The Bow (28 page)

‘
Hah!’ the knight went on. ‘T’is nothing.
Happened by, that’s all. Hot foot from France just two days ago.
Off on a commission of array for our lord the king, we were: a ‘garde
de la mer’. Got diverted by a local sheriff near Feltham. Sent us
off to chase this beggar army, the one you bumped into. Rogues! They
threw a bailiff down a well, ye know, and burnt three ricks at
Whitton!’ He stopped and knelt down by James. ‘That bolt!
Should’ve cut ye in two!’

‘
I thought it had.’

Sir Robert Babthorpe chuckled. ‘Caught on your
passport, that’s what it did, as well as a wallet stuffed with
herbs and a golden chain.’ He stood up. ‘Smacked your ribs
though.Ye won’t be breathing too deep for a while, that’s for
sure. Surgeon thinks ye’ve cracked one. He’ll bind ye up later,
and my men here will get ye back on that horse of yours.’

‘
I’m obliged, Sir Robert.’

‘
Obliged are ye? Obliged!’ He laughed. ‘If ye were
obliged, my brave lad, ye’d be signing up now for another season’s
fighting in the fields of France.’

James opened his mouth to reply, but the knight held up
his hand:

‘
Nay, lad! Rest easy! I’m not Sir Thomas Beaufort,
and I know your heart on this. Half of Harfleur does! He smiled and
turned away. As he was leaving the barn, he paused and called over
his shoulder: ‘The king is raising troops for a campaign against
Rouen. If there’s any in Chiswick with a mind to follow his banner
tell them to make haste for Portsmouth before the month is out.’

James sat back against a stook of hay. ‘I will, Sir
Robert, and thank ye again.’

One day later, two hours after sun rise, James came
wearily to Chiswick. His rib had proved too painful to ride more than
a few miles at a time, and he had decided to wait back on the edge of
the heath and travel in as far as Isleworth with a wandering company
of tinkers, minstrels and market folk. They farewelled him by the
market cross, and he set off along the river bank until he caught
sight of the bend in the stream that would bring him to Chiswick
village.

But as he neared the ferry and low-tide ford that lay
just beyond Kew he saw something that made his heart sink: it was a
funeral procession.

They came out of the morning mist, stooped, huddled,
black against the shrouded river. A priest walked at their head,
clutching a wooden cross, then came a cart pulled by a pair of oxen,
and on the cart a coffin. Behind in a shuffling, ragged line he could
see the mourners. There were not many of them, perhaps no more than a
two dozen. They walked slowly. There was no sound of bells, or
crying, or practised grief: they just came on steadily towards him.

He reined in his horse, and climbed from the saddle.
There was nothing to do but wait. As it neared him, the procession
began to break up into shapes and faces he knew: village folk old and
young, but mostly old. Still, there were children there, with their
parents, and in among them the miller and his wife. All at once he
saw Simon, and he knew in a rush that he should have made a prayer at
that wayside shrine.

Some twenty paces from where he waited, Simon looked up
and saw him:

‘
Little brother!’ He stepped out of the procession,
hurried forward and took James by the shoulders. ‘You’ve come!’

James nodded and stared at the coffin as it rattled
past.

‘
Ah!’ Simon’s face clouded. ‘Not Hettie!’ he
said. ‘It’s not Hettie!’

He tried to explain who it was, but James heard nothing
more than the two words he kept repeating in his head: ‘Not
Hettie!’

His brother was still talking as the cortege finally
passed by, leaving the road to two boys and a dog chasing a stick.

‘
James!’ he said. ‘James! Let’s be away home.
Come on now!’

‘
But . . .’ James gestured towards the retreating
coffin.

‘
Pah! And so, ye sop! Say what ye think for once, and
do what ye mind! There’s enough folk there to bury the old hayward.
We’re away to yer Hettie!’

They began to walk, Simon taking the grey mare when he
saw that James’ shoulder pained him.

‘
Is she . . .’ began James.

‘
Poorly? Aye, she’s poorly, but not like she was
a few days ago. She began to pick up two days ago. Just sudden like.
Nothing the wisewoman gave here. Just happened.’

‘
Thank God.’

‘
Aye! But she’s a way to go, has poor Hettie. And
she’s the bairn to carry. Mistress Jane the midwife says she
doesn’t know if she’ll hold it.’

They reached the great south field and crossed it by the
London milestone, heading towards the church tower just showing
between the two old oaks that bordered the glebe. A ploughman looked
up and waved, then bent to his plough once more, whistling at the
oxen, and urging them on.

‘
Spring ploughing,’ said Simon. ‘We’re late.
Even had the young lads onto it, but they’re pretty much useless.
Spend all their time complaining, then slope off into the woods to
throw rocks at pigeons.’ He laughed, and led James away from the
field and along the narrow path that led to the village. When they
reached the green, James saw his house. It had a newly thatched roof,
the plaster had been repaired, and someone had re-hung the door.
Smoke from a good fire curled above the rooftop.

