The Bow

by Bill Sharrock

  ‘That’s a ready commission!’ laughed Bartholomew, ‘but there’s no profit in it for you.’

  ‘My friends are my profit,’ said James, and he clapped the merchant on the shoulder.

  Back at the apothecary’s, Simon pressed a wallet into his hand. ‘Here!’ he said. ‘It’s not much, but it’s what I always use for the fever: fennel, moss and red onion seeds. Boil it up with onion and lentils, and serve it hot. Forget the planets, and whose moon you were born under. And don’t go buying thrice blessed charms from pedlar or priest: useless!’

  James thanked him.

  The moon was out again that night, and clear, riding against a few wisps of drifting clouds. James stood on the doorstep of the apothecary’s house and looked up at it. Tomorrow, if that breeze held, he would leave on the noon tide and make good passage to Southampton. He heard a sound behind him, and turned. It was Emma-Jeanne, come to bolt and bar the doors for the night.

  He smiled and stepped back. ‘All yours,’ he said. As she struggled for a moment to slip home the centre bolt, he reached out and held her hand for a moment, then slid the bolt himself.

  ‘That’s no work for thee,’ he said. ‘Your master should be doing that.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, ‘But thank you.’ She smoothed her skirt, brushed her hair back and then ducked away. ‘I’ll miss you, master James,’ she called out as she hurried back into the kitchen.

  In the morning, James was out of the house and away down to the port before dawn. He had said all his farewells the night before, and was keen to pick up his passport and be on board the Princess Jane with his gear stowed before the second quarter of the day.

  The Earl’s clerk, late to his desk after an evening of cheap Gascon wine, scrabbled sleepily among some requisition forms, and at last found the pass-port. It had been signed by Sir Thomas, and carried Dorset’s seal. James took it from the clerk’s trembling hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Hummph! Don’t thank me, thank your lucky stars.’ The clerk belched and put his hand top his head. ‘And the Earl, thank him. Now go. I have work to do.’

  James stood his ground. ‘My pay,’ he said. ‘I am owed for the remainder of a quarter at six pennies a day.’

  ‘Six pennies, be damned!’ replied the clerk, returning to his work. ‘You were not marching with the army, nor in camp at its service. Here!’ He held out a small bag of coins. ‘Two pennies a day, in service like as to a Welsh spearman. You’ll take that, or nothing at all.’

  Knocking the bag from his hand, James hauled the clerk to his feet, half dragging him across the table. ‘You’ll give me what I’m due, master scribbler, or I’ll wring blood from that sack-blown nose of yours.’

  Before the clerk could reply, or wriggle free, the door opened and a knight stepped in, his tall angular figure seeming to fill the room. It was Robert Babthorpe. He was keeper of the King’s household, across from England on a brief visit to inspect the Earl’s chancellery. ‘Ho, sirrah! What’s this?’ he cried, pulling the two men apart. ‘Say on, archer! What is happening here?’

  James explained while the knight listened. The clerk stood to one side, glowering, and rubbing his neck. When James had finished, Sir Robert called for the accounts. The moment they came he opened them, found a page, and ran his finger down the column. He stopped. ‘Hah! Here it is see. James Fletcher of Chiswick, indentured this day of January for a three month. It was given at Southampton where the first payment was made by monies provided by the king’s lieutenant.’ He closed the book slowly. ‘And not yet paid in full, with more than the contracted sum still to come I’ll warrant. From what I hear there’s further service and reward beyond his indenture with my lord of Dorset. What say you master clerk?’

  The clerk grunted, and gave a slight bow. ‘I will attend to it,’ he said.

  ‘Aye, you will,’ said the knight. ‘And if I were you I’d add the six days journey time this man will need to get home.’ He caught the clerk’s irritated frown and laughed. ‘Or would you rather that I told my lord the king that his faithful archers were now being cheated by two-penny priests?’

  The clerk hurried away to find the records clerk, and bring back what was due.

  ‘My lord . . .’ began James.

  ‘Pah!’ Sir Robert waved his hand with a cheerful grin. ‘Think nothing of it man. Glad to help. These book keepers, they’re not rogues, but they are too careful with their master’s money.’ He picked up a document at random and scanned it. ‘The more especially since that money comes straight from the king’s exchequer.’ He put the paper down. ‘You are bound for England then?’

