A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  Down on the bridge, the men around the barricade were alert, swords drawn, spears braced, crossbows ready. He could hear more men moving around on the roof of the tower overhead. Another column of men-at-arms and crossbowmen came down past the church of Saint-Pierre to the far end of the bridge and took up position in the half-timbered houses that lined the span, crouching in doorways or climbing up to lean out of windows The tide was nearly out, the river crowded with boats shrunk to a narrow channel with gleaming expanses of mud on either side.

  Once again a key rasped in the lock and the door swung open. The Count of Eu walked into the room, clad in brilliantly polished metal armour with his bascinet tucked under one arm. The lion and cross on his surcoat were stitched with gold thread. Other men-at-arms followed him. One of them was Chauffin. Unlike the others, his face was pale and sweating and he looked sick with fear.

  ‘My apologies for disturbing you,’ the count said. ‘This room gives an excellent vantage point from which to survey the defences. My men and I will take post here.’

  Merrivale bowed. ‘Do you wish me to withdraw, my lord?’

  ‘Stay. I may have need of your services before this is over.’

  And what did that mean? the herald wondered. Eu had apparently made his choice; he seemed determined to fight.

  ‘I am at your service, my lord,’ he said. ‘If I may be so bold as to ask, is there any news of my friend Brother Geoffrey?’

  ‘He is in the dungeon at the castle. The Sire de Bertrand and the bishop have decided to remain there with their men. They will not join the defence of the city.’

  ‘We should all be in the castle,’ one of the other men-at-arms said. ‘We could hold it for weeks, long enough for King Philippe to arrive.’

  ‘And hand over the city and all its people to the enemy? We must make some attempt to defend them, Tancarville.’

  ‘But then why have you abandoned Bourg-le-Roi? At least it has walls.’

  ‘The walls are old and weak and easily undermined,’ Eu said, without looking at the herald. ‘Saint-Jean is an island, and easy to defend. Most of the population of Bourg-le-Roi have already fled here. We shall protect them.’

  ‘An island?’ Tancarville persisted. ‘See how low the water is! The enemy can cross the Odon with ease.’

  Eu pointed to the boats full of crossbowmen drifting on the tide. ‘The river and the bridge are both strongly defended. Be at ease, Tancarville. The enemy shall not pass. We can hold Saint-Jean, and we will.’

  Outside, the hot sun glared off the rooftops and the brown waters of the Odon. Up in the tower, the French men-at-arms waited, sweating in their armour as they watched the far end of the bridge and the lanes around the church of Saint-Pierre. Merrivale glanced again at Chauffin and saw terror plain in the other man’s face. He knows Eu is wrong, the herald thought. He knows the city will fall.

  What has made the count change his mind? Why has he chosen to make his stand here, in practically defenceless Saint-Jean? Does he not know what will happen?

  ‘Here they come,’ someone murmured.

  Three, four, five the archers came, distant figures in russet and green slipping around the apse of Saint-Pierre and staring out towards the river. In the tower they heard the distant clack of crossbows as the men in the boats began to shoot. One of the archers fell, rolling down the riverbank onto the gleaming foreshore. He tried to get up, but two more crossbow bolts slammed him back into the mud. The others vanished.

  Voices murmured in the tower, almost whispering. ‘Have we seen them off?’

  ‘No. That was just a reconnaissance party. Those were only archers. The men-at-arms will come next.’

  ‘Our crossbowmen will see them off.’

  ‘No. Wait.’

  More movement at the far end of the bridge, archers running out of cover and shooting at the men posted in the houses, dodging back again as the crossbow bolts lashed at them. Two fell kicking and twitching in the street, but suddenly there were more archers, and more, and the shower of arrows became a steady hail, thumping into the wooden walls and sticking out like porcupine quills. Beyond the bridge the watchers in the tower could see gleaming armour and bright shields, the English men-at-arms running forward to reinforce the archers, and Merrivale saw a flash of red and gold. Warwick the marshal was there, leading his troops from the front.

