by C. J. Sansom
‘I am leaving Snodin in charge of the men,’ he said. ‘That is the field allotted them to camp in tonight. I am riding into town with the purser to buy rations and see if I can find some new shoes. Some of the men are limping badly.’
‘That they are.’
‘I’ll probably have to pay a high price. How merchants are profiting from this war. I’ll return to stay with the men, but you and your friends may as well ride in with me and find an inn. We can pick you up on the main road as we march through tomorrow. At six, we have to keep up the pace.’
‘We’ll be ready,’ Dyrick answered, though he was as tired and dusty as I.
WE RODE INTO Godalming. Leacon and his purser left us to find the mayor, and we went to look for an inn. Most were full, but we found places at last. Barak and Feaveryear would have to share a room again. I went up to my chamber, took off my boots and lay down on the mattress, a feather one this time. I was almost asleep when there was a knock at the door and Barak entered.
‘Come with me into town,’ he begged. ‘Let’s find somewhere else to eat. I can’t bear a whole evening with Feaveryear.’
I heaved myself to my feet, wincing at my sore back and thighs. ‘Nor I with Dyrick.’
We found another inn, with better food than the night before. It was a companionable meal without Dyrick and Feaveryear. But as we stepped out into the street again I felt an urge to be alone for a while; I had been constantly in company for two days.
‘I think I will look at the church,’ I said.
‘A spot of prayer?’
‘Churches are good for contemplation.’
He sighed. ‘Back to nestle with Feaveryear, then.’
I walked up the main street and into the church. The hushed space reminded me of childhood days, for this was as traditional a church as the law allowed. The evening sun shone straight in through the brightly stained west window, making the interior a dim red. A chantry priest recited Masses for the dead in a side chapel.
I walked slowly down the nave. Then I saw, in another side chapel, bent before the altar rail, a figure in a dusty white coat. George Leacon. He must have heard my footsteps stop for he turned round. He looked utterly weary.
‘Forgive me,’ I said quietly. ‘I came to look at the church.’
He smiled sadly. ‘I was trying to communicate with my Maker.’
‘I remember at York you were working hard at reading the Bible.’
‘I still have that bible.’ He looked at me, his face anguished now. ‘These days it strikes me how full of war the Bible is. The Old Testament, at least, and the Book of Revelation.’
I sat on the altar-rail steps. After that long day in the saddle I doubted I could kneel. ‘Yes,’ I agreed.
‘I need to get away from images of war.’ Leacon’s tone was suddenly fierce. ‘I read the New Testament, I pray for images of battle to stop crowding into my head, but – they will not.’
I wondered again at how the open boyish face I remembered had become so thin, so stark. ‘You said you were in France last year,’ I prompted gently.
‘Ay.’ He turned so he was sitting beside me. ‘Those recruits, they have no notion what war is. When you knew me four years ago, Master Shardlake, I had had an easy form of soldiering. Garrison duty on the northern border or in Calais, or guarding the King’s palaces. No war, only border ruffles with the Scots. Yes, I saw reivers there brought back dead for their heads to be displayed on Berwick Castle. But I had never killed a man. And then, you remember, I was dismissed.’
‘Unjustly.’
‘And so I returned to my parents’ farm, which you saved for us in that court action.’
‘I owed you a debt.’
‘That was a good life, if a hard one. But my parents grew older, they could do less work and we had to hire labourers. Then, in the spring of last year, my old captain came. He said the King was going to invade France and they needed all the soldiering men they could get. The pay was good and I agreed.’ He looked at me intently. ‘I had no idea what it would be like. Does that not sound stupid, childish, coming from one who was a professional soldier?’
‘What happened?’
Leacon now spoke with a sort of quiet, desperate fervour. ‘I sailed first to Scotland with Lord Hertford’s fleet. Did you know, the King ordered him to wage a war that would spare neither women nor children? Lord Hertford did not want to, but the King insisted. We landed at a place called Leith and sacked it, burned every house to the ground and set the women and children running into the countryside. My company stayed there so I saw no more action then, but the rest of the army went to Edinburgh and did the same, razed everything to the ground. The men came back laden with booty, anything of value they could take from the houses. The boats were so laden it was feared some might sink. But spoil is part of war – without hope of gain soldiers are reluctant to march into enemy country.’
