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 n
ot 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.’
The duke was growing impatient. He pulled at his moustache and glowered. Then he took the letter, stared at it, folded it, unfolded it, and finally flung it down on the table: ‘Well, there it is!’ he said, and getting to his feet stepped down from the dais and strode away across the hall.
James watched him go, and then looked at Giles and his mother;
‘I am sorry if I have caused . . .’
‘You have caused nothing, James!’ laughed Giles. ‘Is that not so, mother?’
‘Assuredly,’ replied Emma. ‘My husband loves to argue at breakfast. It is, how do you say? – it is his way. If he were not arguing over pirates, he would be arguing over the number of cows in a neighbour’s corn.’
‘And roaring like a bull,’ added Giles. He brushed the crumbs off his tunic, drained his cup, and stood. ' I must away to the tilt yard. You will see me James, before you leave?’
James also stood. ‘I will.’ He paused, reached down and picked up the parchment. ‘You would not take it amiss, if I took up your father’s offer?’
Giles threw back his head: ‘Hah! I would think you mad if you didn’t! And don’t worry about my mother here. She loves to tease my father, don’t you mother?’
Emma raised a hand. ‘Shame on you Giles!’ she said, and there was a sparkle in her eyes. ‘Off to the tilt yard with you, where the captains can box your pretty ears!’
Giles kissed her on the cheek and left, almost tripping over a young girl carrying a tray of bread. The girl reddened, bobbed, and gazed after him as he hurried off.
'See!’ said Emma with a quiet smile. ‘He breaks hearts already, and has no idea of what he does.’
‘He has the makings of a fine knight.’
‘You think so? His mother thinks he has the hallmark of a troublesome son,’ she replied glancing over what was left on the table. ‘Now! See here! You have hardly eaten anything and the day moves on apace. Come, let’s find something for your trencher.’
James stayed standing, and gave a slight inclination of the head: ‘My lady I must go.’
She sighed. ‘Hungry to leave, and not to eat,’ she said and smiled again.
‘Well, away with you then and don’t delay, but remember your promise to my son.’
He bowed. ‘I will my lady. And thank you.’ He had turned to leave when he heard her speak again:
‘You love your wife?’
He turned. ‘She is my wife, my lady.’
‘And so?’
‘She is everything to me.’
‘Hah! You are just saying that. A remark for silly wenches in a tavern.’
He blushed. ‘My Hettie is my Hettie. I cannot imagine myself with anyone else. It has always been that way.’ He paused. ‘I care for her.’
The lady of Fecamp lowered her eyes, twisted the ring on her finger and then looked up again. ‘That sounds like love,’ she said quietly. ‘Deeper than beauty.’
‘Or the same as,’ replied James. He felt awkward now, and was eager to leave. ‘You love someone from the inside out. There’s no one more beautiful than my Hettie. It’s as simple as that.’ He bowed yet again. ‘I must be going, my lady. Thank you again.’
She watched him go, staring sadly after the English archer, and hardly aware of the servants bustling about her, or the two kitchen maids giggling in the corner. And then the bells of La Trinite began to ring, tolling across the fields of Fecamp.
‘Matins,’ she whispered. ‘and here I am still at table.’ She rose, smoothed her gown and stepped down from the dais.
When James reached the port, he farewelled the escort the duke had granted him at the last moment: two crossbowmen and a mounted sergeant. Word had already spread that he was under the protection of the duke, and people stepped aside as he made his way through the narrow streets. He held the duke’s warrant tight in his hand, and rested his bow easily across his shoulder. With the rest of his gear strapped to his back, and his wallet heavy with food he missed his horse, but knew there was no going back now, and that if he arrived safely the earl would be happy enough to replace it.
The air was heavy with the tang of salt, sea-soaked wood, fish oil and leather: it drew him down to the docks. There, among the flat-bottomed skiffs and river-barges he found a broad-beamed, high-sided cog with a green and gold banner hanging at its mast head: the John de Groen. Wasting no time, he climbed aboard, presenting his warrant to the master, Pieter of Bruges, and stowing his gear in the stern castle. It was well that he arrived when he did. With the tide on the turn, and an off-shore breeze gusting from the east, the master was keen to weigh anchor and set sail. An hour later the de Groen slipped its moorings and with sail filling dipped its bow towards the open sea.
James stood on the deck, careful to keep out of the way of the sailors as they scrambled about the rigging and watched the port of Fecamp fade against the shore, The rolling motion of the deck reminded him of his stomach, and he hoped that he would at least hold onto his breakfast.
They sailed before the wind and tide, heading west into the broad green waters of the channel. Soon Fecamp had all but disappeared beneath the fading line of distant hills.
