The Bow (19 page)

Giles also stood. He bowed. ‘Safer my lord abbot, but not better.
We must decline your kind offer, and push on now. We will take our
chances in the street.’

‘And you think that wise, my son?’

‘I am thinking that Fecamp asleep will be friendlier than Fecamp
awake, father. Besides, I am eager to be home. How could I sleep a
bowshot from the family hearth?’

The abbot sighed. ‘Well, so be it. But if I were you I would drink
no more this night. “In moderatio sana est” and you will need
your wits about you.’

Pushing back the trestle, and brushing crumbs from his jack, James
now got to his feet. He belched, and put his hand to his mouth. ‘I
knew a man,’ he said, ‘who did not drink at all. Not wine, nor
beer, nor any strong drink.’

The abbot raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that so? Such a fellow is either
a madman or a saint. There is nothing in between.’

‘Or else he is dead,’ muttered Giles. ‘But we will take your
advice in this, my lord abbot: no more of your fine Benedictine, and
a clear head for the way home.’

‘Just so. Wait here for a moment and I will send my vintenar to
you. He will guide you to the stables, and to the postern gate that
leads to the port. Stay away from the docks and hug the shadows.
After that, the Lord be with you.’ He gave a slight bow and was
gone.

Within the hour they had left the abbey precincts, made their way
through the streets of the port and cleared the outer walls via the
postern gate. The vintenar farewelled them, and they took the road to
the castle.

It was a dark night with a new moon and broken clouds. They could
scarcely see more than twenty paces ahead, but Giles knew the way
well, and urged his horse into a trot as soon as they had crossed the
old stone bridge beyond the town meadow.

Chateau Le Normand de Fecamp was neither grand nor large. However,
despite the damage suffered in the seige of 1411 it was well built
and well-protected with a dry moat, high curtain walls, and four
largely intact bastion corner towers, as well as a double barbican in
the latest style. The owner, the duke, called himself such in careful
defiance of his liege lords across the channel. With his allegiance
also owed to the king of France, he kept an uneasy watch over the
narrow border between the sea and the Norman heartland. He was
popular in and around Fecamp because he was seen as a native Norman
warlord, but he was regarded as a nuisance by any English commanders
who were sent to establish their king’s authority in the region.

And so he had sent his son to fight alongside the Armagnac at Cap le
Havre. And so the Earl of Dorset had sent his son back home again.

‘There it is!’ said Giles suddenly, pulling his horse to a halt.

‘Where?’ said James staring into the blackness.

‘There! Directly in front, and a bit to the left. See? The shadow
of a tower, and a single light. Do you see?’

‘I see nothing.’

Giles laughed. ‘How do you English ever win a battle when even your
archers are blind?’ He pointed again. ‘See now! Look!’

James stared again. All at once he could see it: a tower and part way
up a lighted window. Not more than a slit. He nodded. ‘I see. How
far?’

‘Not far. Perhaps a thousand paces,’ Giles replied, his voice
rising with excitement. ‘Nearly home!’

When they arrived they stood well back from the gate, beyond the
ditch and hailed the guard. A torch flared into life on the
battlements, and a helmeted figure bobbed into view.

‘Qui vive?’ The voice was heavy, guttural and full of suspicion.
James could see the glint of a crossbow in the torchlight.

‘C’est moi, Caspar! C’est moi. Voici Giles!’

Someone laughed – James could not tell who – and there was the
sound of running on the wall-walk. A shout, the sound of hinges
turning, and a clattering of arms down a staircase.

‘I think they are coming,’ said Giles. ‘Pray God it is Lucien
who opens the gate, and not Caspar. He’s the only one who doesn’t
jam the chain.’

More torches appeared along the battlement, then at last came the
sound of chainwork and the drawbridge was slowly lowered. At the same
time the portcullis, immediately behind, was raised, the metal
fittings sliding smoothly in the polished stone channels.

'Lucien!’ said Giles to himself, then stood in the stirrups and
called again.

As their horses clopped across the drawbridge the guards stepped
forward to greet them, reaching up to take Giles’ hand,
grinning,and slapping his saddle. They looked at James, frowned, then
shrugged and waved him in.

