Lord Arthur sat looking
at the chessboard. His face was strained. In his long velvet houppelande he
looked like a dressed up statue. His robe’s pleats lay folded under the stool.
While the opponent was thinking, Robert once again examined the less than
impressive dining room of the Port Cock Inn. The stony interior was cosy, yet
modestly arranged – there were no decorations except for simple dishes aligned
on wooden shelves. The room was empty except for the two knights. The servants
and the inn keeper were bustling about the whole abode, busy with kitchen
duties and cleaning. Only one maid, seventeen year old Mathilde, peeked into
the main room from time to time to make sure the knights didn’t need anything.
They did not – the clay jug with Breton wine was still half full. Robert
glanced indolently at the chessboard, touching his head bandage with the right
hand. In accordance with his expectations nothing had changed. He was still
four rounds from putting his cousin's king in check mate. His opponent did not
seem to notice this despite his meditation worthy of a philosopher. Arthur
finally budged and the ringed hand moved the rook. The younger knight answered
momentarily following his long-planned scheme. It convicted him for long
minutes of boredom. Luckily the irreplaceable Guillaume came to the rescue.
“Greetings”, he called
from the door and bowed slightly.
Robert nodded his head.
“I would not want to
disturb, but I am looking for Sir Ralph… is he in his room?” Guillaume asked
shyly.
“He did not leave it
today”, the smile on the Baron’s face left no doubts on how to take the hint.
“I get it”, Guillame
replied grimly and marched towards the stairs leading to the first floor of the
inn. Arthur looked at Robert.
“Well, well. I must
admit your uncle’s stamina is impressive for his age.”
Robert decided that the
discussion was leading towards uncomfortable ground.
“I guess so”, he
murmured and shrugged.
“Oh no, my dear cousin”,
Arthur would not be discouraged so easily. “It does deserve much more than a
mere shrug. You should be content and proud”.
“If you say so Arthur…
but what should I be proud of, actually?”
“Why?” Lord Pitchfork
was surprised. “Your father’s masculine strengths of course. And it should fill
you with joy that as it passes from father to son, you must be as mighty in bed
as him. Maybe you just have not had an opportunity to prove yourself?”
Robert turned away from
his cousin’s beady eyes.
“Look, Guillaume is
back. Father must have sent him away again”, he tried to change the subject.
“Do not think you can
put me off so easily”, said Arthur. “And please understand that I do not mean
to upset you. I care for you as if you were my trueborn brother.”
Guillaume crossed the
room shaking his head and left the inn. Arthur was about to start over when the
door of the Port Cock opened again and Guillaume stepped back inside. He walked
up to one of the tables and sat heavily on the long bench. He was sitting there
silent, impatiently pattering his fingers on the table.
“Are you waiting for my
father, Guillaume?” Robert called to him.
“Yes, though I honestly
do not know why. I could just go to Saint Martin’s church and watch the maids
or play dice with the guards at the Montvillier gate. Actually, I could just as
well find some gambling companions in Montvillier itself, knowing your reverent
father and his lewdness.
“Guillaume, isn’t that
a French name?” Arthur opted for a casual conversation over the game of chess
greatly relieved at this distraction.
“Indeed, m’lord.
Wilhelm, in our tongue. It’s because of my late mother, Helen, who came from La
Rochelle in Guyenne. My father was an Englishman though and fought under the
banners of the Black Prince.
“Well, well”, called
Arthur. “Your father must be an elderly man, if he served in those times. Can
it be that he was at Poitiers in that fateful year, when John II the Good was
captured and the sacred Oriflamme fell under a pile of French corpses?” The
Baron’s voice showed excitement.
“No, my lord. Not that
elderly. From those times he could only remember the smell of his dirty
swaddling-clothes and the lullabies of my late Grandmother Elisabeth”.
The squire did not disclose any further
details of his family life, as the beaming Sir Ralph appeared on the stairs.
“Here I am, Guillaume!”
he called. “Show me these brave men”.
“They are waiting
outside, my lord”, Guillaume walked toward the door, straightening his hood.
“Greetings my dear
nephew. Greetings to you, my son”, Sir Ralph turned to the young men. “Would
you be wasting your time on chess, while so many fine girls are looking for a
company of young knights?”