  Streaks of flame arched through the air, fire arrows falling in swarms, plunging into walls and roofs tinder dry in the summer heat. Smoke rose almost at once, spreading across the bridge. Half a dozen French men-at-arms bolted from one burning house, running towards the shelter of the barricade at the southern end. The archers rose from cover and shot them as they ran, and their bodies tumbled down with arrows protruding from the joints of their armour. None reached safety.

  Out on the river, the crossbowmen shot steadily, black bolts streaking through the air. Archers fell, their bodies littering the foreshore, but more and more were piling into the fight, shooting fast and accurately, and hundreds of grey-feathered arrows hissed like dragon’s teeth, shredding the air above the waters of the Odon and thudding into wood and flesh and bone. The showers of arrows scythed the Genoese down, some collapsing back into their boats and lying still, others falling overboard and drifting slowly downstream on the receding tide.

  Some of these arrows were fire-tipped too. Already several boats were burning, and crossbowmen dived into the river to escape the flames; the archers shot them as they struggled in the water. The survivors crouched behind the gunwales of their boats and shot back desperately. Some archers were running out into the mud now, seeking to close the range, and now they were so close the crossbowmen could not miss. More archers fell and died, but the deadly rain of arrows continued.

  In the tower room the voices whispered again. ‘No matter how many of them we kill, they keep coming. They do not stop.’

  Welsh spearmen, men from Merioneth and Caernarvon, ran down the bank and plunged into the river, half wading and half swimming towards the boats. The fire arrows streaked out again and another boat began to burn; its crew dived into the stream, and then the Welsh were on them, spears rising and falling until the brown waters of the Odon were streaked with blood. In the boat nearest the bridge a handful of crossbowmen were still shooting steadily, and a Welshman reared back clutching at a bolt protruding from his chest, and slid under the water. His comrades reached the boat, stabbing wildly inside with their spears, the Genoese clubbing at them with the butts of their crossbows; the boat capsized and pitched them all into the water, men stabbing and grappling with each other in a shouting, screaming frenzy until the bodies of friend and foe alike went still and began floating away towards the sea.

  The houses on the bridge were burning fiercely now, flames roaring and sparks shooting into the air. One collapsed, spilling flaming timbers into the river. A few more French defenders broke cover and ran, preferring a quick death in the street to burning slowly in their houses, but most stood fast. The clatter of metal sounded through the smoke as the English worked their way from house to burning house, clearing the defenders, still covered by those deadly clouds of arrows. More English men-at-arms ran forward across the bridge.

  ‘I see Northampton’s colours,’ said one of the French knights, looking out of the lancet window. ‘The English constable is here. And Warwick, and Thomas Holland as well.’

  ‘Holland,’ said the Count of Eu. His lips twisted into a smile. ‘My old friend from Prussia. How ironic.’

  Tancarville turned on him. ‘Your old friend who is going to kill us all! The defences are collapsing, Constable! They are eating us up! We might as well defend a sand dune against the tide!’

  ‘The barricade will hold firm,’ the Count of Eu said. Chauffin had closed his eyes, his lips moving in silent prayer.

  An arrow rattled against the stone wall of the tower and bounced away. ‘I recommend you stand away from the windows,’ Merrivale said quietly.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ th
e man watching the bridge said. He wore an open-faced helmet rather than a visor. ‘The window is narrow and high. Their archers cannot possibly hit it.’

  A rushing hiss and a noise like a storm of sleet, arrows hammering at the wall outside, and the man who had spoken fell back into the room with four arrows protruding from the bloody wreckage of his face, their points driven deep into his brain. More arrows flew through the window, streaks of death seeking their target, and another man gagged, clutching at his throat. He collapsed across the gaming table, which broke and smashed beneath his weight, and lay sprawled on the splintered wood with blood spurting around the feathered shaft. Everyone else ducked, while the storm went on and arrows continued to fly in showers into the room. Screams and shouts overhead told them the defenders on the tower roof were being picked off.

  In the street below, all was chaos, men shouting and screaming, the hammer of weapons reverberating off the walls, smoke and flames blowing everywhere, and then the cry went up: ‘England! Saint George, Saint George!’, a shout of victory ripped from a thousand throats. ‘The barricade has fallen,’ Tancarville said, and he drew his sword. ‘We are next.’

