None of Martin’s friends or family had been present at the trial – it was as if the false accusation were enough for them to disown him – but Nicholas, who had been given a few days off from his studies to deal with this family crisis, came to visit him in gaol that night. He bribed the gaoler to allow him to speak to Martin through the grille in his cell door. ‘How could you do such a thing, Martin?’
‘Nicholas?’ Martin jumped to his feet. ‘For the love of God, Nicholay, you have to get me out of here!’
‘How could you do it? Your mother is half-dead with shame…’
‘I didn’t do it, Nicholay. I swear to God, I’m innocent! Speak to Lady Beatrice – she knows. She can still save me.’
Nicholas did not seem to hear him. ‘I’ll pray for your soul, Martin, though it’s more than you deserve…’
‘Where’s our mam?’ Martin demanded desperately. ‘Is she well? Why hasn’t she come to visit me?’
‘Mother?’ Nicholas spoke vaguely, as if in a daze. ‘She wants no more to do with you. You have shamed her – shamed us all. Perhaps the good Lord will find it in his heart to forgive you; I know I never shall.’
‘I didn’t do owt, Nicholay. I’m innocent. Please, you must tell our mam…’
‘The good Lord rest your wicked soul, Martin. I always knew as how you’d come to a bad end.’ Nicholas abruptly turned his back on his brother, walking away.
Martin slumped down to the floor of his cell, repeatedly muttering his innocence. And then he prayed to God, for earthly rather than celestial salvation. There was nothing left but prayer. He was not ready to die. Kneeling on the hard flagstones with his hands clasped before him, he recited the few prayers he knew over and over again, and then he made up a few of his own. ‘Please God, do not let me die. I have done nothing to warrant death. Save me from hanging, and I swear I’ll never fornicate again. I’ll do anything you ask of me, I’ll enter a monastery and dedicate the rest of my life to your service, if you’ll only let me live…’
A key turned in the lock and the cell door swung open. He blinked in the flickering torchlight as the gaoler handed him his final breakfast.
‘Is it morning already?’ Martin tried to sound calm, but even to his own ears his voice seemed hoarse.
The gaoler nodded wordlessly. There was little to be said. He had been unconvinced by Martin’s protestations of innocence – nearly all his guests denied their guilt, but their crimes were largely a matter of indifference to him. It all came to the same thing in the end. ‘There’s someone come to see you.’
Martin paused in the act of biting off a mouthful of crust to look up sharply. ‘Beatrice?’ If only he could see her one last time, assure her that he was innocent of the crimes for which he had been condemned; if only she could confess her love for him, he might yet die a happy man. But to be hanged so unjustly, when he had such a love to live for…
But the gaoler shook his head, and stood to one side to reveal a black-clad priest holding a small, leather-bound Bible. With his pale, cadaverous features in the shadow of his cowl, he looked like the angel of death. Martin knew utter despair then, knew that he had been abandoned by God.
‘I have come to hear your confession,’ said the priest.
‘Go to Hell,’ Martin told him bitterly. ‘I’ve not done owt wrong.’
‘Would you go to your grave with your sins unpurged?’
‘I’ve not committed any sins, yet I’m to die for a crime which I didn’t do. I’ve prayed to God for salvation, but he has forsaken me. Now I’d make a pact with the Devil himself, if it would free me from this unjust fate,’ spat Martin.
The priest recoiled in horror. ‘Blasphemous wretch! Would you burn in the fires of Hell for eternity?’
‘For a full span of life? Aye.’
The priest snapped his Bible shut and turned to the gaoler. ‘There is nothing I can do for this one. He has chosen his path.’
The three other men condemned to die that morning were already being chained together in the main room of the dungeon. The first was a tall, massively built, tow-headed young man with vacuous blue eyes and a pendulous lower lip; the second was in his mid twenties, with lank, shoulder-length dark brown hair and a broken nose; and the third was a small, weasel-faced man of about forty. Martin was likewise put in irons and chained behind the man with the broken nose, and then the four of them were marched outside, surrounded by the bailiffs. The priest’s voice droned in a dull monotone as he marched at the head of the procession. They marched into the courtyard and out through the main gateway of the castle, leaving the town by the south gate.
The sun was shining.
‘It’s a fine day to die,’ remarked the man with the broken nose as they shuffled along Millstone Lane below the south wall of Leicester town. ‘What’s your name, then?’ he asked the gigantic youth.
‘Alfred Drayton,’ replied the giant, speaking in the slow tones of the weak-of-brain.
‘Pleased to meet you, Hal,’ replied the man with the broken nose, with such bonhomie that if Martin had not known better, he would never have guessed that this man, like himself, was destined to be hanged by the neck until dead within a short while. ‘I only wish we could have met under happier circumstances, but it’s never too late to make friends, I always say. My name’s Roger Rudcock, by the way, but folks call me Hodge. So, what brings you to this sorry end?’
‘I killed a man,’ Hal said dully. ‘I didn’t mean to,’ he added hurriedly. ‘All I did were hit him.’ Looking at Hal’s broad shoulders, Martin could well believe it.
‘I were caught poaching, for my sins,’ said Hodge Rudcock, and turned to the weasel-faced man. ‘What about you?’
‘Go to Hell.’
Rudcock shrugged. ‘Aye and like. Chances are, that’s where we’ll all be before this hour is past. How about you?’ he asked Martin.
‘What difference does it make?’ Martin demanded bitterly. ‘We’re all going to be hanged.’
