The Bow (26 page)

‘
Can I help ye?’ he asked.

‘
I’m from France,’ replied James. ‘With a
licence for the king’s commissioners.’

‘
Ah, well,’ smiled the wool broker, ‘Ye’ll have
to wait apiece. These gentlemen here are checking my wool. Bound for
Bruges it is. All the way from Northleach. Should have come by
London, but the road’s no good that way. Found a mule train coming
to the south coast, and sent it on ahead last Tuesday.’ He stared
impatiently at the commissioners as they examined a bale. ‘It’s
been checked once already at Northleach. See the Merchant Stapler’s
mark, but that’s not good enough for these folk.’ He raised his
voice: ‘You’d think they controlled the tides as well, the amount
of fuss and delay they cause an honest trader.’

One of the commissioners glanced over his shoulder, but
the rest kept working. At last they finished, signalled to a lad to
reseal the bales and turned to the wool broker.

‘
Well, Matthew,’ said the oldest commissioner,
‘That’ll do for shipment. You can arrange payment in the usual
way. The tax is the same as it was last quarter. My man’ll fix the
customs seals, and give you the cockett. ’

The wool broker raised his eyebrows, but remembered to
smile and bow.

‘
Thank you, Sir Peter. Hopefully, my next cargo will
be shipped from port o’ London. There’s a convoy sailing in late
spring for Sluys.’

‘
Aye, that’s as maybe, but wherever you ship it
from, we’ll take the same care, and charge the same levy: sack for
sack, ye know that master Matthew.’

The woolbroker grunted and turned away. He winked at
James. ‘Here you go, now lad! Hope you have better luck than me and
the woolgrowers of Northleach.’

James nodded and stepped forward. He bowed to the
enquiring glance of the commissioner, and handed him the licence. Sir
Peter scanned it.

‘
Hah!’ he said. ‘Bartholomew Ralph! He’s a good
man, and worth his weight in gold to the king. Shipped two thousand
four hundred sacks of wool in one month last year. Let me see . . .’
He read on. ‘All right, then: wool to Harfleur and thence to Bruges
via the staple at Calais. Hmmm! Three ports, but only one point of
sale, and that’s Calais. Can’t quite see what the lad is up to,
but I know him for a straight ‘un, and his father was as honest as
the day is long.’ Looking up, he studied James: ‘So you’re his
agent?’

James grinned. ‘I’m an archer on my way home from
France, sire. I am acting for Master Ralph and for Sir Thomas
Beaufort, the Earl of Dorset.’

‘
So I see. Lofty company for a poor bowman, eh what?’

James did not reply, so the commissioner went on:

‘
If we put our seal to this licence, it’s in the
king’s name. You understand that?’

‘
I do sire.’

‘
And it will draw the same tax. No favours here!’

‘
And none expected sire.’

The commissioner looked hard at James. ‘Have ye been
to Bruges, son?’ he asked at last.

‘
Me sire? No sire?’

‘
Ah, well, it’s a pleasure that’s perhaps awaiting
ye still.’ He smiled and breathed deeply. ‘Wonderful town. City,
really. Born to trade. Just up river from Sluys, and full of everyone
and anyone: Easterlings trading in metals, fur and fish; Italians
selling spices and silks from the Orient; Biscayans coming from south
with hulks laden to the gunwales with salt and sail cloth. And us
English filling the streets with the finest wool.’

‘
Like Harfleur, sire.’

‘
Eh, what? Nay, nay, lad. Not like Harfleur. Bruges is
twice the town, twice the trade. Why ye could fit all of Harfleur’s
merchandise onto Spanish Quay alone, and still have room for a wagon
load of leather and pewter.’ One of the other commissioners tapped
him on the shoulder, and he started: ‘Ah, yes! The licence. Just
so! Well, leave it with us, and we’ll run it past the guildsmen
first. If they have no problem, then neither has the king. Money is
money, and trade is trade, that’s what I always say. Now away with
you, and we’ll see you on the morrow!’

The commissioners gathered up their documents, saluted
the archer and disappeared in among the warehouses.

