A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘Spoke to him?’ Warwick was still angry. ‘I told you to let me know when you found him, not to interrogate him yourself.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. I fear I was in error. But it seemed like a good opportunity to ask him what he knew about Bray.’

  ‘God damn it, herald, I am not interested in Bray. I want to know whether this man is a French spy!’

  ‘He is, my lord, I have no doubt of that. Fierville admitted to me that he was out on the Valognes road the morning we landed. There he met a French knight named Macio Chauffin, from the retinue of the Count of Eu. He claims he did so on behalf of my lord of Harcourt, who is negotiating with Eu, but I do not believe it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I was a king’s messenger for ten years, my lord. Being able to judge a man’s character quickly often meant the difference between life and death. Fierville does not dissemble well. I read his thoughts without difficulty.’

  Warwick calmed a little. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Gone to join his master at Coigny. My lord, you may not care about the fate of Sir Edmund Bray, but I do. Fierville knows what happened to Bray, I am quite certain of it. At the very least, he is a witness to the killing.’

  ‘Very well. I will speak to Harcourt as soon as he rejoins us, and then summon Fierville and question him myself. You can be present.’ Warwick looked at him. ‘You are wondering why his lordship is so protective of his men.’

  ‘I am, my lord.’

  ‘They are aliens in a strange land, herald. They have given up everything to follow him. Some of his supporters have already been executed, and the men who serve him now face the gallows if they are captured. Harcourt protects them out of loyalty.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord. But permit me to wonder if that loyalty is misplaced. The lord of Harcourt cleaves to the English cause. But eight years ago, Fierville was one of the French leaders at the sack of Southampton.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ Warwick said. ‘But if you are right, herald, and he really is a spy, then he can expect no mercy.’

  ‘No more than was shown to Sir Edmund Bray,’ Merrivale said quietly.

  * * *

  From further along the causeway came a loud splash, the sound of something heavy hitting the water, followed by men shouting. Warwick and Merrivale ran towards the scene to find Nicholas Courcy climbing out of the river below the broken bridge, dragging with him the heavily armoured semi-conscious body of Roger Mortimer. There was a pause while Courcy heaved the younger man onto his side, then unlaced his backplate, peeled it off and thumped him on the back. After a few hard blows, Mortimer gagged and then rolled over and began to spew river water.

  ‘What happened?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘He fell into the river,’ Courcy said. ‘Luckily he landed in the shallows and I was able to pull him out. If he had gone into the deep stream, that would have been the end of him.’ Weighed down by eighty pounds of mail and plate, Mortimer would have drowned before anyone could rescue him.

  Hugh Despenser walked up to Mortimer and looked down at him. ‘Are you all right?’

  Mortimer retched again, and sat up, dragging air into his lungs. He nodded. Despenser turned on his heel and walked away. Mortimer started to say something, but choked and vomited again. The herald waited.

  ‘I did not fall,’ Mortimer gasped finally. ‘Someone pushed me. They hit me from behind and shoved me into the river.’

  ‘Did you see who it was?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘It was that bastard Despenser! Or one of his men. By God, they should have hanged the whole bloody family and made an end to them.’

  ‘Easy,’ said the herald, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘You have had a narrow escape, Sir Roger. Go back to camp and get some rest. Let the carpenters get on with the job. There will be work for us all in the morning.’

  Slowly, his clothes and armour streaming water, Mortimer rose to his feet and walked with as much dignity as he could muster back along the torchlit causeway towards the camp.

  Men hurried past, carpenters shouldering heavy wooden beams. The thump of hammers and rasp of saws echoed through the night air across the dark marshes. Warwick went down to the water’s edge to check on progress. Merrivale turned to Courcy. ‘Did you see what happened?’

  ‘The devil I did,’ said Courcy. ‘One moment he was standing beside me, the next he was down in the river. I didn’t see anyone push him, if that is what you mean.’

  Merrivale studied him. ‘Alchemist, now engineer,’ he said. ‘You’ve many strings to your bow, Sir Nicholas.’