‘And now the Scots threaten to invade us, with the soldiers the French have sent them.’
‘Yes. King Francis wants England humbled for good.’ Leacon ran a hand through his curls. ‘We sailed straight from Scotland to France. In July, just a year ago. I was in charge of a half-company of archers. They are all dead now.’
‘All?’
‘Every one. We landed in Calais and marched straight to Boulogne. The countryside between had already been ravaged by foraging soldiers. As in Scotland the fields had been trampled, villages burned. I remember local people standing by the road, old people and women and children in rags, everything they owned taken or destroyed. Starving in the rain, there was nothing but rain and cold winds in France last year. I remember how pale their faces were.’ His voice fell almost to a whisper. ‘There was a woman, a baby in one skinny arm, holding out the other for alms. As I marched past I saw her baby was dead, its eyes open and glassy. Its mother hadn’t realized yet.’ Leacon stared at me fixedly. ‘We were not allowed to stop. I could see it affected the men but I had to encourage them, keep them marching. You have to, you have to.’ He stopped, with a great sigh. ‘And the French will do the same if they land, for revenge. Their captains will cry, “Havoc,” and it will be the turn of their men to take booty from us.’
‘All because the King wanted glory,’ I said bitterly.
A spasm of disgust crossed Leacon’s face. ‘We marched right past Henry when we reached the outskirts of Boulogne. He was in his camp, all the splendid tents up on a hill. I saw him, a huge figure encased from head to foot in armour, sitting on the biggest horse I ever saw, watching the battle. Well out of range of the French cannons pounding our men from the city, of course.’ Leacon swallowed hard, then continued. ‘Our company marched uphill, under fire from the French – Boulogne is on a hill, you see. All our forces could do was hunker down under mud embankments, firing back into the town with our cannon, moving forward by inches. I saw Boulogne turned to rubble.’ He looked at me, then said, ‘You will not know what it is like to kill a man.’
I hesitated. ‘I did kill a man once. I had to or he would have killed me. I drowned him, held him under the water of a muddy pond. I still remember the sounds he made. Later I was nearly drowned myself, in a sewer tunnel flooded with water. Ever since I have been terrified of drowning, yet felt it would be a kind of justice.’
‘There is no justice,’ Leacon said quietly. ‘No meaning. That is what I fear. I beg God to take my memories from me but he will not.’ He looked at the richly gilded statue of the Virgin Mary on the altar, her expression quiet, contemplative, immeasurably distant. He resumed his terrible story.
‘When the part of Boulogne nearest us was blown almost to dust we were ordered to advance. The King had gone home by then; it was September, wetter and muddier than ever. Hundreds of us struggled uphill through the mud, French cannon firing down on us all the time. Then, when we got closer, their archers and arquebusiers fired from among the tumbled stones. The nearer we got to the town the more men fell. My company of archers shot many French cannoneers and archers. B
ut we were a target ourselves, and many of my men were blown to fragments by the cannons.’ He laughed suddenly, wildly, a terrible sound echoing round the dark church. ‘Fragments,’ Leacon repeated. ‘A little word for such a meaning. All that great muddy slope covered with hands and bits of legs, great joints of meat in scraps of uniform, pools of bloody slime among the mud and tumbled stone. A friend’s head in a puddle, still with the helmet on.’ He cast his head down, gave a mighty sigh, then looked up.
‘Enough survived to climb the rubble into the town. Then it was hand-to-hand fighting, swords and bills, hacking and crunching and blood everywhere. The French – and they are brave men, as good as ours – retreated to the upper part of Boulogne and held out another week. I was wounded slightly in my side, I passed out and woke shivering in pain in a leaky tent, trying to keep rats away from my wound.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘They said I had been a brave soldier and promoted me to petty-captain.’
