A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘There is something you should know,’ Northburgh said finally. ‘Our arrival at Saint-Vaast was expected by the enemy. They had a strong force ready in wait for us, on both land and sea.’

  ‘Why did they withdraw?’

  ‘We don’t know. More worryingly, we also don’t know how they knew when and where to expect us.’

  * * *

  Northburgh went back inside. Merrivale turned to find the cook standing in front of him, bowing. ‘Sir Herald. Might I have a word with you?’

  ‘Of course. You’re Coloyne, aren’t you? The king’s head cook.’

  ‘I am the yeoman of the kitchen, sir,’ the man said stiffly.

  Which meant, head cook. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I must apologise, sir, but after that impertinent archer departed, I fear I overheard some of your conversation with Master Northburgh. Concerning the landing at Saint-Vaast, that is.’

  Behind him, two more cooks were hard at work skinning and butchering the deer. ‘Go on.’

  ‘While the court was ashore at Freshwater, one of my junior staff overheard something. She reported it to me, as was right, but I am afraid I dismissed the matter as being of no importance. But after hearing what Master Northburgh said, I fear I may have been wrong.’

  ‘What did she overhear?’

  ‘Perhaps it would be best, sir, if I summoned the girl and she told the story in her own words.’ Coloyne turned to one of the men behind him. ‘Fetch the cowherd, if you please.’

  She came into the courtyard a few minutes later. Merrivale recognised her at once as the girl he had seen herding the cattle away from the fires at Saint-Vaast. She wore a pair of scuffed leather turnshoes with laces around her ankles, and an unbleached kirtle in an indeterminate shade of grey. Seen close up, she was not quite so young as he had thought; thirteen or fourteen, but small for her age. Her eyes widened a little at the stiff, glittering embroidery of his tabard, but she curtseyed and then stood straight with her hands at her sides, meeting his gaze. She was not short of confidence, he thought.

  ‘What is your name, girl?’ he asked.

  ‘Nell Driver, sir.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Southwick, sir. It is hard by Portchester.’

  ‘How do you happen to be with the army, Mistress Driver?’

  She blinked at the formality, but he wanted to show her she had nothing to fear. ‘The herdsman was looking for someone to help with the cows, sir. The pay was good, a penny a day, so I said I would go.’

  ‘Did your parents make no objection?’

  ‘There’s only my ma, sir, and she didn’t mind. I’m one less mouth to feed. I wanted to see what the rest of the world looked like, sir,’ she added.

  Ash fell like black snow in the courtyard, and the men butchering the deer had to cover the carcass. This is what the world looks like, thought the herald. ‘I understand you overheard something at Freshwater. Tell me what happened.’

  ‘I went to sleep in the byre, sir, so I could keep an eye on the cows. One of them had been poorly. When I woke up, I heard two men outside. They were talking of the wind, and the delay it had caused, and how it could ruin all their plans. One man told the other he must get a message to France, to someone called Bertrand.’

  Despite the summer heat and smoke, a cold finger ran down the herald’s spine. ‘Did they say what the message was?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The first man said the king would still land at Saint-Vaast as planned, and Bertrand should hold his men together and wait. He said it was important, because if Bertrand succeeded, then my lord of Harcourt would be discredited.’

  Merrivale kept his voice calm. ‘Was there anything more?’

  Nell thought. ‘It was mostly just more of the same, sir. The one man kept repeating how important this all was. Then it started to rain and they went away.’

  ‘Did they call each other by name?’

  Nell shook her head. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Would you recognise their voices if you heard them again?’

  She paused. ‘I don’t know, sir. I might. They had powerful strong accents, both of them.’

  ‘Where were the accents from, would you say?’

  ‘The one man’s was a bit like yours, sir, from out west somewhere. The other was from the north, I think.’

  ‘Can you be more specific, mistress? Was it a hard accent like Northumberland or Cumberland? Or rounder, like you would find in Lancashire or Cheshire?’

  For the first time, some of her confidence deserted her. ‘I really don’t know, sir. I’m not even sure where them places are. Until I joined the army, I’d never been further than Portsmouth.’

