part0010

Progress finally halted. That Richard had a destination in mind became obvious when they arrived at the village of Elstepenn. Master Hinterton, owner of the inn, the blacksmiths and a large parcel of land behind the church, seemed to know Richard well. Jack’s eyes narrowed as he watched the greeting between the pair, and he again experienced the uncomfortable feeling he often had when he was reminded that his brother had a past that he was not a part of.

Richard, Jack and Master Scranton were lodged at the inn. Jack had initially turned down the relative luxury of a room at the inn when he found out that Scranton would be there, but hastily changed his mind when it became clear that the alternative was a camp in the fields behind the church.

Froggy, at Richard’s direction, had put together a training programme for the coming weeks that would make them more than proficient with the flintlocks. In small groups they would learn their new craft. Andrew, a disciplinarian second to none, would ensure they gave their full attention to the lessons delivered by Froggy, and added his own programme of training designed to make them into a small and formidable force.

Jack very quickly did not regret his decision to retain his room at the inn; the days were hard and long and the luxury of a comfortable bed was one he appreciated. The hard training and the competition amongst the men was very much to his liking, and, when his brother was absent, to find himself in command was exhilarating. The group of men he had under his control at Burton had lacked the cohesion and singularity of purpose that he was beginning to see emerge under Richard’s and Andrew’s guiding hand.

Slowly they were moulding the component parts into one single deadly mechanism. Over the coming weeks Jack began to find his competence tested, and skills he thought he possessed he was shown lacked polish. Froggy’s training sessions on the flintlocks in the field took up only so much of the day, and the rest had been segmented and planned out with a precision required by Andrew that could only be described as military.

The initial reaction to this proposed training programme had been one of disbelief. None of them relished early starts, long hours and late finishes. Jack had stood next to Andrew while he had told them all what each day would contain, how the training would be divided up and what skills they would be learning.

After that, Richard had told them he intended to produce a unit of men of a standard rarely seen and if any of them wanted to leave, then they were free to go. If they remained however, he promised them hard brutal work, exacting tasks, long hours and vicious punishments for non-compliance. The men had exchanged nervous glances then.

The penalties he outlined were harsh and varied from having their pay stripped to suffering a whipping, depending upon the severity of the rules flouted, all of which would be administered by the Master. The lure though, that he placed, was a tempting one. Professional pride in becoming an elite force, coupled with an increase in pay that not one of them could ever have considered earning, had sealed the deal for them. However all of them would have given up the extra pay and worked for sustenance only when he revealed who it was that they would be demonstrating their field skills to. When the Master uttered the words, “The Knights of St John,” the group had just gawked at him, from where they sat in stunned silence.

Richard continued, “So our discipline will be as theirs is, and our skills will not let us down.” His eyes roved over the group. “And neither will our appearance.”

Grey eyes assessed each of them in turn, and more than a few looked away, or squirmed under his assessing gaze, knowing that in appearance they certainly did not present themselves as a force to be reckoned with. Jack, standing next to Richard, was spared his brother’s harsh glance, but glancing down he grimaced himself as he regarded the worn boots and a frayed cuff on his shirt .

His brother on the other hand was wearing clothes that fit like a second skin, the black doublet neat, dust free and with a crispness that was completely alien to Jack who was still wearing the jacket they had taken from Robert. It fitted him well and it was also a trophy from that victory in London. However it was now less than clean and one of the buttons had come away. He had it in his purse but had not thought much about its reattachment. Jack resolved to find Lizbet when he had time and get her to repair it for him.

It was further made clear that Andrew was in charge of the overall daily training programme. Froggy would supervise and deliver the field training with the flintlocks, and the Master would give his own lessons in theory, tactics and strategy. Scranton would provide them with everything they needed to know about black powder and training on horseback was to be organised by Jack.

After the Master had outlined the plan for the coming weeks, Andrew had taken over and delivered some detailed orders outlining how and where the camp was to be set up and organising two groups, one to assist Froggy Tate in building a training range and another to construct a cordoned off tilt yard and a powder store to be built to Scranton’s design.

The men broke off and formed into the groups as directed. Scranton attached himself to Richard, talking endlessly, and Jack noted his brother was still doing a good job of trying to appear interested. That’ll not last long , he mused, grinning as he walked away to join Mat and Andrew and help with the organisation of the tilt yard.

He was pleased to be in Andrew’s group. Andrew had a seemingly endless supply of stories. He had taken to the battlefield during King Henry’s time, and had held respected positions with men whose names secretly impressed Jack. Everyone liked Andrew.

Older by half a dozen years than Richard, he brought a capable and reassuring presence to the group. Richard sought his counsel, considered his arguments, and his position amongst the group was generally accepted as Richard’s second in command. If asked, he would not accept that he held such a rank, deferring always to Jack, and placing himself beneath him in the hierarchy. But in terms of skills, in wisdom and experience, the men viewed Andrew as Richard’s more than capable captain.