‘Never say die, lad,’ replied Rudcock. ‘Where there’s life, there’s hope.’
They rounded the Corn Wall at the south-east corner of the town and found themselves at the aptly named Gallowtree Gate, beyond the ditch below the town wall to the east. A large crowd had gathered. There were a few drawn out of ghoulish curiosity, but on the whole the sympathies of such spectators lay with the condemned, and a last-minute reprieve - not an unheard of occurrence – might provide some excitement. The crowd watched in silence as the condemned men were led to the horse-drawn cart that waited beneath the boughs of the gallows tree. Martin searched the crowd in vain for the faces of his friends and family. He was surprised to see that there was no sign of Sir John Beaumont and his entourage, either: he had expected them to be present, to gloat.
Rudcock nudged Martin, and nodded to where a nobleman dressed in red and yellow robes sat astride a mighty destrier, surrounded by a platoon of archers and a troop of men-at-arms.
‘It’s his lordship,’ said Rudcock. ‘That’s got to be a good sign.’
‘His lordship?’ echoed Martin, in incomprehension.
‘The Earl of Warwick,’ explained Rudcock.
Ordinarily, a man was only appointed to the office of sheriff for twelve months, but Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, had been appointed Sheriff of Warwick and Leicester for life as a reward for his outstanding military service for the king. While most sheriffs were expected to be present at all hangings that took place in their jurisdiction, the Earl of Warwick’s appointment was largely a sinecure, whereby he took the revenues of the office while employing underlings to carry out the duties required. Hodge seemed to consider the earl’s presence a good omen, although Martin could not begin to imagine why.
The condemned men had reached the cart. Martin no longer felt any fear. He had resigned himself to his fate.
‘Which one of you is Kemp?’ asked the bailiff.
Martin stepped forward. ‘I am.’
‘You’re first.’ The bailiff tied his hands behind his back with rope, and then began to strike off his leg-irons. In a way, Martin was glad that he was going to be hanged first. He had never seen a hanging, but Simkin had told him that it was a gruesome way to die, and he had no wish to stand and wait to witness the fate presently in store for him.
The hangman grasped him under the armpits and hauled him up on to the cart. A rope had already been slung over one of the lower boughs of the tree, and the noose hung at head-height. The hangman looped the noose around Martin’s neck and drew it tight. There was very little slack: the idea was to strangle the victims slowly rather than to snap their necks with a long drop.
Then the hangman climbed down from the cart and uncoiled the whip that hung from his belt. One lash would set the horses galloping, drawing the cart away from beneath Martin’s feet and leaving him swinging in the breeze, the coarse hemp rope cutting into his windpipe until he was choked to death.
Martin felt strangely calm. It was not the prospect of being hanged that filled him with trepidation so much as what might lie in the hereafter. He tried to console himself with the thought that the eternal torments of Hell could not be much worse than a peasant’s life of toil.
The hangman drew back the whip, preparing to lash the horses. Martin braced himself instinctively.
‘HOLD!’
For Martin, that single word was not so much a reprieve as an unwelcome prolongation.
The Earl of Warwick rode his horse forward at a slow walk, reining it in a few yards shy of the cart. He was in his early thirties, a tall, rangy man with a short, slightly pointed beard, his cheeks shaven in the current fashion, with dark, wavy, shoulder-length hair parted in the centre, framing a long, lean face with a narrow mouth and sensuous lips. His lazy eyes were dark, his nose long, with slightly flaring nostrils. Seated upright in the saddle, he gazed across to where Martin stood waiting to die.
‘You are Martin Kemp of Knighton?’
Martin nodded.
‘They tell me you were convicted of murder and rape, and condemned to death for it,’ remarked the earl.
Martin had accepted his fate, but the false conviction still rankled. ‘I never raped nor killed anyone!’ he said, his eyes flashing angrily.
The earl shrugged indifferently. ‘That’s not what I said. A jury passed a verdict of guilty on you in an English court of law. Not that the length of hemp around your neck cares either way. They also tell me you are skilled with a bow.’
This time it was Martin’s turn to shrug. ‘Middling fair.’
‘You are the Martin Kemp who won the archery contest on May Day, are you not? That must make you one of the finest archers in the county.’
‘I had one of my good days,’ sneered Martin. ‘Much good it can do me now.’ Condemned to death, he felt no obligation to address the earl as ‘your lordship’; they could only hang him once. In a way, his imminent death gave him a tremendous sense of freedom.
‘It could do you a great deal of good,’ said the earl, amused by the villein’s defiance. ‘His Majesty the king has called for skilled archers such as yourself to serve him on his next passage into foreign parts.’
‘It’s a pity for the king that I’m condemned to be hanged, then, isn’t it?’
‘Curb your insolence, churl! The king has the power to grant pardons to condemned men, and will do so at my recommendation… in return for good service.’
‘Good service?’ echoed Martin, bewildered.
‘Serve his Majesty for twelve months – serve him well, mind – and you shall be granted a full and unconditional pardon for your crime, and for any subsequent outlawries.’
‘I am to fight overseas for the king?’
The earl nodded. ‘If you agree to it. The choice is yours.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Then I shall order the hangman to continue.’
Martin grimaced ruefully. ‘It’s not much of a choice.’
The earl shrugged. ‘It’s the best choice you’re likely to be offered this day.’ He regarded Martin questioningly. ‘Well? Which is it to be?’
‘I’ll fight for anyone who’ll free me,’ said Martin.
‘Then you can start by addressing me as “my lord”,’ said the earl.
