A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘So I have been told. These rumours you speak of. Did they link him to the king’s death?’

  ‘There were whispers,’ Sully said. ‘And perhaps that he had a hand in the execution of the old king’s brother, Edmund of Kent. After that, it was pretty obvious what the plan was. Once his father and uncle were dead, the young king would die too, and Isabella and Mortimer would rule, with Hainault as the French pro-consul, guiding their hands. Fortunately the king had a wise head on young shoulders, and pre-empted them.’

  ‘After the queen and Mortimer were arrested, what did Hainault do?’

  ‘Changed sides at once, of course, and pledged his loyalty to the king. He was instrumental in helping the king become reconciled to some of his late father’s enemies. For example, it was he who procured a pardon for Sir John de Tracey of Dunkeswell and his sons.’

  ‘Did Hainault remain long in the country?’

  ‘A few years. Then he went back home, in hopes of wresting control of Hainault and Holland from his brother. When that failed, he went to France and joined the court of the adversary. He is now one of King Philip’s most trusted councillors.’

  The man who had brought the orders to kill the King of England standing now at the right hand of the King of France. The herald gave an involuntary shiver. Sully glanced at him. ‘What’s wrong, boy? Someone walk over your grave?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ the herald said. ‘Or perhaps it wasn’t my grave.’

  Neubourg, 6th of August, 1346

  Late afternoon

  ‘It was a trap, of course,’ Sir John Grey said. ‘They abandoned the southern faubourgs and let us burn those, while they were concealed in the towers at the south end of the bridge. Then they waited until we were within crossbow range and shot us to pieces.’

  All around them men were riding back into the camp outside Neubourg, the remnants of the reconnaissance party Godefroi d’Harcourt had led out towards Rouen that morning. Some were pale with pain, black crossbow bolts still embedded in their armour. An esquire led a horse with the body of an armoured man draped across the saddle, arms dangling loose. The horse had been wounded too, and its blood and that of its dead master leaked together onto the ground. ‘John Daunay,’ said Grey. ‘A good man, or at least he was.’

  ‘How many did you lose?’ asked Merrivale.

  ‘Of our company? None. But there’s at least two men-at-arms dead, and a score of hobelars and archers.’

  ‘And the bridge?’ asked Nicholas Courcy. ‘Can we force it?’

  Grey shook his head. ‘The centre of the span has been broken down, and there is a barricade and more towers at the north end. Even if we managed to repair the bridge under fire, our losses would be disastrous, and we would then have to fight our way through the streets of Rouen against the French army.’

  ‘Are there other bridges?’ asked Gráinne.

  The appearance of the Lady Gráinne MacCarthaigh Riabhach had caused a stir in the army, but the sensation had been brief. The troops were already used to the sight of Courcy’s wife in her antiquated armour and now paid her little attention. Gráinne herself seemed determined to stay with her husband, though whether this was due to infatuation or mistrust, the herald was not quite certain. Probably a mixture of both, he thought.

  ‘Downstream, no,’ Grey said. ‘The river broadens out into a tidal estuary, and is unbridgeable and unfordable. Upstream, there are six bridges: Elbeuf, Pont de l’Arche, Vernon, Mantes, Meulan and Poissy.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to seize and cross one of them,’ Courcy said.

  ‘Yes,’ Grey said. ‘I will wager any amount of money you care to name that every one of those bridges has been broken down or is heavily defended, or both. I said this was a trap. And we have advanced towards it willingly and stuck our neck into its jaws.’

  ‘We could retreat,’ said Roger Mortimer, who had just joined them. He had a dent the size of a goose egg in his breastplate where a crossbow bolt had hit him but failed to penetrate his armour.

  Grey shook his head. ‘If the king gives the order to retreat now, the army will melt away. By the time we reach the coast, there won’t be one man in five still with the banners. You have studied history, Sir Nicholas; you know what happens when an army retreats.’

  ‘I have,’ Courcy agreed. ‘Our only choice is to advance, and hope to Christ we can find a way across the river.’

  ‘And then bring the French to battle,’ Mortimer said. ‘Surely we will defeat them easily.’

