Heartstone ms-5

by C. J. Sansom

  I woke with a start, my heart still thumping with terror. I often had such dreams; two years before I had nearly drowned in a filthy sewer with a murderer for company, and once before that I had myself drowned a man who was trying to kill me. I crossed to the window and threw open the shutters. Sunshine streamed in; from the long shadows I guessed it was near five.

  Outside the tents were being loaded onto carts with other equipment under the supervision of the red-faced officer, whose barking at the men I could hear from my room. The big horses were already between the shafts, munching piles of hay. A little way off a couple of dozen men were practising their skills with the warbow, shooting at a doublet nailed to an oak tree at the far end of the field. Arrows arced through the air, the men shouting when someone hit the target—as most did, for they were all good shots. Leacon stood beside them, watching. I dressed hastily and hurried down to the parlour, deserted now save for Barak, breakfasting alone. I hurried across. 'Thank goodness you are still here.'

  'The soldiers are still loading up. I've written a letter to Tammy, the innkeeper will give it to the next post rider going north.'

  I breakfasted quickly, then we went outside. I saw a few of the soldiers did have white coats, including the red-faced man supervising the loading of the carts and a soldier who was strapping a drum round his middle. A trumpet hung from a baldric on his shoulder. We went over to Dyrick and Feaveryear, who were standing talking to the white-bearded man I had seen the night before.

  'Ah, Brother Shardlake,' Dyrick said reprovingly, 'you have risen. I hope we will be off soon. Those carters will be sleeping it off with the whores. Captain Giffard here wants to be gone before them. Fourteen miles to Godalming today.' His tone was admonitory.

  The white-bearded man turned to me. He wore a peacock-feather cap and a high-collared doublet with buttons patterned in gold leaf. His face was round, spots of colour in his cheeks, his blue eyes watery. I bowed. He gave me a haughty nod.

  'You are the other lawyer my petty-captain has invited to travel with us? I am Sir Franklin Giffard, captain of this company.'

  'Matthew Shardlake. I hope you do not mind us accompanying you, sir.'

  'No, no. Leacon knows what he is doing.' He looked across to the archers.

  'Those men shoot well,' I observed.

  'They do, though hand-to-hand combat is the gentlemanly way to fight a war. But the archers won us Agincourt. Not much of an inn, was it?' he added. 'All that noise, those carriers. We must be gone. Please go and tell Leacon.'

  I hesitated, for he had addressed me as though I were a soldier under his command. But I answered, 'If you wish,' and went to the field, passing the carts. In the nearest I saw a pile of round helmets and large, thick jackets that gave off a damp smell.

  As I approached Leacon, I saw now how much thinner he was, his broad frame all gone to stringiness. I stood by him, watching the archers. A handsome dark-haired lad who looked to be still in his teens stepped forward with his bow. He was short, but stocky and muscular, with the heavy shoulders most of the men had. Like them he carried a warbow two yards long, with decorated horn nocks at each end.

  'Come, Llewellyn!' one of the men called. 'Show us those of Welsh blood can do more than screw sheep!'

  The boy smiled broadly. 'Fuck you, Carswell!' A number of arrows had been thrust into the grass and he pulled one out.

  Leacon leaned forward. 'Llewellyn,' he said quietly, 'step away a little. Try to hit the mark from a sixty-degree angle, like we practised two days ago.'

  'Yes, sir.' The boy stepped away a few yards and faced the tree at an angle. Then, in seconds, he had drawn his bow back nearly three feet, shot, and landed the arrow in the centre of the doublet. The soldiers clapped.

  'More,' Leacon said. 'Make it six.' At a speed such as I had never seen, the boy loosed five more arrows, all of which hit the doublet. He turned and bowed to the appreciative crowd, a flash of white teeth in his sunburned face.

  'That's how we'll feather them in the goddam Frenchies' bowels!' someone shouted, and there were more cheers.

  Leacon turned to me. 'What do you think of my Goddams?' He smiled at my puzzled look. 'It's what English archers call themselves.'

  'I have never seen such skill. George, Captain Giffard wants us to move off. I am sorry, I should have said at once, but I was so taken with that display.'

