‘I suspect you are probably right.’ Northburgh opened his strongbox and placed Merrivale’s report inside. ‘I would get some sleep if I were you. We march at first light, to Saint-Lô.’
Merrivale raised his eyebrows. ‘We are continuing? Even though the Norman revolt has failed?’
‘His Grace hopes that if he can win a victory over the French, the Normans will change their minds, and what you have just told me about Eu and Navarre will strengthen his determination. Bertrand is in Saint-Lô. Word is he intends to make a stand there.’
‘Saint-Lô is reputed to be the strongest fortress in Normandy,’ Merrivale said. ‘Taking it will not be easy.’
‘Yes, well. The king has determined that this is what shall happen, and so it will happen. Bertrand will be captured and paraded around Normandy to persuade other nobles to forswear their allegiance to the adversary and join us instead. His Grace and the lord of Harcourt have offered a reward to the man who captures Bertrand. Five thousand marks of silver.’
‘Five thousand marks? I thought the treasury was empty.’
‘It is. God knows where the money will come from. Thankfully, that’s not my problem. Get some sleep, my friend. And if you should dream of your Norman demoiselle… well, do come and tell me all about it, won’t you?’
* * *
Walking back through the camp, Merrivale spotted a shadow moving ahead of him, a man going carefully and staying out of the firelight. Something about him seemed familiar; after a few moments he realised it was Holland’s vintenar, the man with the scarred head. Shrugging off his bright tabard, he rolled it up and tucked it under his arm, and followed the man across the camp and out beyond its eastern limits. Soon they had passed beyond the watchfires and were deep in shadow. Out on the marshes, moonlight glowed bright off stagnant pools. The calls of night birds echoed across the water.
The big man stopped. Another shadow joined him almost at once, another archer with his bow over his shoulder. There was a brief whispered conversation, too far away for Merrivale to hear, and then the two men parted. On impulse, rather than going after the vintenar, he followed the other man back through the firelit camp. He was a lean, long-limbed man, and he walked furtively past the tents and banners, hunched over a little and often looking around him, so that the herald was forced to keep his distance.
Not far from the Saint-Lô gate, the man came to a campfire. Other archers sat around it, playing dice on a blanket laid on the ground. They grinned up at him. ‘Roit, me ’ansom,’ said one of them in Devon dialect. ‘How be ’ackin’?’
‘We’re to Saint-Lô tomorrow, boy,’ said the tall man. ‘Bate told me all about it just now. Time to fill our purses when we get there. What you playing, boys?’
‘Hazard, me ’ansom,’ said the first man. ‘Farthing a stake.’ He grinned again. ‘You want to fill your purse tomorrow, Nicodemus, you’ll need to empty it first.’
Standing in the shadows, the herald saw a shield outside a tent further along: two red bends, diagonal bars, on a yellow field, the arms of Edward de Tracey from Dunkeswell. These men were presumably from his retinue. The man called Nicodemus sat down on the ground, folding his long legs and leaning forward.
‘Here, boys,’ he said, lowering his voice a little. ‘You know what else Bate told me? He and the Lanky lads found a nice little pullet in town this morning.’
The other archers chuckled. ‘Did they swyve her?’ one asked.
‘They was all set to, but then that herald came along and took her off ’em. Bate, well, he ain’t happy.’
This made them chuckle still more. ‘Bate’s in a bate?’ suggested one, and they all roared with laughter. ‘Now you listen, boys,’ Nicodemus said urgently. ‘This is serious. Bate says he’s going to send that herald across the river.’
The laughter stopped. ‘Send him across the river?’ said the man who had spoken first. ‘Has Bate gone mad? You don’t go round killin’ your own folk, me ’ansom. Especially not a herald. They’ll hang him so high he’ll be able to see England from the gallows.’
‘Not if they don’t know who did it,’ said Nicodemus. There was a moment of silence. ‘Now you keep quiet about this, all of you,’ Nicodemus warned. ‘You never heard anything. That means you, Jakey boy. Keep your trap shut.’
‘So we’re just going to sit and do nothing?’ the other man said, the unhappiness plain in his voice.
