A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  The man attacking the crucifix turned. It was Nicodemus, Edmund de Tracey’s bank clerk-turned-archer. ‘What you got there, Hobby?’

  ‘French deniers, boy!’ Hobby shouted, stuffing coins into his tunic. ‘Must be five hundred at least!’

  Merrivale opened his mouth to repeat his order, but before he could speak, a bowstring twanged behind him and an arrow hissed up the nave, hitting Hobby and driving him back against the painted wall of the church. He sat for a moment, clutching at the shaft protruding from his chest, and then slumped over onto his side. Bate stalked up the aisle, holding his bow with another arrow already at the nock. His hands were red with fresh blood, and more was caked on his tunic. His archers followed him, shadows in russet and grey moving through the church.

  ‘Drop that knife, Nicodemus,’ Bate said. ‘All the rest, put down your weapons.’

  The knife clattered to the floor. The men carrying the vestments dropped them and spread their hands wide, showing they were unarmed; their bows stood propped against the wall behind them.

  Bate turned to Courcy. ‘That means you, Sir Nicholas!’ he snarled. ‘And your Irish hogs!’

  ‘This is a damned shame, Bate,’ Courcy said, laying his sword on the flagstones. ‘And here was me thinking we were friends.’

  Bate spat, and gestured towards Mortimer. ‘You too, boy.’

  The herald felt Mortimer stiffen, sword hand clenching. ‘No,’ he whispered urgently. ‘This is not worth dying for.’ After a moment, Mortimer nodded, unbuckled his sword belt and dropped it on the floor. Bate pointed towards the pile of gold and silver.

  ‘We’ll have all this. And that money, too.’

  Nicodemus jumped down from the altar. ‘God damn you, Bate, this is ours! There’s plenty other churches in the city. Go and find one of them!’

  Bate smiled. The scar on his head was like a dark line of blood across his scalp. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I’d rather steal from you, you ugly bastard. Go on, boys, gather it up. Any of them tries anything, give him a shaft through the guts.’

  Something whispered in the air behind Merrivale, a hint of movement in the nave, unseen. He raised his voice. ‘This is a holy place, Bate. Touch those vessels or that money, and you will bring God’s anger down on your head. You and all your men.’

  Silence fell in the church. Slowly Bate turned to face the herald. ‘Not worth dying for?’ Courcy murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

  Merrivale ignored him. ‘Go,’ he said to Bate. ‘Walk out of here now, and nothing will happen to you.’

  Bate’s voice was dark in his throat. ‘You know something, herald,’ he said, raising his bow. ‘I’ve had just about enough of you.’

  The arrow, a sharp bodkin point, was levelled straight at Merrivale’s chest. He watched Bate’s face, and saw none of the uncertainty of Pont-Hébert; now, there was only the sick madness that came with bloodshed. This man had killed recently, and was ready to kill again.

  ‘There are witnesses,’ the herald said. ‘Shoot me, and you will have to shoot them all.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Bate, and he drew back the bowstring just as an archer in a red iron cap stepped out from behind the nearest pillar and shot him through the body.

  Bate screamed, dropping his bow and sinking to his knees. Another Lancashire man lifted his bow, and a second red-capped archer shot him too, the arrow driving deep into his shoulder and spinning him around with the force of the blow. More men came running through the church, archers and spearmen together, and Merrivale saw the gold lion on blue of Northumberland, Sir Richard Percy striding up the nave after his men with a drawn sword in his hand. ‘Drop your bows,’ he shouted at the Lancashire men, his voice ringing in the vaults. ‘Now!’

  They obeyed at once. Merrivale walked over to Bate. The scar-headed man had fallen onto his back; he lay loose-limbed, gazing up at the cold-eyed angels overhead. Fresh blood welled around the arrow embedded in his body, and when he coughed, more blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. ‘I warned you,’ the herald said.

  Bate coughed again. ‘Go to hell.’

  Merrivale knelt on the floor beside him. ‘You are dying, Bate. This is the end.’

  The bloody mouth twisted. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

  ‘I cannot give you absolution. But if you tell me what I want to know, it may count in your favour when the moment of judgement comes.’

