by C. B. Hanley
Salisbury. Now, there was a thought. Arundel seemed more closely allied to the earl – his former brother-in-law and the man to whom he had confided his son – but Salisbury was a different matter. He and the lord earl were cousins, sort of, and both linked to the king by blood, though their lines were tainted by illegitimacy: Salisbury’s own, and that of the earl’s father. But still, with the young king having so few adult male relatives, this put them both in a powerful position. Maybe Salisbury thought he would be better off without any rivals who shared the king’s blood, however diluted? And, as Martin had pointed out, all these ‘accidents’ had only started happening once Salisbury had joined the host.
Martin. Now, there was another thing. What was going on between him and Salisbury’s squire Philip? Why did they hate each other so much? Something must have happened before. They had certainly met each other previously, as their earls were comrades and peers of long standing, but Edwin knew nothing of their history.
He was getting away from his point again. Edwin wiped sweat and dust off his face as he trudged and tried to sink back into his thoughts. Was Philip’s rivalry with and evident dislike for Martin enough cause for him to take action against the earl? Surely not. He could not possibly – but then again …
Edwin’s concentration was broken properly this time as he walked into the back of the man in front, not having noticed that the column had stopped.
There wasn’t another attack; it was the evening halt. Men all around him were putting down their burdens and sinking to the ground in relief. Edwin did the same, but he’d hardly taken the weight off his feet when John was there, dragging him up along with the other archers.
None of them had much to unpack and they had no horses to attend to, so once they’d piled some wood and left Alf building up his cooking fire, they made their way to the edge of the camp where there was some open pasture; hay harvest was over so the grass was short and the line of sight was clear. A couple of the men were carrying sacks of straw, and John instructed them to count out eighty paces and a hundred paces respectively. Edwin watched them get further and further away, wondering just how wide of the mark he was going to shoot, and how he was going to live it down.
John had removed his own bow from the bag and was stringing it. It was a monster of a thing, and Edwin hoped he wasn’t going to be asked to try it out. There was a second bow in the bag, a smaller, slimmer one, and Edwin reached out without thinking.
‘Don’t touch that!’
Edwin withdrew his hand as though it had been burned, surprised at the vehemence of the tone. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean …’
John recovered himself. ‘No, it’s fine. Didn’t mean to make you jump. But it’s not in a usable condition: no string, and hasn’t been bent for a while so it needs to be worked on. Try it now and you’ll snap it.’
Edwin stooped to examine it once more, hands firmly clasped behind his back. It might not be serviceable now, but it had certainly seen some use in the past; the wood was worn smooth. Maybe it was the bow of John’s youth, the one he’d grown up shooting with, and he was attached to it.
The other archers had by now all strung their own bows and were dividing themselves into two groups, the younger among them lining up to face the nearer target and shuffling arrows in their quivers. There were a few spare bows stacked up, and John considered them. ‘How did you get on with that one earlier? Too strong? Hmm …’ He picked one out and held it up. ‘Try this.’
The string was already knotted fast at the lower end of the bow, so it was a relatively simple matter for Edwin to step through and bend it around his thigh to slip the loop in place at the top. He gave an experimental pull – yes, much easier than the other one.
‘Good. Now, let’s see some shooting. At that eighty-pace target.’
Edwin positioned himself on the end of the line, planted his feet and took up an arrow. He didn’t like being watched so closely and hoped that John wouldn’t notice his fingers shaking as he nocked the arrow. Funny, he was more nervous now than he had been in the woods. But he managed to draw back the string to his cheek – one finger above the arrow, two below, and keep your thumb out of the way, he could hear the instructions from childhood echoing in his head – and let fly. The arrow hissed reasonably straight towards the target, but fell short. Edwin took a deep breath and tried again. This time he angled his shot further up, and was pleased to see the arrow land at a respectable proximity to the target.
He risked a look at John.
‘Not bad. Reasonably smooth action, but keep your elbow down a bit more. Don’t worry too much about accuracy – if there’s a whole host of Frenchies coming at you, you’re bound to hit one of them. What you need is to be able to shoot quickly, so you can get as many arrows off as possible before they reach you. Try again, and see how fast you can loose six arrows. Don’t forget: start in the middle and push and pull at the same time so you spread out the strain.’ He wandered off down the line to look at the other youngsters.
Left to it, Edwin did as he was bid, and the results weren’t too bad. But his shoulders were aching by the time he’d finished – and that was after, what, eight arrows? He’d need more practice.
He was conscious of being watched, and turned to see Peter and Dickon staring, eager expressions on their faces like puppies.
John had seen them too. He laughed. ‘Want to learn, do you?’ They both nodded. ‘All right, let’s see what we can do.’
He hustled the other men off to join the group at the further target and had one of them move the second sack so it was now only about thirty paces away. He picked the smallest bow out of the pile and held it out to Peter. ‘Here. This is still going to be too strong for you, but it’s the lightest there is, so we’ll have to manage and you can take turns.’
He was interrupted by a shout from behind them. It was Alf, who had managed to stump his way to the edge of the camp and was calling for Dickon. ‘You get back here! You’ve got work to do. And you know you can’t … that’s not for the likes of you. Come on!’
