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) (9 page)

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      My men and I don’t stay long in Sarum.  We only spend just enough time to make arrangements with all the tavern owners, buy some food for ourselves, and have a quick bowl of ale.  Then we go out through the city’s southern gate, continue four or five miles south on the cart path towards Portsmouth, and set up a camp off to the side of the cart path in a small stand of trees where we can’t be seen by travelers on the path.  It’s still quite cold but we’ve got food and blankets, firewood is plentiful, and we can huddle under the wagons to stay out of the rain. 

       We keep a close look out on the cart path and the next afternoon there is a shout from one of our lookouts at the edge of the trees.  Roger and I run to them and we watch as Kerfuffle and his men begin to come into sight in the distance.  Some are riding slowly at the head of the column but most are walking.  It may have taken them longer than expected to get here because of the difficulties they were reported to have unloading their horses in Eastbourne.

       I quickly put on my bishop’s robe, grab up my cross and miter, and mount up to ride out to the path to meet them.  One of my guards, Alan the smith from Tamworth and the only one left of my guards who knows how to ride, mounts the other riding horse to ride out with me.  Alan is armed with a sword and carrying a sack of coins.

       Roger and the four wagons and the rest of my forty or so men stay hidden.  The men’s bows and quivers and swords are under the sleeping robes so they’ll appear to be unarmed if anyone comes upon them while I’m gone. 

      
This morning I had gathered my men together and stood on a wagon while I explained my plan to them and answered their questions.
 
I’m not sure they all understand but some of them do and they’ll learn the others.  Those who understood smiled a lot as I told them my plan.  That seemed to reassure the others.

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       It doesn’t take Alan and me long to find the mercenary captain.  He’s riding at the head of the column and just about the first person we reach.  He’s a huge man with a beaked nose that doesn’t look right.  It must have been broken and badly set at some time.  I ride right up to him, announce myself in French as I dismount by the side of the path.      

       “Greetings Captain Kerfuffle and a grand welcome to you and your fine company of men from Lord Cornell. I am Robert, the Auxiliary Bishop of Derby, and I’m here to welcome you to Sarum.  It’s upon me to count your men and pay their bonus on behalf of His Lordship.  He’d like you to camp right here and wait for his arrival.”

       We exchange the customary pleasantries and I find his French to be as strange as his clothes.  He has words and an accent I can barely understand. So I speak slowly and loudly so he and the men who gather around us can understand what I say. 

       The mercenary captain’s eyes light up as I explain my presence and so do those of his men.  He and his men, I tell them, are especially blessed to have arrived here on such a special day.  Not only will each man this very day receive the silver coin he’s been promised as a bonus if he reaches Sarum before Lord Cornell, he also has the great good fortune of arriving on the feast day of Saint Epher. 

      
Of course there is neither such a promise nor such a saint; I’m just gulling them by telling them things they’ll be pleased to hear.

       “Saint Epher’s Day,” I explain as more and more of the mercenaries gather around us to listen, “is the one night of the year when visitors to Sarum get all the food they can eat and all spirits they can drink for free, and women too – just as Saint Epher and the weary pilgrims did those many years ago.”

       They obviously don’t understand so I lay it out for them, at least for those who can speak French.

       “Years ago the men of Sarun started a tradition of spending one entire  night each year praying on that distant hill over there while all of their wives and children spend the entire night in the church praying.  It’s the only night of the year when the husbands are gone and the church forgives women who stray – and they all do and they all deny it and are forgiven.  It’s a city tradition.”

       “The women who don’t want a man spend the night at the church and leave their doors unlocked so anyone can enter and see that they’re good women and they’ve gone to the church; the others lock their doors as a signal that they are inside and want a man – and especially a man strong enough to break in and take them.” 

      
Such ox shit; but if it’s good enough story for Rome, it’s good enough for me.

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       I can see from their eyes that Kerfuffle is not at all sure of my story and the mean looking skinny man who seems to be his second is downright suspicious as he dismounts to stand next to Kerfuffle.  Their men’s eyes, however, become alert and enthusiastic when I explain about the women and the locked doors and the need for me to quickly pay them their bonus coins because the city gates close at sundown.  After all, once the city gates are shut they’ll only open tonight to let the men of the city out so they can gather at the distant hill and pray.

       Then I came up with a splendid idea for the captain and his fine fellows so they won’t miss the free drinks and the women.

       “I’ve got to count you and pay you and you’ve got to get inside the city before the city gates close at sundown.  So I’ll stand here on the cart path and hand out the coins as each man heads off to the city.  And, oh by the way, no weapons or horses inside the city walls tonight.  You’ll have to leave them here at your camp.  City rules, isn’t it?  Smart, you know; men get rowdy with all the free drinking and women.”

