The Bowyers Son

The Bowyer’s Son

Jim Godden

Copyright 2013 Jim Godden

Smashwords Edition

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter One

The first indication to me that land was close was the faint smell of wood smoke. A thin whiff carried on the light but steady offshore breeze that flattened the chop and reduced the channel to a long, low swell.

A thin drizzle was falling this night, the overcast low and fast moving. I stood high in the prow of the boat, testing the wind for further evidence of land and straining my ears for the telltale suck and hiss of waves on gravel.

The only sound was the creak and splash of oars and the gurgle of water along the hull. A glimmer of torchlight caught and drew my eye far off to our left. As quickly as it had flared the flame was doused from view. I was left staring into the gloom, and as often happens on dark nights, I thought I could make out the outlines of buildings and maybe a church spire. I couldn’t be sure though, and when I looked away, then quickly looked back, all I saw was dark mist and scudding cloud.

I left my perch by the bow post of the boat. These boats, low slung and long, were sturdy cargo vessels based in design on the sleek ships of the Danes and Vikings who had plied these waters some four hundred years before. I made my way aft. Benches for rowers were provided along both gunwales and the central deck was crowded with the cloaked and huddled mass of archers. I managed to move deftly, stepping between and over the men and at one point hopping along the uppermost edges of the rower’s benches. Access to the small steering platform was through a low deck house structure at the sternmost end of the deck. Here the boatman and his mate lived. Not wanting to go through this stinking hovel I swung outboard, hanging onto the aft mast stays and finishing my journey by swinging up onto the steering platform by way of the main brace from the single yardarm.

Here, leaning on the great steering oar stood the boatman. Hooded and cloaked against the rain, he seemed motionless, like part of the oar or part of the ship. He was silhouetted, high in the stern, black against dark, controlling the movement of the ship through imperceptual movements of his body against the steering oar.

Ye moves well shipwise, for a soldier, Sire. This spoke flatly, more a statement than a jest.

I’ve been on many a raid, Boatman, and served my early days as an archer shipboard. I replied. I may not be born to it, a water rat like you, but I’ve many miles of sea beneath my keel.

Aye Sire, I meant no offence.

None taken. I know we are hove close to the Norman shore, I smelled smoke a few minutes ago. My eyes deceive me in this gloom. In your best guess, Boatman, where do you think we are?

Don’t doubt your eyes, Sire, for the town of Dieppe lays to port. We’ve drifted some northeast on the current. We’ll travel south for a time then swing inshore, you’ll be where you want to be.

You’re sure? I said hardening my tone.

Aye, Sire, I’ve visited Dieppe many a time. I had a glimpse of stars an hour or so past and the moon forms a bright smudge over my right shoulder. Good marks to steer by, see how the swell takes us more abeam than from the stern.

We cannot be late. I’ve paid you good coin to see us landed on the right beach in the dead of night

No worries, Sire, Ye’ll be where ye need to be when ye need to be. He said.

I didn’t care for the man’s mocking tone of voice. Like I was a smooth faced youngster on his first trip cross channel.

You had better, I said, for if there is even a hint of dawn light when this boat beaches I’ll see your head mounted on yon stern post for the trip back.

No worries, Sire, no worries. I swear he was grinning at me but it was too dark to tell.

I picked my way back to the middle of the ship. Where the single mast was stepped, there was a small raised platform. It was here that the senior men and my two sergeants sat. A dice game on a spread blanket had been going on here, almost a day and a half earlier when we’d left Southampton, however as the weather and the sea got worse the game had been given up.

It had been a rough go earlier. Wind, rain, and choppy seas had reduced our company to a wet miserable lot. Many had been unable to hold down their ale and bread and relief over the side had been dangerous and ill advised. As a result, each time the boat rolled to the swell a foul brew of bilge water, vomit, and piss swilled over the deck planks, adding to the general discomfort.

My God, Master Kellan, said Simon of Cheshire, this has got to be the most uncomfortable tub of a ship I’ve ever been on!

It is foul. I allowed. Simon was my most senior sergeant and acted as my Petty Captain. I allowed him his misery and didn’t mention that there were far worse vessels in which to do the crossing.