‘
Thanks,’ said James.

‘
For what?’ answered Simon, and he laughed.

The door was ajar. James pushed it wide, stooped and
went in. He saw Hettie at once. She was lying asleep on a raised bed
by the fire. Mother Tilly the healer was sitting next to her, teasing
apart a handful of fennel, and singing quietly to herself. She
glanced up, nodded and smiled:

‘
She’s a’ peace, master,’ she said. ‘T’aint
nothing I did, that’s for sure, but she’s a fighter, and the Good
Lord is with her. Come, see!’

James knelt by the bed. His wife was breathing easily,
though she was still pale, and a few beads of sweat stood out on her
brow.

‘
She’s better ye say,’ he said.

‘
Oh, aye, master. Death was rattling at her door two
days past, but he’s wandered off apace now, and I see nought but
angels.’

‘
D’ye now.’ He reached awkwardly into his tunic
and brought out the wallet. ‘I’ve a few herbs from Harfleur. The
apothecary said they would help.’

Mother Tilly gave a little frown and took the wallet,
ignoring the ragged hole. She sniffed it carefully, then opened it
up: ‘Hmm! That’s nay so bad. Two infusions, and one with saffron
no less. That’s an apothecary who knows his trade. Rarely done!’
She chuckled and stood up. ‘I’ll boil it up straight way.’ She
paused and winked. ‘Oh, aye, master James, there’s nay need to
tell me: onions and lentils! Always onions and lentils with fennel
and moss when there’s fever about. And here’s fresh fennel,
besides!’ She hurried away to her own house just down the street.

Simon stayed with his brother. They didn’t talk, but
just sat by the bed and waited. At last Hettie woke, smiled at James,
took his hand and fell asleep once more. Then Mother Tilly returned,
this time with the midwife. Armed with a steaming broth, and even
more herbs, they shooed the men away, promising James that he could
return late in the afternoon.

‘
Woman’s work!’ said Mistress Jane, as she took a
broom and began to brush furiously around bed and fireplace. ‘Away
with these men! Away now! There’s a lass here who needs more than
glum looks and muddy boots! Away with ye.’

James stood alongside his brother on the edge of the
green, and looked up the road towards Southwark where the bishop held
court in his great palace.

‘
Think she’ll live, brother?’

‘
I think she will.’

‘
God be praised.’

‘
Aye, and if I were you I’d get down to the chapel
and burn a candle for the priest.’

James smiled: ‘I don’t think so brother.’ He
turned and walked down towards the river bank and the dean’s
meadow. ‘I’m away to look at land,’ he called over his
shoulder. ‘Tell Mistress Jane I’ll be back directly.’

Simon watched him go and shook his head. ‘Mad as a
tanner’s dog,’ he muttered. ‘Too much bow and too little
plough.’ Smiling despite himself, he ran his hand through his
greying hair. Tomorrow there was market, and Thursday to the
planting. Perhaps his young brother might tear himself away from
hearth and home to give him a hand.

Five years later, James found a bowstave wrapped in its
cover among some wattle staves and hurdles down by Brentford Reach.
He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. It was his old
half-bow. Still good after all these years in the weather. Not
cracked, with the slight curve of the jig or branch showing where the
grain ran true and well oiled. He could use this bow, train up little
William, make him an archer like himself . . .

‘
Na!’ he said suddenly, and flung the bow back among
the rushes. ‘There’s no more of France for me and mine!’

He turned and walked back along the river bank, and then
across the field. The ploughing was done. Tomorrow was the planting.
Tomorrow they would all be in the fields. The weather was lifting,
the rain had passed, and the land was ripe for sowing. It was good
land. Old, well rested, and at peace. At last.

He breathed deeply. ‘No more to France!’ He would be
nought but a farmer now, and his young son too. He had the dean’s
meadow, and the land his father had given him. A fine holding, with
deep soil and pasture enough for any yeoman.

This was the place to be: where Old Man Thames curves
towards the sea, and where the water is clean enough, and the
harvests are strong enough to keep away the fevers and the sickness.
Now, at last, there was a time to take his ease and grow fat counting
the years among the long summer days. Here he could grow old with his
Hettie, and sit in the doorway of a fine new farmhouse, and talk of
nothing but Chiswick folk and market days and children at the knee.

And Hettie would smile, and take him by the arm and nod
– and say that this and that were so, and this and that were not.
No more. Save the bubbling of onion pottage from over his shoulder,
and the smell of mutton shank. And barley. And peas and beans, and
lentils too.

‘
Sa! Hey and sa! Here’s a bowman come home from the
wars!’ he called at the top of his voice making the rooks in the
elm trees flap and circle. Laughing at himself, he trudged on.

As the sun dipped over Isleworth, he reached the high
side of the field. Hettie and the other women were bringing rushes up
from the river bank. He waved and she waved back. Little William was
with her. The lad broke away and ran towards his father. He had a
long, curved stick in his hand:

‘
Look, father!’ he said.