The Bow (15 page)

‘
But ye know me, Emma-Jeanne’, called James. The
girl started back to hear her name, then leaned forward again. ‘James
of Chiswick!’ she shouted. ‘Master James, it’s you!’

'Aye, and with masters Duncan and Hamish too. And young
Ralf besides. Did ye not recognise us?’

‘
It was the Welsh, Master James. The Welsh. What I
could not see, I heard, and all I heard was the Welsh.’

They all laughed save John, who slept, and Yevan who
stood, hands on hips, glaring up at the window.

‘
By all the saints, what am I then? A thief?A rogue?
Because I am a Welshman?’ But the girl had long since disappeared,
and Yevan was left shouting up at an empty window. Moments later
there was the sound of bolts and bars being drawn back, the door
swung open, and there was a breathless Emma-Jeanne with the
bleary-eyed apothecary standing next to her. He was carrying an old
cudgel, and looking worried, but he beamed when he saw James and the
others.

‘
Come in! Come in, gentlemen! We heard you were on the
road from Cap le Havre . . .What’s this? A wounded hero? Come in!’
He turned. ‘Margrette! Margrette! Where’s that wife of mine?
Here, Emma! Go rouse my wife. Marie and Louisa too! Go now! We have
guests!’

He led them through the shop, down the narrow hallway
and into the family room. They crowded in, and stood about awkwardly
while the family, appearing one by one, rushed about to the shouts of
the apothecary, lighting candles, bringing seats and benches, setting
the table and stirring the hearth.

‘
Faith!’ said the Simon the apothecary, clapping his
hands. ‘There’s a fair few of you. Are you all to be staying?’

‘
All but the Welsh’, answered James, and he winked
at Emma-Jeanne.

‘
Well, there’s a pity’, said Simon, but he sounded
relieved, and smiled nervously at his wife. ‘Your wounded friend
will be best here on a palliasse in front of the fire. Let him sleep
on. In the morning, my daughters will tend to his wound.’

‘
Ye have the arts, then?’ asked Yevan.

The apothecary raised his eyebrows. ‘You see the sign
above my door, sir. Good health, and a long life, that’s what I am
trained in.’

‘
Ye’ll know of sea salt, then?’

‘
Sea salt?’

‘
Aye, sea salt.’

Simon looked about him uncertainly. ‘Ah, sea salt’,
he said at last. ‘Sea salt mixed with wine to purge a wound! Aye, I
know it, though on the second day I would staunch the salt and wine
with fresh moss and a sprig of rosemary.’ He took a breath, and
went on. ‘On the third to the fifth day, take more strong wine, mix
it with walnut oil and pour across the wound, but keep the moss as a
poultice throughout. After that, pray God it heals.’

It was Yevan’s turn to clap his hands. ‘Ahah! Just
so! Then lay on, Master Apothecary! I leave my friend with ye, and
bid ye good night.’ He reached into his wallet, and put two silver
coins on the table. ‘For your trouble’, he said.

Simon swept the coins into his palm as he bowed. ‘But
first you must eat’, he said. ‘No, no! I will not hear of it.
Soldiers home from the wars, and word of a great victory too! No, I
will not have ye leave without something warm in your bellies.’ He
turned to his wife and daughters: ‘A supper for my lords!’ he
said. ‘Quickly now. The fire’s a smouldering and there’s soup
in the pot. Quickly now! Away with ye!’

The girls attempted a curtsey, and flew away giggling as
they went. Their mother was somewhat slower, but with a little frown
and a little bob, she turned about and vanished into the pantry.

It was nearly midnight before Yevan and Daffyd took
their leave, and set off for the camp. Simon gave them a lantern to
light their way, and warned them to keep to the main street, and hail
the night watch if it happened by. ‘Best to make yourself known,
before they jump to conclusions’, the apothecary said with a last
smile, as he showed them through the door.

And so the Welshmen went, and made the camp, and found a
billet with some bowmen from Somerset.

