Merrivale became alert. ‘Yes. Do you know him?’
‘As it happens, I do. His name is Jean de Fierville. He comes from the Cotentin.’ Tracey hesitated. ‘I’ve known him for a good few years. His family and mine have… done business together for some time now.’
‘May I ask what sort of business?’
The pause this time was longer. ‘The Fiervilles are shipowners. That is to say, they are involved in all sorts of trade. Some legitimate, some not. Not dissimilar to my own family, come to that.’
The Traceys had gone through some dark times during the troubled years of the king’s father’s reign and emerged with a rather dubious reputation. Sir Edward’s father, Sir John de Tracey, had been accused of piracy and other crimes, for which he was eventually pardoned. Times had changed: Tracey’s brother was the king’s banker, and Tracey himself had married the sister of the Earl of Arundel.
‘So, the Fiervilles,’ Merrivale said. ‘Are they pirates?’
‘Frankly, it’s hard to tell the difference between trading, smuggling and piracy. You’re likely to find the same ship doing all three things, sometimes even at the same time.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
‘Yes,’ Tracey said finally. ‘Fierville was involved in the attack on Southampton back in ’38.’
The French attack on Southampton in 1338 was notorious. Hundreds of people had been slaughtered, and many others were still missing; it was widely believed that they had been sold into slavery by the pirates. The herald struggled to keep the distaste out of his voice. ‘Whose side is Fierville on now? Is he one of Bertrand’s men? Or one of ours?’
‘One of ours, definitely. I saw him in Portchester, and he told me was in Harcourt’s retinue. I have to say, I was surprised.’
‘Why?’
‘The Fiervilles always look out for their own interests. What would possess a man like Jean de Fierville to risk everything by taking up with a rebel like Lord Godefroi?’
‘Do you know where he is now?’
‘No idea, I’m afraid. In all the confusion of embarkation and landing, I haven’t seen him since Portchester.’
‘I want to talk to him,’ Merrivale said. ‘If you see him, will you be so good as to let me know?’
‘Of course.’ Tracey paused again. ‘It’s certain, is it? Bray was killed by one of our folk?’
‘Yes,’ Merrivale said.
Tracey nodded. ‘Then I hope you find him.’
* * *
Returning to his own tent, Merrivale removed his tabard and called for his writing case. Mauro set the box on his folding desk, laying out pen and ink, parchment and shaving knife in an orderly fashion just as he knew his master liked it. Sitting down on a wooden stool, Merrivale stared at the smooth sheet of parchment for a moment, marshalling his thoughts. Then he picked up the pen, dipped it in the inkwell and began to write.
Inquisition into the death of Edmund Bray, knight, near the village of Quettehou in Normandy on the XIIth day of July, in the nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward III.
Following an action against the French, Sir Edmund’s body was found by the miles Sir Nicholas Courcy of Kingsale and his men and returned to the camp. Sir Edmund had been shot in the back at close range by two arrows. It can be assumed that the first arrow did not kill him immediately, so he was shot a second time to administer a coup de grâce.
Item, as to whether Sir Edmund was killed by enemy action. This can be discounted, as there were no archers with the enemy force.
Item, as to whether he was killed by accident. His decision to go scouting alone seems to have been a spontaneous action. He was shot at close range, and two arrows, as indicated above, is consistent with hostile action.
Item, as to whether he was killed as a result of a feud or quarrel. This cannot be discounted entirely, but it seems unlikely. Apart from a public quarrel with the miles Sir Thomas Holland at Portchester, there is nothing to suggest that Bray had any enemies.
Item, as to whether he was killed by troops whom he encountered looting. Bray’s body had not been robbed. The corpse was discovered by men of the retinue of Sir Nicholas Courcy of Kingsale, who had no archers of his own.
The herald paused, thinking about Courcy’s final words. That tabard won’t keep out a longbow arrow. A warning? Or a threat?
Item, a Norman miles, Jean de Fierville, was allegedly spotted near the scene where Bray was killed. I am told he is in the retinue of the lord of Harcourt.
