upside down. With the ransom of a royal
duke in his pocket he would be more than a poor yeoman farmer in
Chiswick. He would have those five hides, and more besides if good
French gold spoke as loudly as men said it did.
He turned and began to walk back up the lea slope
towards the cruck-house. A light was burning in the doorway, and he
could hear Hettie singing over the cooking pot. The smell of hare and
bacon pottage came to him, and he quickened his stride. Still, he
could not forget the five hides of lea land.
Yesterday he had met Mark the Carter near the crossroads
for Kew. Mark never never said much, usually just a wave of the hand,
but this time he had news: there was talk in Turnham Green that
Thomas, Earl of Dorset was raising a company of soldiers to go to
France in the New Year. They were leaving from Southampton for
Harfleur sometime in January.
Short term indentures were being issued for nine hundred
men at arms and fifteen hundred archers: men-at-arms 1 shilling 6d ;
archers 6 pennies a day.
He pushed the heavy curtain aside and stooped to enter
the cruck.. Hettie looked up and smiled. He smiled back:
‘ I’m for France,’ he said.
Harfleur January 1416
The port heaved and bustled with life. Everywhere people
hurried to and fro, pushing past each other with kits and knapsacks,
handcarts and barrows. In the harbour, high masted cogs crowded
against the quay, and workmen struggled to clear the piles of
supplies and munitions which lay outside the warehouses. Scaffolding
covered the shattered walls of the town, and stonemasons called out
to labourers and journeymen as they swarmed up and down the ladders
with mortar and fresh dressed stone. Great winches and pulleys raised
the heavier blocks, while burghers cloaked in furs, stood about
anxiously eyeing the walls and muttering about the lack of progress.
It was Wednesday, and although the Earl of Dorset’s
expedition had just arrived in port, the townsfolk were determined to
hold their usual mid-week market. The stalls were up, the goods were
displayed and the market traders were calling their wares. Country
folk, and villager folk, charcoal burners and woodsmen, free farmers
and peasants rubbed shoulders with men-at-arms, squires, spearmen and
archers. French patois, Flemish, Norman and Breton dialects mingled
with all the accents of England and Wales. Sergeants pushed, soldiers
idled and captains strode. Fishwives shouted, bakerboys scampered and
old folk raised their eyebrows and shrugged.
James liked Harfleur. It stank but he liked it. The
citizens were tough, but not unkind, and although it had been badly
damaged by the recent siege it was easier to find a billet there,
than it had been in Calais.
He eased his bowstave across his shoulder, and pulled
his cloak about him. There was a cold breeze coming in off the Seine
estuary, not enough to drive away the stench of the town ditch, but
enough to chill him to the marrow.
But it was good to be ashore after a long, bumpy
crossing, and he was hoping if he hung around in the market place he
might come across some of his companions from Agincourt. So far he
had seen no one he knew. Back in Southampton he thought he had once
caught sight of John ap Meredith, but it turned out to be a stranger
from the borders.
After wandering the market square and adjoining streets
for a time, he found lodgings above an apothecary shop. It was just
across from the house of a tailor from Ghent, and as he watched the
workers stitching and cutting he promised himself that he would bring
Hettie back more than just ribbons this time. This time he would buy
fine cloth, colourful cloth, perhaps even a fur. That would make the
burgesses of Chiswick and Isleworth chatter: a yeoman’s wife in the
finest fur! And perhaps then, after all that had happened he could
promise Hettie that he would go no more to France. And there would be
no more tears, and he could be a farmer nothing more, and farm the
five hides that ran down to
duke in his pocket he would be more than a poor yeoman farmer in
Chiswick. He would have those five hides, and more besides if good
French gold spoke as loudly as men said it did.
He turned and began to walk back up the lea slope
towards the cruck-house. A light was burning in the doorway, and he
could hear Hettie singing over the cooking pot. The smell of hare and
bacon pottage came to him, and he quickened his stride. Still, he
could not forget the five hides of lea land.
Yesterday he had met Mark the Carter near the crossroads
for Kew. Mark never never said much, usually just a wave of the hand,
but this time he had news: there was talk in Turnham Green that
Thomas, Earl of Dorset was raising a company of soldiers to go to
France in the New Year. They were leaving from Southampton for
Harfleur sometime in January.
Short term indentures were being issued for nine hundred
men at arms and fifteen hundred archers: men-at-arms 1 shilling 6d ;
archers 6 pennies a day.
He pushed the heavy curtain aside and stooped to enter
the cruck.. Hettie looked up and smiled. He smiled back:
‘ I’m for France,’ he said.
Harfleur January 1416
The port heaved and bustled with life. Everywhere people
hurried to and fro, pushing past each other with kits and knapsacks,
handcarts and barrows. In the harbour, high masted cogs crowded
against the quay, and workmen struggled to clear the piles of
supplies and munitions which lay outside the warehouses. Scaffolding
covered the shattered walls of the town, and stonemasons called out
to labourers and journeymen as they swarmed up and down the ladders
with mortar and fresh dressed stone. Great winches and pulleys raised
the heavier blocks, while burghers cloaked in furs, stood about
anxiously eyeing the walls and muttering about the lack of progress.
It was Wednesday, and although the Earl of Dorset’s
expedition had just arrived in port, the townsfolk were determined to
hold their usual mid-week market. The stalls were up, the goods were
displayed and the market traders were calling their wares. Country
folk, and villager folk, charcoal burners and woodsmen, free farmers
and peasants rubbed shoulders with men-at-arms, squires, spearmen and
archers. French patois, Flemish, Norman and Breton dialects mingled
with all the accents of England and Wales. Sergeants pushed, soldiers
idled and captains strode. Fishwives shouted, bakerboys scampered and
old folk raised their eyebrows and shrugged.
James liked Harfleur. It stank but he liked it. The
citizens were tough, but not unkind, and although it had been badly
damaged by the recent siege it was easier to find a billet there,
than it had been in Calais.
He eased his bowstave across his shoulder, and pulled
his cloak about him. There was a cold breeze coming in off the Seine
estuary, not enough to drive away the stench of the town ditch, but
enough to chill him to the marrow.
But it was good to be ashore after a long, bumpy
crossing, and he was hoping if he hung around in the market place he
might come across some of his companions from Agincourt. So far he
had seen no one he knew. Back in Southampton he thought he had once
caught sight of John ap Meredith, but it turned out to be a stranger
from the borders.
After wandering the market square and adjoining streets
for a time, he found lodgings above an apothecary shop. It was just
across from the house of a tailor from Ghent, and as he watched the
workers stitching and cutting he promised himself that he would bring
Hettie back more than just ribbons this time. This time he would buy
fine cloth, colourful cloth, perhaps even a fur. That would make the
burgesses of Chiswick and Isleworth chatter: a yeoman’s wife in the
finest fur! And perhaps then, after all that had happened he could
promise Hettie that he would go no more to France. And there would be
no more tears, and he could be a farmer nothing more, and farm the
five hides that ran down to
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