They were in the courtyard of the Logis du Roi. Voices could be heard inside, shouting and arguing.
‘Has something happened, my lord?’
Rowton paused for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Everyone will know soon enough. One of the royal clerks found a document in the palace this morning. It purports to be some sort of French plan for the conquest of England, complete with provisions for forcing the king to abdicate and seizing the lands of the English nobility.’
‘I see. And the nobility are angry about this.’
‘The nobility have taken leave of their senses,’ Rowton said angrily. ‘They want to ride to Rouen and challenge the French royal army to do battle. Warwick and Northampton and I, and young John Grey, are trying to talk them around.’ A fresh outburst of shouting erupted inside the building. ‘But I fear they are not listening.’
Merrivale frowned. ‘Is this document genuine, my lord?’
‘Who knows? It’s either a forgery or some half-baked idea that the adversary never seriously considered putting into practice. Either way, we are letting ourselves be gulled.’
‘What does his Grace say?’
‘He is angry too, understandably so. But he also knows that you can only lead men where they already want to go. If we merely stand fast now and defend the gains we have won – which, from the point of view of military logic, is exactly what we should do – his prestige will suffer. The men are spoiling for a fight. They are thinking with their hearts, not their heads.’
Rowton shook his head. ‘However. To come back to your report. You mentioned some connection with the death of the king’s father. I should drop that if I were you.’
‘May I ask why, my lord?’
‘Because the king doesn’t want to hear it. The past is the past, dead and buried. His Grace even thinks it is possible that his father didn’t die at all, but was helped to escape after he signed the letter of abdication.’
I remember the noise he made in his throat, struggling for breath. ‘That seems unlikely,’ Merrivale said.
‘I would have said impossible. Nevertheless, I think you should let it lie.’
‘I will, my lord. But may I ask one question? Did you know Sir John Bray was present at Berkeley Castle the day the old king died?’
Rowton paused for a long time. ‘I did,’ he said finally. ‘But he had no part in the king’s death. After that night, Bray stayed out of sight. He remained on his own lands and took no part in life at court. That was my advice to him: keep your head down, and let everyone forget you. It worked, too.’
‘Until Edmund Bray joined the Prince of Wales’s household,’ Merrivale said. ‘At which point, all those rivalries and animosities broke surface again. He had quarrelled with Holland and Despenser even before we sailed from Portchester. Mortimer and Gurney have been dragged in too.’
‘What are you saying, herald?’
‘Someone is trying to drive wedges into this army, my lord, in order to split it apart. I think the same person, or people, is behind the murder of Edmund Bray.’
They looked at each other in silence for a moment. ‘Is there any word of the fate of Brother Geoffrey?’ the herald asked.
‘Not yet. Andrew Clarenceux is at the castle, trying to parley with Bertrand and his brother the bishop, but they refuse to answer. As soon as we do get a response, I will see that you are informed.’
14
Caen, 30th of July, 1346
Afternoon
‘Nicodemus is now buying plundered goods from nearly every company in the army,’ Mauro said. ‘He also buys from archers and men-at-arms in the prince’s own retinue. Only two companies refuse to do business with him.’
Tiphaine sat quietly in a corner of the tent, listening. ‘One will be the Red Company,’ Merrivale said.
Mauro nodded. ‘The other is Lord Rowton’s retinue. His lordship has forbidden his men to plunder and threatened dire punishments for any who sell stolen goods to Nicodemus. The word is that he wants them to be more professional, after the example of the Red Company.’
‘I wish some of the other captains would do the same,’ Merrivale said. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, señor. Nicodemus also visits the royal kitchens. He has been there twice in the last three days.’
It had been four days since the battle of Caen, during which time the rich and powerful city had been stripped to the walls. The great market halls had been emptied and private houses ransacked of everything they contained: gold and silver plate, jewellery, furniture, clothing, even tools and kitchen utensils. Every day, wagonloads of spoil rolled away towards the river and the nearby port of Ouistreham, where the goods were loaded aboard ships and sent to England.
‘Is there any sign of Slade?’ Merrivale asked.
