The Archer's Marines: The First Marines - Medieval fiction action story about Marines, naval warfare, and knights after King Richard's crusade in Syria, ... times (The Company of Archers Book 5) (5 page)

     Then I spend the rest of the morning bringing Thomas up to date on the everyday life of Cornwall and what he’ll have to cope with while I’m gone.  There have been a constantly increasing stream of requests for everyday decisions, particularly from the Cornish speaking people who constitute the majority of Cornwall’s people. 

       It seems that the villeins and churls in the Cornish tithes and hundreds are greatly encouraged by my order freeing Cornwall’s slaves and serfs to be free churls.  Even the people who were already churls and franklins seem pleased. 

       Unfortunately, at the same time my order seems to be distressing some of the priests and the two abbots and the holders of several of the manors. 
At least that’s what the priests have been telling me.  But are they telling the truth and what does it mean?

       “Thomas, while you’ve been gone I’ve been getting mixed messages about my freeing of the slaves and serfs.  On one hand the villeins and free men seem genuinely pleased; on the other, several of your six parish priests have come and petitioned me, as the archdeacon of your diocese, to reverse the order. 

       One particularly nasty fellow, the priest at Saint Ives, is quite angry about losing the serfs who are working for him on the church’s three farms.  The abbot of Bodmin came to see me as well.  He’s also upset about Bodmin losing its slaves and serfs. All I could do is tell them you would soon return and that they would have to be patient until you get back and can instruct them further as to the wishes of the Church.”

       “Oh thank you, very much,” my priestly brother says sarcastically with a wry smile.  “And what do you think I should tell such fine churchmen?  That you regret the decision and intend to change it since God wants his people to be serfs and slaves?”

       “No, damn you, of course not.  You know better than that.  What I need you to do is spread a bit of olive oil on the waters – and quietly get rid of them if they start making trouble.  The same for the two knights of Baldwin’s who survived.”

       “Have the knights been making trouble?”

       “Not at all.  Not so much as a peep.  They’re afraid of losing their heads, and rightly so.  But they’re the only two left in Cornwall so take care of them permanently if they start. And do it immediately. The same for anyone who is foolish enough to try to take the place of the knights who fell trying to stop us.   Disappear them quietly as well.  Don’t make an example of them, mind you, just permanently disappear them without anyone knowing.” 

       “What do you want me to do with any new priests that show up?”

       “Do the same for all the priests who show up in Cornwall; question them first as to why they’ve come and who sent them - and then get rid of them quickly and permanently.  Later you can send a parchment to whoever sent them saying they’ve gotten religion and gone off to the Holy Land.”

       Another decision that has to be made is what to do with Helen.  I’ve been putting it off for weeks.  My problem is simple – I want her with me and I want her safe.  I finally decide when Thomas returns.  I don’t want to chance losing her; she stays.
And she was very unhappy when I informed her of my decision last night.

      
“Yes Master, I understand.”
  Master? I haven’t heard that for a long time; she really is unhappy.

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       Three days later and the galleys and the muddy riverbank next to the galleys are covered with a hectic mass of people and supplies.   Bundles of squawking and struggling chickens with their legs tied together, women weeping and children running around excitedly, and cattle and sheep and pigs bawling loudly after the cords in their legs have been cut so they can be kept alive and unable to move on the galleys for as long as possible until they’re eaten. 

       Other sheep and pigs are now being killed and butchered on the riverbank so their meat can be stacked on board and eaten before it rots. How long it will take before their meat rots so much that it can’t be eaten even with lots of salt will depend, of course, on how warm it is on the galley decks when we’re out on the ocean. 

      
We’re not taking any deer and boar carcasses with us; we would, of course, but we’ve been eating them as soon as our hunting parties kill them in order to save the coins that have to be paid for the chickens, sheep, pigs, and cattle.

       Only our galleys that will be heading for Cyprus are tied up along the riverbank.  All the others, those that will be staying behind, have been temporarily floated down to the mouth of the river. 

       Each of the galleys that are here is tied to the shore with a line from its bow to a nearby tree.  As a result, they are all pointed upstream and the river current pushes the right side of each galley as close to the shore as it can float. 

       And, of course, as more men and supplies are loaded on the galleys, they settle deeper and deeper into the river and sooner or later get stuck on the river bottom.  That means their swearing and cursing crews have to periodically wade into the river’s cold waters to push the arse ends of their galleys further out to where the river is deep enough to once again float them.

       Every spare inch of every galley’s hull is filled with barrels and skins of water and supplies, stacks of firewood, fresh carcasses of sheep, pigs, and cattle, and, most important of all, bales and bales of arrows for our longbows.  The galleys are so crowded that until some of the supplies are used up the rowers will have difficulty reaching the rowing benches where they will sit and sleep. 

       The galley decks are similarly covered with supplies and with large bundles of squawking chickens and squealing and struggling sheep, cattle, and pigs.  They are literally stacked on top of one another so high that the crewmen will have to walk on some of them to reach the shite plank hanging over the end of each galley.  There are even stacks of wattle cages stuffed full of hens on every galley – we’ll eat their eggs until we burn their cages to cook them.

       Overseeing everything, of course, are the galleys’ cats that are on board to catch each galley’s inevitable rats.  They are the ships true owners with us as barely tolerated visitors.  Some are slinking around and carefully inspecting whatever is brought on board; others have found a sunny spot on top of something and are snoozing or washing themselves. 

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       It is well into the afternoon when the lines are finally cast off, the rowing drums begin to beat, and our vast armada of galleys begins to slowly and carefully move down the Fowey to the sea.  That’s where they’ll join the one cog that is going with us as a supply ship.  It left this morning and began drifting down the river when the last bale of our newly produced arrows and Swiss pikes was hoisted into its hold.