Martin grinned. ‘Aye, my lord.’
‘Untie his hands,’ the earl told the hangman, before turning to the three other condemned men. ‘The same offer goes for all of you – you can all use a bow, I presume?’
They nodded fervently.
‘Very well, then. The same rules apply to all of you. Serve his Majesty for one year, and you’ll all be granted pardons for your crimes. But pay heed: if any of you try to desert, or disobey orders, or do anything to give me cause for complaint, then by God’s sweet passion I’ll see to it that the judge’s original sentence is carried out, even if it means hanging you from the nearest tree myself! Is that understood?’
The four men nodded. Martin had often dreamed of becoming a great warrior and fighting for his king; now it seemed he was going to get his chance.
The earl was about to wheel his horse away when he paused, and peered down at Rudcock. ‘I know you, don’t I?’
Rudcock nodded, grinning with pleasure at having been recognised by the earl. ‘Aye, my lord. I served under your command in Flanders three summers ago.’
The earl nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very well, then. You four follow me.’ He wheeled his horse about, and they marched back through the town towards the old stone bridge across the Soar. The earl rode at the head of the column with a small retinue of squires, followed by the troop of men-at-arms. The four paroled convicts marched behind them, while the platoon of mounted archers brought up the rear as they headed along the dusty track towards the village of Bosworth.
Leicester Forest stretched away to the south beyond a field beside the road. Its thick foliage and leafy glades offered refuge for any outlaw, if he could cover the several hundred yards of ploughed earth. Martin was not convinced that he wanted to escape anyway. He had literally been given a new lease of life where before he had faced only despair and certain death. But he was too numbed with relief to feel any joy. As much as he looked forward to the chance to win glory and riches on the battlefield, he could not help resenting the fact that he had been forced into his current circumstances by a cruel twist of fate. He would much rather have volunteered for military service of his own free will, in his own time, though it was doubtful that Beaumont would have given his permission for one of his villeins to risk getting killed in the king’s service, depriving him of a labourer; especially not when one of that villein’s brothers had already left the manor to go to college and the villein in question was Martin Kemp.
Martin was more worried about Beatrice than he was about her father. He wished that there was some way he could speak to her before he left, to let her know that he was still alive. Supposing she thought him guilty of the crimes for which he had been condemned? The thought that she might never speak to him again renewed his despair.
There was some consolation, however. Perhaps this was the chance he had been waiting for. If only he could win glory in the fields of France, perhaps he too could be knighted, like Sir John Chandos, and return a worthy suitor for Beatrice’s hand. He was one of the king’s archers now, or as good as, and for the next twelve months he intended to make the best of it.
The weasel-faced man did not see things in the same light. ‘We’ve been given a second chance,’ he whispered to Martin as they trudged along behind the mounted men-at-arms in the hot summer sun. ‘I’m damned if I’m going to throw my life away by getting slain fighting for the king; he never did owt for me. I reckon we can make it to those trees before any of these whoresons realise we’ve gone. Once we make it into the forest, they’ll never find us.’
‘Don’t be a jackass!’ hissed Martin. ‘They’d cut us down with their arrows before we even got halfway!’
‘The lad’s right,’ said Rudcock. ‘Besides, army life isn’t so bad – it’s a lot better than being an outlaw with a price on your head, you can take my word for it.’
‘What about you, Hal?’ persisted the weasel-faced man. ‘You aren’t afraid of a few arrows, are you?’
Drayton was weak-brained enough to be easily influenced, but he was more influenced by the majority. ‘I… I reckon I’ll stay with these two,’ he admitted uncertainly.
‘Fine. It’s your choice,’ said the weasel-faced man. He glanced around, and suddenly broke away from the column, vaulting over the hedgerow that ran alongside the track. He landed on his feet and started sprinting across the churned soil towards the trees.
‘Man away!’ shouted the serjeant-at-arms in command of the archers.
The earl raised a hand, signalling for the column to come to an abrupt halt. ‘Why do you tarry, then?’ he called back.
The serjeant nudged one of his men, who leisurely nocked an arrow to his bow and let fly. The weasel-faced man was already over a hundred yards away, but the arrow took him cleanly in the small of his back. He flung his arms out to the side and stumbled, arching his back, before falling face-down in the shape of a crucifix.
‘Well done, Leverich,’ said the serjeant. ‘Should we fetch the body, my lord?’
‘What for?’ demanded the earl. ‘Leave it for the carrion crows. No, wait - you’re right. We’ll take it with us. There’ll be plenty of other impressed convicts at Bosworth who’ll need to be reminded of the penalty for desertion.’
Martin was shocked. He had never seen anyone killed before. The very cold-bloodedness of the archers chilled him to the bone. He felt slightly sick.
As four of the archers trotted across the field to retrieve the man’s body, Rudcock shaded his eyes against the noonday sun with one hand to peer after them. ‘You were right, lad,’ he told Martin sardonically. ‘He didn’t even get halfway.’
They reached the mustering point on Bosworth Common a couple of hours after noon. A number of large, brightly coloured tents had been erected towards the centre of the common, and all manner of banners and pennants fluttered idly in the breeze. Already, men had begun to arrive from all over the county. There were richly clad knights on horseback and their squires, indentured to serve the earl; and men-at-arms, archers and hobelars – lightly armoured mounted infantry, wearing quilted aketons, iron gauntlets, steel gorgets to protect their throats, chain-mail coifs, and bascinets – mounted on Irish ‘hobby’ horses and armed with swords and spears, all recruited by commissions of array. There were civilians serving the troops in an auxiliary capacity: tanners and armourers, bowyers and fletchers, farriers and cooks. And then there were the others, peasants come from the nearby town to wish their loved ones goodbye, or merely drawn by idle curiosity.