‘That’s right,’ Nicodemus said. ‘We keep out of it. The master wouldn’t like it. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ the man said finally, and the others nodded.
8
Pont-Hébert, 21st of July, 1346
Late afternoon
Long and haunting, the notes of the trumpet echoed over the silent marshes. Listening to the call, the herald thought the silvery notes were like the sound of dawn, perfectly matching the ethereal light that seeped into the eastern sky and swallowed up the stars.
Swiftly the army formed up and prepared to march. By sunrise, the vanguard had crossed the marshes on the far side of Carentan and was already turning south, following the road to Saint-Lô through rolling hills patterned with hedgerows and clumps of trees. Spurred on by the thought of five thousand marks, the companies of Holland, Tracey, Despenser and the Red Company raced each other for the lead, but there was no doubt as to who would win; the Red Company were mounted, while the other three were on foot. By mid morning, Sir John and Sir Richard and their men were nothing more than dust clouds on the southern horizon.
Four miles short of Saint-Lô, the Red Company came to Pont-Hébert, a bridge over the River Vire with a hamlet of wood and stone houses at the far end. The marshes were far behind now, and the Vire ran through a steep valley a hundred feet deep; there was no other way across. And Robert Bertrand had left a detachment of crossbowmen on guard here, with orders to prevent the enemy from crossing.
He had reckoned without the Red Company. Dismounting, they drove the enemy back with showers of arrows and charged over the bridge, shooting or stabbing anyone who tried to resist. Assuming that the crossbowmen had been broken, Grey and Percy remounted their men and rode on towards Saint-Lô. But the remaining defenders were made of tougher metal. Waiting until the Red Company were out of sight, they came out of the houses where they had hidden and attacked the bridge with axes and hammers. By the time the Prince of Wales and the rest of the vanguard arrived at Pont-Hébert, the bridge was nothing more than broken timbers lying scattered on the banks of the river below.
‘If the Red Company are already over the river, that means they are cut off,’ said the prince. His young face looked worried. ‘Should we not try to rescue them, Lord Marshal?’
‘The Red Company know how to look after themselves, Highness,’ said Warwick. He turned to his esquire. ‘Fetch Master Hurley and his carpenters, and ask Sir Nicholas Courcy to join us too. We shall need his engineering expertise once more, I think.’
The esquire turned his horse and galloped away. The prince raised a gauntleted hand, shading his eyes against the sun. ‘The enemy are still there, on the far side of the river,’ he said. ‘Should we not drive them off first before we begin to rebuild the bridge?’
White-coated crossbowmen could still be seen lurking in the houses of Pont-Hébert, weapons levelled and pointed towards the ruined bridge. Warwick just managed to keep the surprise out of his voice. ‘Very good, Highness,’ he said approvingly, and turned to Holland and Tracey. ‘Sir Thomas, Sir Edward, you heard your prince. Drive those varlets off. At once, if you please.’
* * *
Spreading out, Holland and Tracey’s archers scrambled down the steep slope towards the bridge, lean figures in green and dun brown and russet pulling arrows from their quivers as they ran. In Pont-Hébert, more white-coated figures rose from their places of concealment. Crossbow bolts streaked through the air, dark blurs in the sunlight. Two archers went down, one clutching his leg, the other falling face forward and sliding down the slope for a moment before lying sti
ll. The other archers halted and raised their bows.
There was a moment of pause, long enough for an intake of breath, and then the first flight of arrows rose and arched over the river. The second followed almost before the first had reached its target, and then came the familiar pattern of nock-draw-release, nock-draw-release, fifteen times a minute, the thrum of the bows and hiss of feathered shafts vibrating in the air. In Pont Hébert the arrows fell like rain, embedding themselves in thatched roofs and wooden walls, skidding off the cobbled street, pinning the enemy as they tried to load their crossbows and staining their white tunics with blood. In less than a minute, a thousand arrows had been shot into Pont-Hébert, and the only crossbowmen visible now were fleeing up the opposite hill towards Saint-Lô, or lying twitching on the ground.
He had seen it before, but even so the power of the massed longbows left Merrivale a little shaken. The crossbowmen had stood no chance; what had happened just now was not so much a skirmish as a massacre.
