The Bow (17 page)

‘
Nay, Yevan. I’m happy as it is. Besides, I want you
to stay and keep an eye on young Ralf. I’ve spent to much time on
him to come back and find he drowned in some back street tavern.’

The Welshman laughed. ‘Nursemaid is it, am I ?’ he
said.

At the third hour Giles Le Normand came to the provost’s
tent. He was accompanied by Sir Walter and two knights of Dorset’s
retinue. The Frenchman’s armour had been restored to him, and he
carried his shield slung across one shoulder. One of the knights
carried his pennoned lance, and a page boy led his horse.

He greeted James with a slight nod of the head, and a
brief smile, then turned to Sir Walter. ‘Mon seigneur!’ he said,
and bowed. Sir Walter returned his salute, and then slapped him on
the shoulder:

‘
Go well, young fellow and watch out for this archer
here. He’s a moody rogue!’

‘
Seigneur?’

Sir Walter laughed, and shook his head. ‘C’est rien,
mon chevalier. C’est rien! Toute est bien!’

The squire smiled back, but looked a little puzzled. He
took his horse from the page, swung into the saddle and received his
lance. James farewelled Yevan, saluted Sir Walter and also climbed
into the saddle. His own horse was a little skittish, but he brought
it under control, and then signalled to Giles that he was ready. At
the last moment Sir Walter pressed a letter into James’ hand. ‘Take
care of this,’ he said. ‘It bears the Earl’s seal, and is to be
delivered to the duke of Fecamp. No one else.’

James nodded.

Without any further ceremony they set off, and were soon
well beyond the camp gates and riding along the north bank of the
Seine estuary. For a long time they rode in silence, James taking the
lead, occasionally turning in the saddle to see that Giles was still
with him, and that he had taken the right path. As the way ahead
broadened, and the grassy slopes fell away to the shore line on their
left, Giles eased his horse forward till he was riding next to James.

Still they did not speak, but looked ahead, or
concentrated on the clumps of trees and scrub that appeared every so
often along the route.

The winter sun fell across their backs, but there was
little warmth in it and it cast unwelcome shadows whenever the road
wound among slight woodlands. Once James had to stop when the road
forked to north-west and east without a milestone or marker to point
the way. He glanced at Giles who pointed to the east, and they went
on, still without a word. When the path drew in, and the forest came
closer James paused to take off his bow-cover, and string his bow. As
he climbed back into the saddle he noticed that Giles had loosened
his sword in its scabbard, and untied his helmet from the pommel. He
put it on, but kept the visor up.

They pressed on, needing now to be silent and listening
for anything that might signal an ambush.

At length, as the sun moved south and west, they came to
a place where the trees over-arched the road, and for about two
hundred paces the way ahead was lost in the gloom. Reining his horse
in, James stared ahead. The young squire who had dropped back for a
short while, trotted his horse forward till he was beside James.

‘
C’est un problem?’ he asked.

‘
Oui, mon ami’, replied James quietly. He slid from
the saddle and nocked an arrow. As he did so there was a sudden cry,
then another. Two men rushed out of the shadows to their left. A
third man stepped onto the path ahead of them, a crossbow raised.

James turned and made as to fire at the men to his left.
Instinctively they flinched and turned aside. In one sweeping
movement he moved and shot at the crossbowman. James felt the breath
of the bolt as it hissed over his shoulder, but he grunted with
satisfaction to see the crossbow jerk upwards, and the man fall
backwards onto the roadway with an arrow in his chest.

Almost instantly, the others were upon him, and more
besides. He was dimly aware that the squire was striking down at
someone to his right. At the same time he struck out with his
bowstave, and caught one attacker on the side of the jaw, knocking
him to the ground. But the other rushed under his guard and drove him
against his horse, so that it shied, and they both toppled beneath
its hooves. There was a hand about his throat, and the glint of an
upraised dagger. His arms were pinned, and he knew that the
death-blow was inevitable. His eyes clenched shut. The blow when it
came drove the breath from his chest. But there was no pain.

