Ian Cooper
(An excerpt from a work in progress. -- ed.)
The men at arms had halted at an inn, while archers
and footmen, mounted and dismounted, milled in the yard and filled their cups
and horns from barrels of rich red wine.
“Larkin. What’s happening?”
“The ford is blocked.”
“Oh. What ford is that?”
Larkin laughed. It really was like that sometimes, men
standing around with no idea of what was happening.
“There’s a river up ahead. Vaughn and Sands were in
the van and they say there are hundreds of noble pennants on the far side.”
He spat, noisily, as Thomas stood, clinging to
Chestnut’s bridle and wondering where he was going to find water, fodder, and
something for his own belly.
This day, the army had gotten up well before dawn. Alternately
walking and cantering, the army had covered a good ten miles before the sun
broke the horizon.
That was all Thomas knew.
In Old Bill’s stories, it seemed that his father was
right there in the innermost circles at every council, and had a bird’s eye
view of every battlefield, and had always known every little thing that was
going on.
He saw now that that was not necessarily so.
Men milled in confusion in front of the doorway, and
Thomas wondered if they were going in, or more likely the inn was full to
capacity.
At that time, the door crashed open, men began
shouting questions and several of Sir John’s captains forced their way out
against a reluctant crowd of men.
“Back! Back! Make way, make way.”
The huddle of men backing up were treading on their
toes, and Larkin grabbed Thomas’s arm and pulled him off to one side. There
were two kinds of men in that yard, men who were talking, rather shouting, and
those who would listen if only they could hear.
Sir John stepped out of the inn’s front door and the
quiet descended as he stepped up on a box and spoke, in quite a normal voice.
“Right. I need a hundred mounted archers, all
volunteers.”
Larkin grabbed his right arm and lofted it in his
strong and callused grip.
“Here we are, my Lord.”
Sir John turned and grinned.
“Ah, yes, the Cheshire cat, Larkin my boy, how the
Hades are you, sir?”
“I am well, Sir John. The last time I saw you, sir,
one of us had a head like a half-chewed pudding.” He turned aside. “Some of you
may recall that particular incident.”
A ripple of laughter went through the fascinated mob,
ears all a-quiver and straining to catch every syllable.
“…and one of us had a pretty good dose of the clap, as
you may recall…”
The men roared, thousands of them, all jamming into
the yard, streaming in on foot from all sides now that there was news.
“Ah, yes, be that as it may. I need a hundred of you
good fellows. I’m offering a gold salut, for any man that crosses the ford…and
lives to collect.”
There was a hubbub as men struggled, pushing their
neighbours aside and thrusting themselves forward.
Sir John’s captain, William Vaughn, was there with his
quill and his book of doom as some called it, all ready to take their names as
Larkin dragged him forward.
“Come along lad, you’ll find this a little more to
your taste.”
(End of excerpt. -- ed.)
Taken is free from Smashwords.
Thank you for reading my excerpt.
--ian
