“She turned on them.”
“And shot Snell’s ablest archer in the face from ten feet. Across the clearing, Faulk did the same to the bowman guarding him. Even so it should have ended there, with Snell’s men drawing and making quick work of them. But Faulk is a renowned poacher. The sheriffs in Kent call him the quickest quiver in the shire. Once he had dispensed with the archer he snatched up the man’s bow, knelt by his corpse, and went for the others. He killed five of Snell’s men, fully half the company that had taken the prisoners out there, then escaped with the Peveril woman through the woods. At the tree line they took two horses and lamed the others with a hunting knife. Then they escaped.”
“Where did they go?”
“Northwards,” he said. “They joined a pilgrimage to Durham, traveled with them to the borders of the Palatinate.”
Cuthbert and his bones. “But they were coming from prison. How did they survive? Did they steal coin?”
“Peveril returned to the manor house after her escape, according to the loyal servants I questioned last week. Retrieved several large purses of coin she’d hidden away from her husband.”
“And where are they now?”
“Dead, I would guess. He was injured badly in a struggle at an inn near Derlinton, the sheriffs report. They escaped on horseback, in what direction isn’t known. I’ve had no news from the ports, which are carefully watched these days. As justice for Kent I would be one of the first to hear, but so far there has been only silence from the northern shires and the border. Her father’s family is Scottish, and I’ve wondered if she might have relations there.”
I considered it, though didn’t see how they could survive unmolested. “The marches are well guarded. A man and a woman, traveling alone?”
“Alone, yes, though they are clearly a resourceful pair.”
“Remarkable.” I thought of my elusive, resourceful son, who had endured much worse than a perilous border crossing. “Their tale should be romanced.”
“‘The Poacher and His Lady,’ perhaps?”
“These handgonnes certainly deserve their own verses, whatever their flaws.” I recalled Edmund Rune’s dark homage to the weapons in the Cheapside seld. My hands still felt the guns, still wanted them. The warm length of the barrel, the smooth joining of iron and wood, the dangerous thrill of the shot. I wondered that something so lethal could possess such allure to a bookish man like me.
“‘As swift as pellet out of gun, when fire is in the powder run,’” Chaucer rhymed, and I realized I had heard the lines before. One of his dream poems: a temple of glass, an eagle, a vision of the Milky Way. As always, Chaucer’s verse had got there first.
“They are devilish inventions, to be sure,” he went on in his dreamy voice. “And William Snell the very devil incarnate, slipping from the hands of Lady Justice despite what he’s done. This Stephen Marsh must be some new demon or demigod, but instead of carrying divine brands from Olympus, he sires up guns from the bowels of hell.”
We sat in silence as the brands in front of us crackled and hissed, our thoughts on the tools of war and crime, these instruments of violence running like dark currents through the long history of mankind. Abraham with his knife, King David with his sling and stone, Pontius Pilate with his cruelest cross, Arthur with his sword—and, now, William Snell with his guns, promising a future, by God’s grace, we would none of us live to see. We remained in the circle of warmth as the flames sank to coals, and the fire slowly died.
Chapter 51
SOME MILES NORTH OF the river Tweed, where the moors and fells of Northumberland begin their slow sweep up into the Scottish lowlands, there rises a range of mountains, broad and hulking mounds. Since our first maker pushed them up from the earth, the Cheviot Hills have filled the horizon with a somber dignity, strong sentinels against the northern sky, separated by gentle cols of heather and peat. Wyndy Gyle, Bloodybush Edge, Cairn Hill, the great mount of Cheviot itself: along these desolate and disputed hills wends a border separating two lands, two peoples, two kings. From south and north alike the area is under the watch and protection of the wardens of the East March, English and Scottish lords who expend the lives of their men in the preservation of ancient rights, timeless claims of clan and kin.
Yet no border is impenetrable, no borderland fixed and rigid in the lived experience of its inhabitants and visitors. The region separating England from Scotland is an ever-changing land of mixed allegiances and divided loyalties among the marcher lords and the lesser families who inhabit this frontier. Like their own tangled relations, their lands traverse the wandering course of the Picts’ Wall, that ancient barrier of half-buried stone that snakes across the border, to be met by innumerable roads and byways wending through empty heaths, along hidden valleys, over hills too many to name.
