The Bow (18 page)

The smoke curled in among the vaulted beams, and the two
men sat in silence once more. Somewhere in the depths of the
monastery a tocsin sounded, calling the monks to prayer.

‘
Do they never stop?’ said James.

‘
It’s their way,’ replied Giles rubbing the old
dog’s ears.

‘
Then they are better men than me,’ replied James
getting to his feet again. ‘I’m for bed.’

Giles decided to stay. ‘I’ll keep watch with this
old fellow,’ he said. He put another log on the fire, poured one
last cup of mead, and eased himself back on the rough refectory
bench. James bid him good night, and set off along the dark and
narrow corridors that led to the guest wing cells. It was cold and
draughty, but it was dry and clean. Everywhere looked swept, and in
the dim light of the torches that hung from the walls he could see
the smooth white plaster and carved timberwork of the Cistercian
craftsmen.

Slowly and carefully he made his way through the
monastery. He was aware of the far off sound of singing - plain chant
– as the monks began their nightly rituals of prayer and praise. He
had nearly reached his cell, after one or two wrong turnings, when
all at once he rounded a corner and found himself looking into the
eyes of a young peasant woman. He started. She was slender, dark
eyed, with rich brown hair falling across her shoulders. Her faded
blue kirtle was tied about the waist with a flaxen cord, and she wore
a heather wreath across her brow. In her hand she held a sword. She
stared at him with a fixed and level gaze. He gasped and almost cried
out.

Painted! All painted! It was a fresco. The flickering
torchlight gave it life, and for one moment James had thought the
girl was real. He came forward and looked more closely. There was an
inscription, carefully inscribed beneath her feet: ‘Ancilla et
liberator futura Gallorum’.

He had no idea what it meant.

There was a tap on his shoulder and he whirled around,
heart pounding. An elderly monk, palm raised in sign of peace,
smiled at him. ‘Do not be alarmed monsieur,’ he said quietly. ‘I
heard footsteps in the corridor heading away from the chapel and
turned back to see what the matter might be. And so I have found
yourself. But nothing to worry.’ He paused and smiled again. ‘I
see you have found our little maid.’

James nodded. ‘Who is she?’

The old monk sighed and walked slowly up to the fresco.

‘
We do not know. She is yet to come. She is spoken of.
By the seer Merlin. A maid of France to set France free. That’s
what he said.’

‘
When? When will she set France free?’

‘
Aha! You believe it then, maybe, this fairy tale,
this old wives story?’

James frowned. ‘But you said . . .’

'I told you the story, my son. That is all. It is a
story no more real than this painting.’ He stood back and gestured
towards it: ‘Just a painting. But see the passion in those lines.
So true, so alive. Let me tell you, it is not a girl yet to come, it
is one who lives already, and not far from here. She is the daughter
of the miller at Goderville, and the novice here who painted this,
thinks of no one else.’

'A novice painted this?’

The monk nodded. ‘He came to us with some skill
already. His father was a craftsman, a silversmith. The abbot asked
him to paint a legend. Instead he painted his soul.’ Again, he
looked at the fresco. ‘I do not think he will stay with us. I think
he will leave, and break his poor mother’s heart.’

James yawned. ‘And all for a girl.’

He shook his head sadly. ‘A common problem I fear.’
He paused and then suddenly frowned. ‘But what am I doing keeping
you standing here? I too must be away. Good night, master archer,
and God keep thee.’

‘
And thee also,’ replied James putting thumb and
forefinger to his forehead even as the old monk turned away,and
disappeared into the shadows.

Soon James had found his cell. He stowed his kit, bedded
down, and in moments was asleep.

By morning the storm had passed. The sky was clear, and
the wind from the south. As the sun reached its first quarter, they
said farewell to the abbot and his monks, who sent them on their way
with a loaf of bread, a round of cheese and a quart of local wine.
They also carried a letter from the abbot to the Benedictine abbey of
La Trinite in Fecamp.