  Courcy grinned. ‘I’ve been a shipmaster, too, and I worked for a while as a coiner at the mint. I studied the liberal arts at Balliol College for a year, until the master threw me out. Yes, I’ve turned my hand to plenty of things in my time.’ He paused for a moment. ‘None of them, I would say, with any conspicuous success.’

  ‘What do you think happened to the gunpowder?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s these cursed looters. There’s nothing they won’t steal.’ Merrivale could not see Courcy’s face in the flickering shadows, but he could hear the humour in his voice.

  ‘I have another question for you. When you found Bray’s body, you claimed you were the first ones into that sector after the fighting. But some of Holland’s men say they were there before you. Did you see them?’

  ‘Ah, the Lanky boys.’ Courcy’s voice held a mixture of admiration and despair. ‘No, I didn’t see them, but it wouldn’t surprise me, Sir Herald. It wouldn’t surprise me at all. I count myself a pretty fair forager, but those fellows make light-fingeredness into an art. Blink and they’ll steal the eyebrows off your face. Yes, there’s a fair chance they were there before us. That could explain why we found nothing worth stealing,’ he added wryly.

  He looked at Merrivale. ‘Do you think they might have killed young Bray? Perhaps he caught them in the act of looting and threatened to report them.’

  ‘Would they really kill an English man-at-arms? One of their own side?’

  ‘The only side those vultures are on is their own. They’d do it, herald, if it suited them, and they wouldn’t think twice about it. They’re not like the rest of us, you see. They’re not the usual ploughboys and herdsmen and apprentices who took the bounty so they could see the world and make a little money on the side. Holland’s men have been with him for every campaign for the past five years, France and Prussia and Spain. They’ve been at war too long. They’re not just good at inflicting misery; they enjoy it. But they would not have left that great ruby ring behind.’

  The vehemence in his voice was quite out of character. ‘You sound angry,’ Merrivale said.

  There was a short pause, and then Courcy laughed. ‘Angry?’ he said in his usual light tone. ‘Bless you, herald, but no. Life is a beautiful thing, and I don’t propose to waste a minute of it on something so futile as anger. All the same, I wish someone would do something about those bastards. They give good honest pillagers like myself a bad name.’

  * * *

  Back at the camp, Merrivale made his way to Roger Mortimer’s tent. He found the young knight lying on his cot; he had removed his armour, but was still in his wet arming doublet and hose, staring up at the wind-ruffled canvas. A single candle burned on a wooden chest beside the cot.

  ‘How do you feel?’ the herald asked.

  ‘Like I have swallowed half the river. I still have a gutful of water.’

  ‘You said someone pushed you. Are you quite certain of that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mortimer without moving. ‘I am quite certain.’

  ‘Why would anyone wish to do such a thing?’

  ‘To settle old scores, of course. Everyone hates the Mortimers.’

  ‘That is not true,’ Merrivale said quietly. ‘The prince, for example, does not hate you. I think he is actually rather fond of you.’

  Mortimer gave a snort of disgust. ‘That little shit is fond of no one but himself. He is just as arrogant as his father, perhaps even mo
re so.’

  ‘You do remember I am his herald,’ Merrivale said, his voice still quiet. ‘And I should be careful also not to bite the hand that feeds you. Service in this army is a chance for redemption, for you and your family. Your knighthood is a symbol of that.’

  ‘Redemption? Why in hell do I need redeeming? I have done nothing wrong.’ Mortimer finally turned his head to look at Merrivale. ‘Why do you put up with it, herald? According to what I hear, you have precious little reason to be grateful to them.’

  ‘Whom do you advise me to hate?’ Merrivale asked. ‘Edward of Woodstock had not even been born when misfortune struck my family. His father the king was only nine years old. Those who harmed my family are long dead. And I have learned, Sir Roger, that there is very little profit in hating the dead.’

  ‘And the living bear no responsibility? They get off scot-free?’

  ‘I did not say that. But consider this. Perhaps, in his own clumsy, awkward, boyish way, the prince is also seeking… not redemption, that is the wrong word, but restitution. Perhaps by taking you into his service and knighting you, he is trying to make up for the loss you have suffered.’