  Merrivale smiled. ‘Of course. It was a foolish question on my part. Just one more thing, mistress, if I may. During your travels with the army, have you seen a man-at-arms with a red lion in white on his coat and shield? His name is Jean de Fierville, and I wish very much to talk to him.’

  ‘I have seen no such man, sir. I am sorry.’

  ‘There is no need to be sorry, mistress. You have done very well.’ Reaching into his purse, he took out a groat and handed it to her. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  A groat, four pence, was worth several days’ wages. To his surprise, she smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m well provided for, sir. Send it to my ma in Southwick, if you please. She needs the money more than me.’

  * * *

  The Prince of Wales had taken up residence in the second largest house in Valognes, a big town house belonging to the Bishop of Coutances, hanging his banner over the gate. Here too the courtyard was full of servants preparing dinner; ovens were roaring in the kitchens, and the smell of the prince’s favourite spiced beef pies filled the air.

  In the great hall, men milled about, some still in part armour or mail, others changed into tunics and hose and soft shoes, talking, drinking, shouting, laughing, celebrating the first day of the march. The prince sat at the high table playing dice with his friends, banging his fist on the table when he won, shouting with laughter when he lost, which was often. His tutor, Sir Bartholomew Burghersh, sat behind his shoulder, watching the play with a faint smile on his lips.

  Most of the vanguard captains were there; Merrivale saw John Sully talking with John Grey and Richard Percy and the latter’s older brother, Harry. Nicholas Courcy was there too, and their eyes met briefly before Courcy smiled and raised his glass. Thomas Holland was on the far side of the room next to a big brick fireplace, standing pointedly with his back to the Earl of Salisbury. He was a square-built man, dark-haired and deep-voiced, with a Lancashire accent; there were scars on his neck and cheek, and he wore a black patch over one eye. That sense of restless, barely suppressed anger that Sully had spoken of was palpable. Holland shifted on the balls of his feet, fingers sometimes tapping on his sword hilt.

  Spotting Holland reminded the herald of the quarrel Mortimer had mentioned back at Portchester. Bracing himself for a difficult interview, he began to make his way across the room towards him.

  He was halfway there when someone stamped into the hall and slammed the door shut. ‘Holland!’ a man shouted. ‘I want a word with you!’

  Holland stiffened but did not turn around. The man by the door was still in full armour, stained with dust and smoke, his face bathed in sweat. Merrivale did not need to see his surcoat – white quartered with gold frets on red and a black ribbon – to know that the newcomer was Sir Hugh Despenser. Twenty years might have passed, he thought, and yet for some in the room it still felt like no time at all.

  ‘Holland!’ Despenser shouted again. ‘God damn you, look at me!’

  Slowly, so slowly that the movement was an insult in itself, Holland turned to face him. ‘What do you want, Despenser?’

  Sir Hugh walked forward, people hurrying to get out of his way. ‘Did you not hear the king’s proclamation? No towns are to be burned or looted!’

  ‘I heard it.’

  ‘Do you see that smoke out there? That is Montebourg, the nex
t town to the south. Those thieves you call your retinue have burned the place to the ground! Looted everything they could carry and put torches to everything they couldn’t. Churches, priories, everything gone. What do you think the king will do when he hears this?’

  Holland shrugged one shoulder. ‘I have no idea. Why don’t you run and tell him?’

  ‘You stupid bastard! We are supposed to protect these people! How can we persuade them to join us when your brigands are burning them out of house and home?’

  Matthew Gurney started to laugh. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘A Despenser showing respect for the law! Whatever next? A horse that can play the bagpipes? A fish that can walk on land? Or just another obnoxious donkey braying in our midst?’

  Laughter exploded around the room. The prince watched the scene, dice forgotten in his hand. Despenser looked at the circle of laughing, jeering faces, and his own face reddened. He reached out to the nearest man and ripped the goblet of wine from his hand, raising it in the air.

  ‘I’m told you children like to play drinking games,’ he said. ‘Shall we play one now? It’s called Happy Families. I’ll show you how it works.’