  Leacon turned back to the men. 'No more, lads! We march!'

  There was a grumbling murmur as the men set to unstringing their bows and I accompanied Leacon back to the road.

  'Are your men all from the same district?' I asked.

  'No. They come from all over north-west Middlesex. They're a varied bunch, sons of yeomen together with those of artisans and poor labourers. The commissioners are often accused of levying the dregs of the villages, but I was told to pick a company of strong, practised archers—principal archers we call them, and I have. Though there has been little time to train them to work together yet, most of the day is taken up with marching.'

  'That fellow who shot last was remarkable, but he seemed young for service.'

  'Tom Llewellyn is not nineteen, but he was the best archer I saw at the Views of Arms. A blacksmith's apprentice, son of a Welshman.'

  'Are they willing recruits?'

  'Some. Others less so. We had a few desertions in London, so we are four men short. And our company preacher was taken ill. We had no time to get a replacement.'

  I laughed. 'You were unable to find a preacher in London? Now that does astonish me!'

  'Not one willing to serve in the army, anyway.'

  I nodded at the officer supervising the loading of the carts, which was now almost complete. He was still walking around, shouting and snapping.

  'He is a choleric fellow.'

  'Yes, Master Snodin, our whiffler. He is a seasoned veteran, he keeps the men well in order.'

  'Ah.' I thought of Goodryke.

  'He drinks, though, and gets in a fierce temper. I hope he does not have a seizure before we reach Portsmouth. He is the only other officer, apart from the vientinaries.'

  'The what?'

  'Companies are grouped into five sections of twenty, each with a corporal in charge whom I have nominated.'

  'I was surprised not to see more men in uniform.'

  He grunted. 'The store of white coats in the King's armouries has run out, and there has been no time to make more. Even the armour we have is a jumbled-up mixture. I'll swear some of it goes back to the wars between York and Lancaster, if not Agincourt.'

  'I saw some ill-smelling padded jackets in one of the carts.'

  Leacon nodded. 'Jacks. They give protection from arrows. But many have been shut up in church vestries for years and mice have nibbled at some. I am getting the men to mend them when they have time.'

  I watched the men complete their loading. 'George,' I said, 'I understand our way goes near the Sussex border.'

  'Yes, between Liphook and Petersfield. With luck we will reach there the day after tomorrow.'

  'There is a small town on the Sussex side, Rolfswood. I have some business there.'

  'I only know our stops along the road.' Leacon smiled. 'I'm a Kentishman, the less we know of Sussex clods the happier we are. You had best ask when we reach those parts.'

  We had come up to the others. 'We must be off, Leacon,' Sir Franklin said.

  'Nearly ready, sir.'

  'Good. We should find our horses. And I want to talk to you about the men's buttons.'

  'I thought we had settled that, sir.' A note of irritation had crept into Leacon's voice.

  The captain frowned. 'We discussed it, sir, but did not settle it. Do you think I am of no good memory?'

  'No, sir. But—'

  'Come with me.' Sir Franklin turned and walked back to the inn, Leacon following, his straight-backed stride contrasting with Sir Franklin's slow, stiff-legged gait.

  Dyrick shook his head. 'Buttons? What's that about? Silly old fool.'

  We turned
at the sound of shouting. The carts were loaded, and the recruits were fixing the large pouches containing their possessions to their belts, beside the long knives they all carried. Two soldiers by the carts had started fighting. The rangy fellow who had dropped the tent in a cowpat the previous evening and a big man with untidy fair hair were pummelling at each other with their fists. Other recruits gathered around eagerly.

  'Come on, Pygeon. Don't let him get away with that!'

  'What did you say to him now, Sulyard?'

  The two men pulled apart, breathing hard, and circled each other. 'Come, Pygeon, you scabby freak!' the fair-haired fellow called out. 'Get your balance! Don't catch the wind with those great ears of yours or you'll fly up like a bird!'

  There was more laughter. Pygeon was one of those unfortunates with large ears that stuck out from the side of his head. He had a narrow face and receding chin. He looked no more than twenty, while his opponent was some years older, with ugly, bony features, sharp malicious eyes and the taunting expression of the born bully. I was pleased when Pygeon caught him off guard, kicking out at his knee so that he howled and staggered.