       The sight of me standing in the cart path handing out silver coin after silver coin to the men as they hurry off to the city is a huge success.  It soon convinces even the suspicious second in command of my good intentions and his good fortune.  He grabs a coin out of my hand and hurries off on foot with everyone else.

       Within minutes only a single guard, three or four of the mercenaries’ whores, and a man so down with a pox that he can’t walk, are the only people left among the pile of weapons and the six horses left in the quickly established camp.  I wait until the last man is hurrying up the cart path and out of sight before I send Alan galloping back to get Roger and our waiting men and wagons.

       The guard is tending to the poxed man when I walk up to him with an inquiring smile and stab him in the eye with the dagger that is always strapped to my wrist and hidden beneath my robe.  It’s a good death; he doesn’t even have time to become suspicious or afraid.

       The four wagons arrive minutes later and we start filling them with the mercenaries’ weapons. Everyone works with a real sense of urgency. Even the slowest of our new men instinctively knows it’s time to move fast. 

      
My hope is that we will be well away before the mercenaries can obtain enough new weapons and horses to find us and take us down.

       While my guards and the new men are hurriedly loading the wagons and collecting the horses, I wave my cross to bless the poxed man while I loudly shout that we need to hurry to Portsmouth and drop a couple of coins into his hand.  Then I give a couple of coins to each of the whores for their trouble – and shrug my agreement when they ask if they can come with us.

       The women aren’t stupid are they?  We’ve obviously got coins and Kerfuffle is going to be seriously pissed when he discovers he’s been gulled and they didn’t run to warn him.

       Despite our efforts to hurry, it’s almost dark by the time we gallop out of the mercenaries’ deserted camp; and when we do leave we do something that is quite smart if I do say so myself - instead of heading back down the path towards Portsmouth as we might be expected to run, we go up the path towards Sarum and then go around the city walls to get on the cart path heading towards London. 
I’m hoping this will throw our inevitable pursuers off our track.

       We move as fast as possible in the fading daylight.  The only difference is that now archers are driving the wagons and the ostlers and I are riding some of the horses and leading the rest.

       One of our archers shouts with wonderment in his voice a couple of hours after we turn on to the wagon road to London.

       “Blimey.  What’s that?”

       Behind us there is a glow in the sky.  It’s off to our left rear where Sarum should be; it seems there is a fire in the city.   

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       All that night and all the next day we hurry on as if the devil is nipping at our heels, which he may well be.  Our only stops are to allow the ostlers to replace the wagon horses with fresh horses from among those we are leading.  Then we whip up the horses and press on. 

       When one of the horses goes lame it is quickly turned loose and replaced without the other wagons even stopping.  During the day I ride in front of the wagons wearing my miter and order other travelers off the road “so his great lordship might pass.”

       All goes well until we get past Andover and reach the River Test in the early afternoon. 

       The ostlers swim the horses across, including the one I’m riding, despite the cold without losing a one of them. The problem is that there is only one ferry and it is very small; it can only carry one wagon at a time. 

       Like most river ferries it is attached to long ropes and is hauled back and forth across the river by gangs of men and women standing on the riverbank.  It takes several hours.  The only thing good about the delay is that the horses got a chance to rest and graze.

      We are only a mile or so past the Test when danger finally reaches us.  And it’s not from the rear; it’s from the front.  Suddenly I can see a great mass of marching and mounted men in the distance off to my left – it’s a huge army with all its baggage and its coming down the cart path from Oxford and the north. 

      
I’ve seen armies on the move before, haven’t I?  This one’s got almost a thousand men.

       I gallop back to the wagons and begin shouting and pointing.

       “Whip up the horses.  Whip them up, I say. We’ve got to get past the crossroads up ahead before that lot gets there… Hurry, whip them.  Whip them, goddamnit.” 
Oh my dear God.  Who else could it be?

       It is.  And half an hour later Roger and I are sitting quietly on our horses next to a roadside shrine – and counting as Cornell and his men come to where the cart paths cross and turn right to go to Sarum.  There are just over a thousand of the bastards and almost a hundred of them are knights, squires, and men at arms on horseback.

                                        Chapter Six

       Summer gives way to fall and winter without any sign of Cornell or any of his men ever appearing, not even their spies as far as we know.  It would have been easy to forget about Cornell if it wasn’t for the increasingly dire warnings Thomas keeps sending from London. 

       According to Thomas, Cornell has convinced a number of Derbyshire and Devonshire lords and knights to join him.  Thomas says he knows because Cornell is trying to recruit the same mercenary companies Thomas is trying to get to make their marks for us – and he’s telling the mercenaries that victory is certain because so many lords and knights will be with them. 

      
Mercenary companies are dear even though they are between wars and plentiful at the moment; so where is Cornell getting his coins?  That’s the question I send back to Thomas.  I’m still waiting for an answer; probably because it’s been stormy in the channel most of the winter.