  He stabbed one finger at Holland. ‘Did your father burn my father’s lands, Sir Thomas? He did? Good! Take a drink! Are you a bigamist?’ he asked, rounding suddenly on Salisbury. ‘Why, of course you are! Take a drink! Ah, Sir Roger Mortimer, our newest knight. Did your grandfather hang my grandfather? Yes, by God, he did! Go on, take a drink!’ Shouting over the rising tide of noise, he turned on Gurney. ‘And you, Sir Matthew, did your father by any chance shove a red-hot poker up the old king’s arse? Why, yes, he did! Take a drink!’

  Holland, Salisbury, Mortimer and Gurney were all moving towards him. Despenser threw his goblet on the floor, wine spraying across the rushes. ‘Do you want to fight me, girls? Come on outside, then. We’ll see who can hold their claret, by Christ we will!’

  A fist banged on the high table. ‘Enough!’

  Every head turned. To Merrivale’s surprise, it was the Prince of Wales who had spoken. He had risen to his feet, and now he banged the table again. ‘The only fighting to be done here is with the enemy! That is my order, do you hear? Sir Hugh, do you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you,’ Despenser said stonily. ‘Lord Prince, if you will not let me fight, then will you grant me another favour?’

  The prince straightened. ‘What is it?’

  ‘My original post was with my lord of Arundel in the rearguard. Grant me permission to return there.’

  Having briefly sounded like a leader of men, the prince now reverted to being a sixteen-year-old boy. ‘Return to the rearguard? The vanguard is the post of honour, Sir Hugh, though perhaps the term post of honour means nothing to you?’

  Hugh Despenser reached for his sword. Had he drawn it, the act would have cost him his life, but before his hand could touch the hilt, Merrivale ripped the weapon out of its scabbard. ‘Outside! Now!’ he snapped. ‘My lord of Salisbury, I advise you to return to your seat immediately. Sir Roger, Sir Thomas, Sir Matthew, you will kindly accompany me. Now!’

  He was not certain they would obey, but they did. Merrivale looked once at Burghersh, who should have intervened himself to stop this – who should have ensured that the scene had never happened in the first place – and the older knight gazed back at him with a face as blank as stone.

  The herald followed the others out into the courtyard and presented Despenser with his sword, hilt first. Despenser slammed it back into the scabbard with a clash of metal.

  ‘I presume, Sir Hugh, that you already appreciate your folly in attempting to draw your sword in the royal presence,’ Merrivale said. ‘I will say no more on that matter. As for the rest, you all heard the prince. We are in the presence of the enemy. Fighting each other is foolish and dangerous, and will draw the king’s anger down on your heads.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Mortimer snapped. ‘I will not stand idly by while this man insults my family.’

  Despenser sneered. ‘I merely stated some historical facts.’

  ‘Lies,’ spat Gurney. ‘That is not how the old king died, and you know it!’

  ‘Do I? Ask any alewife between Canterbury and Carlisle and she will give you a different story.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should stick to keeping company with alewives, Despenser. You are clearly at home among them.’

  ‘Indeed I am. Give me an honest alewife over a thief or a murderer any day.’

  ‘Enough!’ barked the herald. ‘Sir Hugh, I will inform his Highness that you are unwell, and you will retire to your quarters. You will make your apology in the morning. Sir Matthew, Sir Roger, return to the hall, and let there be no further breaches of the peace. Sir Thomas, a moment of your time, if you please.’

  * * *

  The others departed. Holland shifted. ‘You take a great deal upon yourself, herald.’

  ‘If you dispute my actions, you may raise the matter with the king.’

  ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘I am told that you had a dispute with Sir Edmund Bray at Portchester, not long before the fleet sailed. May I ask what that was about?’

  Holland’s good eye glared at him. ‘How do you know this?’

  Merrivale said nothing.

  ‘He insulted my wife,’ Holland said. ‘That is all I am prepared to say.’

  ‘Not everyone would agree that she is your wife.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn. In the eyes of God, she is mine!’

  ‘You have no idea what God sees, and neither do I,’ the herald said. ‘Did the quarrel persist? Did you exchange words with him again?’

