A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘I missed you deliberately,’ Matt said. Already he had another arrow at the nock. ‘I won’t miss again. It is you, soldier, who will walk away. You and your friends, now.’

  A long, tense moment passed, and then the big man raised his sword. Blood ran from his ear down his neck and dripped onto his jerkin. ‘Come on,’ he said to the others. ‘There’ll be easier pickings elsewhere, I reckon. Aye, and prettier ones too.’ He kicked the woman as she lay on the ground, then turned and strode away through the curtain of smoke. His companions followed him.

  Merrivale turned to the two archers. ‘Thank you. But why are you here?’

  ‘Sir John realised you were missing, and thought you might have got lost in the smoke,’ Matt said. ‘He sent us to find you. If I was you, sir, I’d be going soon. Your horses are still out in the street, unattended and pretty much inviting someone to steal them.’

  Again there was that confidence, Merrivale thought. These were no ordinary archers. ‘Just a moment,’ he said. The woman was sitting up, and he hurried to her, taking her hands and lifting her to her feet. ‘Madame, are you hurt? Are you injured?’

  She raised her head. Her face was a mask of dirt and grime and her dark red hair fell in tangled clouds around her shoulders and over her face. Her gown had once been fine, but it was soiled and ragged now, and one sleeve had been half torn off, the points ripped and dangling. Her feet were dirty too, and he could see blood on one of them. She was young, he realised, no more than twenty.

  ‘Thanks to you, I am unharmed,’ she said. Her voice was shaky but strong. ‘May I know the name of my saviour, monsieur?’

  ‘I am Simon Merrivale, herald to the Prince of Wales. Who are you, madame, and where did you come from?’

  ‘It is demoiselle. My name is Tiphaine de Tesson, and I have been imprisoned in the castle of Carentan for the past two years. When your army advanced on the town, I escaped and came here hoping to find your commanders. You must take me to them, monsieur. It is urgent.’

  He saw the desperation in her brown eyes. Questions could wait, he thought. ‘We have horses waiting. Are you well enough to ride? Good, come with me. Warin, give her your pony and follow us on foot. Lead the way, demoiselle.’

  * * *

  The castle lay in the southern quarter of the town, not far from the Saint-Lô gate. The streets here had not yet begun to burn. They found Warwick and his officers crouched behind the corner of a jettied stone house, looking out at the castle on the far side of the square. The prince and his knights and serjeants of his bodyguard waited further back, out of range of enemy crossbows. No one was visible now on the ramparts of the castle, but the gates were still firmly shut.

  ‘My lord Warwick!’ the herald called, sliding out of the saddle and reaching up to help Tiphaine down. ‘This lady has recently escaped from the castle. She says she has urgent news.’

  Warwick rose and came towards them. The other officers followed, armour and mail clanking. ‘Who are you, demoiselle?’ the marshal asked.

  ‘I am Tiphaine de Tesson. My father was the lord of La Roche Tesson, whom King Philippe executed for rebellion and treason two years ago. I was arrested along with my father, and I have been held in prison in Carentan castle ever since. My cell was in the walls, directly under the ramparts, and I often overheard officers of the garrison talking. This morning when your army began to advance, I heard Messire Robert Bertrand giving orders to the commander of the castle.’

  ‘One moment, demoiselle. How strong is the garrison? How many men?’

  ‘Not more than twenty. Messire Bertrand has withdrawn with the rest to Saint-Lô.’

  ‘Only twenty?’ said Edward de Tracey. ‘We can storm the place easily.’

  John Grey nodded. ‘No need to wait for the mangonels. A simple ram will break the gates down.’

  The woman shook her head violently, her tangled hair swinging around her shoulders. ‘No, messire! A trap is waiting for you!’

  ‘A trap?’ Warwick said sharply. ‘What sort of trap?’

  ‘I do not know, messire. I only heard Messire Bertrand say to the commander, “Wait until they enter, then spring the trap. Once it is done, escape with your men as best you can.” And the commander said, “Do not fear. They will be destroyed.”’

  ‘What is the name of the commander?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘He is called Raoul de Barbizan. He is one of King Philippe’s officers.’