‘No, señor. Perhaps he has returned to England.’
‘Very well. Warin, have you anything to report?’
‘I’ve been watching Matt and Pip as you asked, sir. It hasn’t been difficult, as they spend most of their time loitering around here. They’re definitely keeping watch, but whether they’re watching us, or keeping an eye out for someone else, it’s difficult to tell.’
‘Do they meet or speak to anyone?’
‘No one but members of their own company, sir. There’s a couple of others sometimes come and keep watch when they’re absent. Another archer, and a big fellow with a spear.’
That sounded like the man Sir John Grey had been talking to in Saint-Lô. ‘Very well, continue to keep an eye on them. Well done, both of you.’
* * *
Mauro and Warin bowed and departed. Merrivale sat for some time after they had gone, staring into space. Eventually Tiphaine walked across the tent and pulled up a wooden stool, sitting down opposite him.
‘You are pensive,’ she said. ‘What are you worrying about?’
‘I am no further ahead than I was the day Bray was murdered. I still do not know who killed him, or why.’
She shook her head. ‘You must know something, or at least have suspicions.’
‘I think Bray volunteered for the reconnaissance party at Quettehou because he believed Fierville was riding out to meet the enemy and wanted to catch him in the act. In his youth and pride, he decided to do this alone, not telling anyone else or asking for help. His pride cost him his life.’
‘That is a harsh judgement. Have you never done anything rash and stupid? Like ride unarmed into an enemy citadel with only an old monk for company?’
‘Brother Geoffrey is a canon, not a monk.’
Tiphaine rolled her eyes. ‘So. Those who employed Fierville realised Bray was suspicious. When he followed Fierville that day at Quettehou, they sent archers to shoot him. Yes?’
‘That is what I believe,’ Merrivale said.
‘You have tried to identify the archers who carried out the killing. But you have failed, I think.’
Merrivale studied his hands for a moment. ‘I was convinced Bate was the killer, but he denied it and I believe him. Men find it hard to lie when death is in their eyes.’
‘And the other two? The ones from the Red Company?’
‘By their own admission, they were near the scene when Bray was killed. On the other hand, they also chased away the man who tried to shoot me at Saint-Germain-d’Ectot and saved my life at Saint-Jean. I genuinely do not know whose side they are on.’
Tiphaine glanced at the patch on the canvas wall of the tent where the arrow had pierced the fabric. ‘They could be on both sides, of course. Taking money from more than one master.’
‘They could,’ the herald agreed. ‘Sir John Grey has assured me they can be trusted. But there is something about them that continues to rouse my suspicions.’
‘And the other man Mauro mentioned, Nicodemus. What about him?’
‘He seems interested in nothing but making money.’
‘Then perhaps someone paid him to kill Bray.’
‘Perhaps. But he is one of Tracey’s men, and Tracey’s company had only
just come up from the beach and were still in Quettehou when Bray was killed. Nicodemus would have had no opportunity.’
‘Then why ask Mauro to follow him?’
‘Because I do think that Nicodemus was responsible for the death of Jake Madford, the archer who was killed at Pont-Hébert.’
Tiphaine’s eyebrows rose. ‘All this fuss for an archer?’
‘He was a man, with the same right to justice as any other,’ the herald said. ‘And these events did not happen at random.’
‘You think there may be a conspiracy,’ Tiphaine said.
Merrivale studied her face for a moment, searching her eyes. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘As I told you, when I was in prison in Carentan, I heard people talking. Perhaps they did not know I could overhear them. Or perhaps they thought that, being a woman, I was too stupid to understand.’
‘What did you hear?’ Merrivale asked quietly.
‘Fierville and Barbizan were involved in more than one plot. There is the one you know about, the betrayal of Harcourt’s revolt and the attempt to kill your king or your prince at Carentan. But there is another, against King Philippe of France. And both are guided by the same hand.’
Merrivale paused for a moment, thinking. ‘You mean the second Norman revolt,’ he said. ‘The one to be led by the Count of Eu and the Queen of Navarre.’
