A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

* * *

  The Prince of Wales’s camp, when Merrivale returned, was in uproar. More fires had been lit and men were milling about in confusion, some dragging bodies away through the drizzling rain. Among the dead were several English archers and spearmen. Sir Thomas Ughtred, the under-marshal, confirmed what had happened. ‘While the Red Company were driving the main body back, small parties slipped into the camp. There was some bloody fighting before we drove them off.’

  Lightning flashed, far away; the storm was moving on. ‘What do you think their purpose was?’ the herald asked. ‘To sow confusion?’

  ‘Oh, that all right, but some captains were deliberately attacked. Warwick, myself, Sully, Holland, Despenser and Tracey all appear to have been targets. Tracey in particular was hard pressed. He lost two men before young Mortimer and some of the prince’s knights came to his aid.’

  Tracey was cleaning blood off his hands when Merrivale found him. ‘It was an assassination,’ the Devon knight said. ‘They cut my men down and were inside my tent almost before I could draw sword. I was fighting for my life when Mortimer arrived.’ He bowed to the younger man. ‘I owe you a debt, sir.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ said Mortimer, still breathing deeply.

  Another man was suddenly alongside them, drawn sword in hand, and they realised it was the Prince of Wales. ‘What has happened here?’

  Tracey told him.

  ‘Two good men,’ the prince said. ‘Very well, I want the night guards doubled from now on. We must have no more such incidents. Sir Edward, I am very glad to see you are safe.’ He laid a hand on Mortimer’s shoulder. ‘As for you, Roger, very well done.’

  The prince walked away through the camp, calling out to his men. Bartholomew Burghersh, following him, glanced at the herald and their eyes met briefly before Burghersh moved on. Merrivale looked at Mortimer and saw conflicting emotions in his face: the old bitterness, mixed with something raw and confused.

  One of Tracey’s archers ran up, touching his forehead in salute. ‘The rest of them got away, sir. We took no prisoners.’

  ‘Where is Nicodemus?’ Tracey asked.

  The archer looked worried. ‘I’m afraid he’s gone, sir.’

  ‘Gone? What do you mean, gone?’

  ‘He’s vanished, sir. There ain’t a trace of him, nowhere.’

  Freneuse, 10th of August, 1346

  Afternoon

  The previous night’s storm had done nothing to lessen the heat and humidity. The army sweated and toiled in the heat as it pressed on upriver towards the next bridge at Mantes. Across the river, the vast French army matched it step-for-step, banners waving and spear points shining like a bright forest, flowing along the north bank past the massive walls and keep of the castle of La Roche-Guyon.

  ‘After Mantes, there are only two more bridges,’ the Earl of Salisbury said. ‘And Paris is only forty miles away.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said the prince. ‘We will gain the victory in the end. My father will find a way.’

  ‘I am sure he will, Highness,’ said Salisbury, but his was not the only face that looked dubious. Mortimer remained silent, watching the French across the river.

  The wind died away, and the heat increased still further. The herald turned his horse and, followed by Warin, rode back along the column until he came to Sir John Sully’s company, the ermine and red chevrons hanging limp in the lifeless air. The old knight greeted him with his usual good cheer.

  ‘I’m glad to see you well, boy. I hear you had a close call last night.’

  ‘It felt like it at the time. Now I am not so sure. Are you?’

  Sully studied him for a moment as they rode side by side. The dog trotted between them, glancing up at his master from time to time. ‘So. Those men last night were play-actors? Putting on a piece of mummery for our benefit?’

  ‘They didn’t press home their attacks. They could have killed Lord Rowton and myself with ease, but they hung back.’

  Sully nodded. ‘My men put them to flight easily enough.’

  ‘And yet the attack was meticulously planned. But for the alertness of the Red Company, we would never have seen them coming. Whoever organised them was careful to give them Flemish weapons, knowing that Hainault and Flanders are adjacent. And in case we missed that point, one of the dead men wore a brooch with John of Hainault’s colours.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising, though, is it? Hainault is the enemy.’

  ‘Yes. Sir John, I have another question for you. When you were escheator of Devon, did you conduct the inquisition post mortem into Sir John de Tracey of Dunkeswell?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Do you recall the cause of death?’