  Merrivale turned to Warwick. ‘Let me parley with this man, my lord. Once I am inside the castle, perhaps I can discover what this trap is.’

  Warwick frowned. ‘Herald, you are an ambassador, not a scout. You would be overstepping the bounds. If Barbizan were to discover what you are up to, he would be perfectly entitled to kill you.’

  The flames were drawing nearer; a gust of smoke swirled in the street around them. ‘He will not discover it,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Nicholas Courcy, stepping forward. ‘But all the same, herald, I think Donnchad and I will come with you. I’m thinking you might need a little assistance.’

  Donnchad was a shaggy mountain of a man, bigger even than the Lancashire archer Merrivale had faced down a few minutes earlier. ‘I do not need assistance,’ the herald said. ‘I can gain entrance to the castle without difficulty.’

  ‘I am sure you can. But I fancy you might need a wee bit of help getting out again.’

  * * *

  The rest of Carentan was fire and chaos, but the square before the castle was silent as death. The loudest sound was the boots of the three men rasping on the cobbles. The herald walked straight towards the gate, hands at his sides, his tabard shining in the smoke-tainted sunlight. Courcy and Donnchad still wore their swords, but they held their hands out wide, away from their weapons.

  A man appeared on the roof of the gatehouse, resting a crossbow on the ramparts and levelling it. His voice echoed hollow off the stone walls around him. ‘Who are you? State your business!’

  ‘I am Simon Merrivale, herald to the Prince of Wales. I wish to speak to the Sire de Barbizan.’

  ‘What do you want with him?’

  ‘Carentan has fallen. We know your defences are weak and you cannot withstand an assault for long. I am here to negotiate your surrender.’

  The crossbowman said nothing. He remained motionless, his weapon pointed at the three of them. After some little time, a postern gate in the wooden door swung open.

  ‘You may enter,’ the crossbowman said.

  Merrivale stepped through the postern, Courcy and Donnchad following. Glancing up at the gate arch, he saw that the portcullis had been raised. Courcy noticed it too. ‘That’s a curious thing.’

  ‘Yes.’ If the defenders were preparing to resist an assault, the portcullis should have been lowered.

  A single man stood waiting for them in the courtyard of the castle. He wore full armour, but in the heat of the day he had removed his bascinet and pulled the cowl of his mail coat down so he was bare-headed. His sweat-damp hair clung to his forehead in curls. Glancing back at the gatehouse as they passed, Merrivale saw a wooden door standing open. A cart was parked before it, tipped forward and resting on its shaft. The crossbowman stood on the gatehouse roof above them, crossbow pointed at their backs.

  ‘Drop your swords,’ said the man in the courtyard.

  Courcy and Donnchad drew their swords and laid them on the cobbles. Out of the corner of his eye, the herald saw Courcy glance once at Donnchad, and saw too the almost imperceptible lift of the other man’s head.

  ‘Who are these men?’ the Frenchman demanded.

  ‘My escort,’ Merrivale said. ‘Sir Nicholas Courcy of Kingsale and his attendant. Have I the honour of addressing Messire Raoul de Barbizan?’

  ‘I am he. What do you want?’

  ‘Robert Bertrand stripped the garrison when he withdrew this morning,’ Merrivale said. ‘We know you have only a few men. You cannot hope to resist our army. Surrender now, and save your lives. You and your m
en will be fairly treated. I give you that assurance in the name of the Prince of Wales, my master.’

  Barbizan considered this for a moment. ‘You underestimate us,’ he said. ‘You have seen how strong this castle is. Twenty men could hold it for a week.’

  ‘If you refuse, the offer will not be repeated.’

  Barbizan said nothing. Merrivale bowed. ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘Farewell, messire. I salute your courage.’ He turned away towards the gate.

  ‘Wait,’ Barbizan said.

  The herald waited. ‘I will surrender only to the king,’ said Barbizan. ‘He must come here in person. I will kneel to him and offer him my sword and the keys to the castle. To him only, herald. No one else.’

  Merrivale shook his head. ‘The king has not yet entered the town. But the Prince of Wales is near at hand. You may surrender to him if you wish.’

  ‘The prince? I do not kneel before children,’ Barbizan snapped.