With the sun on their shoulders, and a breeze at their
backs, they took the path that led back to the coast. As they rode
they talked. It wasn’t long before James asked Giles about the
legend of the young peasant girl. The squire shrugged and said that
he had heard of the story, but could not think it to be true. ‘A
tale born of despair,’ he said, easing his horse through a flooded
dip in the road. ‘When a nation loses hope, it loses its mind. Only
a madman would come up with such an idea.’

'But the abbot . . .’

‘
He is a kind and good man, rare enough these days
among church folk, but he is also a dreamer. Too much time alone in
that grey, stone box.’

They rode on, and by noon had reached a high point from where they
could see the spires of Fecamp, and beyond the broad reach of the
sea.

They stopped for lunch, sat underneath an oak tree, and
looked out towards the west.

'Your home,’ said Giles gesturing.

'Aye, somewhere out there.’

'You think of it sometimes, perhaps.’

‘
Every day.’

‘
I think of mine,’ replied Giles, ‘but soon I will
be there. God willing you also will see your home before a long
time.’

James smiled, and rolled a piece of bread in his hand.
‘I sometimes think I might never walk up that Chiswick road again.
Never see my Hettie, nor she me.’

‘
Then you are a dead man already,’
snorted Giles. ‘The best way to get home, is to
be
home. In your head, that is.’

James glanced at the young squire. ‘Someone told you
that?’

Giles laughed. ‘My father told me. I overheard him say
it to my elder brother before he went away to the wars.’

‘
You have an older brother?’

‘
He was killed. In the wars. Ironic, n’est ce pas?
Never came home.’

‘
I am sorry.’

‘It is all right. It was some time ago. Maybe five years. Fighting
in Burgundy.’ He paused and looked down. ‘I still miss him. He
used to look out for me. Make sure the older squires didn’t push me
around.’ Picking up a tuft of grass he threw it against the breeze:
‘Mother used to cry most every day after he was gone. But father
said he died as a man should.’ He stood up. ‘Come, let us be
going. We started well, and must finish well if we are to make the
castle by sunset.’ Calling to his horse, he gathered shield and
sword, and was in the saddle before James had even begun to be ready.

They reached Fecamp late in the day. The smell of sea salt and
herrings hung in the air, but the town, so recently destroyed, had
been rebuilt and its clean, dressed stonework glowed in the setting
sun. The great square tower of La Trinite loomed above the walls and
the town gates were defended by barbican round towers. Stand-guards
in civic livery stood either side of the open portcullis.
²

‘I am your shepherd now. We head for the abbey in the centre of the
town,’ said Giles quietly as they walked their horses across the
narrow bridge towards the gateway. ‘Stay close and say nothing.
These folk have no love for an English archer. They still talk of
Robert Knollys in these parts, and call him a servant of the devil.’

James did not reply. He was watching the guards watching him. In one
easy movement they shifted their shields to their shoulders, and took
their pikes in both hands. ‘Professionals,’ he thought. ‘And
not to be fooled with.’

The guards challenged them as they approached, calling out in a
rough, clipped Norman dialect. They halted and Giles spoke, lifting
his lance so that the pennon of Fecamp floated free. One of the
guards scowled, the other laughed and waved them through. As they
clattered across the drawbridge under the stone vaulted arches of the
barbican, a ragged sutler on a donkey pushed by them. He went by
eyeing James suspiciously and spat at his feet.

‘What did you say back there?’ asked James, ignoring the sutler.

Giles grinned. ‘I told them you were a poor, idiot English archer
who had come to claim ransom, but was instead being delivered to
prison.’

‘Like as not,’ replied James with a shrug.

The streets of Fecamp were crowded with the end of market day, but
the people fell quiet and drew back muttering as the two men made
their way to the town square and abbey church.

‘Whatever you do, don’t touch your bow,’ hissed Giles. ‘They
would tear you apart in an instant.’

Carefully, James eased his cloak across his chest till it covered the
badge of St George. They went on. Soon they had reached the square,
and were almost across it, making their way between the awnings,
stalls and two-wheeled carts, when suddenly, someone called out, and
threw a stone. It struck James on the back, making him pull down on
the reins so that his horse reared. He swore, and instinctively
reached for his sword.

