‘He cannot,’ declared Heltisle in alarm. ‘No one would vote for him – not now our scholars have had a taste of de Wetherset.’
‘You are too kind, Heltisle,’ said the Chancellor smoothly, and turned to smile at Bartholomew. ‘I am glad to see you here – a veteran of Poitiers is just the example our students need. Perhaps you would give us a demonstration of your superior skills.’
‘My skills lie not in shooting arrows, but in sewing up the wounds they make,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘I can demonstrate that, if you like.’
De Wetherset laughed, although Bartholomew had not meant to be amusing. ‘Regardless, I hope you are stockpiling bandages and salves. We shall need them when the Dauphin’s army attacks our town.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘I doubt he will bother with us – not when there are easier targets on the coast.’
But de Wetherset shook his head. ‘He will know about our rich Colleges, wealthy merchants, and opulent parish churches. Of course he will come here, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.’
Again, there was relative peace, as all attention was on the archers and their targets, although Heltisle did not take his scholars home and his example encouraged other Colleges and hostels to linger as well. For a while, the only sounds were the orders yelled by Cynric and Tulyet.
‘Ready your bows!’
‘Nock!’
‘Mark!’
‘Draw!’
‘Loose!’
Then the twang and hiss as the missiles sped towards their targets, followed by a volley of thuds as they hit or jeers from onlookers if they went wide. Even as the arrows flew, Cynric and Tulyet were repeating the commands – the power of the English army lay in the ability of its archers to shoot an entire quiver in less than a minute, and it was not unknown for a good bowman to have two or more arrows in the air at the same time.
‘Heltisle is the best shot so far,’ said Cynric, when it was the physician’s turn to step up to the mark. There was a short delay while White Hostel, which had just finished, went to retrieve the arrows so they could be reused. ‘Although Valence Marie was almost as good. Gonville is rubbish, though.’
Bartholomew peered into the gloom. ‘The Carmelite novices were here earlier – no surprise, as they have always been a bellicose horde – but do I see the Franciscans, too?’
‘Yes – friars and monks are exempt, but not novices, so youngsters from all the Orders are here. Normally, our overseas students would stand in for them, but most of those are lying low, lest they are accused of being French.’
‘I would not want to be an overseas scholar at the moment,’ came a voice from the shadows. It was Aynton, the bandage gleaming white around his wrist. He walked carefully, so as not to soil his ugly boots. ‘I hope we can protect them, should it become necessary.’
So did Bartholomew. ‘How is your arm? You should be resting it at home.’
‘Heltisle said there might be trouble tonight, so I felt obliged to put in an appearance,’ explained Aynton. ‘Hah! It is your go. Show us what a hero of Poitiers can do, eh?’
Bartholomew was horrified when scholars and townsfolk alike stopped what they were doing to watch him, and heartily wished Cynric had kept his tall tales to himself. Feeling he should at least try to put on a good show, he was more careful than he had been the last time, and listened to the advice Cynric murmured in his ear. His first shot went wide, but the next nine hit the target. None struck the centre, but he was satisfied with his performance even so.
‘I thought you would be a lot better than that,’ said Sergeant Orwel, disappointed.
‘If you really were at Poitiers, you should know that accuracy was not an issue there,’ said Cynric loftily. ‘The enemy was so closely packed that it was impossible not to hit them, no matter where you pointed your bow.’
‘Bartholomew never fought at Poitiers,’ sneered Bruges. ‘What rubbish you believe! Next you will claim that Sauvage is English, when it is obvious that he is a filthy French–’
‘You dare question the origin of another man’s name?’ demanded Norbert, his face hot with indignation. ‘You, who has one that the King of France would be proud to bear?’
‘I am Flemish,’ declared Bruges, offended. ‘Only imbeciles cannot tell the difference.’
‘How about a wager, Frenchie?’ called Orwel. ‘A groat says that four of us can beat any four of you.’
‘A whole groat,’ drawled Bruges caustically, while on the University side, a frantic search was made for Heltisle. ‘I am dizzy with the excitement of winning such a heady sum. How shall we give our best when the stakes are so staggeringly high?’
‘So you can pay then?’ called Orwel, not a man to appreciate sarcasm. ‘Good.’
Unfortunately for the scholars, Heltisle was nowhere to be found, so four King’s Hall men – Bruges, Koln and two local students named Foxlee and Smith – stepped up to the line. They ignored the anxious clamour from the other scholars, who pointed out that while Bruges was a decent shot, the other three were only average, so room should be made for a trio from Valence Marie. Meanwhile, four townsmen were chosen and stood waiting.
‘Ready your bows,’ shouted Cynric quickly, when King’s Hall refused to yield and tempers on the University side looked set to fray. ‘Nock! Mark!’
There was a flurry of activity as all eight participants scrambled to obey.
‘Draw! Loose!’
Thuds followed hisses, and everyone peered down the field. All the targets bristled with arrows, and it was clear that the result would be very close. The eight archers trotted off to inspect them more closely. Meanwhile, someone yelled that one round was not enough, so two more teams were assembling, ready to shoot the moment the targets were clear.
‘Which of you will pay the groat?’ demanded Leger triumphantly. ‘Because we won.’
‘You cannot know that!’ objected Cynric. ‘Not yet.’
‘I can see all our arrows clustered together,’ argued Leger. ‘Whereas your bowmen are hunting in the grass for theirs. We did win!’
‘Lying scum!’ yelled someone from White Hostel. ‘We won and I will punch anyone who claims otherwise.’
‘Come here and say that,’ roared Leger. ‘Now give us the groat or–’
‘Ready your bows!’
Bartholomew was not sure who had called the next archers to order, because the speaker was deep in the shadows. However, it came from the town side, and mischief was in the air, as the first teams were still down at the targets.
‘Wait!’ he shouted urgently. ‘Not yet.’
‘Nock! Mark! Draw! Loose!’
The commands came in a rapid rattle, so authoritatively that eight arrows immediately flew from eight bows. A good part of butts training was conditioning men to follow orders immediately and unquestioningly, so it was no surprise that the second teams had reacted without hesitation. There was a collective hiss, followed by several thuds and a scream.
‘Down bows! Down bows!’ howled Cynric frantically, snatching the weapons away before anyone could reload. ‘No one shoot! Down bows!’
Bartholomew did not wait to hear if it was safe to go. He set off towards the mound at a run, aware of others sprinting at his heels. He aimed for the shrieks.
He arrived to see that Foxlee had been shot in the leg, while Koln – mercifully unhurt – lay on the ground with his hands over his head, crying for a ceasefire. Others had not been so fortunate. Bruges and Smith from King’s Hall were dead, as was one townsman.