The Bow

by Bill Sharrock

  His horse was sheltered in an old lean-to behind the bothy, feeding on a bag of oats he had bought for it at the blacksmith’s.

  Dawn came bright and clear. There was no mist. Everything sparkled. Hungry and tired, he took to the road for what he hoped was the last time.

  And so he came to Hounslow Heath, with the last wisps of cloud scudding away to the east, and a good strong sun across his back. The heavy rain had made the going slow, but the track was drying out all the time, and where the way was sandy the old grey mare was able to pick up its hooves into a gentle trot. Every so often he stood in the stirrups, looking for a glimpse of the Thames, but as yet he had not sighted it.

  Then suddenly. Over a low rise in the heath came a party of men and women. There were children among them too. They were carrying sticks and staves, and everyone of them seemed to have some kind of ragged bundle, strapped to their back, or held across their chest.

  When they saw him, they cried out and hurried towards him. It was a beggar band. There were about a hundred of them.

  He reined in, and slipped from his horse. Quickly he uncovered his bow, and strung it. The beggars were blocking his way ahead, and the heathland was too heavy with water to allow him to skirt around. The grey mare would flounder and they would run her down. Some kind of madness prevented him from turning and galloping back down the road to Bracknell, so instead he stayed to face them.

  'Easy lass!’ he said, rubbing her neck. ‘We’ve a small hold up here, then we are on our way.’

  He waited while the beggars came up to him. They stopped about ten paces away when they saw the bow, chattering and pointing, and grimacing at him. One of them called out:

  ‘We have not come to rob, but to beg a mercy!’

  'A mercy?’ His voice shook. They knew he was afraid.

  ‘Aye, show us what ye have, and we will take what we need.’ They all laughed and began to inch forward.

  ‘That’s neither mercy, nor is it according to my taste,’ he replied, unable to keep from trembling. He bent his bow, and looked towards the tallest of the figures, a lean, bearded man in a long embroidered cloak. ‘I see ye have an Abraham man.’

  ‘He is our king!’ they chorused.

  ‘Then today if I die, I shall know I killed a king.’

  He loosed an arrow which drove to the fletchings an inch before the beggar king’s boot, then nocked another before anyone could react. The beggar king blanched and held up his hand:

  ‘You would kill me?’

  ‘I would go home.’

  ‘If you kill me they will tear you to pieces. If you give me your wallet, they will let you go home.’

  James began to draw the bow. ‘There’s more of France in this wallet, than ye will ever know. I did not bring it back to throw it in the mud.’

  The beggar king sighed. ‘Then either way you will die now, here on Hounslow Heath. Show him, Swinehart!’

  There was a stir, and a man stepped out from among the beggars. He had a crossbow, and it was levelled.

  The bolt struck James full in the chest, smashing through his quilted jack and hurling him to the ground. The beggars gave a shout and rushed forward, the children at their head, with daggers drawn. But Swinehart stepped between them, his crossbow hanging at his belt, and an upraised mallet in his hand:

  ‘Hold! Hold, ye dogs! This is a king’s deer! Ye’ll wait or I’ll dent a few noggins, see if I don’t!’

  The beggars fell back muttering. Their king came and stood over James where he lay sprawled in the heather. Swinehart stepped to one side: ‘I hit him clean, sire. No chance he had, even with that bow of his.’

  The beggar king nodded, and leaning over reached for James’ wallet which was strapped to his hip. Suddenly, he started back, but as he did so, his wrist was grasped, and a ballock knife flashed towards his throat. It rested there, trembling. He froze. The beggars gasped. The bowman Swinehart had just slain so easily had come back to life.

  James got unsteadily to his feet, the crossbow bolt still protruding from his chest, and the ballock knife he held at point-touch on the beggar king’s throat. He was breathing hard and painfully.

  ‘One inch move from of any of ye,’ he said, ‘And I’ll spit him apple to neck bone.’

  The beggar king risked a half-smile. ‘Ye must have an angel on yer shoulder, sonny. That bolt should have finished you.’

