by C. J. Sansom
To my relief the ostler at the largest inn said three small rooms were available. We dismounted and walked stiffly inside, Barak and Feaveryear carrying the panniers. Feaveryear looked as though he would drop under the weight of the three he carried, and Barak offered to take one. ‘Thank you,’ Feaveryear said. ‘I am sore wearied.’ It was the first civil word we had had from either him or Dyrick.
I CLIMBED the stairs to a poky room under the rafters. I pulled off my boots with relief, washing the thick dust from my face in a bowl of cold water. Then I went downstairs, for I was ravenously hungry. The large parlour was crowded with carters drinking beer and wolfing down pottage at long tables. Most would have been on the road all day and they gave off a mighty stink. The room was dim, for dusk was drawing on, and candles had been set on the tables. I saw Barak sitting alone at a small table in a corner, nursing a mug of beer, and went to join him.
‘How’s your room?’ he asked.
‘Small. A straw mattress.’
‘At least you won’t have to share it with Feaveryear. We’d no sooner closed our door than he took off his boots, showing a pair of shins a chicken would think shameful, then knelt down by his bed and stuck his bum in the air. It gave me a nasty turn for a moment, until he began praying, asking God to watch over us on the journey.’ He sighed heavily. ‘If I hadn’t been insolent to that arsehole Goodryke I’d be with Tamasin tonight, not him.’
‘It’ll be more comfortable when we get to Hoyland Priory.’
He took a long swig of beer. ‘Watch that,’ I said quietly. I realized the sight of the soldiers had reminded him again of the fate he had so narrowly escaped.
‘Here’s looking forward to passing time with good company,’ he said with heavy sarcasm.
Dyrick and Feaveryear came in. ‘May we join you, Brother Shardlake?’ Dyrick asked. ‘The other company seems rather rough.’
We called for food and were served some pottage, all the inn had. It was flavourless, nasty-looking pieces of gristle floating on the greasy surface. We ate in silence. A group of girls entered, wearing low-cut dresses. The carters hallooed and banged on the tables, and soon the girls were sitting on their laps. Barak looked on with interest, Dyrick with cynical amusement and Feaveryear with disapproval.
‘Not enjoying the spectacle, Sam?’ Dyrick asked him with a smile.
‘No, sir. I think I will go upstairs to bed. I am tired.’
Feaveryear walked slowly away. I saw him look at the girls from the corner of his eyes. Dyrick laughed.
‘He can’t help hoping to see a pair of bubbies, for all his godliness,’ he said, then added sharply, ‘though Sam is keen and sharp enough to help ensure your case against the Hobbeys is shown for the nonsense it is.’
I looked over the room, refusing to rise to his taunts. One of the carters had his face buried in a girl’s bosom now. Then my attention was drawn by an officer in a soldier’s white coat, sword at his waist. He sat hunched over a pile of papers at the corner of a table, seemingly oblivious to the clamour around him. I stared harder, for I seemed to recognize that shock of curly blond hair, the regular features beneath. I nudged Barak.
‘That officer over there. Do you recognize him?’
Barak peered through the dim room. ‘Is it Sergeant Leacon? I’m not sure. But he was discharged from the army.’
‘Yes, he was. Come, let us see. Excuse us, Brother Dyrick, I think I recognize an old client.’
‘Some fellow you got lands for from his landlord?’
‘Exactly.’
Barak and I weaved our way among the tables. The soldier looked up as we approached, and I saw it was indeed George Leacon, the young Kentish sergeant we had met four years before in York. I had done Leacon an injustice then, but put it right by wresting his parents’ farm from a grasping landlord. Leacon had been in his twenties, but now he had lines around his eyes and mouth that made him look a decade older. His blue eyes seemed more prominent too, with a strange wide stare.
‘George?’ I asked quietly.
His face relaxed into the broad smile I remembered. ‘Master Shardlake. And Jack Barak, too.’ He rose and bowed. ‘What are you doing here? By Mary, it must be three years since I saw you.’
‘We are travelling to Hampshire on a case. You are back in the army?’
