'You're an honest man, Master Vowell.'
Richard slipped the papers inside his jerkin.
'What do you think they do to a monk who's caught translating holy writ into the vulgar tongue?'
'Dunno,' the tinker held up his left hand. 'Perhaps they cut off his writing fingers, like what the Frogs did to mine.'
Richard examined the gap where two fingers were missing. As a young man, the tinker had used them to draw a bowstring at Agincourt and other battles against the French.
'Why did you say you were left-handed?'
'I didn't. When you're captured, they make you draw a bow. If they think you're faking, they take 'em off both hands so there's no mistake.'
'At least they let you go. If you'd been a lord you could be rotting in a dungeon while your relatives raised a ransom.'
'Yeah,' the tinker nodded. 'They're not all bad ... the Frogs. They just made it so I couldn't draw a bow no more. They could've killed me.'
'Most of them are alright,' Richard agreed. 'It's the nobles I can't stand ... just like those arseholes we've got here.'
He tapped the tinker's arm.
'Watch out. The bailiffs are here. Walter Gallor and some little runt I've not seen before. I'm going up to the green before they see me ... Owen's here for the fair.'
***
Owen Ap-Richard leant on his longbow and addressed the crowd in his strong Welsh voice. He wore a stylish costume from Bordeaux, where he had served with a company of archers. Like Richard, he was showing signs of age and had decided to leave fighting to younger men.
'Four shots for a farthing.'
He pointed to four wooden heads.
'One hit wins you a fine ribbon for your lady's hair. Hit all four and she'll be taking home a kerchief fit for a queen.'
The heads were on a stand beside the chapel of Saint Thomas on the green. Owen gestured towards them.
'There you are, my fine sirs, four of the most treacherous and deceitful rogues in all of Christendom.'
An arrow hit one head but failed to knock it over.
Owen turned to the crowd.
'Our good friend is out to avenge the treachery of the vile Duke of Burgundy who has allied himself with our young king's enemies.'
The next shot hit the duke's helm and the head fell onto the ground. A boy of about sixteen put it back and another handed a ribbon to the triumphant archer.
Richard stepped forward and gave the archers' salute.
'You're looking fit, Owen.'