The word for the conditions in the camps that stretched along the Fleet was "squalor." Matthew Hastings had heard the word from one of the many itinerant priests that he had heard over the years to describe the conditions of life in the city. Where the friar had been extolling the virtues of a pastoral life, he knew precisely what "squalor" had meant. The Fleet had become an open sewer, the waste of the entire army flowing down it into the Thames, when the soldiers could be bothered to go so far as the river. With London's wet winter had come sickness, and the nobles would be damned if they would allow sick men into the city where first they might infect a populace barely recovered from the plague of 1349, and second and more important, might desert. The monks in the priories on the city's verge had done their best to care for the sick, even doing their utmost to introduce the concept of latrines and proper waste disposal. It had in many cases helped; in others, their pleas had fallen on deaf ears. The result was that the army's encampment was foul-smelling, a dull miasma hanging over the already marshy grounds northeast of London mixed with the black smoke that boiled off the fires. The army was rapidly deforesting the area around London to keep the spirits of disease at bay, keep themselves warm, and keep their bellies filled.
In a cesspool like this, Matt Hastings was fortunate in that he was a hunter by trade and upbringing, used to burying his spoor to conceal his presence and to eating sparely when he had to. His family had been in service to the family de Hastings for a hundred years as beaters and foresters, but the plague had put paid to that. Old Earl Laurence had died in Scotland in 1348, and Lady Agnes had turned up her nose at the earl's southern holdings. A rider had borne word south - they would keep Old John and Young John, his father and brother, as foresters, but there was no room for another. Thus, he was turned out just in time for King Edward's proclamation.
It had been natural enough to walk north, begging when he had to, betting when he could, to the City. It had been equally natural to be smooth-talked by a recruiter in Southwark, who had directed him not into the city but into the camps to the north. He was tall for his age, all of sixteen, and well-built, and had been making, stringing, and drawing a man's bow for at least three years. He was, in short, precisely the sort of landless, dispossessed commoner that Edward's edict had been aimed at, and criers at every crossroad had made sure they knew where to go.
There were no uniforms in King Edward's army. Those who had been brought in by the gentry perhaps wore their livery, but most of them wore a simple leather jerkin where they could. There was little standardization, either - spears were of uneven length, no one carried a sword unless they were at least knighted, and even the arrows were surprisingly personal. There was an exception to this, and if he was honest, Matt Hastings envied them. The exception was Prince Edward's corps of Welshmen. The Prince, in a fit of vanity perhaps, had outfitted them uniformly in black leggings and jerkins, with the Prince's Feathers on the breast. The Welshmen, if asked, proclaimed that the feathers were not ostrich plumes, but goose feathers, and there were three because - well, didn't you know how to fletch an arrow?
Of course, no one asked the Welsh. They would as soon brawl as talk, and when they did talk, they were incomprehensible. They also had the Prince's protection. A man who brawled with the dark little men would be first beaten - by the black-clad archers, who traveled in packs like wolves - and then flogged - by his own superiors, for his insolence. That did not stop men from staring at them enviously as they walked around camp as if they owned it, long knives bouncing off their thighs. One of them had appeared in Matt's particular camp this very day, a grizzled-looking veteran with wild black hair and a beard to match, thoroughly tangled and as greasy as the front of his jerkin. He looked around as if seeking something, and found precisely what he was looking for.
The only man in the hundred or so with any metal armor was a thick-necked, tough man sent to supervise them, with a breastplate that, dull as it was, still caught the little light that escaped through gray cloud and black smoke. His name was William Boroughs, and he was every bit a Londoner. Most of the men here were, rounded up by their guilds or by the Lord Mayor's guards, which had been his previous occupation and the source of the breastplate. That he was barely more literate than the men he led, just literate enough to know the difference between a furrier and a farrier in fact, bothered him not in the least. That this Welshman had appeared in his camp was at best an irritating inconvenience, at worst a dire insult. "Wot yer want, Welshie?" he asked, voice jabbing where he'd doubtless have preferred a fist. The Welshman opened his mouth, and a string of vaguely musical syllables came out, and everyone within earshot blinked in incomprehension. "Anglois, man, speak'ee bloody Anglois!" yelled Boroughs. The Welshman tried again, frowning.
"Ai'm from th' Prinz. 'E says ta take a'y'o'y'r folk who'n 'andle a bow. 'Ey'll be wi'us fro' now on." Boroughs leered. "Well, lads, y'ear that? Little Welshie thinks ye're a bunch of poncy bowmen, afraid to get in an' kill the Froggies proper. Well? Any o' ye know nothin' about a bow?" He glowered at the gathered soldiers as if daring any of them to admit to knowing anything about archery, and for the most part, they shifted from one foot to the other, avoiding his glance. He was quick with his fists, especially when displeased, and anyone who replied would doubtless be flogged for his trouble.