  Courcy’s voice was weary. ‘My boy, you have no idea. We took losses at Caen, and we left garrisons there and in Carentan, and that’s not counting the ones who deserted after Caen to go home and count their loot. We’ve barely thirteen thousand men left now, out of the fifteen thousand we started with. And we’re ranged against the French royal army, plus God knows how many Genoese crossbowmen and all of France’s allies from around Europe: the Empire, Bohemia, Savoy, Majorca. We stand about as much chance as a snowflake in hell.’

  ‘Then what are we going to do?’

  ‘Find a way across the Seine,’ Courcy repeated. ‘Then evade the French army and escape north to Flanders.’

  Grey agreed. ‘If we can join the Flemish rebels and the English forces in the north, we might just have enough men to stand up to the French. The question is, how are we going to get across this goddamned river?’

  No one had an answer. Mortimer departed, holding his side. He would have a serious bruise where the crossbow bolt had hit him, Merrivale thought, and quite possibly a cracked rib or two. Courcy and Gráinne followed him. Grey looked at the herald. ‘Are my watchdogs giving good service?’

  ‘There have been no further attempts to kill me,’ Merrivale said. ‘You called our situation a trap.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Grey said. ‘We have been manoeuvred into it ever since we left Caen. Keep us penned up south of the river, let us batter ourselves to pieces against the bridges, and when we grow weak, cross the river and smash us. We have been gulled, herald. Haven’t we?’

  Merrivale said nothing. Grey looked him directly in the eye. ‘Is someone betraying us to the French?’

  ‘Yes,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘And are the traitors the same men who persuaded the army to advance from Caen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am relieved to hear it,’ Grey said sarcastically. ‘The other option is that the king and his captains are bungling idiots who know nothing whatever about war, a prospect I find profoundly depressing. Thank you, herald. You have restored my faith in human nature.’

  Rouen, 8th of August, 1346

  Morning

  The English raid on the southern faubourgs two days previously had caused panic in Rouen. Most of the population had fled, taking with them anything they could carry. The only things that moved in the streets were the herds of semi-wild pigs that lived by scavenging in the gutters, and royal men-at-arms on patrol. Slipping through the back streets wrapped in a dun cloak with her hood pulled over her face, Tiphaine de Tesson was not sure which were the more dangerous.

  Most of the army was quartered in the vast French camp on the high ground north of the city. Earlier, Tiphaine had walked through it, seeing the ranks of pavilions and the glittering coats of arms of the high nobility of France; Blois, Aumale, Lorraine, Hainault, Charles d’Alençon, the king’s brother. Down in the river, the galleys lay moored rank upon rank, sails furled and oars at rest, flying their own banners, the red cross of Genoa and the red and white lozenges of Grimaldi, the lord of Monaco. Only at the end of the day did she finally spy the banner she was looking for: the red saltire on gold of the Seigneur de Brus. The sight of it sent a shiver down her spine.

  She lingered, steeling herself, and then approached the pavilion and asked the servant outside where his master was. The servant stared at the woman in boy’s clothes. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Mind your own business,’ Tiphaine said.

  The man looked her up and down. ‘I don’t suppose y
ou’d like to—’

  ‘No. And if you suggest it again, I will kick you where it really hurts.’

  The man lost interest. ‘He’s at the castle. Attending on the Count of Harcourt. But you won’t get in there. They close the gates at sundown.’

  He was right. As at Caen, the castle at Rouen was located just outside the city walls to the north. Tiphaine arrived outside the Port-Levis, the main gate, just as the chains began to rattle and the massive drawbridge was winched up, the gates slamming shut behind it, leaving her stranded outside. There were bakeries in the northern faubourg; she stole a loaf of bread from a passing cart and then slipped into the deserted city, where she made herself comfortable for the night in an empty stable. In the morning, dusting off her clothes and picking the hay out of her hair, she made her way back through the city and loitered outside the Port-Levis, a non-descript figure in ragged tunic and hose, waiting for her chance.

