A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  He was looking for someone, another of the Norman knights, but there was no sign of him. Irritable, restless and just young enough to be foolish, he pointed down the road towards Valognes. ‘I’m going to ride on ahead. I might be able to catch sight of the enemy.’

  ‘Warwick told you to wait here,’ Percy said.

  ‘I am a retainer of the Prince of Wales, not the Earl of Warwick,’ Bray said sharply. ‘He does not command me.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, as marshal of the army he commands all of us,’ Grey said. ‘Didn’t you hear? You could be walking into a trap.’

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ Bray said sharply. ‘Are you?’

  The men around him murmured, and he realised he had overstepped the mark. John Grey gazed at him for a few moments, brown eyes level and cold, until Bray began to squirm inside his armour.

  ‘No,’ Grey said. ‘I am not afraid. I am realistic, and I don’t take risks unless I need to. You should read your Vegetius. He who hopes for success should fight on the basis of principle, not chance.’

  ‘I don’t care what some dead Roman said,’ Bray snapped. ‘I am going to scout. I will report back if I find anything.’

  He pulled the visor of his helmet down and urged his horse to a canter, riding away down the track to the west. Behind him, Grey and Percy looked at each other. Percy shrugged. ‘You heard Warwick. Let him win his spurs.’

  ‘Robert Bertrand may well have crossbowmen. If he runs into those, he won’t be winning his spurs, he’ll be coming back on his shield.’ Grey called to two of the red-capped archers. ‘Matt, Pip, go after him. If he gets into trouble, try to get him out of it.’

  * * *

  Riding hard and fast, Bray rounded a bend in the road. Ahead he saw two horsemen, men-at-arms in armour and bright surcoats, halted in the middle of the road and talking together. They had heard him coming; one was already hauling his horse around spurring hard and galloping away down the road towards Valognes. The other turned towards Bray, drawing his sword.

  Bray pulled his horse to a halt. He was suddenly acutely aware that he was alone, with no one to rescue him if things went wrong. ‘What the devil are you doing out here?’ the other man demanded.

  ‘I could ask you the same question,’ Bray said. ‘Who was that man?’

  ‘That is none of your business! Why did you come here? Who else knows you are here?’

  Bray’s eyes narrowed. ‘He was a French man-at-arms, wasn’t he? What did you tell him?’

  ‘Nothing that concerns you. Stay out of this, Bray!’

  ‘You bloody traitor,’ Bray said, and he reached for his sword.

  Something whispered in the air behind him, and a hammer blow struck him in the back. Pain stabbed across his body and forward into his chest. He drew his sword, but his hand seemed to go numb and the weapon fell from his grasp and clattered to the ground. His breath caught in his throat; he leaned forward over his horse’s neck, gasping and trying to suck in air. Another heavy blow hit him in the back, and this time all the strength went from his limbs and he fell heavily to the ground, landing on his side. From the corner of his eye he could see the other man looking down at him, silhouetted against a sky that seemed strangely pale and light, and then the light faded and the world went black.

  2

  Saint-Vaast, 12th of July, 1346

  Late afternoon

  The English did not find Robert Bertrand; instead, he found them, announcing his presence with a savage attack on their position at Quettehou. Holland’s archers and the Welsh spearmen blunted the first attack, but Bertrand gathered his three hundred men and struck again. This time the Red Company moved across and took the French in the flank, driving them back. More English men-at-arms hurried up from the beach to join the fighting, but despite being heavily outnumbered, the French continued to resist for several hours. Only when most of his men were dead or wounded did Bertrand finally retreat.

  Simon Merrivale, the Prince of Wales’s herald, watched the Earl of Warwick dismount outside the church in Quettehou. The marshal was covered in dust, and there was blood on his surcoat. ‘Has Sir Edmund Bray returned?’ Warwick asked.

  The herald shook his head. ‘We assumed he was with you, my lord.’

  ‘The young fool left his position and went off scouting alone. He has probably got himself captured by the French.’

  ‘Let us hope that is the worst that has befallen him, my lord.’