On the first Sunday of Advent, in the fifteenth year of King Robert’s reign and the tenth year of King Richard’s, a woman could be seen leading a horse down along the northern face of one such nameless hill. There was a fierce wind sluicing through the crags on that day, making an already steep and stony descent still more difficult. Yet she kept her footing well, her legs strengthened by long travel and wise experience. Her face had thinned over the last months, gone to gaunt yet still a thing of beauty to anyone looking at her, though there had been few enough of these in recent weeks. She pressed onward and downward, making her slow way north.
She walked alone.
Her horse, led by a thin and fraying rope, stepped along with equal confidence. A slight limp has come on in recent days, worrying her mistress. The mare’s journey from Essex and the south had been long and trying, and like her mistress she had thinned; though like her, too, she was strong, agile, willing to struggle through the minor sufferings of travel with the promise of rest to come. Both knew their journey was nearing its end.
On the mare’s broad back sat a man. He was asleep at the moment, and had been for the better part of two hours, though it was a healing sleep. For weeks, since their flight from Derlinton and the Palatinate, he had been ravaged by fever, closer to death than any man should come and hope to live. His leg had largely healed itself and remained whole, though like the mare he would walk henceforth with a distinctive limp. He was gaining strength by the day, walking slowly for stretches of the path, spelled by the mare when he grew weary.
Within another week they would join her relations on the coast, there to take up residence in a modest house on a bishop’s estate, where they would serve the diocese and manor well. They would live as husband and wife, never taking the sacrament yet fully and properly wedded in the eyes of God. There would be children, four or five in number. They would be content and safe in their adopted home. They would live long, their years blessed with small fortune and great love.
This, at least, is how Chaucer might have ended the story of Robert Faulk and Margery Peveril, these intended victims of an unthinkable violence they together escaped, at least for a time. In my youth I made a pilgrimage to St. Cuthbert’s shrine in Durham, traveling the same overland route traversed by Robert and Margery in their long flight from the Kentish wood and the horror they encountered there. Our company never made it as far as Edinburgh, nor even to the marches, though once in the Palatinate we could taste something of the northern air, imagine ourselves among the green and endless hills of a wild borderlands we knew then only through the minstrels’ songs. Would such songs find Margery and Robert in the end, I wondered, or would their tale fade into the same long and tuneless oblivion that entombs so many bygone lives?
Chaucer is a lusty maker, a sharp-eyed poet of strong endings and firm moral lessons. Tales of learned roosters and cuckolded reeves, jests of broken wind, romances of pricking knights, the brief lives of martyred children and virgin saints. Even his tragedies make for a happy close, and if Geoffrey were to sit down and ink out a quire on the adventures of Robert Faulk and Margery Peveril, you can wager it would find resolution in a wedding feast with all the gilding, or some te
st of devotion and fidelity affirming the rightness and richness of their love. Upon reading the final lines you would doubtless set down the little book with some reluctance, give their story your tearful eyes and your sad smile, shake your head at the sobering beauty of it all. Oh, how bitter! Ah, how sweet!
I sip from the goblet of a darker muse. The stories I favor most are painted in the hues of choler, spleen, and bile, and they rarely end well. Tyrants drowning in a river of molten blood. Death’s trumpet, blowing at the gates of the hypocrites. King Albinus, inducing his ignorant wife to drink wine from her father’s burnished skull. Our atrocities require us to honor the strangest twists of our imagination, and without regard for the comforts of fitting issue or joyful resolution. A poet should not be some sweet-singing bird in a trap, feasting on the meat while blind to the net. The net is the meat, all those entanglements and snares and iron claws that hobble us and prevent our escape from the limits of our weak and fallen flesh. Perhaps in my own translation of their legend Margery and Robert will starve to death on a barren heath, or drown at sea in sight of Zeeland. For survival is a curse as much as a blessing. Think of fire, an invention that taught us to cook the flesh of beasts, to light our way at night, to cast a tuneful bell—to die by powder, flame, and ball. After his betrayal but before his rescue Prometheus could only watch as an eagle hooked and pulled at his liver. I would have ended the story there.