He paused again, thinking. Two archers had been sent after Bray; two longbow arrows had killed him. That in itself was not evidence. But there was something false about Matt and Pip, he was quite certain of it. To tell the truth, until Tracey had identified Fierville, he had wondered whether that entire scene on the road might have been their invention.
And indeed, it still might be. Jean de Fierville was with the army, but that did not mean he had been on that road that afternoon.
He dipped his pen in the ink and wrote Item, but then stopped. Sir John Grey and Sir Richard Percy would not take kindly to an accusation against their men unless there was very strong evidence, and this the herald did not have.
No, he thought. Better to find Fierville and get his version of events first. He picked up the little shaving knife and sliced away the top layer of parchment to erase the word, then dipped the pen in the inkwell again and signed his name: Simon Merrivale, heraldus.
* * *
The king had taken over the manor house at Morsalines for his personal use. His secretary, Michael Northburgh, had set up his office in the great hall, and even though the hour was late he was still hard at work. ‘I thought it wise to provide a written report,’ Merrivale said, handing over the parchment. ‘However, the fewer eyes that see this, other than yours and the king’s, the better.’
‘Of course.’ The secretary scanned the report quickly. ‘Jean de Fierville? The name does not spring immediately to mind, but let me check the muster rolls.’
He turned to a wooden pigeonhole beside the desk and began pulling out rolls of parchment. ‘Here we are, the retinue of the lord of Harcourt.’ Untying the red tape that bound it, he spread the parchment out flat. ‘Fierville, Fierville… ah, there it is. Miles Ioannes de Fierville, joined the army at Portchester, fifteenth of June. Indenture signed by said Ioannes de Fierville and Godefroi d’Harcourt, vicecomes de Saint-Sauveur. Yes, that’s your man all right. He joined the army late, hence me not recognising the name.’
‘So he is not one of the original exiles who came over with Harcourt last year.’
‘It doesn’t look like it, no.’
The herald rubbed his chin. ‘I must talk to this man.’
‘You will need to ask Harcourt’s permission first,’ Northburgh warned. ‘And you know how touchy he can be.’
‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’
‘He is closeted with the king now, but they won’t be long. They are discussing how to persuade the Norman lords to join us.’ Northburgh held up a sheet of parchment. ‘Have you heard the latest? Letters are going out to all the important barons and knights, urging them to pledge fealty to the king. Harcourt’s men are carrying the letters under flags of truce.’
Merrivale looked doubtful. ‘Will this work?’
‘Unlikely, I’d say. Harcourt’s own brother has already pledged his fealty to France. Do you really think the rest of Normandy will rise up and proclaim his Grace as their king? I reckon we’ll see the king’s herd of pigs sprouting wings and flying off over the Bay of Saint-Vaast before that happens.’
Northburgh gathered his papers and rose. ‘I’m off. Wait here if you like. His lordship will be down soon.’
The herald waited, listening to the sound of voices coming from the solar above the hall. After a while, the door opened and Godefroi d’Harcourt came down the broad stone stair, followed by several of his men. Merrivale bowed.
‘My lord. May I speak with you?’
/> Harcourt halted. ‘What is it?’
‘I wish to interview one of your men-at-arms, Jean de Fierville. Will you grant me permission to do so?’
The other Normans stared at him. ‘What do you want with this man?’ Harcourt asked.
‘He may have been present when Sir Edmund Bray was killed yesterday afternoon.’
‘Are you accusing him of involvement in the killing?’
‘No, my lord, but he may have seen the culprit. Do I have your consent?’
‘No,’ said Harcourt. ‘You will not question members of my retinue, or meddle with them in any way.’
‘My lord, I am investigating on the king’s orders.’
‘Then take it up with the king,’ Harcourt said, and limped past Merrivale towards the door.
‘My lord!’ the herald called after him. ‘I must speak with Jean de Fierville!’
