The Powder of Death

by Julian Stockwin

  A little powder at the touch-hole and a quick glance to confirm the aim and he stood back.

  ‘As it is written, the gunne will speak, but only at Your Majesty’s express command.’

  Jared took up a candle.

  ‘We should tell it to …?’

  ‘It dare not disobey a sovereign’s command, Sire.’

  ‘Speak, then, O gunne!’ the King responded with boyish glee.

  Jared lowered the candle. With a spiteful crack the gunne gave forth, and through the flash and writhing smoke came a satisfying ping as the pea found its mark.

  The young King fell back in awe, his arm protectively flung up, his eyes wide.

  ‘By God’s bones but what magic is this?’ he spluttered.

  Three men burst into the room, their swords drawn. Looking nervously this way and that, on seeing Jared they flung towards him.

  ‘Stay!’ commanded Edward and turned to Jared, ‘Tell us true, what is this instrument?’

  The wreathing smoke disappeared slowly but the sulphurous reek remained.

  ‘It is a gunne, Sire. That is to say a toy only, not to be set beside those many times the size to be found on the field of battle.’

  ‘A weapon!’

  ‘Sire. You will see how even this contemptible device has made mark on your armour, for which I beg to be excused.’ There was indeed an impression on the breastplate and below it the shattered remains of the pea.

  ‘Seen on the battlefield?’ The awe was rapidly being replaced with a crisp interrogatory.

  ‘Only recently, and in Italy and the Low Countries, Sire.’

  ‘How did it fare?’

  ‘It sowed terror and death equally, My Liege.’

  He paused significantly and added, ‘I believed it my duty to bring these engines before Your Majesty should he desire to be possessed of their force in the Scots war to come.’

  ‘That you can supply?’

  Jared bowed wordlessly and held his breath.

  Edward went to the gunne and stroked its gleaming bronze thoughtfully. ‘Good Master Jared, we’re minded to consider them … but there are difficulties.’

  ‘Sire?’

  ‘While we lead our army, our Lord Mortimer does play the larger part in their supply. We have our own reasons to desire their keeping in my charge.’

  Jared could find no response for this.

  ‘And the other?’ Edward gave a smile that was cynical beyond his years. ‘That we’ve only seen a toy, never a gunne of war. How are we to be assured that such even exist, put aside the question that you can cause their provision as well. Have you any for our inspection? No? Then this is a pretty matter as we must think on.’

  He turned about and paced the room. As he did so Jared couldn’t help noticing his physique – even in youth, tall and muscular, quick and with the confidence of the well favoured. This was a warrior king.

  Edward stopped and folded his arms. ‘Yes. We have an answer to both. In the one, Lord Mortimer is not to be troubled in their acquiring, for the offices of our own Privy Wardrobe will provide both funds and housing for such as we receive. For the other – you stand ready to deliver these gunnes into our hands?’

  ‘In a short while, Your Majesty.’ Jared smothered the alarm that flooded in – where was he going to get hold of any gunnes at all?

  ‘Very well. We offer you a bargain – we move to York this sennight to muster our army. Should you appear with your gunnes and they prove valiant against the foe we shall pay from our Wardrobe what is meet and proper into your hand that same day. Is this pleasing to you, Master Jared?’

  ‘My Liege Lord,’ he said quickly, dropping to his knee and taking the extended hand to kiss it.

  ‘Then we shall see you before the Scottish array?’

  ‘You will, Sire.’

  CHAPTER 98

  Against all the odds he’d done it! The King of England himself! And which was the more gratifying – the order for gunnes, or the knowledge that he’d acquitted himself well in what must be the most terrifying situation he’d ever been in?

  But now the reckoning.

  It was a hard bargain. At no risk to himself Edward had secured the services of gunnes in the upcoming campaign. Jared had hoped that there would be a payment to begin with but this was not to be. At his own cost he had to find gunnes and haul them to the field of battle together with their powder, shot and presumably gunners.

  Then it would be chance alone that determined whether they would be in any position to influence the course of the fight enough to persuade the young King that these were contrivances worth investing in.

  But the prize was worth any pains in the securing, and he would strain every fibre to see it through.

  There was nowhere near the time to find a bell foundry and cast the gunnes, and in any case his discretionary funds didn’t extend to that kind of expenditure. He was left in the intensely frustrating position of winning a princely order but not being able to move on it.

  But there was the guild! He knew that it was slow going for them in Christian Europe but there had been some placements; there must be a small number of gunnes still in existence. He’d throw himself on their mercy.

  Jared couldn’t leave himself but he trusted Daw to go to Ghent and see what was possible. He’d need to journey quickly, for who knew how long it would take for Edward to muster his host.

  In a bare two weeks Jared had a hasty message from Ghent that Farnese and Streuvel between them could get together a number of gunnes, which would be available for immediate shipping. In view of time pressures Daw had taken up their offer and they were on their way to the port of Sandwich.

  The note had not gone into details and Jared was left in suspense as to what kind of pledge Daw had given that had them respond so promptly.

  A later message arrived from Sandwich and desired that he come to take charge of his shipment of gunnes.

