A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  Tracey came out of the pavilion at once. ‘Leave us,’ he said curtly to the esquire. The young man walked away and Tracey faced the herald. ‘What?’

  ‘Tell me more about your archer Nicodemus,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘Is this about last night?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why do you suspect Nicodemus was involved?’

  ‘I did not say I did. I asked you to tell me about him.’

  ‘He came into my service back in ’40,’ Tracey said. ‘I don’t know a great deal about him.’

  ‘Did you know he was a defrocked priest?’

  ‘I heard something about that, yes.’

  ‘And he then worked as clerk to a banker?’

  ‘Yes. I believe his master was killed when the French attacked Southampton.’

  Merrivale nodded. ‘So he is not just an archer. He is also your factor. He buys spoil from the soldiers at cheap prices for ready money, and you transport the goods back to England and sell them at a profit.’

  Tracey gazed at him. ‘I take it you disapprove.’

  ‘It is not my place to approve or disapprove,’ Merrivale said. ‘Nicodemus deals in stolen goods of all kind, and it is conceivable that those goods included aconitum. He has connections with two people in the royal kitchen, including the man who made the sauce, and he visited the kitchen yesterday evening while the feast was being prepared.’

  ‘And you think one of those men poisoned the sauce? Then have them arrested!’

  Merrivale shook his head. ‘The poison was added in the prince’s kitchen or at the banqueting hall, and only to the pot intended for our table.’

  ‘Then Nicodemus didn’t do it. He returned to my camp before the feast and spent the evening here working on accounts. My esquire was with him the entire time.’

  ‘I did not accuse him of administering the poison. But he may have procured it.’

  ‘You are barking up the wrong tree, Merrivale. For God’s sake, I was at that table too! It could have been me they were trying to poison, not Despenser.’

  ‘All the more reason, surely, to find out if Nicodemus was involved. Perhaps he was intending to betray you.’

  ‘Nonsense. He has served me faithfully for years.’

  ‘Money does strange things to a man, Sir Edward, and I imagine this venture of yours involves a great deal of money. Perhaps he got greedy and wanted it all for himself.’

  Tracey shook his head in exasperation. ‘My venture has brought in a few hundred pounds, herald, no more. Not a fortune, and certainly not enough to kill a man for.’

  That was not the picture Mauro had painted. ‘Really? I have known men to plot murder for far less. If you are shielding him, Sir Edward, I would advise you to be very careful…’

  * * *

  Inquisition into the attempted poisoning of Hugh Despenser, knight, near the village of Léaupartie in Normandy on the Ist day of August in the nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward III. This report was composed on the IInd day of that month, at the city of Lisieux.

  Item, the poison, a form of aconitum known as wolf’s-bane, was introduced into a single pot of sauce. This almost certainly happened at the prince’s kitchen or in the banqueting hall, not the royal kitchen. However, it remains to be seen how this was done.

  Item, at no time was his Highness the Prince of Wales in danger.

  Item, the source of the wolf’s-bane has not been identified, but I have lines of enquiry to pursue.

  Simon Merrivale, heraldus

  Lisieux, 2nd of August, 1346

  Evening

  Lamps glowed all around the royal pavilion. In the field outside, trestle tables were being unloaded from carts and set up, with benches arranged around them. Candles flickered like fireflies in the falling dusk.

  The king read the brief report, the rings on his fingers glittering in the candlelight before handing the parchment to Northburgh. Lord Rowton watched him in silence. ‘This was not an attempt on my son’s life’, the king said.

  ‘I do not believe so, sire,’ Merrivale said.

  Lord Rowton shook his head. ‘Perhaps Despenser put the poison there himself so he could accuse Mortimer and continue their feud.’

  ‘That is possible, my lord,’ the herald acknowledged.

  The king growled under his breath. ‘When will these damned fools stop raking up the past? For Christ’s sake, we have a war to fight.’

  ‘A point made by your son with admirable clarity, sire,’ Merrivale said. ‘He commanded Mortimer and Despenser to apologise to each other.’

  ‘Good. Keep an eye on this Nicodemus.’

