The Bow (23 page)

‘Just so!’ Bartholomew clapped his hands, turned to his
companions, and gestured them forward. ‘These fine fellows shall
escort you and the lady Greta’s maid to my lodgings. I shall wait
here awhile, then come on directly with my lady.’

James looked at Greta who gave a nervous smile, nodded back, and then
shooed her maidservant forward.

The cortege set off. The crowd of onlookers that had gathered fell
back, and the young man and his betrothed were left standing on the
street corner. For a while neither spoke. Greta lowered her head, and
clasped her hands. Bartholomew waited patiently. At last he spoke: ‘I
am sorry you have come on such a busy day, my lady. Too many ships.
Too much trade. And the town still half a ruin.’

Greta did not reply, but wrung her hands, and kept looking at her
feet.

‘I did not frighten you, I hope.’

She shook her head.

‘Not the least alarm?’

Again, Greta shook her head.

The young merchant looked to left and right. Those watching, caught
his gaze, shrugged and moved away. He turned back to Greta, and took
her by the hand once more:

'My lady, listen!’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘If I am not
what you expected. If I am not what you were led to believe, then
believe me, I will not hold you to this betrothal. I would not hold a
woman to a pledge of marriage, if there is no love in it, or not
enough for happiness. I am not that proud, nor foolish.’ He stopped
for a moment, looking down at her, willing her to look up at him, but
she held her lowered glance. With a short intake of breath, he raised
her hand, and kissed it:

‘Just say the word, my lady. Say home, say Bruges, and I will send
you there, with men enough to see you safe, and gold enough to cover
your honour, and yes! your father’s books.’

He stepped back and released her hand. Greta stood still for a long
time. She did not look up, but then with the merest tremble came
forward and took Bartholomew’s left hand. ‘My lord,’ she said.
‘When I came here, I came, as you say, expecting someone quite
different to yourself.’

‘I see.’

‘Someone older, at the very least.’

‘Just so, my lady.’

‘Someone I never could have loved.’ She looked up, and smiled to
see his surprise. ‘My lord, you are more than I could have ever
hoped for.’

Years later Greta would say that she still remembered the way he
looked at her. ‘You stare, my lord,’ she said after it seemed
that minutes had passed.

‘My lady, I am transfixed,’ he replied.

It was, as Bartholomew’s sister, Christina, wrote to Greta’s
mother in a long and enthusiastic letter ‘very much a love-match’.

‘They have eyes for each other, and for each other alone,’ she
wrote, ‘And spend the days in one another’s company as though
they were brother and sister from the first. They will be wed before
the barley planting, and plan to visit you and your husband by
Michelmas next.’

This letter was carried by the John de Groen on its return voyage to
Bruges, and Pieter himself delivered it to the door of the van der
Kemp house in Ghent.

Its contents were the talk of Harfleur well before the little cog had
even cleared the harbour. Among the archers of the Earl of Dorset’s
camp the storytellers claimed that James Fletcher of Chiswick was the
one who had rescued her from pirates and brought her safely to her
man.

James himself would not talk about it. He kept to himself, and was
only interested in getting a pass from the Earl that would allow him
to leave for home as soon as possible. True to his duty he presented
the letter to the Earl who had moved into a house in the centre of
the town. It was well received, and payment for his passage from
Fecamp with the John de Groen was granted without hesitation. For a
time the Earl tried to persuade James to renew his indenture, but he
was ever a man of his word, and finally spread his hands and said ‘So
be it!’ With a nod to his clerk who sat at a desk in the corner he
promised that his wages and a safe-conduct would be ready, signed and
sealed within the next seven days.

'Seven days, sire!’ said James unable to conceal the dismay in his
voice, ‘That’s a whole week.’

‘So it is!’ replied the Earl, ‘And it cheers me to hear that
one of my bowmen can count at such a speed. Now be off with you, and
report to Sir John Cornwall’s captain of archers at once. You will
be in his retinue until such time as you make shore back in England.
His quarters are near the Montvilliers gate.’ He turned away, as he
always did to signify that the matter was at an end. James bowed and
left, entering the ante chamber and pushing past the queue of
petitioners and boon-seekers that waited upon the Earl. Once he
cleared the stairs and doorway, he rested his bow across his
shoulders and marched away down the street. It was an hour past noon,
and he hoped to find the captain and report his presence before
returning to his lodgings at Simon the apothecary’s.

