A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘Perhaps, Highness,’ the herald said. ‘Let us not forget that Rouen is on the far side of the broad River Seine. To bring the adversary to battle, it will be necessary to force a crossing.’

  ‘Oh, that will be done,’ said the prince, glowing with the confidence of youth and inexperience. ‘You wished to see me, herald?’

  ‘Yes, Highness. Brother Geoffrey of Maldon is in the dungeons at the castle. It seems we are to march away and leave him behind.’

  The prince’s brow furrowed. ‘But that would be dishonourable! Brother Geoffrey is a good servant and a brave man. Go and see my father, herald, and ask him to arrange for Geoffrey’s release.’

  ‘I have already done so, Highness. His Grace says there is nothing more to be done.’

  ‘He says that? I cannot believe it of him.’ Suddenly angry, the prince thumped his fist on the table. ‘I shall speak to my father. Do not fear, herald, he will listen to me.’ The prince hurried out of the chamber and ran downstairs, followed by Salisbury. Burghersh looked at the herald. ‘I hope you know what you are doing.’

  ‘Geoffrey was your friend too, I recall,’ Merrivale said.

  15

  Troarn, 31st of July, 1346

  Evening

  The black-robed body of a monk lay outside the door of the big abbey church, two arrows still protruding from his corpse. He was one of a handful of Benedictine brothers and townspeople of Troarn, eight miles east of Caen, who had tried to resist the English army; the leading companies of the vanguard had swatted them away like flies. Now the abbey buildings and the little town were swarming with English troops. Smoke rose once more, grey and sour, into the evening air.

  Beyond the town and abbey lay the tidal estuary of the River Dives, gleaming with water. Warwick rode up the hill from the river followed by a handful of knights including Salisbury and Mortimer. Northampton, the constable, stood waiting for them. ‘There is a ford,’ Warwick said as he dismounted, ‘and the vanguard can cross in the morning. The wagon train will have to wait until midday, once the tide is out, and we’ll have to use faggots to build a causeway over the deeper streams. But once we cross, we can move straight up the road to Lisieux.’

  He and the constable moved away, talking quickly. Everyone ignored the dead monk. Merrivale caught Salisbury’s eye, and the young earl walked over to join him, armour clanking softly. ‘Has he spoken to you yet?’ Salisbury asked.

  The herald shook his head. The prince had returned yesterday from his interview with his father looking sullen. All through the march from Caen, eight miles of heat and dust, he had not spoken a word to Merrivale, nor glanced in his direction.

  ‘He is embarrassed,’ Salisbury said. ‘He feels that he has let you down.’

  ‘It is Brother Geoffrey who has been let down, not I. What happened?’

  Salisbury grinned. Most people still saw him as the prince’s lapdog, but as the campaign progressed, he was beginning to emerge as a confident young man, showing some of the qualities that had marked out his late father. ‘He and the king stood toe to toe and shouted at each other until they ran out of breath. Then his Grace told him that unless he obeyed orders, he would be relieved of his command and sent back to England.’

  ‘I see. I hope I have not been the cause of any rupture between them.’

  ‘I couldn’t speak for his highness. But when I looked back, the king was smiling.’ Salisbury grinned again. ‘Give the prince a couple of days, herald. He will come around. I’m sorry about Brother Geoffrey, though. He was a good man.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the herald. He glanced back at the body of the dead monk. ‘He was.’

  * * *

  The other archer and the big man with the spear had come to relieve Matt and Pip. They exchanged a few words, and then the two young archers walked away. Warin followed them through the camp and down the hill to the bank of the Dives. All was calm and peaceful here; the stream rippled softly in the evening light, and a few ducks quacked in the reeds that grew along the water’s edge. Further upstream, not far from the line of the ford, there was a stand of big willows, the wind rustling their long, trailing branches. Matt pointed to these and the two men walked into the shelter of the trees. Silently Warin followed them.