The greensward had already been churned to mud by the passage of countless feet and hooves. The camp was a hive of activity, with cooks preparing food for the troops, armourers repairing weapons, farriers reshoeing horses, and armed men everywhere, drilling, practising their archery, or simply lounging about and talking. The only other times Martin had seen this many people gathered in one place had been at the May Day festivals in Leicester. The atmosphere was not dissimilar to a festival, with men laughing and joking, practising feats of arms, and the smell of cooking; but whereas the May Day festival was a celebration of life, this was a gathering of men preparing for war.
As the earl and his retainers dismounted, handing their horses’ bridles to waiting equerries, the serjeant of archers and half a dozen of his men escorted Martin, Rudcock and Drayton through the camp to where a richly embroidered banner showing a silver lion on an azure background stood before a bell-shaped, blue-and-white striped tent towards the centre of the field.
‘Sir Thomas Holland’s banner!’ Rudcock observed joyously. ‘Looks like we’ve landed on our feet, lads!’
‘Who’s Sir Thomas Holland?’ asked Martin, but before Rudcock could reply, the three of them were roughly pushed into the tent. Inside were three straw-stuffed pallets at one side, and a suit of armour neatly stacked beside one of them. In the centre of the tent stood a trestle table at which sat two men. The first was a lean man of average height, in his mid-twenties, dressed in the brown habit of an Austin friar, the bright blue eyes in his youthful face full of benevolence. The light-brown hair beneath his cowl was shorn in a tonsure. The second was a handsome, sanguine lad no older than Martin, his hair bobbed, the hems of his coat and shoulder-cape fashionably scalloped, as were the cuffs of his wide sleeves.
The friar was hunched over scrolls of parchment, occasionally dipping the nib of his quill into an ink-horn as he scribbled away. The young nobleman sat beside him, lounging indolently in his chair. They both looked up as the archers escorted the three convicts into the tent.
‘Three impressed convicts from the Leicester gaol delivery,’ said the serjeant, handing the friar a receipt to sign. ‘Alfred Drayton of Harborough, Martin Kemp of Knighton and Roger Rudcock of Blaby.’
‘Hold on a moment.’ The friar had a soft southern accent. He shuffled through his papers until he found the one he was looking for. ‘What were those names again?’ he asked, his quill poised over the parchment.
The serjeant repeated the names of the three men. The friar deftly added the names to a list he was drawing up, and then looked up again, pointing with his quill at Hodge. ‘This one I already know,’ he said, smiling. ‘Thank you, serjeant, we’ll take care of them from here.’ The serjeant nodded, and ducked back out of the tent with his men.
‘You’re all skilled in archery?’ asked the friar. The three convicts nodded. ‘Which one of you is Drayton?’
‘I am,’ said Drayton.
‘So you must be Kemp?’ said the friar, turning to Martin, who nodded. ‘I’m Brother Ambrose, clerk and chaplain to Sir Thomas Holland; this is Master Adam Villiers, Sir Thomas’s squire.’ The young nobleman inclined his head, smiling amiably at the three convicts. ‘Have either of you two ever served in the king’s army before?’ the friar asked Martin and Drayton. They shook their heads. ‘Well, never mind. Roger’s a veteran, he’ll show you the ropes. Have the terms and conditions of your impressment been fully explained to you? You’ll serve the king as a foot-archer for one year, at the end of which you will receive a pardon for whatever crimes you were found guilty of. You’ll be paid thruppence a day, the same as any other foot-archers, commencing the first day you step foot outside this county. You’ll receive the balance of your first payment tomorrow, enough to cover you until we reach the port of embarkation. In addition to your pay you’ll be allowed to keep any booty you win. Arms and equipment will be supplied by the agents of the Royal Armoury. You’ll take your orders from Sir Thomas or his serjeants; failure to obey those orders will lead to statutory punishment under military law. Mass and communion are every Sunday morning, followed by confession if you feel you need it. Have I forgotten anything?’ he asked Rudcock, who shook his head.
‘Nothing that springs to mind, Brother Ambrose.’
‘Right, then. If you have any questions about anything, don’t hesitate to come and ask me. By the way, Roger, I’ve put you in Serjeant Preston’s platoon. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you back again – and you him, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Rudcock said wryly, an aggrieved expression on his face. ‘Who else is here?’
‘The usual crowd,’ sighed Brother Ambrose. ‘John Conyers, David Brewster, Thurstan Freeman, John Newbolt – they’re all outside, behind the tent,’ he added, gesturing over his shoulder with his quill. ‘I suggest you go and join them.’
Hodge nodded, touching his forelock to Brother Ambrose and Villiers before ducking out of the tent, followed by Martin and Drayton.
‘So, who’s this Sir Thomas Holland?’ asked Martin.
‘Who’s Sir Thomas Holland?’ Rudcock echoed incredulously. ‘Only one of the greatest knights in Christendom, that’s all! I served under his command at the siege of Tournai a few summers back. He’s the second son of Lord Holland, and a vassal of the Earl of Lancaster. I didn’t reckon we’d see him here; I thought he’d be in Gascony with his lordship. It’s not like Sir Thomas to miss out on an opportunity for a scrap.’
‘Is he a great warrior, then?’ asked Martin.
