‘Aye, I am. And not quickly enough. Have you a wife awaiting ye in Bruges, shipmaster?’
‘Ho! What me?’ Pieter looked surprised. ‘No! I’m nay married, James.’ He chuckled, and turned again to look at the women who had started to walk about the deck. ‘It’s braver men than me who take a wife. Marrying is serious business. Ties a man down. Not for the likes of me, a sailing man. All at sea!’ He laughed and spat casually over the side.
James smiled and leaned over the rail, and watched the wake foam by. ‘A good woman draws a man home,’ he said.
‘Hah!’ shouted Pieter. ‘What did I tell ye? A woman needs to be married, ‘cos she needs a man to look after her, especially one who comes hurrying home no matter what.’
James smiled again. ‘It seems to me, Pieter of Bruges, that it is the women not the men, who do the looking after.’
For a moment Pieter stared at James with a puzzled frown, then he burst out laughing, slapped the tiller, and clambered away down the stern-castle ladder to check the wounded.
At the tenth hour, the ship’s boy high on the mast cried out and pointed: Cap le Havre, etched out in the fading light some miles to the south west. Shortly after, the wind swung round and blew from the north. As the waves began to skip, and the sail filled, the bow of the John de Groen dipped, the rigging creaked and the old cog picked up speed.
‘Perfect!’ said the tillerman, and he waved as Pieter came scrambling back up the ladder. ‘A breeze sent from heaven, captain!’ he shouted. ‘If it keeps up we’ll make Harfleur by nightfall.’
Pieter shook his head. ‘It’s a good breeze, Jan, but not that good!’ He shaded his eyes and gazed at the distant outline of the cape. ‘We’ll round the point by sunset and make port by second watch, God willing. Pray the harbour lights are well lit and we run in on the tide, otherwise we’ll have to heave-to in the channel and wait till morning.’
The tillerman didn’t reply, just shrugged and whistled for another crew mate to come and help him take the strain as the wind gusted, and the ship surged forward.
With night falling, they skirted the shoals near the cape, and sailed into the great estuary of the Seine. The tide was with them. Along the northern bank a scattering of lights showed farmhouses and one or two small villages. Then suddenly ahead of them they saw a line and then a cluster of torchlight, afar off, high against the shore.
‘Harfleur,’ said Pieter quietly. He turned and winked at James. ‘There’s a sight to make ye forget your bruises!’
Almost without thinking, James climbed down from the stern-castle and made his way to the bow of the ship. Harfleur lay ahead of him, perhaps by no more than a mile. It seemed to hang in the darkness, but already he could make out the brightly lit watch towers that guarded the entrance to the port. He knew they would have to pass through that entrance and sail up the narrow channel to the town itself. Even for an experienced crew it was a tricky manouvere, especially at night. Moreover the winds were uncertain, and the tide was soon to turn. Perhaps Pieter would drop anchor in the roads, and ride out the ebb-flow until the dawn. He hoped not.
Someone appeared at his elbow, making him start. It was the young bride-to-be from Ghent. She smiled and bobbed a curtsey, then pointed at the lights. ‘Harfleur,’ she said.
Even in that single word, he heard the lilting Flemish accent, floating, sad, and full of youth.
'Aye,’ he said.
There was a silence: only the slap of waves against the hull and the muffled sound of crews’ voices calling in the background.
'I am come here to be married,’ she went on, her voice dropping away as though she were talking to herself. ‘It is to a man I neither know nor love.’
James shifted uneasily and kept staring straight ahead.
‘But I know it is a man whose money my father is in love with.’
The lights of Harfleur crept closer.
‘I am Greta van der Kemp and I am sold to an English shopkeeper.’
Slowly James turned and looked at the woman: little more than a girl. Too young for such a marriage. He imagined the wool-broker her father had chosen for her, the kind he so often saw lounging and strutting about the streets of Harfleur: fat-gutted, loud, over-dressed and old.
‘Your English is very good,’ he said.
Again, the quick smile. She bit her bottom lip. ‘I have a tutor in Bruges. An Englishman from Ipswich. My father says if he cannot have a son, he will have a daughter who will know everything a son should.’
‘Including how to speak her mind.’