  The archers knelt on the riverbank and cupped their hands in the water, lifting them to drink. After a moment, Pip said something to Matt, who nodded. Reaching under his tunic, Pip pulled out a small strip of red cloth and dropped it into the water, washing it slowly and carefully until the colour began to fade. Matt watched him for a few moments, and then stood up and pulled his tunic off over his head. His torso gleamed pale in the sunset light.

  Warin did not wait to see more. Backing away, he turned and hurried back to the camp, where he found the herald and related what he had seen. Merrivale stared.

  ‘Are you quite certain?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There is no doubt about it.’

  ‘Well,’ Merrivale said, half to himself. ‘That explains some things, at least. Wait here. I am going to see Sir John Grey.’

  * * *

  ‘Their names are Matilda and Philippa Forrester,’ Grey said. He seemed amused. ‘Otherwise, it is exactly as I told you. Their mother died when they were small, and their father raised them as boys and taught them to shoot and live out of doors. After their father died, they were homeless, until we recruited them.’

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Since very shortly after they joined the company.’

  ‘And you made no objection?’

  ‘Why would I? I told you, they are the best we have. Our master bowman once shot a man through the heart at three hundred and twenty-five yards. I thought he was the best I had ever seen, or ever would see. Then I met these two.’

  ‘Do the rest of your company know?’

  ‘I would imagine they do.’

  ‘You imagine?’

  Grey raised one eyebrow. ‘We have never discussed it,’ he said. ‘Why would we?’

  Merrivale nodded. ‘I owe you an apology,’ he said. ‘And them also. I felt all along that there was something not right about them, something not… authentic. I see now what it was.’

  ‘You’re wrong. They are authentic. Matt and Pip are archers of the Red Company, accepted by their brothers in arms, and that is all that matters. Do you have any objection to their keeping watch over you?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said the herald, ‘I am profoundly grateful. Thank you, Sir John.’

  * * *

  Night was falling as Merrivale walked back through the camp towards his own tent. He saw two figures in front of him and realised suddenly who they were. One, still in his battered leather jerkin with the three red eagles on his faded surcoat, was Sir Nicholas Courcy; the other was Tiphaine. They were talking together, both smiling, and after a moment Tiphaine threw back her head and laughed.

  Merrivale had never heard her laugh before, and he could not tell why the sound should irritate him so much. He started to move towards them, and then realised that someone else was watching them too, a man-at-arms in armour that looked like it had been made for some long-ago war: a mail tunic, battered vambraces and dented greaves, a heavy iron breastplate and an ancient pot helm with a narrow slit for a visor. He wore a sword but no surcoat or device of any kind. When Courcy and Tiphaine walked away, the other man followed them.

  Alert, the herald shrugged off his all-too-conspicuous tabard and went after them, keeping his eye on the man-at-arms. It was impossible to tell who he was watching, Courcy or Tiphaine. They passed a group of West Country archers roasting rabbits on spits over a fire, felt a warm glow of charcoal heating a portable forge, saw men unloading wagons by torchlight and carrying bundles of faggots down to the river to build Warwick’s causeway. Further on was Sir John Sully’s tent, the dog curled up outside the door. It raised its head when it saw Merrivale and wagged its tail, then went back to sleep.

  It might have been the dog that betrayed his presence, he could not be certa
in. But suddenly the man-at-arms wheeled around and looked straight at him. The visor of his helm was a black line, but Merrivale could feel the invisible eyes behind it, boring into him. For a moment the other man’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. Then he turned and walked away, quickly swallowed up in the gathering shadow.

  Rumesnil, 1st of August, 1346

  Late afternoon

  In the morning, the vanguard splashed across the shallow waters of the Dives and climbed the gentle slope on the far side, pushing on through fields and hedgerows past the village of Rumesnil. The king’s division followed more slowly, and both halted to wait while the wagon train made its tortuous way across the muddy estuary. By the time the wagons arrived it was nearly evening, and the army made camp once more. In the open-air kitchens the cooks began preparing for the Lammas feast. Lammas, the Loaf Mass, was the traditional first day of harvest and a time for celebration, even for an army in the field, marching through enemy country and burning and despoiling crops as it went.