One of the Norman men-at-arms spun around, hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘You heard my lord,’ he snarled. ‘Stay out of this, herald.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ Merrivale asked.
‘No, of course he isn’t,’ said another Norman, pulling the first man’s hand away from his sword. ‘All the same, herald, I would take his advice if I were you.’
4
Valognes, 18th of July, 1346
Afternoon
‘Gracious king, we humbly beseech you to spare our poor worthless lives. Our homes, our possessions, everything we own, we give to you. We ask only that you spare us and our families. In the name of the Blessed Virgin and her son Jesus Christ, we ask for mercy.’
The burgesses of Valognes, dressed in their richest clothes and some wearing chains of office, knelt in the dust of the road with their hands clasped in supplication. Behind them lay the houses, mills and priories of the unwalled and undefended town, its cobbled streets shimmering in the heat. Two dogs stood watching the scene, stiff-legged and ears pricked, ready to bolt.
Seated on the back of his massive black horse, the king raised his visor and smiled down at the kneeling men. ‘Do not fear, good people,’ he said, raising one mailed gauntlet in benediction. ‘You are my subjects, and thus under my protection. By my order, you and your possessions and chattels will be safe, and all the rights, privileges and customs of your town will be respected. Arise now, and go in peace.’
The burgesses scrambled to their feet, straightening their gowns and bowing low. ‘Sire, you are wise and merciful,’ stammered one. ‘God save your Grace for his clemency.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the king, waving his hand. ‘Oh, and we require billets for myself and my captains. Make it so.’
The burgesses hurried back into the town. The king watched them go, and turned to the men around him. ‘Did you see that?’ he asked. ‘My subjects ask for royal mercy, I grant them clemency, and they are grateful and praise me accordingly. Northburgh, make sure word of this gets back to England. I want people to know how magnanimous I have been. Northampton, Warwick, take note. Every time we conquer a new town, I want a reception like this.’
‘Yes, sire,’ said Northampton.
The king lifted the reins of his horse. ‘Now. Let us go and inspect our new possession and greet our loyal subjects.’
* * *
The army had remained another four days at Saint-Vaast while the last troops and stores came ashore. Looters continued to burn and pillage the countryside, and Merrivale waited for Jean de Fierville to appear. He had asked Mauro and Warin to keep watch, and he felt certain that Edward de Tracey would be looking out too, but there was no sign of the Norman. Northburgh reminded him that several of Harcourt’s men were carrying letters around the countryside urging people to defect to the English. ‘Fierville might be one of them. If so, he may not return for several days.’
‘That would be a pity. At the moment, he is my only remaining lead.’
Well, not quite. He thought about interviewing Matt and Pip again, and decided against it. Let us hear what Fierville has to say, he thought. Then, if he can prove he was somewhere else when Bray was killed, I shall be having a strong word with those two archers.
Before marching from Saint-Vaast to Valognes, the army was organised into three divisions. The Prince of Wales, to his loud and enthusiastic delight, was appointed to command the vanguard, although everyone knew that real command was vested in Warwick, the marshal.
‘And what a sack of cats he will be marshalling,’ said Sir John Sully. Returning from delivering a message to the king, Merrivale had encountered Sully as the last of the army was moving up off the beach. ‘Have you seen who his captains are?’
Merrivale raised his eyebrows.
‘Oh, they have given him some good men, no doubt,’ Sully said. ‘But whose idea was it to order Thomas Holland to serve alongside the Earl of Salisbury?’
Merrivale blinked. ‘Perhaps they will learn to get along,’ he said.
‘Holland? That man is so full of choler, it is a wonder he doesn’t boil over. Lock him up in an empty church and he’ll pick a fight with the gargoyles. And that’s not all.’
‘Oh?’
‘Hugh Despenser was originally ordered to serve in the rearguard, but at the last moment those orders were changed and he was assigned to the van. He will be rubbing shoulders with young Mortimer. And to crown it all, Matthew Gurney has been assigned to the same division as well.’
‘For God’s sake!’ the herald said sharply. ‘Why?’
