A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘Are they ours, or theirs?’ he wondered aloud.

  ‘Can’t tell from this distance, my lord.’

  Silence fell. The night air had cooled a little but was still clammy with humidity. Brus mopped the sweat from his forehead, straining his eyes into the night as he watched the boats continue upriver. No, wait… was the lead boat turning? Yes, it was… by God, they were all turning, rowing hard now for the north shore and aiming to land just below the lower bailey.

  From down the hill he heard a trumpet blowing the alarm. Further uphill the call was repeated, and he heard men running across the cobbles and up the stone steps to their posts on the walls. La Roche-Guyon was powerful and well defended, he thought; why would the English attack it now? The answer came on the heels of the thought; they were here to rescue their spy.

  He looked down at the pyre waiting in the courtyard. By God, we’ll see about that, he thought. She’ll not cheat the executioner, not this time. Alençon would have to be disappointed. Turning, he ran down the spiral stair, shouldering men out of the way as they climbed up to man the defences, and on down to Tiphaine’s cell. He knew he needed to go and put on his armour and take command of the defence, but that could wait. This was more important.

  Unlocking the door, he drew his sword and stepped inside, peering around in the darkness. Tiphaine, who had been standing behind the door, smashed him across the back of the head with a length of heavy iron chain, and he staggered forward. A second blow, delivered with furious force, knocked him unconscious, and he fell heavily onto the cobbles.

  * * *

  ‘Now,’ Richard Percy said quietly. ‘Boatmen, turn towards the castle and pull like hell. Crossbowmen, make ready.’

  The boats turned and began driving across the water towards the flickering torches of La Roche-Guyon. The men around him crouched in the boats, waiting. Harry Graham sat beside the herald, bow resting on the thwarts beside him. Young though he was, he exuded a calm confidence that Merrivale found reassuring, and Matt and Pip, seated behind them, were ruthless killers. Grey was right, he thought. I have stopped thinking of them as women. They are archers of the Red Company, and I am glad I have them at my back.

  Something whipped through the air and struck the water beside the boat with a hard splash. More followed, crossbow bolts hitting the river or thudding into the boats, and one of the Welshmen shouted with pain and dropped his oar, clutching at his bloody arm. The longbowmen of the Red Company were hampered by the crowded boats, but the crossbowmen, crouching in the bows, shot back, picking off the enemy on the waterfront. Steadily the boats pushed on across the dark waters of the Seine.

  Keels grated on shingle. The men were over the side in seconds, splashing in the shallows and running up into the town. Harry Graham turned and courteously offered Merrivale a hand. My God, the herald thought, how old does he think I am? They ran up the bank, Matt and Pip flanking them and nocking arrows as they went.

  A street lined with half-timbered houses led to the gatehouse. The gates were still open, but they would not be for long. Crossbow bolts continued to fly, shot from the windows and doorways of the houses. ‘Clear them out,’ said Percy. ‘Llewellyn, take the left side, Courcy the right, Red Company straight up the middle. Stop for nothing.’

  They ran, a solid corps of spearmen leading the way, the rest following. Genoese crossbowmen leaned out of the windows to shoot at them, and the Red Company’s archers fanned out across the street, picking off most of them before they could pull their triggers. A couple of spearmen fell wounded, tumbling down onto the cobbles, but the rest ran on, the air full of flying arrows and bolts, men shouting and yelling, the sounds of screaming behind them as the gallowglasses and the Welsh ran from house to house, smashing down doors, stabbing and killing.

  Ahead loomed the gatehouse, gates already swinging shut. John Grey and the leading spearmen charged into the rapidly closing gap. There was a brief flurry of violence and the gates slammed open again. Men were still shooting from the ramparts, but clouds of arrows rose and a Genoese fell from the wall into the street, half a dozen arrows protruding from his body. More bodies lay in the arch under the gatehouse where Red Company men were attacking the portcullis with axes.

  ‘Ware the murder holes!’ someone shouted, and they all dodged to one side just as long lances stabbed down through holes in the ceiling, grating on the cobbles. A door in the stone wall slammed open and French men-at-arms charged out into the archway. For a moment Merrivale found himself hemmed against the wall by the mass of struggling, shouting men around him. Then Richard Percy crashed into the press, a dozen spearmen at his back, and the Red Company began howling their war cries – ‘Rouge! Roooouge!’ – and they drove French through the archway and out into the open courtyard beyond. The enemy turned to run, and the archers, stepping over the bodies of men bleeding on the ground, shot them one by one, steel points smashing through armour and flesh and bone and stretching the men-at-arms dead or dying on the cobbles.

  They were in the lower bailey now, the cliff climbing above them towards the torchlit donjon dark against the clouds. At the top of the hill a trumpet was blowing the alarm, over and over. Close at hand a bowstring twanged, and Merrivale turned to see another crossbowman fall from the ramparts, transfixed by an arrow. Calmly, Pip nocked a fresh shaft and shot another man racing up the stairs towards the upper bailey. Courcy, Gráinne and the gallowglasses ran into the courtyard, followed by Llewellyn and his spearmen. ‘Everyone ready?’ asked John Grey. ‘Now comes the hard part.’