  Nell milked her cows in a nearby field, watching the beasts with a critical eye. They had lost weight during the march from Saint-Vaast to Caen; they had put some of it back on again during the halt at Caen, but Marigold in particular was looking thinner already, and there was an unhappy look in her soft brown eyes. The other milk cows were restive too, and Garnet lowed unhappily. Of course, their mood was not helped by the fact that those idiots the butchers were cutting up beef carcasses only a few yards away, and her cows could smell the blood. She would have to speak to Master Coloyne, she thought, about procuring better fodder and asking the slaughterers to move somewhere else. Otherwise the cows might stop giving milk at all, and no milk meant no butter for the king’s table.

  She loaded the foaming buckets of milk onto a handcart and pushed it across the field towards the kitchen. The bakers had already lit fires under their ovens, and further on Master Clerebaud the sauce-maker was hard at work cutting up onions and fresh herbs. He winked at her as she passed, as he usually did. He was a nice man, Master Clerebaud, always friendly but not too friendly, and sometimes he gave her sauce bowls to lick clean. The new man, Curry, prowled around the cooking pots on guard, a knife at his belt and a cudgel in his hand. Nell had her doubts about him. He seemed diligent and good at his job, but she had grown up within sight of the sea, and she thought he didn’t look like much of a mariner.

  She delivered her milk to the scullions and heard the heavy thump of the butter churn begin almost at once. The woman in charge of the dairy gave her a piece of bread and honey and Nell sat down to eat it, wiping the honey from her chin with one finger and licking it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Curry talking with the archer Nicodemus, the one the herald had been interested in. They spoke for a few moments, then Nicodemus handed something to Curry, who tucked it swiftly inside his tunic. Nicodemus said something else, and Curry nodded. The archer departed.

  Curry looked around to see if anyone was observing him, and Nell quickly bowed her head, concentrating on her bread and honey. She watched from under her eyebrows as Curry walked over to the sauce-maker’s table. He said a few words to Master Clerebaud and laid something down on the table; Nell could not be sure, but she thought she caught a gleam of gold. Then he turned away and went back to watching his pots. Master Clerebaud looked down at the table for a moment, then picked up his knife and began peeling cloves of garlic. When Nell walked past him to return to her cows, he did not look up.

  Léaupartie, 1st of August, 1346

  Evening

  Further east, at the Prince of Wales’s camp, the knights of the vanguard gathered for the Lammas feast. There was a little hamlet nearby, which someone said was called Léaupartie; on its edge was an old stone chapel where the feast would be held.

  Merrivale and Sir John Sully walked through the camp, where the archers were already making merry with wine they had looted from Rumesnil as they passed. ‘There will be sore heads in the morning,’ Sully commented.

  ‘There always are after Lammas,’ Merrivale said. He never enjoyed Lammas; the feasting and celebration always reminded him of those terrible years when the harvest had failed. He saw once again the bodies wrapped in white being lowered into the ground, the thin, wasted faces of the survivors watching and wondering when their turn would come.

  Sully nudged him. ‘Isn’t that your demoiselle?’

  Tiphaine had returned to the tent late last night, and departed this morning before the army marched, without saying a word. Now she was with Courcy again, her hand resting on his arm, smiling at him.

  ‘She is making free with Sir Nicholas,’ the older man commented. He turned to look at Merrivale. ‘Should you allow that to be happening?’

  ‘She is not my property,’ the herald said irritably.

  ‘You rescued her, boy.’

  ‘She is not obligated to me, or I to her.’

  ‘Some might see it differently.’

  ‘She needs a protector,’ Merrivale said. ‘Perhaps she has found one.’

  ‘Sir Nicholas Courcy? The greatest rascal in the army?’

  ‘No. Believe me, there are many worse.’

  Something moved in the corner of his eye; the man-at-arms he had seen last night at Troarn was stalking slowly forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Merrivale started forward, but he was too late. Courcy bowed to Tiphaine, then raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. The man-at-arms leaped forward, raised one fist and punched him on the jaw. Startled, Courcy fell to the ground, and the man-at-arms stepped forward and kicked him hard in the ribs.

