A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And the royal seal? How did you get it?’

  The man from the north hesitated.

  ‘Do you desire that we trust you?’ the queen asked. ‘Then you will need to demonstrate that you trust us also. The seal, I assume, is a copy. Who procured it for you?’

  ‘John of Hainault, Lord of Beaumont, was my father’s faithful friend for many years,’ said the man from the north. ‘Now he is mine.’

  The other three looked at each other, and Ceccano snorted with sudden laughter. ‘The treachery of his own councillors,’ he said. ‘Well. It appears at least one of Philippe’s councillors really is a traitor. I am impressed.’

  ‘You see now how far our power extends,’ said the man from the West Country.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the Queen of Navarre. ‘And so, what do you offer me?’

  ‘Normandy, as a free and independent principality,’ said the West Country man. ‘Normandy allied with Navarre will be a force to be reckoned with, especially with England and France laid low. The balance of power will shift towards you.’

  Jeanne said nothing.

  ‘And what do I stand to gain?’ asked Aubert.

  ‘A great deal of money,’ said the West Country man. ‘Which you will need, I am sure, to launch your campaign for the papacy when Pope Clement finally departs this life. How are the Holy Father’s kidney stones?’

  ‘Somewhat improved, I am sorry to say.’

  ‘It need not be kidney stones that kill him,’ the man from the north said. ‘And of course, when you do sit on the throne of Saint Peter, our friend Cardinal Ceccano will be at your right hand.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Ceccano. He rubbed his hands. ‘What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Her Grace should gather her forces quietly, in Navarre and here in Normandy. Monsignor Aubert, your task is to make sure Philippe adheres to our plan. Monsignor Ceccano, you control the Genoese mercenary captains in French service, Grimaldi and Doria.’

  Ceccano shook his head. ‘Grimaldi, yes. Doria, I am not so sure. He takes his loyalties seriously.’

  ‘Then offer him more money,’ said the man from the West Country. ‘As much as he wants. But make sure he does our bidding. When the time comes, we want the Genoese on our side.’

  Ceccano shrugged.

  ‘What about you?’ Queen Jeanne asked the two Englishmen. ‘What do you stand to gain from this?’

  ‘What everyone wants,’ said the man from the north. ‘Power, influence and wealth. We shall show the rest of Europe that we can bend events to our will. A new game is beginning, and we are its masters. Kings and emperors will see our power and respect it. And we shall grow very, very rich.’

  There was a pause. ‘I spoke earlier of trust,’ the queen said. ‘Can we trust you?’

  ‘You have no choice,’ said the man from the north. ‘We can make you powerful, your Grace. But if you turn against us, we will break you.’

  Bernay, 3rd of August, 1346

  Early morning

  Riding east, the Queen of Navarre and her escort reached the Benedictine abbey at Bernay just before dawn. ‘We will rest here for a few hours,’ she told her captain. ‘Then we will return to Évreux.’

  Jeanne had inherited the mountain kingdom of Navarre from her father, but she rarely visited it. Her power and wealth came from her wide lands in eastern Normandy, including Bernay. She climbed the steps to the guest lodgings wearily, thinking about the conversation the previous evening and pondering its implications. The Englishmen had been right: the power of Normandy and Navarre combined would be formidable. And she knew Étienne Aubert well. She could work with him.

  The sleepy monk who guided her stopped before the door of the chamber, fumbling with his keys. It is, after all, a family quarrel, Jeanne thought. Edward of England, Philippe of France and myself; cousins, grandchildren of Philippe le Bel. Perhaps instead of fighting each other, we should band together, unite in the face of the enemies that conspire against us. But that will never happen. We are united only by our hatred of each other.

  Well; that is not quite true. Edward and I agree that Philippe is a usurper. Both of us have better claims to the throne, Edward through his mother, I through my father. But the law in France says that a woman cannot inherit the throne. The law is nonsense, of course, but men use it to protect their power.

