The Archer's War: Exciting good read - adventure fiction about fighting and combat during medieval times in feudal England with archers, longbows, knights, ... (The Company of English Archers Book 4) (3 page)

      
Towing the cog and its news and archer recruits up the river to us before heading across the channel to France and on to Cyprus is a right and proper decision by the cog’s sergeant captain, Alexander, the archer sergeant from Hassocks. That’s for sure; and I went back on board and told him so in front of his men. He was very pleased.

                                  Chapter Two

       “
Richard has been ransomed and he might be coming to England!”  Can the rumor be true?” That’s what I ask Thomas as I keep waving my hand in a useless effort to drive away the swarm of biting bugs that is buzzing around my face.  The day is warm and sun is going down as we walk the cart path back up to Restormel.  It’s still muddy from this morning’s rain and heavily rutted from all the supply wagons moving along it.  

      
I wonder why the bugs are only around the river and come out so much just as the sun goes down?

       “Of course it could be true.  They’ve been raising money for his ransom all year and of course he’ll come to England if it’s paid - he’s the king isn’t he?  And it’s been a long time since he’s last been here.  Besides he needs to settle things with John.”

      “I know that, of course I do.  And it worries me,” I say with a rather ill-humored tone to my voice as I kick a rock off the path.  Then I ask the question that is really bothering me.

       “But what will it mean for John and for us if Richard comes to England?  Do you think they’ll fight; they are brothers after all?” 

      
What I’m really asking Thomas is what he thinks will happen to the castles we took and the earldom that cost so many of our coins.

       “God only knows.  But it probably won’t be good.

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       Days turn into weeks as we drill the men on walking together and using their longbows and the newfangled pikes with blades and hooks.  Then word comes from the sailor sergeant of one of our cogs which comes in from London with a load of wheat and salt for our siege reserves - he saw a ship with Richard’s flag at the next dock while he was boarding some new recruits and taking on the amphorae of salt and the sacks of the wheat we are buying to build up our castles’ siege reserves. 

      
We know how important reserves of food and arrows are during a siege, don’t we ever.

      Within days other reports come in verifying the sailor sergeant’s story.  There is no longer any doubt about it, Richard is back in England and he’s trying to raise money for yet another one of his wars - this time in France.  It seems that during the years Richard was off crusading several of the great lords of the French king, the crazy man in Paris, began taking over some of Richard’s vast estates along the French border.  Richard wants them back even if it means yet another war – which it obviously will.

       “I have an idea,” Thomas says; and then he explains it to me.

       “You know, brother, that might just work.”

       “Worth a try isn’t it?”

       Two days later one of the galleys being prepared for Cyprus suddenly has its destination changed and more rowers and archers are temporarily added to its crew.

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       William and the boys walk down the muddy cart path with me to see me off and wish me well.  It’s a cold and murky day with drizzling rain and I’m off for London with a dozen of our best men as guards, a chest with a goodly amount of silver coins and gold bezants, and a couple of hastily drafted parchments carefully rolled up and stashed in one of the leather cylinders used by messengers. 
I’m sure you seen them; the ones with the carrying strap so the messenger can walk or ride with his hands free.

       What I hope to do is visit the Papal Nuncio and William Longchamps at Richard’s court,
and preferably the Nuncio first
.  If I find either or both of them I’ll try to do what is inevitably necessary when dealing with such important representatives of the church and the King – bribe them to sign the orders and proclamations I’ve drafted on behalf of their masters. 

       The channel is stormy and we have a difficult trip what with having to constantly row against unfavorable winds.  But we’re well crewed with strong rowers and four days later, when the sun would be straight overhead if we could see it through the overcast sky, we finally reach the mouth of the Thames and begin threading our way through the fog and the crowded shipping. 

       London is busy.  It takes hours of rowing around the edge of the great harbor before Simon, our galley’s sergeant captain, finally spots some unused dock space. 

       We’ve barely banged into the dock when a churlish little fellow wearing a funny hat immediately looks down at us from the dock, informs us he’s the dockmaster, and tells us to fuck off and leave, the space is taken. 

      The dockmaster is a bit hard to understand because he talks in the singsong voice and dialect of a longtime Londoner.  But he backs off quickly when Simon responds by telling him that we’re willing to pay a few coins for the right to stay for a while, but that if we have to leave the only thing certain is that he’ll be coming with us – chained to a rowing bench and helping us to row to Cyprus. 

       Our dock must usually be used by cogs because I have to stand on the railing with Simon and one of his men steadying me to climb up on to it.  I’m able to do so without falling and so are the men who are coming with me as my guards and helpers.  We’re finally in London – me and ten men.  Peter Sergeant is with me as my second. 

      
According to William, Peter was initially assigned to Antioch but at the last minute one of the two English archers we signed up in Latika, John, the son of John from Liverpool, took his place.  The other archer from Latika, poor soul, died at Cadiz when Phillip’s galley was taken.  At least for his sake I hope he died instead of being captured.

       The very first thing I do after I climb up on the dock is walk to the door of a nearby ships’ chandlery and begin inquiring about the whereabouts of Richard and his court.  The portly chandler and his clerks don’t have a clue and neither do any of the cart drivers, ships’ chandlers, and the passersby I ask. 

       I’m left to guess where Richard might be and my best guess is probably at Beaumont Palace where he was born or at his stronghold at Windsor Castle. 
What is really strange is that most of the people I ask don’t even know who the king is, let alone where he and his court might be located.

       Similar inquiries during brief visits to inform the men in the customs house that they’ll not be collecting any taxes from us because we are bringing in no cargo from abroad, and to talk to a fellow priest I find standing at the door of a nearby church, all seem to confirm that the King has returned - but no one is sure where he might be.  All they’ve heard are rumors in their locals, the taverns and whorehouses they frequent. 

