The Bow (27 page)

Simeon Tiler took another step back and spread his
hands:

‘
I’m a Lollard,’ he said.

There was a long silence. The grey mare tossed its head,
and began to crop the roadside grass. The man stood stock still.
James looked about him once more, then swung out of the saddle:

‘
I’ll walk with ye,’ he said.

‘
That’s a kindness.’ There was relief in the
tiler’s voice. They began to walk.

‘
It’s not for ye,’ said James after a while. ‘One
of your folk did my father an unlooked for favour once. I’m
returning it.’

‘
A Lollard? Your father knew a Lollard?’

‘
Aye, a heretic Lollard.’

Simeon looked across at James. ‘You don’t care for
us folk, then?’

‘
I thought all you lot were dead.’

The road narrowed for a few paces where a ditch had
fallen in, and Simeon waited to let James lead his horse through, and
then caught up.

‘
Aye,’ he said. ‘They burnt us sore. And worse
too. But they couldn’t stop what we knew. We escaped, see. To hills
and valleys. To the little farm tops and small corners of the
kingdom. That’s where we are.’ He breathed deeply, and quickened
his stride to match James and the grey mare.

‘
You pray in mumbling tongues,’ muttered James after
a while.

‘
Aye, we do, and it’s what folk name us for. We do!
Mumbling tongues. We pray in tongues, just like the Good Book says:
receive the Spirit, pray in tongues. It’s the way of salvation! As
clear as this path ye tread now, lad!’’

Suddenly, he took James by the arm: ‘Listen friend!
I’ll tell ye! Peter said it at Pentecost. It’s written! Written!
He said it again at Caesarea, and then Jerusalem itself! Paul ,told
the Corinthians, yes, ‘e did! And he told those folk at Ephesus.
Christ Himself said it. It’s in there! In there it is! Look I’ll
show thee.’ He reached inside his tunic and brought out a dog eared
bundle of papers, but James pushed him away and kept walking. ‘You’re
mad old man!’ he said. ‘You’re a babbler. Hold your peace, or
the priest’ll cut out your tongue!’

‘
Aye, aye, he might. Then burn me to a cinder. But it
won’t stop ‘em Holy Spirit. No, it won’t stop Him!’ He
chuckled and then suddenly looked hard into James’ eyes: ‘Why you
hurrying home, lad? Is there hurt at home? Is there things happening
that shouldn’t be happening?’

James spoke almost before he realized it:

‘
It’s my wife. She’s ill of the fever. A friend
brought word.’

‘
The Sickness?’

‘
I don’t know. It doesn’t sound good.’

They walked on in silence for about a mile. As they
reached a stand of oaks that overhung the road, Simeon spoke again:
‘I’ll pray for ye. I’ll pray for ye and yer wife.’

James glared at him. ‘Listen old man, if I needed
prayers I’d go to a priest.’

‘
Aye, I s’pose ye would. And he’d suck ye dry of
purse and hope afore ye knew it.’

James stopped, swung back up into the saddle and looked
down at the Lollard. ‘I’ll be leaving ye here, without fare well.
I can see the rooftops of Basingstoke ahead.’

‘
As ye wish, but as a brother of mine once did a
favour for a father of yours, can ye not give me one thing more?’

‘
What’s that?’

‘
Yer wife’s name. When I pray for her, it’s good
to know her name before the angels and our Lord.’

‘
Hettie. Hettie’s her name. Hettie Fletcher, though
I don’t know why I tell ye.’

He spurred his horse and began to gallop away.

‘
You remember lad! You remember!’ shouted the
Lollard. When James turned in the saddle the tiler was gone, and the
road was empty behind him.

He reached Basingstoke in good time, and decided to
press on through. It was a small town, neat and busy, with a well
kept street of lime and chalk that ran between two rows of prosperous
looking plaster and black-beam houses. There was a shop or two as
well, and a blacksmith on the outskirts, where he stopped to replace
a shoe his horse had thrown somewhere further back.

