The Bow (25 page)

James nodded. ‘I sail on the noon tide, my lord.’

‘Well then, let’s make sure ye sail with a full purse, and a fair
wind for fellowship.’

With his wallet heavy against his hip, and his belly warm with honey
mead and fresh baked bread from the Earl’s own kitchen, James swung
away down the lane that led to the main dockside. The streets were
crowded already, and the smell of salted fish and sea tackle hung in
the dusty air. He was on his way home, at last!

With just a hundred paces to go before he reached the quayside, he
came upon a group of Gascon spearmen lounging outside a tavern. They
looked up when they saw him coming, and waved a greeting. He waved
back, and went to pass them by. One of them stepped forward, and took
him by the arm:

‘A moment, friend. Will you not stop and share a drink with fellow
soldiers?’

James smiled, shook his head, and shrugged the arm off. ‘I’m away
to the port,’ he said.

The Gasconer frowned. ‘You insult me then.’

‘I insult no one,’ replied James, and he began to move away.

‘You insult me!’ repeated the Gasconer, raising his voice.

There was a shout from the other spearmen and they began to gather,
closing in on James. He saw a fist, and a glint of steel.

Pushing the first Gasconer back, he drew his sword and retreated
across the street which suddenly seemed empty of everyone but the
spearmen.

They began to taunt him, calling out and laughing as he came against
a door barred shut, and began to hammer on it. He turned to face
them, but they knocked the sword out of his hand, and in an instant
were upon him, throwing him to the ground, and kicking him about the
ribs and back.

Rolling over, he tried to get to his feet, but took a blow in the
stomach, and fell back against the door. Again he saw the glint of
steel and threw his hands up, as they came at him again. The knife
struck him on the chest, but caught against the lining of his jack
and was turned. He tried to grab it, but someone’s fist caught him
on the jaw sending him reeling.

His eyes began to mist, and he felt himself sinking. He was dimly
aware of voices shouting, and a hand at his shoulder. Someone threw
water over his head. It ran down the back of his neck making him
blink and sit up. The light was far brighter than he had remembered.
People were looking down at him, talking quietly to each other, but
he couldn’t recognize them. They were shadows against the light. He
closed his eyes again, felt more water splash across his face. They
were trying to lift him to his feet. Reaching out, he felt the wall
and pushed himself up. There was a pounding in his ears, but it was
fading already, and he began to see clearly. Suddenly he felt cold,
and began to shiver violently. A cloak was put around his shoulders.
He looked up:

‘Dickon! Dickon of Chester!’

Dickon laughed. ‘Aye, well, close enough for a southerner who has
just had the sense knocked out of him. How are ye lad?’

‘A little sore . . .but all right, thanks to ye.’ James looked
around. Three Gascon spearmen were lying sprawled in the street. The
others had gone.

'They nearly did for me, Dickon.’

The Nantwich bowman smiled. ‘You were in a bit of a pickle all
right. We come round the corner – Martin, Andrew and meself – and
there you are all backed up against that wall, and fighting like ye
are blind drunk.’

James nodded. ‘I’m obliged to ye.’

'Hah! Man, it was nothing. They scattered like sheep. These three
here fell over in the rush, that’s all.’ He laughed, and gestured
to the other archers. ‘Come on lads, let’s get this poor
creature down to his boat before there’s any more trouble.’

They picked up James’ bow and kit, threw a coin to a small boy to
get him to run to the guard-house at the Rouen gate , and set off to
find the Princess of Rye. At first they had to hold up James between
them, but by the time they arrived at the gangplank to the cog, he
was feeling strong enough to walk on his own. They found the master
of ‘The Princess’ stowing the last of the cargo. He was a dour ,
beetle browed Sussex sailor, who stood with his hands on his hips,
but lowered his head as he spoke, muttering into his beard:

‘Aye, ah, well, it’s another archer for home, I see. Ye don’t
look too sharp, sirrah. Haven’t got the flux, ‘ave ye? Can’t
have that aboard my vessel. Had enough of that last year.’ He
smacked his fist into his palm. ‘You lot turned this here cog into
a regular spital. A shambles it was, more like. Was a wonder all my
crew didn’t come down with the plague.’ He peered up at James,
from beneath his brows. ‘So how are ye son? Are ye fit an’ well?’