Matt hesitated, then raised his hand. "Ah. Serjeant, sir, I... I was a forester, sir." He noticed another hand up, a pug-nosed man with a perpetually knowing smirk, perhaps a year older than him. Boroughs slowly reddened. "Oh was ye, 'Astings? An' ye, 'Awkwood? Well, I'll believes it when ye proves it." He crossed his arms, and the Welshman nodded. "'A's fair'nough. Ai'll se'up th' butt, an' ye'll prove yer wor' it." He remained incomprehensible, but he gabbled back over his shoulder in pure Welsh, and his aim came through clearly enough. Two men came scrambling forward, rolling a straw archery butt between them like a giant wheel of cheese the height of a man. He gestured down toward the river, and they gave him a questioning look, followed by another quick exchange of Welsh. One dropped a bundle of arrows at his feet before scrambling along. "Na, y'twain, string an' bend 'em on, Ai'll'splain th'test."
Hawkwood looked sheepish. "Ah... I don't have my own no longer. I... lost it, y'see." The Welshman rolled his eyes and called out to the men who were even now propping up the target two hundred yards away. One of them called back, the tone aggrieved, before running off and returning minutes later with a bow roughly Hawkwood's height, the string unstrung. Matt had by now retrieved his, carefully polished and crafted this very winter from Spanish yew, his father's parting gift. The old man had barely been able to meet his eyes when putting him out on the road, but it looked like it might get him out of the way of Serjeant Boroughs.
He noticed the wild-haired Welshman watching him with interest as he trapped the bow under his thigh, bending it backward to loop the string at each horn nock, turning it from a simple staff into a bow. Hawkwood, too, was watching, albeit covertly, and fumbled with his as he did. He had seen a bow before, but handled one? Matt had his doubts. Finally they were strung. "Y'll d'well'nough," the Welshman grunted in approval. "Na, y've each ten arras. Ai'll count t'... ah, fifdy. Y'll ha' 'til then t' bend an' loose, an' if y'miss th'butt more'n four times, Ai've n'use for ye."
Matt shrugged, shaking his arms out. The majority of the work was done by the rest of the body, not the arms, but even so, it never hurt. Two hundred yards, a stationary target, ten arrows, six must hit, by the time this strange little man counted to fifty? Such a thing was... well, perhaps not simple, but simpler than London was!
He stepped up to a line the Welshman scuffed with his toe, glancing back at Serjeant Boroughs before picking an arrow out of the ground, nocking it, and bending the bow back. As soon as he plucked the arrow from the ground, the Welshman began counting... far faster than he had anticipated. For every heartbeat, the Welshman counted two beats. The bow bent backwards, he locked his eyes on the target, and the arrow flew, hitting the butt with a satisfying
thunk even at this range. The second, third, and fourth arrows flew just fine. On the fifth arrow, he realized the Welshman was at forty, and Boroughs suddenly loudly coughed at the moment of his release. The arrow went high, sailing into the Fleet. The Welshman gave Boroughs a dirty look, but kept counting, voice surprisingly, hypnotically even.
Matt plucked, nocked, bent, loosed; plucked, nocked, bent, loosed; plucked, nocked, bent, loosed. He had the ninth arrow bent on when the Welshman cleared his throat. "Fifdy, ye're done, lad." His voice was gentle, and he clapped Matt on the shoulder, already numb and losing focus. "Go'n' pluck yer arrows, an' stay wi' m'lads t'th'side." He hesitated before adding, "Those las' three were well done." He nodded awkwardly before gesturing Matt down toward the butt, where he trotted over and plucked his arrows loose, giving them a quick inspection. The points were still sound.
He stood to the side as John Hawkwood began his attempt. Hawkwood struggled, choosing to bend and loose faster at the expense of accuracy. His city upbringing showed, as he hit only three of the first five, and at the count of thirty, Boroughs apparently tripped, bumping Hawkwood from behind. This time the Welshman pounced. As near as Matt could tell, he reached out to touch Boroughs on the shoulder, then the big Londoner was flat on his back, head tipped back in the mud and the long knife at his throat. Words were clearly exchanged, but there was no hearing them from this distance. What he did know was that John Hawkwood was also jogging to join the archers, though he had fired only half his arrows. Boroughs staggered to his feet, yelling at two of his own troopers to help wheel the butt away, leaving the archers unburdened. One of the two lesser archers gabbled at their leader in Welsh, and he grinned in response, wiping his muddy hands on his dark-brown leather trousers as he explained to them. "Ai tol'm th'Prinz sent me, an'll not let'm down jus'cause o'some fat-necked Londoner."
Matt had thought they were perhaps to be quartered with the Welsh archers; that was, sadly, not to be the case. John Hawkwood had stayed close, muttering to Matt, "I'd've told him I could shit gold if it'd get me away from that bastard." His eyes shone murder for a second, and Matt had no trouble imagining him in a dark alley. His voice took on an uncanny imitation of Boroughs, with no hint of humor. "'Ye stinks of tanner's piss, Johnny lad, ye sure ye didn't piss yerself today?'" Hawkwood glanced back over his shoulder and spat. "Sooner I'm quit of London the better."
