A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  11

  Caen, 25th of July, 1346

  Midday

  Hard hands gripped their arms and pinned them behind their backs. ‘No,’ said the man with the rings, and he rose to his feet. ‘These men are protected.’

  The bishop slammed his fist down on the table. ‘You fool! They are spies, I tell you! Hang them!’

  Bertrand stood up too, cradling his wounded arm. ‘My brother is right, Constable. You heard the messenger yesterday. Maldon and Merrivale have been sent to spy and report back to King Edward.’

  ‘Then we shall prevent them from doing so,’ the man with the rings said calmly. ‘Brother Geoffrey, Master Merrivale, your lives will be spared, but I fear we must detain you. Once your army retreats from Caen, you will be released.’

  ‘This is monstrous,’ Merrivale said sharply. ‘We are ambassadors. You cannot interfere with us.’

  ‘Oh, don’t go quoting the laws of war at me, herald,’ the man with the rings said wearily. ‘Ambassadors are also spies; always have been and always will be. It is part of their job. I didn’t need the messenger to tell me that.’ He paused for a moment, stroking his chin.

  ‘I still say we should hang them,’ the bishop growled.

  ‘I agree,’ said Bertrand. ‘Make an example of them.’

  ‘Your bellicosity does you credit, gentlemen. But if we hang their ambassadors, then they will start hanging ours, and so it will go on… I’m afraid we do still need such men, sometimes. And perhaps we can turn this to our advantage.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Bertrand.

  ‘First, let us separate them. Keep Brother Geoffrey here in the castle. I will take the herald to one of the towers on the bridge of Saint-Pierre. He will be secure there, with no chance of escape, and I shall question him at my leisure.’

  ‘Question him? About what?’

  The man with the rings smiled. ‘A herald to the Prince of Wales must know a great deal about the enemy’s plans and intentions. By the time I am finished with him, he will have told me everything he knows.’

  ‘You said you would spare our lives,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘And I shall. But more than that, Sir Herald, I will not promise you.’ He waved his hand, purple and blue light flashing from his rings. Two men-at-arms took hold of Brother Geoffrey. ‘Good luck, old friend,’ Geoffrey murmured. ‘May God watch over you.’

  ‘And you also,’ Merrivale said quietly.

  The men-at-arms marched the black-robed canon away. Merrivale wondered if he would ever see him again. Two more men took his own arms, and the man with the mastiff device tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  Caen, 25th of July, 1346

  Late afternoon

  The guards took Merrivale to a room high up in one of the squat towers that guarded the southern end of the bridge of Saint-Pierre. Below he could see the bridge itself lined with half-timbered houses, some hanging out over the surging brown river. This was the Odon, which divided the two halves of the city. The river channel was broad; the tide, he guessed, was nearly full. The coast was only about ten miles away.

  The single door into the chamber was locked from the outside. Even if he could get through it, the only way out was down the narrow spiral stair to another door at the foot of the tower. That door, as he had seen when they brought him in, was heavily guarded.

  The windows were narrow, little more than arrow slits. Different angles showed him small parts of the city. Beyond the bridge to the north stood a big church, Saint-Pierre, its windows and buttresses rising above the riverbank; beyond it were the crowded buildings of Bourg-le-Roi. The towers of the abbey of Saint-Étienne could be seen in the distance. To the south was the district of Saint-Jean, streets lined with fine houses backing onto gardens. A pleasant, prosperous city, the herald thought, and big, too; not so big as London, but still powerful.

  Everywhere he looked, he saw preparations for war. At the foot of the bridge a strong barricade had been thrown up, and he could see a host of defenders behind it, armour flashing and sparkling in the strong sunlight. Dozens of shallops and coracles were coming up the river on the incoming tide, all crowded with crossbowmen wearing white tunics.

  White was the colour worn by Genoese mercenaries. Until now, apart from the detachment that had been overwhelmed at Pont-Hébert, they had seen nothing of these feared crossbowmen and their powerful weapons. Now, hundreds of them floated on the river, weapons at the ready. Merrivale wondered why they had been so late in arriving. Had Bertrand commanded this many crossbowmen earlier in the campaign, the outcome at Carentan and Saint-Lô might have been different; indeed, the English army might never have got ashore at Saint-Vaast.

