A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘Holland? You lot are all Lankies, then?’ the hobelar asked.

  Heads nodded. ‘Wigan and thereabouts,’ one man said.

  ‘Been out foraging? Any luck?’

  The leader winked and lifted the flap of his haversack. Sunlight gleamed briefly off a pair of silver cups. The hobelar stared at them enviously. ‘Where’d you get those? Sainte-Mère-Église?’ The archers nodded. ‘That’s a lot of silver to be carrying around,’ Mauro observed. ‘Aren’t you worried someone will steal it?’

  The leader smiled, showing broken yellow teeth. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not worried. Anyone who wants to try is welcome.’

  ‘We won’t be carrying it around for long,’ another man said. ‘The bank will take care of it for us. Then we’ll go out looking for another load, and another after that.’ He grinned. ‘This is a sweet little war, boys. Come summer’s end, we are all going to be very rich.’

  The hobelar looked at him, his envy growing. ‘Bloody archers,’ he said. ‘We hobelars do the scouting, the men-at-arms do the close work once it gets sticky, but what do you lot do? Not much, I reckon.’

  The leader turned to face him, caressing the riser of his longbow with a grimy hand. ‘We do the killing, mate,’ he said. ‘We’re hell’s gatekeepers. Never mind your precious men-at-arms, we’re the real butchers.’ He nodded. ‘Wait until the bastards show themselves. Then you’ll see what we do.’

  ‘Brag,’ said the hobelar in disgust. He turned his horse and rode away down the column. The archers stared after him, and one lifted his bow and sighted on the hobelar’s back. ‘Shall I give him a shaft up the arse? He’ll know we’re not bragging then.’

  ‘Don’t waste an arrow on that shit,’ the big man said. ‘We’ll get him alone one day. Then we’ll shove something else up his arse. Something he won’t forget.’

  The others chuckled. The leader looked back at Mauro. ‘Thanks for the drink, mate. Who’s your master?’

  ‘Herald to the Prince of Wales,’ Mauro said.

  ‘Soft billet,’ commented one of the archers.

  ‘You’re a well-set-up lad,’ the leader said. ‘Why not throw in with us?’ He tapped his haversack with a metallic clink. ‘You could do well. Like Jannekin said, we’re all going to be rich by summer’s end.’ He winked. ‘And there’s plenty of chances to raise hell on the side. If you know what I mean.’

  Mauro looked at the fires raging in Sainte-Mère-Église. The church roof was beginning to burn, the tower already half obscured by smoke. ‘Thanks. But I’ll stick where I am.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ said the leader. He took another long drink of water. Mauro watched him, thinking.

  ‘Holland’s retinue,’ he said after a moment. ‘You must have been one of the first companies ashore, back at Saint-Vaast.’

  ‘Us, Cobham’s men and the Red Company.’

  Mauro nodded. ‘Once you were ashore, did you get a chance to do any foraging? Around Quettehou, maybe?’

  The other man lowered the waterskin. ‘What of it? I thought you weren’t interested.’

  ‘While you were out in the field, did you happen to see a Norman man-at-arms? Red lion on a white coat?’ Was it his imagination, or had the little group of archers gone rather still?

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ the leader asked.

  ‘My master would like a word with him, that’s all.’ Mauro hesitated for a moment. ‘He did say there might be a reward.’

  ‘A reward, now.’ The leader scratched his scarred head. ‘How much?’

  Careful, Mauro thought. Offer too much and he’ll grow suspicious and demand to know more; too little and he’ll lose interest. ‘I think I heard my master mention two shillings.’

  The leader held out his hand. ‘Do you have the money?’

  Mauro didn’t move. ‘Did you see him?’

  After a moment, the leader lowered his hand. ‘Aye. At least, we saw a man wearing that coat. He was out on the Valognes road, talking to another fellow.’

  ‘Any idea who the other fellow might have been?’

  ‘Oh, we knew him all right. He’s an old friend of the master. His name is Chauffin. Macio Chauffin.’

  ‘And who might he be? We could make it three shillings.’

  Suspicion and greed struggled in the leader’s small blue eyes. Greed won. ‘He’s a French man-at-arms. In the service of the Count of Eu, the Constable of France.’