More men-at arms appeared and some servants as well. Everyone seemed
to be chattering and pointing, but James could not make out what was
being said, apart from the general excitement at the return of the
squire.

When they reached the bailey, and the gate to the inner ward the duke
himself appeared. He stood on the steps that led up to the great
hall. A cloak was wrapped about him, and his greying hair hung
tangled over his shoulders, but he stood like a king. Two spearmen
either side of him, held torches.

'My father,’ said Giles. He dismounted, motioned for James to do
the same, and went forward. As he neared his father he stopped and
knelt, head lowered. There was a pause, then the duke took his son by
the shoulders and raised him up. ‘Mon fils!’ he said, and
embraced him.

At that moment, Giles’ mother also appeared. She gave a cry and
swept down the steps, scarcely waiting for her husband to step back
before she flung her arms about her son.

James stood awkwardly to one side until Giles, at last freeing
himself, made a hasty introduction. The duke listened, tight-lipped,
his singular stare giving nothing away. His eagle nose and high-cheek
bones were etched out like stone in the torchlight, and his deep set
eyes shone. James sensed he was standing in the presence of a warrior
and a warlord who had seen more fighting than most his age, and had
tasted defeat as well as victory.

After a slight, hesitant bow, the archer reached inside his tunic and
took out the letter Sir Walter had given him at Harfleur. He took a
step toward the duke: ‘From my lord the Earl of Dorset, sire,’ he
said and bowed again.

The duke took the letter, but did not open it. ‘You have given me
back my son,’ he said. ‘Is this the price I have to pay?’

‘There is no price sire. Your son is freely given.’

‘Then this?’ The duke held up the letter.

‘No more than greetings, sire,’ replied James, hoping desperately
that it was so.

With a glance at his wife and a cough, the duke broke the seal on the
letter. He opened and read it, waving a spearman forward to throw
more light across his shoulder. All around, the castle folk fell
silent.

The duke read silently, peering at the cramped Latin and moving his
lips as he studied it. At last he looked up, and folded the letter.

‘Your lord bids me hold friendship with him as long as I hold these
lands,’ he grunted. ‘Well, if I cannot keep order, I may as well
keep faith!’ He sighed, and tapped the parchment. ‘Tell your
master that for the life and honour of my son, I will return honour
and peace to him.’

James bowed and looked uncertainly into the night. ‘Before I go my
lord . . .’

‘What? What! Ah, non! You do not go now! Impossible!’ He laughed
and winked at Giles. ‘You may be English, sir archer, but you are
our guest. Come! Come!’ He ushered him forward, all the while
shouting instructions at servants and guards who turned and hurried
this way and that.

James slept through what remained of the night in the Great Hall. He
was given a straw palliasse next to the fire, and bedded down
alongside an old serving-man and his dog. Both man and dog snored but
James did not mind. He was content: warm, dry and content. The letter
was delivered, the squire was safely home, and on the morrow he could
return to Harfleur.

Smiling, he wrapped himself in his cloak, lay on his side and gazed
into the glowing embers of the fire: Harfleur, then home. Back to his
Hettie. And a little one come summer, God willing. A log burned
through and slipped down among the embers, sending sparks whirling up
the chimney.

How long had it been? How many weeks? Soon it would be spring. There
was ploughing to do, and a barley crop to be sown. He nodded to
himself as he drifted off to sleep. Simon would help out. He was
always there. Simon would yoke the oxen for Hettie. He would mutter
about it, and suck his teeth, but he would do it all the same. And
his young nephew, Peter, would do the ploughing. The soil was easy to
work, and had already been broken up last autumn: he had seen to
that, when they put in the winter wheat. Gave Peter six pennies for
the promise of his ploughing.

His eyes were almost closed now. The snoring faded. Hettie would be
all right. With five shillings already in the purse of the miller, he
knew his wife would not want for help if the harvest came early, or
he came late. Or if he fell . . .here in France. He rolled over,
yawned and slept.

Morning came with a heavy, freezing mist. James woke to the sound of
the castle making ready for the day: the fire being raked out, rushes
being strewed, floors swept and tables scrubbed. He washed his face
in a basin of cold water from the well, and sat for a while watching
the folk prepare food for the day.

