The Bow

by Bill Sharrock

  James bowed. ‘It seems to me, sire that I have little choice.’

  ‘Choice? Well, no I don’t suppose you do. Not in the practical order of things. But I do, as your lord, prefer it if you do it willingly.’

  With a short intake of breath, and another inclination of the head, James brought his hand across his chest: ‘My lord, it shall be willingly done.’

  ‘Bravo! And I shall make sure you are rewarded handsomely – when the job is complete, to my satisfaction and that of the duke of Fecamp.’ He poured himself a cup of wine, but was careful not to offer any to James. ‘Six pennies is the daily rate, high days and holy days included. Report to my Receiver of Victuals in the morning. You will be given a horse and supplies. The squire is to be delivered into your care at the third hour. You will set off for Fecamp immediately.’

  Once dismissed, James headed for the doorway of the tent. As he stooped to go through, he paused. ‘My Lord Thomas! A boon.’

  ‘If Dorset can provide it. Say on!’

  ‘I have a friend, John Hert by name. At present he lies ill in the care of the apothecary Simon of Harfleur. He took a crossbow bolt at Le Cap. He is passed the worst but still poorly . . .’

  ‘Say no more! I will make sure my physician visits him every day.’

  'My lord, that is generous, but it is not what I ask. I ask only that Simon be given instructions to continue to give him care until my return.’

  The Earl of Dorset looked carefully at James. ‘Done!’ he said, and raised his cup of wine.

  When James returned to his lodgings, he found John sitting up by the fire, with the apothecary’s daughters in close attendance, and Duncan sitting on a barrel by the hearth polishing his leather jerkin. Simon was busy in the shop, and his wife was away at market. Ralf was still in bed. There was no sign of Hamish, though Emma-Jeanne said he had gone to find his captain, and Marie was sure he was in a tavern by the docks.

  'Are ye well?’ asked James as he sat down beside John.

  ‘Passing well’, replied John. ‘Thanks to all ye folks.’

  ‘And the good Lord.’

  John nodded. ‘Aye, that’s right enough. I think I got precious close to Him for a time.’

  ‘Close to the grave, more like’, muttered Duncan. ‘When ye die ye sleep, when the Lord comes back ye rise.’

  ‘Who taught ye that?’ asked James as he stirred the fire with a stick.

  ‘It’s in the Book, and me mam read it out to me.’ He grunted, and went back to his polishing.

  John and James looked at one another and winked. ‘Well’, said John, ‘Whatever be the truth of it, I know this, I’m feeling a heap better than I did afore, and the wound is beginning to itch.’

  ‘Ah bon! Ah bon!’ chorused Marie and Louise, and they danced around the kitchen till one of them knocked over a stool, and they sat down giggling.

  ‘You’ve your work cut out to get back home safe and sound with those lassies chasing ye,’ said James, and he grinned as he put more wood on the fire and shifted the pot to cover the blaze. ‘But when you are healed I’ll come with ye on a boat myself.’

  ‘To England, then? You’ve not taken the Earl’s indenture?’

  James shook his head. ‘No, I’m away home.’ He stood up. ‘But first I have one more duty to my lord.’ He explained. John listened but said nothing. He was tired, and his eyes began to close. Sweat appeared on his forehead. Marie and Louise fluttered about him, mopping his brow, tutting over herbs and potions, and shoo-ing James away.

  Early next morning, James took his leave. Most of the household were still abed, but Emma-Jeanne was up, baking bread and sweeping out the hearth. She wished him God-speed, and watched from the doorstep as he made his way along the cobbled street towards the main gate. It was still dark and cold, but a steel blue tinge in the eastern sky promised a fine day.

  When he reached the main gate at Montvilliers, the footway was already open, with folk heading for the fields, and the guards waved him through. Nor did he have any trouble with the dawn pickets to the camp: they knew at once the easy gait and swagger of an English archer, and called a greeting as he emerged out of the shadows.

  He found the provost’s tent down by the horse-lines, and drew him grumbling from his bed. Two hours later he had a horse, saddle quiver, fresh supplies, and a sheaf of war arrows from the Earl’s own wagon. Satisfied, he took a warming breakfast while he waited for the squire.

  Yevan happened by, and stopped to hear and tell the news. ‘Fecamp!’ he said. ‘That’s a fair step, and ye won’t make it in a day. Go careful along those woodland paths, or you’ll cop an arrow in the gizzard, boyo! Neat as tricks he is, the Frenchie in the forest.’

  James nodded. ‘I’ll take the coastal road whenever I can. With the lad’s shield on my right, and the sea on my left, it should be safe enough.’

  For a time Yevan looked at him, then put his head to one side: ‘I’ll come with ye,’ he said.

  ‘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 bes
ide 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 sudd
enly.

  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?’

  The smoke curled in among the vaulted beams, and the two men sat in silence once more. Somewhere in the depths of the monastery a tocsin sounded, calling the monks to prayer.

  ‘Do they never stop?’ said James.