Simon’s daughters greeted him in a flutter. The apothecary
apologised for his daughters, but welcomed the archer in. James was
surprised to see John still there, by the fire, and Ralf too. It
seemed so long since he had left. They greeted him. John looked
stronger, and Ralf was clearly more the man than he had been before:
leaner, straighter and with a calm set to his eye. ‘Well done,
Yevan,’ James thought.

'Where’s Duncan and Hamish?’ he asked.

John stood slowly and took his hand. ‘They’re away foraging with
a band of Sir Gilbert Umfraville’s men. Won’t be back for a few
days yet.’ He sat down again, easing himself back into the chair.
‘It’s good to see ye James.’

‘And you too, John Hert. Has this straw-haired rag-a-muffin here
been watching out for ye?’ He pointed at Ralf and winked.

John laughed: ‘He has, James, he has, though the lassies here keep
him busy enough. He’d wed them both if the priest’d allow it.’

Ralf reddened, but smiled and waved the remark away. ‘Will ye be
staying, James?’ he asked.

‘Aye, but not for long. I’m away home at the end of this week.’
He put his bow and kit in the corner and sat down on a trestle.
‘What’s tae eat?’

He took an early supper with all the family, and then wandered off to
find a tavern near the town walls. There was none that he took to:
they were all too crowded, reeking and full of shouting. He turned
away and headed for the Rouen gate. Passing through, he took the path
that led down to the old Duke of Clarence’s camp. Perhaps as many
as three thousand men had camped here during the great siege. A good
number had died of the plague. Some had died of fighting. All were
buried in the salt marshes. Of the rest, some had been sent home
sick, some had remained to garrison the town, and the rest, like him
had taken the road to Agincourt.

Three thousand! A year ago the place had teemed: tents, siege
engines, carts piled high with salted fish, flour, wine and beer. The
clatter and smoke of the cooking fires, the jostle of the
horse-lines, and the muddy groups of men streaming to and from the
mines: all had been overshadowed and muffled by the constant roar of
the great guns of the king’s camp, hammering at the walls of
Harfleur. On all sides, joiners, carpenters, blacksmiths and gun
crews laboured to maintain the siege works that were built under the
fierce eye of Nicholas Merbury, Master of the King’s Ordnance. Even
at night a strange glow had lit the sky: braziers for gun fuses,
torch lines to guide in the wagon loads of gun stones, saltpetre and
charcoal, fires from the pickets and lanterns at the entrance to
every warlord’s tent or pavilion. Above all the flash and fire of
the ordnance which continued to thunder even after sunset, day after
day.

And now it was all but deserted, save for a broken down palisade, a
few ragged targets, and several archers. He walked across, half
expecting to see Yevan and his friends, but it was another group
altogether. They did no more than look up, nod, then turn back to
their practice.

He stood and watched them for a bit. They were Englishmen,
northerners from their accent, probably Cheshire bowmen. They talked
and joked as they practised, confident of their skill, and easy with
their company.

At length one of them called him across. The man had the measure of a
master bowman, older with greying hair and pale blue eyes. His skin
was tanned as leather, and a three day stubble covered his chin and
jaw.

‘Name’s Richard Collin of Lealand,’ he said, ‘But men call me
Dickon, and I answer better to that.’ He rested his bow across his
shoulder. ‘I know you.’

'Perhaps you do. I am James Fletcher of Chiswick.’

'Hah! The one on the John de Groen! Is what men say true?’

'Very little.’

‘Good enough! But were ye not at Valmont and the Dunes? I saw you
there.’

'You saw me.’

There was an awkward silence. James turned to walk away, but the
other reached out and caught him by the shoulder. ‘Hold, lad! Not
so quick! Do ye not know one John Hert of Nantwich?’

'I do. What is he to you?’

Dickon smiled and his pale eyes brightened: ‘He’s my brother lad!
That’s all.’

‘Your brother!’