‘James nodded. ‘I had a brush with some Gascons on the way here,
that’s all. They spied my wallet.’

The shipmaster grunted. ‘Aye, like as not they did. I see ye have
your wallet and your brains, so ye made safe haven, and that’s all
that matters.’

He checked James’ documents, and took half-payment for the voyage.
‘Over there!’ he said, pointing at the fo’castle. ‘Stow your
gear over there. We leave on the noon tide, and we don’t wait for
stragglers.’

A short while later, James sat down in the sun with his back against
the gunwale of the fo’castle. With the other bowmen gone back into
town, Dickon came and sat beside him. They watched the crew at work,
listened to the seagulls calling and wheeling above their heads, and
felt the warmth of the day against their faces.

‘Can’t think how you came upon me,’ said James.

‘We was looking for ye, yer lumpkin!’ replied Dickon. ‘My
brother John told me where you were.’

‘You’ve seen him, then!’

Dickon grinned. ‘Aye, I have, and it was me that spoke first.
Frightened the life out of the both of us.’

‘That was well done.’

‘Maybe so, maybe so.’ Dickon watched as two sailors wrestled with
a bale of cloth swung on board by block and tackle. ‘It’s
peaceable now, John and I. Said our piece, cleared decks. Shook hands
we did. Like real brothers.’ He paused. ‘It’s then he tells me
you’re away to the docks to England, signing off with the Earl on
the way.’

‘You came to see me off?’

‘We came to see ye right. An archer with full pay and bonuses in
his wallet is a target for any rogue.’

James sat up and eased his back against the gunwale. ‘So how could
these Gascons have known?’

Dickon laughed: ‘How could they not have guessed?’

James gazed blankly at him, so Dickon went on:

‘English archer, talk of the town, paid off handsomely by our lord
of Dorset, and sent on his way, on his very own this very day,
unescorted through the streets of Harfleur . . .’

‘All right, all right,’ James held up his hand. ‘You don’t
have to go on. I see your drift.’ He sighed. ‘Well, thanks to you
and your mates I’m in one piece.’

‘And thanks to you and your mates, I still have a brother.’

He paused. ‘Hey, up! Here’s someone we know.’ He stood. James
lifted himself up and looked. Eric and Ralf were coming down the
street to the port. They were hurrying with quarter staves in their
hands.

The two men waved and came aboard, elbowing aside a sailor who tried
to stop them.

‘At last!’ said Eric. ‘Found you at last! Got lost down these
rat trap alleys and ended up at the wrong dock.’ He slapped James
on the shoulder. ‘Thought you might need a hand.’

James grinned. ‘You thought right, but Dickon here, and his friends
baled me out.’

‘Trouble?’

‘Gasconers. Drawn to my wallet.’

Eric spat at his feet. ‘Gasconers! They fight like fury, and
there’s none better in a battle line, but give them a sniff of
liquor . . .’

'Aye, I know, but it’s all over now, and no harm done.’ James
rubbed his jaw. ‘Just a few bruises.’

‘You and your bruises!’ laughed Eric. Then he turned to Ralf.
‘Here lad, show James!’ The younger archer came forward, reaching
inside his tunic. He took out a waxed cloth parcel and handed it
over. ‘It’s for ye,’ he said. ‘From Emma Jeanne. A special
infusion if the first does not work.’

James took it, and held it to his nose. ‘Saffron!’ he said.

‘Aye, saffron, and more besides. From the apothecary’s best
supply. For princes, lords and men of great means. None but the
best.’

‘Stolen?’

‘Borrowed in hope,’ smiled Eric. ‘Spirited away by a girl who
should know better, but thinks with her heart and not her head.’

James hesitated, and shook his head, so Eric went on: ‘Ye know
she’s caught young Yevan’s eye. They’re away walking in the
meadow now.’ He paused. ‘He says to say goodbye, and that ye’ll
be back before ye know it.’

James frowned. ‘I cannot take this.’ He went to hand the package
back, but the man-at-arms stayed his arm:

‘You’ll take it, and you’ll take it in the way it was took,’
Eric said quietly. ‘The lass did it for ye and yer wife. She did
it for good reason.’ He nodded reassuringly and went on: ‘Simon
won’t miss it, and even if he did, a moment’s thought would tell
him it was the right thing. Only his wife would dither.’