He turned to the sound of hoofbeats, and saw Lord Rowton riding up the road from Carentan, followed by his esquire and a little party of men-at-arms. A moment later Rowton reined in beside them, raising his visor and saluting the marshal and the prince.
‘How long will that take to repair?’ he asked, looking at the ruined bridge.
‘I’m waiting for Courcy to tell us,’ Warwick said. ‘But I doubt it will be much before midnight.’
The archers were coming back up the slope, carrying two dead men and supporting a third, who hobbled with a black bolt protruding from his leg. He would survive, Merrivale thought, providing the wound did not become infected. In this heat, it very well might.
Rowton looked dubious. ‘His Grace insists on reaching Saint-Lô by nightfall.’
‘His Grace must needs be disappointed,’ Warwick said. He grinned. ‘You have his ear, Eustace. You can break the news to him.’
‘Thank you very much,’ Rowton said wryly. ‘Is there anything I can tell him to sweeten the medicine?’
‘The Red Company are over the river. If I know John and Richard, they are already raising hell, and Bertrand will have his hands full. Tell the king we will be able to cross at first light, and will be at the gates of Saint-Lô by sunrise. Then all we have to do is find some way of taking the strongest fortress in Normandy… what the devil is that noise?’
Someone was shouting further along the riverbank, and now more voices joined in, raised in anger. The prince turned in his saddle. ‘Herald, find out what that commotion is, and put a stop to it. Remind the men that we are fighting the enemy, not each other.’
He had said much the same to his quarrelling knights in Valognes, Merrivale reflected. It sounded like a phrase someone had put in his mouth.
Further along the bank, archers from Holland and Tracey’s companies had gathered in an angry circle surrounding two men: Bate, the scar-headed vintenar from Lancashire, and Nicodemus, the archer from Tracey’s company. Yesterday evening at Carentan they had met and talked in apparent amity; now they stood crouched, glaring at each other and ready to fight. Bate had drawn a short sword, while Nicodemus held a slender-bladed poignard with a long, wickedly tapering point.
Dismounting and shouldering his way through the press, Merrivale saw another man lying on the ground between them. His head was twisted horribly to one side, and his green tunic was bright with blood. More blood covered his face and matted his hair. His throat had been slashed open from ear to ear, the gory wound revealing his severed jugular vein and windpipe.
Despite this, it was still possible to recognise him. It was Jakey, the Devon man who had been playing hazard outside Carentan last night.
At the sight of the herald’s tabard, the shouting was replaced by an uneasy silence. ‘By order of his Highness the Prince of Wales, I command you to cease and desist,’ Merrivale said. ‘Put away your weapons, both of you.’
Neither Bate nor Nicodemus moved. ‘The punishment for raising a weapon without permission is amputation,’ Merrivale said. ‘If you want to keep your sword hands, put up your weapons. Now!’
Sullenly Nicodemus slid his dagger back into its sheath. Bate turned towards the herald, his sword flashing in the sunlight. He was sweating heavily and the scar on his head pulsed a deep livid red. Looking into his eyes, Merrivale saw pure hatred.
‘You wish to kill me,’ he said calmly. He held his hands out from his sides, showing that he was unarmed. ‘Very well. You are welcome to try now, if you wish.’
A murmur ran around the circle of men. Merrivale ignored it. He saw the rage in Bate’s eyes fade a little, replaced by uncertainty. After a moment, the vintenar raised his sword, then slammed it down point first into the grass at his feet and stood back, breathing heavily.
Merrivale pointed at Jakey’s body. ‘What happened to this man?’
‘He was killed by the enemy,’ Bate said, his voice rasping in his throat.
That provoked another outcry from the Devon men. ‘Like hell he was!’ Nicodemus shouted. ‘The enemy were over the river, shooting crossbows! Are you telling me one of them swam across, cut Jakey’s throat and swam back again, without nobody seeing him?’
‘Happen all you Devon coneys are blind,’ said one of the northern men.
The shouting increased in volume. ‘Silence!’ Merrivale ordered, and slowly the noise died away again. ‘Did anyone see what happened?’