How much longer aboard this floating turd? This from James Miller, sergeant and commander of twenty archers. Much longer at sea and we’ll be about as fierce a force as forty sick and mewling babes.

We’ll land soon, I said, Dieppe lays off to our left. Shortly we’ll turn towards land and our beach.

Not soon enough. I should have tightened my cloak pulled up my hood but the nervous energy that precedes action was upon me. I felt the need to move about. I decided to go back up to the bow.

Land, Sire! Someone hissed from forward.

Make ready all! I called, Pass the word, land is nigh. Ready your gear. From here on in, no talking and as little noise as possible.

I made it to the bow of the boat. I noticed that the swell had shortened as the water shallowed. I climbed on the gunwale, bracing myself on the high bow post. I could make out the land, deep black against the lighter darkness of sea and sky. At first glance I was alarmed for the shore seemed very near. As I stared though, the shapes of overturned fishing boats, sheds and assorted outbuildings came into view. With this perspective I was able to judge the beach some five hundred paces away.

I had pre-selected four of the lads and placed them in the bow of the boat. I gathered them close now.

You know what to do? Nods all around. Good, uncase and brace your bows, ready a bag of arrows. Be ready to leap the moment the boat scrapes bottom.

The boatman appeared at my elbow.

What can you tell me of this shore? I asked.

Look ye to our left and you’ll see the town itself. See the turrets and spires, clear now against the sky?

Aye.

Down from that and still to our left is the little village that houses the fishermen and boaters. In front of us is a wide beach. See the boats, nets, and sheds scattered before us? Good, further right a stream enters from the land. The ground thereabouts is soft and is mostly marshland.

How far is the marshland? I asked. The boatman spoke in low tones and I had to lean in to hear. His breath reeked so badly of onions and ale that I had to force myself to keep a close ear.

It lies some two hundred paces to our right. A nimble man might pass where the stream meets the sea, but to cross further inland is not possible for man nor beast.

What lies inshore?

Directly up from yon beach is a low rise covered in scrubby trees. Climb it and ye’ll find a track. Bear left along the track and it’ll take ye to a more substantial road that leads past the fishing village and on towards the main road into Dieppe.

Tell me more of the ground between here and the town walls.

I cannot, Sire, for I’ve only journeyed as far as the track I just spoke of. Other than that the fishermen keep there homes there, I can tell ye no more,

Keep your men silent until we’re away up the beach. I warned.

No worries, Sire, smugglers, raiders, and pirates the lot of them. No strangers to dark nights on foreign beaches, eh?

No matter, warn them all and pass the word.

Aye, Sire, no worries, would ye care to settle our account now, with the beach deserted and dark, only a hundred paces away?

I undid the small leather purse that was secured to my swordbelt and passed it across to the boatman. He grinned wide, feeling the weight of the little bag of coins.

The other half as agreed. I said. This provided we were at the right beach, with sufficient dark left in the night for what we had planned. You’ll need a light to count it though.

No worries, Sire, I can tell by the heft that your count is true. Good luck to ye, Sire, I wish ye a profitable trip and may God spare ye from the French lance. I’ll be away aft now and land this boat as gentle as can be.

True to his word he was, for the boat grounded with no jarring impact as I’d expected, more like an invisible hand on the back pressing me forward as the boat slowed, then scraped to a stop on the gravel. I heard splashes as the four archers went over the prow. I looked quickly over the gunwales to see them, chest deep, bows held high and dry, wading quickly ashore

There was a flurry of whispered commands among the crew. In response they unshipped their oars, then stood and poled the boat forward in time with the surge of the swell. We slid forward another eight feet or so, then rocked gently to starboard and sat still and solid.

A sudden movement to my left startled me. Our second boat, the same size as ours, grounded hard twenty paces away. The keel scraped violently as men were pitched forward, cursing, amid the clash of gear. The boat slewed sideways in the swell, tipping hard over to port, then in the next swell was brought under control and pulled up the beach to sit firmly upright.

Four men had gone over the prow in a like manner to our landing, but as the boat slewed, one man had lost his footing and foundered. Weighed down by arms and armour he had to be helped, sputtering and gasping out of the waves. As a result only two of those four archers made it up the beach to cover.