Slowly he opened his eyes. The robber was staring at
him, wide-eyed, motionless. Lying across his chest, dead.

Someone rolled the body clear. He gasped, and felt an
arm take his and haul him to his feet.

‘
Bien?’ It was the squire.

James breathed deeply and looked about him. ‘Yes’,
he said. ‘I’m fine.’

There were three, no four bodies scattered about. The
squire stood, his sword all bloodied, and his shield split where an
axe had taken it. There was no expression in his eyes, just a certain
coolness, but James noticed that his sword arm shook slightly. ‘We
must get your horse’, the squire said in a heavy accent.

‘
You speak English, then?’

‘
A little.’ There was a faint smile. ‘My mother
taught me.’ He looked around. ‘And my father taught me to fight.’

‘
They both taught you well. I thank God your learning
failed you at Cap le Havre.’

The squire smiled again. ‘Perhaps, I also am
grateful.’ He held out his hand. ‘Giles Le Normand de Fecamp.’

'James of Chiswick’, replied James taking his hand and
shaking it.

They turned and looked again at the bodies of the
robbers. The one James had struck with his bowstave was still alive,
and beginning to groan as he regained consciousness. Giles stepped
forward as if to finish him, but James held him back: ‘No, enough
blood for one day. Besides, these are your people.’

Giles shook his head: ‘They are no one’s people.
They are outlaws. But we will let this one live. Perhaps he will
learn from his headache.’ He wiped his sword clean and re-sheathed
it. ‘Let us be gone,’ he said.

As evening came on they cleared the woods, and found
themselves on an open scarp high above the sea. There was a strong
wind blowing from the west, and they could see afar off storm clouds
billowing up on the horizon.

'Bad weather’, said James. ‘There’s no shelter
here. Perhaps we should go back to the forest.’

Giles pulled his cloak about him. ‘I have a better
idea. There is a monastery. Not far, to the north-east. We can find
shelter there.’

James gazed into the dusk. There was no sign of any
building: no church tower, no house, no barn, not even a hut, just a
featureless scape as far as he could see. ‘Are you sure?’

‘
On my honour. I have ridden these fields since I was
a boy.’

James nodded, and they pressed on, turning away from the
coast and heading inland. The wind was strengthening all the time,
driving against their backs and whipping the horses’ manes. The
pennon of Fecamp snapped against the lance, as Giles dipped it, and
rested it across his shoulder. They had gone perhaps a mile before
the first rain drops spattered about them. A hundred paces later the
storm broke about them. There was a flash of lightning, a roll of
thunder and the rain lashed down. Though James had rammed his leather
cap down on his head, the wind plucked it off and sent it whirling
across the fields. He cursed and bent low in the saddle. Giles now
led the way, leaving the road, and pushing along a narrow track that
led across a shapeless wasteland.

The rain now drifted ahead of them in grey, gusting
curtains, and the ground grew heavier beneath the horses’ hooves.
Soon it was dark, and they went on like blind men, the way ahead only
lit by lightning. With each flash came the thunder, and all the time
closer until it seemed to fall from right above their heads in a
deafening crash, and the ground shook. The horses reared, then
steadied. As the last rumbles of thunder died away, Giles turned in
the saddle, hand cupped to his mouth, and called:

‘
Not far now. Over the rise, and then we will see it.’

‘
Over what rise? See what?’ muttered James to
himself, but he urged his horse forward. His quilted jack was soaked
but the fustian and horn plates of the lining gave some protection
against the wind. Above all, his woollen cloak, now with hood pulled
up, gave him comfort in the madness of the storm.

They began to climb. It was slow, almost imperceptible,
but they were climbing. The wind drove them on. For about a bow shot
they went, then the way levelled. James looked up. He saw two
pinpoints of light hanging in the darkness. ‘I see it!’ he
shouted. Giles nodded and waved him on.

An hour later they came to the gates of the monastery.
It loomed out of the murk, almost completely shrouded by rain and
swirling mist. The two watch-tower beacons high above the walls
guided them in. Dismounting in the shelter of the gateway, they
hammered on the door and waited.