  James didn’t reply. The pain in his chest was growing, and it was becoming difficult to breath. His vision was failing, and his head was thumping. He sensed that the beggars knew he was weakening and would bide their time until he could no longer stand. Then they would attack. But for the time being they kept their distance, content to wait and watch. They fell silent, as did their leader and only the children grew restless, sniggering and laughing, and pushing at each other.

  It seemed that hours must have passed, but it was surely only minutes. Almost dizzy now with pain, James began to sway on his feet. Soon it would be over. He couldn’t stand for much longer. Then as hope faded he heard a faint sound, familiar and yet out of place: the sound of drumming hoofbeats. The ground began to shake as at Agincourt and Valmont. There were shadows rising out of the heathland ahead of him. Horsemen. A score or more of horsemen. Then a trumpet sounded a call to arms. His head seemed to clear. The beggar folk began to melt away, one by one, and then in groups: men, women and children, scuttling this way and that, then disappearing into the heather, hoods pulled low and backs bent. Not all fled. Some stood their ground, snarling, flails and sticks raised.

  The horsemen drew closer. There were cries now, and sword blades rising and falling. Only Swinehart held his ground, staying with his king. He unhooked the crossbow, put his foot in the stirrup and drew back the cord. Just as he nocked a bolt, a sword blade struck him across the shoulder and knocked him down. He fell without a sound and lay still.

  Horses everywhere: rearing, skittering and striking out - the grey mare fled. The sound of men calling, soldiers’ voices.

  James and the beggar-king stood in the midst while horses swirled about them. At last the noise and confusion died away. While some of the soldiers chased the beggars across the heath, others stayed and gathered around the two men. A burly sergeant came forward, bound the beggar-king’s hands and led him away. Then one knight walked his horse forward, raising the visor of his bascinet as he did so. His dark, lean features were accentuated by a clipped, black moustache. He frowned, smiled, then greeted James:

  ‘Hollo! If it’s not the archer of my lord Thomas of Dorset! Hollo! Home to England from Harfleur, and here we meet! Well met, sirrah!’

  James blinked. He stared. ‘Sir Robert?’

  Sir Robert Babthorpe laughed: ‘Aye! Aye! It is! What a meeting is this, then? You here in the middle of Hounslow Heath, and we just happen upon ye!’ He looked about him: ‘And what company ye keep, my lad! Faith, but ye play a dangerous game.’

  Suddenly, James felt the need to sit down. He reached up and touched the fletchings of the bolt where it had penetrated his jack. ‘My lord,’ he said, and staggered.

  When he woke, a group of knights were standing over him, talking and nodding. He was in a barn. It smelt warm and musty. Sitting up, he groaned immediately, but noticed that the crossbow bolt had been drawn. His ribs hurt and there was a jagged hole in the quilting of his jack.

  Sir Robert handed him something warm to drink.

  ‘Here! Take this. It’ll mend you good as anything.’

  James drank and nodded his thanks.

  ‘Hah!’ the knight went on. ‘T’is nothing. Happened by, that’s all. Hot foot from France just two days ago. Off on a commission of array for our lord the king, we were: a ‘garde de la mer’. Got diverted by a local sheriff near Feltham. Sent us off to chase this beggar army, the one you bumped into. Rogues! They threw a bailiff down a well, ye know, and burnt three ricks at Whitton!’ He stopped and knelt down by James. ‘That bolt! Should’ve cut ye in two!’

  ‘I thought it had.’


  Sir Robert Babthorpe chuckled. ‘Caught on your passport, that’s what it did, as well as a wallet stuffed with herbs and a golden chain.’ He stood up. ‘Smacked your ribs though.Ye won’t be breathing too deep for a while, that’s for sure. Surgeon thinks ye’ve cracked one. He’ll bind ye up later, and my men here will get ye back on that horse of yours.’

  ‘I’m obliged, Sir Robert.’

  ‘Obliged are ye? Obliged!’ He laughed. ‘If ye were obliged, my brave lad, ye’d be signing up now for another season’s fighting in the fields of France.’

  James opened his mouth to reply, but the knight held up his hand:

  ‘Nay, lad! Rest easy! I’m not Sir Thomas Beaufort, and I know your heart on this. Half of Harfleur does! He smiled and turned away. As he was leaving the barn, he paused and called over his shoulder: ‘The king is raising troops for a campaign against Rouen. If there’s any in Chiswick with a mind to follow his banner tell them to make haste for Portsmouth before the month is out.’