  Off to the west, smoke clouds billowed like the wall of a storm, lit from within by the red lightning of burning villages, coming steadily closer.

  The room itself was not uncomfortable. There was a bed with a straw mattress and wool blankets, a painted wooden chest and a jeu de table, a small table inlaid with triangular patterns of dark wood and bone. Opening a drawer at one end, the herald found a stack of gaming pieces and a pair of dice. Thoughtfully he pulled up a wooden stool and arranged the pieces, then began rolling dice against himself, moving the pieces around the board.

  He was halfway through a game when a key rattled in the lock and the door opened. The man with the rings walked into the room, closing the door behind him. He was about Merrivale’s own age, thin-faced and long-nosed, with an air of careless arrogance that came from generations of breeding and power. He wore an embroidered doublet and hose partly covered by a flowing silk surcoat bearing his arms: a gold lion on a blue field, quartered with an ornate gold cross on white. Of course, the herald thought with professional detachment; one of his ancestors had been King of Jerusalem.

  ‘I assume you know who I am,’ the man said.

  Merrivale bowed. ‘Raoul de Brienne, Count of Eu and Guînes and Constable of France,’ he said. ‘I am at your service, my lord.’

  ‘A curious turn of phrase,’ Eu said. He surveyed his prisoner for a moment. Merrivale studied him in turn, waiting.

  Eu pulled up another stool and sat down, studying the gaming table. ‘Are you fond of games of chance, herald?’

  ‘I dislike gambling, my lord. I prefer calculation.’

  ‘You dislike gambling? That must make you unique at King Edward’s court.’ The count gestured for Merrivale to sit. ‘Life itself is a gamble, herald. You wagered your life, when you came here to spy for your king.’

  He rolled the dice and moved one of the white counters, and sat back looking at Merrivale again, his gaze steady.

  ‘Someone told you we were coming,’ Merrivale said. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Do you really believe I will answer that question? Tell me instead why you came here.’

  ‘I have a message for you, my lord. And whoever told you we were spies was trying to stop that message from getting through. He hoped you would hang us out of hand, as the bishop and the Sire de Bertrand urged you to do.’

  Eu stroked his chin, still watching him. ‘This message. What is it?’

  ‘Once I have told you, what then?’

  ‘That depends on the message,’ the count said, ‘and who it is from.’ He gestured towards the gaming table. ‘Your move.’

  Merrivale rolled the dice, moved a black piece and pushed the dice back across the table. ‘My message is from the king,’ he said.

  The count studied the game. ‘Ah,’ he said after a moment. ‘I see.’

  ‘But you had already guessed this,’ Merrivale said. ‘That is the real reason why you intervened to stop the bishop from killing us. You wanted to hear what I had to say.’

  ‘Let us just say your arrival was not unexpected.’ The count picked up the dice and rolled them. ‘And what does Edward Plantagenet want with me?’

  Merrivale did not answer directly. ‘You will know by now, my lord, that Godefroi d’Harcourt’s revolt against King Philip has failed.’

/>   ‘Yes. It appears that Harcourt has fewer friends than he thought. Even his own brother has turned against him, and gone to join the royal army mustering at Rouen.’

  ‘As a loyal Frenchman, this must be pleasing to you,’ the herald said. ‘The threat of rebellion is averted and Normandy’s loyalty to the French crown has been secured.’ He paused. ‘Of course, my lord, it depends on who you really are. A Frenchman, or a Norman.’

  Eu rolled the dice, studied the table for a long moment and finally moved a piece. ‘And what does your king want from me?’ he asked.

  ‘His Grace knows that you and the Queen of Navarre are planning a rebellion of your own. This revolt would be much more dangerous than Harcourt’s failed uprising. The queen is King Philip’s cousin. Your ancestors fought for the Holy Sepulchre, and the blood of kings and emperors runs in your veins. Where you lead, thousands will flock to follow you.’

  The count said nothing. He picked up one of the gaming pieces, examined it for a moment, then put it back on the board.

