Authors: Martin Archer
Tags: #Historical Fiction
We never stop all that long night long or during the next day; we keep moving as fast as possible because we want to put as much distance as we can between ourselves and any pursuers. That, we all know without anyone ever having to say it, is what we’ve got to do to save ourselves from the mercenaries’ vengeance.
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 wave other travelers off the road “so his 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 despite the cold without losing a one of them. The problem is that there is only one ferry and it’s very small. It can only carry one wagon at a time.
Like most river ferries, this one is attached to long ropes and is hauled back and forth across the river by gangs of men and women standing on both side of the river. It takes a couple of hours to get our wagons across. The only thing good about it is that it gives the men a chance to rest and the horses a chance to graze.
I thought about taking the little ferry and sinking it; and because of what happened next it’s obviously something I certainly should have done. But I didn’t and until this day I don’t know why I didn’t.
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 we can see a great mass of marching and mounted men in the distance off to our left – it’s a huge army with all its baggage and its coming down what my map shows to be one of the old Roman roads coming out of the north.
I’ve seen armies on the move before, haven’t I? This one’s got almost a thousand men, maybe even that much again if you count all the servants and followers in its baggage train.
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, whip them.”
Oh my god. Who else could it be?
It is. And half an hour later I’m sitting quietly on my horse next to a roadside shrine at the crossroads; I’m 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 mounted men at arms.
We turn the wagons around while we wait for the last of what is almost certainly Cornell’s army to come to the crossroads and turn towards Sarum. Then the men pile on to the wagons and we whip up the horses - and head north as fast as possible on the very same track that Cornell used to come south.
Everyone heads north except Roger Miner. I don’t even take time to write a parchment to William. By the time the wagons are turned around Roger is galloping off to London on our best horse and leading our second-best in case the first one founders - to tell Simon to leave immediately for Cornwall and warn William that Cornell is on the march. He’s to also tell him that I will be taking our mercenaries to lay siege to Cornell’s Hathersage Castle. Alan will be my number two until Roger returns.
Roger will only stay at the stable for a few hours - just long enough to collect any additional archers and recruits that have come in since we left and rent the wagons he’ll need to bring them north to meet us in the Calder Valley.
He’s doing well, Roger is; he’s a master sergeant for sure if he accomplishes this. It’s up to Roger and Simon. All I can do is hope that Roger comes back with more archers and Simon’s galley reaches William before Cornell does. Damn, I should have destroyed that ferry over the River Test.
Two rainy days later, about twenty four hours after my exhausted men and horses cross the Thames at the ford above London where the oxen cross on their way to London, we come over a little rise and I finally see what I am looking for – a place where we can go to ground and hide for a day or two while we rest. We’re not likely to be seen now – we’re finally north of the crossroads where Cornell and his men would have joined the great road and begun marching south.
We quickly turn off the north-south wagon road and lead our overloaded wagons over some grazing land and into a great stand of trees that seems to stretch to the horizon. It’s probably the hunting grounds of some great noble.
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We rest for an entire day. Then it takes four days more to reach Joseph and the mercenaries at their new camp in the Calder Valley.
Hopefully Joseph and Leslie’s mercenaries will be there; I don’t know what we’ll do if they’re not.
Getting to the valley requires us to ford numerous small streams as we pass through a beautiful green and peaceful countryside – filled with sheep and empty of people. The further north we go the fewer fields and people we see and the fewer pilgrims and travelers we meet coming towards us on the cart path.
My arse gets so sore after the second day of hard riding that I tie my horse to one of the wagons and ride sitting next to the horse driver from then on. It’s easier to stay dry under a sleeping skin when it rains and, besides, if I’m riding on a wagon I can fall asleep. I jerked awake and switched to riding in the wagon when I dozed off and almost fell off my horse.
We don’t stop at any of the villages we pass that are close to the cart path. Women come to the doors of some of the homes and watch as we pass by and some of the village children came running out and try to talk to us; but we can’t understand their words and they can’t understand ours.
The countryside becomes even more quiet and deserted once we turn off the main north-to-south wagon road and head on an even less utilized path towards the valley. The handful of villages we see from the track on our third and fourth days of travel are small and isolated. We don’t see a single castle or fortified farm house.
At first I thought that perhaps the gentry live off the path; but we don’t see any houses or monasteries even when we are going over a hill and can see much of the surrounding countryside – just a few small and isolated little villages with five or six thatched-roof houses and barns.
All the houses we see seem quite small, though perhaps they only seem that way because the countryside is so vast. None of them appear to have chimneys and many seem to be deserted. They are in some ways very much like we have in Cornwall – woven branches and reeds attached to a wooden frame, daubed with mud to cover the openings in the weave, and topped with thatched roofs. A hole in the roof at one end lets the smoke out and the rain and wind in.
