A Conversation

Here's a very short story that I finished recently. It is supposed to give you the feeling of eavesdropping on a few soldiers in a contingent moving to reinforce Edward III's army during the Hundred Years War. It is easy enough to think of people, especially those who lived long ago, as shallow or different when we see them so far from the outside. We must realize that everyone, regardless of when they lived, of their profession, of their race or religion, they are all remarkably - sometimes fascinatingly - real people. Enjoy!

Bradley


The horde of men and horses wound for miles down the road, huddled close against the cold rain of late September in Northern France. The road they trod had gathered a thick coating of earth over the ancient Roman cobbles, and it became a sticky mud after thousands of hob-nailed leather soles had churned it.Thomas Write wiped the dripping rainwater from the brim of his sallet and apologized to the grumbling pikeman whose weapon had snagged on Thomas' bow which was slung across his back in a canvas wrapping. "Watch where yer going, archer," snapped the polearmsman. "As though we're any less crowded," an ample-faced soldier on Thomas' other side said, for the archer's ears alone. The bearded archer shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled. "Hard marching, mud, rain, and all in the confined space of this mob would bring out the worst in anybody." "You seem cheery enough," replied the stranger, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards into a skeptic smile. "I try." "What's your name, lad?" asked the stranger, shifting his broad-headed bill-hook to his left hand and extending his right to shake that of his new friend. "Tom Write. I'm a shipbuilder out of Plymouth." "Ah. I'm William Monger, a London bartender. Ever been to the Herring in the Kettle?" "I can't say so, I've been in London but once." "Well, that's my place. Closed for now, of course, 'cause I'm over here carrying a bill,” William indicated the shaft by hefting it above his head. "I reckon I've been there," said a shy-faced archer who stood with the top of his sallet level with the brim of Thomas'. "On the west side o' the river? With a sign like a mug wit' a fish painted on a cauldron on et?" "Aye! 'Tis the place! What's your name lad? When were you there?" "Oh, not eight months back, just before we left outta there for Brittany. I'm Ralph Clarke. I reckon'd I'd seen ye afore." "That must have been about two months before I left. I don't recall you, but I get a few fellows through there. What'd you think of the place? Tell me all you remember." "Well, there was the mug sign, as I said, which was mighty grand, then the inside was rather dark, all smoke-stained wood with but a few lanterns. There was some mighty fine brew, be it a tad pricey..." "Aye, aye, twas the place," laughed Will, wiping his eyes, "I tell ye, boys, were we there now I'd treat the two of you to a drink on the house. Like the flask of Tuscany ale I've been saving since I inherited it from my father...." They walked in silence for a few minutes, the squelch of the many boots and the patter of drizzle bringing them back to the present.
“How long have you fellows been out?” inquired Tom, breaking the silence.
“’Bout half a year”, replied the bartender.
“As I said, about eight months,” said Ralph, “but I was out before that too, for about three months in the summer before last. In Normandy. I fought at Caen.”
Tom’s brows rose.
“Did you know?” said Will in surprise, “good for you lads. I’ll say, this must be mighty bland in comparison. And you, Tom, how long’ve you served?”
“I was in Calais for about two months before we began the march.”
“Ah, you’re a fledgling, eh? No action yet then?”
“No.”
“Well, I myself have been in but one squabble and scarcely had any role in it at all. We must both look like sissies to you, eh Ralph?”
“Caen was not as much as some have made of it. But we captured the city in a day – God’s own miracle!” Ralph chuckled.
“By the way, lads,” Will went on, changing the subject, “you’re both archers, where are your horses?”
“In some Welshman’s gullet, you can wager,” Ralph said bitterly. He hawked, but thought better of spitting in the crowed. “Went lame a month out of Calais.”
“A pity,” sympathized Tom, “I believe mine was stolen.”
“Stolen!” cried Will, “by whom would ye think?”
“I know not – one night I slept more heavily than usual and when I awoke in the morning there was but the hamper left on the ground. So know I walk while a thief rides.” Tom’s tone was not so bitter as his words.
“Perchance it was a man-at-arms whose horse had gone lame. They believe that the property of archers is equally theirs,” Ralph said sourly, and so saying his foot slipped on a grime-covered cobble and he fell backwards, rolling so as not to land on his bow. He landed hard on his hip as men jumped back to avoid him. “God’s wounds!” he swore.
“Do ye think ye can stand, lad?” asked Will, “here, take my hand.”
Will pulled the archer to his feet – his hip had been cushioned by his sheaf of arrows, but his hoes were covered in muck and the men around them moved on, laughing. Ralph drew out a shaft from his quiver and inspected it – the arrow was well-kept, it was strait and the fleches were smooth and dry, but now the ashen shaft was fractured near the middle. “God’s teeth!” the archer swore again, shoving it back in its quiver, and the three resumed their march. “Most of the others’ll probably be fine,” Tom consoled the fellow archer. There was no reply and they continued mutely.
The spitting rain thinned and eventually stopped as the leaden skies began to break open, allowing shafts of fresh, bright sunlight to stream through the gap. After over a week of miserable weather the sun beam looked like a ladder to Heaven itself, and several men cheered and even Ralph’s face broke back into a grin. Will stretched as if awakening to a new morning – “Now there’s a sight lads!”
Mist began rising from the sodden rolling countryside and the men broke back into conversation.
“Do you recall the last time we saw the sun?” asked Will, “I think it was about a week out of Calais, or maybe two…”
“The sun can be beautiful in France,” Ralph said wistfully, “in the summer at least.”
“Have you seen the – one moment, did you hear something?” Tom held his hand up for quiet.
“Something? Like what, all I can...”
“Shush!”
A cry came from down the line - then another. “Bows and bills! Bows and bills! Form up facing the left flank, bills in front, yeomen in rear!”
“Ah, hooves! I can hear them now – sounds like an ambush, lads!” laughed Will, but his expression became worried and his tone serious. “Their getting close fast – best we form up. Fare thee well, friends!”
The friends parted and the two archers jostled towards the rear, pulling their longbows from their backs and stringing them hurriedly. Two squadrons of pavices sung up on the nearest hill-top and the arbalest bolts screamed out between them, slashing into the polearmers in the fore, several of whom fell grasping at the missiles burrowed in their flesh, gritting their teeth in silent pain or yelling as they were thrown backwards by the force of the impact. The sound of hooves reached a crescendo and horsemen appeared over the hill-top, flowing between the pavices, and Tom realized that the sound was not that great – the horsemen numbered only between fifty and a hundred and the sound of their hoof-falls was dampered by the soft ground, but the surrounding silence amplified it. He thought he heard someone crying for the archers to assemble on the hill behind them. A few scattered shots were fired, and the clothyard shafts rammed through plate, maille, and horseflesh at close-range, but the volley was not concentrated enough to be consequential and the cavalcade smashed into the pikes. And then there was chaos.