Dickon looked up at John with a pleading expression, but it was no use. ‘Oh no – I’m not going to get on the wrong side of him, not if I want to eat the rest of the week. And he’s your father, so do as you’re told.’
Edwin watched in some amusement as the child sulked his way back at a pace that was just slow enough to be rebellious but just fast enough to look like it might not be intentional. Then he took a rest while John went through some basics with Peter. He was right, the bow was far too big – taller than the boy – and he couldn’t get the string even halfway back, but his technique looked sound and he was a fast learner. His arrows peppered the ground, and John joked that the sack was at least frightened by now.
Over to their left, past the rest of their group, another knot of men had formed, wanting to get some practice in themselves before dark. They were Salisbury’s men, Edwin thought, a guess confirmed when he unexpectedly spotted the squire Philip in amongst them. He was more popular with the archers here than he was with his fellow squires, joking around with them as he watched them shoot, and then taking up a bow himself. Amid friendly catcalls he loosed off three arrows; Edwin saw, with some chagrin, that they all thumped into their distant target.
‘You don’t see that very often.’ John was standing next to him.
‘See what?’
‘A noble being able to shoot straight. Normally they think an honest bow isn’t good enough for them.’
Edwin opened his mouth but John had already turned back to Peter. ‘That’s enough for today. You might feel all right now, but your shoulder will be hurting tomorrow and best not to overdo it.’ Peter handed the bow back and John ran appraising fingers up and down the wood. ‘We might be able to shave it down a bit. Most of my tools are at home but I’ve got one or two with me. No promises, mind.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair and sent him on his way, watching as Peter skipped off. ‘A good lad, that.’
Edwin agreed, proud of his
fellow villager.
John addressed his men, whose own practice was starting to wind down. ‘Right now, lads! That’ll do for today! Collect all the arrows and count them back in; the man who shot the worst brings back the targets.’
Edwin found himself surrounded by an affable crowd of men as they made their way back to the camp, where another appetisingsmelling pottage was ready on the fire. He sat down with his new comrades and felt, for the first time in a while, as though he belonged somewhere. It was not to last long, though, for he soon caught sight of Sir Hugh sitting alone at the entrance to his tent. He was eating the same pottage as the others, but gingerly, and Edwin’s mind turned back to the poisoning again. Lord, had that only been last night? So much had happened since then that it felt like a lifetime ago.
He wondered if he should try to steal closer to the earl’s camp in an attempt to spot or prevent any further attempts on his life, but as he made to stand he caught Sir Hugh’s eye and the knight beckoned him over.
Edwin approached, unable to help noticing that, although the tent had been erected properly by the men, the belongings inside it were still packed up and the bags were strewn around untidily; the wooden bed remained in pieces.
He felt awkward, but the subject had to be broached. ‘Sir Hugh, may I say how sorry I am for your loss.’
He half-expected to be angrily rebuffed, as he’d seen happen to Humphrey earlier, but the knight just nodded and gestured for him to sit. Edwin lowered himself to the ground, for there was no second stool ready placed, and waited.
Eventually Sir Hugh let out a huge sigh. ‘All men reach their time eventually, and we are at war, after all. I’ll get used to it.’ He gestured helplessly, for once looking his age. ‘But … thirty years he’d been in my service, so it might take me a while.’
‘I didn’t know him well, Sir Hugh, but he was a good man.’
The knight nodded. ‘That he was.’
‘Can I … help with anything?’ Edwin looked pointedly at the still-packed baggage.
‘That’s kind of you, lad, but I’ll leave it for now. I’m not too old to sleep on the ground for one night, and I’ll try to get better organised tomorrow. I called his name, you know, once the tent was set up. I forgot. And I keep turning round expecting him to be there.’
Edwin thought that was probably fair enough, when a man had had another at his beck and call every day for thirty years, but he said nothing.
Sir Hugh tried to rouse himself. ‘Anyway. Still plenty of the evening left, and I need something else to think about. I don’t suppose you know how to play chess?’
Martin looked unenthusiastically at the bowl in front of him. He certainly felt much better than he had done earlier, but his stomach was still gurgling and – for once – food wasn’t the most important thing on his mind. Still, in deference to everyone’s continuing delicacy, Humphrey had had his men produce a very bland pottage, supervising them personally and not leaving the pot for an instant, so it couldn’t do him much harm. The lord earl had managed some, and even Adam had pushed in a few spoonfuls. He dipped some bread into the bowl and lifted the dripping morsel to his mouth.
He was surprised to find that he felt better after the warm meal had gone down, and he began to look around him with a little more attention. The earl was in the pavilion’s main space talking to Sir Roger, and had no need of the rest of them just now. Adam looked tired so Martin told him to go to bed; he was rewarded with a look of gratitude as he slipped away. Brother William was over in the corner, trying to make best use of a single candle as he wrote something, his pen scratching. Hugh had finished eating and was staring into space. Martin recalled the shock the boy had experienced earlier in the day – maybe keeping him busy would be a good idea?
‘Hugh.’
The page sprang to his feet. ‘Do you need something?’