By midday he was in Bracknell Forest and London seemed
just close beyond the ridge tops. He thought of pushing on, but
decided against it. His horse was struggling in the mud-mired ruts of
the wagon-way, and he was hungry for lunch. He rested up in the
company of some charcoal burners and shared bread and cheese washed
down with fresh spring water. They told him that the weather was due
to break: seagulls had been seen wheeling overhead, and the wind was
freshening from the south-west. With a few good hours still remaining
he set off once more hoping to make the Isleworth Hundred by
nightfall. However, he had not gone far when dark clouds rolled in
from the west, the breeze picked up, and the first drops of rain
spattered against his back. Within half an hour he was being lashed
by a deluge.

Cursing the weather, he turned aside to find shelter in
a woodcutter’s bothy, and spent the rest of the afternoon cooped up
in its leaking confines staring through the broken door at the
driving rain.

It rained into the evening, and he stayed there until
morning, wrapping himself in his cloak, and kicking the embers of the
fire into life.

His horse was sheltered in an old lean-to behind the
bothy, feeding on a bag of oats he had bought for it at the
blacksmith’s.

Dawn came bright and clear. There was no mist.
Everything sparkled. Hungry and tired, he took to the road for what
he hoped was the last time.

And so he came to Hounslow Heath, with the last wisps of
cloud scudding away to the east, and a good strong sun across his
back. The heavy rain had made the going slow, but the track was
drying out all the time, and where the way was sandy the old grey
mare was able to pick up its hooves into a gentle trot. Every so
often he stood in the stirrups, looking for a glimpse of the Thames,
but as yet he had not sighted it.

Then suddenly. Over a low rise in the heath came a party
of men and women. There were children among them too. They were
carrying sticks and staves, and everyone of them seemed to have some
kind of ragged bundle, strapped to their back, or held across their
chest.

When they saw him, they cried out and hurried towards
him. It was a beggar band. There were about a hundred of them.

He reined in, and slipped from his horse. Quickly he
uncovered his bow, and strung it. The beggars were blocking his way
ahead, and the heathland was too heavy with water to allow him to
skirt around. The grey mare would flounder and they would run her
down. Some kind of madness prevented him from turning and galloping
back down the road to Bracknell, so instead he stayed to face them.

'Easy lass!’ he said, rubbing her neck. ‘We’ve a
small hold up here, then we are on our way.’

He waited while the beggars came up to him. They stopped
about ten paces away when they saw the bow, chattering and pointing,
and grimacing at him. One of them called out:

‘
We have not come to rob, but to beg a mercy!’

'A mercy?’ His voice shook. They knew he was afraid.

‘
Aye, show us what ye have, and we will take what we
need.’ They all laughed and began to inch forward.

‘
That’s neither mercy, nor is it according to my
taste,’ he replied, unable to keep from trembling. He bent his bow,
and looked towards the tallest of the figures, a lean, bearded man in
a long embroidered cloak. ‘I see ye have an Abraham man.’

‘
He is our king!’ they chorused.

‘
Then today if I die, I shall know I killed a king.’

He loosed an arrow which drove to the fletchings an inch
before the beggar king’s boot, then nocked another before anyone
could react. The beggar king blanched and held up his hand:

‘
You would kill me?’

‘
I would go home.’

‘
If you kill me they will tear you to pieces. If you
give me your wallet, they will let you go home.’

James began to draw the bow. ‘There’s more of France
in this wallet, than ye will ever know. I did not bring it back to
throw it in the mud.’

The beggar king sighed. ‘Then either way you will die
now, here on Hounslow Heath. Show him, Swinehart!’

There was a stir, and a man stepped out from among the
beggars. He had a crossbow, and it was levelled.

The bolt struck James full in the chest, smashing
through his quilted jack and hurling him to the ground. The beggars
gave a shout and rushed forward, the children at their head, with
daggers drawn. But Swinehart stepped between them, his crossbow
hanging at his belt, and an upraised mallet in his hand:

‘
Hold! Hold, ye dogs! This is a king’s deer! Ye’ll
wait or I’ll dent a few noggins, see if I don’t!’