  ‘He was out riding, as I recall. A hunting party, I think. His horse threw him, and he broke his neck when he fell.’

  ‘Was there anything suspicious about his death? Tracey had plenty of enemies. Even his own sons disliked him.’

  ‘You’re right, and hunts are notoriously good places for disposing of men and making it look like an accident. There were no witnesses who saw him fall. His other son, Gilbert, discovered the body and worked out what had happened. No tears were shed at his funeral.’

  One of the royal serjeants rode up alongside them, raising his visor and saluting. ‘Sir Herald? His Grace summons you.’

  Nodding farewell to Sully, Merrivale turned his horse and followed the serjeant back towards the village of Freneuse on the riverbank. Grey and white columns of smoke rose all around them, but Freneuse itself had not yet been burned. He saw the royal standard there, and alongside it the banners of the two cardinals, Étienne Aubert and Annibale Ceccano. The two men stood conversing calmly with the king, their red robes like splashes of flame against the green river beyond.

  As Merrivale dismounted, handing over the reins to Warin. Raimon Vidal laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘In the name of God, it is hot,’ the Franciscan said, wiping the sweat from his face with his brown sleeve. ‘How are you, my friend? I think things do not go so well for your army, no?’

  ‘We have not given up,’ Merrivale said. ‘Do the cardinals bring new peace proposals?’

  ‘No, it is the same old dish, reheated and served on a new plate. I doubt if your king will be so polite as he was the last time, and I suspect we will soon be on our way once more. While we wait for our exodus, I have some news for you. Some good, some perhaps not so good.’

  ‘One cannot have everything,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘Indeed, it is so. The good news first. Your friend Brother Geoffrey of Maldon has been released from prison in Caen.’

  Merrivale did not attempt to disguise his relief. ‘I know I have you to thank for this.’

  ‘I merely spoke to the cardinal. He did the rest. Brother Geoffrey is on his way back to England. He is a little worse for wear, but I am assured that Bishop Bertrand’s gaolers did him no permanent damage.’

  ‘I am very glad to hear it.’

  ‘I was certain you would be. You may not be so sanguine, however, when I tell you my next piece of news. King Philippe’s men arrested an English spy in Rouen a couple of days ago.’ Vidal watched the herald’s face. ‘A woman,’ he said.

  ‘What was her name?’ Merrivale asked quietly.

  ‘She is called the Demoiselle Tiphaine de Tesson. I fear things will not go well for her. Since she escaped from Carentan and joined your army, she is under sentence of death as a traitor. That sentence will shortly be carried out.’

  ‘I see,’ Merrivale said. ‘Where is she now?’

  Vidal pointed to the grey stone fortifications of La Roche-Guyon, towering grim on the north bank. ‘She is there. Locked up in a cell from which there is no escape, inside a powerful castle. Ironic, is it not? You are so close, but you cannot see her, or she you. But if you rise early in the morning, you might able to see the smoke from her pyre rising over the castle walls.’

  Vidal paused for a moment. His voice, when he resumed, was entirely neutral, but there was a trace of sympath
y in his dark eyes. ‘If you watch closely, you might even catch a glimpse of her soul as it goes, rising towards heaven.’

  19

  La Roche-Guyon, 10th of August, 1346

  Late afternoon

  The pyre was already prepared in the upper courtyard, a wooden platform with a tall stake in its midst, and faggots of dry wood stacked all around. The smell of pine resin was thick in the air. She shivered a little, and one of her guards noticed and laughed.

  ‘The wood smells sweet, doesn’t it? Not half so sweet as you’ll smell burning, you traitorous bitch.’

  Rollond de Brus strode down the steps from the entrance to the donjon. He had ridden on ahead to prepare her reception, and had taken advantage of the moment to change out of riding clothes into courtly doublet and hose. Of course, he had, Tiphaine thought. Vanity is what this man lives for. That is why I am to be burned; to heal his injured pride.

  ‘Bring her inside,’ Brus said curtly. ‘Our hostesses want a look at her before she goes down to her cell.’

