Dust boiled in the air. The king’s division had arrived at Saint-Lô, and now the rest of the baggage train was moving up, a steady stream of wagons and carts turning off the Carentan road and settling in the fields east of the town. A small herd of cows wandered among them, lowing, and he spotted the little cowherd chivvying them along with her stick.
‘Sir John would have sent those two archers, Matt and Pip. They are the best he has, he says. But I do not trust them.’
‘They saved you and Warin at Carentan, señor. And la señorita.’
‘They also killed Fierville. And they were not far away when Bray died.’
‘I’ve been asking around about them, sir,’ said Warin. He hammered in the last tent peg and stood up. ‘They are well respected by their comrades.’
The herald shook his head. ‘There is something odd about them. Mauro, when you are finished, set up the table and my writing case. I have work to do.’
* * *
Inquisition into the death of Edmund Bray, knight, near the village of Quettehou in Normandy on the XIIth day of July, in the nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward III. This report was composed on the XXIInd day of that month, at the town of Saint-Lô.
Item, it remains my view that Sir Edmund Bray was killed after witnessing a meeting between Jean de Fierville and the French miles Macio Chauffin. However, there is still a lack of direct evidence. Archers of the Red Company and Sir Thomas Holland’s company may have been eyewitnesses, but all deny seeing the killing. The only other potential eyewitness, Macio Chauffin, is in the retinue of the Count of Eu, and is presumably in Caen.
Item, it has come to my attention that Bray quarrelled on separate occasions with Sir Thomas Holland and Sir Hugh Despenser. Holland has already denied any involvement in Bray’s death, but the presence of his archers in the field when Bray was killed cannot be discounted. I have yet to speak to Despenser. It should be stated that there is absolutely no direct evidence against either man.
Simon Merrivale, heraldus
Outside, a high-pitched voice was calling his name. Mauro opened the tent flap to admit one of the king’s pageboys in red and gold livery. ‘Sir Herald? His Grace has sent for you. He wishes to see you at once.’
* * *
The king had taken up residence in the Abbey of Saint-Croix, outside the town walls to the east. Merrivale followed the pageboy through the cloister and up a stone stair to the abbot’s solar. The boy stopped and knocked at a heavy wooden door. ‘Enter,’ the king’s voice commanded.
The solar was a bright, vividly painted room with rush mats on the floor. A Greek ikon, a blue-robed Virgin on a gold background, hung on the wall opposite the brick fireplace. The king had removed most of his armour and was standing by one of the windows, looking out across the valley of the Vire. Lord Rowton and Michael Northburgh were the only other people in the room.
Merrivale bowed. ‘This is my latest report on the inquisition into the death of Sir Edmund Bray,’ he said.
The king held out his hand. Merrivale gave him the parchment and the king scanned it quickly before passing it to Northburgh. ‘Very well,’ he said abruptly. ‘Bray may have been killed because he discovered Fierville’s treasonable plot. Or he may have been killed as a result of rivalries between the knights. Which is it?’
‘I do not yet know, sire. I believe the former, but the latter cannot be discounted.’
‘Mmm. This incident with the gunpowder at Carentan. Was that an attempt to kill me or my son?’
Thankfully, the king had not asked where the powder had come from. ‘I suspect it was,’ Merrivale said. ‘Barbizan insisted that he would only surrender to yourself or the prince, and that you must come in person to the castle. It all fits.’
‘Will there be another attempt?’
‘Very likely, sire. Assassination is one of the oldest weapons in war.’
‘Mmm.’ The king looked out of the window, tapping one long forefinger against his chin. ‘I am concerned about this friction between my knights. Holland and Despenser and Gurney are fine fighting men, but they can be troublesome.’
Merrivale cleared his throat. ‘I was surprised that the lord marshal posted them all to the vanguard, sire, along with Mortimer and the Earl of Salisbury. Putting them in close proximity would seem to be doing Discord’s work for her.’
The king continued to gaze out of the window. ‘My son asked for them all to be placed under his command,’ he said.
‘Do you know why, sire?’