The beggars fell back muttering. Their king came and
stood over James where he lay sprawled in the heather. Swinehart
stepped to one side: ‘I hit him clean, sire. No chance he had, even
with that bow of his.’

The beggar king nodded, and leaning over reached for
James’ wallet which was strapped to his hip. Suddenly, he started
back, but as he did so, his wrist was grasped, and a ballock knife
flashed towards his throat. It rested there, trembling. He froze. The
beggars gasped. The bowman Swinehart had just slain so easily had
come back to life.

James got unsteadily to his feet, the crossbow bolt
still protruding from his chest, and the ballock knife he held at
point-touch on the beggar king’s throat. He was breathing hard and
painfully.

‘
One inch move from of any of ye,’ he said, ‘And
I’ll spit him apple to neck bone.’

The beggar king risked a half-smile. ‘Ye must have an
angel on yer shoulder, sonny. That bolt should have finished you.’

James didn’t reply. The pain in his chest was growing,
and it was becoming difficult to breath. His vision was failing, and
his head was thumping. He sensed that the beggars knew he was
weakening and would bide their time until he could no longer stand.
Then they would attack. But for the time being they kept their
distance, content to wait and watch. They fell silent, as did their
leader and only the children grew restless, sniggering and laughing,
and pushing at each other.

It seemed that hours must have passed, but it was surely
only minutes. Almost dizzy now with pain, James began to sway on his
feet. Soon it would be over. He couldn’t stand for much longer.
Then as hope faded he heard a faint sound, familiar and yet out of
place: the sound of drumming hoofbeats. The ground began to shake as
at Agincourt and Valmont. There were shadows rising out of the
heathland ahead of him. Horsemen. A score or more of horsemen. Then a
trumpet sounded a call to arms. His head seemed to clear. The beggar
folk began to melt away, one by one, and then in groups: men, women
and children, scuttling this way and that, then disappearing into the
heather, hoods pulled low and backs bent. Not all fled. Some stood
their ground, snarling, flails and sticks raised.

The horsemen drew closer. There were cries now, and
sword blades rising and falling. Only Swinehart held his ground,
staying with his king. He unhooked the crossbow, put his foot in the
stirrup and drew back the cord. Just as he nocked a bolt, a sword
blade struck him across the shoulder and knocked him down. He fell
without a sound and lay still.

Horses everywhere: rearing, skittering and striking out
- the grey mare fled. The sound of men calling, soldiers’ voices.

James and the beggar-king stood in the midst while
horses swirled about them. At last the noise and confusion died away.
While some of the soldiers chased the beggars across the heath,
others stayed and gathered around the two men. A burly sergeant came
forward, bound the beggar-king’s hands and led him away. Then one
knight walked his horse forward, raising the visor of his bascinet as
he did so. His dark, lean features were accentuated by a clipped,
black moustache. He frowned, smiled, then greeted James:

‘
Hollo! If it’s not the archer of my lord Thomas of
Dorset! Hollo! Home to England from Harfleur, and here we meet! Well
met, sirrah!’

James blinked. He stared. ‘Sir Robert?’

Sir Robert Babthorpe laughed: ‘Aye! Aye! It is! What a
meeting is this, then? You here in the middle of Hounslow Heath, and
we just happen upon ye!’ He looked about him: ‘And what company
ye keep, my lad! Faith, but ye play a dangerous game.’

Suddenly, James felt the need to sit down. He reached up
and touched the fletchings of the bolt where it had penetrated his
jack. ‘My lord,’ he said, and staggered.

When he woke, a group of knights were standing over him,
talking and nodding. He was in a barn. It smelt warm and musty.
Sitting up, he groaned immediately, but noticed that the crossbow
bolt had been drawn. His ribs hurt and there was a jagged hole in the
quilting of his jack.

Sir Robert handed him something warm to drink.

‘
Here! Take this. It’ll mend you good as anything.’

James drank and nodded his thanks.