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branded me right here, on my right hand. See? Of course you can’t, messieurs. I was branded with a cold iron, because Brother John and the Abbott appeared as if from a machine and told the court that I was in lower orders. I read one of the psalms in Latin when the Abbott ordered me to. It was like having a fever – I scarcely understood what was happening.
    I was dismissed from the guild.
    My uncle burned all my clothes and all my belongings. He had the right to do so, but he made me a beggar.
    Nan’s father told me never to come to his house, but in truth he was decent about it. He didn’t say it in words, but he made it clear that he knew I was no thief. And yet . . .
    And yet, my life was done.
    I went and slept on the floor of the monks’ chapel, where I swept their floors. I was there three days, and they gave me some cast-off clothes, while the Abbott made me a reader – I read the gospel two mornings – so as not to have lied in court.
    I’ll never forget those mornings, reading the gospel to the monks. I am a man of blood, but for two whole days, I loved Jesus enough to be a monk. I considered it and the Abbott invited me.
    But the third day, Brother John came and took me on a walk.
    We walked a long way. I was still so shattered I had no conversation, and he merely walked along, greeting all who looked at him, winking at the maidens and sneering at the men. We walked along the river to the Tower and back.
    Just short of our chapel, having walked the whole of London, he stopped. ‘I’m giving up the habit,’ he said suddenly.
    I doubt I looked very interested.
    ‘The Prince is taking an army to Gascony,’ he said. ‘The indentures to raise the troops are written – it’s spoken of in every tavern. I’m not cut out for a monk, and I mean to try my hand at war.’
    I suppose I nodded. Nothing he said touched me at all.
    He put his hand on my shoulder.
    ‘Come with me, lad,’ he said. ‘If you stay here, you’ll be a thief in truth soon enough.’
    I see you all smile, and I’ll smile with you. It is the hand of God. I was born to be a man-of-arms, and then the plague and the devil and my uncle came to stop me. But every work of the devil rebounds to God in the end. The Abbott taught me that. My uncle tried to hurt me, and instead he made me tough. Later, he made me a criminal, and because of him . . .
    I went to France.
    Brother John and I left the monks without a goodbye and walked across the river at the bridge. I had to pass my former master’s shop, but no one recognized me. We walked out into the meadow, and there were the city archery butts – really, they belonged to Southwark, but we all used them. And John – no longer brother John – walked straight up to an old man with a great bow and proclaimed himself desirous of taking service.
    The old man – hah, twenty years younger than I am now, but everyone looks ancient when you are fifteen – looked at John and handed him his bow.
    ‘Just bend it,’ he said. ‘And don’t loose her dry or I’ll break your head.’
    John took the bow which, to me, looked enormous – the middle of the bow was as thick as my wrist. It was a proper war bow, not like the light bows I’d shot. A good war bow of Spanish yew was worth, well, about as much as a fine rondel dagger.
    John took it, tested the string, and then he took up an odd posture, almost like a sword stance, pointed the bow at the ground and raised it, drawing all the while.
    He didn’t get the whole draw. I was no great archer, but I knew he should have pulled the string to his cheek and he only got it back to his mouth, and even then he was straining. He grunted, exhaled and let the string out gradually.
    ‘Too heavy for me, master,’ he confessed.
    The old man took an arrow from his belt and turned to face the butt. He took his bow back the way a man might receive his wife back from a guardian at the end of a long trip. His right hand stroked the wood.
    Then he seized the grip,