Heartstone

'The soldiers are still loading up. I've written a letter to Tammy, the innkeeper will give it to the next post rider going north.'

I breakfasted quickly, then we went outside. I saw a few of the soldiers did have white coats, including the red-faced man supervising the loading of the carts and a soldier who was strapping a drum round his middle. A trumpet hung from a baldric on his shoulder. We went over to Dyrick and Feaveryear, who were standing talking to the white-bearded man I had seen the night before.

'Ah, Brother Shardlake,' Dyrick said reprovingly, 'you have risen. I hope we will be off soon. Those carters will be sleeping it off with the whores. Captain Giffard here wants to be gone before them. Fourteen miles to Godalming today.' His tone was admonitory.

The white-bearded man turned to me. He wore a peacock-feather cap and a high-collared doublet with buttons patterned in gold leaf. His face was round, spots of colour in his cheeks, his blue eyes watery. I bowed. He gave me a haughty nod.

'You are the other lawyer my petty-captain has invited to travel with us? I am Sir Franklin Giffard, captain of this company.'

'Matthew Shardlake. I hope you do not mind us accompanying you, sir.'

'No, no. Leacon knows what he is doing.' He looked across to the archers.

'Those men shoot well,' I observed.

'They do, though hand-to-hand combat is the gentlemanly way to fight a war. But the archers won us Agincourt. Not much of an inn, was it?' he added. 'All that noise, those carriers. We must be gone. Please go and tell Leacon.'

I hesitated, for he had addressed me as though I were a soldier under his command. But I answered, 'If you wish,' and went to the field, passing the carts. In the nearest I saw a pile of round helmets and large, thick jackets that gave off a damp smell.

As I approached Leacon, I saw now how much thinner he was, his broad frame all gone to stringiness. I stood by him, watching the archers. A handsome dark-haired lad who looked to be still in his teens stepped forward with his bow. He was short, but stocky and muscular, with the heavy shoulders most of the men had. Like them he carried a warbow two yards long, with decorated horn nocks at each end.

'Come, Llewellyn!' one of the men called. 'Show us those of Welsh blood can do more than screw sheep!'

The boy smiled broadly. 'Fuck you, Carswell!' A number of arrows had been thrust into the grass and he pulled one out.

Leacon leaned forward. 'Llewellyn,' he said quietly, 'step away a little. Try to hit the mark from a sixty-degree angle, like we practised two days ago.'

'Yes, sir.' The boy stepped away a few yards and faced the tree at an angle. Then, in seconds, he had drawn his bow back nearly three feet, shot, and landed the arrow in the centre of the doublet. The soldiers clapped.

'More,' Leacon said. 'Make it six.' At a speed such as I had never seen, the boy loosed five more arrows, all of which hit the doublet. He turned and bowed to the appreciative crowd, a flash of white teeth in his sunburned face.

'That's how we'll feather them in the goddam Frenchies' bowels!' someone shouted, and there were more cheers.

Leacon turned to me. 'What do you think of my Goddams?' He smiled at my puzzled look. 'It's what English archers call themselves.'

'I have never seen such skill. George, Captain Giffard wants us to move off. I am sorry, I should have said at once, but I was so taken with that display.'

Leacon turned back to the men. 'No more, lads! We march!'

There was a grumbling murmur as the men set to unstringing their bows and I accompanied Leacon back to the road.

'Are your men all from the same district?' I asked.

'No. They come from all over north-west Middlesex. They're a varied bunch, sons of yeomen together with those of artisans and poor labourers. The commissioners are often accused of levying the dregs of the villages, but I was told to pick a company of strong, practised archers—principal archers we call them, and I have. Though there has been little time to train them to work together yet, most of the day is taken up with marching.'

'That fellow who shot last was remarkable, but he seemed young for service.'

'Tom Llewellyn is not nineteen, but he was the best archer I saw at the Views of Arms. A blacksmith's apprentice, son of a Welshman.'

'Are they willing recruits?'

'Some. Others less so. We had a few desertions in London, so we are four men short. And our company preacher was taken ill. We had no time to get a replacement.'

I laughed. 'You were unable to find a preacher in London? Now that does astonish me!'

'Not one willing to serve in the army, anyway.'

I nodded at the officer supervising the loading of the carts, which was now almost complete. He was still walking around, shouting and snapping.

'He is a choleric fellow.'

'Yes, Master Snodin, our whiffler. He is a seasoned veteran, he keeps the men well in order.'

'Ah.' I thought of Goodryke.