  James nodded. ‘I sail on the noon tide, my lord.’

  ‘Well then, let’s make sure ye sail with a full purse, and a fair wind for fellowship.’

  With his wallet heavy against his hip, and his belly warm with honey mead and fresh baked bread from the Earl’s own kitchen, James swung away down the lane that led to the main dockside. The streets were crowded already, and the smell of salted fish and sea tackle hung in the dusty air. He was on his way home, at last!

  With just a hundred paces to go before he reached the quayside, he came upon a group of Gascon spearmen lounging outside a tavern. They looked up when they saw him coming, and waved a greeting. He waved back, and went to pass them by. One of them stepped forward, and took him by the arm:

  ‘A moment, friend. Will you not stop and share a drink with fellow soldiers?’

  James smiled, shook his head, and shrugged the arm off. ‘I’m away to the port,’ he said.

  The Gasconer frowned. ‘You insult me then.’

  ‘I insult no one,’ replied James, and he began to move away.

  ‘You insult me!’ repeated the Gasconer, raising his voice.

  There was a shout from the other spearmen and they began to gather, closing in on James. He saw a fist, and a glint of steel.

  Pushing the first Gasconer back, he drew his sword and retreated across the street which suddenly seemed empty of everyone but the spearmen.

  They began to taunt him, calling out and laughing as he came against a door barred shut, and began to hammer on it. He turned to face them, but they knocked the sword out of his hand, and in an instant were upon him, throwing him to the ground, and kicking him about the ribs and back.

  Rolling over, he tried to get to his feet, but took a blow in the stomach, and fell back against the door. Again he saw the glint of steel and threw his hands up, as they came at him again. The knife struck him on the chest, but caught against the lining of his jack and was turned. He tried to grab it, but someone’s fist caught him on the jaw sending him reeling.

  His eyes began to mist, and he felt himself sinking. He was dimly aware of voices shouting, and a hand at his shoulder. Someone threw water over his head. It ran down the back of his neck making him blink and sit up. The light was far brighter than he had remembered. People were looking down at him, talking quietly to each other, but he couldn’t recognize them. They were shadows against the light. He closed his eyes again, felt more water splash across his face. They were trying to lift him to his feet. Reaching out, he felt the wall and pushed himself up. There was a pounding in his ears, but it was fading already, and he began to see clearly. Suddenly he felt cold, and began to shiver violently. A cloak was put around his shoulders. He looked up:

  ‘Dickon! Dickon of Chester!’

  Dickon laughed. ‘Aye, well, close enough for a southerner who has just had the sense knocked out of him. How are ye lad?’

  ‘A little sore . . .but all right, thanks to ye.’ James looked around. Three Gascon spearmen were lying sprawled in the street. The others had gone.

  'They nearly did for me, Dickon.’

  The Nantwich bowman smiled. ‘You were in a bit of a pickle all right. We come round the corner – Martin, Andrew and meself – and there you are all backed up against that wall, and fighting like ye are blind drunk.’

  James nodded. ‘I’m obliged to ye.’


  'Hah! Man, it was nothing. They scattered like sheep. These three here fell over in the rush, that’s all.’ He laughed, and gestured to the other archers. ‘Come on lads, let’s get this poor creature down to his boat before there’s any more trouble.’

  They picked up James’ bow and kit, threw a coin to a small boy to get him to run to the guard-house at the Rouen gate , and set off to find the Princess of Rye. At first they had to hold up James between them, but by the time they arrived at the gangplank to the cog, he was feeling strong enough to walk on his own. They found the master of ‘The Princess’ stowing the last of the cargo. He was a dour , beetle browed Sussex sailor, who stood with his hands on his hips, but lowered his head as he spoke, muttering into his beard:

  ‘Aye, ah, well, it’s another archer for home, I see. Ye don’t look too sharp, sirrah. Haven’t got the flux, ‘ave ye? Can’t have that aboard my vessel. Had enough of that last year.’ He smacked his fist into his palm. ‘You lot turned this here cog into a regular spital. A shambles it was, more like. Was a wonder all my crew didn’t come down with the plague.’ He peered up at James, from beneath his brows. ‘So how are ye son? Are ye fit an’ well?’