  ‘You give him too much credit,’ Mortimer said. His voice had suddenly gone thick, as if he was having trouble speaking. ‘I know you mean well, herald, but please leave me.’

  Silently Merrivale turned and walked out into the night. He stood for a while watching the torches flickering along the causeway and on the distant ramparts of Carentan. He remembered again the rain and the mud and the rotting sheep; the linen-swathed bundles that had once been his sisters and mother being lowered into the ground and the earth covering them; the bailiffs arriving to arrest his father for failure to pay his rents and seize his dark, drowning lands.

  Nine years old, he thought. I was nine then too, the same age as the king. No child should have to see what I saw. And yet the world shows no sign of changing.

  What had John Sully said? Do what your conscience tells you, and damn the rest. That’s the only thing a man can do.

  Sighing suddenly, the herald turned away towards his own tent.

  6

  Carentan, 20th of July, 1346

  Morning

  In the end, the siege engines were not needed. At first light, the trumpets sounded and the army came down off the heights and hurried along the repaired causeway towards the town. As the vanguard drew closer, they saw the gates standing wide open, the ramparts empty of defenders. Unlike at Valognes, there was no procession of burgesses waiting to surrender and pledge their allegiance to the king. Carentan had been abandoned.

  Yelling with delight, the leading companies began smashing doors and windows and breaking into houses. Smoke and flames were already rising from a dozen points by the time Warwick and the Prince of Wales entered the town. Swearing violently, Warwick directed his under-marshal to arrest as many looters as possible, but it was too late. The sounds of shouting, drunken singing, splintering wood and smashing glass and crockery echoed through every street and alley.

  In the main square they found the Red Company, the only company to have maintained its discipline, standing guard over the church of Notre-Dame. Richard Percy walked forward, sheathing his sword, as Warwick and the prince rode up. ‘Most of the townspeople have fled,’ he said. ‘But there are refugees inside the church, about thirty in all. People who were too slow, or too old and infirm, to escape.’

  ‘Protect them as best you can. Any sign of the enemy?’

  ‘The castle is still holding out. The gates are shut and there are men on the ramparts, including at least one crossbowman.’

  ‘Is Bertrand there?’

  ‘There’s no sign of his banner.’

  A row of arcaded shops along the eastern side of the square was burning, smoke pouring from windows and doors, tiles cracking as flames licked up through the roofs. The prince watched the destruction, his followers nudging each other and laughing. They cheered when a roof caved in and a shower of sparks danced up through the smoke. Their horses stirred, restless.

  More men rode into the square, iron-shod hooves hammering on the cobbles, the red and gold banner of Harcourt floating over their heads. Harcourt rode up to Warwick, gesturing towards the fires. ‘What is this? The town has surrendered. It should be under the king’s protection.’

  ‘If the burgesses had remained, we could have protected them. Once the troops realised the town was empty, there was no stopping them. Why did the townsfolk flee, Godefroi? You sent them letters urging them to surrender, did you not?’

  ‘My messenger was ambushed and killed before he could reach the town. Another is missing too, Jean de Fierville. That son-of-a-whore Bertrand knew my men were coming and set traps for them.’

  Warwick looked at the herald, seated on his palfrey amid the Prince of Wales’s household. Warin the groom was behind him, mounted on a shaggy pony. ‘Your pardon, my lord,’ Merrivale said. ‘But I saw Jean de Fierville last night in Saint-Côme-du-Mont. He was looking for you.’

  Harcourt glanced at him sharply. ‘Did he say what his errand was?’

  ‘Only that it was urgent. I told him he could find you at Coigny, and he rode away.’

  ‘He never reached Coigny,’ said another of the Normans. It was the man who had threatened Merrivale the night after the landing. ‘You are right, my lord. He must have been ambushed too.’

  ‘Bertrand’s men are still holding the castle,’ Warwick said. ‘We need to prise them out. Godefroi, take your men around to the Saint-Lô gate and hold it. If the garrison tries to break out from the castle, stop them. John, Richard, leave a detachment of your men to guard the church, and follow me.’