Six archers now fanned out in front of our two boats, some forty paces inshore. I could just make out the men, kneeling or standing, taking cover behind boats, racks, or other fishing gear. Arrows nocked and bows half drawn.

Silence all! I called, Pass the word. Silence all! This spoke in a low voice just above a whisper. I heard the command passed around. An eerie silence fell over the beach as we waited out this dangerous and critical few minutes. One of the oarsmen started coughing, raspy, full of phlegm, hacks that sounded un-naturally loud.

Christ on the Cross! Someone whispered and thumped the oarsman. He was still. The only sound now the hiss of waves on gravel and a cat yowling somewhere off in the distance.

I waited a few moments more. You develop a sense over time for danger. I can feel when things are too quiet or just seem too natural.

Unload the boats. I said quickly, for better or for worse, decision made. Pass the word, quietly now, unload. Sergeants muster to me once we’re all ashore.

The boats had just left. They’d been poled off the beach amid much gasping and muttered curses of exertion by the oarsmen. The breeze, which had been against us most of the night, was now in their favour. Square sails were being unfurled from the yards of each boat. Faintly I could hear the rustle and crack of canvas, as the braces were made fast and the sheets trimmed home. No going back now I thought, come what may, we’re here, on a beach in Normandy in the middle of the night.

I had doffed my helm, surcoat, mail, and gambeson, in order to give access to my pourpoint vest. I had just finished buckling my leg armour to the vest arming points. Two of my sergeants had come to me and I bid them sit on an overturned boat while I donned my armour, put on my helm, and buckled on my swordbelt.

We’d brought two handcarts, each manned by a pair of valets. There had been a delay as the boys manhandled the carts over the side of each ship and up the beach. The carts held chests of smoked meat and fish, several casks of wine and two of ale. There were rough canvas bags filled with double baked hard bread. On top of this each cart had a case of spare bows with strings, and was piled high with extra arrow bags.

I was joined by my other two sergeants from the other ship, Gascon de Grier, and William of Chester. They knelt close by, not saying anything. Veteran soldiers both, patiently awaiting instructions. Simon and James Miller where having an intense whispered conversation about something. Judging by the amount of pointing that they were both doing it had something to do with our positioning on the beach. A good time, I thought, to get us moving.

All set? I asked Simon. I could see his brows knitted in thought, his eyes flashing in the dark above his beard.

Aye, everyone is kitted, Sire. Bows are still cased and each man has two dozen shafts slung.

The scouts? I’d pushed eight archers to the edge of the wooded hill to our front, another four I’d positioned down towards the sleeping fishing village.

They’re still out. They took their full arms and armour along and should be ready, as we all are. Simon replied.

Good, send a runner to bring them in, have them join their companies, once they’re back we’ll lead out, by twenties. Simon, then William, the supply carts, then James. Gascon, you have the rear. Travel there yourself and ensure no stragglers and that all stay closed up. I’ll lead us through yon woods. We’ll then bear left along a track. All is clear?

The men all nodded. Gascon hawked and spat on the beach.

When I have the walls of the town in sight, and we’re past yon village without incident, I’ll call a halt. Have your people seek cover off the road and lay down. Keep everyone out of sight and quiet. Good?

Good. Simon answered for the group.

Signal me once you’re ready and I’ll lead off. Go now, and good luck.

*******

The approach to the walls of Dieppe went with out incident. There seemed to be more new buildings outside the walls than I remembered from the last time I was here. It had taken some time and a goodly amount of concerned sweat to move eighty armed and armoured archers, at great stealth, through the back gardens and alleyways of this new part of town.

There was an open area; some three score paces wide before the town gates. No doubt to allow archers on the walls a clear field of view in this critical defensive ground. The first pink light of dawn found us, damp with dew, rain, and the exertion of our march from the beach. We were hidden, out of sight and quiet, ranged along a ditch and low hedgerow that edged the foregate area.

In the gathering light I could see several carters and farmers, their wagons loaded with produce waiting outside the still closed gates. They seemed to know each other and there was some morning conversation. It would be likely that they gathered here each morning before the dawn.