  ‘If you rebel, His Grace will support you,’ Merrivale said. ‘He has fifteen thousand men, and more will come from England. You will need English support if you are to defeat King Philip and his royal army.’

  ‘What does Edward suggest I do?’

  ‘Join forces with him,’ Merrivale said. ‘When his army approaches Caen, open the gates of the city and bring your men over to join us.’

  Eu made an impatient gesture. ‘If I do, King Philippe will declare me a rebel. All my lands and estates will be forfeit, and I will be no better off than Harcourt. What happens if I refuse Edward’s gentle offer?’

  ‘Then his Grace will storm the city,’ Merrivale said.

  The count gestured towards the windows. ‘Look again, herald. Do you think that will be easy?’

  ‘The walls of Bourg-le-Roi are old and weak, and will be easy to undermine. Saint-Jean’s only protection, apart from these towers on the bridge, is the river and a wooden palisade. But the river can be swum or forded, and a child could climb over the palisade. Caen will fall, my lord, no matter how stoutly you defend it.’

  ‘Ah, but you have forgotten the castle. It is impregnable, and its storerooms are full. And I have four thousand men at my command, including a thousand crossbowmen. Even if the city falls, I can hold the castle for weeks.’

  Merrivale nodded. ‘Ah, yes. You will hold out until the royal army arrives from Rouen to relieve you. King Edward will be forced to retreat, and the power and prestige of King Philip will grow stronger. The dream of rebellion and a free Normandy will recede into the distance. It would appear you have made your choice, my lord. You are French, after all.’

  The count rose to his feet and stood looking down at him. ‘I told you earlier that you were gambling with your life,’ he said. ‘By speaking to me as you have done, you have forfeited your immunity as a herald. I could hang you right now.’

  ‘You could,’ Merrivale agreed. ‘But as I said, my lord, I prefer calculation to gambling.’

  ‘Well, let us see if you have calculated correctly. Is there anything you desire?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. You have in your service a man-at-arms named Macio Chauffin. I should like to speak with him.’

  ‘Chauffin? Why?’

  ‘An English knight was murdered shortly after we landed at Saint-Vaast, by one of our own men. I think Chauffin may have witnessed the murder. I would like to ask him what he knows.’

  The count raised his eyebrows a little. ‘Why should I care if one of your men was killed? One less of the enemy to worry about.’

  ‘If indeed we are the enemy,’ said Merrivale. ‘But, my lord, this is a matter of murder, not warfare. And the principles of justice apply equally in France as they do in England, I think.’

  Eu considered this. ‘You are bold with your demands,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I should take the bishop’s advice and hang you.’

  A cold finger of doubt crept down Merrivale’s spine, and he wondered if he had overplayed his hand. ‘That is your lordship’s decision,’ he said.

  ‘It is,’ Eu agreed. ‘I wish you a good evening, Sir Herald.’

  Caen, 25th of July, 1346

  Evening

  Time passed, and the wall of smoke grew closer. The sun, dipping into the west, was obscured by its clouds. Today, dusk fell early in Caen.

  Macio Chauffin was the man who had arrested them outside the city walls. He had stripped off his surcoat and most of his armour, but still wore a mail tunic over a padded doublet. His balding head was fringed with dark hair like a monk’s tonsure. Merrivale guessed he was in his early forties.

  ‘Thank you for coming to see me,’ the herald said. ‘I am sorry I have no refreshment to offer you.’

  ‘I am here at my lord’s command,’ Chauffin replied. His face and voice were both wary, like a man expecting to be attacked.

  ‘If you will permit me, I have a few questions for you. I believe you met with Jean de Fierville on the road from Quettehou to Valognes the day we landed, the twelfth of July. During this meeting, did you see anyone else?’

  Chauffin looked surprised, as if this was not the question he had been expecting. ‘Yes, I did. Just as we were finishing our… conversation, another English man-at-arms came riding up from Quettehou. I wasn’t expecting him, and I could see Fierville wasn’t either.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I thought it might be a trap, and I turned my horse and rode away. But I had only gone about a hundred yards when I heard Fierville calling me back. I turned again and saw the other man lying on the ground. He was dead by the time I rejoined Fierville.’