‘Ay. They recruited me last year to go to France. They needed men with military experience. Even more so now, with invasion threatened. I am taking a hundred Middlesex archers down to Portsmouth. You probably saw them in the meadow.’
‘Yes. They were putting up their tents. Who was the finely dressed old fellow on the horse?’
Leacon grimaced. ‘Sir Franklin Giffard, captain of the company. One of the leading men in north Middlesex. He was a soldier in France in the King’s first war thirty years ago. Unfortunately he is, between ourselves – ’ he hesitated, then said, ‘a little old for command.’
‘He is certainly not young.’
‘They need a gentleman of substance to keep the soldiers in awe, but I was recruited to go up there, select a hundred good longbowmen, and be his deputy. I am a petty-captain now, promoted last year on the battlefield outside Boulogne.’
‘Congratulations.’
He nodded, but something blank came into his face for a moment. He said, ‘How do you fare?’
‘The law keeps me busy.’
‘It is good to see you again.’
‘Remember Tamasin Reedbourne?’ Barak asked.
‘Indeed I do.’
‘We are married,’ he said proudly. ‘And a baby due next month.’
Leacon shook his hand warmly. ‘Then it is you that deserves congratulation.’
‘How are your parents?’ I asked.
‘Both well, sir. Still on the farm that is theirs thanks to you. But getting older, they find the work hard now. I should take over, but – ’ he grimaced again – ‘it is easier to get into the King’s army than out of it just now.’
‘Truly spoken,’ Barak agreed with feeling.
Leacon gestured at the papers in front of him. ‘My suppliers’ accounts, for the men’s food. They are supposed to be settled in every town, and I have money to pay for them. But with this evil new coinage the local merchants charge more.’ He pushed the papers aside with an impatient gesture.
‘How many men are going to Portsmouth?’ Barak asked. ‘The roads are full.’
‘Six thousand are there or on the way, with many more local militia all along the south coast ready to be called out if the French invade.’
‘Jesu.’
‘And most of the King’s ships of war are there, fifty or sixty of them, so there are several thousand sailors too. I have to get my men to Portsmouth in four days. March on the Sabbath if need be.’
‘And the King himself is coming to inspect them all.’
Leacon looked at us seriously. ‘Word is the French fleet is thrice the size of ours, loaded with thirty thousand soldiers. There could be a hot time coming. My company may be going to the ships, to do battle if the fleets grapple together.’ He shook his head. ‘I sailed on a warship last year, but many of my men have never seen a body of water larger than the village pond. But we must do all we can to beat off the invasion, we have no choice.’ Something weary and almost despairing had entered Leacon’s voice. He looked as though he were about to say something more, then changed the subject. ‘Is it just the two of you travelling down?’
‘Wish it were,’ Barak answered.
‘No, we travel with another lawyer and his clerk. Not easy companions.’ I turned to look at Dyrick, but he had gone. ‘My fellow lawyer was keen to make the journey in four or five days but it does not seem we will do that. Today we have been forever held up behind carts.’
Leacon looked at me. ‘Perhaps I can help there.’
‘How so?’
‘I have orders to get my men to Portsmouth by the fifth. It is hard marching. I have the right to order carts aside, command the roads. If you and your companions wish to ride in fro
nt of our baggage train, that would speed your journey.’
‘We should be very grateful,’ I said.
‘We start at five tomorrow, I warn you.’
I exchanged a glance with Barak. He nodded eagerly. The sooner we got to Hoyland, the sooner we would return home. ‘We will be there,’ I answered. ‘Thank you.’
‘I am pleased to do something to return the favour you did my family.’ Leacon looked reluctantly at his documents. ‘But now, if you will forgive me, I need to make some sense of these figures, then get over to camp.’
‘You’re not staying at the inn?’
‘No. I sleep with the men.’
‘Then we will leave you.’
We headed for the door. One of the carters had a girl on the floor now, the others cheering him on.
‘I will call at Dyrick’s room and tell him the news,’ I said.
‘Maybe the arsehole will show a bit of gratitude.’
‘I doubt that.’ I turned to him. ‘Jack, what has happened to George Leacon?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Trouble, I can tell you that.’