  ‘We’ll take the stair,’ Percy said. ‘The rest of you, up the tunnel. You too, herald. Rob, archers out in front this time.’

  Heavy stones came crashing down the stair, hurled from the ramparts above, and the Red Company archers raised their bows and shot at the men silhouetted against the orange clouds, arrows black streaks in the unearthly light. Smoke began to boil up from burning houses below, sparks whirling around them like fireflies. Under cover of the smoke, the archers inched up the stairs, crouching, nocking arrows, rising, shooting and then ducking down again. The stones still fell, but less thickly than before.

  Courcy nodded to his men and led the rush into the tunnel, the gallowglasses following with Merrivale and the Welshmen crowding behind. The tunnel was high and steep, the cobbles smooth and worn by the passage of wagon wheels and iron-shod horses, and the men around gasped and swore as they struggled to maintain their footing.

  Torchlight flared ahead, the French shouting their own war cry, ‘Montjoie! Montjoie Saint-Denis!’, and heavily armoured men-at-arms ran down the slope, hurling themselves bodily into the gallowglasses. Courcy was knocked off his feet; Gráinne stood over him, her helm off, bleeding from a cut above one eye, slashing around her. A French knight raised a heavy mace, aiming a blow at her head, and paused in surprise when he realised she was a woman; and in that second of hesitation, Gráinne drove her sword point through his neck. Courcy was up again, the gallowglasses stabbing and slashing, the Welsh pressing forward, men screaming, the stench of hot blood strong in the air, and then they were moving again, driving the French back up the steep slope towards the top of the tunnel.

  Gasping and bleeding, they broke out into the open space before the gatehouse. The Red Company were running up the stair, the ramparts were silent above them. A few bodies lay on the ground, pierced by feathered shafts. The gates were shut; the last of the French men-at-arms, with nowhere to run, turned and fought and died. Even as they fell, Red Company men were throwing grapnels over the ramparts of the gatehouse and beginning to climb. A crossbowman leaned over the wall to shoot at them; a dozen bowstrings twanged and the Genoese dropped his bow, which clattered to the ground in front of the gate. His body slumped against the rampart.

  The first men reached the rampart and climbed over. There was a brief clatter of fighting beyond the wall, followed by a tense silence; then the gates swung open and the Red Company swarmed inside, followed by the rest. They ducked under the partly lifted po
rtcullis and ran into the upper bailey, the archers picking off the last defenders as they tried to flee. A woman screamed, and Merrivale turned in sudden horror.

  Tiphaine stood on the platform above the pyre. She held a sword in her hand. Facing her was a half-circle of nuns in black habits, their faces hard and implacable under their wimples, barring her escape. Below, more nuns with torches were lighting the faggots. In several places the fire had already taken hold.

  Merrivale ran towards the pyre. One of the nuns turned towards him, swinging her torch viciously at his head, but he ducked under it and rammed her with his shoulder, knocking her off her feet. Running up the steps to the platform, he found the other nuns barring his way. He tried to dodge past them to reach Tiphaine, but they seized his arms, screaming curses at him and trying to push him over the edge of the platform. Bracing himself, he tore free and shoved the nearest woman hard, throwing her onto her back. Another nun ran at him, spitting in his face and clawing at his eyes; he stepped sideways to avoid her and she tripped on the hem of her long habit and fell, toppling over the edge of the platform into the fire below.

  Then Graham was alongside him, and Matt and Pip with arrows at the nock. At the sight of their grim faces, the other nuns hesitated. ‘Get back!’ the herald commanded.

  ‘English devil-spawn!’ one of the women screamed. ‘Burn, all of you, burn! Roast in hell for eternity!’

  Merrivale grabbed Tiphaine’s arm and pulled her down the steps. She was shaking and trembling as though she had a fever. Graham and the two archers followed, the nuns still screaming abuse at them.

  John Grey was in the courtyard, receiving reports from the vintenars. ‘That’s the garrison taken care of, sir,’ said one of them. ‘There’s no one left but the sisters, and the ladies and their servants in the hall.’

  ‘Leave them be,’ Grey said. ‘What about the enemy?’

  An archer ran up, touching his cap in salute. ‘The French camp is arming, sir. And there is already a strong company of men-at-arms and crossbowmen coming this way. They’ll be here in a few minutes.’

  Grey nodded. ‘Is this the lady we came for, herald?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Merrivale.

  ‘Signal the men to fall back to the boats. Right, everyone. Time to go.’

  20

  Mantes, 11th of August, 1346

  Midday

  Another day, another bridge, the herald thought; and this one more impossible than the others. Mantes lay on the south bank of the river, and its defences were even stronger than those of Vernon. After last night’s raid at La Roche-Guyon, the garrison was clearly on alert. From the low hill where he stood, Merrivale could see the ramparts bright with gleaming armour and white Genoese surcoats. Beyond the town, the bridge over the Seine was strongly fortified too, and over on the north shore the French army was drawn up, company after company of men-at-arms with brilliant banners streaming in the wind.

