Chiswick Eyot.
There was another archer and two men-at-arms sharing his
lodgings in what was little more than a store-room set above the
family quarters. The men-at-arms were Scots, and said little, and
that in their own heavy brogue, but were kind enough, lending James
some fine wax oil when he was looking to treat his bow. The archer
was a different matter, a young apprentice from Norwich, tired of his
master’s beatings and eager to prove himself in the wars. He was
called Ralf, he never stopped talking and he carried a bow too big
for him by half a hand. His straw coloured hair stuck out at all
angles from under his leather cap, and his hands and arms were
stained with the mark of his trade: tanning.
‘ I can shoot six a minute!’ he announced proudly one
night as they sat about the family table eating bread and soup. ‘Six
fine arrows, true to the mark at fifty paces and a draw of one
fifteen pounds.’
The apothecary’s daughters gasped, wide-eyed, but
their father just nodded politely, and his wife seemed not to have
heard.
‘ What think you, James? What think you of that?’
James looked up from his soup. ‘Six a minute, you
say’, he said.
‘ Aye, six a minute! No less! That will make Frenchie
tremble.’
'Ta’d make me tremble, if ae was next ta ye’, said
one of the Scotsmen quietly.
Ralf looked confused. He reddened. ‘How so?’
The Scotsman just shrugged, so James answered for him:
‘ Because, Ralf, ye have to be firing at least eight a
minute if you’re going to stand any chance of stopping Frenchie at
all. At six a minute ye’re a dead man.’
The daughters’ eyes grew even wider, but Simon the
apothecary just smiled and returned to his soup. With a grunt, Ralf
pushed his bench back:
‘ And how do you know that?’ he said.
‘ I know,’ said James. ‘That’s all.’ He
finished his meal, stood up, bowed to the Simon and his wife, and
went out into the street. Ralf followed him.
‘ I can shoot, you know,’ he said. ‘My father
taught me. He fought in the Welsh Wars against the Glendower.’
‘ I’m sure he did,’ replied James, looking up at
the stars. It was a clear night and the moon had risen with a
frost-ring.
‘ He taught me five a minute on an old ash bow, and
then when I came to Norwich, my master taught me six on a yew-wood.
Only thing he ever did – apart from beat me that is. Funny thing,
really. He’d kick me around all week, an’ treat me worse than his
dog, then on Sundays he’d take me down to the long meadow with all
the other lads, an’ teach me how to shoot. Like I was his son or
something.’
‘ Well, he didn’t teach ye enough. You put up six a
minute against the French an’ the master bowman will have ye back
among the baggage boys before ye can say hail Mary.’
For a while Ralf didn’t reply. He scuffed at the
cobbles with his boot, and turned and stared across the street at the
sign of the tailor.
‘ Is that so,’ he said at last.
‘ Aye, it is,’ said James.
Ralf paused again. ‘Teach me then!’ he said
suddenly.
‘ Teach ye what?’
‘ To shoot more than six. To shoot eight.’
James didn’t reply. There was a group of drunken
sailors coming up the street from the docks. They were singing. He
watched them until they wandered by and disappeared down a side alley
and into a tavern.
‘ You want to shoot eight?’ he asked Ralf.
'Aye I do.’
‘ Afore we march?’
‘ Aye, well . . .if it can be done.’
‘ Well, ye’d need to find yourself a masterbowman,
and one with time on his hands and a wallet to fill.’
‘ Not you, then?’
James sighed. ‘Listen, lad. It took my older brother
and then my father five years to get me to shoot eight a minute on a
little half bow. Then it was another three years to get to five shots
on a full bow with a one -twenty pound draw. Two more years, and I
was doing eight a minute on a one-fifty pounder my uncle made me.
It’s the one I carry now.’
‘ Eight a minute on a
There was another archer and two men-at-arms sharing his
lodgings in what was little more than a store-room set above the
family quarters. The men-at-arms were Scots, and said little, and
that in their own heavy brogue, but were kind enough, lending James
some fine wax oil when he was looking to treat his bow. The archer
was a different matter, a young apprentice from Norwich, tired of his
master’s beatings and eager to prove himself in the wars. He was
called Ralf, he never stopped talking and he carried a bow too big
for him by half a hand. His straw coloured hair stuck out at all
angles from under his leather cap, and his hands and arms were
stained with the mark of his trade: tanning.
‘ I can shoot six a minute!’ he announced proudly one
night as they sat about the family table eating bread and soup. ‘Six
fine arrows, true to the mark at fifty paces and a draw of one
fifteen pounds.’
The apothecary’s daughters gasped, wide-eyed, but
their father just nodded politely, and his wife seemed not to have
heard.
‘ What think you, James? What think you of that?’
James looked up from his soup. ‘Six a minute, you
say’, he said.
‘ Aye, six a minute! No less! That will make Frenchie
tremble.’
'Ta’d make me tremble, if ae was next ta ye’, said
one of the Scotsmen quietly.
Ralf looked confused. He reddened. ‘How so?’
The Scotsman just shrugged, so James answered for him:
‘ Because, Ralf, ye have to be firing at least eight a
minute if you’re going to stand any chance of stopping Frenchie at
all. At six a minute ye’re a dead man.’
The daughters’ eyes grew even wider, but Simon the
apothecary just smiled and returned to his soup. With a grunt, Ralf
pushed his bench back:
‘ And how do you know that?’ he said.
‘ I know,’ said James. ‘That’s all.’ He
finished his meal, stood up, bowed to the Simon and his wife, and
went out into the street. Ralf followed him.
‘ I can shoot, you know,’ he said. ‘My father
taught me. He fought in the Welsh Wars against the Glendower.’
‘ I’m sure he did,’ replied James, looking up at
the stars. It was a clear night and the moon had risen with a
frost-ring.
‘ He taught me five a minute on an old ash bow, and
then when I came to Norwich, my master taught me six on a yew-wood.
Only thing he ever did – apart from beat me that is. Funny thing,
really. He’d kick me around all week, an’ treat me worse than his
dog, then on Sundays he’d take me down to the long meadow with all
the other lads, an’ teach me how to shoot. Like I was his son or
something.’
‘ Well, he didn’t teach ye enough. You put up six a
minute against the French an’ the master bowman will have ye back
among the baggage boys before ye can say hail Mary.’
For a while Ralf didn’t reply. He scuffed at the
cobbles with his boot, and turned and stared across the street at the
sign of the tailor.
‘ Is that so,’ he said at last.
‘ Aye, it is,’ said James.
Ralf paused again. ‘Teach me then!’ he said
suddenly.
‘ Teach ye what?’
‘ To shoot more than six. To shoot eight.’
James didn’t reply. There was a group of drunken
sailors coming up the street from the docks. They were singing. He
watched them until they wandered by and disappeared down a side alley
and into a tavern.
‘ You want to shoot eight?’ he asked Ralf.
'Aye I do.’
‘ Afore we march?’
‘ Aye, well . . .if it can be done.’
‘ Well, ye’d need to find yourself a masterbowman,
and one with time on his hands and a wallet to fill.’
‘ Not you, then?’
James sighed. ‘Listen, lad. It took my older brother
and then my father five years to get me to shoot eight a minute on a
little half bow. Then it was another three years to get to five shots
on a full bow with a one -twenty pound draw. Two more years, and I
was doing eight a minute on a one-fifty pounder my uncle made me.
It’s the one I carry now.’
‘ Eight a minute on a
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