‘I intend to hunt for nothing. But I will not be bounden to you in return for your civility. Either you will give that as a brother lawyer or you will not.’
Dyrick turned away, a sarcastic smile on his face. I looked back at Barak. I had heard him attempting conversation with Feaveryear, and overheard Feaveryear say, ‘The Popish Antichrist,’ in a sharp tone. Barak rolled his eyes at me and shook his head.
We continued to make good progress, halting once by a stream to water the horses. Already my thighs were becoming stiff. Dyrick and Feaveryear stepped a few paces away, talking quietly.
‘This is going to be no pleasant journey,’ I said to Barak.
‘No. I heard your conversation with Master Dyrick.’
‘I begin to think he is one who would start an argument with the birds in the trees were there no people around. What was that I heard Feaveryear say about the Antichrist?’
Barak laughed. ‘Remember a while back we passed some men digging up a wayside cross?’
‘Ay. There’s few enough left now.’
‘I said it looked like hard work for a hot day, to make conversation. Feaveryear said the crosses were papist idols, then started on about the Pope being the Antichrist.’
I groaned. ‘A hotling Protestant. That’s all we need.’
A FEW MILES outside Esher our rapid progress ended. We found ourselves at the end of a long line of carts, held up while repairs were carried out to the road ahead. Men and women in grey smocks, probably from the local village, were beating flat a lowlying stretch of road scored with deep muddy ruts. We had to wait over an hour before we were allowed to continue, more carts lining up behind us, Dyrick fuming in the saddle at the delay. The traffic was thicker now, and for the rest of the morning we had to weave our way slowly past carts and riders.
At last we made it into the little town of Esher, where we stopped at an inn for lunch. Dyrick was still in a bad temper, snapping at Feaveryear when he spilled some pottage on the table. The clerk blushed and apologized. It astonished me how much he put up with from his master.
THE AFTERNOON’S journey continued long and slow. There were more and more carts heading south, some full of barrels of food and beer, others loaded with carpentry supplies, cloth, and weapons – one with thousands of arrows in cloth arrowbags. Once we had to pull into the side of the road to allow a big, heavy-wheeled cart to pass us, full of barrels lashed tightly with ropes, a white cross painted prominently on the side of each. Gunpowder, I guessed. Later we had to allow a troop of foreign soldiers past, big men in brightly coloured uniforms, the yellow sleeves and leggings slashed to show the red material beneath. They swung confidently by, talking in German.
In the middle of the afternoon the sky darkened and there was a heavy shower, soaking us and turning the road miry. The ground was rising, too, as we left the Thames valley and climbed into the Surrey Downs. By the time we reached Cobham, a village with a long straggling main street by a river, I was exhausted; my legs and rear saddle-sore, the horse’s sides slick with sweat. Barak and Dyrick both looked tired too, and Feaveryear’s thin form was slumped over his horse’s pommel.
The place was busy, carts parked everywhere along the road, many with local boys standing guard. Across the road, in a big meadow, men were hurrying about erecting white conical tents in a square. All were young, strong-looking, taller than the average and broad-shouldered, their hair cut short. They wore sleeveless jerkins, mostly woollen ones in the browns and light dyes of the poorer classes, though some were leather. Six big wagons were drawn up on the far side of the field, and a dozen great horses were being led down to the river, while other men were setting cooking fires and digging latrines. An elderly, grey-bearded man, in a fine doublet and with a sword at his waist, rode slowly round the fringes of the group on a sleek hunting horse.
‘That looks like a company of soldiers,’ I said. There were perhaps a hundred men in all.
‘Where are their white coats?’ Dyrick asked. Soldiers levied for war were usually given white coats with a red cross such as we had seen in the barge.
Looking over the field, I saw a stocky red-faced man of about forty, wearing a sword to mark him out as an officer, running over to where two of the young men were unloading folded tents from a cart. One, a tall rangy fellow, had dropped his end, landing it in a cowpat.
‘You fucking idiot, Pygeon!’ the officer yelled in a voice that carried clear across the field. ‘Clumsy prick!’
‘Soldiers, all right,’ Barak said behind me.
‘Heading south, like all the others.’
Dyrick turned on me with sudden anger. ‘God’s blood, you picked a fine time to land this journey on me. What if we end with the French army between me and my children?’
‘Not very patriotic,’ Barak muttered behind me.
Dyrick turned in the saddle. ‘Mind your mouth, clerk.’