  ‘Did you see the men who killed him?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Chauffin said. ‘I did not see the actual shooting, but there were two archers standing only a few yards away, with strung bows and arrows at the nock. It was obvious that they were the killers.’

  A gust of wind wafted through the windows, smelling of smoke. ‘Could you identify them?’ the herald asked.

  Chauffin shook his head. ‘They wore no badges or blazons.’

  ‘Did either of them wear a red iron cap?’

  ‘No, they wore no headgear. I am positive of it.’

  The caps could have been removed, of course. ‘Was one of them bald? With a scar across his scalp?’

  Chauffin shook his head again.

  ‘What happened next?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘Nothing. Fierville told the two archers to go, and they ran off. We debated about what to do with the body; he wanted to hide it, but there wasn’t time. Bertrand’s men were already coming down the road and hell was about to break loose. So we rode away and left him. Poor fellow,’ Chauffin said. ‘So young, too. His family will miss him.’

  Merrivale looked at him sharply. ‘Did you recognise him?’

  ‘No.’ It was said so quickly and abruptly that the herald was quite certain he was lying.

  ‘You met Fierville by arrangement, I assume. Who told you where and when to meet him?’

  Chauffin scratched his ear. ‘Does this have anything to do with the murder?’

  ‘It might.’

  ‘The letter arrived a week earlier,’ Chauffin said. ‘It came from someone in your camp, but I don’t know who.’

  ‘Might it have been Sir Thomas Holland?’ the herald asked.

  Chauffin’s head jerked back in shock. ‘I don’t know who you are talking about.’

  ‘You and Sir Thomas and the Count of Eu served together in Prussia,’ Merrivale said. ‘You were together for about a year, first in Königsberg and then out on the frontier. At Allenstein and Rössel, I believe.’

  Chauffin stared at him, lips clamped tightly together.

  ‘I am a herald,’ Merrivale said. ‘I know Fierville gave you information, and I know Sir Thomas Holland is betraying his country, but these matters do not fall within my jurisdiction. All I want to know is who killed that young knight.’

  ‘Holland is not a traitor.’
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br />   ‘Fierville and yourself were go-betweens,’ the herald said, continuing as if Chauffin had not spoken. ‘Fierville carried messages from Holland to you, and you passed them on to the count; who, let us not forget, is also Constable of France. If this correspondence had come to light, Holland would have been attainted and executed. He would do anything to stop that from happening. His archers were keeping watch when you met Fierville that day, and when Sir Edmund Bray discovered the two of you together, they killed him.’

  Chauffin’s eyelids flickered.

  ‘Yes, that was his name,’ Merrivale said. ‘You recognise it, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Chauffin said quietly.

  ‘How? Where had you heard it before?’

  ‘Fierville told me. When I rode back to join him.’

  Another lie, Merrivale thought. ‘You are quite positive that you did not recognise these archers? They were not from Holland’s retinue?’

  Chauffin stood up and walked to the door. ‘I know most of Holland’s trusted men,’ he said. ‘They were with us in Prussia too. The men I saw that day I had never seen before in my life. And you are wrong, Sir Herald. What Sir Thomas did was not treason.’

  Merrivale raised his eyebrows. ‘No? But then treason is so often a matter of perspective, don’t you think? Did you know that, as well as delivering messages to you, Fierville was also reporting directly to Robert Bertrand?’

  The look of astonishment on Chauffin’s face gave him the answer. ‘Fierville betrayed Godefroi d’Harcourt’s plans to the enemy,’ Merrivale said. ‘You must pray, messire, that he did not also know about the plot your master is hatching with the Queen of Navarre. Because if he did, that plan is also known to Bertrand, and probably by now to King Philip in Rouen. Tell your master this, and ask him where he wishes to place his bet.’

  Caen, 26th of July, 1346

  Morning

  Now the smoke was very close, hanging over the faubourgs of the city and drifting in clouds above the castle and the Bourg-le-Roi. Looking through the narrow windows, Merrivale could see the sharp glitter of flames on the high ground west of the city. The storm was about to break.