All the houses we see seem quite small, though perhaps they only seem that way because the countryside is so vast. None of them appear to have chimneys and many seem to be deserted. They are in some ways very much like we have in Cornwall – woven branches and reeds attached to a wooden frame, daubed with mud to cover the openings in the weave, and topped with thatched roofs. A hole in the roof at one end lets the smoke out and the rain and wind in.
One big difference is that most of the houses we see don’t have entrance doors the way we have in Cornwall or I remember from the days I spent growing up in the Yorkshire village where Thomas and I were born. All they have are small openings in their walls that are large enough for a man to pass through.
Sometimes the openings are covered with hanging sheepskins to keep out the wind and rain. Others don’t even have door skins. Perhaps the people living in them only hang their door skins at night when they don’t need the light coming in from the doorway in order to see.
I remark on the difference to Alex from Dudley who is driving the two horses pulling my wagon. He tells me it’s because the people up here mix sheep dung in with the mud they stick on the woven branches and reeds to keep out the night airs.
I nod my head in agreement but I don’t believe it; how would he know?
“Alex, where did you hear that?”
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A strange little man sitting by the side of the path is the first indication that we may have found Leslie’s mercenaries. He jumps up and stares at us intently. I’m in the second wagon so I stand up and shout “over here” and motion him to me as our little column comes to a halt.
“Bishop Thomas?” he inquires in a heavy and almost indecipherable brogue, and then says something I can’t understand at all. But I did catch the word “Leslie” so it looks as though we may have found them.
“Yes, that’s me,” I agree with a smile and a nod.
The little man breaks out in a great huge smile and begins pointing and motioning for us to follow him off the track. We do and an hour or so later we come around a little hill and get our first look at the camp of Leslie’s company of mercenaries. It’s a scattering of wagons and sheep skin tents and crude woven hovels and it’s filled with women and children – all of whom get very excited when we appear. Within seconds we are surrounded by excited children
Joseph and Old Leslie, the captain of the mercenaries, show up immediately and, a few seconds later, so does the skinny man who is Leslie’s second. They all have welcoming smiles on their faces and outstretched hands.
“Hello Captain Leslie; Hello Joseph. It’s good to see you both.”
Within minutes the women and children have been shooed away and the three of us are surrounded by a number of men. They’re of all ages from beardless youth to elderly graybeards – and they are all carefully watching and listening. Even my own men come over to listen.
This won’t do at all. I have much to tell Leslie but we need to talk privately.
“Captain, is there a place we can sit and talk privately?”
Leslie nods and a few seconds later the four of us are sitting facing each other on some freshly cut logs.
The men, both the mercenaries and mine, drift over and stand near us while we talk. Leslie must have said something for now his men hang back so the four of us can talk privately. The skinny man with the suspicious eyes joins us. His name is Angus; he’s Leslie’s eldest son and apparent heir.
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“Our enemy, the man I’m hiring you and your men to help us fight, under my command,” I tell Leslie, “is Lord Cornell of Hathersage Castle. It’s about a two or three day walk from here.”
I tell Leslie and Angus everything I know about Lord Cornell and why we are enemies and what has happened so far. Well, almost everything; I don’t tell him that William is my brother.
They don’t say a word but I can see they are both highly pleased when they learn that Cornell has taken himself and his men off to Cornwall. They should be – it probably means a siege instead of a battle, at least until Cornell returns. And the old man laughs uproariously that even his son smiles when I tell them about the misadventures of Captain Kerfuffle and his men.
On the other hand they are both highly unhappy about fighting under the command of a bishop who, so far as they know, knows nothing about fighting and warfare.
“My dear boy,” I lean over and tell Angus when he snorts in disgust at the news, “I haven’t always been a bishop saying prayers and collecting coins. And I think it fair to say that I’ve already killed many more men than you ever have, or ever will for that matter. Indeed I could kill you right now before you could even stand up.”
Angus snorts again in amusement. A split second later his eyes get wide when he realizes I’ve extended my arm and I’m holding a double edged dagger at his throat. There is a collective gasp from the men standing around us which dissipates into nervous laughter when I smile benignly at Angus and tuck it back in my sleeve.
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Almost immediately we hold a parade to count Leslie’s men and pay the next fee required under the contract. One hundred and forty four men present themselves and their arms. Mostly they are swordsmen with shields. Only three are archers with their own short bows.
With the three Scots we have a total of twenty two archers with longbows and crossbows including my guards and the new recruits who came from London in the wagons. There are also about a dozen men of uncertain value who signed on to be archer trainees and came with us from London. We have more than enough arrows for that many longbows since we took so many off Simon’s galley and carried them here in the wagons.
Leslie then does something quite good – he invites me to speak to his men and explain why we are employing them.
All the men, including our own, gather around and listen carefully when I climb up on one of the wagons and tell them who we are and what we are going to do together and why. Their women crowd in to listen with them.
Relief at learning it will be a siege instead of a pitched battle is apparent on every man and woman’s face - and the Scots all laugh with pleasure when they hear about the way we gulled Cornell’s mercenaries and see our men proudly nodding their agreement to my tale.