‘No!’ shouted Giles, as his own horse danced sideways. Another
stone flew over their heads and bounced off an awning.

‘What then?’ James ducked to avoid two more stones, and a
handful of animal dung. The crowd started to close in. The shouting
had become a chorus of jeers, taunts and high-pitched yelps.

‘They mean to have me!’ James cried, tearing his buckler from his
hip, and snatching his ballock-knife. ‘I’ll not stand here and be
butchered like a pig.’ His horse, reins trailing, bolted through
the crowd, scattering bodies to right and left. Giles was on his own
horse in an instant. ‘Quick!’ he said, and leaning down hauled
James up behind him.

They galloped across the square in a hail of stones and curses, and
only pulled up when they reached the other side. To their relief they
saw a detachment of the abbot’s armed retinue emerged from the
abbey-hall and advance with sword and pike. There were only about
twenty of them, but they came at a steady trot, spear points levelled
and shields lapped.

The crowd gave way instantly, scattering to right and left into
alleyways, doorways and side-streets. Within moments the square had
emptied, save for a yapping dog and two or three excitable young boys
who had come to watch the fun. James took a deep breath and slipped
down from the horse. He looked up at Giles. ‘That was close,’ he
said. ‘How did they spot me so quickly?’

Giles patted his horse’s neck. ‘They smelt you, my friend,’ he
replied.

With that the captain of the guard, a vintenar in brigandine and
mail, came up to them. He pushed back the visor of his bascinet.
‘Welcome to Fecamp!’ he said and smiled.

A short while later, after James had retrieved his horse and seen it
safely to the stables, they were escorted to the hall of La Trinite,
where they took supper with the abbot, who had just come from the
evening service compline. He was a lean and spare monk, dressed in
the dark habit of the Benedictines, but there was a strength in him
that men sometimes called ‘meekness’. At first he listened
politely to their story, nodding every so often and smiling gently at
their troubles. Then he offered them more wine – ‘our famous
benedictine!’ – and thanked them for the abbot of Goderville’s
letter.

‘I must apologise for the excessive horseplay of my flock,’ he
said when Giles had finished speaking. ‘The bourgeois of Fecamp
love to tax those who would tax them.’

James looked puzzled. The abbot chuckled and spread his hands. ‘The
kings of England who call themselves lords of Normandy will never
make Englishmen of these folk.’

James thought of what the Cistercian abbot had said, but held his
peace.

‘The armies of St George have been burning these lands for three
generations,’ the abbot went on, ‘but they remain no less French.
To conquer is not to own, to hold is not to have.’ He stopped and
drew with his finger in a pool of wine. ‘In the end we will outlast
you. Not because we are stronger, or braver or more skilled.’ He
looked up. ‘But simply because we are French.’

There was a silence. Giles chewed on a piece of bread, and studied
the carved panels flanking the fireplace. A serving monk ghosted
around the table, clearing dishes and filling wine cups. Someone in a
far off corridor let a door slam, and the sound echoed, re-echoed and
then faded.

‘But we are here,’ said James in a whisper..

‘So you are my son, and worthy of my respect, and due my
sanctuary.’

'It was timely, father abbot.’

‘Humph! It was only right! I would not have these rafters burning
above my head because some silly townsfolk took it into their heads
to spill English blood within my gates. Only last year, your King
Henry marched past this town with all his array. I saw his banners.’
He paused. ‘If it were not for sire David of Rambures who defended
this very place Fecamp would have burnt yet again. You know of sire
David?’

James shook his head. The abbot shrugged: ‘Well, it matters not.
For he is dead now, you see. Perhaps you yourself struck him down. Or
one of your comrades. He fell at Agincourt along with three of his
sons. A great knight! Master of the crossbowmen of France, a son of
Ponthieu, a hero to the people of this place.’ Slowly, the abbot
got to his feet, and folded his hands. ‘The castle de Fecamp lies
just beyond these walls. It would be better if you waited the night
here, and completed your journey in the morning.’