       We keep a fire going all the time in the great hall so it’s actually quite cozy.  And the men are holding up fairly well.  There is always hot bread and some kind of meat six days per week.  About half the time it is the chickens, ducks, geese and old horses the peasants sell us; the other half is deer our hunters bring in and beeves, sheep, and pigs from our own lands.  They go well with the turnips, and onions which are available to everyone on an “all you can eat” basis. 

       George and the boys, of course, get all that.  They also get some kind of an egg every day in addition all the meat and cheese and bread they can eat - as Thomas insists.  He said one of the Roman scrolls he read in the monastery made much it. 

       All the good hot food and their skin tents and they hovels build for themselves to sleep in seems to have kept our men healthy over the winter.  Only fifty or so die from various poxes including, unfortunately one of the boys. 

       The boy’s death is very sudden.  He suddenly gets red spots all over and begins coughing and shitting in his bed a couple of days later.  We try hanging garlic cloves about him to lure away the poison but it’s too late - within a week he’s dead before we even have a chance to find a barber to bleed him. 

       George and Helen and some of the other boys also get the red spots and sweats at the same time but are over them by the time little Michael dies.
  
As you might imagine the boys and Helen are quite upset for more than a week, particularly Michael’s brother, even though Angelo Priestly and I kept telling them how lucky Michael is because he’s certainly with God since he was such a fine boy.

       Thomas is still in London.  According to his last parchment he’s still living on Simon’s galley and still uses the stable as the meeting place where men come with information or seeking employment.  At Thomas’ request the defrocked priest who was Martin Archer’s second at Launceston long ago returned to Restormel to act as the boys’ tutor to help learn them their scribing and sums. 

      
The ex-priest’s name is Angelo.  He’s an Italian with a great mop of grey hair on his head and sticking out of his ears.  George and the boys seem to like Angelo Priestly even though he sometimes acts very strange by falling asleep when everyone else is awake. 

       Lately after our morning drills I have been riding out with Peter and a few of our better archers to find possible battlegrounds where we might be able to take favorable positions.  There are several that look rather promising. 

       One of the best is a big open field that runs up over a ridge on the other side of Restormel; another that has particularly caught my eye is a long narrow field running up over a ridge on the other side of the River Fowey between Restormel and Trematon.

       A third site, and perhaps the best of all, is on a ridge covered with farm land on the Devon side of the River Tamar.  It lies across the cart path Cornell is likely to take across Devon, the one that comes into Cornwall near the River Tamar ford at Launceston.  I particularly like it because it can be easily ploughed and has thick stands of trees on either side where our archers can wait in ambush.

         Thoughts of Cornell increasingly creep back into my mind as the weather changes and spring approaches.  Last night while I was eating with Helen and the boys I decided to take another look at the possible battlefield across the Tamar in Devon.  Accordingly, after this morning’s battle practice I lead Peter and six of the archers who know how to stay aboard horses down the old Roman road that runs to the Tamar and Launceston Castle.    

       When we reach the Tamar we strip off our hooded robes to hold them over our heads to keep them dry, and then freeze our balls off taking the horses across the cold river.  The river is low and we rode across slowly to hold down the splashing.  All in all, crossing at the ford wasn’t so bad. 

      
I wonder if anyone on the Launceston Castle walls saw us cross; since we can see the castle from the ford I’m sure Martin can see us.

       We put our clothes back on and proceed down the cart path into Devon.  It’s a cold and dismal spring day.  We haven’t seen the sun for almost a week.

       The cart path is an old Roman road that runs all the way across Devon and on into Dorset and even farther, at least that’s what Thomas told me before he left for London.  It’s the only cart path that runs all the way across Devon so it’s by far the most likely route for any army marching on Cornwall.

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       “Riders coming,” Peter shouts out over and over again as he canters back from where he’s been riding as a picquet a mile or more ahead of our little body of men.  “Looks to be a dozen or more.”

       “Follow me,” I shout as I turn my horse off the path.  “We’ll move into the tree line and let them pass.  Better string your bows just in case.  Use heavies if they want to fight - but for God’s sake don’t launch until I give the word.” 

      
Why would a dozen horsemen be coming this way? There’s nothing between here and Restormel?  Could they be doing what we are doing?

      
“Do they look like they’re wearing armor, Peter?”

       “Not sure.  But I think maybe some of them.”

       We reach the trees in time to watch the riders come down the path past us.  There are about a dozen of them and several look to be wearing helmets and partial armor. 

        The good news is that they are riding regular horses, not the great warhorses knights typically ride when they expect a battle.  Good.  It would appear they are neither looking for a fight nor expecting one; more likely they’re either on a journey or ranging over the land just as we are - to see what they can see. 

        Except they don’t continue on down the cart path past us.  They must have seen us before we moved off the cart path - for they stop when they see the hoof marks we left in the mud when we veered off the path and headed towards the trees.