James, Ralf and the others stayed up talking until the
second hour of the third watch, and then went to bed. All the while,
John Hert had not stirred, but slept on by the fire. His fever was
down, there was colour in his skin, and his limbs no longer shook.
‘He might just live’, said Simon to his wife, as they climbed
into their bed. Margrette clicked her tongue:

‘
Good then! There’s more silver in a living archer
than a dead one.’

The apothecary sighed: ‘Woman, you’re so full of
common sense, you’ve got no room left for anything else.’

‘
Bah!’ she replied, rolled over and went to sleep.

In the morning, James awoke to a household full of
bustle, and the streets full of chatter. He went downstairs to a
kitchen filled with smoke and steam and the smell of fresh bread.
John was still asleep but the family were hard at work preparing
breakfast. Simon had come back from the market with the news that the
Earl of Dorset’s men were in the streets calling all soldiers to
the muster. They were to meet at the hour before noon in the great
field by the Earl’s banner.

'That’s it, then’, said James as he broke a piece of
bread, and slid the trencher across to Ralf.

‘
There’s more’, said Simon, giving his daughter a
look as she nearly tripped with a bowl of hot porridge. ‘The word
is out that John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy has moved his troops
into the Ille-de-France. King Henry won’t stand for that! Oh, no,
not since Agincourt, and not since the German Emperor himself has
agreed to come to England to discuss Henry’s claim to all of
France. There’s fire in your English king, and he won’t sit by
while the Burgundians chase mad King Charles around the Hotel
Saint-Pol in Paris.’

‘
You mean the war goes on?’

‘
Aye, Master James, I do. And there’s a reason for
the muster, I’ll warrant.’

Duncan, who had come down earlier with Hamish and was
sitting by the fireside warming his hands, yawned and stretched. ‘Why
is it,’ he said, ‘that citizens know more than soldiers?’

‘
So they know when to run away,’ replied Ralf with a
grin, but he ducked his head when everyone stopped and stared at him.

Finally Simon spoke again: ‘I’m less a citizen and
more a soldier than ye’ll ever know, young man,’ he said. ‘I’ve
plucked a knight or two from his horse with my crossbow, and I kept
the battlements of Harfleur when you were but a tanner’s lad and
good for nought but whipping.’

Ralf kept his head down, but the apothecary leaned
across and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Up, Master Ralf. I would
not have ye sorry. You’re a man now, and all is past – and if
that’s the only slip of the tongue you ever make, you’ll be as
good as the archangel Gabriel.’

So the moment passed, breakfast was taken in good
spirits, and at the forenoon hour the men went down to the muster
field. They left John, barely awake, in the care of the apothecary’s
daughters who danced and fussed about him endlessly, and kept poor
Emma-Jeanne at bay.

At the muster field the soldiers gathered by company,
and by nation: English, Scots, Irish, Welsh, Gascons, Bretons and
Flemish. They stood around in groups and knots of archers,
men-at-arms and knights talking in low tones in their own dialects,
occasionally laughing out loud and slapping one another on the back.
After the victory at Valmont, and the charge up the dunes at Cap le
Havre, they were in confident mood, but still well aware that there
was work to be done.

The captains and sergeants walked among them, trailing
scrolls of indenture lists and calling out names as they went.
Scribes and pages hurried behind them, carrying stools and writing
boards, and breathless for the chance to stop and make copy.

Everywhere, and anywhere lords and knights had set their
banners and planted pennons: mostly outside their pavilions but
sometimes near a camp fire, or a horse line, or nowhere in
particular. Their squires and servants sat about polishing armour,
oiling leather straps, and checking every rivet and fastening on
helmet, mail and plate. The shields, some battered and scarred, were
hung outside tents to advertise their owners, and advance the family
name.

In the centre of all, the banner of Thomas Earl of
Dorset floated above his tent, and his great shield was set up on a
pole higher than any others: red lions passant and fleurs de lys on a
white field. Some said it was too boldly close to the Royal Arms,
others said it showed nothing but loyalty. Most just shrugged, and
said that the Earls of Dorset had always fought for king and country,
and who better to bear lions on their shield? From the days of
Alfred, when they bore the golden dragon of Wessex, the men of Dorset
had been banner bearers to the king.