  ‘By St Christopher and you’ve done right handsomely, son!’

  Daw had persuasively argued that the value to the guild of a kingly deploying under Jared’s direction was worth the risk of the deferring of full payment until after they’d been seen in action.

  There were six of the three-inch bore bronze cannone and the parts for two ribaudequins, not enough to make a difference in a major engagement but more than adequate to show their worth.

  Daw had also brought with him a substantial amount of the elements of gunne-powder in sealed pottery jars ready for mixing and three gunners who had volunteered to travel with him.

  It was going to happen!

  Exultation rapidly turned to sober calculation. York was two or three hundred miles north: how to transport the dead weight of six gunnes all that way fast enough that they wouldn’t miss the war?

  By sea? Too risky. If the wind blew from the wrong direction or a storm should batter a heavy-laden ship all would be lost. He couldn’t take the chance – it would have to be by land, by wagon.

  But there were problems with this. It would take a huge effort to heave the gunnes on to the wagon and with all the weight up high it would be unstable, ready to roll over as they followed an arduous hillside.

  The answer came to Jared with a recollection from his childhood of the way the big anvil was delivered to the smithy.

  Three of the gunnes were laid out in a line. A wagon was brought up to straddle the pieces. The wheels were removed leaving the body to lie directly over the gunnes. Stout straps were passed around and levering the body up to take its wheels again left the gunnes securely beneath, the weight low and the wagon free to take the gunne-powder elements as well.

  Oxen would be too slow. Therefore it would have to be hauled by horses.

  Almost forgetting, Jared made a last-minute arrangement with the local masons for the final item, dozens of ball-shaped stones of the right size, to be sent after them.

  Before they set off he sent Daw ahead to York to inform the King that his gunnes were on their way, and what to expect.
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br />   They creaked slowly out of town on the London Road. Two wagons, two packhorses and a dozen riders, the gunners in the guise of an escort.

  As dusk drew in they raised Canterbury – only a dozen miles and hundreds to go! They had to do better.

  Next day they were on the road at first light, heading for Rochester, a score or so miles further on. The highway, Watling Street, which was an old Roman road, was level and well made and progress was good – better when Jared had the idea of using their individual mounts to take turns on the wagon hauling.

  Skirting London to the south they crossed the Thames at Richmond.

  Ermine Street was their road north – another Roman road to take them direct to their destination, York.

  Jared was consumed by anxiety. Whatever else, they had to reach the King before he had a chance to settle with the Scots.

  His fortitude was increasingly tried: twice they were mired in a slough requiring all the horses to be roped together to heave the wagon free but with a shattered axle taking precious hours to find and fit anew.

  In all, four wheels gave way at varying places, each instance taking precious time to find a wheelwright and smith.

  And as they proceeded into the northlands the road grew worse, its direct route all too attractive to the freight and packhorse traffic on its way to London.

  Before Lincoln the weather turned against them. Rain – driving downpours with a flat, hard wind that brought misery with the cold and wet, a black humour lifting it slightly when the Italian gunners began cursing at the heathen country, unaware that Jared knew their tongue.

  Pray God they were in time!

  CHAPTER 99

  York, England, AD 1327

  Daw made economical progress, riding at a brisk walk, knowing his father would be following, but left far behind him.

  His entry into the ancient city was wet and windswept but there was no mistaking where he should go. A continuous stream of carts and porters were leaving over the Ouse Bridge towards what could only be the royal host.

  His horse stepped delicately through the puddled mud of the holed trackway and when Hob Moor outside the city came into view he could see a vast encampment in apparent disorder but at its centre a large number of tall tents, topped with pennons that hung wet and limp.

  Soldiers beyond counting stood by in stolid endurance, others sheltered where they could. Everywhere cooking fires sputtered sending thin columns of smoke to spread and hang in the damp air, the woody odour blending with a dank stench of latrines and horse droppings.

  Closer, the reek of wet leather and canvas added to the effluvium, together with the occasional wafting scent of burnt meat.

  The tents were grouped together, perhaps a hundred or so but of course the thousands of common soldiery were not granted such extravagance of living. There were two tents considerably larger than the others, on one the blue and yellow stripes of Lord Mortimer’s arms and on the other, the three gold lions on red that was King Edward’s royal arms.

  Daw’s heart beat faster. This was no less than the King of England, but if his father had braved it, so would he.

  To reach the King was no easy thing. After satisfying various officials Daw was allowed to wait in the rain as visitor after visitor was dealt with. Finally, he was given to understand that the King would shortly see him.

  Then he was summoned.

  Falling to his knee as he had been taught by his father, Daw was brusquely told to be upstanding by the handsome youth at a table.

  Several clerks hovered to one side. ‘State your business,’ snapped one.

  ‘David of Hurnwych. My Liege Lord, Jared Barnwell of Coventry, my father, bids me tell you that he is even now on his way with your gunnes. In number they are—’

  ‘That is well, but we are much wearied. We shall be content should you apprise our seneschal armourer of them in every detail as will allow him to make proper dispensation.’

