Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(58)
‘Unjustly.’
‘And so I returned to my parents’ farm, which you saved for us in that court action.’
‘I owed you a debt.’
‘That was a good life, if a hard one. But my parents grew older, they could do less work and we had to hire labourers. Then, in the spring of last year, my old captain came. He said the King was going to invade France and they needed all the soldiering men they could get. The pay was good and I agreed.’ He looked at me intently. ‘I had no idea what it would be like. Does that not sound stupid, childish, coming from one who was a professional soldier?’
‘What happened?’
Leacon now spoke with a sort of quiet, desperate fervour. ‘I sailed first to Scotland with Lord Hertford’s fleet. Did you know, the King ordered him to wage a war that would spare neither women nor children? Lord Hertford did not want to, but the King insisted. We landed at a place called Leith and sacked it, burned every house to the ground and set the women and children running into the countryside. My company stayed there so I saw no more action then, but the rest of the army went to Edinburgh and did the same, razed everything to the ground. The men came back laden with booty, anything of value they could take from the houses. The boats were so laden it was feared some might sink. But spoil is part of war – without hope of gain soldiers are reluctant to march into enemy country.’
‘And now the Scots threaten to invade us, with the soldiers the French have sent them.’
‘Yes. King Francis wants England humbled for good.’ Leacon ran a hand through his curls. ‘We sailed straight from Scotland to France. In July, just a year ago. I was in charge of a half-company of archers. They are all dead now.’
‘All?’
‘Every one. We landed in Calais and marched straight to Boulogne. The countryside between had already been ravaged by foraging soldiers. As in Scotland the fields had been trampled, villages burned. I remember local people standing by the road, old people and women and children in rags, everything they owned taken or destroyed. Starving in the rain, there was nothing but rain and cold winds in France last year. I remember how pale their faces were.’ His voice fell almost to a whisper. ‘There was a woman, a baby in one skinny arm, holding out the other for alms. As I marched past I saw her baby was dead, its eyes open and glassy. Its mother hadn’t realized yet.’ Leacon stared at me fixedly. ‘We were not allowed to stop. I could see it affected the men but I had to encourage them, keep them marching. You have to, you have to.’ He stopped, with a great sigh. ‘And the French will do the same if they land, for revenge. Their captains will cry, “Havoc,” and it will be the turn of their men to take booty from us.’
‘All because the King wanted glory,’ I said bitterly.
A spasm of disgust crossed Leacon’s face. ‘We marched right past Henry when we reached the outskirts of Boulogne. He was in his camp, all the splendid tents up on a hill. I saw him, a huge figure encased from head to foot in armour, sitting on the biggest horse I ever saw, watching the battle. Well out of range of the French cannons pounding our men from the city, of course.’ Leacon swallowed hard, then continued. ‘Our company marched uphill, under fire from the French – Boulogne is on a hill, you see. All our forces could do was hunker down under mud embankments, firing back into the town with our cannon, moving forward by inches. I saw Boulogne turned to rubble.’ He looked at me, then said, ‘You will not know what it is like to kill a man.’
I hesitated. ‘I did kill a man once. I had to or he would have killed me. I drowned him, held him under the water of a muddy pond. I still remember the sounds he made. Later I was nearly drowned myself, in a sewer tunnel flooded with water. Ever since I have been terrified of drowning, yet felt it would be a kind of justice.’
‘There is no justice,’ Leacon said quietly. ‘No meaning. That is what I fear. I beg God to take my memories from me but he will not.’ He looked at the richly gilded statue of the Virgin Mary on the altar, her expression quiet, contemplative, immeasurably distant. He resumed his terrible story.
‘When the part of Boulogne nearest us was blown almost to dust we were ordered to advance. The King had gone home by then; it was September, wetter and muddier than ever. Hundreds of us struggled uphill through the mud, French cannon firing down on us all the time. Then, when we got closer, their archers and arquebusiers fired from among the tumbled stones. The nearer we got to the town the more men fell. My company of archers shot many French cannoneers and archers. But we were a target ourselves, and many of my men were blown to fragments by the cannons.’ He laughed suddenly, wildly, a terrible sound echoing round the dark church. ‘Fragments,’ Leacon repeated. ‘A little word for such a meaning. All that great muddy slope covered with hands and bits of legs, great joints of meat in scraps of uniform, pools of bloody slime among the mud and tumbled stone. A friend’s head in a puddle, still with the helmet on.’ He cast his head down, gave a mighty sigh, then looked up.
‘Enough survived to climb the rubble into the town. Then it was hand-to-hand fighting, swords and bills, hacking and crunching and blood everywhere. The French – and they are brave men, as good as ours – retreated to the upper part of Boulogne and held out another week. I was wounded slightly in my side, I passed out and woke shivering in pain in a leaky tent, trying to keep rats away from my wound.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘They said I had been a brave soldier and promoted me to petty-captain.’