  Warwick turned away to talk to his officers. Roger Mortimer came up to Merrivale. ‘Is it true? Edmund is missing?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t worry. In the morning I will send a message to the French and ask if he has been taken. If he has, you can help arrange his ransom.’

  Mortimer nodded, but Merrivale thought he looked anxious. The traitor’s grandson had few close friends, and Bray had been one of them.

  As the fighting died down, the king and prince and their retinues went down to the camp, a sprawling collection of wagons, tents and pavilions that had been set up near Saint-Vaast. Along the beach, a steady stream of boats brought men, horses and supplies ashore. The unloading of the ships would continue for several days.

  More smoke rose in the distance. The troops had begun to loot the countryside, carrying away everything they could and burning what they could not. Merrivale had seen this on other campaigns, but it still depressed him.

  He heard the beat of hooves behind him, and turned to see two horsemen riding into the camp, leading a third horse by the reins. A body clad in armour was tied across its saddle. Oh God, Merrivale thought, and he closed his eyes and uttered a short prayer. He knew the arms on the surcoat all too well.

  The two men lowered the body gently to the ground and stepped back, bowing their heads respectfully. They were men-at-arms but clearly rather impoverished ones, in scuffed leather jerkins rather than mail and armour. One wore heavy boots, the uppers of which were badly cracked. A battered shield hung from the pommel of his saddle, bearing three red eagles on a white field.

  The Prince of Wales ran forward and knelt beside the body. The other young men gathered around, their eyes wide. ‘What happened?’ the prince asked.

  The broken stumps of two arrows protruded from Bray’s backplate. The shafts were black with dried blood, and more blood stained his surcoat and armour. ‘He was shot, Highness,’ the herald said.

  ‘In the back? By God, the French really are cowards. An honourable man faces his opponent.’ The prince rose to his feet. ‘Poor Edmund,’ he said. ‘He was an excellent fellow, and would have made a good knight.’ He started to say something else, but checked. Instead, he swallowed suddenly and turned on his heel. ‘Such are the fortunes of war,’ he said abruptly, and walked away leaving his retinue staring after him.

  Mortimer knelt by the body, looking down at the dead face framed by the open bascinet. After a moment, he reached out and closed Bray’s eyes with gentle fingers. His own face was covered in tears. Merrivale rested a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Take him up to Saint-Vigor,’ the herald said gently. ‘Let his body rest by the altar tonight, so that his soul will be close to God. Tomorrow we shall bury him.’

  Mortimer nodded. Merrivale looked for the two men-at-arms, but both had disappeared. He turned and walked away, frowning.

  * * *

  More tents were going up, some with banners or pennons in the colours of their owners. Merrivale spotted the yellow chevron of Cobham, the red pile of Chandos, the red and gold stripes of one of the Bassets; the lord of Drayton, his herald’s memory told him. Further along were the familiar ermine and red chevrons of Sully. He looked at these for a moment and then walked towards the tent. A groom stood outside, combing a bay horse.

  ‘Is Sir John within?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘Aye, he is,’ said a voice inside the tent. ‘Come in, herald, and take the weight off your feet. Baker, pour Master Simon a glass of wine.’

  Merrivale smiled and entered the tent. Sir John Sully of Iddesleigh sat in a folding woo
den chair, one leg stretched out stiffly before him. An ebony stick rested against the side of the chair. He had discarded his armour, though he still wore an ancient sweat-stained arming doublet. White hair flowed down over his shoulders, but his blue eyes were bright with youth.

  ‘Sit, lad, sit.’ Sully pointed to another chair. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘All the better for being back on dry land,’ said Merrivale. He sat, his heavy embroidered tabard lying in folds over his lap, and took the glass of wine the esquire held out to him. A dog lying in a corner of the tent raised its head and looked at him; recognising the herald, it settled back to sleep once more.

  Sully chuckled. ‘Not seasick, were you? You’re a Devon lad like myself, Simon. The sea should be in your blood.’

  ‘I was born and reared on Dartmoor, remember. It’s rain I have in my blood, not the sea.’