  ‘You wish me to continue my inquisition, sire, alongside the investigation into Bray’s death?’

  ‘No, you can drop that. Time to make an end, I think.’

  ‘Sire?’ said Merrivale. He looked at Northburgh, who avoided his gaze. ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘You said at Saint-Vaast that you would find the killer quickly,’ the king said. ‘That was more than two weeks ago. What progress have you made?’ Merrivale said nothing. ‘Make an end,’ the king repeated. ‘We have matters of greater moment. Did you hear that we have received an embassy?’

  ‘No, sire. From the adversary?’

  ‘From the pope, but that amounts to the same thing. Étienne Aubert is their leader. We are preparing a banquet to welcome him.’

  The herald stared at him. ‘The Cardinal of Ostia? He is here?’

  ‘Along with another cardinal, Ceccano from Naples,’ Rowton said. ‘They come bearing an offer of peace, or so they say. They arrived an hour ago.’

  ‘Aubert knows you,’ the king said to Merrivale. ‘Clarenceux will handle the formalities, but I want you at the banquet too. Talk to his staff and tell me what you learn. They claim to want peace, but why are they really here?’

  ‘They are here at the behest of the adversary,’ the herald said. ‘While you halt and engage in peace talks, he wins more time to prepare and assemble his army at Rouen.’

  ‘Obviously,’ the king said impatiently. ‘But they may have another purpose as well. Aubert is close to the Queen of Navarre, remember. And I want to meet with her. I have been sending messages to her home in Évreux since before we sailed from Portchester, but there has been no reply.’

  ‘You are still determined to start a new Norman revolt, sire? With her Grace and the Count of Eu as leaders?’

  ‘Of course. If we can set Normandy alight, we can squeeze that bastard Philip between the jaws of a vice. But we need Jeanne of Navarre. Try to find out where she is and what she is doing. There is something going on deep below the surface here, and I want to know what it is.’

  * * *

  There are powerful forces at work, Thomas Holland had said, and now the king had said something similar. Merrivale wondered how much His Grace already knew. Impatient, arrogant and bellicose though he often was, Edward III was no one’s fool; unlike his son, he was an accomplished gambler and adept at the long game, and he had many sources of intelligence.

  Merrivale stood behind the Prince of Wales as the latter was presented to the distinguished guests. Étienne Aubert’s cold eye fell on him. A tall man with black hair streaked with grey, wearing red robes that blazed with embroidery, the Cardinal-Bishop of Ostia spoke with a nasal accent and clipped vowels suggesting his mother tongue had been Occitan rather than French. ‘Simon Merrivale, in a herald’s tabard. How times have changed.’

  ‘They have indeed, your Eminence,’ said the herald, bowing. The other cardinal, Ceccano, looked at him suspiciously as if he suspected him of insolence. Aubert waved an airy hand, his seal ring flashing red fire, dismissing the herald as being of no account. But he had taken note of Merrivale’s presence all the same, and it was no coincidence that Merrivale found himself placed at dinner next to Aubert’s secretary, Raimon Vidal, a rotund tonsured man in the brown habit of a Franciscan friar.

  ‘Well met, my friend,’ Vidal said cheerfully. ‘I see fortune’s wheel has turne
d in your favour.’

  At the high table, the king and the cardinals were seated, and the rest of the company pulled out their benches and sat also. Stars gleamed high overhead; in the distance they could see lamps burning in the towers of the cathedral, where the bishop and his men kept watch.

  ‘And you also,’ Merrivale said. ‘You have landed a good post. His Eminence will be the next pope, they say, when Clement receives his reward in heaven.’

  ‘Heaven? If you say so. Most of us in Avignon assume the Holy Father will travel in the opposite direction. How fare you, my friend? I have not seen you since Savoy. Geoffrey of Maldon was there too, of course. How is the good brother? Is he here tonight?’

  ‘No.’ Briefly Merrivale told Vidal what had happened in Caen. ‘I don’t suppose you could persuade his Eminence to secure his release.’

  Vidal looked amused. ‘Secure the release of Geoffrey of Maldon? You do remember what happened in Savoy, don’t you?’