  A wagon loaded with firewood rumbled past, heading towards the gate, slowing as the driver made the sharp turn onto the drawbridge over the fosse. She ran after it, scrambling onto the back and burrowing in among the wood while the wagon rolled through the gatehouse and came to a halt outside the kitchens. Dropping onto the cobbles, she looked around at the tall towers and the massive cylinder of the donjon, where the hated fleur-de-lys standard streamed in the morning breeze. She drew a deep breath and stopped the first passer-by.

  ‘I have an urgent message for the Seigneur de Brus. Where can I find him?’

  The man, a Dominican friar with cold grey eyes, looked at her impassively. ‘You will find him in the Tour de Gascon,’ he said, pointing.

  Guards with spears in mail coats barred the door to the tower. ‘What is your business here?’ one demanded.

  ‘I wish to speak to the Seigneur de Brus. Tell him Tiphaine is here.’

  After five minutes of waiting, with the clatter and bustle of an army preparing for war all around her, the door opened and Rollond de Brus stepped out into the courtyard. Tiphaine studied him critically, hoping to see signs of imperfection or ageing: a receding hairline, perhaps, or wrinkles around his eyes. But no, he was the same as ever: tall, smooth-skinned with an overlay of sunburn, his fair hair fashionably curled, his doublet and hose uncreased and unstained. He looks more like a wall painting than a real man, she thought, but then he always did. He had about as much personality, too.

  His blue eyes widened. ‘Tiphaine! How intriguing to find you here.’

  ‘I need to talk with you,’ she said. ‘Privately.’

  ‘Come with me.’ He led the way inside, up to a bare little chamber on the first floor of the tower; it had a single narrow window. ‘Sit down,’ he said, pulling up a bench. ‘Tell me what I can do for you.’

  She sat, gazing up at him as he stood by the door. ‘Truly? You are willing to help me?’

  Brus smiled. The first time she had seen that smile, it had melted her heart. By the end of their romance, it had been like a file rasping on her nerves. There had only ever been one thing between them, and so far as she was concerned, that fire had soon died.

  ‘You must have known I would be willing,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, you would not have come here. What do you need? Say the word.’

  Tiphaine fought to control the trembling in her legs. ‘I need to know about Jean de Fierville.’

  ‘Ah.’ Brus stroked his chin for a moment. ‘My late and unlamented cousin. What do you wish to know?’

  ‘Who was paying him when he died?’

  ‘My dear, everyone was paying him. He was in Godefroi d’Harcourt’s retinue, but he was also receiving a retainer from the Queen of Navarre and, of course, from Robert Bertrand. Jean was like that. Loyalties did not bind him, faith did not hold him. All that interested him was gold.’

  Brus paused, looking at her. ‘Why does it matter, now that he is dead?’

  ‘He betrayed Harcourt this year, and some of my father’s friends along with him. I wonder if he betrayed my father as well.’

  ‘I would not answer that even if I could. Your father and I were on opposite sides. Remember?’

  ‘But you and I were not,’ Tiphaine said. ‘There was a time when we were inseparable. Remember?’

  ‘And then you left. You ran away.’ Brus paused. ‘I missed you, you know.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Tiphaine said. ‘I never intended to cause you hurt.’

  ‘But you did, all the same. You should have stayed with me, Tiphaine. As my wife, you would have been untouchable.’

  ‘Do you think that is all I care about? My own safety?’

  Brus said nothing. ‘When did Fierville first have dealings with the English?’ Tiphaine asked.

  ‘Why should I answer that question? Are you here to make amends? Do you wish to come back to me?’

  Tiphaine steeled herself. ‘If you answer my questions, I will return to you,’ she said. ‘I will be your lover again, if you wish it. Even your wife.’

  Brus stared at her for a long time, and then a slow smile spread across his face. She could see the joy dancing in his eyes.

  ‘Jean led a contingent of Norman ships that joined the French fleet in the summer of 1338,’ he said. ‘They burned their way along the south coast of England, sacked Portsmouth and then took Southampton. Jean had some sort of spy in the city, a man who helped him rob one of the biggest moneylenders of all his gold and silver. He sold slaves too, girls mostly, but some boys as well, and got a very good price for them. There are parts of the world where English slaves are very much sought after.’

  Tiphaine shivered. ‘What happened to them? The slaves?’