  Merrivale let a few moments pass. ‘The prince will receive your surrender outside the castle,’ he said firmly.

  Barbizan hesitated, glancing towards the gatehouse. ‘No. I demand that the surrender takes place here, inside the castle.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Merrivale. ‘Why is that so important?’

  ‘I do not answer to you, herald. Only to your master.’

  ‘Then I am afraid we are at an impasse,’ said Merrivale, and he turned away again.

  Something hit him in the back like a battering ram: Donnchad, slamming into him and shoving him bodily behind the cart just as a crossbow bolt smacked into the cobbles where he had been standing and ricocheted away in a shower of sparks. Courcy pulled a knife from the sleeve of his leather tunic and threw it, and Barbizan collapsed with blood gushing from his throat. The Irish knight picked up the two swords, throwing one to Donnchad and pointing up at the crossbowman on the roof. ‘Téigh! Críochnaigh é, go gasta!’

  Donnchad ran through the door into the gatehouse and they heard his boots pounding on the stairs as he raced towards the roof. The crossbowman was already reloading; they had about twenty seconds before he shot again. There was a strange smell in the air, and after a moment Merrivale recognised it as sulphur. Looking inside the cart, he saw traces of fine pale grey dust on the floorboards, glistening a little in the strong sun.

  ‘Sir Nicholas!’ he called. ‘Come quickly!’

  Shouts sounded from the roof of the gatehouse; Donnchad was fighting with the crossbowman. Courcy hurried over to the cart, and Merrivale pointed to the powder. The Irishman shut his eyes for a moment, and the herald saw him go pale under his sunburn. ‘Oh Jesus,’ he said.

  ‘They used this cart to transport the gunpowder,’ Merrivale said. He turned and began to walk towards the gatehouse door. After a moment’s hesitation, Courcy ran up alongside him. ‘Stand back, herald,’ he said grimly. ‘This is a job for a fighting man.’

  Silently Merrivale followed him into the gatehouse. Just inside the door, the stairs rose in a steep spiral towards the roof, where the clatter of swords could now be heard. Another door led to the guardroom. Courcy tried the latch, but it did not budge.

  ‘Barred on the inside,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘Not for long.’ Courcy stepped back and kicked the door hard, then again, and again. On the fourth blow they heard wood begin to splinter, and on the fifth the door sprang open, bouncing off the stone wall behind. Sword in hand, Courcy shouldered his way through.

  Sword blades clashed, steel rasping on steel, and someone shouted with pain. The herald pushed through the doorway into sudden gloom; the guardroom was lit only by shafts of sun coming through the arrow slits. In the dim light he saw Courcy fighting desperately, holding off two men, one of them bleeding but still coming on. Behind Courcy stood a third man, armoured but with the visor of his bascinet raised so he could see more clearly. His surcoat was white with a red lion rampant, combatant. His sword was raised for a killing stroke.

  The sword was already descending when Merrivale grabbed Jean de Fierville’s arm with a grip of iron and spun him around so that the blow intended for Courcy’s head clattered off the stone floor of the guardroom. Before Fierville could raise his weapon again, Merrivale punched him hard in the face. The Norman staggered, his nose streaming blood, and Merrivale hit him twice more, driving him back against the wall of the guardroom. On the far side of the room was a row of stacked wooden barrels, with something hissing and fizzing on the floor in front of them: a powder train, already burning. The air stank of sulphurous smoke.

  One of the men Courcy was fighting was down, clutching at his chest, dying. Merrivale hit the Norman again, a powerful back-handed blow that broke his jaw with a sickening crack, and then tore the sword from his grasp. Ripping Fierville’s bascinet off, he clubbed the other man hard over the temple with the pommel of the sword. Fierville’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor with a clatter of metal. Behind him, Courcy feinted high and low, then closed in and kicked his opponent hard on the knee. He doubled over in pain and Courcy stabbed him through the chest, stepping back to let the body slide to the floor.

  ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ Courcy said breathlessly, and both men ran across the guardroom towards the barrels. A trail of flame snaked across the floor, breathtakingly fast, eating up the powder train. It was less than a foot away from the stacked barrels of serpentine; only a few heartbeats between them and oblivion. Then Courcy’s boot came down hard on the flame, stamping and stamping, snuffing it out, while the herald kicked away the rest of the powder to scatter the train. More smoke wafted into the air, but the flame died.

  ‘It has stopped,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘Jesus,’ Courcy said again. He was white as a sheet now, bent over and rasping for breath. ‘Faith, that was as close as I ever want to come. I am not yet ready for paradise, herald. And I am pretty damned sure paradise isn’t ready for me.’

  Boots thundered on the stairs and Donnchad burst into the room, bloody sword in hand. ‘You took your time,’ Courcy said. ‘Go find out where the rest of the garrison are, you great ox, and this time hurry back.’

  Donnchad disappeared. Courcy turned to Merrivale, wiping the sweat from his face. ‘You’re a fraud,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A true herald shouldn’t know how to fight like that. Coats of arms are his profession, not weapon craft.’

  ‘I wasn’t always a herald,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘Oh? What were you?’

  Merrivale said nothing. What do I say? he thought. That once upon a time I was a small boy who fought other boys for scraps of food? That I was a king’s messenger and fought for my life more times than I can count?

  ‘Look out!’ Courcy shouted.

  Fierville was on his feet, face a mask of blood, a dagger in his hand. He hurled it at Courcy, who ducked just in time; the dagger missed him by a hair’s breadth and thudded into one of the casks of serpentine. The Norman ducked through the guardroom door and ran outside. Merrivale followed him, but by the time he reached the courtyard, Fierville was already sprinting across the cobbles towards the donjon on the far side.

  Two men ran up beside the herald, archers with arrows nocked. ‘Stop him!’ Merrivale shouted without thinking.

  One of the archers raised his bow, drew and released. The bowstring hummed; the arrow, a blur of motion faster than sight, hit Fierville in the back, slamming through his backplate and driving deep into flesh and bone. He stumbled once, pitched forward and fell onto the cobbles. In that shattering moment, the herald saw how Edmund Bray had died.

  * * *

  Fierville was still breathing when Merrivale reached him, but his eyes were closed and his face was pallid. His armoured limbs twitched a couple of times and then relaxed into death.

  Merrivale rounded on the archers. It was the Red Company men again, Matt and Pip. ‘Why did you kill this man? We needed him alive!’

  ‘You ordered us to stop him, sir,’ Pip said. ‘You di
dn’t say how.’

  The fact that it was his own mistake only made Merrivale more angry. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

  ‘Sir John’s orders, sir. When you failed to return, he sent us to investigate.’

  ‘Why did he pick you?’ Merrivale demanded.

  ‘We don’t know, sir,’ said Matt. As usual, his confidence bordered on insolence. ‘You would have to ask Sir John.’

  Merrivale bit back his anger. ‘Tell Sir John the garrison have refused to surrender. Five are dead, but there are still fifteen to be accounted for. I suspect they are trying to escape through a postern gate. Fierville was running to join them.’

  Matt nodded. ‘We will tell him, sir. Er… the lady was asking after you, sir. The one you rescued. May we tell her that you are safe?’

  ‘Tell her whatever you wish,’ the herald snapped, and walked back into the gatehouse.

  Courcy was still in the guardroom, staring at the barrels of powder. ‘I am not the only fraud in this room, Sir Nicholas,’ Merrivale said.

  Courcy turned towards him, face full of resignation. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You most certainly are not. How did you work it out?’

  ‘It was not exactly difficult. Those barrels have the arrowhead mark branded on them. They come from the Tower armoury. English gunpowder, Sir Nicholas. Powder that was in your custody.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Courcy.

  ‘Fierville and Barbizan set a trap for us. Once the surrender was accepted and the army had advanced through the gates, the powder train was to be set alight. The explosion would blow out the walls of the guardroom and bring the entire gatehouse down on the men beneath it. Scores could have been killed. When they realised we had seen through the plan, they set light to the train anyway in hopes of killing us, at least, and destroying the evidence.’

  ‘Yes,’ Courcy said again.

  Merrivale faced him. ‘You sold the serpentine to Fierville, didn’t you?’