  ‘Regardless of the past, Brother Geoffrey is a cleric who went to Caen as an ambassador. It was dishonourable of Bishop Bertrand to arrest him.’

  ‘So it was. I shall speak to his Eminence and see if something can be arranged.’

  Dishes were set before them: cod with peas, stockfish with sauces made from verjuice, minced chicken decorated with thick sauces brilliant with colour and tasting of almonds; it was Wednesday, a fast day, so no meat was served. Wine splashed into their cups. Merrivale and Vidal added water to theirs. ‘You would never know there was a war being fought,’ the Franciscan said.

  Merrivale looked at the watchful lights on the distant cathedral. ‘Some people would,’ he said. ‘Did you have a good journey?’

  ‘Atrocious,’ said Vidal, carving a duck leg with his knife. ‘As if the discomforts of the road were not bad enough, on approaching the town we were set upon by some of your barbarian archers and robbed of our horses and baggage. I trust his Grace will see them returned.’

  ‘I am certain he will. But why come all this way and endure such hardship?’

  ‘Do you not know?’ Vidal looked at him guilelessly. ‘The Holy Father desires most earnestly that the kings of England and France be reconciled with each other. He has instructed the Cardinal-Bishop of Ostia and the Cardinal-Archbishop of Naples to do their utmost to make peace. So we have come to open talks.’

  ‘Have you a peace proposal?’

  ‘Yes, but it is not one your king will want to hear. Restoration of the position ante bellum. Everyone gets their lands back and we pretend the last nine years never happened.’

  ‘Reset the pieces,’ the herald said. ‘And start the game again.’

  ‘Precisely. Edward will never agree, and everyone knows it. But,’ the Franciscan shrugged, ‘those are the Holy Father’s wishes.’

  ‘You mean they are King Philip’s wishes,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Oh, come, Raimon. It is a distinction without a difference. The Holy Father lives in luxurious imprisonment in Avignon, surrounded by French cardinals like your master who spy on his every move. When King Philip orders him to jump, he does not question the order but merely asks how high the bar is set. We have both been in this game long enough, my friend, to know what this visit is really about.’

  Vidal smiled, lifting his wine glass. ‘Perspicacious as ever. The spy still lurks beneath the herald’s tabard.’

  ‘I was a messenger, not a spy.’

  Vidal’s smile grew broader. ‘It is a distinction without a difference.’

  ‘Every hour we are delayed, more French troops arrive in Rouen and Philip grows stronger,’ Merrivale said. ‘But surely he has strength enough already. His army is far more powerful than ours. Why does he delay?’

  ‘Who knows what goes on in the minds of kings?’

  ‘Oh, come now.’ Merrivale helped himself to a piece of fish, considered adding sauce and changed his mind. ‘I think we can do better than that, Raimon. Philip is afraid of conspiracies, he always has been. He sees them at every turn. Only this time, he is right. This time, someone really is conspiring against him.’

  It was a shot in the dark, but he saw Vidal’s eyes flicker. ‘Why do you say that?’

  The real conspiracy is close to the French king, Tiphaine had said, right at the heart of power. ‘I have my own sources.’

  ‘I am certain you do. And who are the leaders of this conspiracy, I wonder?’

  ‘I think you know perfectly well who they are,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘Do you? You credit me with far too much wit.’

  Up at the head table, Aubert was talking gravely with the king, both resplendent in red. Beside them Ceccano sat stuffing himself with chicken, almond sauce dripping from his ringed hands. The prince looked openly bored. He will need to work on that, Merrivale thought. He watched Vidal for a moment, and said, ‘I wonder where the Queen of Navarre is right now.’

  ‘Safely at home in Évreux, I should imagine. Hoping the barbarian English do not despoil her lands.’

  Merrivale shook his head. ‘She is King Edward’s cousin. Her lands will be safe.’

  Vidal lowered his voice a little, resting his knife on his plate. ‘Especially if King Edward still desires to win the allegiance of the Normans.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Merrivale.

  ‘Hmm. Alone, the Normans are no threat to King Philippe. He has already shown he can deal with them. Your conspiracy will need to be stronger than that.’

