MY BACK AND LEGS were an agony of stiffness when I reached my room. I had called on Dyrick on the way; he had been sitting on his bed, papers from the case strewn over it and on his lap. He glared at me, but when I told him of Leacon’s offer he was quick to accept. ‘Well, your former client has come in useful,’ he said, which I took to be his nearest approach to thanks.
It was long before I slept, the continued carousing downstairs and my aching limbs keeping me awake. Even after all was quiet I tossed and turned. When at length I drifted off I had a fearful dream: I was drowning, deep under water, hands at my throat keeping me under. I grasped at them but they were like steel. I looked at who was holding me and saw the hard face and cold eyes of Sir William Paulet, framed by a steel helmet.
I woke with a start, my heart still thumping with terror. I often had such dreams; two years before I had nearly drowned in a filthy sewer with a murderer for company, and once before that I had myself drowned a man who was trying to kill me. I crossed to the window and threw open the shutters. Sunshine streamed in; from the long shadows I guessed it was near five.
Outside the tents were being loaded onto carts with other equipment under the supervision of the red-faced officer, whose barking at the men I could hear from my room. The big horses were already between the shafts, munching piles of hay. A little way off a couple of dozen men were practising their skills with the warbow, shooting at a doublet nailed to an oak tree at the far end of the field. Arrows arced through the air, the men shouting when someone hit the target – as most did, for they were all good shots. Leacon stood beside them, watching. I dressed hastily and hurried down to the parlour, deserted now save for Barak, breakfasting alone. I hurried across. ‘Thank goodness you are still here.’
‘The soldiers are still loading up. I’ve written a letter to Tammy, the innkeeper will give it to the next post rider going north.’
I breakfasted quickly, then we went outside. I saw a few of the soldiers did have white coats, including the red-faced man supervising the loading of the carts and a soldier who was strapping a drum round his middle. A trumpet hung from a baldric on his shoulder. We went over to Dyrick and Feaveryear, who were standing talking to the white-bearded man I had seen the night before.
‘Ah, Brother Shardlake,’ Dyrick said reprovingly, ‘you have risen. I hope we will be off soon. Those carters will be sleeping it off with the whores. Captain Giffard here wants to be gone before them. Fourteen miles to Godalming today.’ His tone was admonitory.
The white-bearded man turned to me. He wore a peacock-feather cap and a high-collared doublet with buttons patterned in gold leaf. His face was round, spots of colour in his cheeks, his blue eyes watery. I bowed. He gave me a haughty nod.
‘You are the other lawyer my petty-captain has invited to travel with us? I am Sir Franklin Giffard, captain of this company.’
‘Matthew Shardlake. I hope you do not mind us accompanying you, sir.’
‘No, no. Leacon knows what he is doing.’ He looked across to the archers.
‘Those men shoot well,’ I observed.
‘They do, though hand-to-hand combat is the gentlemanly way to fight a war. But the archers won us Agincourt. Not much of an inn, was it?’ he added. ‘All that noise, those carriers. We must be gone. Please go and tell Leacon.’
I hesitated, for he had addressed me as though I were a soldier under his command. But I answered, ‘If you wish,’ and went to the field, passing the carts. In the nearest I saw a pile of round helmets and large, thick jackets that gave off a damp smell.
As I approached Leacon, I saw now how much thinner he was, his broad frame all gone to stringiness. I stood by him, watching the archers. A handsome dark-haired lad who looked to be still in his teens stepped forward with his bow. He was short, but stocky and muscular, with the heavy shoulders most of the men had. Like them he carried a warbow two yards long, with decorated horn nocks at each end.
‘Come, Llewellyn!’ one of the men called. ‘Show us those of Welsh blood can do more than screw sheep!’
The boy smiled broadly. ‘Fuck you, Carswell!’ A number of arrows had been thrust into the grass and he pulled one out.
Leacon leaned forward. ‘Llewellyn,’ he said quietly, ‘step away a little. Try to hit the mark from a sixty-degree angle, like we practised two days ago.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The boy stepped away a few yards and faced the tree at an angle. Then, in seconds, he had drawn his bow back nearly three feet, shot, and landed the arrow in the centre of the doublet. The soldiers clapped.
‘More,’ Leacon said. ‘Make it six.’ At a speed such as I had never seen, the boy loosed five more arrows, all of which hit the doublet. He turned and bowed to the appreciative crowd, a flash of white teeth in his sunburned face.
‘That’s how we’ll feather them in the goddam Frenchies’ bowels!’ someone shouted, and there were more cheers.
Leacon turned to me. ‘What do you think of my Goddams?’ He smiled at my puzzled look. ‘It’s what English archers call themselves.’