At length a viewing port slid open, and a face peered
out. Giles spoke rapidly in a Norman patois, the port slid shut, and
moments later a side gate opened. Without waiting for a greeting they
led their horses through, and found themselves in a covered footway
that went through to a cloistered courtyard. A cowled monk led the
way, then disappeared. As they stood shivering and uncertain in the
torchlit cloister, a bleary-eyed stable boy appeared, bowed and took
their horses. At the same time the abbot himself emerged, flanked by
two novices and beaming broadly with arms held out in welcome. He
advanced towards them, massive broad-shouldered and craggy, looking
more like a blacksmith than a cleric. James said as much.

The abbot threw back his head and roared with laughter:
‘Faith! But there is truth in that English tongue!’ he said. ‘We
built this monastery with out own hands some fifteen years ago:
quarried the stones, hewed the wood, and hammered every hinge.’

‘
And learnt English, too my lord abbot’, said James
ducking head.

‘
Are not your English kings dukes of Normandy? How
could we do else?’ He winked then clapped his hands together: ‘But
come! You cannot stand all shivering here in the middle of the night.
It’s warmth you want and dry clothes, and hot food by a fire. Not
so? Of course!’ He ushered them away from the cloister and into the
heart of the monastery.

A while later Giles and James found themselves seated at
a refectory table in front of a blazing fire. They had cups of honey
mead in their hands, bread and cheese before them, and woollen cloaks
across their shoulders.

'Not bad folk, these,’ said James.

‘
Cistercians,’ replied Giles. ‘White monks.Good
people. Honest. Hardworking. Not yet corrupt. They build, they farm,
they pray to God.’

‘
And keep a fine hostel.’

‘
Yes, that is sure.’

Outside, the storm still howled about the eaves and roof
tops, making the fire gust. James stared into the flames. ‘Tomorrow,
Fecamp?’

Giles nodded. ‘God willing, we should make it by
noon.’ He shifted his gaze to the vaulted ceiling. ‘If the storm
passes, that is.’

After that, neither of them spoke for some time. There
was no one else about: the monks had shown them their cells for the
night, given them food and a place by the fire, then left. They sat
alone and content in the refectory.

‘
You miss your wife?’ asked Giles suddenly.

James looked up, surprised. ‘You know I am married?’

‘
Hah! You wear loneliness like that cloak across your
shoulders. You have a wife, and a dear one, that I will swear to.’

‘
Then you are old above your years, Giles le Normand,’
smiled James. ‘I have a wife, Hettie, and she is expecting a child
in the Summer.’

‘
And you would be there?’

‘
I have promised.’ James broke a piece of bread and
dipped it in his mead. ‘No more of France.’

‘
I hear’, said Giles carefully, ‘that you refused
an indenture, and forfeited the right to my ransom.’

James raised his eyebrows, and shrugged. ‘I explained
to my lord of Dorset, and he explained to me. And so I am here.’

‘
You English,’ replied Giles with a laugh. ‘So
loyal, so disciplined.’

‘
I am a bowman,’ grunted James, examining the lees
in his cup. ‘The bow is my profession. Farming is my trade.’ He
stood up and stretched. ‘My profession keeps me in my trade. I am a
free man, and six feet of good English yew keeps me free.’

'Then you have, James of Chiswick, what we in France do
not have. Perhaps that is why you keep beating us in this war.’

James smiled sadly. ‘For the moment. But in the end, I
think you will win.’

‘
Why so?’

‘
Because you fight for your home, but we fight for
money.’

A stronger gust of wind shook the roof, and smoke
billowed into the room. They watched the sparks flare and settle. In
the corner, an old dog they had not noticed before, got to its feet
and padded over to them. Giles patted its shaggy coat and shook his
head. ‘We have a home, but no nation,’ he said quietly. ‘We
have a king, but no kingdom. Am I not sent back to my father, so that
he can pledge allegiance to your king?’