‘God alone knows what goes on in that boy’s head.’ Realising that he had just criticised his son and heir in front of one of the prince’s own servants, the king checked. ‘But if they endanger the prince, then I will have no mercy on any of them.’
He paused for a moment. ‘Could one of them be the traitor? The man who was working with Fierville?’
‘I believe there are at least two traitors,’ Merrivale said. ‘One from the West Country and one from the north.’
‘Gurney is from Somerset,’ Rowton said thoughtfully, ‘and Holland comes from the north. Mortimer is from a Marcher family, and the Despensers have lands there too. It is possible, sire.’
‘It is,’ the herald agreed, ‘but I confess, sire, that I struggle to understand what motive these men might have. All have much to lose. My lord of Salisbury has everything he could want: lands, riches, the friendship of the prince. Why would he turn his back on it all? The others surely hope to restore their reputations and regain their families’ lost lands and titles; and Holland, of course, still wishes to recover the woman he claims as his wife.’
‘But it is for precisely these reasons that they may have turned traitor,’ Rowton said. ‘You spoke of Discord, herald. Anger, jealousy and the desire for revenge are all arrows in her quiver.’
‘My lord, we have no evidence against these men,’ Merrivale pointed out. ‘If you are thinking of arresting them for treason, you risk a grave injustice.’
‘And it would be bad for the temper of the army,’ the king said. ‘Holland and Despenser are well liked by their men, and Gurney is popular too. If we punish them, the men of their retinues may become disaffected and start to desert, and that rot could spread quickly.’
‘I made no mention of arresting anyone,’ Rowton said sharply. ‘But we must consider the safety of the prince. And indeed, sire, your safety as well.’
‘You may trust me to look after my own safety, Eustace,’ the king said. ‘Is my son well guarded?’
‘Yes, sire,’ said Merrivale.
‘Good.’ The king turned away from the window. ‘I summoned you, herald, because I have another task for you.’
‘I await your command, sire.’
‘Your lady friend, the Demoiselle de Tesson. She said that Eu and the Queen of Navarre are contemplating a rebellion of their own. How reliable is she?’
‘She has spoken nothing but truth so far,’ Merrivale said.
‘Good,’ said the king. ‘It seems we have been presented with a new opportunity. We have written before to the queen and received no reply, but we wish to try again. And we shall approach Eu as well. We will guarantee Norman independence from France, in exchange for armed support against Philippe de Valois. Harcourt’s scheme may have failed, gentlemen, but this is a second chance.’
He looked at the herald again. ‘I am sending Geoffrey of Maldon to Caen as my emissary. He will carry a formal letter to the authorities, there demanding the surrender of the city. I want you to go with him.’
Merrivale paused. Macio Chauffin was in Caen, and it was quite possible that he had witnessed the murder of Edmund Bray. There might be a chance to identify Bray’s killers. On the other hand, there was bound to be more to this mission than met the eye. There always was, with kings.
‘Brother Geoffrey is an experienced and highly skilled ambassador, sire. What role am I meant to play?’
‘Once the letter is delivered, your task is to seek out the Count of Eu and negotiate with him. Pers
uade him to hand the city over to us, and to join our cause.’
‘Easier said than done, sire,’ Rowton said drily. ‘And if Robert Bertrand finds out about these secret negotiations, he may accuse Brother Geoffrey and Master Merrivale of spying. In which case, I do not give much for their chances.’
‘Brother Geoffrey is a priest and Merrivale is a herald. Their status protects them. Well, Merrivale? Can you do this?’
Merrivale bowed. ‘As you wish, sire.’
‘Then make it so. Once we are within striking distance of Caen, Northburgh will send word to you.’
10
Cormolain, 24th of July, 1346
Morning
The roof of the barn was roaring with flame by the time the first rescuers reached it. The door had been blocked by a heavy wagon pushed up against it; Courcy and Matthew Gurney rolled the wagon away and pulled the door open, but the interior of the barn was full of acrid smoke. Covering their faces, they plunged inside and began dragging out the bodies.
‘How many?’ asked the herald, arriving on the scene.