The duke and his wife came late to breakfast. They bowed left and
right to no one in particular, then took their places on the raised
dais at the head of the hall. When they caught sight of James seated
at a table with the kitchen hands and serving girls, they beckoned
him across.

He came and stood before them and was quickly made to sit.

‘No ceremony! No ceremony!’ said the duke. ‘As I am Roger le
Normand de Fecamp I’ll have no ceremony at the first meal of the
day. Respects to the Good Lord and none else! What say you, Emma?’

His wife smiled quickly, and adjusted her wimple. ‘As my lord
says,’ she replied, and signalled for a page to bring trenchers and
cups.

They ate in silence, and were joined at length by Giles who greeted
his parents with a kiss and cheerfully acknowledged James.

‘Are you with us for a season?’ he asked.

James shook his head. ‘I must away,’ he said. ‘The Earl awaits
a reply, and I’m for England as soon as I can.’

The duke nodded and wiped his beard. ‘Then we will write you a
reply as soon as my scribe is out of his bed,’ he said. ‘And I
will make sure it is one that puts your master in a good mood. We
would not keep you from your wife and family, since you were the one
who brought our son home to us.’

‘That is generous sire.’

‘It is right. That is all.’ The duke pushed a platter of salted
pork towards James. ‘Now eat! You will need strength for the
journey home.’

James took a slice of pork to his trencher and ate thoughtfully. ‘How
shall I travel, my lord?’ he asked at last. ‘I was not well
received at Fecamp, and the woods at Goderville . . .’

‘Hah! An escort you mean? Out of the question I’m afraid. Too few
men, and too dangerous a road even for them. Come to think of it, it
was something of a miracle you even made it here with Giles. You must
have had an angel or two at your stirrup.’ He laughed, and ignored
his wife’s elbow in his ribs.

‘But father!’ Giles broke in. ‘He cannot go on his own! He
would not last three leagues.’

‘Tis true, husband,’ added the duke’s wife. ‘We would be
picking him out of a ditch this side of Fecamp.’

‘Bah! Did I say we would abandon this man?’ said the duke. ‘No,
of course not! But he will not ride back to Harfleur. Neither on his
own, nor with escort.’ He beamed, and spread his arms. ‘He will
go by ship!’

‘By ship?’

‘By ship! I have it all in hand, or rather in my head. He will take
ship with the cog John de Groen which is at anchor now in Fecamp
harbour.’

‘The de Groen?’ asked Giles.

‘Aye, the de Groen. It is bound from Bruges to Harfleur with a
cargo of Flemish cloth and put in here two days ago to take on some
casks of wine.’

No one spoke for a time. The duke sat back and poured himself a cup
of watered wine. Emma, his wife, played thoughtfully with a braid of
her hair, and Giles scratched the head of his hunting dog. James was
about to say something when a page came into the hall, bowed and ran
up to the duke. He thrust a parchment into his hand, bowed again and
left.

The duke read, and smiled. ‘Ah, this is indeed it! A message from
the master of the de Groen. He replies to my earlier message. See! I
am not as idle as you take me to be! Now, what does he say?’ He
read again, then irritated gave it to his wife. ‘Here, Emma! You
can read his Flemish scrawl.’

His wife snatched the parchment, and quickly read it out loud:

‘To my lord Roger le Normand: greetings. We are pleased to offer
safe passage to Harfleur for one James of Harfleur, archer to the
Earl of Dorset. Two English crowns to be paid upon his safe arrival
at the Earl’s port. This letter to be carried as a warrant.’

She handed the letter back.

‘What about pirates?’ she said.

'Pirates! Pirates be damned woman! What about pirates! I find this
fellow the safest passage in all of France and you prattle on about
pirates.’

Emma shrugged. ‘Not many years since, the English pirate John
Boucher of Harfleur captured a ship off Lymington and brought it all
the way back here. His own people! And then there’s . . .’

‘Tusht, woman! We are not talking about crossing the channel in a
winter storm. This is no more than a short run down the coast to
Harfleur. It may not be the sailing season, but the weather is calm
enough, and most pirates, licensed or otherwise, will be filling the
taverns of English and French ports.’

‘And not a few will have heard of this fat little cog come
scuttling down from Flanders with its belly full.’