Heartstone

The men donned the jacks, except for a group of twenty at the rear which included Sulyard and Pygeon as well as the young archer Llewellyn; they pulled on the brigandynes. Many of them were threadbare, like the jacks, some with the metal plates showing through. The section grumbled as they put them on; though Sulyard, who wore a new-looking brigandyne dyed bright red, the brazen studs holding the plates glinting, looked proud of what I guessed was a personal possession. The other men grumbled; the corporal, a heavy-set, keen-eyed young fellow with pleasant, mobile features, encouraged them. 'Come on, lads, it can't be helped. It's only till lunchtime.'

At a command from Snodin the soldiers drew up in rows of five. Sir Franklin, Leacon and the drummer took places at the front. The drummer began a steady beat and the men marched out of the field. I noticed again how young most were, almost all under thirty and several under twenty. All wore leather shoes, some old and battered. Snodin placed himself at the rear, in a position to watch the entire company. We four civilians mounted and took our places behind him; from the horse's back I had a view of his balding crown, with a glimpse of his blue-veined bottle nose when he turned his head. Behind us the carts creaked into position. As we made our way slowly down the empty main street of Cobham an old man leaned from the upper window of a house and called out, 'God be with you, soldiers. God save King Harry!'

* * *

I WAS BEGINNING to grow fond of my horse, named Oddleg for his one white foot. He was placid, walked at a steady, unvarying pace and had seemed glad to see me that morning. The company marched into the countryside to the rhythm of the drum, the tramp of marching feet accompanied by the rumble of cartwheels behind us, the hoofbeats of our horses and, immediately ahead, an odd coin-like jingling from the brigandynes. One of the soldiers began singing, and the others took up the ragged chorus of an obscene variation of 'Greensleeves', each verse more inventive than the last.

After a while Leacon signalled the drummer to stop. We were climbing into the Surrey Downs now, the road mostly well-drained chalk. The marching men threw up much dust, and soon we at the back were grey with it. The countryside changed, more land farmed on the old system, with huge fields divided into long strips of different crops. The wheat and vetches seemed further on here, less battered looking; the storms must not have reached this far south. Peasants stopped work to look at us, but without much interest. We would not be the first soldiers passing this way.

The singing petered out after a couple of miles. The pace flagged and the drummer sounded the marching beat again. I decided to essay another conversation with Dyrick. Despite his wide-brimmed hat, his sharp, lean face was starting to burn as those of ruddy-headed people will. 'Poor caitiffs,' I said, nodding at the men in brigandynes, 'see how they sweat.'

'They may have to do more than sweat when we get to Portsmouth,' he replied grimly.

'Ay. Better the King had never started this war.'

'Maybe 'tis time for a final reckoning with the French. I just wish you hadn't got me caught up in the middle of it all.'

I laughed suddenly. 'Come, Brother Dyrick, there must be some topic we can agree on.'

He gave me a hostile stare. 'I cannot think of one.'

I gave up. Although it was discourteous, I fell behind so I could converse with Barak. Feaveryear gave me a disapproving look.

* * *

WE MADE good progress; at a blast from the drummer's trumpet several carts, and once a gang of road menders, moved to the side of the road to let us pass. After two hours we stopped by a bridge to water the horses at the stream running under it. As we led the animals down to the water, the soldiers fell out and sat breakfasting in the road or on the verge, taking bread and cheese from the large pouches at their waists. The men in the jacks and brigandynes looked utterly weary.

'I don't think I could have stood up to this march like them,' Barak said. 'Five years ago, maybe. That arsehole Goodryke, he didn't care whether I'd make a good soldier or not. He just wanted to make an example of me.'

'Yes, he did.'

'That Snodin's another one. You can see he has it in for the jug-eared fellow.'

'He does.' I looked behind us, up the road. 'What's that?'

A plume of dust had appeared in the distance, men riding fast. Snodin ordered the recruits slumped in the roadway to move. Half a dozen riders passed us, all in the King's livery, heading south. At their head was a little man in a grey robe, his horse draped in a cloth of green and white, the royal colours. The party slowed to cross the bridge and I recognized the neat pale face of Sir Richard Rich.

Chapter Fourteen