  Bate’s back arched in a sudden spasm, and the blood flowed.

  ‘Did you kill Sir Edmund Bray?’ the herald asked.

  ‘No.’ Already the voice was sinking to a whisper.

  ‘Do you know who did? Was it one of your men?’

  ‘No. I swear on the body of Christ, it wasn’t us.’

  ‘But you were out in the field that day. You saw Fierville meet Chauffin. Why were you there?’

  ‘We were doing Sir Thomas’s work. But we didn’t know anything about… the meeting… we had… no reason… to kill Bray.’

  ‘Sir Thomas’s work? What do you mean?’

  ‘Stealing. Looting. Raising money. Sir Thomas… needed money. Lots of money.’

  ‘Why?’

  Bate’s lips moved, but no sound came. His eyes froze, staring lifelessly up at the angels guarding the gates to eternity.

  Silently, Merrivale closed the man’s eyes with his fingertips and rose to his feet. The Red Company men were already herding Nicodemus and his two comrades out of the church, followed by the remaining Lancashire men. Richard Percy walked over to the herald.

  ‘What did he have to say?’

  Merrivale shook his head. ‘It was a dying man’s confession.’

  ‘Please yourself. I’ll have to ask you to leave now. You and your men too, Sir Nicholas. We’re about to barricade this church and put a guard on it.’

  Merrivale looked at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’re restoring order, or trying to. His Grace has issued another proclamation. No more looting, women and children not to be harmed, places of worship to be unmolested, the usual clart. We’ve been sent to enforce it.’

  ‘No more looting? The troops won’t like it.’

  ‘His Grace reckons they’ve had their fill. He wants the rest of the spoil for himself.’ Percy glanced at the pile of altar vessels. ‘This campaign has to be paid for somehow.’

  They walked towards the door, Courcy and his men following. ‘Who were the archers who shot Bate?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘Need you ask? Matt and Pip. Sir John heard you had been freed, and sent them to find you.’ Percy chuckled, glancing up at the ceiling. ‘You’re a lucky man, herald. You have your own private guardian angels.’

  I wanted to talk to Bate, Merrivale thought, and they shot him before I could do so. Just like Fierville. I was lucky to get the few words I did.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said aloud. ‘Kindly convey my thanks to Sir John.’

  Caen, 26th of July, 1346

  Evening

  The nuns of the Abbaye aux Dames had fled as soon as they heard of the English advance. The Prince of Wales’s household had taken over the abbey, the prince himself settling in the abbess’s lodgings and the senior knights and nobles occupying the dortoir, while the rest camped in the abbey grounds. The herald’s tent had been pitched near the crest of the hill, looking out towards the castle and the silent, empty Bourg-le-Roi. The wreckage of Saint-Jean still smouldered beyond the bridge and its towers. In the distance, the masts and sails of ships could be seen; Huntingdon’s fleet had sailed upriver as soon as the tide turned to cut off any French retreat. Very few of the Count of Eu’s four thousand men had survived.

  French banners still flew over the castle. Bertrand and his brother the bishop had refused to join Eu in his doomed defence of the city, and were still holed up there with several hundred men-at-arms and crossbowmen, defying the enemy. There too, presumably, was Brother Geoffrey of Maldon.

  Merrivale walked up the hill towards the tent. Mauro and Warin were waiting for him, and so was Ti
phaine, relief plain in all three faces. Tiphaine took a couple of steps towards him and stopped. ‘Welcome back,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you. I have some news you will want to hear. Bate is dead. He will trouble us no more.’

  ‘I am glad,’ she said, and he remembered what she had said about Normans and vengeance. ‘Was Bate the man you were looking for?’

  The herald shook his head. ‘Warin, I have a task for you. The two archers from the Red Company, the brothers Matt and Pip. I want you to watch them whenever their company is in camp. If they say or do anything unusual, report to me.’

  Warin touched his forehead. ‘And me, señor?’ Mauro asked.

  ‘I need more information about one of Sir Edward de Tracey’s men, an archer named Nicodemus.’ He could have asked Courcy to do this, but Bate had grown suspicious of the Irishman, and others might have done so as well. ‘Ask around the camp and find out who he deals with, and from which companies they come. Be discreet, and be careful. These are dangerous men.’