If Jack noticed, he seemed not to mind. Andrew was personable; he spent time with Jack who warmed to the attention in a way that seemed to delight Andrew. It was Richard’s approval he wanted but in its absence Andrew’s attention was sufficient and Jack basked in this new found and unlooked for praise.

Richard was happy to encourage their growing friendship. Andrew had much to teach, and in Jack he found a willing student. Much that was imparted were lessons that Jack would never have tolerated from his brother, but from Andrew he eagerly accepted the truth of them and rapidly sought more .

The muskets Jack did not particularly like. Their mechanisms could give a man who had little killing skill the ability to become level on the field with a man like himself, who had dedicated a large amount of his life to his skill at arms. It rankled with him that a musket ball fired at him could seriously wound or even take his life, and there would be little that his training and skill with arms could do to stop it.

Froggy had told tales of the firing lines smoking themselves out, of having to fire into their own foggy haze with no idea where their targets were. Jack took solace from this, hoping that their shortcomings would halt their progress and that battles would return wholly to the edged weaponry that Jack knew and liked. This had been the subject of the argument he had been having with Andrew for most of the morning as they hefted the wood needed to build the tilt yard rails.

“Jack, it’s not a matter of if, it’s a matter of when,” Andrew repeated again, his voice patient. “If they can give a commander an advantage on the field then you can be sure they will not be overlooked.”

“Perhaps, but their accuracy is often flawed. For God’s sake, a simple bow is twice as accurate over easily three times the distance,” Jack retorted hotly.

“Only in the right hands,” Andrew replied, and then seeing the frown on Jack’s face, continued. “Have you ever seen an arrow storm?”

Jack shook his head.

“When a line of archers fill the sky with arrows, it turns the sky dark. And the noise! It’s one of the most terrifying sounds I’ve heard. It is like a wail from Hell, from some unearthly creature; makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up even now just thinking about it.”

“And your point?” Jack dropped the long pole he had been carrying on top of the pile they had already collected.

“My point is that the archers are firing together. They are pitching to fire the distance. Not one of them is aiming at a particular target in the opposing lines. They fire high. The arrows come down on top of the opposite lines – all the enemy can do is hold their shields over their heads to protect themselves,” Andrew explained patiently.

“Yes, and that requires skill,” Jack continued to argue. “The best are the Welsh with the long bows. They need years of practice to send an arrow across such a distance with the power to kill when it gets there.”

“That’s the point, Jack.” There was exasperation creeping into Andrew’s voice. “The muskets can create a storm, like the archers. They don’t need to pick their targets, and sending such a hail of lead towards the enemy is a formidable weapon. You can train a man to do that in a lot less time than it takes to become a Master archer.”

“You heard Froggy! The lines buckle. Using unskilled men, untrained men who lack the skills of the field, means they are rarely effective. They might get one volley off as a united force but after that they crumble,” Jack countered.

“I agree. The temptation for a field commander would not be to use his skilled troops and divert them to a musket corps. What he needs is men skilled in their use, and many of them to make a force to be reckoned with.”

“Exactly, and there are no quantity of such men,” Jack replied as if this proved his argument was right, “and there is nowhere a commander could find such a group of men either.”

“Not now, Jack, no. When they are trained and such a battalion is produced and they are skilled and disciplined then such a force will change the way men fight in the field.” Andrew now had an edge of irritation in his voice.

“That’s the point though, there are no such trained men. And no General will take good fighting men with hardened skills and move them to hold a musket. He’d be mad. It would immediately weaken his force. There are only so many skilled men they can have at their disposal, and placing muskets in their hands will lessen the effectiveness of the rest of his force.”

Andrew turned his eyes skyward for a moment, but was saved from having to reply when Corracha arrived and Richard leant forward in the saddle. “My brother, Andrew, as I think you are finding, feels he is always right.”

The blue eyes Jack regarded his brother with were unusually dark. “My argument is simple. You put your skilled men where they are best placed. You don’t take them from vital positions and give them a flintlock which is effective over about a third of the distance an arrow is.”

Richard smiled. “Andrew, if you can change Jack’s mind then you have greater skills of persuasion than I have. I do hear your points, Jack, very well, and with Master Scranton’s knowledge and Andrew’s experience I think we can address some of them and show that a force equipped with flintlocks would be one that would be an incredible addition to any front line.”

“How many could you put in the field?” Andrew asked Richard.

Richard considered his reply for a moment. His answer when he delivered it was vague. “Enough to be effective.”

Scranton, for once, was not taking his meal with Richard, but instead he’d ordered food to be delivered to his room. The weather for the last few days had been unseasonably wet, and every one of them was soaked to the skin and had taken refuge in the inn for their evening meal rather than eat at the camp.

The little man met Jack on the stairs leading to the rooms on the next floor, and his brown weasel’s eyes bestowed a hard stare on him, his hand gesturing for Jack to move back up the steps out of his way.