‘Brave indeed, in a situation so terrible I can barely imagine.’
‘It isn’t the fighting in the town I remember most,’ Leacon said. ‘Though I killed several Frenchmen then and was myself in mortal danger. It’s that hill below, like the inside of a slaughterhouse. So many dead. Many nights I dream I am there again. I struggle through that landscape, looking for pieces of my men, trying to identify them so I can put them together again.’ He took a deep breath. ‘If we fight the French ships, if we board, that will be hand-to-hand fighting. I got Snodin to address the men on the second day, tell them what it might be like. I know he was at Boulogne too. I could not bring myself to do it.’
I could think of nothing to say. I put my hand on his arm.
‘I’m a fine fellow to lead soldiers, eh?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘When I am like this within?’
‘You lead them well. I can see they respect you.’
‘They would not if they could see how I really am. I can control myself for most of the time. But then I think of what I may be leading those men and boys to. Some like Sulyard are keen to fight, but even they have no conception what it will be like.’
‘George, if you were not leading them it might be someone with less care for his men, who would not trouble to get good shoes for them.’
‘I hate the drums.’ There was desperation in Leacon’s voice now. ‘When we marched uphill at Boulogne the companies were always led by drummers, beating as loud as they could to compete with the cannon. I hate the sound, I always hear it in my dreams.’ He looked at me. ‘If only I could go home, to the farm. But I can’t, we are all sworn in. You should thank God, Master Shardlake, that you are a civilian.’
Chapter Fifteen
THAT NIGHT I slept deeply. When the innkeeper woke me at five I had a vague memory of a dream involving Ellen, which left me with a heavy, troubled feeling.
The four of us were waiting on our horses outside the inn when the company marched through. Dyrick was in one of his sulky moods again, perhaps because I had abandoned him the night before. Sir Franklin rode at the head of his men with a haughty expression, Leacon with his face set and closed.
We took our places at the rear as the soldiers tramped south once more. Many of the recruits looked dull-eyed with the long boredom of the march; but several who had been limping now wore new shoes. The whiffler Snodin was again marching just in front of me; he reeked like a beer keg.
Soon after leaving Godalming, we crossed the border into Hampshire. We were in the western fringes of the Weald, mostly flat, forested country, massive old oaks among elm and beech. Areas of hunting ground were fenced in with high, strong wooden palings. We marched through tunnel-like lanes where the trees sometimes met overhead, a green dimness with spatters of bright sunlight on the road. A rich loamy smell came from the woodland. Once I saw a dozen bright butterflies dancing in a patch of sunlight. On the march there had been a constant sound of birds flapping away at our approach, but the butterflies ignored us as we passed, many of the men turning to watch them.
Again we halted near midday, in a broad, wooded lane near a stream. The horses were led to the water and the men crowded round the carts to receive the rations bought at Godalming. I heard complaints that there was only fruit and bread and cheese again, though a fat man who was the company purser pleaded the limited buying power of the new coins. One man called out, ‘We’ve got our bows, let’s hunt our own supplies. Come on, Goddams, let’s get some rabbits or partridges, maybe a deer!’
There were shouts of agreement. Sir Franklin, like Leacon still mounted, turned and stared with an outraged expression. Leacon dismounted hastily and went up to the men.
‘No!’ he called out. ‘This land is fenced, it’s the hunting ground of some gentleman or even the King! I won’t have you breaking the law!’
‘Come, Captain!’ someone called out. ‘We’re country lads, we can soon catch something.’
‘Ay! Master Purser’s keeping us short. We can’t fight on empty bellies!’
‘And what if you meet a forester?’ Leacon asked.
To my surprise Pygeon spoke up, his words tumbling over each other in his nervousness. ‘God made the forests and game to serve man, sir, not to be fenced in for the sport of those who have full bellies!’ There were more shouts of agreement, and for the first time I sensed a challenge to Leacon’s authority. The whiffler Snodin marched across, purple-faced. ‘Rebellious bastard!’ he shouted right in Pygeon’s face, adorning it with spittle.