Martin passed him the empty bowl. ‘Take all these and stack them on the side table ready to be collected. Then go to the sleeping place, take the lord earl’s sword out of the kist – Adam will show you if he’s not asleep already – and bring it here. He’ll need it tomorrow when we join with the rest of the army, so I’ll show you how to make sure it’s clean and sharp.’
Hugh’s face brightened at the thought of such an important task, and he scampered off.
Martin unpacked the oil, a couple of rags and a whetstone, and when Hugh returned he busied himself demonstrating the basics – Hugh needed to be able to hold the weapon without cutting himself before he could start work on it, a task made harder by the fact that the sword was almost as tall as he was – and showing him how to sharpen the edge and then wipe off the residue before applying the oil.
He hadn’t been going long when he heard his name being called from the other side of the hanging. Hugh was getting on well, but he wasn’t sure he should leave him alone with the earl’s precious sword, so he hesitated. Should he get Adam up again?
Brother William made a show of stretching his arms and needing a break from his writing. ‘I’ll keep an eye on him, if you like.’ He was looking at the sword with something of a professional eye, and Martin wondered again about his past.
He ducked through into the main space. ‘Yes, my lord?’
The earl pointed through the back wall of the pavilion. ‘See if you can find out what that infernal noise is and put a stop to it.’
Martin had been concentrating so hard on his task that he hadn’t noticed anything before, but now the earl mentioned it he could hear a groaning and crying. It sounded like a wounded animal. ‘At once, my lord.’ He exchanged a nod with Sir Roger as he turned away, knowing that he’d ensure the earl’s safety in Martin’s absence.
It wasn’t quite dark, so Martin had no problem making his way through the maze of tent ropes and baggage as he followed the sound. It led him to Humphrey’s kitchen area, where his men were busy, making use of the last of the light to scour pots and bowls.
The steward spotted him and hurried over. ‘Is everything all right? Does the lord earl need anything else?’
‘No, all is well. And thank you for the meal, by the way – we all feel a bit better now.’ The worried expression on Humphrey’s face lifted a little. ‘No, my lord sent me to find out what that noise was and stop it.’
Humphrey’s mouth set in a line. ‘Come with me.’
He led the way to a canvas shelter that had four pallets crammed into it. A man was lying on one of them, groaning and crying, eyes closed. Even in this light Martin could see that he was soaked in sweat. He took a step back. ‘Fever?’
‘I don’t think so, or everyone else would have it by now. He’s one of the three who fell ill at the same time you did.’
‘Ah. After they ate some of the meal that was meant for us.’
‘Yes. Although …’
‘What?’
‘Well, he seems to be different. The other two admitted taking the food – I’ve set them extra duties as punishment – and they’re both recovered. But Rob here seems to be getting worse, and on top of that he swears he never touched the earl’s food, and that he was already feeling ill a few days ago but he didn’t say anything. Before you got sick. Before the fire, even.’
‘Well, he’s disturbing my lord, so can you maybe move him further away from the pavilion?’ Martin looked at the prone figure, writhing now and clutching at his belly. But for the grace of God, that could have been him. ‘But … look after him. I’ll see if Brother William can do anything.’
Humphrey organised a few of his men to lift the sufferer, pallet and all. As he was moved, the groans turned into a shriek of pain, and Martin winced. ‘I’ll find him now.’
He considered the situation as he made his way back. Had the man been poisoned along with them, or not? And why would anyone want to put something nasty in the food anyway? He needed to talk it all through with Ed—
Oh God. How was all that to be sorted out? The only person who was clever enough to see his way through all of this was Edwin, and Ed
win was the only person he wasn’t allowed to talk to. All he could do was keep his eyes open so he could try to prevent any physical danger to the earl.
He was brusque when he returned, asking Brother William to visit the sick man and telling Hugh to go to bed. The boy’s face fell and Martin hastened to praise the work he’d done on the sword before packing him off.
Martin knew he should go to bed as well – he was exhausted after the day’s events on top of having been ill. But he didn’t want to rest, didn’t want to lie down. Instead he sat on his own, watching the candle burn lower, until it guttered out and he was in the dark. He made no move to light another, enjoying the solitude.
The noise of the camp gradually slacked off, and silence reigned in the cool of the night. He belatedly wondered where Edwin was, and felt guilty that he hadn’t tried to find out earlier, but there was no point blundering around now – he’d only cause alarm.
He enjoyed a few more moments of quiet before the sound of the conversation in the centre of the pavilion was replaced by that of men standing and taking leave. He sighed and made his way in, just in time to see Sir Roger depart.
‘Ah, there you are. Good. I’ll retire now.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Martin carefully blew out all the remaining lights and waited a moment to be sure that they were all indeed extinguished before he followed the earl to the sleeping compartment.
Adam stirred as they passed him, and made as if to rise, but Martin poked him with one foot. ‘Shh. Go back to sleep – I’ll sort everything out.’ Adam mumbled something incomprehensible and pulled the blanket back over his head.
Once he’d settled the earl, Martin found his own pallet, happy at least that he could finally remove his boots. He rolled himself up, thinking that he’d probably … lie awake … all ni …