  The door opened and the monk stepped back, bowing. Jeanne walked into the room, followed by her tirewoman. A single candle burned in a bronze candlestick on the table. Beyond it stood a figure in ragged tunic and hose, with rough-shorn red hair. Just for a moment Jeanne knew fear, but then she saw the figure was alone and carried no weapon. Despite its garb, it was also unmistakably a woman. She set her lips in a thin line and snapped, ‘Who the devil are you?’

  ‘I am Tiphaine, the Demoiselle de Tesson, your Grace. The daughter of the Sire de la Roche Tesson. I would speak with you alone, if I may.’

  Jeanne turned to her tirewoman. ‘Go. Tell the monk to give you the keys and send him away. Stand watch over the door.’

  The door closed behind the servant. ‘You escaped from prison in Carentan and joined the English,’ Jeanne said. ‘Did you know there is a price on your head?’

  ‘It does not matter. Your Grace, I am here to warn you.’

  ‘Against what?’

  ‘King Edward has sent messengers to find you. He wants you to join him and lead a new Norman revolt against King Philippe. Your Grace, you must not do so. Not yet.’

  Jeanne took her time about answering. ‘I am a loyal subject of France. I have no intention of rebelling against my king.’

  ‘Of course not, your Grace,’ Tiphaine said. ‘But King Edward will continue to press you. The time may come when you must choose between England and France.’

  ‘Indeed. It would seem you have already made your choice. Like Godefroi d’Harcourt and Raoul of Eu, you have opted for England.’

  ‘No,’ Tiphaine said. ‘I have not. My heart and my soul belong to Normandy, and always will. I will do whatever it takes to free my country from the French yoke.’

  Silence fell for a moment. Jeanne took off her riding gloves and dropped them on the table, flexing her long fingers. ‘You say this, but then you advise me against rebellion. Why?’

  ‘Because the time is not right, and because Edward of England is an unreliable ally. He is domesticating the Norman lords. Harcourt is his already. He will turn Eu into his servant as well, and desires to do the same to you. His intention is that the three of you will rule Normandy as English puppets, exchanging one master for another. But without you, his plan will fall apart.’

  ‘And we will go merrily on as before,’ Jeanne said. ‘Normandy is ruled by Philippe and his idiot son and their corrupt councillors and huissiers and greffiers, who rob and plunder us at will. What I said earlier was wrong. I think I might prefer Edward as my master.’

  ‘But if you fight France now, you will be betrayed,’ Tiphaine said emphatically. ‘Just like Harcourt. The French received word of his intentions months ago. Did Jean de Fierville work for you?’

  ‘…Yes.’

  ‘Fierville was also reporting to Robert Bertrand. Now Harcourt’s friends are dead and his power is broken. He can remain as Edward’s lapdog, or he can return and make his peace with Philippe; those are his only choices. Eu tried to make a secret deal with England, abandoning Caen and allowing himself to be captured. But the enemy know about this too, or they will very soon. Someone is working to undermine us, and has been for years. If you rebel now, death or exile will be your fate.’

  Jeanne stared at the ragged figure before her. ‘You know a great deal, for one so young.’

  ‘I learned much while I was in prison, and more since I have been with the English army. There are many plots and conspiracies, your Grace. Against us, against King Philippe and against King Edward. They are all connected and guided by a single hand. Is Rollond de Brus still in your service?’

  In the back of
Jeanne’s mind an alarm bell began to ring. ‘What do you know about Brus?’

  ‘I used to know him well,’ Tiphaine said. ‘He was your servitor then, or pretended to be. Where is he now?’

  ‘He is in Rouen,’ Jeanne said. ‘He has taken service with the king’s brother, the Count of Alençon.’

  Tiphaine’s eyes opened wide. ‘Of course. Alençon is conspiring to overthrow the king, and Brus is your link to him.’ Jeanne said nothing. ‘If you join them, they will betray you,’ Tiphaine went on. ‘Alençon has no more intention of allowing a free Normandy than the king has. This is the season of danger, your Grace. Your best hope is to lie low and let it pass.’

  The Queen of Navarre stood for a long time staring at the candle flame, lost in thought. ‘Your father was a wise man,’ she said eventually. ‘I see he bred some of his wisdom into his daughter.’