One big difference is that most of the houses we see don’t have entrance doors the way we have in Cornwall or I remember from the days I spent growing up in the Yorkshire village where Thomas and I were born. All they have are small openings in their walls that are large enough for a man to pass through.
Sometimes the openings are covered with hanging sheepskins to keep out the wind and rain. Others don’t even have door skins. Perhaps the people living in them only hang their door skins at night when they don’t need the light coming in from the doorway in order to see.
I remark on the difference to Alex from Dudley who is driving the two horses pulling my wagon. He tells me it’s because the people up here mix sheep dung in with the mud they stick on the woven branches and reeds to keep out the night airs.
I nod my head in agreement but I don’t believe it; how would he know?
“
Alex, where did you hear that?”
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A strange little man sitting by the side of the path is the first indication that we may have found Leslie’s mercenaries. He jumps up and stares at us intently. I’m in the second wagon so I stand up and shout “over here” and motion him to me as our little column comes to a halt.
“Bishop Thomas?” he inquires in a heavy and almost indecipherable brogue, and then says something I can’t understand at all. But I did catch the word “Leslie” so it looks as though we may have found them.
“Yes, that’s me,” I agree with a smile and a nod.
The little man breaks out in a great huge smile and begins pointing and motioning for us to follow him off the track. We do and an hour or so later we come around a little hill and get our first look at the camp of Leslie’s company of mercenaries. It’s a scattering of wagons and sheep skin tents and crude woven hovels and it’s filled with women and children – all of whom get very excited when we appear. Within seconds we are surrounded by excited children
Joseph and Old Leslie, the captain of the mercenaries, show up immediately and, a few seconds later, so does the skinny man who is Leslie’s second. They all have welcoming smiles on their faces and outstretched hands.
“Hello Captain Leslie; Hello Joseph. It’s good to see you both.”
Within minutes the women and children have been shooed away and the three of us are surrounded by a number of men. They’re of all ages from beardless youth to elderly graybeards – and they are all carefully watching and listening. Even my own men come over to listen.
This won’t do at all. I have much to tell Leslie but we need to talk privately.
“Captain, is there a place we can sit and talk privately?”
Leslie nods and a few seconds later the four of us are sitting facing each other on some freshly cut logs.
The men, both the mercenaries and mine, drift over and stand near us while we talk. Leslie must have said something for now his men hang back so the four of us can talk privately. The skinny man with the suspicious eyes joins us. His name is Angus; he’s Leslie’s eldest son and apparent heir.
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“Our enemy, the man I’m hiring you and your men to help us fight, under my command,” I tell Leslie, “is Lord Cornell of Hathersage Castle. It’s about a two or three day walk from here.”
I tell Leslie and Angus everything I know about Lord Cornell and why we are enemies and what has happened so far.
Well, almost everything; I don’t tell him that William is my brother.
They don’t say a word but I can see they are both highly pleased when they learn that Cornell has taken himself and his men off to Cornwall. They should be – it probably means a siege instead of a battle, at least until Cornell returns. And the old man laughs uproariously that even his son smiles when I tell them about the misadventures of Captain Kerfuffle and his men.
On the other hand they are both highly unhappy about fighting under the command of a bishop who, so far as they know, knows nothing about fighting and warfare.
“My dear boy,” I lean over and tell Angus when he snorts in disgust at the news, “I haven’t always been a bishop saying prayers and collecting coins. And I think it fair to say that I’ve already killed many more men than you ever have, or ever will for that matter. Indeed I could kill you right now before you could even stand up.”
Angus snorts again in amusement. A split second later his eyes get wide when he realizes I’ve extended my arm and I’m holding a double edged dagger at his throat. There is a collective gasp from the men standing around us which dissipates into nervous laughter when I smile benignly at Angus and tuck it back in my sleeve.
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Almost immediately we hold a parade to count Leslie’s men and pay the next fee required under the contract. One hundred and forty four men present themselves and their arms. Mostly they are swordsmen with shields. Only three are archers with their own short bows.
With the three Scots we have a total of twenty two archers with longbows and crossbows including my guards and the new recruits who came from London in the wagons. There are also about a dozen men of uncertain value who signed on to be archer trainees and came with us from London. We have more than enough arrows for that many longbows since we took so many off Simon’s galley and carried them here in the wagons.
Leslie then does something quite good – he invites me to speak to his men and explain why we are employing them.
All the men, including our own, gather around and listen carefully when I climb up on one of the wagons and tell them who we are and what we are going to do together and why. Their women crowd in to listen with them.
Relief at learning it will be a siege instead of a pitched battle is apparent on every man and woman’s face - and the Scots all laugh with pleasure when they hear about the way we gulled Cornell’s mercenaries and see our men proudly nodding their agreement to my tale.
“Hmm. There were a couple of short bows among the weapons we picked up. I wonder if any of our trainees or Leslie’s men know how to use them.