  ‘James nodded. ‘I had a brush with some Gascons on the way here, that’s all. They spied my wallet.’

  The shipmaster grunted. ‘Aye, like as not they did. I see ye have your wallet and your brains, so ye made safe haven, and that’s all that matters.’

  He checked James’ documents, and took half-payment for the voyage. ‘Over there!’ he said, pointing at the fo’castle. ‘Stow your gear over there. We leave on the noon tide, and we don’t wait for stragglers.’

  A short while later, James sat down in the sun with his back against the gunwale of the fo’castle. With the other bowmen gone back into town, Dickon came and sat beside him. They watched the crew at work, listened to the seagulls calling and wheeling above their heads, and felt the warmth of the day against their faces.

  ‘Can’t think how you came upon me,’ said James.

  ‘We was looking for ye, yer lumpkin!’ replied Dickon. ‘My brother John told me where you were.’

  ‘You’ve seen him, then!’

  Dickon grinned. ‘Aye, I have, and it was me that spoke first. Frightened the life out of the both of us.’

  ‘That was well done.’

  ‘Maybe so, maybe so.’ Dickon watched as two sailors wrestled with a bale of cloth swung on board by block and tackle. ‘It’s peaceable now, John and I. Said our piece, cleared decks. Shook hands we did. Like real brothers.’ He paused. ‘It’s then he tells me you’re away to the docks to England, signing off with the Earl on the way.’

  ‘You came to see me off?’

  ‘We came to see ye right. An archer with full pay and bonuses in his wallet is a target for any rogue.’

  James sat up and eased his back against the gunwale. ‘So how could these Gascons have known?’

  Dickon laughed: ‘How could they not have guessed?’

  James gazed blankly at him, so Dickon went on:

  ‘English archer, talk of the town, paid off handsomely by our lord of Dorset, and sent on his way, on his very own this very day, unescorted through the streets of Harfleur . . .’

  ‘All right, all right,’ James held up his hand. ‘You don’t have to go on. I see your drift.’ He sighed. ‘Well, thanks to you and your mates I’m in one piece.’

  ‘And thanks to you and your mates, I still have a brother.’

  He paused. ‘Hey, up! Here’s someone we know.’ He stood. James lifted himself up and looked. Eric and Ralf were coming down the street to the port. They were hurrying with quarter staves in their hands.

  The two men waved and came aboard, elbowing aside a sailor who tried to stop them.

  ‘At last!’ said Eric. ‘Found you at last! Got lost down these rat trap alleys and ended up at the wrong dock.’ He slapped James on the shoulder. ‘Thought you might need a hand.’

  James grinned. ‘You thought right, but Dickon here, and his friends baled me out.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Gasconers. Drawn to my wallet.’

  Eric spat at his feet. ‘Gasconers! They fight like fury, and there’s none better in a battle line, but give them a sniff of liquor . . .’

  'Aye, I know, but it’s all over now, and no harm done.’ James rubbed his jaw. ‘Just a few bruises.’

  ‘You and your bruises!’ laughed Eric. Then he turned to Ralf. ‘Here lad, show James!’ The younger archer came forward, reaching inside his tunic. He took out a waxed cloth parcel and handed it over. ‘It’s for ye,’ he said. ‘From Emma Jeanne. A special infusion if the first does not work.’

  James took it, and held it to his nose. ‘Saffron!’ he said.

  ‘Aye, saffron, and more besides. From the apothecary’s best supply. For princes, lords and men of great means. None but the best.’

  ‘Stolen?’

  ‘Borrowed in hope,’ smiled Eric. ‘Spirited away by a girl who should know better, but thinks with her heart and not her head.’

  James hesitated, and shook his head, so Eric went on: ‘Ye know she’s caught young Yevan’s eye. They’re away walking in the meadow now.’ He paused. ‘He says to say goodbye, and that ye’ll be back before ye know it.’