  James sat back against a stook of hay. ‘I will, Sir Robert, and thank ye again.’

  One day later, two hours after sun rise, James came wearily to Chiswick. His rib had proved too painful to ride more than a few miles at a time, and he had decided to wait back on the edge of the heath and travel in as far as Isleworth with a wandering company of tinkers, minstrels and market folk. They farewelled him by the market cross, and he set off along the river bank until he caught sight of the bend in the stream that would bring him to Chiswick village.

  But as he neared the ferry and low-tide ford that lay just beyond Kew he saw something that made his heart sink: it was a funeral procession.

  They came out of the morning mist, stooped, huddled, black against the shrouded river. A priest walked at their head, clutching a wooden cross, then came a cart pulled by a pair of oxen, and on the cart a coffin. Behind in a shuffling, ragged line he could see the mourners. There were not many of them, perhaps no more than a two dozen. They walked slowly. There was no sound of bells, or crying, or practised grief: they just came on steadily towards him.

  He reined in his horse, and climbed from the saddle. There was nothing to do but wait. As it neared him, the procession began to break up into shapes and faces he knew: village folk old and young, but mostly old. Still, there were children there, with their parents, and in among them the miller and his wife. All at once he saw Simon, and he knew in a rush that he should have made a prayer at that wayside shrine.

  Some twenty paces from where he waited, Simon looked up and saw him:

  ‘Little brother!’ He stepped out of the procession, hurried forward and took James by the shoulders. ‘You’ve come!’

  James nodded and stared at the coffin as it rattled past.

  ‘Ah!’ Simon’s face clouded. ‘Not Hettie!’ he said. ‘It’s not Hettie!’

  He tried to explain who it was, but James heard nothing more than the two words he kept repeating in his head: ‘Not Hettie!’

  His brother was still talking as the cortege finally passed by, leaving the road to two boys and a dog chasing a stick.

  ‘James!’ he said. ‘James! Let’s be away home. Come on now!’

  ‘But . . .’ James gestured towards the retreating coffin.

  ‘Pah! And so, ye sop! Say what ye think for once, and do what ye mind! There’s enough folk there to bury the old hayward. We’re away to yer Hettie!’

  They began to walk, Simon taking the grey mare when he saw that James’ shoulder pained him.

  ‘Is she . . .’ began James.

  ‘Poorly? Aye, she’s poorly, but not like she was a few days ago. She began to pick up two days ago. Just sudden like. Nothing the wisewoman gave here. Just happened.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘Aye! But she’s a way to go, has poor Hettie. And she’s the bairn to carry. Mistress Jane the midwife says she doesn’t know if she’ll hold it.’

  They reached the great south field and crossed it by the London milestone, heading towards the church tower just showing between the two old oaks that bordered the glebe. A ploughman looked up and waved, then bent to his plough once more, whistling at the oxen, and urging them on.

  ‘Spring ploughing,’ said Simon. ‘We’re late. Even had the young lads onto it, but they’re pretty much useless. Spend all their time complaining, then slope off into the woods to throw rocks at pigeons.’ He laughed, and led James away from the field and along the narrow path that led to the village. When they reached the green, James saw his house. It had a newly thatched roof, the plaster had been repaired, and someone had re-hung the door. Smoke from a good fire curled above the rooftop.

  ‘Thanks,’ said James.

  ‘For what?’ answered Simon, and he laughed.

  The door was ajar. James pushed it wide, stooped and went in. He saw Hettie at once. She was lying asleep on a raised bed by the fire. Mother Tilly the healer was sitting next to her, teasing apart a handful of fennel, and singing quietly to herself. She glanced up, nodded and smiled:

  ‘She’s a’ peace, master,’ she said. ‘T’aint nothing I did, that’s for sure, but she’s a fighter, and the Good Lord is with her. Come, see!’

  James knelt by the bed. His wife was breathing easily, though she was still pale, and a few beads of sweat stood out on her brow.

  ‘She’s better ye say,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, aye, master. Death was rattling at her door two days past, but he’s wandered off apace now, and I see nought but angels.’