‘Is he a great warrior!’ echoed Rudcock. ‘He’s fought in more battles than you’ve had hot suppers.’
‘That wouldn’t be difficult,’ Martin remarked wryly.
‘I were at his side when he lost an eye at the battle of Sluys – God’s soul, but it were back-and-edge there, I can tell you!’ continued Rudcock. ‘He fought with Robert d‘Artois in Brittany, took part in the assault on Vannes, and was in command of the garrison at Bayonne in Gascony a couple of years back. Even when there’s a truce between the king and Philip of Valois, Sir Thomas is off fighting wars against the heathens in distant lands. The last time I saw him, he were off to fight the paynims in Prussia, and I heard tell that he’s been crusading against the Moors in Granada since then. Believe me, lads, if we’re to be serving under Sir Thomas Holland, you can be sure we’ll be in the thick of the fighting all the way.’
Martin smiled to himself. If he were to risk his life fighting for his king in France, he wanted a chance to win glory serving with a knight of great renown.
There were a dozen men lounging around Holland’s banner, roughly dressed peasants like Martin and his new-found companions. Five of them were crouched in a circle, playing jacks. Rudcock squatted down amongst them. ‘Is this a private game, or can anyone join in?’ ‘Well, axe my arse!’ exclaimed one, a stocky man in his late thirties whose face was as coarse as his words. ‘If it isn’t young Hodge Rudcock. We reckoned as how we’d see you here. What took you so long?’
Rudcock grinned. ‘I were detained as his Majesty’s pleasure. Or rather, displeasure, as I gather he weren’t too pleased about me poaching in his forests again.’
A man in his late teens who was lounging back on the grass chewing on the end of a long piece of straw chuckled. ‘You must be the worst poacher in the world, Hodge,’ he said. ‘You’re always getting caught.’
‘I don’t know what the king would do without me to fight his wars for him if I weren’t.’
‘I reckon he’d get by,’ the coarse-faced man said dryly, and indicated Martin and Drayton. ‘Who are these two?’
‘Martin and Hal,’ said Rudcock, indicating his two companions in turn. ‘Martin here won the May Day archery contest in Leicester this year.’
The coarse-faced man grunted non-committally, unimpressed. Anybody could put an arrow in the centre of a target; but loosing a dozen arrows a minute at an enemy who was charging directly at you on horseback, lances crouched – now that took skill and courage.
‘Martin, Hal,’ said Rudcock, motioning for the two of them to crouch down beside him. ‘This is Thurstan Freeman.’ He indicated the coarse-faced man. Then he pointed to the young man chewing on the piece of straw. ‘And this cheeky young devil is David Brewster.’ Brewster was a tall, lean, handsome lad with curly, light brown hair and bright blue eyes. He acknowledged Rudcock’s introduction with an affable nod in Martin’s and Drayton’s direction. ‘David’s mad, by the way,’ added Rudcock.
Brewster arched a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Oh aye? How d’you work that out?’
‘Most soldiers I know dream of owning their own inn when they retire,’ explained Rudcock. ‘David’s parents already own an inn, so he volunteered to be a soldier.’
Brewster shrugged indifferently. ‘It’s overrated. You soon get tired of lugging barrels of ale up and down the cellar steps all day and night.’
Next Rudcock indicated a short, wiry but broad-shouldered man in his mid twenties, with black, curly hair, a neat, pointed beard and a pair of dark brown eyes with a mischievous twinkle in them. ‘This here’s John Conyers, and the sour-faced whoreson yonder is Jankin Newbolt.’ Jankin was in his late thirties, with a hooked nose, thinning hair and a dark, tangled beard. ‘This one I don’t know,’ added Rudcock, indicating the fifth jacks player, a pink-faced youth barely sixteen years of age with a ready if nervous grin.
‘That’s Limkin Tate,’ Freeman said dismissively. ‘He’s harmless.’
‘That reminds me of a joke,’ said Conyers. He spoke with a pronounced Yorkshire accent.
Brewster pulled a face, groaning, ‘What doesn’t?’
‘Did I ever tell you the one about the one-armed veteran who goes into the alehouse?’ asked Conyers.
‘Only about a thousand times,’ grumbled Newbolt.
‘Is that the one where his empty sleeve trails in a man’s ale-pot, and when the man complains the veteran tells him: “There’s no ’arm in it”?’ asked Rudcock.
Conyers’ face fell. ‘You’ve heard it before.’
‘Only about a thousand times,’ Brewster said with a grin.
A tall, pale, sickly looking lad of about seventeen summers wandered over to join them. He looked dazed and lost. ‘Is this Sir Thomas Holland’s company?’ he asked uncertainly.
‘Well, part of it,’ said Freeman, scratching his head.
‘I don’t think I should be here,’ the youth said pathetically.
‘Then why don’t you go somewhere else?’ suggested Conyers, returning to his game of jacks.
‘Whose company are you supposed to be in?’ asked Rudcock, rather more kindly.
‘Well, someone told me I was assigned to Holland’s company, but I really don’t think I should be here at all.’
Brewster shrugged. ‘If you’ve come to join Holland’s company, you’ve come to the right place,’ he said.
‘Sir Thomas’s clerk will make out your indenture sheet, if you’ve come to volunteer,’ teased Conyers, indicating the tent.
‘You don’t understand,’ protested the lad. ‘I’m not a soldier.’
‘Who amongst us is?’ Brewster mused wryly.