  ‘No. The little turd avoided my company after that. He knew what I would do to him if I caught him alone. Then we embarked and I didn’t see him again until the ceremony at the church.’ Holland snorted. ‘Bray, a knight. Christ in heaven. The prince will be knighting his grooms next, or his tailor.’

  ‘Bray came from a good family, my lord.’

  ‘He had Eustace Rowton for a sponsor. Otherwise he’d still be slopping out pigs back in Cheshire.’

  ‘Did you kill him?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘Did I— Jesus! You speak very boldly, herald!’

  ‘And I am waiting for an answer,’ Merrivale said. ‘Your attempt to lay claim to the lady Joan very nearly cost you your head, Sir Thomas. You were reprieved because the king respects you as a captain. Show him, and me, that you are worthy of that respect. Tell me the truth about what happened between you and Bray.’

  ‘He spoke badly of my wife and I punched him in the face. His friends dragged him away. That was all. I never spoke to him again, and I certainly never killed the little shit. Nor would I. He was beneath contempt.’

  They looked at each other for a long time in the dull smoky sunlight. ‘Go in peace, Sir Thomas,’ the herald said.

  Valognes, 18th of July, 1346

  Late evening

  It was nearly sunset when Warwick returned to Valognes. Along with Harcourt, Reginald Cobham and the Red Company, he had scouted far down the Cotentin, and he returned to headquarters dusty and tired and stinking of smoke. Dismounting, he handed over the reins of his horse, took a long draught from the glass of wine his esquire handed him and turned to Merrivale, who awaited him.

  ‘Well? Any news?’

  ‘Some,’ the herald said, and he related what the cowherd had told him. Warwick listened intently, wiping the sweat from his grimy face.

  ‘The fact that there are French spies in the army is hardly news. Is Fierville one of them?’

  ‘That is a possibility. On another note, we had an unpleasant incident this evening at the prince’s court.’

  Again Warwick listened while Merrivale recounted what had happened. ‘My lord, was it a good idea to put those men to serve cheek by jowl in the same division?’

  ‘It was nothing to do with me,’ Warwick said briefly. ‘The order came from the king. I will speak to Despenser in the morning. As for the rest, let’s h
ope the prospect of some real fighting will give them a distraction.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Robert Bertrand is in Carentan, and he intends to make a stand there. The town is surrounded by marshes and water, and it won’t be easy to take. We must try to keep those quarrelsome children under control until we get there, at least. And let me know as soon as you find Fierville.’

  5

  Sainte-Mère-Église, 19th of July, 1346

  Afternoon

  The long road south from Valognes was choked with traffic, wagons, carts and marching men pushing on through the shimmering heat. The air was full of dust and smoke. Earlier, they had passed Montebourg, piles of rubble and ash with scavengers picking through the ruins. Up ahead, the next town on the road, Sainte-Mère-Église, was already burning.

  A hobelar, a light cavalryman armed with a long iron-tipped lance, reined in alongside Mauro’s cart. He was sweating profusely under his quilted jack. ‘Can you spare us a drink, brother?’

  He caught the waterskin Mauro threw him and drank thirstily, then tossed it back. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Spain. And you?’

  ‘Westmorland. Both a damned long way from home, aren’t we?’

  Up ahead, the traffic had jammed, for the dozenth time that day, and the long line of wagons rolled to a halt. Mauro engaged the brake on the cart, which contained his master’s tent, baggage, portable furniture and records, and sat waiting for something to happen. A file of archers, dusty in green and russet, prowled past with their bows over their shoulders. They looked eagerly at the waterskin, and Mauro smiled and handed it down.

  ‘Who are you with, brother?’ the hobelar asked their leader.

  ‘Sir Thomas Holland,’ the man said. He was a big man, bald as an egg in the sunlight, with the tanned naked skin of his head split by a livid scar running from forehead to crown. His neck was thick with muscle and his face was seamed with wrinkles. Small, vivid blue eyes watched the world with a mixture of cunning and calculation. A veteran, Mauro thought. God knows how many battlefields he has seen, or how many atrocities.