Apples and Prayers
Page 16
We stared at my Lord for some moments in disbelief. He was actually calling us to rebellion.
‘And who leads the Cornishmen into this county?’ asked father Lock.
‘Arundell of Helland,’ Sir Walter said. ‘The Cornishmen follow their grandfathers’ footsteps from years gone by.’
‘His brothers have influence at court, don’t they?’ pursued the priest. ‘He’ll be fighting his own blood before long.’
‘Many men aren’t afraid of fighting their brothers…’ said Walter.
‘Men of wealth and position have begun their march on Exeter,’ my Lord interrupted him. ‘This won’t get far without gentlemen to lead it. Arundell will keep the band in shape, should it come to a fight. He’s polished in warfare from foreign campaigns. One of God’s soldiers and a friend to Devon. Look to his estates in the shire. We march with them tomorrow!’
My master then pulled on his reins and his horse span away, his son’s horse beside him. The two animals galloped at speed back towards the Barton, in a flurry of manes and din of raucous neighing.
We gathered behind our priest. Gradually, like the steady drip of a spigot into a pail, we clapped our assent as they rode off. By the time they’d vanished from sight, our circle had already begun to slap each other on the back. With raised voices, we bellowed our purpose to the skies. And then, under our priest’s instruction, we knelt and prayed… Gloria in excelsis Deo. Et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis. Laudamus te… joining our thoughts for one great hymn to rise above us all to high Heaven.
For my part, it wasn’t such a difficult decision to follow my Lord Ponsford. I would offer his retinue service on their march and in their camp. If not I, then who would cook when they were on the road; who would tend to the aches and pains of our men as they trudged across county to the capital? Who would treat my Lady’s headaches?
Besides, John Toucher was clearly resolved to join the struggle, seeking to protect his feudal rights and I wouldn’t see my John disappear into an unknown sunset without going along at his side. What with my Lord and Lady and their son, Sir Walter, heading our party, the Barton would be as good as boarded up anyway, for the short time that the endeavour would take. Alford would keep its fires burning, in hope of our welcomed and speedy return. Rawlings, the working boy, would tend to its livestock. The elders of the village who’d stay behind would help them.
I spoke with Alford about the matter that night, telling her to stay put here in the Barton, where she could help to mind the great house in my absence. With any luck, we’d be home before her baby was born and it would arrive then into a freer land, where it could be fairly christened and brought into the faith.
But Alford told me forcibly that she too was also moved to go along with the Cornishmen. It provoked yet more argument between us.
‘There’s no question of it, Alford,’ I said. ‘In your condition? Really? You’re not fit to travel on a soldier’s march.’
‘How so, not fit to travel, Morgan?’ she turned on me, glaring her eyes like some wild animal in the woods. In that moment, it felt as if my bond with her was as stretched as it was with John Toucher.
‘The way’s fraught with danger, Alford. The purpose is perilous.’
‘Fraught with danger? Huh! I can travel where I like, danger or not, Morgan.’
‘Alford, you couldn’t even sit on the May Day cart this last month, for all your puking! Have you forgotten so soon?’
‘That’s got nothing to do with it, Morgan!’ She raised her voice to a pitch I’d never heard from her before and I knew then that I had to return her to her proper station, or else I’d lose this fight. One or the other.
‘It’s got everything to do with it, my girl. You shall remain at home and see your child born here in peace. It’s common sense and I won’t hear another word about it!’
She stared me down defiantly.
‘And if you ever raise your voice at me like that again,’ I said, ‘so help me…’
It was the first time I remember being truly angry with her, yet in the way a mother is angry with her child, when she worries for its safety.
Nonetheless, she continued. ‘Common sense? I’ll have none of your common sense, Morgan. The days are changing. Can’t you feel that? Common sense has trampled down the fences and fled the fields. Our men are off to fight for something new. The road will be an open adventure!’
‘An open adventure, Alford?’ I laughed. ‘Listen to yourself, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Didn’t you see the blood of that man yesterday at Sampford? Didn’t you? Or did that pass you by, by some miracle? Didn’t you hear the fear in his cries, the passion of the men’s arguments, see their bloody deeds? This isn’t some carnival march to the village green, my girl. It’s a call to bear arms! What do you think the Cornishmen are carrying, Alford, hay wands?’
‘My hands can be of use there too, Morgan. An army doesn’t march on empty stomachs. I can cook and care as well as you. I’m not some little child any more, Morgan. I’m a married woman. I’ll be as useful as the next…’
I was furious with her now, but more so with myself for letting things become so out of hand.
‘Then you’ll not admit any danger in this undertaking?’ I asked her, trying to calm both of us with cooler tones. ‘Is that what you’re telling me, Alford? For if it is, then you’re sorely, sorely mistaken…’
‘No, Morgan, I’m not saying the way’s free from danger, but…’
‘But what, Alford? What? An army camp’s no place for a girl with child. It’s no fit place for a self-respecting woman anyways. What’ll you be able to do usefully? Tell me!’
She turned away from me then and composed her thoughts in silence. When she’d chosen her phrase, she came close and spoke to me quietly, holding onto my hands. I could feel her own fingers trembling delicately.
