‘Do you know who the killer is?’
‘They closed ranks, of course, and refused to say, but it is perfectly obvious who it must be. Another of my archers, Jack Slade, disappeared this afternoon and hasn’t been seen since.’
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ Merrivale said.
‘Don’t be. Slade was not only a thief and a liar, he was also a terrible shot. My company is better off without him. I daresay he has gone over to the French by now, and if we catch him at Saint-Lô, I will have the pleasure of hanging him myself.’
Merrivale bowed. ‘Thank you for letting me know, Sir Edward.’
Tracey departed.
Jakey was a good lad. Everyone liked him. Clearly that was not true. But if Slade had killed him, why did Nicodemus and the others accuse Bate?
* * *
Later that evening, Lord Rowton sought out the herald. ‘I have read the reports you submitted to the king’s secretary. May I ask if there has been any further progress?’ He paused. ‘I am thinking of Edmund’s family.’
Merrivale shook his head. ‘I think he saw Fierville meeting with Chauffin, and was killed to silence him. But I have no proof.’
‘Are there other possibilities?’
The herald paused for a moment. ‘Sir Thomas Holland admits that he and Bray quarrelled at Portchester,’ he said finally. ‘He makes no secret of the fact that he disliked Bray. But enough to kill him? I am not certain.’
Rowton frowned. ‘What was the subject of their dispute?’
‘Holland says that Bray insulted his wife. Or rather, the woman he claims as his wife.’
‘Ah, the fair and divisive Joan… I had not heard of this. It may interest you to know, however, that while at Portchester, Bray also had an altercation with Sir Hugh Despenser.’
Merrivale looked at him. ‘You witnessed this, my lord?’
‘Yes, I did. Curiously, this quarrel too was about gambling debts.’ Rowton shook his head. ‘Gambling is an absolute curse in this army. We have more disputes and affrays over games of chance than any other single cause. If I had my way, I would ban gambling throughout the army, and put any man who transgressed into the stocks.’
‘I suspect that would not be practical,’ Merrivale said.
‘Of course not, given that the Prince of Wales is the biggest gambler of the lot.’
Earlier in the year, Merrivale had helped the prince’s treasurer settle the young man’s debts, which had risen to around sixty-five pounds; much of it owed to his mother, Queen Philippa. The problem was that the prince loved gambling for its own sake; he simply did not care whether he won or lost, with the result that he lost far more often than he won. ‘Had Bray run into debt?’ Merrivale asked.
‘No, but his friend Mortimer had. Despenser bought the debt from someone else, possibly as a way of putting one over on Mortimer, and demanded repayment. Bray interceded, asking Despenser for more time. When Despenser began to insult Mortimer, Bray stood up for him.’
‘As a true friend would.’
‘Indeed. However, some quite harsh words were said, and Bray made comments about Despenser’s character and parentage that I daresay an older and wiser man would have eschewed. At this point I intervened, ordered them both to apologise, and sent them away. But I fear Despenser is the sort of man who carries a grudge.’
‘Yes. Thank you for informing me, my lord.’
‘There is no need to thank me. I am sorry I did not tell you earlier.’
Rowton took his leave. Merrivale stood for a moment, thinking. Despenser’s company had also been ashore early at Quettehou. And Despenser had many archers in his retinue.
Despenser is the sort of man who carries a grudge. But who in that tortured generation, stained with their fathers’ crimes and their fathers’ blood, did not? How could anyone have survived that grim decade of famine and anarchy and come through it unmarked? He himself had not.
But… had he been wrong all along? He had become convinced – or, he admitted, he had convinced himself – that Bray had been killed because he had discovered Fierville was working with the enemy. But what if that was not the case? Bray had been a well-liked young man, but he had also made enemies along the way. Perhaps I am wrong about Holland, Merrivale thought. Perhaps he did allow his anger to get the better of him. Or perhaps Despenser, brooding over past histories and past wrongs, had snapped and decided to end the life of the man who had confronted him.