  ‘D’ye now.’ He reached awkwardly into his tunic and brought out the wallet. ‘I’ve a few herbs from Harfleur. The apothecary said they would help.’

  Mother Tilly gave a little frown and took the wallet, ignoring the ragged hole. She sniffed it carefully, then opened it up: ‘Hmm! That’s nay so bad. Two infusions, and one with saffron no less. That’s an apothecary who knows his trade. Rarely done!’ She chuckled and stood up. ‘I’ll boil it up straight way.’ She paused and winked. ‘Oh, aye, master James, there’s nay need to tell me: onions and lentils! Always onions and lentils with fennel and moss when there’s fever about. And here’s fresh fennel, besides!’ She hurried away to her own house just down the street.

  Simon stayed with his brother. They didn’t talk, but just sat by the bed and waited. At last Hettie woke, smiled at James, took his hand and fell asleep once more. Then Mother Tilly returned, this time with the midwife. Armed with a steaming broth, and even more herbs, they shooed the men away, promising James that he could return late in the afternoon.

  ‘Woman’s work!’ said Mistress Jane, as she took a broom and began to brush furiously around bed and fireplace. ‘Away with these men! Away now! There’s a lass here who needs more than glum looks and muddy boots! Away with ye.’

  James stood alongside his brother on the edge of the green, and looked up the road towards Southwark where the bishop held court in his great palace.

  ‘Think she’ll live, brother?’

  ‘I think she will.’

  ‘God be praised.’

  ‘Aye, and if I were you I’d get down to the chapel and burn a candle for the priest.’

  James smiled: ‘I don’t think so brother.’ He turned and walked down towards the river bank and the dean’s meadow. ‘I’m away to look at land,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Tell Mistress Jane I’ll be back directly.’

  Simon watched him go and shook his head. ‘Mad as a tanner’s dog,’ he muttered. ‘Too much bow and too little plough.’ Smiling despite himself, he ran his hand through his greying hair. Tomorrow there was market, and Thursday to the planting. Perhaps his young brother might tear himself away from hearth and home to give him a hand.

  Chiswick Fields

  Five years later, James found a bowstave wrapped in its cover among some wattle staves and hurdles down by Brentford Reach. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. It was his old half-bow. Still good after all these years in the weather. Not cracked, with the slight curve of the jig or branch showing whe
re the grain ran true and well oiled. He could use this bow, train up little William, make him an archer like himself . . .

  ‘Na!’ he said suddenly, and flung the bow back among the rushes. ‘There’s no more of France for me and mine!’

  He turned and walked back along the river bank, and then across the field. The ploughing was done. Tomorrow was the planting. Tomorrow they would all be in the fields. The weather was lifting, the rain had passed, and the land was ripe for sowing. It was good land. Old, well rested, and at peace. At last.

  He breathed deeply. ‘No more to France!’ He would be nought but a farmer now, and his young son too. He had the dean’s meadow, and the land his father had given him. A fine holding, with deep soil and pasture enough for any yeoman.

  This was the place to be: where Old Man Thames curves towards the sea, and where the water is clean enough, and the harvests are strong enough to keep away the fevers and the sickness. Now, at last, there was a time to take his ease and grow fat counting the years among the long summer days. Here he could grow old with his Hettie, and sit in the doorway of a fine new farmhouse, and talk of nothing but Chiswick folk and market days and children at the knee.

  And Hettie would smile, and take him by the arm and nod – and say that this and that were so, and this and that were not. No more. Save the bubbling of onion pottage from over his shoulder, and the smell of mutton shank. And barley. And peas and beans, and lentils too.

  ‘Sa! Hey and sa! Here’s a bowman come home from the wars!’ he called at the top of his voice making the rooks in the elm trees flap and circle. Laughing at himself, he trudged on.

  As the sun dipped over Isleworth, he reached the high side of the field. Hettie and the other women were bringing rushes up from the river bank. He waved and she waved back. Little William was with her. The lad broke away and ran towards his father. He had a long, curved stick in his hand:

  ‘Look, father!’ he said.

  1 The royal indentures for the Agincourt campaign were issued at Westminster on April 29th 1415 for a year, but paid off by December 1415. Dorset’s indenture was separate