“Hmm. There were a couple of short bows among the weapons we picked up. I wonder if any of our trainees or Leslie’s men know how to use them.
“Captain Leslie,” I ask as I climb down from the wagon “do you suppose any of your men would like to accept weapons for part of their pay?”
Chapter Eight
Peter finally gallops in on an exhausted horse with news of Cornell almost a week later – yesterday he saw Cornell’s men beginning to arrive on the far bank of the Tamar. He appears to have a force of about two thousand fighting men and a huge train of servants, helpers, and commissaries. We have about nine hundred archers and pike men plus about four hundred fetchers and carriers.
Within the hour of Peter’s arrival he is wolfing down food in front of the fire in the great hall, I am off to join our army in the field, and Restormel’s draw bridge is up. Now we’ll wait and drill and prepare the field until it’s time to fight. Peter will stay for a few hours and then head back to the picquet. According to Peter, the Tamar is still flooding. No one will be able to cross for three or four days.
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Cornell is coming with such a huge army that we have no choice but to agree to terms. That’s the sadly reality of the news which the Archdeacon of Cornwall brings us. He’s accompanied by a man Peter sent from his picquet.
It seems that the Archdeacon is so anxious for peace that the good man crossed the River Tamar with a single servant to once again visit Restormel in order to give us the sad news. But all is not lost – the Archdeacon is offering his services as a mediator. He is also offering to collect and deliver the necessary coins so the Bodmin monks will pray for our souls if no agreement can be reached for our departure.
And, though he never mentions it, he’s p
robably come to inquire about the missing Bishop of Devon and spy for Cornell and his cousin, the Earl of Devon. It doesn’t escape me that the Archdeacon is based at the Exeter Cathedral in Devon and lost the clerical duties associated with his office when Thomas was appointed Bishop of Cornwall.
“Your prayers and those of the monks are always welcome, Archdeacon. But, as you know, we are sworn to send all our coins directly to the Pope.” Of course I don’t mention that we are also sworn to only send them when we need to bribe him and his nuncios.
“And did you know that the new Bishop of Devon is visiting us, Archdeacon? I’m sure he’d appreciate it if you’d spend some time with him, perhaps share a nearby room so you can pray for peace together. He’s a bit lonely I fear what with everyone so busy with all the preparations that have to be made for the coming battles. We can’t have that, can we?”
An hour later the Bishop and Archdeacon are in their respective basement cells and doubtlessly jumping around to stay warm and chatting in the dark about “God’s Will” and their futures - and I’m riding back to our battle camp on the hill west of the castle eating on the ox joint Helen brought to me as I was leaving. It’s quite delicious.
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A rider from Peter’s picquet at the Tamar ford near Launceston came in while I was holding a candle so a couple of my men could see to guide the archdeacon to his new room below the great hall. The picquet rider brought a message from Peter - Cornell’s men are gathering on the other side of the Tamar and seem to be getting ready to attempt a crossing even though the river is still high from the recent rains.
If our little company of mounted and wagon-carried archers leaves immediately we can reach Peter and his picquet at our rendezvous point by dawn.
The ploughmen have been hard at work for days and the ground to the front and sides of our intended battle line is ploughed as deep as the ploughs can go from the front of our battle line to the arrow range of our strongest archers. Only a narrow path in the middle is unplowed and walkable. That’s important for it means the plough horses are available to pull wagons.
The high waters on the Tamar means the possibility of hitting Cornell’s forces at the river ford on the wagon trail is too good an opportunity to pass up; so I give the order. Thirty minutes later we leave to the waves and cheers of the men who aren’t going with us – eighteen archers on horseback and six wagons carrying another forty archers, food for the men and horses, and bales of arrows.
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It takes longer than I expected to reach our picquet. The sun is already coming up when Peter steps out of the bushes along the path and waves a cheery hello. His calm appearance and behavior is very encouraging to us all, yes it is.
“The river’s still quite high and they haven’t started crossing.”
Our very first move is to turn the wagons about and give the horses a drink in the little stream running nearby and a goodly portion of grain. While that is being done Peter leads me forward to the concealed position where he and his men sit while they watch the ford.
And there they are – a host of men is gathered in a camp on the other side of the river. We can see their tents and wagons and sometimes actually hear them and smell their cooking fires.
All day long we sleep and eat and quietly watch - and once I think I see Cornell himself among a group of knights who walk down towards the ford where they will cross the river. A few feet closer and I would have attempted a very long shot to try to take him.
Peter and I each notch a “light” we select for maximum distance and wait hopefully – but Cornell, if that’s who it is, turns and walks back to a tent in the middle of the camp.
Later that evening in the dark we quietly bring our men to their positions high on the riverbank immediately in front of the ford. We’ve practiced it before but this time we’re moving up to the ford for real.
“Everybody stays down; nobody moves; nobody says a word; and nobody launches until I give the shout.”
Over and over Peter and I say it quietly as we watch in the moonlight as the men slip into their positions behind the logs we cut down and pulled into place weeks ago. We look down on the river where it widens to reduce the water depth and create a ford - when the river is low. Cornell’s men will come across right in front of us when they come. We can reach about a hundred paces beyond the other side of the river with our “longs.”