  He had barely finished speaking when something smashed hard against the door of the tower. Merrivale looked at the Count of Eu. ‘The city is lost, my lord,’ he said. ‘There is no point in further resistance. Let me parley on your behalf. I will speak to the earls of Warwick and Northampton and ask them to accept your surrender.’

  Eu smiled wryly. ‘Find me Thomas Holland instead. I wish to surrender to him.’

  The door reverberated like the stroke of doom. The English were using rams; it would not be long before they broke the door down and swarmed inside.

  ‘Why?’ the herald asked.

  ‘He saved my life once in Prussia,’ the count said. ‘This is the least I can do for him.’

  Chauffin leaned against the wall, eyes closed. Spent arrows crunched under Merrivale’s feet like kindling as he walked across the room. Descending the spiral stair, he heard the ram smashing into the lower door again and again; by the time he reached the bottom of the tower, the wood was already splintering around the hinges. He raised his voice.

  ‘I am Merrivale, herald to his Highness the Prince of Wales! I am sent by the Count of Eu to parley!’

  The hammering on the door ceased, and he heard a confused muttering outside. Drawing a deep breath, he lifted the bar of the door, swung it open and stepped outside. Swords and spear points raised to confront him lowered slowly – and, he thought, not without a little disappointment – when the men saw his herald’s tabard. The bridge around the barricade and the street behind it were covered with bodies, some still, some moving feebly. A wounded Frenchman waved a hand, struggling to sit up, and one of the English archers ran over to him, pulled his head back to expose his throat and plunged a knife into his neck. The air stank of smoke and fresh blood. Gurney and young Mortimer were there, breathing hard, their armour dented, bright surcoats splattered with blood. ‘Where is Sir Thomas Holland?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘Here.’ Holland pushed through the crowd of men around the door. ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘The Count of Eu is within,’ Merrivale said. ‘He asks that you receive his surrender. Will you accept it?’

  Holland pushed his visor up. ‘Eu wishes to surrender? To me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Merrivale said.

  Holland closed his eye, and for a moment Merrivale wondered if he intended to refuse. Then he opened his eye and smiled broadly. ‘Of course,’ he said, and he turned to his esquire. ‘Go and find my lord of Warwick. Tell him the battle is over. The city is ours.’

  One by one the defeated men came down the stairs, handing over their swords. Eu was the last but one, and when he saw Holland, he unbuckled his sword belt and knelt and laid it at the English knight’s feet. With surprising kindness, Holland took the other man’s hand and raised him up, handing back his sword. ‘Fortune did not smile on you today, Raoul,’ he said.

  ‘Whereas it glows on you like the sun, my friend. I think you will achieve all that you desire now. I give you my parole that I will not attempt to escape.’

  ‘Of course. Is there anyone else inside?’

  ‘There is still one,’ the herald said.

  Slowly, dragging his feet as if he was suddenly very weary, Macio Chauffin stepped out of the tower into the light, holding his sword belt in one hand. He had closed his visor to hide his face, but the mastiff on his surcoat was plain for everyone to see. Holland drew his breath with a sudden sharp hiss. But before he could move, Matthew Gurney stepped forward and took Chauffin’s sword.

  ‘Well met, Macio,’ he said softly. ‘Welcome home.’

  12

  Caen, 26th of July, 1346

  Early afternoon

  For Caen, the agony had only just begun.

  The prisoners were led away, Holland walking beside the Count of Eu and both talking cheerfully. They might have been discussing the weather, the herald thought. Chauffin followed them, silent, head down. The houses on the bridge still burned, and down in the Odon bodies drifted on the tide. Up by the barricade, men were already stripping the corpses of the dead.

  Chauffin had lied, repeatedly. He had lied about not knowing who Bray was, he had lied about not recognising Holland’s archers, and he had lied when he said Holland was not a traitor. What game Holland and Eu were playing, and why the count had insisted on surrendering to him, Merrivale did not know. But he was certain now that Bate and his men had killed Edmund Bray, and he was certain too that Thomas Holland was responsible.