  Edward rubbed his eyes with fatigue and seemed to remember something. ‘Have you spoken to our Lord Mortimer, perchance?’

  ‘I have not, Sire. If you desire me to—’

  ‘No. For now their arriving is to be kept discreet. From all. You understand us?’

  ‘It shall be so, Majesty.’

  CHAPTER 100

  Hugh Godefroy was not welcoming.

  ‘You’re saying as His Maj has paid for these gunne engines himself? Don’t see anything on m’ books. And m’ Lord Mortimer not being told? Don’t like it. Not at all, I don’t.’

  He glared at Daw as if he was the bringer of hideous complications into his life.

  ‘Not exactly paid … yet. He wants to see them in action first.’

  ‘Action? You tell me how I’m meant to provide for your gunnes when I haven’t had a smell o’ one in m’ life!’

  ‘Be easy, Master Armourer, all is well,’ Daw soothed. ‘Jared Barnwell brings all requisites with him and his gunnes – including the gunners to serve them. All we have to do is hear King Edward and obey his wishes in their employing.’

  ‘We? We? Who are you then, as thinks to take the field with us? Hey?’

  There was no earthly chance that he was going to miss the spectacle of his father’s gunnes in battle and Godefroy would be the one to furnish a way.

  He gave a bleak smile. ‘Very well, I’ll take my leave. I can see you know gunnes well enough to please the King in his contest with the Scots. You have a supply of devil’s dust to hand? A stonemason would be a worthy addition to your numbers, I believe. And as to spares, does your blacksmith know enough to—’

  ‘Hold, Master Daw – you can’t leave me on m’ own with them gunnes. Why don’t you stay along with us, keep me company, like? Those as are present at a battle gets their chop o’ the plunder, like.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘We has a tent, mess at the common pot an’ all, ale on me?’

  The rain eased and stopped.

  The vast encampment slowly livened but at the same time rumours circulated that the great summoning had all been in vain. In the face of such a formidable host the Scottish raiders had disappeared, probably to prudently withdraw back across the borders having done their worst. It looked likely therefore that this mighty army must soon be dissolved.

  ‘Won’t please His Maj, not at all!’ rumbled Godefroy.

  ‘Why not? It’ll save him a mountain of coin,’ Daw said. The sheer impossibility of trying to figure the cost of just feeding his thousands two meals every day was out of normal comprehension.

  ‘Ah! See, Edward wants he should win in a bloodsome fight, show he’s a man and can get out from under Lord Mortimer. But Mortimer ain’t keen on a Scottish war, he wants to get back where he is with Isabella, a-spending his treasure as hard as he can.’

  Daw gave a weak acknowledgement. Would his father finally arrive in York to find everyone had gone home?

  CHAPTER 101

  En route to Durham, England

  A galloping messenger brought news. Far from disappearing over the border, the Scots army, accounted some twenty thousand strong and under the fierce Black Douglas, had struck south far into the desolate moors and fells of the centre of England, even beyond Newcastle and Carlisle, and was now laying waste to the remote villages and poor farmland there.

  There was no question now of disbanding – the threat had to be met.

  Camp was struck in two days and the long winding cavalcade of an army on the march with its baggage train stretching for miles began heading north.

  ‘Why the north?’ Daw asked from the comfort of the rear of a cart.

  Godefroy prided himself that he knew everything going on behind the drawn flaps of the noble tents. ‘This is because there’s been an argument, Mortimer agin Edward.’ He paused for effect. ‘Our fair King thinks to stretch north at a pace and hook in, cutting off the Scottish line of retreat. Should bring about a right mauling fight. Seems a good idea, but Mortimer’s finding every reason under God’s heavens why not.’


  ‘So …?’

  ‘We’re marching to Durham. Level to where the Scots must be, and I dare to say we’ll have our answer there.’

  It took over a week before the louring outline of the castle emerged from the mists after a slow sixty-mile march.

  A sprawling encampment of tents, and numberless men, wet and sullen for being forbidden the sweets of the city, grew outside the walls.

  ‘They’s at it again,’ sniffed Godefroy, poking at the fire. ‘Never heard such high words. Give you this, our Edward’s a good ’un. Lets Mortimer know his place even if he won’t move on it.’

  There was no joy in the camp for it was clear the Scots were far from fools. In their lunge south they had seen to it that every foot soldier was equipped as a hobelar, mounted on a horse for movement and dismounting for battle. It gave them princely manoeuvrability, striking and away well before the lumbering mass of the usual kind of army could come up with them.

  Where they were now was a complete mystery.

  Outriders had been sent into the lonely uplands. Some had returned with nothing to show for their flogging through moorland and mountain in wretched weather, others had come back with reports of smoking ruins, evidence of a Scottish visitation recently past, and still more were never heard of again.

  The Black Douglas was playing it well. The English host was bigger and had better weapons – but would it be sent into the rugged heath and moors, where its speed would be cut still further in hopeless pursuit of a more agile quarry? If it was, then it would be a merry chase that he could not lose, and if on the other hand there were no move against him, then he would be free to descend out of the hills on any one of the substantial towns in the lowlands.