‘No,’ said Tiphaine. ‘The Normans are pawns, Barbizan said so himself. The real conspiracy is close to the French king, right at the heart of power.’
The herald thought for a moment. There are powerful forces at work, Thomas Holland had said, and he had spoken of a conspiracy engulfing both France and England. ‘Why did you not tell me this before?’
‘Because you did not ask. You confide in Mauro and Warin, even in Sir Nicholas Courcy, but not in me. I am no more than a piece of furniture,’ Tiphaine said bitterly.
Merrivale said nothing. Tiphaine rose to her feet. ‘I can help you, if you wish,’ she said.
Merrivale glanced at the patched hole in the canvas, and shook his head. ‘It is too dangerous.’
He saw the anger and disappointment in her face. ‘Why do you think danger matters to me?’ she demanded. ‘Why shut me out? What offence have I ever given you?’
‘None,’ the herald said quietly. ‘You have committed no offence. It is I who am at fault.’
Without another word, Tiphaine turned and walked out of the tent. Merrivale sat for a moment listening to her rapid footsteps fade away. Then he rose and picked up his herald’s tabard, his armour against all weapons and woes, pulled it over his head and walked out into the hot afternoon sun.
* * *
Stopping at the kitchen in the Abbaye aux Dames, Merrivale procured a thick wedge of cheese and then walked down past the crumbling walls of Bourg-le-Roi towards Saint-Étienne. In the distance he could see men prowling the ramparts of the castle. Bertrand’s green and gold colours still flew defiantly above the donjon.
In the meadow behind Saint-Étienne the royal livestock grazed, the king’s war horses mingling with cattle and sheep. Chickens clucked in their crates and pigs grunted in wooden sties. Some of these were the original beasts that had crossed the water from England; others had been purchased or plundered along the way. He found the little cowherd sitting on the grass, shoes off in the sun and stick resting across her knees, watching her cows.
She jumped to her feet when she saw him and curtseyed. ‘Good day to you, sir. Can I be of assistance?’
‘You can, Mistress Driver.’ He offered her the cheese, and she stared at it with wide eyes. She still had the rind of the cheese he had given her in Saint-Côme-du-Mont; it resided in her pocket, stiff with lint, and every so often she took it out and sniffed it, inhaling the memory of its flavour. She had never expected to receive such bounty again. She took the cheese now and gazed at it, the expression on her face suggesting she was holding the keys to paradise.
‘Do you know an archer called Nicodemus?’ he asked. ‘From Sir Edward de Tracey’s company?’
‘Him that buys all the things the archers steal?’
‘Yes. I am told he sometimes comes around to the royal kitchens. Have you seen him there?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, staring at the cheese and wondering if it would be rude to start eating it now. ‘Some of the kitchen staff sell him things they have despoiled, just like the soldiers do. The sauce-maker, Master Clerebaud, he’s a great one for pillaging. There’s another one too, one of the scullions. He was only hired on a few days ago, but he knows where to find all sorts of things, gold and silver and everything.’
Merrivale smiled. ‘Not tempted to join them?’
She looked indignant. ‘Sir! I’m not a thief!’
‘Congratulations. You are one of the very few people in this army who is not. Have you heard Nicodemus speak? He is from Devon. I wondered if he could be the man with the West Country accent you heard that night at Freshwater.’
Nell gave this serious thought. ‘No,’ she said finally. ‘I don’t think so. The voice didn’t sound the same.’
‘The Norman knight you pointed out to me at Saint-Côme-du-Mont, Jean de Fierville. Did you ever see him with Nicodemus?’
‘No, sir. I can’t say I did.’
The herald nodded. ‘When Nicodemus came to the kitchen, did he speak to Master Clerebaud both times?’
‘Yes, sir. And to the scullion.’
‘This scullion. You say he is new. Where did he come from?’
‘He was a sailor, sir, with the fleet. He got left behind when his ship sailed back to England, so he came to the army looking for work. Master Coloyne the yeoman hired him to guard the cooking pots.’
‘Do they need guarding?’
