The Bow

by Bill Sharrock

  It took him an hour or more, but at last he found them down by a wool store at the far end of the dock. They were checking and assaying bales from the Cotswolds. A wool broker was waiting to one side, chewing nervously on a tally stick, and he looked up as James approached.

  ‘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 mi
les 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.

  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 sadd
le 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.