Bruce Holsinger - The Invention of Fire

Stephen obeyed as Snell took the other chair.

“War is all about logistics, Marsh,” the other man began when he was seated. “As the king’s armorer I’ve learned a great deal about the intimacy of war and bureaucracy. A good supply line is every bit as important as a capable company of archers. More important, in many ways, as fighting the Scots taught us last July.”

Stephen recalled the news spreading through the city the previous summer. It was little over a year since King Richard had returned from the disastrous campaign in Scotland, provoked by news of a French admiral landing a sizable force at Leith and providing arms and munitions to King Robert. Though the English army had destroyed a few towns and held Edinburgh for a short while, the Scots refused to engage Richard’s forces. The result had been a desultory campaign of pillaging and burning that gained the crown little in the way of spoils, and lost it a great deal in prestige.

“We had twelve thousand men mustered at Newcastle for upwards of three weeks,” said Snell. “Twelve thousand, Marsh, arriving by land and sea, crowding into the streets, camped around the walls, filling the fields, and all of them prattling in their different tongues. Bohemians, Picards, Welshmen, some unhappy Scots. The plain of Babel, spread before the Newcastle keep. It was a contract army, you see, most bought with indentures, and led by a hundred and fifty captains. Half of them had as much business taking men into war as my new daughter.”

Stephen smiled at the thought. “War gives you much to consider, Master Snell.”

“You have no conception.” He coughed loudly into his palm, then settled his hands on his knee. His legs were crossed, and there was a lustful glint in his eyes as he turned his full attention to Stephen.

“Efficiency. Doing more with less. Less food. Less coin. Less powder,” he said. “And ultimately, Marsh, less gun.”

Less gun. His own words, now coming from the mouth of King Richard’s armorer. He blinked.

“You are a talented man, Stephen Marsh.”

“You are too kind, Master Snell.”

“Some of the greatest bellfounders in the realm are also some of its greatest gunfounders. Those bombards just there?”

He pointed out the low window, opened to the autumn air. Stephen leaned forward and looked into the yard, where a pair of great cannon stood gaping toward the walls.

“The calibre is forty inches, Marsh. Forty inches! Shoots quarrels the size of a man. These ones are modeled on the guns Artevelde used at Oudenaarde a few years back. Poured at John Feel’s foundry, though I wouldn’t let Feel stamp the barrels himself. These are the Tower’s guns, with the stamp of the royal wardrobe.”

John Feel headed up a foundry in Tower Ward. A rival to Stone’s, known for good, solid work. “If you have Feel’s with you, why do you need Stone’s?”

Snell tilted his head. “It is not Stone’s I need, Marsh. It is you. Your mind, your skills. Your magic with the metals.”

Stephen breathed deeply, feeling a nice surge of pride.

“The Tower has become a teeming bitch of cannon, Marsh. It is a-why, it is a womb of guns.” The armorer turned and fixed Stephen with iron eyes. “And I want you to train up a new litter for us. A secret litter of guns, fashioned outside these walls.”

Stephen looked at the etched calfskins on the wall, the immense sprawl of the royal hold. “Such a prospect would be welcomed by my mistress,” he said cautiously. “With my master’s death, a royal commission would make all the difference for the stability of the foundry.”

Snell barked a short laugh. “Don’t play the knave with me, Marsh. This is not a commission to Stone’s, for entry in the good widow’s ledgers, or prattling among the parish gossips. This is an individual assignment, to you and you alone. Hawisia Stone is to know nothing of it.”

Stephen fought against a frown, mindful of Hawisia’s sullen mistrust. “If this is to be done at Stone’s I’ll be forced to fire and forge behind her back yet under her widow’s nose. I fear she will catch me out at it and drag me to the wardmoot or the Guildhall. My sentence is already enough of a burden.” Ten years. Ten years.

“Fear is a distraction, Marsh. One I don’t covet this season. I ask you to remember that I am giving you an opportunity here. A chance to serve your king and your country, in an hour of great need.” Snell leaned forward to place a hand on the younger man’s knee. “We are facing war. The French are massing at Sluys once more, Lancaster is abroad in Castile. Men of talent must band together, give their best to the realm.” He smiled broadly. “Besides, everyone knows you are the muscle and mind of that operation. Why you never struck out on your own while you had the chance is a mystery, at least to those I know in your craft. Surely you will find a way to work around her suspicions.”

Stephen felt himself nod, his confidence returning. “Aye, Master Snell. I surely will. I will, or the devil take my body and bread.”

“Another oath!” Snell’s eyes flashed a greyish red in the streaming light. “Good fellow.” The armorer patted Stephen’s leg again. “You’ll learn that I am a hungry man, Marsh. Hungry for progress, for innovation.”

“What sort of innovation?”

“You will be working on a new kind of gun, Stephen, and in the process helping me solve a problem that has been perplexing me for some months. A problem of efficiency that only you can solve. It will take many tries, many failures, yet I am confident your mind and hands will find the answer for us.”

Stephen reached for one last objection. “Cannon are hard to hide in a foundry, Master Snell, even one as large as Stone’s.”

He shook his head. “You needn’t worry about concealment. You won’t be making cannon for us. Nothing as large as a bombard.”

“What, then?” Stephen asked.

A long silence followed. Through the window came the blare of a trumpet, the muffled calls of the captains out in the yard, a lion’s roar from the menagerie.

“Handgonnes, Marsh,” Snell finally said, a finger clawed over his lip. “The future of war. The future of death itself, perhaps.”

Handgonnes. A word delicious on the tongue, though coming from the armorer’s mouth it rang with the virtues of his office and the guiding spirit of the Tower itself.

Efficiency.

Precision.

Less powder.

Less gun.

Handgonnes.

“Last month I had a vision,” said Snell, rising at last from his chair. Stephen was able to breathe again, though also he felt a keen longing to remain with the man in the confines of the Tower, to do this work here, with the fine tools and hot forges of the crown, rather than return to the bleak drudgery of Stone’s foundry.

Snell had gone to the window and now looked out on the width of the Tower yard. “I saw a city on a plain, ringed with fire and belching smoke. A battle, one conscripting every man, every woman, every child within its walls to join the great fight. Every last soul.”

His voice softened, and he spoke the next words as if recounting a saint’s miracle witnessed with his own eyes. “And they all had guns, Marsh. The women, the boys, even the littlest of girls.” Now a whisper, a soft breath of wonder. “They all had guns.”

There was a low aperture beneath the eaves of the building, above the window now filled with the armorer’s sturdy frame. Through this upper opening came a hazy gleam, the late hour of a dwindling day. Snell’s head appeared to Stephen’s eyes within a blazing circle of fire as the armorer began to expound on this new world of guns and shot.