  Mauro rubbed his jaw. ‘How does your master know him?’

  ‘Four years ago, there was a truce between England and France, so we all went off to Prussia together, Sir Thomas and his men, and the Count of Eu and his. We served together under the Teutonic Knights, campaigning against the heathen. Chauffin was with the count.’

  ‘And he and your master became friendly?’

  ‘Aye, and the count too. Like brothers they were.’ The leader tilted up the waterskin again.

  ‘Curious, that,’ said Mauro. ‘Bosom friends one year, trying to carve each other’s guts out the next.’

  ‘That’s war,’ said the big man. He threw the empty waterskin back, and Mauro caught it one-handed. ‘In the end, mate, your only friend is yourself. Thanks for the water. And tell your master we want that reward. If we don’t get it, we’ll come looking for him, and you.’

  Up ahead, the column was moving again. Thomas Ughtred, the under-marshal, galloped down the line on a lathered horse, shouting at the drivers. ‘You men!’ he snapped at the archers. ‘What are you doing here? Get back to your company at once!’

  The leader touched his bald head and the file of archers moved away across the fields through the drifting smoke. Mauro whipped up the carthorse and then sat back holding the reins, frowning.

  Saint-Côme-du-Mont, 19th of July, 1346

  Evening

  The bells of Carentan were ringing vespers when Mauro finally drove the cart into the English camp on the heights at Saint-Côme-du-Mont, two miles from the town. The tide was in and the marshes that surrounded Carentan were flooded, a broad sheet of water stretching away to the south and east broken here and there by little islands and stands of trees. A long, narrow causeway ran across the marshes towards the town.

  Mauro found his master with the Prince of Wales and his knights, standing and staring across the flooded marshes towards Carentan and listening to the distant bells. They could see the walls enclosing church towers and the ramparts of a distant castle. This was where Bertrand had chosen to make his stand.

  ‘Señor,’ Mauro said quietly, ‘I have news about Jean de Fierville.’

  ‘Come with me.’ They walked away from the group until the others were out of earshot. ‘What is it?’ Merrivale asked.

  Mauro related what he had learned from Holland’s men. ‘I promised them a reward,’ he said. ‘I hope I did the right thing, señor.’

  ‘You did very well, Mauro. Thank you. I shall see that the money reaches them.’

  Before joining the herald’s little household, Mauro had experienced many years of slavery and hard servitude. Never before had he had a master who thanked him and praised him. Now he glowed a little with inward warmth. ‘Fierville was meeting with a French knight in the service of the Constable of France,’ he said. ‘That does not sound good, señor.’

  ‘No. Particularly when that knight is also a personal friend of Sir Thomas Holland. I wonder if Bray also witnessed this meeting.’

  ‘Perhaps that was why he was killed,’ Mauro said.

  ‘Perhaps… one other thing bothers me. Sir Nicholas Courcy claimed he and his men were the first to go foraging in that sector. Now Holland’s men are saying they were there too, perhaps even earlier.’

  ‘Maybe Sir Nicholas was mistaken, señor,’ Mauro suggested.

  ‘Or he was lying.’

  ‘Yes, señor. That is also possible.’

  Merrivale looked out across the rippling flood towards Carentan. ‘We need to find Fierville’.

  * * *

  It was Nell the cowherd who spotted him
first, and came running through the camp to the place where the prince and his household were dining in the open air. Stopping and drawing breath, she spoke to one of the guards. He gave her a suspicious look, but when she repeated her request, pleading a little, he relented and came to find Merrivale.

  ‘Sir Herald? Sorry to intrude on your dinner, sir, but there is a girl who wishes to speak to you. Nell Driver, her name is.’

  ‘I will come at once.’ Dinner that night was a simple affair, salt cod with pickles, pease porridge and onions, and chunks of white Somerset cheese with bread; the men were still under arms, ready for an assault on Carentan as soon as the orders came through. Carrying his wine cup and a piece of cheese, Merrivale followed the guard to where Nell stood waiting.

  ‘He’s here, sir,’ she said. ‘The man with the red lion. I know where he is.’