He shrugged: he had until tomorrow to find someone to
carry the licence back to Harfleur on his behalf. Suddenly, he knew
who that might be. At once he turned around and began to run back
down the dockside towards the town, his bow in one hand, and his
kitbag bouncing against his back. The port was crowded with workmen
making their way to and from the barges and cogs that lined the
quays, and he nearly missed the man he was after in the fading light.
It was the wool broker from Northleach: he was making his way into a
dockside hostelry when James caught up with him, and took him by the
arm: ‘Ho, sir! A moment!’

The wool broker stopped and turned round: ‘Ah, it’s
ye. What’s the fluster? Are them commissioners after ye?’ He
chuckled.

James shook his head, and stood catching his breath. ‘No
sir,’ he replied, ‘But I’m hoping you can help me.’

The woolbroker frowned: ‘A boon, then?’

'A business arrangement,’ James replied quickly.

'So!’ The other relaxed. ‘Come inside here. It’s
safe enough. I know the owner, and we’ll find a table where we can
sit and talk.’

James looked up: the sign of the bear and ragged staff,
its paintwork aged and cracked, swung above his head. ‘A Warwick,’
he thought to himself. ‘And further from home than myself.’ He
followed the wool broker inside. They found a table near the fire,
and ordered pottage and ale.

‘
Matthew Stonor of Northleach,’ said the wool broker
thrusting out a broad and calloused hand. James took it: ‘James
Fletcher of Chiswick,’ he replied.

‘
Ahah! A bowman
and
a fletcher.’

‘
My father’s trade. I am a farmer, holding land from
the bishop of Southwark.’

The wool broker nodded: ‘You said a business
arrangement?’

‘
Aye, I did. I need someone to carry a licence from
here to Harfleur.’ He explained. Matthew listened, head bowed,
hands clasped as he leant forward. When James had finished he sat
back: ‘I cannot do it,’ he said, ‘but I know a man who can. He
is a wool merchant trading in good and middle wool from Chipping
Camden. He mainly trades to mercers in London and the Leadenhall, but
I know he is looking to start a venture in Harfleur within the month.
Name of Robert Cely. He will bear your licence, and we can agree the
fee.’

The deal was struck before the pottage was cold.

In the morning, with the licence signed and sealed,
James handed it over to Matthew Stonor, and received a receipt in the
broker’s own hand. With spirits high, he took the road to
London.

The sun was up, and the spring warmth felt good across
his back. He had decided not to buy a horse in Southampton where
prices were high, but to wait until he got further out into the
countryside where he could find a farmer’s hack for sale at a
reasonable value. The road was firm, though a little rutted, and he
headed inland, skirting the New Forest, and following the ridge that
ran down to the sea from Winchester. By mid afternoon he had made
good progress, and stopped at an inn to take a meal and rest up for
awhile.

As the sun dipped towards the horizon, he determined to
press on to a nearby hamlet where the innkeeper assured him he could
find good lodging, and possibly a farmer willing to sell him a horse.
Neither happened. He missed his way in a tangled copse-wood, and
ended up on a barren chalk scarp as the sun set. There was nothing
for it but to take shelter as best he could, and see the night out.
He spent an uncomfortable night in a dry, bramble covered ditch, and
in the morning walked on.

It wasn’t long before he rejoined the Winchester road,
and came across a carter with a load of firewood for the local manor
house. The carter, pleased to have an archer as a travelling
companion, gladly gave him a lift to a nearby village which lay a
couple of miles distant, and regaled him all the way with stories of
robbers, bandits and rogue priests. Cold, tired and hungry, James
arrived in the village, farewelled the carter, and found breakfast
with the family of the local blacksmith, who also ran the hostelry.

They told him he was not far from Winchester, sold him
an old grey mare, with a strong back and a gentle eye, and set him on
the high road to the town. With the weather fair, and the breeze at
his back he made five miles in the hour, and by noon had sighted the
spires and tower tops of Winchester. He did not turn aside, but
skirted the walls and outworks, and was soon on the main trackway to
Basingstoke and Bracknell Forest. Workers returning from the fields,
bordars and villeins, greeted him as he passed by, and a few shouted
to see his bow, and asked after the war in France. But he did not
pause, except to lean from the saddle and ask if he were still on the
right road.