Jack’s eyebrows raised a degree. About to force Scranton into a quick reverse, he read the warning on his brother’s face from where he sat in the room below and relented.

Smiling falsely, he stepped back up the stairs slowly. “Ah, Master Scranton, it seems the weather is treating us all quite equally today. ”

Scranton’s mouth tightened into a thin line; he’d not missed the sarcasm in Jack’s voice. “Out of my way.”

With an agility that age had robbed Scranton of, Jack jumped neatly over the handrail and landed on a table top on the other side, stepping down into the inn room without giving Scranton a second look. Purposefully he joined his brother at the table and sat with his back to the stairs and Scranton who was still making his way slowly up them.

Jack said quietly, “If in the morning he has difficulty speaking…”

Richard held his hand up to stop him. “I know, you’ll have knocked his teeth down his throat. One more day of his incessant prattle and I may do it myself.”

“How do you put up with him?” Jack said exasperated.

“At the moment it is a necessity,” Richard replied wearily.

“We’ve got Froggy already, do we really need him? Froggy knows about as much as there is to know about flintlocks. With his training, all of us will become well skilled with their use,” Jack said.

“It’s not just skill at arms we need, Jack. It’s what he has in here.” Richard tapped his head.

“Why didn’t you just say so? I’d be more than glad to get whatever he has beneath his hat out in the open. Just ask.”

“He’s an expert with powder. He has years of experience in manufacturing it and using it, and that’s what we need,” Richard explained patiently .

“Have you heard him?” Jack blurted. “You do know the fool was using monk’s piss to make his powder with? Monk’s piss is the bloody same as anyone else’s.”

Richard laughed. “I bet if you were selling it you wouldn’t say that, would you?”

Jack didn’t reply. As usual his brother had an answer for everything.

On the other side of the room Lizbet continued to riffle the cards from one hand to another while the men sorted out their first round of wagers in the game of Primero.

“She brooks no cheating, no slight of hand and keeps the rules this one does,” Pierre said, nudging Andrew who had joined their game for the first time.

“It’s a new experience. I’ve never had a woman deal me a hand of cards before.” Andrew took into his keeping the cards that had landed neatly in front of him.

“You’ll get used to it,” Marc chimed in. “She’s nothing to lose and nothing to win so at least we know we are getting a fair hand.”

“Now that is something I’m familiar with.” Andrew grinned lasciviously at Lizbet. “A fair hand from a woman.”

Lizbet locked her eyes with Andrew’s for a moment, her brows raised. “And I wish I had a shilling for every time I’ve heard that one. Come on, if you are staying in, get your money on the table. ”

“Lads, now come on, that round was beginner’s luck,” Andrew said as he gathered his winnings from the table and pulled the coins towards him. He had won the hand quickly. Marc, Pierre and Mat had all viewed the newcomer to the table as a new source of ready funds and all looked equally disappointed by his first win.

“Hand your cards back, come on.” Lizbet held her hands out for their cards and collecting the worn deck, reunited and shuffled it. “Come on, wagers on the table, boys, or there’ll be no cards dealt.”

Lizbet flicked them all a new card, watching them carefully. Marc, she knew now, nibbled his bottom lip when he was trying to decide whether or not to fold, so the chances were whatever hand he held was not a good one. Pierre though had closed his cards together and was holding them flat to the table. A sure sign that he had confidence in his hand. No need to take a second look to check it, and sure enough, the fingers on his left hand were already selecting a coin to add to the pot.

Froggy Tate couldn’t help himself. If he had a good hand he’d constantly check the cards, lifting the corners an inch or so to view the tops of them where they lay on the table. He was doing that now and he had already three coins in a row in front of him so whatever cards Froggy had face down were, she concluded, probably good ones.

Jack was absent tonight, but when he played cards it was with his whole body. He couldn’t sit still. If the hand was good, he’d be sitting forward on the edge of the seat, looking closely at the other players, trying to read their faces. If it was a bad hand, he’d invariably abandon it on the table, face down and sit back, arms folded, a dour look on his face. On the rare occasion when he held a winning hand, he’d tap his fingers impatiently on the table. Lizbet would then find herself having to stifle a laugh.

Mat was always a little harder to read. A skilled player who invariably never left the table with less than he started out, sat now with an impassive face, and his movements were so economical that he was almost as hard to read as the Master.

Finally she let her eyes wander over Andrew and found his cold assessing gaze turned on her. He seemed to have little interest in the cards that he had been dealt.

Marc folded, Pierre won and took the pot and Andrew lost the next three hands as well, making him a welcome addition to their game. Mat, as she had expected, took a steady stream of coins from the pot to bolster his own pile in front of him.

“Where’s Jack?” Andrew asked. “Doesn’t he normally play?”

It was Pierre who answered. “He’s probably still licking his wounds from last night. Mat took more than his normal quota from him, didn’t you, Mat?”

“Well, if he was fool enough to keep going then that’s his own fault. A man should recognise when the cards are against him and bow out,” Mat replied.