  The humour faded from Sully’s voice. ‘Aye, I remember.’

  The herald’s childhood memories were full of rain, endless days of rain that saturated the ground and turned the streams and leats of Dartmoor into rushing brown torrents. For three long summers there had been no sign of the sun, only leaden skies and steady downpours and wind. The sheep died first; he could still remember their rotting carcasses in the fields, legs sticking upright out of the mud. Then, when the last one had perished, famine crept in. They had buried his two sisters ten days apart; a month later, his mother followed them into the ground. He remembered their deaths, the cramp of hunger that fastened itself like a vice on his bowels and never let go, and the final terrible journey from a homeland that had become a charnel house, down to poverty and exile in the lowlands around the moor.

  He shrugged off the memories. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he said.

  ‘It’s an odd thing, old age,’ Sully said. ‘Everything seems like a long time ago, and yet at the same time it feels like yesterday.’ He smiled. ‘But you have done well for yourself, lad. King’s messenger for ten years, then herald to the Earl of Lancaster and now to the Prince of Wales.’

  ‘All of which I owe to you, Sir John. It was you who plucked me from obscurity after our family’s lands were confiscated, and obtained a post for me in the king’s household.’

  ‘I gave you a leg-up at the beginning of your career, no more. Your own hard work and integrity have done the rest. The gossip says you’ll get the top job one day, when Andrew Clarenceux hangs up his tabard. How would that suit you? Herald to the king himself.’

  Merrivale smiled a little. ‘I am content with my present post.’

  He looked at the wine in his glass and his smiled faded. Sully watched him. ‘You don’t look content. What troubles you?’

  ‘We lost a man today. Young Edmund Bray, formerly one of the prince’s esquires. The prince knighted him a few hours ago. They brought his body in just now.’

  Sully watched him with sympathy. ‘Poor fellow. How old was he?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  The older man clicked his tongue. ‘All his life before him. What a waste. The prince must be grieving his loss.’

  ‘If he is, you would never know it. Bray was his friend, and yet he was quite offhand, almost callous. All he said was “Such are the fortunes of war.”’

  ‘He thinks this is how a real man behaves.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Silence followed. Sully drained his cup and held it out to his esquire to be refilled. ‘You still haven’t told me what is really troubling you.’

  ‘I think Bray was killed by one of our own men,’ the herald said.

  Sully’s eyes opened a little wider. ‘Ah. Now what makes you think that?’

  ‘The arrows that killed him are still embedded in the body. The shafts have been broken off, but they are definitely not crossbow bolts. They are longbow arrows.’

  ‘The French have bows,’ Sully suggested.

  ‘Little hunting bows for sport, yes, but in war? They rely on crossbows, and always have done.’

  Sully watched the herald’s face. ‘What do you want to do, lad?’

  ‘I want to discover who killed him,’ Merrivale said. ‘And why.’

  Sully continued to study him. ‘We are at the beginning of a long, hard campaign. Many more men will die before this is over. Why care so much about this one?’

  ‘It is one thing to die in battle,’ Merrivale said. ‘It is another to be murdered by one’s own people. If this had happened back in England, there would be a commission of oyer and terminer. A suspect would be identified and brought to trial before the courts. Bray was serving his king and his liege lord the prince. Why should he be denied the justice he would have received at home?’

  ‘Others will see the matter differently,’ Sully said. ‘He is a casualty of war, they will say. Bury him, say a mass for his soul and move on.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  Sully smiled, his weathered old face creasing into wrinkles. ‘What I believe doesn’t matter. It’s what you believe that counts.’

  ‘So what should I do?’

  ‘Follow your heart. Do what your conscience tells you, and damn the rest. That’s the only thing a man can do.’

  Merrivale smiled too. ‘I wish I had your wisdom,’ he said.

  ‘You will, when you have my years. But then, like me, you’ll be too old to do anything about it.’

  Merrivale drained his glass. ‘Too old. You weren’t even the oldest man in the field today. You’re sixty-two. Robert Bertrand is ten years older.’