       The most common rumor is that the King is at Windsor.  Well, if the King’s at Windsor then that’s where his court and courtiers such as Longchamps and the Nuncio will almost certainly be. On the other hand, it’s a long way to Windsor and I don’t want to travel all that way just to find out that I’ve pissed away my time and coins on a wild duck chase.

      There is nothing to do but go to the one person who is almost sure to know the whereabouts of Richard and his court - the Keeper of Prince John’s Wardrobe, Wilfrid Blunt.  I know where Blunt lives because that’s where I bribed him last year to buy William’s earldom from Prince John after we killed the old earl and took the treacherous bastard’s castle at Restormel.  The problem, of course, is that going to visit Blunt could be dangerous.  There’s no telling what John or Blunt will think or do if they find out I’m looking for Longchamps or know that William has taken so much of Cornwall.

       It seems I have no choice.  But at least I know where Blunt is likely to be.  I thought about hiring a sedan chair and have my guards walk behind it while I’m carried through London’s foul streets.  But I decide against it when I see a stable near the dock. 

       None of my guards can ride and I’m not very good at it myself, so I leave an outrageously large deposit of two gold bezant coins and hire two horse carts and ostlers from the stable - and off we go to visit John’s wardrobe with the men sitting in the carts and me up next to the ostler on the driver’s bench.  Peter is sitting next to the ostler on the other wagon.

      
I’ve got to talk to William again about teaching some of our men to ride horses; and, of course, to do that we’ll have to get more horses - the dozen or so we have now are already overly busy carrying messages and pulling plows.

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       The horse carts carrying my ten guards and me clatter and slosh their way through the foul and smoke-filled streets to Prince John’s walled compound and offices next to the river.  I can see my guards staring at the city and talking and gesturing as we bounce along.  Most of them have never been to London.  They are obviously amazed at its size and smell. 
As I am every time I visit.

       It hasn’t rained to clear the air since yesterday so we can’t see very far ahead and black soot is covering everything including the piles of fresh shite that the rains haven’t yet dissolved and washed away.  It’s a good thing the ostlers know where we want to go.  It’s easy to get lost in such a big city.

      
I’d hate to be walking out of here when it’s dark. I’d probably slip on the street slime and get robbed while I’m trying to get back on my feet, or worse.

       When we reach the gate John’s great stone house it is instantly obvious that Richard is back - the crowd of petitioners in front of John’s gate is much smaller than it was when I was here last year. 

       My shout brings an attendant over to the gate - who tersely tells me the price of entering to see Blunt, morosely accepts my coins, and gestures for me to enter through the gate and into the courtyard. 
At least this time it doesn’t take as many coins to get past the gate guard and in to see Blunt.

       A young dandy standing inside the gate arrogantly beckons for me to follow him and heads off without even waiting to see if I am following.  We enter the building through a very heavy door and he leads me down a corridor to an empty room – and holds out his hand for coins as he sneers and orders me to “wait here.”

       It is all I can do to smile and give him a few coppers from my purse; I had to fight the urge to spit in his hand or stick it with the knife strapped to my wrist.  His disdain and arrogance so bother me that I have to pee – so I piss on the wall after he walks out.  And I obviously wasn’t the only one to do so; Blunt must be having a busy day.

       Blunt’s greeting is effusive and friendly when he finally shows up.  He doesn’t seem at all embarrassed because he gulled me into paying so much for the honour of William’s earldom last year without mentioning that Longchamp was similarly selling the title to FitzCount at the same time.  I’m not even sure he knows we killed FitzCount to avenge Lord Edmund’s family and protect William’s title.

       I tell Blunt the truth, well part of it at least – that I’m looking for the Papal Nuncio because we want the Pope to charter a new order of priests who will serve only when they are on ships and, of course, collect tithes from the passengers they carry in exchange for the Pope’s prayers for their safety.
It’s part of our plan for George and my schoolboys when they grow up and join us.

       “It would be a new source of revenue for His Holiness,” I explain.  “And more people might become pilgrims and take risk of sea voyages if they know they’ll be traveling with his prayers.” 

       I can see Blunt’s mind feverishly working; it’s a church matter so he knows that a lot of coins are going to change hands along the way before anything gets resolved.  He’s trying to think of some way he can insert himself into the process and get a slice of the pie. 

       “That’s an imaginative idea and it will be expensive of course,” Blunt finally answers. “Perhaps Prince John and I can assist in some way.”

       “Yes, I’m sure you both could be of great assistance if the Nuncio approves of the idea – that’s why I’m here.  I want to enlist your assistance and support for the idea and, of course, help cover your expenses.  And, of course, it’s complex and there will be a lot of expenses that will have to be covered.  That’s why I’ve been ordered to speak directly to the Nuncio, to ask him to submit the idea to the Pope.  Do you know where I might find Nuncio?” 

      
Do you notice, as Blunt surely does, that I am telling him that I have been ordered to speak directly to the Nuncio; not asked, ordered, so that no intermediary such as himself can do it for me? 

        I say all that as I put a small purse on the table and watch Blunt’s eyes light up as he reaches for it. 

      
I’m not just buying Blunt’s help with the Nuncio; I’m keeping him sweet for the future.  John might win mightn’t he? I doubt it myself but one never knows, does one?

        “He’s at Windsor last I heard.  Prince John is there too.  Richard and Prince John seem to have reconciled, or so John hopes.  I’m staying here to hold the castle, so to speak, while he is there paying homage to Richard.  None of Richard’s women have birthed a son so it appears John is to be his heir until they do.  There will be peace between them if that is announced, and that’s a very good thing for everyone if it is.  Wars are expensive, you know.”