, then! Let the licence be drawn up, and the fee set, approved and sealed by the king’s writ. So be it. Now away with you, master merchant, I am set to finish other matters.’

  ‘But Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Yes! Yes! What is it man?’

  ‘My second plea, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘What, ah yes, confound it! Second plea. Well say on, what is it? A licence to sell Gloucester cheese in Rouen market?’ He laughed at his own joke.

  ‘No, my lord. It is a plea for this man to enter my service on your behalf.’ Bartholomew saw the look on the Earl’s face and went quickly on: ‘I propose to pay for his release from your service forthwith, and contract the same to myself, as your agent. That is to say, he will carry your seal on my licence to Southampton to be endorsed by the king’s commissioners and then returned.’ He stood back and waited.

  The Earl frowned, paused, got slowly to his feet a
nd then broke into a broad grin:

  ‘By the mass, master merchant! I see now why you have the finest house in town. You snatch a man from the gallows, make him servant to his judge, and walk away whistling “ profit me”!’ He burst out laughing, and the room gratefully followed suit. ‘I have lost my taste for hanging. And you here have whetted my appetite for commerce. Away with this knave then, and set him to your purpose. But I’ll want that licence returned within the quarter by himself or his sworn proxy.’

  ‘It will be done, my lord.’ Bartholomew bowed, turned and swept the stunned James from the room before the Earl could change his mind.

  When they got out into the street, James began to thank the merchant. Bartholomew waved it away with a smile: ‘Think nothing of it, my friend. It was an opportunity, nothing more. Besides, I was able to pay back in some slight way the debt I owe you. ‘

  ‘There is no debt,’ replied James, ‘Save the one I owe you now.’

  With a laugh, Bartholomew rested his hands on James’ shoulders. ‘Let us agree now to thank each other no more! Greta and I are happy to be wed, and you are doubtless happy to be away home. Your good friend Eric told me all.’

  ‘Eric!’

  ‘Aye, he sought me out this morning. Simon the apothecary told him where to find me, and he came early at the third hour, bold as brass and knocking on my door.’

  James nodded. ‘That sounds like Eric.’

  They walked together to the Montvilliers guard house, picked up James’ bow and arrow bag, then returned to the Earl’s chambers to sign the release of indenture. The clerk, with a dismissive glance, told them to return in the morning for the licence. At first James was irritated by the delay, but the young merchant reassured him:

  ‘There’s no cog leaving Harfleur until the morrow,’ he said. ‘The noon tide is your best bet. I have booked you a passage on the Princess Jane of Rye. She carries wool for me, and her master runs a tight ship. . . No, don’t thank me, we have an agreement on that!’

  ‘Then,’ replied James, ‘You can sell my horse, give half of any silver to Yevan ap Griffiths of Captain William’s company, and keep the rest for yourself.’