  The guards dragged her down from the saddle and stood her upright, still in her filthy tunic and hose with her hands bound tightly in front of her. Her hands tingled and her wrists were rubbed raw by her bonds. One of the guards shoved her in the back and she followed Brus up the stairs and into the donjon, through an antechamber and into a dark circular chamber. Despite the evening’s heat, the stone tower was cold, and a fire burned in the grate at the back of the room. Lamps flickered in sconces around the whitewashed stone walls.

  The hall was crowded with people. She saw a couple of priests in black robes, but the rest were women: noblewomen in gowns and cauled headdresses with jewels sparkling darkly in the light, nuns in black habits and wimples, all staring at her in a mixture of fear and anger. Brus bowed to them with a flourish, bending one knee.

  ‘Mesdames,’ he said. ‘Allow me to introduce our guest, the Demoiselle de Tesson. I regret the inconvenience of housing her here, but do not fear; she will not outstay her welcome.’ He smiled. ‘She will, ah… how shall I put it? She will depart in the morning.’

  Some of the women laughed openly. One of the nuns, her face hard as a slab, walked up to Tiphaine and slapped her across the face, twice. Tiphaine’s head rocked back and she felt the blood rush to her bruised cheeks.

  ‘You accursed harlot!’ the nun snapped. ‘You whore of Babylon! You have brought the English upon us! My convent has been despoiled and burned, my nuns dispossessed, our lands ruined and our tenants robbed of all they possess.’

  ‘I did not bring—’

  The nun slapped her again, then spat in her face. Held rigid between her guards, Tiphaine could not move or respond. She felt the spittle running down her forehead. ‘Silence!’ the nun screamed. ‘Do not speak, harlot! Go to your cell and wait until the hour of your execution! Do not expect us to pray for your soul, for that would be blasphemy. You sold your soul to the English and the devil!’

  ‘Take her down,’ Brus said to the guards.

  ‘Farewell, demoiselle!’ shouted one of the noblewomen. ‘Tomorrow I shall enjoy watching you burn!’ Others joined in the clamour. Brus motioned with his hand and the guards seized Tiphaine’s arms and dragged her down the spiral stair into the darkness below, her heels bumping on the stone steps.

  At the bottom of the stair was a heavy door. Brus unlocked it and pushed it open, and the guards shoved Tiphaine inside, so hard that she stumbled and fell sprawling on the damp cobbled floor. The door slammed shut and the key turned in the lock.

  She lay for a moment, gasping in the pitch blackness, and then sat up. Her hand touched something metallic and flaking with rust, and after a moment she realised it was a length of chain. She pulled it towards her, gathering the links in her hand. Suddenly the chain pulled taut. Feeling her way along its length, she bumped into the stone wall of her cell. Her hands groped around the end of the chain and found it affixed to the wall through a metal eye.

  The stone around the eye was damp too, and crumbling. Sudden hope seized her. Grabbing the chain in both hands, she heaved with all her strength, hoping to pull it out of the wall. Nothing happened. She tried again, this time bracing her feet against the wall and throwing all of her weight against the chain. Again and again she pulled, straining, arms aching, gasping with effort.

  Nothing happened. The chain did not budge.

  She stopped, leaning her forehead against the wall and sobbing for breath. It was hopeless; she simply wasn’t strong enough. But in the back of her mind, a flame began to burn. No, she thought, I did not survive two years in prison in Carentan in order to end like this. Drawing a long, deep breath, sucking the damp, fetid air into her lungs, she set herself against the wall once more and began to pull.

  Freneuse, 10th of August, 1346

  Evening

  ‘I need your help,’ the herald said.

  ‘For what purpose?’ asked John Grey.

  ‘The Demoiselle de Tesson was captured in Rouen, and is now imprisoned in La Roche-Guyon. The French intend to execute her at dawn. We need to bring her out.’

  Richard Percy smiled. ‘A damsel in distress?’

  ‘I believe she was spying for us when she was taken.’

  ‘You believe?’ said Grey.

  ‘She did not confide her plans to me. But if she has information about the French and their movements, we need to hear it.’

  ‘If?’ said Percy. ‘What if she was caught before she learned anything at all?’

  ‘Then the expedition to free her will be pointless and futile,’ the herald said.