  ‘Good lass.’ He reached for his purse, but saw that her eyes were fixed on the piece of cheese. Smiling, he gave it to her and watched it vanish into the pocket of her kirtle. He drained his wine cup and handed it to the guard. ‘Take me to him,’ he said.

  The king had established his headquarters at the manor house in Saint-Côme-du-Mont, not far from the little church. The man with the red lion on his surcoat was standing outside the gatehouse, arguing with the guards in the descending dusk. He was a tall man in a mail hauberk with a cuirass and arm guards strapped over the top of it, all covered in dust. ‘I tell you, I have urgent business with the lord of Harcourt. I demand you admit me at once.’

  ‘And I am telling you, messire, the lord of Harcourt is not here,’ the captain of the guard said. ‘And you will not interrupt the king at his dinner. Move along.’

  ‘Do not give orders to me, villein! My lord is here, I tell you. He is the king’s close companion. Now open the gate and let me enter.’

  ‘The captain is telling the truth,’ Merrivale said. ‘My lord of Harcourt was dispatched with a flanking column this morning to cover the army’s advance.’

  Fierville turned. ‘Then where is he now? I must see him. It is urgent.’

  ‘Favour me with a few moments of conversation first.’ Merrivale motioned with his hand and walked away from the gate, and after a moment, reluctantly, the knight followed him. Nell stood watching from a distance, taking a quick bite from the piece of cheese before putting it back in her pocket.

  ‘Messire de Fierville,’ the herald said. ‘I wish to ask you about the events of the day we arrived at Saint-Vaast. Where did you go once you had landed, and what did you do?’

  The question was purposefully vague, and he could almost see the wheels of Fierville’s mind turning as he tried to work out what answer was required. ‘I was sent out to scout the Valognes road,’ he said.

  ‘Who gave the order?’

  ‘My lord of Harcourt, of course.’

  ‘Did you know Sir Edmund Bray?’

  He saw Fierville consider several possible answers and finally settle on the truth. ‘Yes, I knew him.’

  ‘When did you first meet him?’

  ‘At Portchester, shortly after I joined the army. We met several times after that. I did not know him well.’

  Merrivale paused for a moment, trying to decide how far he could go. Harcourt had directly forbidden him to question the Norman men-at-arms. Now he was breaking that order. He did not fear the consequences for himself, but there was always the concern that as a favour to Harcourt, the king would hand the inquisition over to someone else. ‘Sir Edmund was killed on the Valognes road, in the same sector where you were scouting. Did you see him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fierville said. ‘That is to say, I saw his body.’

  ‘Tell me.’ His voice sounded more peremptory than he had intended, but Fierville seemed not to notice.

  ‘I had spotted the French advance, and was riding back to report to his lordship. I found Bray’s body lying in the road. He was already dead. There was nothing I could do for him. The French were coming on fast, and I had to fall back and leave him there.’

  You are a bad liar, Merrivale thought. ‘You did not see who killed him?’

  ‘No.’

  The herald nodded. ‘And when did all this happen, messire? Before or after your meeting with the French knight Macio Chauffin?’

  Fierville said nothing, but Merrivale saw his eyes widen.

  ‘I have witnesses,’ the herald said. ‘They saw you talking to Chauffin just before Bertrand launched his attack.’

  ‘Of course I was talking to him,’ the Norman said. The impatience in his voice had a false ring to it, Merrivale thought. ‘I was trying to open negotiations with him on behalf of my lord of Harcourt. Chauffin is in the service of the Count of Eu, but he is also friendly with my lord’s brother, the Count of Harcourt. My lord is trying to persuade them both to defect to our cause.’

  That was possible, Merrivale thought. Harcourt was desperate to bring the Norman lords to the English side. His own credibility, and the favour of the king, depended on his ability to do so. ‘You met Chauffin by prior arrangement? When did you contact him?’

  ‘That is none of your business.’ The Norman raised a threatening finger. ‘Keep quiet about this, herald. Not a word of this matter to anyone. Do you hear me?’

  ‘My profession depends on discretion,’ Merrivale said. ‘You may rely on me.’

  ‘Good. Now, I think we are finished here, no? Kindly tell me where my lord is, and I will be on my way.’