This time she threw back her head and laughed, but tears were starting in her eyes. ‘No ! No! That’s what my mother taught me.’
‘And your mother agreed to this marriage?’ James felt himself being drawn into something he did not want to discuss, but he was somehow sorry for this girl. He could no longer dismiss her as a spoilt, over-indulged daughter, more in love with her looks than her obligations.
‘She fought for me behind closed doors,’ the girl replied.’ I heard the shouting in the bedchamber. Long into the night. But she gave up. In the end she gave up. It’s always that way. My father is very stubborn. After that, she cried a lot, but into her sleeve and kerchief. Then nothing but a silent house. You can’t hear a thing. Except when my mother is cursing the servants and boxing their ears because . . .’
‘I understand.’
A skein of river mist drew across the salt marshes and drifted over the approaching town. The torchlights faded and the wind died away. At the same time the cog’s sail billowed, flapped and hung slack against the spar. Now, with the tide cresting, and the breeze all but gone, the push of the great river roused itself against the bow of the John de Groen.
They were still making headway, but slowly, and the crew knew that they needed more than the tide to get them portside. With four more men on the tiller they began to scull the cog. It was hard, exhausting work, but they made progress, and the occasional friendly gusts of wind helped them on as well. Even though the mist thickened and the tide stilled, it seemed as if they might at last make haven. The port walls loomed, and the harbour lights lifted and brightened.
But then the bow-watch cried out, and all at once the chance was gone: the harbour chain, slung low between the two watch towers, was barring the way. They were shut out.
The shipmaster swore, the tillermen laughed, and the mate gave the order to make anchor. It’s iron palms hit the water with a dull splash, and the cog turned its bow upstream. A stone drogue was lowered from the stern, and they were anchored.
‘I should have known,’ said Pieter as he came to the fo’castle and stood beside James and the girl. ‘The good people of Harfleur would never leave their doors unlocked at night. Not with rogues like us about.’
Someone hailed them from a watch-tower, and Pieter answered. Then there was silence. ‘Well that’s that,’ he said. ‘Nothing more to do, but go below and get some rest before the sun-up. Come, lass! Ye’ll freeze if ye stay here, and I’ll bring ye coughing and dying to yer man. There’s plagues in this river mist. Killed half of Harry’s army before he took this town last year.’
The girl nodded and drew her fur cape across her shoulders. Her maid appeared tut-tutting with another cloak, and shepherded her away.
All at once James felt very tired and very cold. He had been on deck for more hours than he knew, and his tunic and jack clung damply to his back and chest. The pot-helm seemed suddenly unbearably heavy, and he snatched it off, so that the bracer fell at his feet. Pieter laughed, bent down and picked it up. ‘Here, lad! It probably saved your skull, so ye should treat it with more respect.’
James took it with a smile and stuck it in his belt. ‘It’ll be good to lie down,’ he said.
'And hard to get up again,’ laughed Pieter. ‘Still we’ve a few hours of shut eye before dawn and the custom-house boat. They’ll come paddling out to us bright and early, just you see. This town might have changed its master, but it surely hasn’t changed its w
ays.’ He gave a cheerful wave and disappeared.
In the morning, the mist still hung heavy about the shore, and the sail and rigging were lank and dripping with river-dew. Just as Pieter had said, the custom-house boat came, bumping and scraping along the hull, and calling for the ship’s master.
A burly, bearded official in an oversize cap hauled himself up and on board, and stood wheezing in the chill of the morning. He looked around, chatted briefly to Pieter and then checked the hold and cargo. At length he scratched his chin, sucked his teeth, and called out to his tally-man who was still in the custom-house boat. ‘That’s two crowns and a noble for this lot, Matthew! They’ve had a brush with pirates, but no reason to ask ‘em for less!’ He chuckled to himself, and glanced at James who had just come up on deck, bow in hand, and broadsword at his hip. ‘Ah! Back from the wars are ye laddie? And ready to do service for our lord the Earl?’
James frowned, but said nothing. The official coughed into his hand and turned away. He handed Pieter a scrawled sheet. ‘Right, then! That’s yer ship’s pass. You pay at dockside, and the man there’ll sight your pass and take it from ye. All right?’