  John Grey smiled. ‘What do you think, Richard?’

  ‘Sounds like the perfect task for the Red Company,’ Percy said. He looked at La Roche-Guyon. ‘How do we get across the river?’

  ‘Boats. We need to talk to Llewellyn.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Ap Gruffud, the one from Conwy. His men stole some boats at Elbeuf, remember, when the rest of us were trying to force a passage across that godforsaken bridge. Ask if we can borrow them, and some men to row them.’

  ‘All right. I’ll bring the boats up and meet you north of Freneuse.’

  Percy departed. ‘Jacques, François, Rob!’ Grey called. ‘Get the men together, as quickly as you can. We have work to do.’

  Suddenly the camp was full of quiet, purposeful movement, archers and crossbowmen and spearmen collecting their weapons and gathering around their vintenars. ‘Are you going to ask Warwick or Northampton for permission?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘No,’ said Grey. ‘They wouldn’t give it, so why bother? Do I take it you are intending to come with us? I can lend you a sword.’

  Merrivale shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no.’

  ‘Please yourself.’ Grey turned to a tall young man in armour with a sword at his belt and a longbow and quiver strapped across his back. ‘This is my esquire, Harry Graham. He, Matt and Pip will look after you. Jacques, are we ready? Good, let’s get moving. I want to be over the river before Warwick realises we have gone.’

  Freneuse, 10th of August, 1346

  Night

  The sky overhead was inky black, but the lights of campfires and the watchful torches on the walls of La Roche-Guyon reflected off the dark river. The boats lay huddled along the bank, invisible in shadow. Behind them the ground rose sharply into low chalky cliffs, pierced here and there by the doors and windows of troglodyte houses, all deserted.

  ‘Llewellyn agreed to lend us his boats,’ Percy said, ‘but on one condition.’

  ‘That we come with you,’ said Llewellyn. He was a broad-shouldered man in mail corselet with a breastplate over top, armed with a sword and a heavy stabbing spear. ‘We haven’t had a proper fight since Caen. We’re getting bored, man.’

  The Welshmen behind him nodded. ‘And you’ll need more muscle if you’re going to crack that castle,’ a voice said. Nicholas Courcy stepped forward, the eagles on his faded surcoat almost black in the dim light. Gráinne was beside him, along with Donnc
had and the other gallowglasses. He grinned at Merrivale. ‘For a herald, you have a knack for getting into trouble.’

  ‘He does,’ Grey agreed. He turned to his master bowman. ‘Rob, you’ve scouted the place. What did you see?’

  ‘There’s a cluster of wooden houses at the water’s edge,’ said the archer. ‘I saw sentries there, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there are men posted in the houses. Immediately behind the houses is the lower bailey, with a strong gatehouse. The gates are open at the moment, but the portcullis is down. The upper bailey is about a hundred feet above the lower, at the top of a vertical cliff face. There are two ways up, an open stair and a covered passage carved through the rock. At the top is another gatehouse, and a high curtain wall around the donjon. All the walls and towers are manned.’

  ‘I doubt they would keep Mistress de Tesson in the lower bailey,’ Percy said. ‘I reckon she’ll be in the donjon.’

  ‘Trust the French to make things difficult for us,’ said Courcy, peering up at the dark tower.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Merrivale. ‘How do you propose to break into the castle, Sir John?’

  Grey looked at Percy. ‘What do you think, Richard?’

  ‘There is a time for subtle and clever stratagems,’ Percy said. ‘This isn’t one of them. Clear the houses, sweep the wall, cut through the portcullis and then hard and fast up the stair and tunnel. Hold the donjon long enough to get the demoiselle out, and then back to the boats.’

  ‘That sounds simple enough,’ said Llewellyn. ‘So, what are we waiting for?’

  La Roche-Guyon, 10th of August, 1346

  Night

  ‘There they are, my lord. You can see them now.’

  Rollond de Brus squinted into the darkness, staring at the faint shimmer of the river. He had not believed the sentry at first when he claimed to have seen boats moving on the water, but the man had persisted. And there they were, a column of shallops moving under oars along the river, shadows against the greater shadow of the south bank.