  ‘And that why he failed today. He tried too hard to be clever and canny. A younger man wouldn’t have stopped to think. He would have charged straight in and not stopped until he had pushed us into the sea.’

  ‘He came close enough,’ Merrivale said, rising to his feet. ‘Thank you. As always, you have helped me see things more clearly.’

  ‘Then I wish you good fortune in your quest,’ said Sully.

  Saint-Vaast, 12th of July, 1346

  Evening

  The sun had gone down behind the escarpment, though the sea still glowed with light and the sails of the ships waiting to debark flamed like lanterns against the darkening east. Men were lighting torches around the camp, and more torches flickered on the beach where the unloading of ships and boats continued. Further along the coast, fires flickered into life as houses and barns were set alight. Smoke rose in clouds, lit from beneath by flames and sparks.

  Merrivale found Warwick still in full armour, talking with Sir Thomas Ughtred, the under-marshal. ‘We will not advance inland until all the troops are ashore,’ Warwick was saying. ‘That is Northampton’s view, and I agree. We have seen off Bertrand for the moment, but we have no idea what resistance awaits us at Carentan, or Caen.’

  ‘I am worried about those French warships,’ Ughtred said. ‘There might be more of them in other ports; Barfleur or Cherbourg. They could do a good deal of mischief.’

  ‘Huntingdon is preparing to attack Barfleur,’ said Warwick. ‘Cherbourg will follow. Very well, Tom, that is all for the moment.’

  Ughtred departed. ‘What is it, herald?’ Warwick asked.

  ‘Sir Edmund Bray, my lord. Did you know he was dead?’

  ‘Yes. Damned fool. He should have obeyed orders, instead of walking into a French ambush.’

  Merrivale shook his head. ‘Sir Edmund was killed by one of our own men, my lord. I am quite certain of it. He was shot by an archer, not a crossbowman.’

  Warwick paused. ‘You are certain of this?’

  ‘I am, my lord. I saw the arrows still embedded in his back.’

  ‘Perhaps it was an accident.’

  ‘Perhaps. But there should be an inquisition all the same.’

  ‘For God’s sake, herald. You are right, of course, but think of the practicalities.’ Warwick gestured at the torchlit chaos around him. ‘Do you think we have nothing better to do?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Merrivale said. ‘I have no intention of adding to your burdens or those of the other officers. I propose to conduc
t the investigation myself. My office gives me certain powers.’

  Warwick snorted. ‘The power to adjudicate in disputes over coats of arms, yes. Not to investigate a death.’

  ‘That power can be extended, surely. Murder is a crime, on the campaign trail just as anywhere else. You are right, my lord, it may well have been an accident. But if Bray was murdered, then his killer should be brought to justice.’

  Warwick seemed amused by this. ‘Have you any idea how many convicted murderers we have in the ranks of this army? The king offered pardons to all who would agree to serve, as an alternative to the hangman’s noose. Suppose we do arrest this man and convict him of murder. Shall we then pardon him and send him back to his post?’

  ‘What happens after he is convicted is not up to me,’ the herald said. ‘If the principle of justice does not sway you, my lord, then consider this. Bray was a friend of the prince. Whoever killed him may well intend to kill again. Others of the prince’s companions might also be at risk.’ He paused for effect. ‘Or even the prince himself.’

  ‘Body of Christ.’ Warwick looked up at the sky, cloudy with smoke, and then back at the herald. ‘Very well. Come with me.’

  * * *

  The royal kitchens were sited in and around tents not far from the beach, and as they passed, Merrivale smelled the tang of coal smoke and the more pleasing scents of mustard and garlic. He followed Warwick to the king’s pavilion, its canvas covered with royal leopards on red silk. Guards bowed their heads and moved aside to let them enter.

  The king was closeted with his secretary and two advisers, Lord Rowton and Thomas Hatfield, the Bishop of Durham. He had removed his armour and was clad in a long red robe. ‘Who is setting all these damned fires, Warwick?’ he demanded as the marshal entered.

  ‘Looters, sire,’ said Warwick. ‘I am afraid there is nothing we can do to stop them.’