A long silence followed. ‘He was down at the bridge with the rest of us,’ one of the Devon men said. ‘I saw him there. But when we got back to the top of the bank, he was gone.’
‘Had he quarrelled with anyone?’
‘No,’ said Nicodemus. He glared at Bate again. ‘Jakey was a good lad. Everyone liked him.’
‘I had nothing to do with this,’ Bate said. ‘Nor did any of my men.’
‘You’re lying, Bate. One of you Lanky bastards killed him. And when I find out who it was, I swear to God I’ll cut his throat, just like you did to poor Jakey here!’
‘God rot you!’ Bate roared. ‘We didn’t do it, I tell you!’
‘And another thing, Bate,’ said Nicodemus. ‘We’re not trading with you no more. You want a buyer, you look elsewhere. We don’t have dealings with murderers. You got that, boy?’
Red with rage, Bate reached down for his sword, but Merrivale kicked the weapon away, sending it spinning across the grass. Bate glared at him, clenching his fists until the knuckles were white. The scar on his head throbbed again. Calmly the herald waited, watching the emotions flicker through the vintenar’s savage, red-rimmed eyes. Time seemed to stop; the men around him held their breath.
Bate threw back his head like a bull and shouted at the sky, an inarticulate bellow of rage and frustration, and turned and walked away. Men scattered out of his path. The herald turned to Nicodemus. ‘Take your friend and bury him. The rest of you, return to your posts. Go.’
* * *
Nicodemus and another man carried the body away. The rest of the men scattered, some still muttering. Merrivale turned to see Lord Rowton sitting on horseback, watching him. ‘I thought you might need help,’ Rowton said. ‘But clearly you had the situation under control.’ He paused. ‘That big man wanted to kill you. Why didn’t he? He had a sword, and you were unarmed.’
‘Perhaps that is the reason,’ Merrivale said. ‘Someone cut the man’s throat, my lord. It wasn’t a neat job either, but a wild hack with a heavy blade that nearly took his head off. As you saw, and heard, Tracey’s men think one of Holland’s archers did it. I have my doubts.’
He waited for Rowton to ask him what those doubts were. Instead, the other man shook his head. ‘This is not your business, herald.’
‘The man was murdered, my lord.’
‘He was one of Tracey’s men. Let Tracey deal with it. Concentrate on finding out who killed Bray.’ Rowton lifted the reins of his horse. ‘Come, it is time we returned to his Highness.’
Pont-Hébert, 21st of July, 1346
Evening
&n
bsp; At day’s end, the English army made camp on the high ground above the Vire, listening to the thump of hammers and the rasp of saws echoing along the riverbank. Most of the kitchen wagons were still on the road from Carentan, so dinner was a simple affair of stockfish and salt salmon, boiled and served with bread and pickles. After the meal was finished, the prince and his knights settled down to their usual evening amusements of wine and dice. Hugh Despenser, who had apologised profusely to the prince after the incident at Valognes – but to no one else – was among them, apparently now in high favour. Merrivale wondered about this.
Tiphaine was waiting outside his tent when he returned. ‘When shall we reach Saint-Lô?’
‘Not until tomorrow morning, I fear.’ He took a closer look at her face, tense and drawn. ‘Why is that important?’
‘My father was executed there,’ she said abruptly, and turned and went into the tent.
Merrivale stood for a moment wondering whether to go after her. A voice hailed him, and he turned to see Sir Edward de Tracey coming towards him. ‘I heard what happened this afternoon,’ Tracey said. ‘I wanted to thank you in person. You prevented what could have been a very nasty incident.’
‘Have you discovered what happened?’
Tracey grimaced. ‘I’m afraid it turns out one of my own men is responsible. The fools were gambling last night and Jake Madford, the dead man, got into debt and couldn’t pay. There was an altercation, and he and some of the others came to blows. Madford finally promised to pay after we took Saint-Lô – presumably he was hoping for a share of the loot – and my vintenar thought the matter was closed. But it looks like someone saw a chance during the fighting today to settle his account for good.’
A Flight of Arrows Page 12