I looked down at my coat and could see the blue and red colours clearly. Full light now and about half an hour until sunrise, though a low overcast promised that it wouldn’t be too bright.

I had found a good spot to lay up. Shielded on three sides from view and in a shallow depression. I was well hidden but had a good view of the town gates.

The portcullis had just been raised and the gates had groaned open. Men-at-arms from the town watch emerged. There were greetings, banter, and mock insults between them and the farmers and merchants. Wagons, carts and people were quickly and efficiently checked and sent on their way, through the gate tower and on to the market square.

Once more I gathered my sergeants to me.

Have each man awake and ready. Bows strung and arrow bags open. This light means we’ll be able to use our archery to good effect. Simon, you’ve selected the men well? They’ll pass inspection by yon guards?

Aye, Sire, one speaks Norman French with no accent and all have the gift of the jongleur. I’m even afraid of them.

I had a last nervous glance around and back towards the coast road. We were still not complete but we had to make the best use of the light and early hour.

Good then, let’s begin the show.

*****

Our four men, placed before the light of dawn, emerged from the alleyway nearest to the gates. They wore hooded robes of heavy brown homespun wool and blue face veils, covering all but their eyes. Concealed padding to mime deformity and a hesitant, painful gait completed the deception.

Two horsemen, merchants by the look of them, came out of the gates and approached. Our group, shuffling together, rattled their wooden clappers dutifully and one voice, croaking to mime a throat ruined by disease, called out, Lepers! Lepers!

The horsemen halted fast, surveyed the scene, and then passed by, giving the quartet a wide berth. Two of the men-at-arms from the gate, their attention drawn, stopped trading jests with a carter and moved closer.

Stand fast, Lepers! Called one. None of your like are allowed within these walls. If you’ve recently come from the Lazar-house at St. Ursula’s you’ll have been told this.

We have special permission and a special pass from the Bishop of Rouen. Please look at it. The voice rasped in good Norman French. He produced a small scroll of vellum, sealed with wax and a red ribbon. I saw that the deception was complete down to the rags wrapping the man’s hand.

A pass will not stop the spread of your illness. I cannot let you pass.

We have come far on this holy mission and have been given these to help ease the way on our journey. A leather purse was offered, jingling with coin. It was not uncommon in times of plague or pestilence for those afflicted to bribe their way in, or out, of towns or castles. Please accept our gift and take this pass to your Lord. We shall wait without the walls, so you may be held blameless, until permission is granted. He held out both scroll and purse.

The guard advanced, paused as if he thought better of it, then stepped forward. Watching, I could feel my heart pounding high in my chest.

As he reached, being careful to pluck the items away without touching the offering hand, the concealed falchion flashed out from within the robes. The short bladed sword took the man high in the side of the face and he went down hard, hands clutching at the gash just below the rim of his helmet. Where there was once shuffling feet and sickness was now quick steps and flashing steel. Two of the men set upon the guard’s mate and put him down with a flurry of slashing strokes before he could level his lance or draw his sword.

The four had easily fought their way to within the guard tower when I stood, drew my longsword, and shouted, Move! Move now! On them all! Move! I was conscious of men running and shouting on both sides of me as I charged, my eyes focused on the wide-open gate. As we had planned, Simon’s twenty formed a quick line and poured a volley of arrows at the soldiers and archers atop the walls. Several crossbowmen ran down the walls from our right but could not bring their weapons to bear, being driven behind the battlements by hissing shafts.

Quickly, by surprise and sheer weight of numbers, we had overrun the gate tower, the guardroom, and the walls on either side as far as the adjacent turrets. I called a quick pause as we consolidated our hold.

Surprise was gone. Bells were being rung as well as a great hue and cry put up. A beacon had been fired atop one of the turrets. Mounted men-at-arms were in the streets and a probing assault by a small group towards the gate tower was driven back by our archery.

Simon’s force moved forward and joined us under the portcullis. I ordered him and James Miller to hold, at all costs, the gate tower and adjoining walls. I took Gascon and William and began our push towards the castle on the far side of town, near the sea wall and the harbour.

A broad main street ran from the town gate, through the central market square, and on to the gates of the castle. We made good time moving