  Roger Mortimer had taken no prisoners. He stood, still holding his sword in his hand, staring at the bodies around the barricade. The marks and bloodstains on his armour showed he had been in the thick of the fighting, but now the fierce rush of battle was wearing off and reaction was setting in. Merrivale tapped him on the shoulder. ‘I need your help.’

  Mortimer looked at him wearily. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I know who killed your friend. Come with me.’

  He did not know where Bate was, but he knew how to find him; anywhere plunder could be found, Bate would be there. Followed by Mortimer, he walked away from the bridge and the dead men, down through the pall of smoke hanging over the streets of Saint-Jean. Flames roared, and he heard the sound of screaming men and women.

  A man-at-arms came out of the smoke, sword in hand, and Mortimer moved up quickly on Merrivale’s shoulder, but then they saw the colours, red eagles on white, and relaxed a little. Nicholas Courcy walked forward, followed by Donnchad and the rest of the gallowglasses, their leather armour battered and some of them bleeding. They too had been in the thick of the fighting.

  ‘Herald. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I am looking for Bate,’ Merrivale said. ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘I know where he is, yes.’ Courcy hesitated. ‘It will not be pleasant.’

  ‘That is to be expected. Take me to him.’

  Caen had resisted, and so, according to the laws of war, Caen was being ravaged. Over and over again the question ran through the herald’s mind. Why had Eu come out of the castle to defend the city? What he had said yesterday was correct; with four thousand men, he could have held the castle until the royal army arrived. Instead, he had chosen to make his stand in the most indefensible quarter of the city, Saint-Jean.

  I may have need of your services before this is over. Had Eu intended all along that Caen should fall? Had he sacrificed the city and allowed himself to be captured?

  They found the first bodies of the townspeople soon after, men and some women too, lying in the street or the gutter where they had been shot or cut down. Some had been stripped; the clothing of the others was too mangled and bloodstained to be worth salvaging. Mortimer stopped for a moment, staring in horror at the dead women, and the herald touched his arm. ‘Come. There is nothing we can do for them.’

  ‘Why kill the women?’ Mortimer asked.

  ‘So
me of our boys broke into Saint-Jean through a postern gate,’ Courcy said. ‘It was undefended. When the people realised our troops were inside, they came out of their houses and started fighting. Some of the women took up arms alongside the men.’

  ‘Arms. Wooden mallets and besoms against spears and longbows,’ Mortimer said. ‘They didn’t have a chance.’

  Donnchad growled deep in his throat. ‘Ní dhéanfadh ach na Sasanaigh mná a mharú.’

  Courcy shook his head. ‘No, my friend. It is not only the English who slaughter women. They have been men’s victims since the beginning of time.’ He looked at Mortimer. ‘This is your first war, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ More corpses lay in the street ahead, a man lying across the threshold of a door, another woman hanging over a windowsill above him, body pierced by arrows. Mortimer swallowed. ‘I suppose I will get used to it.’

  ‘Pray to God you do not,’ Courcy said.

  * * *

  The square church tower of Saint-Jean loomed out of the smoke. ‘Bate’s men were working their way down this street when I saw them,’ Courcy said. ‘I expect by now they are inside the church.’

  The west door of the big church was open. High pillars marched in shadow towards the altar, where painted angels danced on the ceiling. An archer knelt on the altar table, hacking gemstones out of the crucifix behind it with a long knife. Another man smashed open the wooden doors of an ambry and pulled out a small iron-bound casket, while two more came out of the vestry carrying armfuls of embroidered robes. Piled on the floor before the altar was a heap of gold and silver vessels, chalices and ciboria, patens and pyxes, a gold monstrance, a couple of reliquaries studded with garnets, the jewelled wooden covers of a bible. The parchment pages of the bible lay strewn across the floor.

  ‘Stop!’ the herald said sharply. His voice rang in the dark vaults overhead, but the looters around the altar ignored him. The man by the ambry raised the casket over his head and hurled it down on the floor. The casket broke, the iron bands splitting apart, and silver coins danced and spun across the flagstones, shining in the dim light. The man whooped, kneeling down to scoop up the money. ‘Hoy! Look what I found!’