James stared hard at the packet, then looked at Dickon who winked and
nodded:

‘Take it lad. If the fever’s got a grip, you’ll thank the day
that poor girl took it into her head to help ye.’

‘I will?’

‘Ye will. There’s no law in Cheshire, says a man can’t do all
he aught to save a loved one.’

James gripped the wallet, and looked down at it. ‘All right,’ he
said, and thrust it inside his tunic. ‘Tell Emma Jeanne I’m
obliged to her.’

The Princess Jane of Rye sailed on the noon tide. There were more
than was usual to see her off. Apart from the expected customs
officials,victuallers, port guards, dockworkers and waggoners, there
was a small gathering of silent well wishers. Ralf and Eric were
there, along with Dickon and the other two Cheshire bowmen. William
Bretoun had also come at the last moment, just as the fore’ard rope
was being cast off. He stood on the quayside near the bow, and called
up to James as the cog swung clear of the dock: ‘Ware James! For
ye, James of Chiswick, for ye!’ Then he tossed a package onto the
deck. James opened it. It was a gold chain.

‘A gift for your wife and child!’ he called. ‘From Agincourt!’

James waved back. ‘How can I repay you?’

‘Remember me!’ The captain of archers turned and was gone,
disappearing among the ever-changing furniture of the dockside.

At the very last, just as James was about to look to his stowage and
berth, he caught sight of Bartholomew Ralph and his Greta standing
quietly to one side in the shadow of an eaved doorway.

He shouted and waved. Even at that distance, he saw them smile,
glance at one another and then as if in perfect unison bow in his
direction. A four-wheeled cart drawn by three horses pulled up
between them and the quayside so that they were lost to view. The
breeze picked up, the cog dipped its bow to the channel, and Harfleur
was swallowed by the tightening sail.

James leaned against the deckrail. ‘Home!’ he said, and turned
his face towards the sea.

James stood on the harbourside in the early dawn, at
Lymington and sighed. It was landfall, and it was England. With that
he would have to be content. A sudden squall had blown them off
course in the Solent and they had been driven west of Southampton,
despite the curses of the captain and the efforts of the crew.
Lymington had saved them from a broken back and a lost cargo
somewhere along the Wessex coast. Its deep, wide reach had welcomed
them in, and they moored gratefully among the fishingboats and
wherries of the little port.

The harbourmaster, grinning from ear to ear, hailed them
from the shore, and sent two lads in a dinghy to claim the mooring
toll, and tell them when they could disembark. The captain swore and
spat, but knew that he could do no more than wait for a good tide, a
favourable breeze, and a commissioned pilot who could guide them
through the shoals to Southampton.

James had decided not to wait. He paid off his passage,
collected his gear, and taking up his bow, left the ship and took the
dinghy back to shore. So now he was stood on the harbourside, with a
day’s journey ahead of him, and nowhere to buy a horse.

Stopping for a meal at a tavern, he set off along the
road that wound beside the estuary. Soon he was headed east towards
the New Forest and Southampton. Once there, he would be able to
deliver the licence to the king’s commissioners, see it endorsed,
and arrange for a woolbroker’s agent to deliver it back to
Harfleur.

Towards the forenoon hour the following day he caught up
with a convoy of licensed victuallers, escorted by ten mounted
archers. They were bound for the king’s ships at Southampton, but
one of the wagons had mired in a ditch. After the usual muttered
greetings, James put his shoulder to the wheel and a while later the
wagon came free. With a nod to the sergeant, James slung his gear up
onto the wagon and scrambled after it. Settling in among the sacks of
grain and beans he was soon fast asleep, undisturbed by the bumping
and crashing of the wheels as the carts made their way along the
forest track.

He woke up in Southampton. A grimy, scrap-capped
purveyor was looking down at him. ‘What’s this then? A rat in my
grain store? Hey there, lad! Let’s be ‘aving ye out of there!
We’ve work to do, and the tide is on the turn.’

Climbing wearily out of the wagon, James took his kit,
shouldered his bow and shambled away through the port looking for the
commissioners.

It took him an hour or more, but at last he found them
down by a wool store at the far end of the dock. They were checking
and assaying bales from the Cotswolds. A wool broker was waiting to
one side, chewing nervously on a tally stick, and he looked up as
James approached.