'And now the Scots threaten to invade us, with the soldiers the French have sent them.'
'Yes. King Francis wants England humbled for good.' Leacon ran a hand through his curls. 'We sailed straight from Scotland to France. In July, just a year ago. I was in charge of a half-company of archers. They are all dead now.'
'All?'
'Every one. We landed in Calais and marched straight to Boulogne. The countryside between had already been ravaged by foraging soldiers. As in Scotland the fields had been trampled, villages burned. I remember local people standing by the road, old people and women and children in rags, everything they owned taken or destroyed. Starving in the rain, there was nothing but rain and cold winds in France last year. I remember how pale their faces were.' His voice fell almost to a whisper. 'There was a woman, a baby in one skinny arm, holding out the other for alms. As I marched past I saw her baby was dead, its eyes open and glassy. Its mother hadn't realized yet.' Leacon stared at me fixedly. 'We were not allowed to stop. I could see it affected the men but I had to encourage them, keep them marching. You have to, you have to.' He stopped, with a great sigh. 'And the French will do the same if they land, for revenge. Their captains will cry, "Havoc," and it will be the turn of their men to take booty from us.'
'All because the King wanted glory,' I said bitterly.
A spasm of disgust crossed Leacon's face. 'We marched right past Henry when we reached the outskirts of Boulogne. He was in his camp, all the splendid tents up on a hill. I saw him, a huge figure encased from head to foot in armour, sitting on the biggest horse I ever saw, watching the battle. Well out of range of the French cannons pounding our men from the city, of course.' Leacon swallowed hard, then continued. 'Our company marched uphill, under fire from the French—Boulogne is on a hill, you see. All our forces could do was hunker down under mud embankments, firing back into the town with our cannon, moving forward by inches. I saw Boulogne turned to rubble.' He looked at me, then said, 'You will not know what it is like to kill a man.'
I hesitated. 'I did kill a man once. I had to or he would have killed me. I drowned him, held him under the water of a muddy pond. I still remember the sounds he made. Later I was nearly drowned myself, in a sewer tunnel flooded with water. Ever since I have been terrified of drowning, yet felt it would be a kind of justice.'
'There is no justice,' Leacon said quietly. 'No meaning. That is what I fear. I beg God to take my memories from me but he will not.' He looked at the richly gilded statue of the Virgin Mary on the altar, her expression quiet, contemplative, immeasurably distant. He resumed his terrible story.
'When the part of Boulogne nearest us was blown almost to dust we were ordered to advance. The King had gone home by then; it was September, wetter and muddier than ever. Hundreds of us struggled uphill through the mud, French cannon firing down on us all the time. Then, when we got closer, their archers and arque-busiers fired from among the tumbled stones. The nearer we got to the town the more men fell. My company of archers shot many French cannoneers and archers. But we were a target ourselves, and many of my men were blown to fragments by the cannons.' He laughed suddenly, wildly, a terrible sound echoing round the dark church. 'Fragments,' Leacon repeated. 'A little word for such a meaning. All that great muddy slope covered with hands and bits of legs, great joints of meat in scraps of uniform, pools of bloody slime among the mud and tumbled stone. A friend's head in a puddle, still with the helmet on.' He cast his head down, gave a mighty sigh, then looked up.
'Enough survived to climb the rubble into the town. Then it was hand-to-hand fighting, swords and bills, hacking and crunching and blood everywhere. The French—and they are brave men, as good as ours—retreated to the upper part of Boulogne and held out another week. I was wounded slightly in my side, I passed out and woke shivering in pain in a leaky tent, trying to keep rats away from my wound.' He gave a harsh laugh. 'They said I had been a brave soldier and promoted me to petty-captain.'
'Brave indeed, in a situation so terrible I can barely imagine.'
'It isn't the fighting in the town I remember most,' Leacon said. 'Though I killed several Frenchmen then and was myself in mortal danger. It's that hill below, like the inside of a slaughterhouse. So many dead. Many nights I dream I am there again. I struggle through that landscape, looking for pieces of my men, trying to identify them so I can put them together again.' He took a deep breath. 'If we fight the French ships, if we board, that will be hand-to-hand fighting. I got Snodin to address the men on the second day, tell them what it might be like. I know he was at Boulogne too. I could not bring myself to do it.'
I could think of nothing to say. I put my hand on his arm.
'I'm a fine fellow to lead soldiers, eh?' He laughed bitterly. 'When I am like this within?'
'You lead them well. I can see they respect you.'
'They would not if they could see how I really am. I can control myself for most of the time. But then I think of what I may be leading those men and boys to. Some like Sulyard are keen to fight, but even they have no conception what it will be like.'
'George, if you were not leading them it might be someone with less care for his men, who would not trouble to get good shoes for them.'
'I hate the drums.' There was desperation in Leacon's voice now. 'When we marched uphill at Boulogne the companies were always led by drummers, beating as loud as they could to compete with the cannon. I hate the sound, I always hear it in my dreams.' He looked at me. 'If only I could go home, to the farm. But I can't, we are all sworn in. You should thank God, Master Shardlake, that you are a civilian.'
Chapter Fifteen
THAT NIGHT I slept deeply. When the innkeeper woke me at five I had a vague memory of a dream involving Ellen, which left me with a heavy, troubled feeling.
The four of us were waiting on our horses outside the inn when the company marched through. Dyrick was in one of his sulky moods again, perhaps because I had abandoned him the night before. Sir Franklin rode at the head of his men with a haughty expression, Leacon with his face set and closed.
We took our places at the rear as the soldiers tramped south once more. Many of the recruits looked dull-eyed with the long boredom of the march; but several who had been limping now wore new shoes. The whiffler Snodin was again marching just in front of me; he reeked like a beer keg.
Soon after leaving Godalming, we crossed the border into Hampshire. We were in the western fringes of the Weald, mostly flat, forested country, massive old oaks among elm and beech. Areas of hunting ground were fenced in with high, strong wooden palings. We marched through tunnel-like lanes where the trees sometimes met overhead, a green dimness with spatters of bright sunlight on the road. A rich loamy smell came from the woodland. Once I saw a dozen bright butterflies dancing in a patch of sunlight. On the march there had been a constant sound of birds flapping away at our approach, but the butterflies ignored us as we passed, many of the men turning to watch them.
Again we halted near midday, in a broad, wooded lane near a stream. The horses were led to the water and the men crowded round the carts to receive the rations bought at Godalming. I heard complaints that there was only fruit and bread and cheese again, though a fat man who was the company purser pleaded the limited buying power of the new coins. One man called out, 'We've got our bows, let's hunt our own supplies. Come on, Goddams, let's get some rabbits or partridges, maybe a deer!'