‘My father’s a franklin,’ the lad explained dolefully. ‘The commissioner of array decided that my father’s annual income required him to provide one armed man for the king’s service in foreign parts. Father said he couldn’t spare any of the labourers, so he sent me instead. He said a spell of military service would help build my character.’
‘Aye and like,’ Conyers acknowledged jocularly. ‘If it doesn’t kill you first.’
The youth looked as though he were ready to burst into tears. ‘Don’t worry, lad,’ Hodge told him kindly. ‘We’ll look after you. Isn’t that right, lads?’
The others grunted half-heartedly. The veterans knew that they would have enough problems of their own without having to wet-nurse a milksop.
‘What’s your name, lad?’ asked Rudcock.
‘Inglewood. Peter Inglewood. Of Ashby-de-la-Zouch.’
‘I once knew a man from Ashby,’ mused Conyers. ‘The French captured him, and cut off the first two fingers of his right hand, so he couldn’t use a bow any more.’
Rudcock scowled at Conyers. ‘Don’t listen to him, Perkin,’ he told Inglewood, automatically using the common diminutive of Peter. ‘He’s only teasing you.’
‘It’s true enough,’ protested Conyers. ‘My mate Rob had a cousin who was an archer, and he were captured by the French. They cut off his fingers. I saw the stumps mysen, with these very eyes.’
Brewster snorted derisively. ‘He caught his fingers in a millstone, more likely.’
Newbolt shook his head. ‘I heard that the French had started mutilating captured archers like that.’
‘Don’t talk daft,’ Freeman told him. ‘The French don’t take the likes of us prisoner. There’s nowt in it for them, see? You can’t ransom an archer. Unless Conyers is going to try and tell us his mate’s cousin is a nobleman.’
‘Hey, kiss the Devil’s arse, Freeman,’ Conyers replied pettishly.
‘Ah, stick it in a turd, by God and Saint Joyce!’
Martin was shocked: vulgarity was something he was used to, but he had never heard a man blaspheme so casually.
‘All right, men, on your feet!’ snapped a voice from behind them.
Martin rose with the others, and turned to see Wat Preston standing there. He was dressed for war, wearing a jerkin of brigandine construction – gilt-headed rivets securing small metal plates between a fabric cover and a leather foundation – a chain-mail coif, and a ‘kettle’ helmet. He wore a short sword at his hip, and carried a gnarled oak cudgel.
‘Form a line,’ snapped Preston. ‘Let’s see what I’ve got to work with here.’
‘Master Wat!’ exclaimed Martin, stepping forward. ‘It’s me, Martin Kemp. I’m here after all…’
‘Serjeant Preston to you, lad!’ snarled Preston. ‘Now get back in line! Come on, shift your idle arses! Don’t any of you whoresons know what a line is? You’d better learn fast, by God’s guts and gizzard!’
The men began to range themselves into an uneven and straggly line.
‘Nails and blood!’ exclaimed Preston. ‘I’ve seen a drunken stonemason’s apprentice draw up a straighter line than that!’ He began to move along the line, inspecting each man in turn. He nodded an acknowledgement to Thurstan Freeman, and paused in front of another old comrade-in-arms, a stocky, grizzled man in his early fifties. ‘Hullo, Daw. Good to see you back again.’ Next he halted in front of Martin. ‘So, you say you know me, do you, lad?’
‘It’s me, Martin Kemp. We wrestled together at the May Day festival in Leicester town.’
Someone further down the line sniggered.
‘You can stop your laughter, Conyers,’ growled Preston, without taking his eyes from Martin’s face. ‘Yes, I remember you. I thought you didn’t want to serve in the king’s army? Change your mind, did you?’
‘Sort of,’ said Martin, and hung his head. ‘To tell the truth, I had it changed for me.’
‘I had it changed for me, serjeant,’ corrected Preston. ‘What happened? Owe someone some money, do you? Got some peasant lass into trouble?’
‘No, serjeant. They were going to hang me,’ he mumbled miserably.
‘Convict impressment? You surprise me – I wouldn’t’ve marked you down as that manner of man. Well, don’t look so glum, lad. You may have been a convict, but now you’re one of the king’s archers, so head up, chest out, shoulders back. Try and look like you’re proud to be given a chance to serve your king, rather than ashamed of it! Soldiering isn’t such a bad life. You’ll admit you were tempted to it before. In twelve months’ time you’ll be able to return to the bosom of your family, laden down wi’ enough booty to ensure that you never have to work again.’
‘If they’ll still have me, serjeant,’ Martin said morosely. ‘They believe me to be guilty of…’
‘Hist, lad!’ snapped Preston. ‘I don’t know what crime you were condemned for, and I don’t want to know. As far as the king’s army is concerned, that can remain a matter strictly between yourself, the king, and his lordship the earl. That goes for all of you.’
A look of horror stole across Perkin Inglewood’s face. ‘I’m to serve with condemned criminals?’ he blurted.
Preston slowly turned away from Martin and stalked across to where Perkin stood. ‘And who in Christ’s name are you?’
‘P-P-P-Peter Inglewood, sir,’ stammered Inglewood.
‘P-P-P-Peter Inglewood, serjeant,’ corrected Preston. ‘I’m a serjeant-at-arms, not some God-damned knight. Tell me, P-P-P-Peter Inglewood, do you have some objection to serving with condemned criminals?’
It took Inglewood a moment to decide which reply would be wisest under the circumstances. Preston waited for Inglewood to part his lips before cutting in. ‘Did you hear what I just said to Kemp?’
‘Yes, sir…’
‘Serjeant, damn your nose!’