  ‘Yes, señor.’

  ‘And both of you, keep your ears open for word of an archer named Jack Slade. He deserted from Tracey’s company at Pont-Hébert, but I am guessing he is still in contact with Nicodemus. Try to discover if anyone has seen him.’

  ‘What about me?’ Tiphaine asked. ‘Have you no task for me?’

  The herald smiled briefly. ‘Your task is to stay safe,’ he said.

  She planted her hands on her hips. ‘You think I am incapable of helping you?’

  Merrivale stared at her in surprise. ‘I did not know you wanted to help,’ he said finally.

  ‘No,’ Tiphaine said. ‘I don’t suppose you did.’ She turned on her heel and walked into the tent. Mauro shook his head gravely.

  ‘Forgive me, señor,’ he said. ‘But I think you chose your words unwisely.’

  ‘Yes,’ Merrivale said. ‘So do I.’

  * * *

  Sir Matthew Gurney’s tent was pitched on the outskirts of the camp, looking out towards the other abbey, Saint-Étienne. In the distance, the royal standard could be seen floating above the Logis du Roi, the King’s House, just outside the abbey gates.

  ‘Is your prisoner here?’ Merrivale asked.

  Gurney nodded.

  ‘I would like to speak to him,’ the herald said. ‘Alone, if possible. I give you my word he will not escape.’

  ‘He has already given his parole,’ Gurney said. ‘But I think I should stay. I can guess what questions you wish to ask him, and they concern me as well.’

  Macio Chauffin sat on a wooden bench inside the tent, leaning forward with his head in his hands. He did not look up as Merrivale and Gurney entered. Merrivale pulled up another bench and sat down. ‘You know why I am here.’

  ‘Yes. I lied to you about Bray.’

  ‘And Holland.’

  ‘No.’ Chauffin raised his head. ‘I told you the truth about him.’

  ‘The truth,’ said the herald. ‘Then tell me the truth this time. All of it.’

  ‘Ah, what a strange and nebulous commodity truth is… all of it, you say. Very well, let us start with myself. I am, or was, an Englishman. My family name is Chaffin, and I was born and bred in Dorset. My father was a gentleman, though not a knight; my mother was the daughter of a Portuguese ship’s captain. At a young age I entered the service of one of our neighbours, Sir John Maltravers.’

  The herald sat still, watching the other man.

  ‘I see I have your full attention now,’ Chauffin said wryly. ‘Maltravers was a loyal servitor of Roger Mortimer, the Earl of March. When the old king was imprisoned at Berkeley Castle in 1327, Maltravers was appointed his keeper.’

  ‘And you were still in his service?’ asked Merrivale.

  ‘I was, along with Matthew’s father, Sir Thomas Gurney, and Edmund Bray’s father, Sir John Bray of Huxley in Cheshire. He too was a strong supporter of Mortimer.’

  ‘You were there at Berkeley when the old king died,’ Merrivale said.

  Chauffin looked down at his hands. Merrivale glanced at Gurney, who nodded. ‘Nothing you will say will go beyond this tent,’ the herald said. ‘You have our word of honour on that. But, messire, I must know what happened to Bray.’

  ‘I will tell you what I know. Whether that will help you in your quest, I cannot say.’

  ‘Go on,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘I was on duty at Berkeley Castle on the night of the twenty-first of September. Sir Thomas Gurney was in command of the night watch, and I was his deputy. It was late, nearly midnight. I remember how cold it was…’ Chauffin shivered a little with memories. ‘I heard the couriers come in. I looked out into the courtyard and saw them in the torchlight, three of them. A few minutes later, two came upstairs with Maltravers. I didn’t recognise one of the men, but I knew the other. It was Sir Robert Holland of Upholland, Thomas Holland’s father.’

  He swallowed suddenly. ‘Holland and Maltravers were arguing. Christ, Maltravers said, we can’t do this! Holland just shook his head. Those are the Earl of March’s orders, he said, and the queen has given her assent. Maltravers was still objecting, and the other man grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. Damn you, he said, do you not understand? Mortimer has ordered this! Obey orders, or you will be executed… God, I’m parched. Is there any wine?’