I glanced back. The soldier’s blond head was bent over the papers again as he ran his finger down a column of figures. His other hand, which rested on the table, trembled slightly.
Chapter Thirteen
MY BACK AND LEGS were an agony of stiffness when I reached my room. I had called on Dyrick on the way; he had been sitting on his bed, papers from the case strewn over it and on his lap. He glared at me, but when I told him of Leacon’s offer he was quick to accept. ‘Well, your former client has come in useful,’ he said, which I took to be his nearest approach to thanks.
It was long before I slept, the continued carousing downstairs and my aching limbs keeping me awake. Even after all was quiet I tossed and turned. When at length I drifted off I had a fearful dream: I was drowning, deep under water, hands at my throat keeping me under. I grasped at them but they were like steel. I looked at who was holding me and saw the hard face and cold eyes of Sir William Paulet, framed by a steel helmet.
I woke with a start, my heart still thumping with terror. I often had such dreams; two years before I had nearly drowned in a filthy sewer with a murderer for company, and once before that I had myself drowned a man who was trying to kill me. I crossed to the window and threw open the shutters. Sunshine streamed in; from the long shadows I guessed it was near five.
Outside the tents were being loaded onto carts with other equipment under the supervision of the red-faced officer, whose barking at the men I could hear from my room. The big horses were already between the shafts, munching piles of hay. A little way off a couple of dozen men were practising their skills with the warbow, shooting at a doublet nailed to an oak tree at the far end of the field. Arrows arced through the air, the men shouting when someone hit the target – as most did, for they were all good shots. Leacon stood beside them, watching. I dressed hastily and hurried down to the parlour, deserted now save for Barak, breakfasting alone. I hurried across. ‘Thank goodness you are still here.’
‘The soldiers are still loading up. I’ve written a letter to Tammy, the innkeeper will give it to the next post rider going north.’
I breakfasted quickly, then we went outside. I saw a few of the soldiers did have white coats, including the red-faced man supervising the loading of the carts and a soldier who was strapping a drum round his middle. A trumpet hung from a baldric on his shoulder. We went over to Dyrick and Feaveryear, who were standing talking to the white-bearded man I had seen the night before.
‘Ah, Brother Shardlake,’ Dyrick said reprovingly, ‘you have risen. I hope we will be off soon. Those carters will be sleeping it off with the whores. Captain Giffard here wants to be gone before them. Fourteen miles to Godalming today.’ His tone was admonitory.
The white-bearded man turned to me. He wore a peacock-feather cap and a high-collared doublet with buttons patterned in gold leaf. His face was round, spots of colour in his cheeks, his blue eyes watery. I bowed. He gave me a haughty nod.
‘You are the other lawyer my petty-captain has invited to travel with us? I am Sir Franklin Giffard, captain of this company.’
‘Matthew Shardlake. I hope you do not mind us accompanying you, sir.’
‘No, no. Leacon knows what he is doing.’ He looked across to the archers.
‘Those men shoot well,’ I observed.
‘They do, though hand-to-hand combat is the gentlemanly way to fight a war. But the archers won us Agincourt. Not much of an inn, was it?’ he added. ‘All that noise, those carriers. We must be gone. Please go and tell Leacon.’
I hesitated, for he had addressed me as though I were a soldier under his command. But I answered, ‘If you wish,’ and went to the field, passing the carts. In the nearest I saw a pile of round helmets and large, thick jackets that gave off a damp smell.
As I approached Leacon, I saw now how much thinner he was, his broad frame all gone to stringiness. I stood by him, watching the archers. A handsome dark-haired lad who looked to be still in his teens stepped forward with his bow. He was short, but stocky and muscular, with the heavy shoulders most of the men had. Like them he carried a warbow two yards long, with decorated horn nocks at each end.
‘Come, Llewellyn!’ one of the men called. ‘Show us those of Welsh blood can do more than screw sheep!’
The boy smiled broadly. ‘Fuck you, Carswell!’ A number of arrows had been thrust into the grass and he pulled one out.