  * * *

  The streets were full of clouds of choking yellow-white smoke, bearing drifting embers on the currents of air like flotsam on the tide. The horses snorted and sweated with fear, and the men-at-arms had to use spurs to force them on.

  Somewhere nearby another roof caved in, flames glaring red through the smoke. The herald’s horse reared up, front hooves flailing. For a moment he clung to the saddle, unable to do anything but hold on, and then Warin rode up alongside him and grabbed the reins, pulling the beast down. By the time they had the horse under control again, Warwick and the prince and his household had vanished into the rolling smoke. Merrivale looked around, trying to see which way they had gone. From somewhere close by, invisible in the smoke, a woman screamed.

  Merrivale stiffened. ‘Where did that come from?’

  The voice screamed again, an inarticulate shriek of terror and anger. Warin pointed down an alley leading off the street. ‘That way, sir,’ he said urgently.

  ‘Come on.’ The alley was too narrow for horses; they jumped from the saddle and ran. The houses had not yet begun to burn, but the narrow street was still clogged with acrid smoke. Again the woman screamed. They rounded a bend in the lane, and stopped.

  Two men stood facing them, archers clad in russet, one with a leather cuirass over his jerkin. Their bows were slung across their backs and they had knives in their hands. Behind them was a third archer, a big man with a shining bald head bisected by a red scar running across his scalp where someone at some point in the past had tried to carve his head open and failed. In one hand he held a short sword; his other arm was wrapped around a woman, barefoot, with long, dishevelled hair, who struggled violently, trying to get free.

  The big man swore at her. ‘Hold still, bitch!’

  In reply, the woman grabbed his hand, pulled it to her face and bit him hard on the wrist. The big man yelped, raising his arm, and the woman darted away, running towards Merrivale. Fast as a cat, the man was after her, grabbing her by the shoulder and tearing her gown, then throwing her hard down onto the cobbles. He stood over her, sword pointed at her throat.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ Merrivale said sharply.

  One of the archers shook his head. ‘You don’t give the orders here, herald.’

  ‘I speak in the king’s name. Let the woman go.’
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  The big man looked up. He was breathing heavily, and blood dripped from his wounded wrist. ‘The king isn’t here,’ he said. ‘And the bitch is ours. Get out of here, if you want to live.’

  The other two raised their knives and started walking towards Merrivale. Warin stepped forward, drawing his own knife, but Merrivale waved him back. ‘I am the herald of the Prince of Wales,’ he said calmly. ‘And you cannot touch me.’

  ‘Herald to the Prince of Wales, is it? You owe us three shillings, herald. For the information we gave to that black man of yours.’

  ‘I will pay it,’ Merrivale said. ‘As soon as you let the woman go.’

  ‘No,’ said one of the other archers, and he smiled a broken-toothed smile. ‘The price has just gone up, mate. Hand over your purse, and that ring on your finger too. Nice and easy, now.’

  The ring was his seal ring; it was one of the few things he had been allowed to inherit from his father. ‘Don’t be damned fools. If you harm me, you will hang. Step back now, and let the woman go.’

  ‘Do as he says,’ a soft voice said behind him.

  Merrivale turned. Two more archers stood in the narrow street, wearing the dark red iron caps of the Red Company. Both had arrows at the nock, ready to draw and shoot in an instant. He recognised the fine-featured, serious young faces at once; Matt and Pip, the two men Sir John Grey had sent after Edmund Bray.

  The Lancashire men hesitated. Their bows were still slung; Matt and Pip could shoot two of them before they moved, and probably the third before he could bring his bow into play. The big man with the scarred head snarled at them. ‘I’ll kill the woman. Lower those bows and walk away, or I’ll cut her throat and let you watch her bleed to death.’

  A blur of movement, almost too fast for the eye to see; Matt drawing his longbow, pulling the nock back beside his ear and loosing. Humming, the arrow shot past the big man’s head, so close that the barb drew blood from his ear. He shouted, clapping his hand to his head for a moment and then looking at the blood on his fingers. ‘You bastard,’ he said ominously.