       Henry from Lewes, Peter and I are on Harold’s galley, our biggest two decker with forty four oars on each side; we’re the first to leave cast off our mooring line and begin floating down the Fowey to its mouth.  Henry is going out as the master sergeant in charge of all our Marines; Harold as the master sergeant in charge of all our sailors.

       I can barely pick out Thomas and George and the boys out of the huge crowd standing on the muddy riverbank. The boys keep waving and running along the river bank and calling out until the river bends and we’re out of sight. 

       It’s the middle of April and 1195 years after our Lord’s death and we’re bound for Lisbon as our first port of call and rendezvous.  I’m excited.

      
And something isn’t right; I just can’t figure out what it is.

       “Harold, what have we forgotten?”

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       Our men begin to get seasick before we even raise the sail and row out of the harbor and into the Channel.  About the only good thing about being in command of everything is that I have my own little castle at the front of the galley and the men are more likely to make way for me when I need to hurry to the deck railing to barf. 

       Peter and Henry are soon standing next to me and periodically join me in glowering at Harold who is standing nearby with an amused smile on his face and a mug of farewell ale in his hand
. 

       Thank God I’m not on one of the rowing decks.  They are already beginning to smell from all the vomit and we’ve not even gotten clear of the harbor.

       Ours is the first galley out of the harbor.  When I raise my head I can see half a dozen galleys in a straggly line behind us and several more coming out of the Fowey.

       Harold has the men rowing very slowly and our sail is providing some help even though the wind is from the north.  The plan is to try to stay together for as long as possible. That’s why Harold has us moving slowly - so the galleys behind us will have a chance to catch up.  We’ll all hang lanterns on our masts at night for the same reason. 

       Rowing slowly so the rest of our galleys can catch up and travel with us is not necessary - but it’s good practice for what we’ll be doing two or three weeks from now. 

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       I’m more than a little tired and my legs are weak and shaky when I finally turn away from the rail with a totally empty stomach and attempt to walk over the heaving and pitching deck to my little castle at the front of the galley.  
I’m certainly not hungry but perhaps if I rest for a while I can regain my strength and my legs will stop feeling so weak.

      
That’s when I get the surprise of my life -
Helen is in the forecastle and promptly begins giving me orders before I even have a chance to straighten up and shut the wooden door behind me.

       “Rinse your mouth with this wine; you’ll feel better.”

       “What are you doing here?  You’re not supposed to be here.”

       “Of course I am.  You gave the order yourself.  I heard you when you did.”

       “What?  What are you talking about?” 
I’m stunned by her appearance and I’m starting to get angry.

       “I distinctly heard you say that wives couldn’t go and that anyone who wasn’t assigned to go could trade with someone who was.  Well I’m not your wife; I’m your servant and I traded.  So please rinse out your mouth and spit in the shite bucket.” 
Oh my God.

       “But…”

       “There.” … “that’s better.” ... “Now spit it out and lie down so I can rub your back.  There was one of those little black things on your back when I looked this morning and I’m going to get it out as well.”

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       Our trip’s first leg to Lisbon is long but not all that difficult.  But no matter how hard we try, we increasingly lose touch with our other galleys in rainstorms and in the darkness of night.  Even so, we periodically come across some of our other galleys and travel together with them until something else happens to once again separate us.  Such periodic rejoinings particularly happen when we put in to the mouths of creeks and rivers and come across our sister galleys who are also temporarily visiting to take on water. 

       For me, once I get my sea legs back, it’s like a relaxing vacation what with my woman to cater to my every desire
and induce some new ones as well
.  Even so, after almost two weeks at sea the entrance to Lisbon harbor is directly ahead of us and it’s a welcome sight.

       Surprisingly, we’re among the very last of our galleys to arrive.  Even the cog is already here.  One of our galleys, the one captained by Stephen from Coventry, has been here for nine days
.  I wonder how Stephen got here so quickly?  Did he not work his way along the French and Spanish coasts and stop for water?

      
“Harold, how did Stephen get here so quickly?” 

      
I want to know if Stephen took excessive risks.  He’s either very good or very lucky - or very dangerous to his men and himself.

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       Lisbon is its usual vibrant self and we enjoy it to the fullest.  Helen is excited by the variety of things in the city’s great market and her pleasure at finding them pleases me immensely.  We come away from our daily trips to the market with a number of colorful rugs to keep our feet warm in Cornwall and new bedding and pots for our little forecastle on Harold’s galley. 
Hopefully the rugs won’t rot in the wetness of the galley.  That happens you know; I’ve seen it myself.

       In a corner of the clothes section of the market we find an Arab merchant selling caps and tunics of different colors.  He claims the linen is dyed in Damascus using a new and secret process so the color won’t run.  I promptly buy several of each color and a pot – and soak them and wash them while he watches in amusement.  He is absolutely stunned when I ask if he can provide two thousand of each in solid red or green or blue and what the price will be either for delivery here or in Cornwall.
We need our men to wear something distinctive so we can tell friend from foe.

       Our most important activity is Lisbon is not the shopping to replenish our supplies; it is to gather up information about the heathen pirates and the latest news about the heathen city Palma.  Palma’s where are planning to make our next rendezvous – but only if it’s still safe for Englishmen. 

  
    Lisbon’s merchants say Palma is safe and they would know; so that’s where we’ll gather next – with Cagliari on the island of Sardeenia as our next rendezvous port after that and the alternative destination for those who miss Palma or can’t land there for one reason or another.