The ship’s master, strolling along the swaying deck caught James’ anxious gaze. He laughed:
‘Do you think we have somehow lost our way, sir archer?’ he said in a heavy Flemish brogue. ‘Don’t worry. I know exactly where Harfleur is, and how to reach it.’ He leant on the ships rail and stared at the running sea. ‘No point in turning south yet. The wind and tide would tax our helm and make us wallow in this swell.’ A rope slapped against the sail, making him look up. ‘See! She is full and fat and eager to pull us westward. Let’s dance to her tune until we clear the coastal shoals. Then, and only then we’ll put two hands to the tiller and ease this beauty to a southern course. What say you?’
James nodded. ‘When should we make port?’ he asked.
The master shrugged. ‘When we arrive,’ he said with a broad smile, ‘And not afore!’ With a careless wave he turned and wandered off towards the fo’castle.
They sailed on to evening. James was sick. Then he slept. He woke to a silver dawn and struggled up on deck. A sailor took pity on him and gave him a leaf to chew. In a short while he began to feel better. The sea had eased and the wind had dropped, though there was still enough of a breeze to fill the sails. To the west towering white clouds stood over a faint shadow James took to be England. It was far off but closer than France. He frowned and reached to check that he still had the duke’s letter safe inside his tunic. At the same moment the ship’s master hailed him from atop the stern castle. James waved back and made his way unsteadily across the deck. As he did so, he noticed two young women who had appeared at the entrance to the fo’castle. They were watching him. He nodded in their direction, but they did not return his salute.
'Hah hah!’ said the master as James scrambled up beside him, ‘Did you sleep well?’
'I slept some,’ replied James, glancing towards the women as he spoke.
‘So!’ laughed the master, ‘ I see your eye has caught my other passengers. Rare beauties are they not? No, no! There is no need to answer.’ Pieter the shipmaster paused, held one hand up to the wind and nodded to himself. ‘Let me tell you,’ he went on. ‘The tall fair one with the braided hair: she is the daughter of a Flemish merchant from Ghent.’ He looked around as though about to impart some secret no one else on the boat knew. ‘She is on her way to her betrothal. Yes! What do you think of that? As my name is Pieter of Bruges I tell the truth. Her name is Greta Maud and she is the daughter of Jan Lukas van der Kemp. I have received a warrant and payment to
transport this lady and her maidservant to Harfleur, and see them safely to the house of an English wool broker, who now resides there as of this Michaelmas past.’
James looked surprised. ‘Her father does not travel with her?’
The ship master smiled. ‘No, in faith he does not. He has a deep fear of deep water. It seems a fortune teller told him one day he would die of drowning in a great ocean, and ever since he has avoided the sea like the plague. Hah! And him such a well-heeled dealer in cloth and wool: wool that cannot travel unless it crosses the very thing he fears so much! What think you of that?’
James was about to reply when there was a cry from the masthead. They both looked up. A ship-boy clinging to the platform above the mainspar shouted something to the master. Pieter shouted back, then turned and looked to the north-east. He cursed and pushed his cap to the back of his head: ‘I should never have lit that lantern at the mainmast,’ he said. ‘We lit it last night for safety’s sake, and look what it has drawn to us.’
'Pirates?’
‘Aye, pirates or eager fishermen. There’s not much else would sail a boat like that: narrow beamed and low in the water.’
James looked in the direction of the boat. It was so far off that it seemed to almost disappear every so often as the waves rose and fell, but he could tell that it was not a merchant cog, and that its sail was pale brown and lateen rigged. There was no doubt that it was moving towards them.
With a grunt, the master hitched up the belt around his bulging waist, and looked around at the crew members as though counting them in his head and trying to work out whether they stood any chance of surviving in a fight. Then he turned again to look at the boat behind them. He tugged thoughtfully at his moustache and started to hum a tune to himself, though James could not work out what it was. It was however strangely cheerful, and didn’t match the worried frown on his face. After a short time he grimaced, spat into the palm of one hand, then rubbed his hands together:
‘Well, all right, then!’ he said. ‘He’s been on our course for a good while now, and is probably no more than a mile away and closing at a fair clip. That lateen sail eats light winds, and with a light-weight hull a ship like that could be up on us in a few hours.’ He craned his neck and stared up at the sail. ‘If we had more breeze I’d keep on this west sou’west heading, and try and keep our distance, but there’s precious little chance of that now. So, we’ll take a new heading due south and see if he follows our tack.’ He signalled to the tillerman who nodded in reply, and called the turn.
The Bow Page 14