Sunset was a fading fire. Overhead, stars broke out in the darkening sky. Somewhere in the camp, a man played a lute and sang a lai by Marie de France. The herald recognised the song at once; he had heard it sung before, years ago, in another country.
The lives of the others are done.
Their love has cooled.
Yet I remain alive
and my destiny is to be with the woman I love
without ever knowing the bliss I seek.
I cannot possess her. I long for her embrace
and with every breath I draw I suffer.
I envy the others wrapped in death.
9
Saint-Lô, 22nd of July, 1346
Morning
Seen from a distance, the walls and towers of Saint-Lô were like a gigantic ship floating above the trees and hedgerows. Surrounded on three sides by steep valleys and on the fourth by massive ramparts and gates protected by towers and bartizans, the city was virtually impregnable. The vanguard moved forward cautiously, hobelars trotting across the fields in little groups to scout, archers spreading out on the flanks, men-at-arms riding in glittering, bright-coloured streams up the centre with the standard of Wales in the lead.
They could see no banners flying from either the ramparts of the town or the castle perched at its far end. The gates were wide open, and the men standing guard outside them wore red iron caps on their heads. The impregnable city had fallen.
‘It was another ruse,’ said Sir Richard Percy, who came down to meet them at the gate. ‘Bertrand left about fifty men to defend the place, and pulled out with the rest. We seized the gates yesterday afternoon, and took the town without a fight. The garrison at the castle held out for most of the night, but this morning we persuaded them to surrender.’
‘Persuaded them?’ said Warwick. ‘How?’
Percy smiled. ‘That was John’s doing,’ he said. ‘He claimed we had captured a supply train with all the silver that was meant to pay their wages. They opened the gates and walked out a few minutes later.’
‘Where has Bertrand gone?’
‘According to the prisoners, he withdrew further up the valley towards Torigni. But we think that too is a deception. We reckon he’s retreated to Caen.’
Caen was the second city of Normandy, even bigger than Saint-Lô; it lay about thirty-five miles to the east. ‘Why do you think this?’ asked the prince.
He was, Merrivale thought, beginning to ask some rather sensible questions. ‘The prisoners told us the Count of Eu has just arrived in Caen, Highness,’ Percy said. ‘He has summoned all the Norman men-at-arms to join him there. Also, there is no other defensible place west of Caen.’
Nicholas Courcy had ridden with the prince’s knights. Despite his shabby appearance, he was well regarded at court now, thanks in part to his successful return of the stolen gunpowder. ‘So that is where Eu will make his stand,’ he said. ‘I’ve been to Caen, and it’s a powerful place. I’m thinking the cannon might come in useful.’
The prince looked up at the gatehouse, pointing at three round, pale objects hanging suspended by chains. ‘What are those?’
‘They are skulls, highness,’ said a female voice. They turned to see Tiphaine de Tesson dismounting from a horse. ‘Skulls,’ she repeated. ‘All that remains of the last Normans who tried to start a revolt against our French overlords. Their leader was my father, Jean, Sire de la Roche-Tesson. He and his friends were beheaded here two years ago and their heads hung over the gate as a warning to other traitors.’
No one else spoke. Tiphaine
looked at Warwick and the prince. ‘I should like to see my father.’
Warwick nodded. ‘Bring them down,’ he said.
* * *
Carefully and with great respect, the skulls were brought down from the gatehouse and placed on a blanket on the ground. Time, wind and carrion birds had picked away all vestiges of hair and skin; only the bones remained, eye sockets full of shadow in the sunrise, teeth grinning broken and yellow. Tiphaine knelt before them, studying them intently, oblivious to the men watching her in absolute silence. Roger Mortimer bit his lip and turned suddenly away. Nicholas Courcy shifted a little, his face full of sympathy. ‘The pity of it all,’ he said softly.
‘What do you mean?’ Merrivale asked quietly.
‘The fair maiden gazing on the face of death.’
Tiphaine lifted one of the skulls and held it up to the light. ‘This one,’ she said. ‘This is my father.’
