Heartstone

It was long before I slept, the continued carousing downstairs and my aching limbs keeping me awake. Even after all was quiet I tossed and turned. When at length I drifted off I had a fearful dream: I was drowning, deep under water, hands at my throat keeping me under. I grasped at them but they were like steel. I looked at who was holding me and saw the hard face and cold eyes of Sir William Paulet, framed by a steel helmet.

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.'