‘Seven,’ said Courcy. ‘For some, a lucky number. Not for these fellows, though.’
He coughed, his face and hands blackened with soot. Gurney stood bent over with his hands on his knees, gagging as he tried to clear the smoke from his lungs. Donnchad, the big Irish gallowglass, knelt on the ground beside them, vomiting onto the grass.
‘Any survivors?’ asked Merrivale.
The roof of the barn collapsed with a crash, a shower of sparks, flames and smoke belching skyward and staining the dawn sky. ‘No,’ said Gurney.
The herald looked at the row of corpses. The clothes of some were still smouldering. ‘Did anyone see what happened?’
‘Donnchad spotted men dressed like local peasants running away,’ Courcy said. ‘I saw the barn was on fire and knew some of our lads were inside. We called for help, and Matthew arrived with some of his men. But we were too late.’
‘And so the resistance begins,’ Merrivale said slowly. ‘People will have heard about Montebourg and Carentan and all the other places we destroyed. They are turning against us.’
Courcy looked at him. ‘We need to talk,’ he said. ‘Somewhere private.’
They walked away from the burning barn, leaving Gurney and Donnchad and the others to watch the flames. ‘The men who died in that barn were Lankies,’ Courcy said when they were out of earshot. ‘They were Bate’s men. And it wasn’t locals who killed them.’
‘I am listening,’ Merrivale said.
‘I did as you asked and started looking around for clues about what happened to Bray. Like you, I thought of Bate and his men. As a fellow plunderer, I was able to get close to them, and I learned something of interest. Bate and his fellows don’t carry their booty around with them. They sell it on quickly, and then go out and hunt for more.’
‘Who buys it?’
‘Nicodemus. Now there’s an interesting fellow. A defrocked priest, he is. No one knows why, but it must have been something serious, like pissing on a bishop. Anything less, he’d have bought his way out of it.’
It was true, Merrivale thought. Absolution could always be had, at a price. ‘And so he became an archer for hire.’
‘Not at first. He worked as clerk to a banker in Southampton, but then when the French attacked in ’38, the banker was killed and Nicodemus absconded with the banker’s gold and the banker’s wife. He popped up in Tracey’s retinue in Flanders in ’40, and has been in his service ever since.’
The fire in the barn was dying down. ‘It’s a smart enterprise,’ Courcy said. ‘I wish I had thought of it myself. He must have learned a lot from that banker, or his wife. Nicodemus buys stolen goods at a discount; the pillagers are happy to sell cheaply to get ready money. That way they don’t have to haul the goods around with them. Nicodemus sends the booty back to England and sells it on for a profit. He works with at least a dozen companies, right across the army, and he’s acquiring more customers as word gets around. He’ll buy and sell anything from anyone.’
He paused. ‘Now this is where it gets really interesting. Bate and his lads realised how much money Nicodemus was making, and decided to set up in competition. When Nicodemus found out, he was furious. He thought one of his own men was spying for Bate, and killed him.’
‘Madford.’
‘Exactly. Then he accused Bate of the murder, hoping to cover his tracks. That’s what that little scene at Pont-Hébert was all about. You intervened and spoiled that plan, so he came up with another. He invented the story of the gambling debts, and one of Tracey’s archers, Jack Slade, became the scapegoat. The guessing is that he’s still out there somewhere, and still working with Nicodemus.’
‘Did Slade kill Madford?’
‘Could be. Or Nicodemus did it himself.’
Jakey was a good lad. Everyone liked him. The human capacity for deceit really knows no bounds, Merrivale thought. ‘Is Tracey aware of Nicodemus’s activities?’
‘Of course he is. According to Bate’s boys, he set up the entire scheme. Nicodemus is like a steward or a factor; he runs the operation. But the profit goes to Tracey.’ Courcy’s smile had little humour in it. ‘It looks like old Jeremiah was right,’ he said. ‘A leopard can’t change its spots.’
‘Yes.’ Everyone knew the unsavoury history of the Tracey family, but over the past few years, Edward de Tracey had emerged as a competent and reliable captain who had won the respect of his fellow knights and the favour of the king. But had he really left the past behind him?