Leacon leaned forward. ‘Llewellyn,’ he said quietly, ‘step away a little. Try to hit the mark from a sixty-degree angle, like we practised two days ago.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The boy stepped away a few yards and faced the tree at an angle. Then, in seconds, he had drawn his bow back nearly three feet, shot, and landed the arrow in the centre of the doublet. The soldiers clapped.
‘More,’ Leacon said. ‘Make it six.’ At a speed such as I had never seen, the boy loosed five more arrows, all of which hit the doublet. He turned and bowed to the appreciative crowd, a flash of white teeth in his sunburned face.
‘That’s how we’ll feather them in the goddam Frenchies’ bowels!’ someone shouted, and there were more cheers.
Leacon turned to me. ‘What do you think of my Goddams?’ He smiled at my puzzled look. ‘It’s what English archers call themselves.’
‘I have never seen such skill. George, Captain Giffard wants us to move off. I am sorry, I should have said at once, but I was so taken with that display.’
Leacon turned back to the men. ‘No more, lads! We march!’
There was a grumbling murmur as the men set to unstringing their bows and I accompanied Leacon back to the road.
‘Are your men all from the same district?’ I asked.
‘No. They come from all over north-west Middlesex. They’re a varied bunch, sons of yeomen together with those of artisans and poor labourers. The commissioners are often accused of levying the dregs of the villages, but I was told to pick a company of strong, practised archers – principal archers we call them, and I have. Though there has been little time to train them to work together yet, most of the day is taken up with marching.’
‘That fellow who shot last was remarkable, but he seemed young for service.’
‘Tom Llewellyn is not nineteen, but he was the best archer I saw at the Views of Arms. A blacksmith’s apprentice, son of a Welshman.’
‘Are they willing recruits?’
‘Some. Others less so. We had a few desertions in London, so we are four men short. And our company preacher was taken ill. We had no time to get a replacement.’
I laughed. ‘You were unable to find a preacher in London? Now that does astonish me!’
‘Not one willing to serve in the army, anyway.’
I nodded at the officer supervising the loading of the carts, which was now almost complete. He was still walking around, shouting and snapping.
‘He is a choleric fellow.’
�
��Yes, Master Snodin, our whiffler. He is a seasoned veteran, he keeps the men well in order.’
‘Ah.’ I thought of Goodryke.
‘He drinks, though, and gets in a fierce temper. I hope he does not have a seizure before we reach Portsmouth. He is the only other officer, apart from the vientinaries.’
‘The what?’
‘Companies are grouped into five sections of twenty, each with a corporal in charge whom I have nominated.’
‘I was surprised not to see more men in uniform.’
He grunted. ‘The store of white coats in the King’s armouries has run out, and there has been no time to make more. Even the armour we have is a jumbled-up mixture. I’ll swear some of it goes back to the wars between York and Lancaster, if not Agincourt.’
‘I saw some ill-smelling padded jackets in one of the carts.’
Leacon nodded. ‘Jacks. They give protection from arrows. But many have been shut up in church vestries for years and mice have nibbled at some. I am getting the men to mend them when they have time.’
I watched the men complete their loading. ‘George,’ I said, ‘I understand our way goes near the Sussex border.’
‘Yes, between Liphook and Petersfield. With luck we will reach there the day after tomorrow.’
‘There is a small town on the Sussex side, Rolfswood. I have some business there.’
‘I only know our stops along the road.’ Leacon smiled. ‘I’m a Kentishman, the less we know of Sussex clods the happier we are. You had best ask when we reach those parts.’
We had come up to the others. ‘We must be off, Leacon,’ Sir Franklin said.
‘Nearly ready, sir.’
‘Good. We should find our horses. And I want to talk to you about the men’s buttons.’
‘I thought we had settled that, sir.’ A note of irritation had crept into Leacon’s voice.
The captain frowned. ‘We discussed it, sir, but did not settle it. Do you think I am of no good memory?’
‘No, sir. But—’
‘Come with me.’ Sir Franklin turned and walked back to the inn, Leacon following, his straight-backed stride contrasting with Sir Franklin’s slow, stiff-legged gait.