‘Ho! That made ye blink! Aye, my brother, and likely to have died
at the Cape if ye and yer friends hadn’t picked him up and carried
him home. I’m grateful to ye.’

James nodded. ‘He never said he had a brother.’

‘Aye, he wouldn’t. Proud as a buck hare, and not speaking to me
for a while since. We had a quarrel over a strip of land back in
Nantwich and near came to blows. Took separate indentures, and went
to the wars. Only three days ago I heard that he’d been skittled at
the Dunes. Captain William told me the whole story and where he
lodged.’

‘But ye have not been?’

Dickon turned and gazed at the other archers who had finished their
practice and were packing up. ‘Aye . . .Aye. Not yet, leastways.’
He picked some grass and chewed it. ‘Seems there’s a bit of buck
hare in both of us.’ He paused. ‘Give him my greeting when next
ye see him.’

James smiled and shook his head. ‘Will ye not bring it yourself?
You’re his brother, man!’

‘Aye, I am. And we both burn with the same blood our father gave
us. I’ll speak to John when John would speak to me.’

‘Well, all right!’ With a wave of his hand, James set off back
towards the gate. Suddenly he heard Dickon call out:

‘If ye ever need anything, James Fletcher, just ask for me at the
camp of Sir Thomas Beaufort. All Cheshire fights for Dorset now.’

‘I will!’ replied James.

When he reached the gate, the watch was changing for the end of the
day. He entered the town, and wandered along the cobbled street, the
air already heavy with the smoke of evening cooking fires. With the
night drawing in, he lost his way once or twice and had to cut
through some narrow alleys and rutted passageways until he came upon
a street he recognised. Though he felt safe enough, he nevertheless
loosened his dagger in its sheath, and held his bow in both hands.
Most of the citizens of Harfleur were tolerant of their English
overlords, but some were still bitter about the siege, and others
were poor and hungry enough to have become desperate. At last he
found a broad, open street that ran down to the market square. It was
lit by torches at irregular intervals, and one or two of the houses
had armed retainers lounging on the doorstep.

One house he knew straightway: it was the house of the Ralphs.

There were lights at the windows, and two stone statues of lions on
the front step. He stopped and looked up at the first floor with its
ornate carvings flanking the windows, and elaborate beam-work and
white plaster finish. Even the shutters were finely crafted and
painted, and through the glass of one window he could see shadows
moving, and hear the faint sound of music. Above the massive, iron
studded door he could see, set into the lintel the dragon crest of
Wales.

‘Another world,’ he said to himself, and moved on.

On the fourth day after his return to Harfleur, James decided to go
and see the Earl once more, or at least confront his secretary. But
when he arrived at the earl’s house, he was told very firmly by the
sergeant at the door that the earl was away on a foray towards Rouen,
and not likely to be back until the following day.

He decided to return to his lodgings. As he rounded the corner of the
street that led directly to his lodgings he saw a cloaked figure go
up to the apothecary’s door and knock hard. By the time James had
crossed the open place, the door had been opened, and the stranger
was talking to Emma-Jeanne and Simon.

The apothecary looked up as James approached, and beckoned him
forward. ‘James!’ he called. ‘Come quickly. It’s news from
England.’

James hurried forward, and as he did so, the stranger turned.

‘Eric!’

'It is you, James! God be praised! I am at the right house.’ The
man at arms threw back his cloak and saluted his old friend with a
clap on the shoulder and a vigorous shake of the hand.

Once they were all inside and seated about the fire, Simon’s wife
hurried off to prepare the evening meal, and her daughters slowly
followed.

'What brings you here, Eric?’ asked James.

‘Heavy news, old friend.’ He reached into his tunic and took out
a folded letter. There was no seal. ‘It’s from your brother
Simon,’ he said.

‘I was on my way to Southampton to sign an indenture for one of old
John Cornwall’s captains, and thought I’d turn by your place at
Chiswick.’

‘And . . .?’

‘Ye’d better read, James. Here it is.’ He held it out.

'Read! I can’t read man! The priest taught my brother, but none
else in my family, or most of the village. What does it say?’

Eric sighed and frowned. ‘It says your Hettie is ill, and sick with
the fever.’