‘D’you suppose, Morgan, that you might stop and think for a moment about staying put yourself and leaving John Toucher to go and fight his great fight alone, for land and money and all else he rails about?’
I hardly had to think about her question.
‘Of course not, Alford,’ I replied. ‘I couldn’t. I won’t see John Toucher go away, never knowing if he’s going to be coming back or not…’
‘Then consider my case, Morgan. Please. I can hardly let a husband of less than a month just wander off and leave me here at home, alone, with all the uncertainty of childbirth hanging over my head and all the worries of the fight gathered over his. It’d be unbearable! I won’t leave Dufflin, Morgan. It can’t be done.’
I’d never heard her speak with any maturity about matters of love before. She’d always been so childish in her passion. Now, I could only concede to her view. It seemed a madness for us both to follow our men wherever they went, simply out of the cause of love – where worries of change and losing their land was leading them on in their own way – but there seemed to be nothing else for it.
And so it was that we made our preparations for departure, gathering together all that we’d need for the unknown days ahead.
The next morning, those who’d decided not to come with us assembled to watch the procession move out of the village. They were mostly the elders, the very young and the infirm, or those of no strong conviction in these matters of religion, or of land. But for whatever reason they stayed behind, our procession out of Buckland must have looked the most impressive thing. For her part, my Lady, appeared like the Virgin herself, at the head of a sacred army. She wore her black and scarlet parti-colour dress, her bosom laced in with cross-knit cords. I’d pulled her hair back with a cornrow of braids and clasped her family jewels, a chain of red rubies set in gold, around her neckline. She walked beside her husband, my Lord’s hand raised and lain across his stomach, my Lady’s draped across his own. He strode in his boots, though my Lady’s feet were clad in wooden pattens, to protect her shoes from the mud of the fields.
Before we left, we knelt for the devotions.
My Lord and Lady Ponsford took the head of our retinue and led us on with pomp and finery, accompanied by their son and by our priest, to the parish boundaries. Here the onlookers waved us on our way, to join with the Cornishmen at Crediton, some twenty miles east of Buckland and a brisk march. I felt in turns both eager and afraid.
As we marched that day, men and women from across the shire joined us in our cause and, in due course, we were many, a burgeoning procession of carts, horses, knights and equerries and all of us common folk carrying armaments and banners. Peasants in hats with wooden pitchforks; footmen in doublets with double-headed axes resting high on their shoulders; young men, barely more than boys, with baldric belts slung over their shoulders holding knives and hand axes, trowels and bradawls, anything that might serve as a weapon should it come to the fight. They carried barrel lids as shields, with makeshift wooden straps nailed to the back so they might hold them. A soldier can look so frightening in his garb, but a boy still looks like a boy and I wondered at their bravery, or recklessness, in making the march with us.
When we joined with the Sampford men and women, led on that day by Underhill and Segar, our considerable number followed behind the Holy Banner. Their men were armed with bows and swords, shields and halberts, billhooks, poles and lances. We were Christ’s soldiers and, when we looked upon his Banner of Five Wounds, we saw ourselves defenders of his faith and church. Alongside were carried the silver Pyx and Sacrament. Our priest held high the Holy Bread and Water, to defend us against the Devil. We were like a Corpus Christi procession and surely couldn’t fail now in our mission.
Following our brotherly march, we arrived later that evening at Crediton, where the Cornishmen were already amassed. We came over the brow of the hill and down the high road into the town square. There they were camped, as thick and busy on the ground as bees all over a new honeycomb. They made an impressive band of near three thousand, mostly footmen in their helmets, gorgets and armoured vests, bearing great bills for the fray. There were also many bowmen.
These Cornish archers were arrayed in a swathe across the town green, practising at loosing their arrows. The fletches of their darts poked up from the quivers they’d slung behind their backs, like angels wings. The foremost archers were kneeling down in their brown leather tabards and breeches, knives at their belts, with shields raised up before them in a wall of defence. Behind them, a row of standing archers, their leather finger tabs gripping their strings, braced themselves and released a flight of imaginary arrows. The air vibrated with a great whoosh of sound as their strings snapped straight again. Then they knelt as the front archers stood, repeating the drill. They looked so intent on their aim, I’m sure they’d shoot an apple off your head at half a league and not hit anything but the heart of the fruit.
‘Fear the Cornish archers,’ Woodbine said, forebodingly, as we came down into their camp. ‘They’ve proved their mettle in many campaigns. Their bows are a full hand span longer than ours and more powerful. No enemy in his right mind’ll show them his head. They’ll rain down a shower of arrows upon him, as accurate as threading a needle.’
When the Cornishmen saw our company’s arrival, an immense cheer of welcome seemed to make the buildings round us shake. Then they enjoined us into their ranks, as partners in this, our mutual and Holy Crusade.