As dusk fell, he came upon a little shrine, standing by
a crossroads, and built into a dry stone wall. It was a ‘Mary
Shrine’, with the plaster figure of a woman and child surrounded by
half-burnt candles and hung with dead flowers, shells and coloured
bits of cloth. There was a shallow basin for coin offerings set into
the stonework, but it was empty save for a few pebbles and twigs
children had put there since the priest had happened by.

James got off his horse and stood for a while. He felt
that he should say some kind of prayer, but couldn’t think what,
and so after a time got back on his horse and rode on.

It was dark when he found an inn, its broom and bush
just visible against the trees that overhung the narrowing track.
Three times he hammered on the door before the innkeeper came,
sliding back the shutter and peering at him suspiciously:

‘
What’s ye want?’

‘
A night’s lodging.’

'Man and beast?’

‘
Aye, if ye’ve aught for both.’

The innkeeper grunted. ‘We’ve aught.Three pennies
for ye and two for the stable. Money in my hand before the door is
opened.’

James paid.

The inn was almost deserted, except for two cloaked
travellers crouched by the fireplace, and the innkeeper’s wife who
flitted nervously about, bumping into tables and whispering
apologies. After a brief supper, James took himself off to bed, and
woke next morning to a chill and heavy mist. Keen to be on the road,
he bought a loaf of bread and a pan of fresh milk then hurried down
to the stables. A tousle-haired stable lad saddled his horse, and
pointed him on the way to Basingstoke. ‘Left at the next fork,’
he said, ‘and then up to the crossroads on the hilltop. There’s a
milestone there. You can’t miss it. Straight on, and you’ll be
there afore noon.’ James thanked him, tossed him a coin and set
off. The mist was already lifting and a deep golden light pushed
through the greyness and lit the hedgerows. It was going to be a fine
day.

He had not gone far, and had just cleared the
crossroads, when someone hailed him. He turned. In the distance he
could see, hurrying up the hill on foot, the figure of a man. For a
moment James thought of spurring his horse away, and moving on
quickly, but the man seemed to be armed with nothing more than a
quarter-staff, and had the air of a pilgrim about him. As he came up
to James, breathing hard and sweating, he pushed the hood of his
cloak back and gave a cheerful grin:

‘
Friend! Glad I caught up with you. Saw you at the inn
last night.’ He had a Cornish accent, and leant on his staff as he
spoke.

James acknowledged the greeting but said nothing.

‘
That’s quite a step!’ the man went on, ‘Like to
draw the wind out my poor lungs.’ He grinned again, and held up his
hand. ‘Simeon Tiler of Bude.’ When James didn’t take his hand,
he withdrew it with a slight shrug. ‘ I’m on my way to
Basingstoke, and thought I might come with ye. For fellowship’s
sake.’ He hesitated. ‘Not safe in these parts to travel on your
own. Had one or two narrow squeaks already, mesself.’

‘
To Basingstoke, ye say.’ James was reluctant to
slow himself down with a traveller on foot, and could not trust the
man to ride behind him.

‘
Aye! That’s it. I’ve business there.’

‘
You’re not a pilgrim then?’

The man threw back his head and laughed: ‘What! Me?
Nay! I’m certainly not pilgrim. The good Lord keep me from
pilgrims! Miserable folk, tramping from village to village, buying
and selling every piece of frippery and foolishness. And all on the
road to nowhere!’

James loosened his sword in its scabbard. ‘What are
you, Simeon Tiler?’

The man stepped back a pace. ‘I’m no footpad,’ if
that’s what ye’re thinking,’ he answered.

‘
What are ye, then?’

‘
I’m a tiler and a thatcher come looking for work in
an honest town.’

‘
You are far afield for a thatcher.’

‘
I’m scattered folk,’ he replied. ‘My home is
now no more than a blackened ridge pole, and my garden is dug to
broken stones.’

James raised an eyebrow, and looked about him. The open
fields and scattered stands of trees stood out against the rising
mist. There was no one in sight.