  Tiphaine’s mouth twisted. ‘His wisdom did not prevent him from being killed. Or mine from following in his footsteps.’

  ‘What do you intend to do?’

  ‘Philippe must not succeed,’ said Tiphaine. ‘But neither must the conspirators. I intend to stop them both. Then it will be your time. Then is the moment to come out of hiding and strike.’

  17

  Duranville, 4th of August, 1346

  Evening

  The army had remained for a day at Lisieux, camped in the smoky fields outside the town while the king and the cardinals discussed the peace proposals. It was a farce, of course, and everyone knew it. ‘Do I really have to go through with this nonsense?’ the king had asked before the talks started.

  ‘Your Grace must decide that for himself,’ Merrivale said. ‘But I believe Étienne Aubert is playing some game of his own. It might be useful to listen to him and try to discern what it is.’

  ‘I agree,’ said the Bishop of Durham. ‘His Eminence is an influential man. It would not be wise to offend him.’

  That was not what Merrivale meant and the king knew it. He looked at Rowton. ‘What do you think, Eustace?’

  ‘Talk to them, sire,’ Rowton said. ‘A day will make very little difference.’

  So they engaged in talks. Politely and with great courtesy, Cardinal Aubert laid out the papal peace terms, and with equal politeness and courtesy the king tore them to shreds. Vidal, sitting behind his master, looked at Merrivale and rolled his eyes. Another banquet followed, during which the cardinals and their entourage were reunited with their stolen baggage and horses, and in the morning they departed, jogging away towards Rouen to report the failure of their mission to King Philippe.

  Even before they were out of sight, the English troops were moving. Progress from Caen to Lisieux had been leisurely, but now Edward gathered his army and, with furious energy, flung it forward fifteen miles across the rolling plain, leaving Lisieux burning behind them. Evening brought them to a dry camp outside the village of Duranville, the sky behind them orange with dust and smoke. Baggage wagons were still rolling in, the tired troops of the rearguard marching up after them, when the king sent for Merrivale.

  ‘I know what you did at Caen, by the way. Using my son against me to try to force me to free Brother Geoffrey.’ He held up a hand. ‘No, don’t bother. The boy showed he had backbone. He stood up for what he thought was right. Good for him.’

  ‘That was not my intention, sire.’

  ‘I know it wasn’t. But your action had some positive benefits all the same. You said you thought Étienne Aubert is playing some game of his own. What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know, sire. But I am told there is a conspiracy against the adversary, and I believe that he and the Queen of Navarre are both involved. That could explain why the queen has not responded to your messages.’

  ‘Perhaps she is playing more than one game at a time,’ the king said.

  ‘Perhaps, sire. I would venture a small wager that the Count of Alençon is involved. And I would guess that the Count of Eu was as well, before he came over to us.’

  ‘Yes.’ The king stroked his chin, and Merrivale could almost see the wheels of calculation turning in his mind. ‘This wants some careful thought,’ he said. ‘Do you know, Merrivale, I doubted the wisdom of advancing east from Caen. We are taking a risk, there is no doubt about it. But if Philip’s enemies really do attempt to remove him from power, there will be bloody chaos. And if we’re camped on his doorstep when it happens, I reckon we are well placed to profit from that chaos.’

  The king paused, deep in thought. He was so preoccupied that he did not even notice he had called his adversary by name, something his own court was forbidden to do. ‘We’ll bring the Count of Eu back into play,’ he said. ‘By God, that’s it. Start a civil war in Normandy and it will spread through all of France. Then we’ll seize our chance.’

  ‘Yes, sire. Ideally, though, we need to know more about the conspiracy. At the moment, I only have word from two sources, neither of whom are wholly reliable.’

  Thomas Holland had told the truth, but had he told all of it? And Tiphaine’s disappearance meant that doubt was growing in the herald’s mind. ‘Jean de Fierville was involved in both Norman conspiracies,’ Merrivale continued. ‘And I believe that Edmund Bray knew something about this. If I can discover who killed Bray, then the trail will lead us to the conspirators.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake. You’re not still harping on about Bray, are you?’