“Greetings uncle! It is
true we played a game, but in my defense I must say I already have a date for
the night. The game only helped me to pass the unpleasant waiting time away.”
Sir Ralph gave him a
broad smile and turned to his son. Robert turned away and glanced at Guillaume,
who was looking attentively at Sir Ralph. Finally the old knight followed the
gaze of his son. The squire stood impatient at the door.
“They are waiting
outside, m’lord”, Guillaume said.
“I know where they are
waiting”, replied Sir Ralph. “I just do not know what my son is waiting for”.
With these words Lord Moorow, much less beaming, left the room. Arthur and
Robert followed.
A group of archers
stood on the cobbled bank of the Leur river, where the Port Cock was located.
They were dressed in simple soldier clothes. Most of them wore hose and light,
woollen blouses. On their heads they wore hoods with long liripipe*
falling on their backs down to their buttocks. All of them carried short
weapons – swords, falchions and various daggers tucked behind their belts. The
common element was a red cross of different sizes sewn on their clothes – a
symbol of Henry’s troops. A bearded man with deep dark eyes was leading them.
An ugly scar ran through his shaved head. The knights stopped before the five
archers.
“How do they call you”,
Sir Ralph asked the man standing in the front.
“Will, m’lord”.
“And the family? How do
they call your family?”
“Ball, m’lord. I am
Will Ball, at you lordship’s service”, the archer gave a courteous bow. Way too
courteous, thought Robert standing behind his father’s back.
“Hmm… I must have heard
it somewhere… where are you from?” Sir Ralph continued.
“From Moorow, my lord”,
the man smiled, showing his yellow, rotten teeth.
“My man!” Sir Ralph
said cheerfully. “Do you recognize him from somewhere, Robert? We visit Moorow
quite often”
“Why, it is the yearly
winner of the Easter archery competition in our estate”, said Robert suddenly
remembering where he had seen the man.
“Well, that explains a
lot!” said sir Ralph. “Hah! You have proven yourself during the assault, my
good man.”
“Who are these people?”
Arthur asked, annoyed he did not fully comprehend the situation.
“They, my dear Arthur,
saved our skin during the assault at Harfleur when we were stuck on the back of
Holland’s men. They shot down the French crossbowmen, who had killed my
faithful companion, Sir Crawley”.
“Did they now?” Arthur
raised his eyebrows slightly that gave him illusively perspicacious look. “Then
we owe you lads our gratitude”.
“Indeed”, admitted Sir
Ralph. “I reckon as well, that the Baron’s thanks won’t end on kind words,
which albeit please the dames, are of little use to a simple soldier”, Sir
Ralph smiled with impertinence and glanced at his nephew.
“But of course…”,
assured Arthur after brief consideration. He reached for the bulging pouch
hanging from his knight’s belt covered with small square pads. The archers
began grunting with content. “But first… I am curious to whom precisely we owe
rescuing from oppression… present your people to me, Ball.”
The archer gave a wry
smile and stepped aside. With a theatrical gesture he pointed at the first man
on his right.
“This is Thomas Smith”,
he announced. “A remarkable archer, despite his inconsiderable posture. This
strapping fellow next to him is Big Will. We call him that to tell him from
myself, but also because he was generously equipped by Mother Nature”, Ball
pointed at the nature’s gift and the archers chortled. The knights smiled
slightly, but that was all their social status allowed for.
“This is Small Tom”,
the archer eagerly continued. “Tommy for short but let it not deceive you my
lords. That’s how we tell him from Thomas Smith. There is nothing more to it,
isn’t that right Tommy?”
Tommy seemed
embarrassed which proved the contrary and inspired another wave of laughter
among his companions.
“Finally I present to
you, my lords, Matthew of Moorow”, Ball kept on speaking. “Although an elderly
veteran, he is young at heart, as all village girls from Plymouth to Dover can
attest”.
“Thank you for this
detailed presentation and… upon your hands, Ball”, Arthur put a handful of
silver in the extended hands of the soldier.
“We are thankful to
you, my lord and remember us in the future. We are always keen on helping House
Neville…”, with these words Bell patted his chest, where a metal clip showed a
standing bear chained to a tree trunk.
.jpg)