Her fingers traced the line of one cheekbone. Closing her eyes, she kissed the skull on the forehead, and then rose to her feet still holding it in her hands. ‘The rest of the body was dismembered and scattered,’ she said. ‘This is all I have of him. I wish to bury him, so that he might at last find rest.’
‘Send for Brother Geoffrey,’ Warwick said. ‘Ask him to conduct the service.’
They gathered in the church of Notre-Dame overlooking the ramparts and the valley of the Vire. The prince and his knights removed their bascinets and stood bare-headed in the apse, watching with a mixture of respect and fascination while Nicholas Courcy and Matthew Gurney prised up one of the flagstones and heaved it to one side. ‘Well,’ said Gurney, looking down. ‘He’ll not want for company.’
Beneath the flagstone were other graves of unguessable age, full of brown decaying bones. The men bowed their heads as Tiphaine walked forward cradling the skull of her father in both hands. There came once again to Merrivale’s mind the image of Bertrand de Born carrying his severed head before him. Jean de la Roche-Tesson too had sown discord, and paid the price for it.
Tiphaine’s face showed no sign of emotion. Silently she knelt and laid the skull among the other bones, then rose and stepped back. At a sign from Warwick, two more men came forward carrying the other skulls and laid them quietly to rest beside the first. Geoffrey of Maldon lifted the crucifix hanging around the neck of his black Augustinian robes and recited the burial prayers. ‘I wish to leave money for a mass to be said for his soul,’ Tiphaine said at the end.
‘I will arrange it,’ said Merrivale.
‘No,’ said another voice. ‘Allow me.’
It was Godefroi d’Harcourt who had spoken. Merrivale had not seen him enter the church, but now he limped forward, taking one of Tiphaine’s hands in his own and raising it to his lips. ‘Your father was my friend,’ he said. ‘I can do little else for him, or you. But allow me this much at least.’
Tiphaine nodded, unspeaking. Harcourt bowed and walked away, dragging his bad leg. Merrivale watched him for a moment. Tiphaine needed a protector, and he had thought of asking Harcourt; but now, with all the Norman’s plans and schemes in ruins and so many of his friends dead, it was Harcourt himself who was likely to need protection.
* * *
The prince and most of his knights departed. Courcy lingered a little, talking quietly with Tiphaine. Merrivale felt a hand descend on his shoulder and turned to find Sir John Sully standing beside him, regarding him with what the herald could only describe as benevolent mischief. His dog stood behind them, regarding the gravestone with interest.
‘Why are you smiling at me?’ Merrivale asked.
‘Now what reason would I have to smile?’ Sully asked. ‘She is a comely maid,’ he added, nodding towards Tiphaine. ‘But why have you dressed her as a boy?’
‘This was the best my servant could do.’
Sully’s smile grew broader. ‘What are you planning to do with her?’
‘Find her a place of safety. If necessary, I will send her to England.’ Merrivale looked at the older man. ‘Unless you would care to take her off my hands?’
‘Me? No, boy, I am far too old. I don’t hold with these May and December romances. You keep her. Look after her well.’
‘Who said anything about romance?’
Sully winked, snapped his fingers to summon the dog and walked away. Courcy raised Tiphaine’s hand and kissed it, lips lingering rather longer than was strictly necessary, and followed. Merrivale walked over to where Tiphaine stood staring down at the gravestone. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked gently.
She raised her eyes to his, liquid and dark brown. ‘I have given him peace,’ she said. ‘Now I must avenge him.’
Merrivale did not answer. She continued to stare at him. ‘Have you a father, herald?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ It was true, although the old man no longer recognised his own son, or knew who he himself was. Time and horror had destroyed his memory.
‘If someone killed him, what would you do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Merrivale said. He paused for a moment. ‘But I know how terrible it is to lose a parent. You must give yourself time to grieve.’
‘Grieve? Why should I grieve for him? I barely knew him. My mother died when I was young, and I was raised by nuns at the Abbaye aux Dames in Caen. I lived with them until I was arrested. I rarely saw my father and I never knew my true home.’