‘And so this morning, Nicodemus’s men, disguised as locals, tried to get rid of their rivals?’
‘I think you have the right of it. Nicodemus learned that some of Bate’s lads were sleeping in the barn, and probably hoped Bate himself was with them, only he wasn’t. Someone is stirring the pot, herald.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Madford wasn’t spying for Bate. All the Lankies swear to that. And they don’t know how Nicodemus discovered their enterprise. I reckon someone is trying to set these boys against each other. And that is dangerous.’
Merrivale nodded. ‘An army that is divided against itself will not fight well.’
‘I meant dangerous for you. Bate still hates you. Watch your back, and remember, if they kill you, they’ll take that pretty young lady away as well. They reckon she’s unfinished business.’
In the distance, a trumpet sounded, rousing the men to march. ‘Thank you,’ Merrivale said. ‘You have well repaid my trust in you.’
‘It’s not over yet. You still haven’t discovered who killed Edmund Bray.’
‘Not yet. But I will.’
Saint-Germain-d’Ectot, 24th of July, 1346
Late evening
The last of the sunset glow had faded, bringing a night full of fire. Caen was less than twenty miles away and the vanguard’s camp was bright with watchfires, flotsam on a sea of flame. The countryside around them was flooded with pulsing orange light as villages and farms blazed. Out on the coast the northern horizon flickered and glowed like some unholy aurora as the English fleet burned its way east, targeting every ship and coastal port in its path.
In the camp at Saint-Germain-d’Ectot, the prince and his companions ate and drank and shouted and rattled the dice. As usual, the prince lost; as usual, the more he lost, the louder he laughed. Merrivale waited until they were all roaring drunk and then slipped quietly away. He found Tiphaine standing outside his tent looking at the fires. ‘The world is burning,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes. It is the king’s order. He has reversed his earlier edict and ordered the destruction of every town and village. He knows the smoke and flames will be seen in Caen.’
‘Your commanders hope this will persuade the citizens to surrender, lest their own city suffer the same fate.’
Sparks danced like fireflies in the night. ‘Do you think that is likely?’ Merrivale asked. ‘Will the citizens be dismayed by what they see?’
&
nbsp; ‘The citizens may, but the Count of Eu will not. Why should he care? It is not his lands that are burning.’
The herald said nothing. Tiphaine turned and looked at him, her eyes clear in the firelight. ‘I wish to apologise for my behaviour at Saint-Lô,’ she said. ‘I was rude to you, and that is unpardonable. I owe you everything, including my life.’
‘I am troubled for your safety,’ Merrivale said, ‘and this army is no place for you. If I can find you passage to England, will you go?’
‘England? What would I do there? I have no money, no friends, nowhere to live.’
‘We could find you a place, I am sure.’
‘Where?’
‘A convent, perhaps.’
‘Another prison? No thank you. I am staying here.’
Merrivale shook his head. ‘Be reasonable, demoiselle. We must find a place of safety for you.’
She turned on him, almost fiercely. ‘I do not care about safety. I told you at Saint-Lô. I intend to avenge my father.’
‘How?’
‘I do not yet know. But like the spider, I am patient.’
* * *
The shouting began a moment later, coming from the direction of the prince’s pavilion. Gripped by sudden apprehension, Merrivale turned and ran towards the scene. The knights and esquires and serjeants of the prince’s household had gathered, all staring in astonishment. He pushed through the crowd, not caring who he shouldered out of the way. It was only when he saw the prince standing swaying a little with wine cup in hand, but definitely unharmed, that he let out his breath.
Hugh Despenser was in the middle of the group, holding up a longbow arrow fletched with goose feathers and tipped with a gleaming broadhead; a hunter’s arrow, designed to embed itself in flesh and bone and not be withdrawn. ‘This was shot at me when I left the prince’s pavilion a few moments ago. It missed me by no more than an inch.’ His voice rose. ‘Some coward has tried to shoot me in the back!’
A Flight of Arrows Page 14