Although they looked different to us, they were now our brothers. They stood before us, clad in chain mail and leather scale armour, or long tabards of slinking metal scales that made them seem like giant river fish come out of the water to devour those living on the land. Their captains were dressed in cuirasses and leathered suits, or brigandine studded with rivets, above puffed bombast breeches. Many of the fighting men had shaved their heads in shapes and curious patterns: a cross cut into one man’s locks, a sun or star shaved onto another man’s crown. Some of them held dogs on chains… or, more like, wolves… tan and grey, their ears alert to the tiniest of sounds, their pointed muzzles relaxed now, but ready to reveal a maw of scowling teeth. You wouldn’t want those released on you. One of these handlers strode around in nothing more than boots and breeches and a pair of leather braces on his wrists, his whole back bare, yet covered in patterns of swirling Celtic ink etched into his skin.
Father Lock dismounted before us and, making the sign of the cross, began the Pater noster once again. As he progressed with the prayer, those of us who knew the words joined in with him. As we reached the final lines admonishing temptation, our chorus was louder than any that could ever have been heard in this town.
My Lord and Lady then joined Arundell and the Cornish captains, while we dug our conjoined forces in, making a camp of Crediton, barricading the town and entrenching the highway.
We’d been entrenched here for several days, when our lookouts raised the alarm at a troop of horses riding towards our encampment. The Royal standard waved above their heads, as they galloped along the Exeter road and, then, across the fields towards us. Their horses were widely spread across the turf, riding several deep. The pasture echoed with the rumble of their hooves as they drew to a stamping halt on the dirt lane outside our cordon. A cloud of dust rose up around the horses’ hocks.
Their herald blared a trumpet and the horsemen pulled their steeds to a short rein just beyond our defences. A small cortege of riders then split off from their group and advanced towards us.
When their delegation arrived, it was met by our leaders, Arundell and Captain Broad of the Cornish, who’d mounted their horses to ride out and meet them. Our hopes were high for an early agreement… we were many and didn’t suppose that even the King’s men would want a fight, so far away from London.
Arundell cut a dignified, imposing figure, dressed more finely than any man I’d ever seen at the Barton. Since we’d been joined with the Cornish, it was clear his men respected him for a skillful, agile soldier, ruthless in battle they said.
At the head of the King’s men was a conceited looking captain. He was full-bearded, with coldness and arrogance in his heavy-lidded eyes. His horse, alone, wore magnificent steel barding over its flanks, to save it from the bite of lances and arrows.
‘Lord Carew,’ Arundell received them. ‘We’re indebted to you and the King’s Council, for your attention here today, for listening to our grievances on matters of religion.’
Although the parties were out on the road, we could hear their voices, raised, from where we stood at the barricades. Carew made no answer, but pulled his horse alongside Arundell’s, squaring the beast off to our captain’s. The horses were so close that they jostled and pushed at each other’s shoulders. Arundell’s reared and the rider turned him a full circle before he could continue.
‘Sir,’ he addressed Carew again. ‘Under the advice of Protector Somerset, our King has made great changes to our Holy religion, where none should lawfully have been made, by King Henry’s decree. Accordingly, you find us gathered here. I trust you can satisfy our grievances in this matter, Lord Carew, that we may all return to our lands in obedience to His Majesty?’
Again, Carew looked Arundell up and down disdainfully and gave no immediate answer. His reputation was already with us, before his horses had even arrived. We already knew him for an aggravator. His unwillingness to parley out there in the field seemed to stiffen our captain’s resolve.
‘Well, Sir?’ Arundell rejoindered, impatiently.
Eventually the King’s man spoke. ‘By consultation with the Devon Justices, the King has sent me to appease this querulous county and to cause each and every on
e of you to return quietly to your estates and to your houses, referring your griefs and complaints, if indeed you might justly have any, to the King’s Council. We shall hear you in London.’
‘And if we will only speak here?’
‘Lord Arundell,’ Carew said. ‘I have no intention of bartering with you and your bunch of murdering brigands while we stand out here in a field. You’d have me for some haggling shepherd, would you? Stand down, Sir. Return, disband your men and, when you’ve recovered what remains of your decency and dignity, then send delegation to the King’s Council. You’ll receive a fair enough hearing there for your “Holy religion”, as well as for the murder committed in Sampford. Don’t forget, Sir, you have blood on your recalcitrant hands already.’
Arundell stared back at him, like a schoolboy berated by his tutor.
‘No answer, Sir?’ said Carew. ‘I’ll tell you again, then. And then we are done. The King will satisfy your complaint, if you have the grace to accept his Law. If you don’t repent, His Majesty has promised to extend his princely power and draw the sword against you as he would against the infidels and Turks. You won’t win in that battle, Arundell.’
He pushed his horse between both Arundell and Broad’s and, having turned this figure of a knot between them, flicked his head. ‘You have a day to make the right choice. Good day, Sirs.’
He gestured to his herald and the trumpet sounded. The Royal riders then kicked their spurs and pulled up on their horses’ bridles. The creatures turned their heads, snorting and nickering. They broke into a lolloping run back down the lane along which they’d arrived, now mired and churned with clods of tossed mud. The King’s cortege was gone.
Arundell and Broad watched the Royal horsemen disappear, then turned their horses back towards us.
No sooner had the talking started than it was over. There’d be no further dealings between them that day, nor any day soon to come, though I couldn’t imagine our captains simply yielding to the Royal edict, without so much as a chance to air our list of grievances.