       “Oh damn.  Here they come.”

       That’s what Peter murmurs as the riders turn their horses off the cart path and begin slowly moving towards us by following our tracks.  They’re carrying no lances but at least one of them appears to be carrying a crossbow. 

      
This is a big problem.  Our horses are farm horses mostly fit for pulling a plow or wagon.  Whoever these people are they’ll probably have better horses and be able to run us down in a chase if they want to fight.  What will happen if we stay together is another matter entirely – particularly if they’ve never faced longbows in the hands of experienced archers.

      
“Dismount and tether your horses for a fast retreat; stay close together.  There are only a dozen of them and they don’t appear to have many bows.”

       As the riders get closer I can see that two of them appear to be knights.  I can tell because they are riding horses caparisoned with their personal heraldry.  The other riders in the party look to be a combination of older men and young squires. They obviously know we are here and they’re coming very slowly.

      “Cover me.  Use your heavies and go for the two who look like knights and the man with the crossbow first if there is fighting.  Then the others.”

       As I say that I dig my heels into the side of my horse and move out to the very edge of the woods and raise my right hand in greeting.  My appearance and behavior seems to startle the men coming towards me.  They pull up sharply and their horses prance around about fifty paces in front of me.  The crossbowman has it drawn with a bolt in the slot.

        “I’m Hugh of Evesham.” I shout the lie as I turn my horse so it is headed back into the trees immediately behind me. 

       “In the service of the Earl of Devon.  Who are you and what do you want?” 

       I say that as I’m clutching my strung bow and a heavy in my left hand -and holding them against the side of my horse in an effort to keep them from being seen.  I don’t want these men thinking I’m hostile. 

       
Not that I’m any good at launching arrows from horseback, of course, but so I’ll have them ready if I dismount.

       “I’m Sir Andrew of Farsham.  We are toll collectors and we want your toll for the use of the road.” 

       That’s nonsense.  Farsham is not even in Devon and a dozen armed men aren’t out merely to collect tolls - and they certainly wouldn’t be showing their heraldry unless they were at war or riding in a tournament. They’re either a party of outlaws collecting tolls to which they are not entitled or they are ranging in advance of a larger party.  Who are these men?

       It’s a question I don’t have a chance to ask.  Suddenly Sir Andrew draws his sword and kicks his heels into his horse’s side and the crossbowman raises his bow.

       There is no time to even think.  I instinctively kick my horse in the ribs to get it moving and bend over its neck to make a smaller target.

       My horse lunges forward three or four steps into the trees when there is a distinct “thud” and my horse shudders and begins screaming as it crashes into a tree and throws me off.  It is as if I can see everything happening very slowly, even when I’m flying through the air as my horse goes down.

       I’m sprawled on my side and Sir Andrew, or whoever the rider might be, leans forward on his saddle and closes on me quickly with his sword lifted high over his head and off to the side for a killing slash. 

       There is a grim look on the knight’s bearded face and I’ve got my arm up uselessly in an instinctive effort to ward off the blow.  Then there is a blur of arrows.  A couple of the shafts seem to miss him but the three that bury themselves up to their fletchings in the armor shielding Sir Andrew’s chest certainly don’t and neither do the two that go deep into his horse. 

       I see the man’s mouth open in a scream as his horse keeps coming and crashes into me as it turns sideways and goes down.

       The next thing I know it’s starting to rain and Peter is slapping me in the face to rouse me and trying to lift my head. 

       “What happened?”  I croak.

       “Your head got banged when his horse knocked you into a tree.  But you’ll be good.  Lost your horse though; she’s a goner.”

       Sir Andrew, or whatever the real name of my attacker is, is on the ground a few paces away with a glazed look in his eyes and blood still pouring out of his mouth. 

       “Help me up,” I command.

       Peter and another man, George from Haverhill I think, pull me up to my feet and I just as promptly have weak legs and sit down again.  The rest of my men are standing around in a little circle looking at me with looks of concern. 
Oh God.  I can’t stand. Am I hit?

      
“Am I hit?  Did he get me?”

       “No.  No.  You’re just dazed from banging into a tree.  You’ll be fine.”

       “Where did they go?”

       “Some rode off; but not all of them as you can see,” Peter replied as he gestured towards Sir Andrew and a couple of other bodies and a dead horse on the ground nearby. 

       About twenty paces away there is a man thrashing about on his side with an arrow sticking out of his belly; just a boy from the looks of him. Further out in the open area I can see a horse and a body on the ground and another horse standing with its head down and shivering.  As we watch, the wounded horse sinks to its knees and rolls over on to its side with its head extended as far out as it can reach.

       “Any of us hurt?”

       “Just you, Lord William, just you.  And your horse of course; she’s a goner.”