  ‘Yes, sire, I am. Bray’s killers, Fierville’s partners in treason, the men who planted the gunpowder in the gatehouse at Carentan and tried to poison some of your son’s knights; they are one and the same. There is a third conspiracy, sire, directed by the same people, and this one is aimed at England.’

  After a moment the king said, ‘Who are these people? And for Christ’s sake don’t say “I don’t know”.’

  ‘Allow me to continue my inquisition into Bray’s death,’ the herald said, ‘and I will find them.’

  ‘By God, Merrivale, you are stubborn as a cross-grained mule.’

  ‘Yes, sire. Permit me to say that I have also observed the same trait in your Grace.’

  ‘Damn your impertinence. Do whatever it takes, herald, but find these traitors.’

  Neubourg, 5th of August, 1346

  Evening

  There was a new urgency in the air now, a sense of bristling alertness as the troops swung off the road and made camp in the fields around the little town of Neubourg. Today’s march had been a punishing one, twenty miles in blistering heat, and now they were nearing Rouen, capital of Normandy and the place where the adversary was gathering his army.

  ‘Behold the hand of brotherly love,’ said Sir John Sully wryly, staring at the western sky. Columns of smoke rose towards the sun, burning towns and villages set alight by the army as it passed. They had marched that day through the lands of the Count of Harcourt, Godefroi’s elder brother and the leader of the Norman party loyal to King Philip, and the lord Godefroi had taken special pleasure in destroying his brother’s lands.

  Despite the failure of his plans, Harcourt remained with the army and in high favour. Whatever else one might say of him, King Edward was loyal to his friends.

  ‘And the king has made no objection,’ Merrivale said. ‘They burned the abbey of Le Bec, too. So much for protection for houses of religion.’

  ‘All wars begin with the best of intentions,’ Sully said. ‘A clean fight between adversaries, with the innocents protected. It never lasts for long. In the end, it is the innocents who suffer most.’

  ‘And brotherhood amounts to nothing,’ Merrivale said. ‘What we see here is simply an act of revenge. Burning his towns will not compel the Count of Harcourt to change sides, and Godefroi knows it. This is pure spite.’

  They stood in silence for a while, watching the smoke and ignoring the bustle of the camp around them. ‘May I speak to you privately, Sir John?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘Of course.’ They walked away from the camp, Sully’s dog at his heels and Matt and Pip trailing them at a discreet di
stance. Matt and Pip; even now, Merrivale found he could not think of them as Matilda and Philippa. He wondered how Nicholas Courcy was faring. He had seen Courcy and his wife together on the march, laughing with the gallowglasses, apparently inseparable. Human nature is a strange and peculiar thing, he thought.

  For the hundredth time, he wondered where Tiphaine was, and whether she was safe.

  ‘What troubles you, boy?’ Sully asked.

  ‘History,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘You might have to narrow it down a little.’

  ‘The year 1327,’ Merrivale said. ‘Bray’s father was at Berkeley Castle, along with Robert Holland and Macio Chauffin. Mortimer’s grandfather had already killed the Despensers, and he sent Holland to give the order to kill the king. With him was another man, with a device of three black chevrons on yellow.’ He looked steadily at Sully. ‘Do you remember him?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Sully quietly. ‘I do. John of Hainault, Lord of Beaumont and uncle of our Queen Philippa.’

  ‘I didn’t remember him at first, when Chauffin mentioned him, but I had just started as a messenger and was often away from court. I only saw him once or twice. But you knew him, I think.’

  ‘He was a comrade in arms, of sorts. We served together at Berwick, and Halidon Hill. Then he went back home to Hainault.’

  ‘Tell me about him, Sir John.’

  ‘When the Earl of March and the King’s mother, Queen Isabella, returned to England, Hainault commanded the army that escorted them. He was Mortimer’s loyal lieutenant, helping him hunt down supporters of the king and the Despensers. For a time, anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There were many rumours flying about. Some said Hainault’s real master wasn’t Mortimer, but the King of France, who was controlling events from the shadows. Isabella, after all, was the French king’s daughter.’ Sully paused. ‘And now you say he was there at Berkeley that night.’