‘Drunken old cunt,’ I heard Sulyard murmur. Several men laughed. Leacon stared them down. Many lowered their eyes but not all. Some crossed their arms and looked defiant.
‘Maybe you’re right!’ Leacon said loudly. ‘I’m a poor farmer’s son myself, I’ve no time for enclosers of land! But if you take game and meet a forester then you’ll hang, soldiers or no. And that’ll be a fine thing to be said of a company of the warbow! I promise when we get to Liphook I’ll make sure you get a good meal, if I have to hold Master Purser upside down and shake the last groat from his doublet!’
‘Can I help you shake him, Captain?’ Carswell called. As in the village the day before, his humour broke the tension and the men laughed.
After eating, many of the men went to a spot on the wattle fence enclosing the hunting park, ostentatiously pissing against it. After my own repast of bread and bacon, I walked over to where Leacon sat. He had handled the angry soldiers skilfully, and it was hard to realize this was the same man as the agonized figure I had spoken with the night before. ‘How are you and your friends bearing up with the ride?’ he asked. I sensed a new reserve in his voice.
‘Stiff and sore, but that is only to be expected.’
‘Your colleague’s young clerk finds it hard, I think.’
‘Feaveryear is managing. Just.’ I looked at Leacon keenly, wondering if he regretted his confidences. ‘A couple of men were arguing just now over whether a bowl was theirs or the King’s,’ I said to make conversation.
‘Yes, some brought their own but many had to have bowls and spoons issued from the stores. A wooden bowl may be a prized possession in a poor family. It is the same with the bows: only those with good ones, like Llewellyn, were allowed to bring their own. Most are standard issue from the armouries. It is the poorer men who hadn’t equipment to bring, and yet their pay will be docked. Strange, is it not?’ He smiled mirthlessly.
Dyrick came up to us, nodding to Leacon before addressing me. ‘Master Shardlake, I would speak with you confidentially, if I may.’
We sat together at the side of the road. The rest of us were tanned now, but Dyrick’s face was still red, sunburned skin peeling off one cheek above the coppery stubble on his lean face. He said, ‘Master Hobbey has turned part of the priory lands into a hunting park. Only a small one, but well stocked with game.’ He gave me one of his hard looks. ‘He is to hold his first hunting party in ten days’ time. Many local gentlefolk will be present. It will be an important event for my client.’
‘I hope we shall be gone by then.’
‘But lest we are not, I trust you will not tell any of the local society the purpose of our visit.’
‘As I said about the villagers, Brother Dyrick, I look to make no trouble for Master Hobbey. But I will make no commitments about what I may say or do.’
‘I shall be watching you carefully, Brother Shardlake.’ Dyrick’s expression was intent, his green-brown eyes locked on mine. ‘My client has come far, from wool merchant to country gentleman. Perhaps one day he may be Sir Nicholas. I will not see his prospects harmed.’
‘All I want is to ensure Hugh Curteys’ lands and welfare are properly looked after. Why can you not realize that?’
‘You will soon see that they are.’
‘Then all will be well, Brother.’
There was silence for a moment, then Dyrick asked, ‘Have you ever hunted?’
‘When I was young, once. Though it was not to my taste, the beasts harried along to their deaths. They have no chance.’
Dyrick laughed scoffingly. ‘There speaks the Court of Requests lawyer. Even deer get your sympathy. Well, it will be my first hunt if we are still there, though like you I hope we will not be.’ He grunted. ‘I did not come from the class that hunts. I am the son of a poor clerk – I have had to struggle up the ladder of life. From Church school to a scholarship at the Temple, to a lowly job as a lawyer at the King’s court—’
‘You worked at court? Perhaps you met people I know. Robert Warner, for example?’
‘The Queen’s solicitor? No, I had a grubbing clerkly job. I left to test my wits in litigation.’ He looked at me hard again. ‘Master Hobbey comes from lowly origins too. But I hear your father was a rich farmer, Brother Shardlake.’ There was a sneer in his voice.