‘I know the ropes,’ grunted Pieter, ‘Now away with ye, so I can come in on the tide. There’s no wind yet, and I’ll not spend another watch out here.’
Moments later the custom-house boat was gone, the cog weighed anchor, and as the tide caught hold, and the tillermen sweated, the John de Groen drifted into harbour.
The mist lifted as they arrived, and a pale sun broke through. Harfleur was awake and a-bustle. Men and women crowded along the dockside, unloading the merchant ships that had arrived the previous day. Woolcarts and wine wagons lined the quay, and soldiers and officials in civic livery worked hard to keep order. Labourers, pedlars, merchants and passers-by jostled about the disordered rows of provisions, merchandise and market stalls. And everywhere the smell and noise of a new day.
James, keenly aware of his promise to deliver the letter to the Earl was eager to be on his way, but Pieter had asked him to act as escort to Greta van der Kemp and her maid. ‘It’s not far,’ he said. ‘Just to the Woolbrokers’ Hall. They’re expecting the lass. I sent a lad ahead.’ He hesitated: ‘ I’d be more than obliged to ye.’
With a grin, James took the shipmaster’s outstretched hand. ‘You saved my neck out there,’ he said. ‘It is the least I can do.’
The shipmaster smiled. ‘Well, friend – and friend you are – ye look after yourself out there, and get ye back home safely to that good wife of yours, or it’s all been a waste of my time!’ They shook hands again, clapped each other on the shoulder, and moments later James was on the quayside, bow in hand, arrow-bag over his shoulder and a nervous young woman and her maid at his side.
‘Come on!’ he said. ‘It’s this way. Stay close to me, and don’t stop for anyone.’
They had just reached the corner of the main street that runs down to the dock when a group of men stepped out of the crowd in front of them.
Instinctively, James stopped, pushed the women back behind him, and took his bowstave in both hands. ‘Make way,’ he said.
One of the men came forward. He was tall, dark, clean-shaven, and wearing a black quilted jack, embroidered with gold thread in the French style. An expensive, velvet-sheathed dagger hung at his hip, and he wore a fur cap trimmed with the same velvet. ‘Peace friend,’ he said, and held up his hand.
‘And who might you be?’ asked James, still holding his bowstave at the ready.
The young man gave a slight bow. ‘My name is Bartholomew Ralph. I am a merchant of this town, though I hail from Leominster where the wool of the Cotswolds and the Borders spins easily into gold.’
‘A wool trader!’
‘Aye. And the son of a wool trader come to claim his bride.’ He smiled. It was a warm, confident smile. ‘And I believe you are standing in front of her, sir bowman.’
James glanced over his shoulder. Greta was gaping, wide-eyed and wide-mouthed. Her maid servant tugged at her sleeve, but seeing that she still stared, stepped forward herself, and gave a low curtsey. ‘My lord,’ she said. ‘This is my mistress, Greta van der Kemp, and we come seeking Master Ralph of Harfleur, wool merchant to this town. Are you perhaps his son?’
There was a short, confused pause. The young man looked about, and those with him nodded and grinned. ‘Ah!’ he said at last. ‘I see! No, but yes. I am the son of my father, Christopher Ralph the wool merchant, but he alas is dead some three years. The one you seek is indeed myself.’ He bowed again, then looked beyond the maid to Greta. She had at last composed herself, and had fled into a sudden curtsey, sweeping back the veil of her headdress as she did so. She almost stumbled, but reached out and took James’ arm.
‘My lord!’ she gasped. ‘Forgive me. I . . .’
‘Forgive you, forgive you for what?’ Bartholomew stepped forward, and took her by the hand. ‘Welcome to Harfleur, my lady.’ He glanced at James. ‘And welcome to . . .’
‘I am James Fletcher of Chiswick, bowman to my lord of Dorset.’
The young merchant laughed. ‘Then you need no welcome, James Fletcher, for you are of this place as well as I. But you surely need my thanks. I thank you for bringing my bride safe thus far.’
James reddened. ‘Twas not only myself. There were others sire. I . . .’ He mumbled to a silence, and backed away a pace.