Back in Southwark, as I took the final turn past St. Margaret’s Hill, Jack Norris went running ahead, eager for a return to the comforts of the priory. He, like Simon, had come to my aid at a dire moment, and I would never forget the wild in his eyes as he saw me backing toward the seld with Edmund Rune’s blade at my neck. At one point along the high street he returned to my side, and together we followed a merchant striding up the middle as if he were lord of the town.
I bought a meat bun from a walking huckster. Jack ate it greedily, taking random bites from around the edges as he worked his way to the rich middle, shoving the strips of crust between his lips. His new cap had edged up over his ravaged left ear, exposing the dry stub to the wind. As he nibbled the last of the bun I pushed the cap down, awkwardly patted his head. He looked up at me.
“Am I to hie back over the bridge, Mas’ Gower, now it’s all done?”
The question was posed so innocently, with such openness and acceptance of whatever my response would be, that I had to look away. “You will remain at my house for the present, Jack. If it suits you, that is.”
“What’s that, Mas’ Gower?” He moved his cap aside, put a cupping hand to the near stub. I repeated myself.
It took him a few moments to respond. “For a little piece a time it does. Though I have my work, so not overlong a stay.” He patted the hasp of his knife, taking the same pride in the tool of his trade as a cordwainer might in his awl. As if common thievery were a sanctioned craft, the cutpurses a civic guild, with livery and station.
Ahead of us the merchant’s gilt purse bulged almost obscenely at his waist. Jack was staring at it. Even I was tempted to reach for a knife.
“There are other ways, Jack,” I said, putting a hand between his shoulders.
“Aye, Master Gower,” the boy sighed. He drew closer. “Though none of them as quick.”
I could not disagree.
Epilogue
STEPHEN MARSH CAME IN from the foundry yard, stamping the cold from his feet and peeling off his gloves. He walked through to the display room, where Hawisia was speaking with a grey friar. They paid Stephen no mind as he edged along the side of the room toward the hearth.
“How long must the brethren wait, Mistress Stone?” the Franciscan was asking.
“Third week of Advent, could be,” Hawisia said in a low voice, so as not to wake the babe. “We are backed up near to Mile End with all the orders, and down a metalman or two. Even Greyfriars can’t expect a quicker bell, I fear.”
At her foot, near the hearth, sat the low cradle Stephen had crafted some weeks ago. It was designed with a small nook for Hawisia’s shoe, allowing her to rock it easily while standing or sitting nearby. At the moment her right toes were wedged beneath one of the rockers, and as she spoke to the friar she pushed up gently to move the cradle forth and back, forth and back in a soothing motion. Stephen felt a nip of annoyance that Hawisia was failing to take advantage of the nook, though the infant seemed calm. He would bring it up later, perhaps.
“A long wait, Mistress Stone,” said the friar.
To Stephen the cradle looked a bit close to the fire. Hawisia moved her foot away as he approached. He inched the crib back a few nudges, then squatted and peered down into the wooden box.
“Aye, but can’t be helped, not if you want a Stone’s bell.”
The infant was swaddled tight, perfectly still.
The friar sighed. “The doctors of the studium are indifferent to the music of bells, though the warden is quite particular. We shall wait patiently on you, Mistress Stone.”
Stephen reached for the babe’s nose, the finest pearl.
“You will not regret it,” Hawisia said. She concluded her business with the friar, who left the shop on a rush of cold and clatter. Hawisia went out front to take in the foundry sign. Once back inside she barred the door, closing the shop snugly on the ending day. Stephen sensed her looking at him, that new fondness in her gaze. He felt it, too, and the warmth of her trust.
“I will watch her for a time, mistress.”
“Very well,” said Hawisia. “I’ll see about the coals.”
