York, England, AD 1327
Daw made economical progress, riding at a brisk walk, knowing his father would be following, but left far behind him.
His entry into the ancient city was wet and windswept but there was no mistaking where he should go. A continuous stream of carts and porters were leaving over the Ouse Bridge towards what could only be the royal host.
His horse stepped delicately through the puddled mud of the holed trackway and when Hob Moor outside the city came into view he could see a vast encampment in apparent disorder but at its centre a large number of tall tents, topped with pennons that hung wet and limp.
Soldiers beyond counting stood by in stolid endurance, others sheltered where they could. Everywhere cooking fires sputtered sending thin columns of smoke to spread and hang in the damp air, the woody odour blending with a dank stench of latrines and horse droppings.
Closer, the reek of wet leather and canvas added to the effluvium, together with the occasional wafting scent of burnt meat.
The tents were grouped together, perhaps a hundred or so but of course the thousands of common soldiery were not granted such extravagance of living. There were two tents considerably larger than the others, on one the blue and yellow stripes of Lord Mortimer’s arms and on the other, the three gold lions on red that was King Edward’s royal arms.
Daw’s heart beat faster. This was no less than the King of England, but if his father had braved it, so would he.
To reach the King was no easy thing. After satisfying various officials Daw was allowed to wait in the rain as visitor after visitor was dealt with. Finally, he was given to understand that the King would shortly see him.
Then he was summoned.
Falling to his knee as he had been taught by his father, Daw was brusquely told to be upstanding by the handsome youth at a table.
Several clerks hovered to one side. ‘State your business,’ snapped one.
‘David of Hurnwych. My Liege Lord, Jared Barnwell of Coventry, my father, bids me tell you that he is even now on his way with your gunnes. In number they are—’
‘That is well, but we are much wearied. We shall be content should you apprise our seneschal armourer of them in every detail as will allow him to make proper dispensation.’
Edward rubbed his eyes with fatigue and seemed to remember something. ‘Have you spoken to our Lord Mortimer, perchance?’
‘I have not, Sire. If you desire me to—’
‘No. For now their arriving is to be kept discreet. From all. You understand us?’
‘It shall be so, Majesty.’