  ‘He is at Coigny, five miles to the west,’ Merrivale said. ‘If you ride hard, you can reach him before dark.’

  * * *

  Mauro walked up behind him as Fierville rode away. ‘Did you hear all that?’ the herald asked.

  ‘Yes, señor.’ One of the things that made Mauro valuable as a herald’s servant was his extraordinary hearing. Warin claimed he could hear a bat squeak at a hundred paces. ‘Do you think he was telling the truth?’

  ‘About some of it, perhaps. But he was lying when he said he found Bray already dead, and he lied again about his meeting with this man Chauffin. What is he hiding, I wonder?’

  Nell the cowherd stood watching them with wide eyes. ‘You could have arrested him, señor, and put him to the question,’ Mauro said.

  The herald shook his head. ‘I cannot touch him. I shall need to speak to the Earl of Warwick.’

  He paused for a moment, staring out over the marsh towards Carentan. ‘And I fear he may not be very happy with me,’ he said.

  Saint-Côme-du-Mont, 19th of July, 1346

  Night

  ‘The causeway across the marshes is intact, so far as we can tell,’ Warwick said. ‘But Bertrand’s men have broken down the bridge over the River Douve, halfway between here and the town. We must repair it before we can advance.’

  The day’s heat had gone and a chilly wind swept across the marshes. Men stood around them holding up torches that flickered in the blast. ‘The tide is ebbing,’ Edward de Tracey reported. ‘By midnight the marshes will be uncovered. That should give our carpenters access to the foundations of the bridge.’

  John Grey nodded. ‘But they will have to work quickly,’ he said. ‘The tide will be at full flood again by morning.’

  ‘John, Richard, find some boats and take your company across the Douve,’ Warwick said. ‘Protect the far end of the bridge, and sound the alarm if the enemy approaches. Edward, Hugh,’ he said to Tracey and Despenser, ‘cover the near end, but send every man you can spare to help the carpenters. I want that bridge repaired by first light. As soon as it is ready, we advance on Carentan.’

  ‘What opposition can we expect?’ asked Despenser. He did not look at Merrivale, and was clearly doing his best to pretend the herald did not exist.

  ‘We don’t know for certain how many men Bertrand has, but he has been calling up the local men-at-arms and seems determined to resist. When we advance, the main force goes straight for the gate. At the same time, Harcourt’s column will move up from Coigny and attack from the west. By assaulting from two d
irections, we hope to overwhelm the defence.’

  ‘How will we break down the gate?’ Tracey asked.

  ‘Cannon,’ said Warwick. ‘Courcy, I want those four gunildas up at the front of the column, ready to advance with the rest. Tracey’s company will protect you and the gunners.’

  Nicholas Courcy scratched his chin. Unusually for him, he looked worried. ‘Well now. There might be a slight problem with the cannon, my lord.’

  ‘What is it?’

  The torches fluttered and roared in the wind. Merrivale noticed Roger Mortimer standing in the circle of men, watching.

  ‘The gunpowder has gone missing,’ Courcy said.

  ‘What? All of it?’

  ‘I fear so, my lord.’

  ‘Body of Christ!’ said Warwick. Angrily he smacked one gauntleted hand against his thigh. ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘I don’t know, my lord. I suspect it has been stolen by looters.’

  ‘Well, have you searched for it?’ the marshal demanded.

  ‘Not yet, my lord.’

  ‘Why in hell’s name not?’

  ‘With respect, my lord, because I have not had time. You called on my services as an engineer to help repair the bridge, remember? In any case, I doubt we’ll find it again. The looters will have hidden it by now, or sold it on.’

  ‘We can break down the gates with mangonels,’ John Grey said.

  ‘Which means diverting some of the carpenters from work on the bridge to build them. Yes, yes, I know it must be done, but Christ’s wounds! It is bad enough that these thieving bastards are pillaging the countryside, but if they have started robbing army stores as well, then we have a serious problem.’ He looked at the men around him. ‘Captains, control your men. And Courcy, I want that gunpowder replaced as soon as possible.’

  The captains and knights dispersed. Warwick turned to the herald. ‘Well? Have you found Fierville?’

  ‘He has returned, my lord. I spoke to him earlier.’