  James frowned. ‘I cannot take this.’ He went to hand the package back, but the man-at-arms stayed his arm:

  ‘You’ll take it, and you’ll take it in the way it was took,’ Eric said quietly. ‘The lass did it for ye and yer wife. She did it for good reason.’ He nodded reassuringly and went on: ‘Simon won’t miss it, and even if he did, a moment’s thought would tell him it was the right thing. Only his wife would dither.’

  James stared hard at the packet, then looked at Dickon who winked and nodded:

  ‘Take it lad. If the fever’s got a grip, you’ll thank the day that poor girl took it into her head to help ye.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘Ye will. There’s no law in Cheshire, says a man can’t do all he aught to save a loved one.’

  James gripped the wallet, and looked down at it. ‘All right,’ he said, and thrust it inside his tunic. ‘Tell Emma Jeanne I’m obliged to her.’

  The Princess Jane of Rye sailed on the noon tide. There were more than was usual to see her off. Apart from the expected customs officials,victuallers, port guards, dockworkers and waggoners, there was a small gathering of silent well wishers. Ralf and Eric were there, along with Dickon and the other two Cheshire bowmen. William Bretoun had also come at the last moment, just as the fore’ard rope was being cast off. He stood on the quayside near the bow, and called up to James as the cog swung clear of the dock: ‘Ware James! For ye, James of Chiswick, for ye!’ Then he tossed a package onto the deck. James opened it. It was a gold chain.

  ‘A gift for your wife and child!’ he called. ‘From Agincourt!’

  James waved back. ‘How can I repay you?’

  ‘Remember me!’ The captain of archers turned and was gone, disappearing among the ever-changing furniture of the dockside.

  At the very last, just as James was about to look to his stowage and berth, he caught sight of Bartholomew Ralph and his Greta standing quietly to one side in the shadow of an eaved doorway.

  He shouted and waved. Even at that distance, he saw them smile, glance at one another and then as if in perfect unison bow in his direction. A four-wheeled cart drawn by three horses pulled up between them and the quayside so that they were lost to view. The breeze picked up, the cog dipped its bow to the channel, and Harfleur was swallowed by the tightening sail.

  James leaned against the deckrail. ‘Home!’ he said, and turned his face towards the sea.

  Landfall and the Road Home

  James stood on the harbourside in the early dawn, at Lymington and sighed. It was landfall, and it was England. With that he would have to be content. A sudden squall had blown them off course in the Solent and they had been driven west of Southampton, despite the curses of the captain
and the efforts of the crew. Lymington had saved them from a broken back and a lost cargo somewhere along the Wessex coast. Its deep, wide reach had welcomed them in, and they moored gratefully among the fishingboats and wherries of the little port.

  The harbourmaster, grinning from ear to ear, hailed them from the shore, and sent two lads in a dinghy to claim the mooring toll, and tell them when they could disembark. The captain swore and spat, but knew that he could do no more than wait for a good tide, a favourable breeze, and a commissioned pilot who could guide them through the shoals to Southampton.

  James had decided not to wait. He paid off his passage, collected his gear, and taking up his bow, left the ship and took the dinghy back to shore. So now he was stood on the harbourside, with a day’s journey ahead of him, and nowhere to buy a horse.

  Stopping for a meal at a tavern, he set off along the road that wound beside the estuary. Soon he was headed east towards the New Forest and Southampton. Once there, he would be able to deliver the licence to the king’s commissioners, see it endorsed, and arrange for a woolbroker’s agent to deliver it back to Harfleur.

  Towards the forenoon hour the following day he caught up with a convoy of licensed victuallers, escorted by ten mounted archers. They were bound for the king’s ships at Southampton, but one of the wagons had mired in a ditch. After the usual muttered greetings, James put his shoulder to the wheel and a while later the wagon came free. With a nod to the sergeant, James slung his gear up onto the wagon and scrambled after it. Settling in among the sacks of grain and beans he was soon fast asleep, undisturbed by the bumping and crashing of the wheels as the carts made their way along the forest track.

  He woke up in Southampton. A grimy, scrap-capped purveyor was looking down at him. ‘What’s this then? A rat in my grain store? Hey there, lad! Let’s be ‘aving ye out of there! We’ve work to do, and the tide is on the turn.’

  Climbing wearily out of the wagon, James took his kit, shouldered his bow and shambled away through the port looking for the commissioners.