  ‘I agree,’ Merrivale said. ‘But you asked who the leaders are. There are plenty of other candidates, are there not? Philip’s own nobles, who grow impatient with his failure to crush England. His brother, Charles of Alençon, arrogant and ambitious. The papacy, chafing in its Babylonian captivity and, like the Normans, desiring freedom. Jeanne of Navarre could ally with any or all of them.’

  Vidal smiled. ‘You have an active imagination, my friend. But then you always did. It was what made you such a dangerous enemy,’ he added softly.

  Merrivale nodded towards the high table. ‘What is Ceccano’s role? To secure the allegiance of the Italian commanders, Doria and Grimaldi?’

  Vidal snapped his fingers. ‘Of course, you know them both, don’t you? You are right. The cardinal is here to hold them to their promises and ensure they remain loyal to France.’

  ‘That is not what I meant,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘I know precisely what you meant.’ Vidal picked up his knife again. ‘Will you try the duck? It is quite delicious, beautifully cooked. I had not realised English cooks were so skilful.’

  ‘You do not deny there is a conspiracy,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘My friend, there are always conspiracies. Even the cats and dogs are plotting, each seeking to overthrow the other. But I am only a humble Franciscan friar, and the secular world does not concern me. Now, I really do urge you to try the duck.’

  Lisieux, 2nd of August, 1346

  Midnight

  ‘Welcome,’ said the man from the north. ‘I must apologise for the humble surroundings. This is about the only building the peasants have not yet burned.’

  While the king and cardinals feasted, the archers had scoured the countryside around Lisieux. A stiff east wind had blown most of the smoke away, and the embers of burnt-out buildings flickered like corpse candles in the moonlight. The farmhouse in which they stood was built of timber and cob, with a low-beamed roof, furnished only with a wooden table and benches beside the hearth. There were five of them in the room, four men in black cloaks and a woman with a hood concealing her face.

  ‘It does not matter,’ said Étienne Aubert. ‘Why have you summoned us here?’

  ‘To advise you that there has been a change in plan,’ said the West Country man. ‘We intended to confine Edward to western Normandy until the French royal army could arrive, but as you know, he defeated the French at Caen.’

  ‘Thanks to the Count of Eu’s treachery,’ said the woman with the hood.

  ‘That may y
et work in our favour,’ said the man from the north. ‘Now Edward has broken out and is advancing towards Rouen, with the intention of challenging Philip to battle.’

  ‘Then he is a fool,’ said Cardinal Ceccano, picking his teeth. ‘Philip is mustering forty thousand men, with allies coming from all over Europe. Edward will be crushed.’

  The man from the north nodded. ‘Precisely, monsignor. That is the new plan. Edward will be defeated, but not just yet. His army will reach Rouen in a few days’ time. When it does, Philip must refuse to give battle.’ He looked at Aubert. ‘We rely on you, your Eminence, to ensure that he does so.’

  ‘That will not be difficult. What is he to do instead?’

  ‘Block the crossings of the River Seine, all of them. Break down every bridge between Rouen and Paris, or else man the fortifications so that they are impregnable. Edward must not be allowed to cross the river.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the woman in the hood, thoughtfully. ‘I begin to see.’

  ‘I do not,’ said Ceccano. ‘Explain.’

  ‘If Edward cannot cross at Rouen, he will advance upriver looking for a bridge. Within a few days he will arrive at Paris. Philip can cross the river himself, trap Edward against the walls of Paris and destroy his army. The king and the prince will be killed or captured, and England’s power will be broken.’

  ‘And Philippe?’ asked the woman.

  ‘He will not enjoy his triumph for long. The damage the English will do as they advance on Paris will be laid at his door. Also, letters will be published in the city bearing the king’s personal seal. They will make it clear that Philip’s failure to give battle was due to the treachery of his councillors and his own vacillation and cowardice. His reputation will suffer and the people will begin to murmur against him. That is where you come in, your Eminences, and your Grace.’

  Queen Jeanne of Navarre threw back her hood. Candlelight gleamed off fair hair and a long Norman nose. ‘These letters will be forgeries, of course.’