When Hawisia was gone he loosened the swaddling around the infant’s body, allowing her hands and arms to escape. They no longer performed those strange jerking motions they’d made in his early weeks when she was loose like this. Her movements had become more deliberate, still excitable but also artful in that curious way her hands swam through the air, grasped for the world and its shapes.
Her name was Mary, after the Blessed Virgin. Mary Stone, quite a name to live with, though Stephen had quickly come to cherish it in the babe’s first moon. He ran a finger along one of Mary’s forearms, no longer than the head of a smithing hammer, or the rod of a short awl. The babe’s fingers grasped the smallest finger of Stephen’s left hand. A powerful grip for such a tiny creature, a soft coil of muscle, bone, and fat. He stroked the closed fingers. An infant is a perfect machine, like a woman’s birthing parts, he thought, remembering Hawisia’s labor. Knuckles. Joints. Skin. Ears impossibly, horrendously small. Lips and a mouth and ways to make the strangest of noises.
Stephen settled into Robert Stone’s old chair by the hearth and lifted little Mary out of her crib, his finger still in the babe’s fist. She would not let Stephen go, though he tickled her under the arm, stroked her skin. She burbled, gripped harder. Stephen tried to pull his finger from the babe’s hand and still she would not release him. Stephen laughed, trying again, yet Mary was fiercely strong, wasn’t she, a human pincer. She raised Stephen’s finger to her mouth and gummed contentedly, her small eyes fixed on his own.
Remarkable, Stephen thought with an almost painful burst of love and pride, and the strong tug of Mary Stone’s grip aroused his imagination to a sudden and unprompted vision. A new device, fitted for these wee hands. His eyes widened at the absurdity of it. Ludicrous, unthinkable. Yet he had thought it, after all, and as it worked on his mind he saw no reason such a thing could not be done, and in this very shop. He had made a hundred guns by his own hands and orders, after all, only to destroy them all in the end with a small plug of lead in the chamber. Who was he to deny further such inventions to the frail and defenseless? Why, the king’s armorer himself had said it, by God’s body and bread. The handgonne is the ultimate weapon of the weak.
Stephen Marsh brought his nose to the top of Mary’s little head, taking in her pure scent. His eyes closed, and he saw a child, a girl of eleven or twelve years. She was somewhere along the bounds of a city or a keep. She stood on a wall or peered through a slit. All her mind was on defending
what she had, the people she loved, the place she lived, her virtue and the very sanctity of her flesh, and in her silken arms she cradled the smallest gun the world would ever know.
Historical Note and Acknowledgments
This book has its origins in a few surprising sentences from T. F. Tout’s classic work Chapters in the Administrative History of Mediaeval England concerning the existence of “handguns” in the Tower of London armory. Since coming across Tout’s account of the royal armorers and their handgonnes some years ago I have been curious about the earliest emergence of handheld gunpowder weapons before 1400, as well as the technological culture that, for better or worse, first developed them through a long process of trial and error. This was a culture evoked by Geoffrey Chaucer in his The House of Fame, which describes a blast speeding out of a trumpet “As swift as pelet out of gonne, / Whan fyr is in the poudre ronne.” The simultaneous allure and horror provoked by the new guns is apparent in the writings of contemporary chroniclers, who have given us sporadic accounts of their use among both military and civilian forces, including a group of rebels who assaulted the manor of Huntercombe in 1375 with an array of weapons that included portable “gonnes.”
Research for this novel has immersed me in the depthless fields of military history and the history of technology, particularly the metal industries and the crafts of smithing and founding, which were quite often located in the same shops in the fourteenth century. The works that I have found particularly indispensable for the details of trade, manufacture, and innovation include Kelly DeVries, Medieval Military Technology; Robert Douglas Smith and Kelly DeVries, The Artillery of the Dukes of Burgundy; and Howard L. Blackmore’s indispensable guide, Gunmakers of London 1350–1850. I am particularly indebted to Lois Schwoerer, who shared with me the manuscript of her forthcoming book Gun Culture in Early Modern England; and to Sean McLachlan, author of Medieval Handgonnes and one of the world’s leading authorities on early gunpowder weapons, for his last-minute help.
The Invention of Fire Page 41