  Tiphaine started towards him, but the man-at-arms turned on her. ‘Get away from him, harlot! And stay away, or I’ll cut out your liver and lights and feed them to the crows!’

  Tiphaine stopped.

  ‘Who are you, sir?’ Merrivale demanded. ‘And how dare you threaten this lady?’

  ‘I think I can explain,’ said a voice from the ground.

  Everyone looked at Courcy, who sat up rubbing his jaw. ‘Faith,’ he said. ‘That’s one hell of a punch you have there, my darling.’

  ‘Darling?’ said Sully blankly.

  Courcy nodded. ‘Take off that ridiculous helm and show yourself,’ he said to the man-at-arms.

  Slowly the helm was removed. The face beneath it was haughty, with high cheekbones, a long nose and a grimly set mouth, all framed by a tied-back mass of curling hair the colour of a raven’s wing. Blue-grey eyes, like the sea in storm, glared at Courcy.

  ‘Allow me to make the introductions,’ Courcy said, rising to his feet. ‘Demoiselle de Tesson, gentlemen; may I present to you the lady Gráinne MacCarthaigh Riabhach, daughter of the Prince of Carbery – and my wife.’

  * * *

  ‘What in the devil’s name are you doing here?’ Courcy demanded.

  ‘Looking for you, you lazy, useless, pox-brained piece of goat shit,’ said Lady Gráinne. ‘You went off and left me without so much as a word, so I followed you. I assumed I’d probably catch you fornicating with some whore, and so I have.’

  ‘I have not fornicated with anyone!’ Courcy protested. ‘Least of all with that lady!’

  Tiphaine slapped Courcy hard across the other cheek and marched away. Merrivale thought about going after her, but did not.

  ‘Lady, is she?’ demanded Gráinne. ‘So why have you dressed her up as a boy? Is that where your tastes lie? Well, you’ll fancy me now, won’t you?’

  Men were gathering around them, watching open-mouthed. Merrivale turned to them. ‘Sir Nicholas and his wife have been reunited after a long parting,’ he said. ‘Grant them some privacy.’

  Reluctantly the bystanders moved on. Courcy rubbed his jaw again. ‘Where did you get the armour?’ he asked.

  ‘My brother. I traded him the tavern for it.’

  Courcy’s eyes opened wide. ‘The tavern? You got rid of that godforsaken tavern? Ah, Gráinne, you are a miracle worker!’

  ‘Don’t try to soften me up!’ she snarled. ‘He took the tavern b
ecause he felt sorry for me. The armour is worth twice as much.’

  ‘Sweetheart,’ he pleaded. ‘You know I only went to war because we needed the money. I hoped I could make our fortune and we would be free to leave that wretched hovel and roam the world together, as we once dreamed of doing.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you tell me you were going?’

  ‘Because I thought you would try to talk me out of it.’

  Gráinne hit him again. ‘Of course I would have tried to talk you out of it, you witless fool! You might have got yourself killed, and then where would I be? I cut myself off from my father, I abandoned a life of wealth and privilege, all for the love of you. And you repay me by deserting me and going off to fuck some French bitch behind my back!’

  ‘You can stand there and hit me all night,’ Courcy said with injured dignity. ‘But I have never been unfaithful to you.’ He looked her up and down, and a slow smile spread across his face. ‘And you’re right,’ he said. ‘That gear does suit you. Do you know what, sweetheart? I’ve never loved a lady in armour before.’

  ‘Oh, God’s curse on you!’ Gráinne snapped. ‘I swear by the bones of Christ I have never hated anyone so much as I hate you!’ And stepping forward, she took Courcy’s bruised face between her gloved hands and kissed him, grinding her mouth hard and powerfully into his.

  * * *

  The floor of the chapel had been laid with rush mats, and long trestle tables had been set up in the nave; the prince’s servants had even climbed up and hung branches of greenery and sheaves of wheat stalks from the capitals of the pillars. Candles flickered in silver and gold candlesticks and torches burned in sconces along the walls. Model ships, artfully made from bread with straw rigging, sat in the middle of each table with ornamented silver salt cellars resting on their crusted decks.