  Gurney poured wine into a wooden cup and added water. Chauffin wiped the sweat from his forehead and took a quick sip. ‘They sent the other guards away, and then Maltravers turned to Thomas Gurney and me. Do it, he said. Make it quick. So we went into the cell. The king was sleeping, lying on his back, snoring a little. Sir Thomas picked up a cushion. Hold his feet, he said to me. So I held his ankles while Sir Thomas put the cushion over his face and pressed down. The king started to kick and struggle, and it was all I could do to hold him. I remember the noise he made in his throat, struggling for breath… then he went still.’

  Matthew Gurney turned his back and walked to the door of the tent, staring out over the city.

  ‘Why did you obey the order?’ the herald asked.

  ‘What the other man had said was no idle threat. Old Mortimer was a bitter and vengeful enemy, and he did not take kindly to being crossed. From the moment that order was given, it was the king’s life or ours.’ Chauffin paused, staring into space. ‘Except, of course, that our lives were forfeit anyway.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Just as we were coming out of the room, John Bray came upstairs. He had heard of Holland’s arrival and was looking for him. He looked into the cell and saw what had happened. He raged at us, calling us murderers and regicides, which of course we were. Holland explained Mortimer’s orders, and instructed him to keep silent on pain of death. Sir John was still furious. I will keep silent, he said finally, but I will consort with you no longer. Late though the hour was, he packed his bags and rode away with his esquire and groom.’

  ‘What did the rest of you do?’

  ‘It was obvious we had been lined up as scapegoats. As soon as the king’s body was found next day, we would be accused of murdering him. Mortimer would kill us, to deflect attention from himself and eliminate witnesses. And it would be no easy death, either. Remember the Despensers? They took the old man down from the gallows and then cut his body into pieces and fed it to the dogs, and they dragged his son naked through the streets and castrated him before they drew and quartered him. We didn’t fancy the same fate.’

  Sometimes, the herald reflected, one forgot why Sir Hugh Despenser was so angry with the world. ‘So you fled.’

  Chauffin nodded. ‘Robert Holland decided to stay in the country, trusting to his influence at court to keep him safe, but he was murdered the following year. John Maltravers, Thomas Gurney and I were all attainted and fled the country, each of us going our separate way. I ended up in Normandy.’

  ‘Where you made a new life for yourself,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘Yes, Our Lady smiled upon me. Only she knows why, given the crime I helped to commit.
I married well, and my wife inherited some land. I became a gentilhomme. The Count of Eu took me into his service and I prospered. Until now.’

  ‘You could have gone back,’ Merrivale said. ‘Maltravers made his peace with the king and returned home, his lands and positions restored.’

  ‘Maltravers is rich and powerful. Gurney and I were small fry, no use to anyone. If I returned, I would have got a knife in my ribs, like Holland. Or Thomas Gurney. That’s what happened, isn’t it, Matthew? They say he died of illness in Spain. But that’s not true, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Gurney said. ‘My father was killed to silence him. If he had been brought back to England for trial, he would have told the truth about who was behind the king’s assassination. But the men of power could not let that happen. You were right to hide, Macio.’

  ‘The man who came in with Holland. Are you sure you didn’t recognise him?’

  ‘No. His surcoat bore three black chevrons on yellow, but I had never seen the device before. From his accent I would say he was Flemish, or from Hainault, perhaps. That is all I know. I never saw him again.’

  ‘And the third man?’

  ‘He never came upstairs. I only saw him once in the courtyard, and the torchlight was dim. He wore no device.’

  The herald nodded. ‘And John Bray? What happened to him?’

  ‘He stayed behind like Holland. How he survived, I don’t know. But I never saw or heard from him again.’

  ‘Yet you knew his son.’

  Chauffin shook his head. ‘No. But when I saw the body, I recognised the device. I asked Fierville who he was, and he told me. It felt like the past was coming back to stick its claws into me.’

  Silence fell again. ‘Only you, Matthew and Holland know who I am,’ Chauffin said. ‘If you tell anyone else, I am a dead man. Mortimer is long in his grave, but there are still others with secrets to protect.’