‘And yet you wish to avenge him.’
‘I am Norman,’ Tiphaine said. ‘That is what we do.’
Again it was impossible to answer this. ‘What did Sir Nicholas want?’ the herald asked.
‘To offer his condolences, and to exercise his charm on me. Do not worry. I am proof against men like him.’ She smiled, the first time he had seen her do so. ‘The nuns trained me well.’
A thought struck Merrivale. ‘You could go back to them for shelter.’
‘The Abbaye aux Dames is one of the richest houses in the land, filled with the daughters of nobles and kings. Do you think they will accept the penniless child of a traitor back into their midst? And in times like these, do you think nunneries will be spared?’
They walked out into the morning sun. ‘Are you married, herald?’ Tiphaine asked suddenly.
‘No.’
‘There is no woman in your life?’
‘No.’
‘No? Has there ever been one?’
With every breath I draw I suffer. Merrivale let the question die in the air between them. ‘We must find you some more suitable clothes,’ he said after a moment. ‘I will see if something can be arranged.’
‘I am quite comfortable as I am, thank you.’ There was an edge of anger in her voice. ‘If I need anything further, I shall ask Mauro. I have found him to be most helpful.’
She walked away down the street. Merrivale wondered briefly if it was safe to let her go alone, but unlike Carentan, the occupation of Saint-Lô had been largely peaceful; the Red Company had seized the town ahead of the rest of the army, and its disciplined soldiers could be seen on every street, maintaining order. The pillaging of the town had begun, but this time it was organised and led by the king’s purveyors, working methodically to seize stocks of food and wine and merchandise.
Returning to the town gates, Merrivale found Sir John Grey talking urgently to one of his officers, a craggy-looking man in a mail tunic, carrying a heavy spear. ‘There’s a thousand tuns of wine in those warehouses on Rue des Fossés,’ Grey was saying. ‘For God’s sake put a strong guard on them, Jacques, until the king’s men can come and take over. If the army gets hold of that wine, we’ll have fifteen thousand dead-drunk men, and Bertrand will be able to walk back in here and take over whenever he pleases.’
‘It shall be done,’ the spearman said, touching his red iron cap in salute. He was about twice Grey’s age, the herald thought, but he took orders from the young knight without question.
‘Thank you.’ Grey turned towards Merrivale. ‘Sir Herald. May I have a word?’
‘Of course.’
‘Yes. It was a quarrel over gambling debts, it seems.’
‘Oh?’ Grey’s gaze was steady. ‘That’s not what I heard. According to the gossip one of my men picked up this morning, the archer was talking about a plot by one of the Lancashire men. A plot to kill you, in fact.’
Merrivale said nothing.
‘Were you aware of this?’ Grey asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And what are you doing about it?’
Sir Edmund Bray had found Grey irritating. Merrivale was beginning to understand how he felt. Grey had won a great reputation on the Scottish borders over the past couple of years, but his calm arrogance grated on the nerves. ‘The man you refer to is a vintenar in Sir Thomas Holland’s company,’ the herald said. ‘His name is Bate. I have confronted him, and he knows I am aware of his intentions. He will be more circumspect now, I think.’
‘Perhaps. But Bate also has some very unpleasant friends. They killed Tracey’s man to stop him from talking, and they’ll kill you if you give them half a chance.’ Grey paused. ‘We can protect you, if you wish.’
‘I am a herald,’ said Merrivale. ‘I do not need protection.’
‘A lot of dead heralds have said the same. Don’t be foolish. I will send men to guard you.’
‘Thank you, but no,’ Merrivale said. ‘My own men are sufficient.’
Grey looked at him for a long time. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘That is your choice.’
* * *
Mauro said much the same thing. ‘This is madness, señor,’ he said as he and Warin pitched the tent. ‘I have seen these men. They are not ordinary soldiers. They are veterans of many wars, who know no restraint and no pity. The fact that you are a herald will not stop them. You should have accepted Sir John’s offer, señor.’
A Flight of Arrows Page 13