  The circle of onlookers parted as the red-faced whiffler Snodin pushed through, his face furious. He crossed to Pygeon and slapped him hard across the face. 'What the fuck's going on?' Snodin shouted. 'Pygeon, it's always you whenever there's trouble. You useless shit!'

  'Sulyard won't let me be,' Pygeon shouted back. 'All the time insults, insults. I had to take it in our village but not now.'

  Some in the crowd murmured agreement, others laughed. This infuriated the whiffler even more. His face grew almost purple. 'Shut up!' he bawled. 'You're King's men now, forget your damned village quarrels!' He looked malevolently over the crowd. 'This morning you can march in jacks and helmets. And Pygeon's section can wear the brigandynes. You can blame him.' There were groans from the men. 'Quiet!' Snodin shouted. 'You need to get used to them, you'll be wearing them when we meet the French! Front ten men, unload them!'

  Ten men peeled quickly away from the crowd, ran up and unloaded the tight-fitting steel helmets from a cart, together with the jacks, and other jackets inlaid with metal plates that tinkled like coins: brigandynes, which I had heard could stop an arrow. Sulyard had got to his feet and, though limping slightly, gave Pygeon a victorious grin.

  'The men must march in those?' I said to Barak.

  'Looks like it. Rather them than me.'

  Dyrick said, 'As the whiffler pointed out, they may have to fight in them. Look, here come Leacon and the captain. Come on, let's get moving.'

  Leacon and Sir Franklin, mounted now, rode over to the whiffler. The three conversed in low tones. Leacon seemed to be disagreeing with the whiffler but Sir Franklin said, 'Nonsense! It'll teach them a lesson,' and concluded the discussion by riding back to the road.

  The men donned the jacks, except for a group of twenty at the rear which included Sulyard and Pygeon as well as the young archer Llewellyn; they pulled on the brigandynes. Many of them were threadbare, like the jacks, some with the metal plates showing through. The section grumbled as they put them on; though Sulyard, who wore a new-looking brigandyne dyed bright red, the brazen studs holding the plates glinting, looked proud of what I guessed was a personal possession. The other men grumbled; the corporal, a heavy-set, keen-eyed young fellow with pleasant, mobile features, encouraged them. 'Come on, lads, it can't be helped. It's only till lunchtime.'

  At a command from Snodin the soldiers drew up in rows of five. Sir Franklin, Leacon and the drummer took places at the front. The drummer began a steady beat and the men marched out of the field. I noticed again how young most were, almost all under thirty and several under twenty. All wore leather shoes, some old and battered. Snodin placed himself at the rear, in a position to watch the entire company. We four civilians mounted and took our places behind him; from the horse's back I had a view of his balding crown, with a glimpse of his blue-veined bottle nose when he turned his head. Behind us the carts creaked into position. As we made our way slowly down the empty main street of Cobham an old man leaned from the upper window of a house and called out, 'God be with you, soldiers. God save King Harry!'

  * * *

  I WAS BEGINNING to grow fond of my horse, named Oddleg for his one white foot. He was placid, walked at a steady, unvarying pace and had seemed glad to see me that morning. The company marched into the countryside to the rhythm of the drum, the tramp of marching feet accompanied by the rumble of cartwheels behind us, the hoofbeats of our horses and, immediately ahead, an odd coin-like jingling from the brigandynes. One of the soldiers began singing, and the others took up the ragged chorus of an obscene variation of 'Greensleeves', each verse more inventive than the last.

  After a while Leacon signalled the drummer to stop. We were climbing into the Surrey Downs now, the road mostly well-drained chalk. The marching men threw up much dust, and soon we at the back were grey with it. The countryside changed, more land farmed on the old system, with huge fields divided into long strips of different crops. The wheat and vetches seemed further on here, less battered looking; the storms must not have reached this far south. Peasants stopped work to look at us, but without much interest. We would not be the first soldiers passing this way.