‘There are two possible explanations,’ said Sully. ‘One is that our good marshal has taken leave of his senses. But I’ve known Tom Beauchamp since he was a wet-nosed pageboy, and I’ve never seen any sign of mental aberration. The other explanation is that someone is deliberately meddling in the dispositions of the army.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The army that fights well, fights together. The men put aside personal quarrels and rivalries and become brothers in arms. They are united in one task, defeating the enemy. If you want to break an army’s fighting spirit, the fastest way to do so is to sow discord, particularly among the captains. Once they start fighting each other, the army quickly falls apart. I’ve seen it before, lad. At Bannockburn, and elsewhere too.’
‘Do you really think these men will start fighting each other?’
‘They’ll be at each other’s throats before midnight,’ Sully predicted.
‘You think someone is meddling. Who?’
‘Now then, boy, wouldn’t that be useful to know?’ said Sully.
* * *
And so the army marched, through pomegranate-red sunlight along the dusty roads and tracks of Normandy. Men-at-arms jingled with harness and spurs, bright-polished armour dazzling in the light, brilliant surcoats and shields and banners a kaleidoscope of moving colour; light horsemen, hobelars from the north country and the Welsh marches, fanned out across the fields in little companies, with lances upraised like the quills of a hedgehog; long columns of archers in green and russet slouched down the road with their bows over their shoulders and quivers strapped across their backs; Welsh and Cornish spearmen sweated in their quilted gambesons and heavy leather skullcaps, daggers and axes tucked through their belts. The prince’s division passed, then the centreguard under the king, with Northampton and Harcourt at his right hand, then the long rumbling column of baggage wagons, among which could be found a young English girl driving a small herd of recalcitrant milk cows, and finally the rearguard, commanded by the Bishop of Durham and the Earl of Arundel. As the dust settled behind them, the smoke of burning farms began to rise once more.
In Valognes, the citizens hid indoors while armoured men-at-arms rode through the streets looking for their billets. To the south, an enormous column of smoke billowed into the sky, obscuring the sun. By the time Merrivale reached the Duke of Normandy’s house, where the king had taken up residence, the wind had changed and smoke was blowing across the town, dropping ash and sparks onto the thatched roofs below. An archer stood in the courtyard of the house with the carcass o
f a deer over his shoulders, haggling with one of the cooks. ‘Come on, man! Look at her, she’s a prime red deer hind! That’s worth ten pence of the king’s money any day!’
‘Ten pence! Do you think we are made of money? Sixpence and not a farthing more.’
Northburgh came out to meet the herald. ‘Chaos,’ he said, motioning towards the hall. ‘Not content with that piece of mummery outside the town, the king has invited the burgesses to join him for dinner, so that they can make further speeches praising his generosity. Any news?’
Merrivale shook his head. ‘I am afraid not. There’s still no sign of Fierville.’
Northburgh paused for a moment. ‘Simon, my friend,’ he said. ‘Please do not take this the wrong way. But is it possible that you are mistaken? Is the prince’s life really in danger?’
‘I can only give you the same answer I gave the king,’ Merrivale said. ‘I do not know. The problem is that all the more commonplace explanations, such as accident or enemy action, do not stand up to scrutiny. I am convinced that Bray was killed deliberately.’
‘And what is the link to Fierville?’
‘He was spotted on the Valognes road at about the same time.’
‘He might well have been on reconnaissance,’ Northburgh said. ‘Several Normans were sent to spy out the country soon after we landed. Fierville may have been one of them.’
‘Yes. According to witnesses, he was seen riding hard down the road from Valognes, away from the enemy. But as soon as he saw our men, he wheeled and rode away again, back towards the enemy. Why?’
Northburgh did not answer. The cook and the archer struck a bargain at eight pence and the latter ran out of the courtyard whooping with delight, clutching the equivalent of nearly three days’ pay in his hand. In an hour’s time, Merrivale thought, he and his friends will be roaring drunk.
A Flight of Arrows Page 6