‘Just so!’ Bartholomew clapped his hands, turned to his companions, and gestured them forward. ‘These fine fellows shall escort you and the lady Greta’s maid to my lodgings. I shall wait here awhile, then come on directly with my lady.’
James looked at Greta who gave a nervous smile, nodded back, and then shooed her maidservant forward.
The cortege set off. The crowd of onlookers that had gathered fell back, and the young man and his betrothed were left standing on the street corner. For a while neither spoke. Greta lowered her head, and clasped her hands. Bartholomew waited patiently. At last he spoke: ‘I am sorry you have come on such a busy day, my lady. Too many ships. Too much trade. And the town still half a ruin.’
Greta did not reply, but wrung her hands, and kept looking at her feet.
‘I did not frighten you, I hope.’
She shook her head.
‘Not the least alarm?’
Again, Greta shook her head.
The young merchant looked to left and right. Those watching, caught his gaze, shrugged and moved away. He turned back to Greta, and took her by the hand once more:
'My lady, listen!’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘If I am not what you expected. If I am not what you were led to believe, then believe me, I will not hold you to this betrothal. I would not hold a woman to a pledge of marriage, if there is no love in it, or not enough for happiness. I am not that proud, nor foolish.’ He stopped for a moment, looking down at her, willing her to look up at him, but she held her lowered glance. With a short intake of breath, he raised her hand, and kissed it:
‘Just say the word, my lady. Say home, say Bruges, and I will send you there, with men enough to see you safe, and gold enough to cover your honour, and yes! your father’s books.’
He stepped back and released her hand. Greta stood still for a long time. She did not look up, but then with the merest tremble came forward and took Bartholomew’s left hand. ‘My lord,’ she said. ‘When I came here, I came, as you say, expecting someone quite different to yourself.’
‘I see.’
‘Someone older, at the very least.’
‘Just so, my lady.’
‘Someone I never could have loved.’ She looked up, and smiled to see his surprise. ‘My lord, you are more than I could have ever hoped for.’
Years later Greta would say that she still remembered the way he looked at her. ‘You stare, my lord,’ she said after it seemed that minutes had passed.
‘My lady, I am transfixed,’ he replied.
It was, as Bartholomew’s sister, Christina, wrote to Greta’s mother in a long and
enthusiastic letter ‘very much a love-match’.
‘They have eyes for each other, and for each other alone,’ she wrote, ‘And spend the days in one another’s company as though they were brother and sister from the first. They will be wed before the barley planting, and plan to visit you and your husband by Michelmas next.’
This letter was carried by the John de Groen on its return voyage to Bruges, and Pieter himself delivered it to the door of the van der Kemp house in Ghent.
Its contents were the talk of Harfleur well before the little cog had even cleared the harbour. Among the archers of the Earl of Dorset’s camp the storytellers claimed that James Fletcher of Chiswick was the one who had rescued her from pirates and brought her safely to her man.
James himself would not talk about it. He kept to himself, and was only interested in getting a pass from the Earl that would allow him to leave for home as soon as possible. True to his duty he presented the letter to the Earl who had moved into a house in the centre of the town. It was well received, and payment for his passage from Fecamp with the John de Groen was granted without hesitation. For a time the Earl tried to persuade James to renew his indenture, but he was ever a man of his word, and finally spread his hands and said ‘So be it!’ With a nod to his clerk who sat at a desk in the corner he promised that his wages and a safe-conduct would be ready, signed and sealed within the next seven days.
'Seven days, sire!’ said James unable to conceal the dismay in his voice, ‘That’s a whole week.’
‘So it is!’ replied the Earl, ‘And it cheers me to hear that one of my bowmen can count at such a speed. Now be off with you, and report to Sir John Cornwall’s captain of archers at once. You will be in his retinue until such time as you make shore back in England. His quarters are near the Montvilliers gate.’ He turned away, as he always did to signify that the matter was at an end. James bowed and left, entering the ante chamber and pushing past the queue of petitioners and boon-seekers that waited upon the Earl. Once he cleared the stairs and doorway, he rested his bow across his shoulders and marched away down the street. It was an hour past noon, and he hoped to find the captain and report his presence before returning to his lodgings at Simon the apothecary’s.
The Bow Page 16