  The singing petered out after a couple of miles. The pace flagged and the drummer sounded the marching beat again. I decided to essay another conversation with Dyrick. Despite his wide-brimmed hat, his sharp, lean face was starting to burn as those of ruddy-headed people will. 'Poor caitiffs,' I said, nodding at the men in brigandynes, 'see how they sweat.'

  'They may have to do more than sweat when we get to Portsmouth,' he replied grimly.

  'Ay. Better the King had never started this war.'

  'Maybe 'tis time for a final reckoning with the French. I just wish you hadn't got me caught up in the middle of it all.'

  I laughed suddenly. 'Come, Brother Dyrick, there must be some topic we can agree on.'

  He gave me a hostile stare. 'I cannot think of one.'

  I gave up. Although it was discourteous, I fell behind so I could converse with Barak. Feaveryear gave me a disapproving look.

  * * *

  WE MADE good progress; at a blast from the drummer's trumpet several carts, and once a gang of road menders, moved to the side of the road to let us pass. After two hours we stopped by a bridge to water the horses at the stream running under it. As we led the animals down to the water, the soldiers fell out and sat breakfasting in the road or on the verge, taking bread and cheese from the large pouches at their waists. The men in the jacks and brigandynes looked utterly weary.

  'I don't think I could have stood up to this march like them,' Barak said. 'Five years ago, maybe. That arsehole Goodryke, he didn't care whether I'd make a good soldier or not. He just wanted to make an example of me.'

  'Yes, he did.'

  'That Snodin's another one. You can see he has it in for the jug-eared fellow.'

  'He does.' I looked behind us, up the road. 'What's that?'

  A plume of dust had appeared in the distance, men riding fast. Snodin ordered the recruits slumped in the roadway to move. Half a dozen riders passed us, all in the King's livery, heading south. At their head was a little man in a grey robe, his horse draped in a cloth of green and white, the royal colours. The party slowed to cross the bridge and I recognized the neat pale face of Sir Richard Rich.

  Chapter Fourteen

  AS THE MORNING wore on I found the journey increasingly wearying. For the marching men it was much harder, and I noticed those with old shoes were beginning to limp. In front of us dark sweat stains were visible on all the brigandynes now, outlining the metal squares sewn into the fabric. The soldiers slowed and the drum sounded to make them pick up the pace. Some were grousing by the time the trumpet sounded a halt just outside a village, beside a large pond fringed with willows. A couple of white-aproned old goodwives approached us and Leacon spoke to them, leaning down from his horse. Then he conferred briefly
with the captain before calling back to the men.

  'We stop here for lunch! The villagers have ham and bacon to sell. Purser, get some money! And the jacks and brigandynes can come off now!'

  'Can we buy some women as well as food, sir?' It was the young corporal from the rear section. The soldiers laughed, and Leacon smiled.

  'Ah, Stephen Carswell, never at a loss for a jest!'

  'Hillingdon men are more used to donkeys than women!' the bully Sulyard shouted. He laughed loudly, showing a mouth half-empty of teeth.

  The men fell out and sat at the roadside again, apart from a few who went to the carts and began unloading biscuit, cheese and a barrel of beer. I had to admire the smoothness of the company's organization. Leacon and the captain led their horses to the water, and we lawyers followed.

  While the animals drank, Dyrick went to sit under the shade of a willow, Feaveryear following. Barak and I went over to where Leacon stood alone, watching his men. Some were straggling towards the village.

  'Hard work, being in charge of a hundred men,' I observed.

  'Ay. We have our grumblers, one or two rebellious spirits. Carswell there is our jester. A good man—I think he is one of those who will still joke as they march into battle.'

  'That straw-haired fellow seems a nasty piece of work. He started the trouble with the other man this morning, you know.'

  He sighed. 'Yes, Sulyard is a troublemaker. But Snodin dislikes poor Pygeon for his clumsy ways. Junior officers will sometimes take against a man for little reason.'

  'You are right there,' Barak agreed feelingly.

  'I think it was unjust,' I said.

  Leacon gave me an impatient look. 'This is the army, Master Shardlake, not a law court. Snodin's job is to keep discipline and he may have to do that in battle, so I avoid gainsaying his decisions. Hard as he is, I need him. Sir Franklin is—well, you have met him.'