  ‘As I recall, he sold them in England. He had a dealer there, already lined up.’

  ‘He sold English slaves to another Englishman?’

  ‘I know. I have always said the English have no morals. Perhaps slavery is all they are really good for.’

  ‘Who was this agent?’

  ‘Tiphaine, I fail to see why this is so important. Jean is dead. He is no longer a danger to anyone.’

  ‘No, but his masters are. You were wrong, Rollond, he was loyal. He served his true masters faithfully to the end.’

  Brus’s eyes narrowed a little. ‘His true masters?’

  ‘The ones who betrayed Harcourt and my father. The ones who will betray Jeanne of Navarre. And the ones who will betray King Philippe and bring him to his death.’

  ‘Ah.’ Brus’s eyes narrowed a little. ‘And these masters. Do you know who they are?’

  ‘Not yet. But tell me who Fierville’s contact in England was and I may be able to find them. When I do, I will tell you, and you can get the credit for saving the king.’ Tiphaine watched his face. ‘Unless, of course, you too are one of the plotters.’

  A long silence followed. Dust motes glinted silver in the sunlight falling through the window.

  ‘Jean sold his slaves to Sir John de Tracey,’ Brus said finally. ‘Ah. I see the name means something to you.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Tiphaine said. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t you? Well, never mind. As I said, it hardly matters now.’ Brus walked towards the door and opened it. ‘So. Will you keep your word? Will you come back to me?’

  Tiphaine swallowed. ‘Yes. If that is your wish.’

  ‘If that is my wish,’ Brus repeated, and the same slow smile crossed his face. She saw the look in his eyes, and realised with horror what she had done.

  ‘Do you know what hurt most when you left me, little Tiphaine?’ he asked. ‘The mockery of my friends. They made me into a jest, the man who could not keep a woman, not even a plain little scrap of a thing like you. You never had the power to wound me, but my friends, oh yes. It took a long time for their mockery to fade.’

  ‘You never cared for me,’ Tiphaine said. ‘You had no intention of marrying me.’

  ‘You were good for one thing only. One thing, and you weren’t even very good at that. As for marriage, I would sooner have married a pox-ridden whore lying in a ditch th
an the daughter of a traitor.’ He opened the door and called down the stairs. ‘Seize her! Take her to the count!’

  * * *

  The great hall of Rouen Castle was full of activity, clerks carrying stacks of parchment, messengers and pages bringing in muster rolls and returns of supply. At the high table, a tall man stood staring down at a map unrolled before him, chess pieces weighing the corners to keep them from curling up. Despite the heat of the day, he wore a heavy blue robe powdered with gold fleurs-de-lys and an ermine collar. ‘The English failed at Elbeuf,’ he was saying to the man beside him. ‘Now they are attacking Pont de l’Arche, but du Bosq and Mesnil will hold them. That means they will move on to Vernon. Are the defences in place, Montmorency?’

  ‘Yes, your Imperial Majesty. We have put two thousand men-at-arms and a thousand crossbows into the town. And the walls of Vernon were repaired only last year.’

  ‘Good, good. Keep pushing the English east towards Paris. That’s where we’ll pin them down. We will finish this at Poissy, just as we planned. By God, Cousin Edward is playing into our hands. I thought he was a better commander than this.’ The tall man looked up sharply. ‘Yes, Brus? What is it?’

  Brus bowed. ‘May I have a moment of your time, your Imperial Majesty?’

  ‘Of course.’ Charles, Count of Alençon and Perche, also claimed the title of Emperor of Constantinople, and liked people to use it. It also annoyed his brother the king, who was simply styled ‘your Grace’ and resented Alençon’s attempt to outrank him. ‘What is it?’

  Two soldiers dragged Tiphaine forward and threw her onto the flagstones in front of the table. ‘We caught this woman creeping into the castle, disguised as a man,’ Brus said. ‘Fortunately, I recognised her. She is Tiphaine de Tesson, daughter of the executed traitor Jean de la Roche Tesson. I have reason to believe she is also an English spy.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘I interrogated her before I brought her here, your Majesty. She was asking questions about Jean de Fierville.’