‘Yes, sir, serjeant, sir.’
Preston sighed. ‘Well? What did I say?’
Inglewood screwed up his eyes to concentrate. ‘You said that whatever crime he was condemned for was strictly between himself, the king, and his lordship the earl.’ Preston was grudgingly impressed. Most of the men who served under him had difficulty remembering their own names. At least Inglewood had been paying attention. ‘Is your name Martin Kemp?’
‘No, sir… serjeant, I mean…’
‘Are you by any chance his lordship Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, High Sheriff of the Counties of Warwick and Leicester?’
Inglewood grinned uneasily. ‘Of course not!’
‘Of course not, serjeant. And you’re not going to tell me you’re the king, are you?’
Inglewood shook his head miserably. He had never felt so humiliated in all his days.
‘Speak up, P-P-P-Peter! I can’t hear you!’
‘No, serjeant.’
‘That’s more like it. So we’ll have no more objections about who you’re going to serve with, will we?’
‘No, serjeant.’
Preston nodded in satisfaction. ‘Good.’ He began to move on.
‘It’s just that…’
Preston froze, and slowly turned back to face Inglewood. ‘Aye?’ he asked, in a tone that would have discouraged all but the most foolhardy from persisting with their protest.
‘It’s just that, I don’t think I should be here at all,’ blurted Inglewood. ‘I mean, I think there’s been some mistake.’
Preston looked him up and down distastefully. ‘I’ll wager that’s what your mam told the midwife when she clapped her eyes on you for the first time.’
‘I’m not a soldier,’ sobbed Inglewood. ‘I really don’t think I should be here.’
Rudcock buried his face in his hands, but much to his astonishment Preston did not explode with wrath. Instead, the serjeant-at-arms put an arm around Inglewood’s shoulders.
‘To be perfectly frank with you, Inglewood, I have to agree with you. I really don’t think you should be here either. But you’ve come this far, which means you must have been approved for service by the commissioner of array, so it looks like I’m stuck wi’ you.’ He squeezed Inglewood’s shoulders, making the youth wince with pain. ‘Now, I’ve oft-times boasted that I can make a soldier out of any man; whether or not you actually come into that category is a moot point, but if I can make a soldier out of you, it’ll be the crowning glory of my career!’
Inglewood wiped a tear from his cheek and managed a wan smile. ‘Thank you, serjeant.’
‘Stop smiling, Inglewood! Don’t you know when you’re being insulted?’
‘N… no, serjeant.’
Preston sighed. ‘Then maybe there’s hope for us both.’ He moved on down the line, nodding an acknowledgement at Hodge before halting in front of Conyers. ‘Back again, eh Conyers? Like a bad penny.’
Conyers grinned. ‘You know me, sergeant. Never could say no to a scrap.’
‘As I recall, the only reason you were with us in Flanders was because the alternative was kicking your heels at the end of a length of hemp. Same again this time, was it?’
‘Nay, serjeant. This time I volunteered.’
‘What do you want? A knighthood?’ sneered Preston. He walked a few paces away and turned to address the whole group. ‘Now get this, all of you,’ he said, raising his powerful voice. ‘If it were up to me, all of the men in this kingdom between the ages of sixteen and sixty would be compelled to give their king military service, regardless of rank, income, or whether or not enough arms and armour can be provided to equip them. If you haven’t got any weapons you can kill a man with your bare hands – if you know how to do it – and if you haven’t got any armour, you can stop a crossbow bolt or a sword-stroke meant for a man less deserving of sudden and painful death than yourselves; and you’d still be doing no more than your duty to your king. So don’t any of you start thinking that just by being here you’re doing me, Sir Thomas, or his Majesty himself any great favours. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, serjeant,’ muttered a few of the men.
‘By Him that harrowed Hell!’ exploded Preston. ‘D’you think the French are going to be impressed by that kind of limp enthusiasm? Because I can tell you now, they won’t! They might die laughing, but I wouldn’t want to stake my life on it. You’re supposed to be the king’s archers, not a bunch of God-damned ha’penny whores! Now what was that again?’
‘Yes, serjeant!’
Preston nodded in satisfaction. ‘That’s more like it. Right, then. Those of you who have already served under my command are not – I hope – likely to forget me; although not for sentimental reasons, I dare say. For those of you who don’t know me, my name’s Wat Preston, but that’s no concern of yours, as you’ll all address me as “serjeant” at all times. You will do as I say at all times. If I say “jump!” you will not wait to ask “how high?” You will jump as high as you damned-well can, and pray to the Lord Christ that it’s high enough to satisfy me.’ He pointed to the banner. ‘Now that is the banner of Sir Thomas Holland, God bless him. It’s his command you’ll be fighting under, and that is the banner you’ll rally round in battle, so remember it well. Wherever it goes, you follow, even if it should lead you to the gates of Hell itself. I might also add that Sir Thomas is particularly fond of that banner. It’s accompanied him as far east as Lithuania and as far south as Africa. Having brought that banner through countless campaigns, and won great glory under it on various battlefields, the last thing Sir Thomas wants is for that banner to end up hanging over some French whoreson’s hearth so that the bastard can boast about how he captured Sir Thomas Holland’s banner. Right? So, if that banner should be taken by the French – who are the biggest bunch of thieving scum on God’s good earth, even worse than the Irish – then I shall hold each and every one of you responsible. In the event of its capture, you’d better retake it as quickly as possible or hope that you die in the attempt, because, by God’s tears, if you fail and live, I’ll personally make your miserable lives such a living Hell that you’ll pretty soon wish you had died. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, serjeant!’