Sir Thomas was no exception. He had received his title
in 1411, and had seen it as a soldier’s service to his liege lord
Harry. His bluff good humour and fearless spirit were infectious, and
his men liked to call him ‘Old Tom’ but never to his face. Today,
he stood outside his tent, dressed in tabard and mail, his head bare
and his sword across his shoulder. He drew his men about him without
the need for trumpet call or herald. They were keen to hear him, and
now came silently from all about the camp.

As the bells in the town rang the noon-tide, the army
assembled and gathered to hear their lord speak.

He waited until all but the pickets and outer patrols
had come to his banner, then he climbed onto a cart, raised one hand
in a brief salute, and began:

‘
My friends!’ he said, ‘for that is what you are.
I have called you to this muster to give you thanks for what you have
done thus far, but to appeal to you not to leave until the job be
done. The first indenture, issued at Southampton has fallen well
short of what we owe our king.’

There was a stirring and a shuffling of feet. The Earl
raised his voice and went on:

‘
We won at Valmont, and again at Cap le Havre, but we
have not yet won the war. Armagnac is bloodied, but he is not beaten.
Burgundy has also lifted its head. The land between here and Paris is
still in dispute. No king has surrendered, no prince has sued for
peace. The lords and nobles of France still gather to drive us into
the sea.’

He looked about him. ‘I see the badge of St George on
a hundred jacks before me, and David’s flower on the breasts of
twice a hundred Welshmen. And men from the highlands north of the old
wall. Will you turn away now, or will you be first to take another
indenture from your lord?’

There was a silence.

It is for your king,’ he said.

Again, no one spoke. Then from somewhere in the crowd, a
knight shouted: ‘For the king!’ Another took up the cry, and then
another. Soon it became a roar: ‘For the king! For the king!’ and
the men surged forward to where the scribes and clerks waited.

After the speech, and Earl Thomas had got down from the
cart, James who had been standing listening along with the others,
turned and began to walk away back across the field. He had almost
reached the other side where a path leads along the river bank to the
postern gate when he heard steps coming up behind him. He spun round
half expecting a footpad, or at least some archer about to set a
prank. But it was Sir Walter Hungerford, and William Bretoun with
him.

‘
James of Chiswick’, said Sir Walter without waiting
for James to bow or even salute him. ‘Faith, you walk fast! Thought
we’d catch you up long before this. We’re nearly at the town.’

James nodded and reached to his cap: ‘My Lord . . .
Captain William.’

There was a short silence. Sir Walter glanced at William
and coughed. A little uncertainly, the Yeovil captain began to speak:
‘James, will you be renewing your indenture with Earl Thomas? Are
you coming with us?’

For a moment, James did not answer. He was confused by
the question, the more so since there were hundreds of archers at the
muster, and any one of them could be asked the same question. But in
the end, he shook his head: ‘No, Captain William. I’m for England
within the next few days. I’ll collect my pay, sign for my share of
prize money, and be on my way.’

William looked at Sir Walter and frowned. Then he turned
to James again: ‘But ye see where your duty lies in this, James. We
need every good man. You heard the Earl.’

‘
Aye I heard him, Captain, but I’m still away home.’

‘
Ye are sworn to your lord, man!’

James nodded. ‘I am sworn to my lord, but promised to
my wife. She is with child, and I’ll be there to see it born.’ He
could feel himself reddening under the gaze of Sir Walter but kept
his head slightly bowed, and turned towards William.

‘
An oath to your lord’, said William quietly, ‘must
come before a promise to your wife.’

James looked up. He liked this captain. Liked his
strength, his honesty, his open ways. Sir Walter had chosen well. He
answered him carefully. ‘My sworn duty to the king remains. My duty
to Earl Thomas does not go beyond this indenture.’
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