I wonder if Cornell’s men or his mercenaries have ever faced long bows or know their range?
It’s always scary for men to wait in ambush and not be able to see either their friends or watch the enemy approach. That’s why we’ve got the archers virtually shoulder to shoulder - so every man can see at least five or six other archers and Peter and I can see them all.
It’s important that no man feels deserted or alone. That’s when men panic and run.
What’s surprising is that Cornell has not sent someone to range over this side of the river looking for an ambush – or has he? Uh, oh.
“Peter, send Issac back to stay at the wagons and horses and make sure they are ready to go on a moment’s notice. Tell him to stay there and to run to us shouting out as loud as he can if any of Cornell’s men have crossed elsewhere and try to creep up on us.”
Damn, we should have brought a horn. And I probably should have sent the wagons on to Launceston.
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Cornell’s men gather along the far riverbank and begin coming across the next morning. They start having trouble almost immediately because the river is still high and running fast even though it is lower than it was yesterday afternoon. They should have waited. I wonder why they didn’t.
“Peter,” I whisper, “why do you think they aren’t waiting for the river to go down?”
“I don’t know. But they’re damn fools if they try and that’s a fact. We crossed when it was lower and it was difficult then. Remember how we lost the man who was riding double with George the shoemaker? This is going to be worse and many of Cornell’s men will be on foot. Maybe they just don’t realize how difficult it’s going to be.”
Our position is on a bluff of land overlooking the River Tamar. The Tamar a very important river because it literally cuts Cornwall off from the rest of England - it starts only a couple of miles from the northern coast but flows southerly all the way across England to Plymouth. Cornell and his men must cross the Tamar somewhere if they are to get from Devon to Cornwall.
Cornell’s men are traveling on the only road that runs all the way across Devon, the wagon path that follows the old Roman road to where the River Tamar widens near Launceston Castle and becomes somewhat fordable when the river is low.
Usually there is a small ferry just below the ford. Ferrymen living in the hovels on either side of the river pull it back and forth across the river to carry wagons and keep travelers’ feet dry, at least for those who are willing to pay the ferrymen’s small fee.
As you might imagine, the ferry and the ferrymen are not here today – as soon as we heard about Cornell coming to Cornwall with an army we paid the ferrymen to float the ferry almost all the way down the river to the river’s mouth.
They’d have taken the ferry all the way down if it hadn’t gotten stuck on a sandbar. When the war is finished we’ll have to help the ferrymen build a new one. We need a ferry here.
Cornell’s army came on the wagon road across Devon and got as far as the ford. His camp is out in the open for all to see. It starts almost at the water’s edge on the Devon side of the river; our position is on the Cornwall side overlooking the ford.
At the moment we’re under cover; we’re hiding in ambush where we can’t be seen from the other side of the river. From up here on the embankment that slopes down to the river below us we can cover the entire river ford with our longbows and well into Cornell’s camp on the other side.
It’s probably fair to say that either Cornell and his men don’t know we’re here or they don’t know the range of a longbow; hopefully they are ignorant
of both.
At the moment the Tamar is muddy and running fast and high as a result of the recent heavy rains. We’re about thirty feet away from the edge of the water and about twenty feet above it. When the river goes back down to normal we’ll be about a hundred feet from the edge of the water and about thirty feet above it.
All day long we lay hidden side by side in a row on the cold damp weeds and brush behind the logs and watch. It’s damn cold and uncomfortable even though the rain stopped yesterday afternoon. But we can’t get up. If we do we might be seen by the men across the way.
Actually all of us don’t watch the ford and Cornell’s camp on the other side of the River Tamer; only I watch and I do so by peering through the branches of a big bush so that I’m not likely to be seen.
Everyone else took heed of my dire threats and is keeping their heads down and their mouths shut - and we all spend the day silently shivering in our damp clothes until the sun finally breaks through late in the morning.
By the time darkness falls the men and I are wet, cold, thirsty and hungry. Now is the time to move back for the night before the moon comes out, if it comes out at all due to the clouds that were passing overhead most of the day and periodically sprinkled rain on us.
“All right,” I finally whisper to the men on either side of me. “Pass it on. We’re pulling back. Everyone is to very quietly crawl to the rear and reassemble at the wagons. Take your bows and quivers with you and all the extra bales of arrows. No talking and don’t stand up and walk until you are well into the trees.”
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Peter and the four ostlers are expecting us and ready. They hand every man a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese from the stores in the wagons. And every one gets a sip from a wine skin.
That’s our meal. And when we finish we all jam together side by side in two of the wagons and huddle under their cargo rain skins in an unsuccessful effort to stay warm and keep our clothes dry. The ostlers will all stay up and keep the watch; there’ll be no campfires to warm us tonight, that’s for sure.
The Archer's War: Exciting good read - adventure fiction about fighting and combat during medieval times in feudal England with archers, longbows, knights, ... (The Company of English Archers Book 4) Page 9