‘Oh yes, sir. Those archers are terrible thieves. They come right into the kitchen, trying to take food out of the pots when no one is looking.’
The herald rubbed his chin. ‘Do you know the scullion’s name?’
‘Curry, sir. Riccon Curry.’
Merrivale nodded. ‘Thank you, Mistress Driver. As always, you have been most helpful.’
* * *
He found Michael Northburgh hard at work at his desk in the Logis du Roi, sheets of parchment before him. ‘Letters home,’ the secretary said. ‘His Grace is writing to Queen Philippa and all the bishops, telling them about the capture of Caen. The letters will be read out before the populace, who will rejoice at the great victories won by their king and rush out to pay their taxes. How may I serve you, Simon?’
‘I need an audience with the king. A brief one, I assure you.’
Northburgh shook his head. ‘He is closeted with his council. Have you heard the news? We are marching tomorrow, on Rouen.’
There was a moment of silence. Merrivale shook his head. ‘This is a blunder,’ he said. ‘We have won half of Normandy; now we need to hold it.’
‘I know it. You know it. Warwick and Northampton and Rowton know it, and frankly, I think the king knows it too. But the rest are clamouring for battle. If we don’t march, the men will start to desert. Why do you want to see his Grace?’
‘It concerns Brother Geoffrey,’ Merrivale said. ‘I assume the French are still holding him.’
‘Yes.’ Northburgh rubbed his chin. ‘What do you expect his Grace to do about it?’
‘Negotiate with Bertrand. Offer to pay a ransom. Anything that will set him free.’ When Northburgh did not answer, Merrivale said, ‘You know Geoffrey well, Michael. Should he really be abandoned?’
Northburgh rose. ‘I will see if his Grace can spare you a few minutes.’
A page ushered Merrivale into a solar. He waited, bathed in diamond patterns of sunlight coming in through the window. A door opened and the king walked in, robed in red. He looked hot and angry. ‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘Three days ago, Lord Rowton told me measures were being taken to procure Brother Geoffrey’s release,’ Merrivale said. ‘May I ask, sire, has there been any progress?’
‘None. Bertrand won’t negotiate.’
‘Forgive me, sire, but how hard have we tried?’
A painted wooden chest stood on the rushes below the window. The king sat down on it, arranging his robe around him. ‘Still haven’t lost your taste for insolence, I see,’ he said. ‘The last time Clarenceux went to negotiate, they shot at him. They missed, but one of the clerks went out yesterday morning to try again and got a crossbow bolt in the leg. He may not live.’
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ the herald said.
‘It takes two to negotiate, Merrivale. If Bertrand refuses to talk, there is nothing we can do.’
Merrivale looked down at his hands. ‘When I was in your service, your Grace, we had one simple rule. We never left one of our own behind.’
‘Then it was a damned stupid rule,’ the king said. ‘Men are left behind on the battlefield all the time. Men are expendable, Merrivale. You know that.’
‘There will be no further steps to save him?’
‘For Christ’s sake, herald! We have lost one man already because of Brother Geoffrey, and I don’t intend to lose any more. We move on. Understood?’
The herald bowed. ‘Yes, your Grace.’
‘Good. Dismissed.’
Caen, 30th of July, 1346
Late afternoon
Word of the orders to march had already spread by the time Merrivale returned to the Abbaye aux Dames. In the camp, the archers waxed their bowstrings and checked the fletchings of their arrows, while esquires and servants polished armour plate and strained at the cranks of sandboxes, turning the heavy mail coats to remove stains and rust. The tap of a farrier’s hammer sounded among the tents.
For once, the Prince of Wales was neither playing dice nor drinking. When Merrivale was shown into the abbess’s solar, the young man was poring over a parchment map spread out on a table. Salisbury and Bartholomew Burghersh the tutor were with him. ‘Have you heard the news, herald?’ the prince asked excitedly. ‘We are to march against the adversary! Three days’ march to Lisieux, and three more from there to Rouen. When we arrive, the adversary is certain to give battle. It will be a gallant contest of arms, will it not?’
A Flight of Arrows Page 20