The little Welshman, it turned out, was Owain ap Llewellyn ap Gruffydd, which sounded impressive enough until he explained that "Llewellyn" and "Gruffydd" were to Welshmen as "John" and "William" to Englishmen. He had been at Crecy and Calais, and he was frankly dubious of Prince Edward's belief that Englishmen could be turned into a corps of archers. "For a'that, y're well out o'is grab, lads," he added cheerfully enough, for he seemed possessed of a boundless, black sense of humor. "A'that those spears'n'levies're good for's ta feed th' French 'orse when 'ey break loose." He had proceeded to explain how the battle at Crecy had unfolded, and how the archers were to be used - on the flanks, where they could shoot into the mass of the enemy without being on the receiving end of the terrible weight of the French horsemen.
He was interrupted in his explanation by a sudden, spreading silence, and he turned to see two armored figures riding through camp. One of them was dressed in black armor, enameled and polished until he glittered like the sea on a calm day, bright against his own darkness. He glanced neither right or left, his black horse carrying him forward and his sword clinking against the full barding. "Th'prince," Owain hissed, dropping to a knee and bowing his head. The English, more naturally his subjects, ironically took a moment longer to drop, and Matt thought he saw the Prince's eyebrow rise a fraction.
Behind the Prince came a man that no Englishman could properly mistake, in armor that was as bright silver as the Prince's had been shining black. His reddish hair, forked beard, and aquiline features made him instantly recognizable to his subjects, as did the way that he rode with his right hand raised as if in benediction, the left controlling the reins. He was, of course, Edward III, King of England and rightful King of France, as every Englishman knew. Good King Edward, a man who cared enough about his people to speak and even give law in English.
The two of them rode without escort to the center of the web of camps, the army naturally gravitating toward them as the King and his son mounted a dais hastily assembled for them. If Edward felt his age under seventy pounds of steel, it did not show; he moved as naturally as he had in Scotland years earlier. Lord Constable de Segrave stumped up the dais in place of a herald and reared his head back. "SILENCE, YOU LAGGARDS, HIS HIGHNESS THE KING!" he bellowed, his voice vibrating in the chest of every man within a quarter-mile of it.
The King bowed his head for a moment before speaking, de Segrave dropping to a knee to give him center stage. "You are aware of My right to the crown of France," he began, voice projecting nearly as well as de Segrave's roar. "My son the Prince has pressed this claim for many years, with great success, due in no small part to the men who bore arms for him. It is time to resolve this matter with my cousin of Valoys to the honor of England. Most of you will embark for France this very week, with me." He smiled and raised a hand as a hoot of applause broke out. "I promise you that Bordeu is far more clement than London at any time of year, winter more than most. And yet... I said most, not all. Some of you must turn north instead, to resolve a greater slur upon our honor. Our honor, as Englishmen. King David the Scot has chosen to renege upon his ransom and his word, and has sent an ambassador with grievous insults to our court. As King and the Lord Paramount of this island, I cannot abide an insult to my person or realm, and thus for the past day we have been in a state of war with our neighbor of Scotland. That some of you must turn not to France, but to the Scot, pains me - but my son the Duke Lionel promises me that it shall pain the Scot more." Edward smiled at the cheer that broke out at that.
"I shall not lie to you; it is not meet for king to deceive subject. Our cousin of Valoys has twice as many men in the field as are upon this field, and our cousin of Bruce has his own host. If we are to triumph, it shall not be by halves but by boldness. Were you mere Scots, or Frenchmen, I should worry, but you are the sons of Crecy, of the Cross of Neville!" The sporadic cheers became a roar, and the roar slowly became a chant: "Ed-WARD! Ed-WARD!" It was unclear whether it was the prince or the King who was its focus; as Owain later commented to his charges, the Welsh would cheer Prince Edward leaving a privy. It seemed that God Himself joined in the cheer, the gray sky rumbling with distant thunder.
At dawn the next day, the King boarded the first ships in the Pool of London. The weather was cold, snow flurries coming down almost vertically, and the King and Prince, bundled in their furs, looked sympathetically down at the men who tended the oars as they began to cut silently through the water. As they passed the Tower, the city began to awake, and raised a ragged cheer for their absent king. To the north, Prince Lionel sped into Yorkshire, seeking Edward Balliol for one last frantic attempt to place him on the throne of Scotland, and beyond him, the pipes skirled to guide King David's host into Cumberland. To the south, in Gascony, the first French hooves thudded out their tattoo as they crossed into the English-controlled high country. In Wales, Lionel's agents drummed up every able-bodied male they could find.
The arrows were loosed, and it was now only a matter of where they would land.