‘Right! Now let’s get you lot kitted up, and see if we can’t disguise you as fighting men.’
They were provided with new grey tunics of coarse linen, hoods, woollen caps, black leather shoes, jerkins of hardened leather, broad leather belts with water gourds attached, leather bracers for their left forearms, and knapsacks for food and other provisions. By way of arms they were each given a short sword, a dagger, and at the bowyers’ tent each man was issued with a longbow of unseasoned wych-elm that was roughly the same height as himself, with a flaxen bowstring and a woollen bow-bag to protect it from the elements. At the fletchers’ tent they each received two score arrows in a leather retainer. The arrows were steel tipped with goose-feather fletchings, their long shafts made of ash, a wood that was both swift in flight yet heavy enough to deliver a powerful blow. They were one cloth-yard – three feet – in length, but later the men would cut their arrows down to suit the length of their draw.
There was no attempt at standardisation. They were given whatever arms were available, and those were not up to much. Martin’s short sword – a little over two feet in length – was much pitted from hard usage, while the leather covering of the accompanying scabbard had worn away to expose the seasoned wood underneath. There was no doubting that most of the equipment had seen better days, but from glancing about the camp, Martin could see that he was no worse equipped than most of the other foot-soldiers.
Preston ordered his men to don their equipment and line up facing Holland’s banner. Martin managed to attach the scabbard to the belt alongside the sheath for his rondel, a round-hafted dagger with a triangular blade; but when he tried to buckle the belt on underneath his jerkin, he found that his gourd became entangled with the strap from which his bow hung from one shoulder.
‘I hope you don’t mind my saying, like, but you’re making a right sow’s ear of that,’ said Rudcock, already fully kitted and fitted out, coming to his rescue. ‘Look here; you’ve got it all arsy-versy.’
Martin grimaced wryly. ‘I’ve never been a soldier before.’
‘You could’ve fooled me,’ Rudcock said sardonically. ‘Here, let me give you a hand with that. You fasten the belt over the jerkin, so you can get at your sword in a hurry if you need to. And you can wear that gourd right round here at the back, where it won’t get in the way. See?’ He adjusted Martin’s scabbard so that the sword hung at his left hip. ‘You are right-handed, aren’t you?’
Martin nodded.
‘There – how’s that?’
‘Awkward,’ admitted Martin. The thick, heavy jerkin felt bulky and cumbersome, and he was unused to having so many unfamiliar objects dangling from his belt.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it,’ Rudcock assured him.
‘By the fire that burns, Rudcock, stop fussing over him!’ bellowed Preston. ‘He’s old enough to go without a mother to wipe his nose and arse for him! Come on, the rest of you, get a God-damned move on! Nails and blood! The French could have overrun this camp before you rabble would be ready to face them!’
The men lined up in front of the banner, clutching their longbows in their woollen bags. The simple addition of jerkins and weapons had wrought an astonishing change in their appearance that even Martin could see. They no longer looked like the simple peasants they were, but like armed and dangerous men of war. Martin suddenly felt self-conscious, as if he were an impostor in their ranks.
Preston was thinking the same thing of all of them. ‘Well, you might fool the French… at a distance… on a foggy night… but you don’t fool me. Give a peasant a sword and all you’ve got is an idiot with a sharp piece of metal; the only person he’s likely to hurt is himself. But maybe we can do something about that with a little drill. Now, I want you all to remember that the equipment with which you have just been issued remains the property of the Royal Armoury. Each and every single item must be accounted for when your term of service ends, and losses will be charged to you, so don’t go losing any of it. And make sure you maintain it properly! I want those swords and daggers polished at least once a day, every day, regardless of whether or not you’ve had them out of their scabbards and sheaths since the last time you polished them. I’ll be inspecting your equipment regularly, so don’t think you can get away with slacking. All right, we’ll worry about whether or not you can actually use those weapons at a later date. You can go and get something to eat now.’
They bought mutton from the victuallers and roasted it over an open fire. It was charred on the outside and blood-raw in the middle, but Martin nevertheless devoured his portion with relish. Meat of any kind had been a rare luxury at home, and the march from Leicester after two weeks of prison diet had made him ravenous. As darkness fell, he was able to lie down and sleep with a full stomach and a sense of hope for the first time in weeks. In spite of the hardness of the ground, the coolness of the night air and the snoring of the others, he soon fell asleep, exhausted by the day’s events.
The following morning the camp was awoken before dawn by the sound of a herald’s trumpet blowing reveille. Martin was used to rising early, but not with his clothing damp with dew and his limbs all stiff and aching. They had bread and ale for breakfast, after which Preston had his men line up for inspection.
Throughout the day, men from all over the county continued to arrive at the mustering point, their ages ranging from sixteen to sixty. Like Martin, many of them were new to the business of soldiering, but also like him they had lived and worked on the land all their lives, and were strong and tough; the kind of men who would face hardship and tribulation with equanimity.
That afternoon, Rudcock showed Martin, Tate, Inglewood and the other raw recruits how to polish their weapons with bone-marrow grease until they shone. A troop of knights rode past on their coursers, caparisoned for war and accompanied by their squires. They were not dressed in armour, but with their huge broadswords hanging at their hips and their pennants flying from the tips of the lances carried upright by the squires, they still managed to look just as Martin had always imagined the Knights of the Round Table must have looked.
It was then that he recognised the arms of Sir John Beaumont.