  The English had not even tried to take Mantes. The men of the vanguard had circled around the town well out of crossbow range and were moving on east, archers trudging through dust and smoke with their bows over their shoulders. Around them, every hamlet and village for miles was burning, a trail of destruction carved through the heart of France. Ostensibly, this was to lure the French over the river and force them to give battle, but everyone knew that strategy was not working and would never work. No, thought the herald, this is sheer anger and frustration, the lashing out of a king who had been lured into a trap and can see no way out of it.

  Tiphaine had been shaking with exhaustion and shock when they returned to camp last night, and she had collapsed into sleep almost at once. Today she was silent, pale under her sunburn, sitting on the grass with her hands clasped on her lap and staring at the army as it marched by. Warin stood quietly behind them, holding the reins of their horses.

  Sir Nicholas Courcy and Lady Gráinne rode up the hill, followed by Mauro driving the cart. They dismounted, Gráinne shaking out her black hair. ‘Sir Nicholas, my lady, thank you for your help last night,’ Merrivale said. ‘Sir John Grey bids me tell you he is grateful for your assistance.’

  ‘John Grey acknowledging that he needed help?’ said Courcy. ‘Now that’s not a thing you hear every day. And how are you faring this morning, demoiselle?’

  ‘I feel lucky to be alive,’ Tiphaine said. She shivered a little. ‘I thought last night that my luck had finished. I shall never forget the hatred in their eyes.’

  ‘What happened?’ Merrivale asked gently.

  ‘When the attack began, my gaoler came to find me. I managed to knock him out with a length of chain and stole his sword, thinking I could escape. But one of the nuns saw me and raised the alarm, and then all the sisters came running. They forced me out onto the platform and barred my way, while others lit the pyre. They told me they were the instruments of God’s punishment, and that they would sooner burn with me than let me escape.’

  ‘You had a sword,’ Gráinne pointed out. The cut over her eye had been stitched up, quite expertly; there was, it seemed, no end to Sir Nicholas’s talents.

  ‘Could you kill a nun, my lady? A woman of God?’

  ‘Women of God bleed just like the rest of us.’

  Tiphaine shook her head. ‘I lived in a convent as a child and was reared by nuns. It would have been like killing my own mother. I found I could not do it.’

  Silence fell for a few moments. Armour and bright banners gleamed in the sunlight as the army marched on. Just two more bridges remained, Meulan and Poissy.

  ‘Poissy,’ Tiphaine said, echoing the herald’s unspoken thought. ‘They will finish this at Poissy. That is what the Count of Alençon said.’

  ‘Where did you hear him say this?’ Merrivale asked quietly.

  ‘In Rouen.’

  ‘And why did you go to Rouen?’

  She raised her eyes and looked at him. ‘I wanted to know more about Jean de Fierville. I know someone who I thought could give me answers to my questions.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Some of them.’ She paused, marshalling her thoughts. ‘Fierville was part of three plots; or four, if you count the fact that he was also in the pay of the French. One was Harcourt’s rebellion, now ruined. The second was the greater rebellion of the Count of Eu and the Queen of Navarre. That too will not take place.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Courcy. Mauro and Warin stood silent, listening.

  ‘Because I advised the queen against it,’ Tiphaine said.

  Merrivale considered this. ‘You have seen her? Where?’

  Tiphaine nodded. ‘I went to her after I left Lisieux. I told her what I knew, that she too would be betrayed if she rebelled. The other conspirators wish to push Philippe off his throne, but they have no desire to see Normandy go free.’

  ‘I take it these “other conspirators” are the third plot you mentioned. Who leads it?’

  ‘Charles d’Alençon, the king’s brother,’ she said. ‘Montmorency the marshal, I think. I don’t know who else.’

  ‘I can add a few more names,’ Merrivale said. ‘Cardinal Aubert, of course, and the two Italian mercenary commanders, Doria and Grimaldi.’

  Tiphaine nodded. ‘I saw Genoese crossbowmen in the camp at Rouen. One of Alençon’s chief lieutenants is a Norman baron, Rollond de Brus, the man I went to see. Jean de Fierville was his cousin.’

  She told them what she had learned in Rouen. ‘This man, Sir John de Tracey, bought English slaves from Fierville. But there was another, who worked for a moneylender. I do not know his name.’

  ‘I do,’ Merrivale said. ‘He is called Nicodemus.’

  Mauro looked dubious. ‘Begging your pardon, señorita, but Sir John de Tracey died seven years ago.’

  ‘What about his son?’ asked Gráinne.

  ‘Sir Edward has always been at pains to distance himself from his father,’ Merrivale said. ‘He became angry to the point of hostility when I last questioned him. Given what you have told us, demoiselle, I understand wh
y.’

  He pondered for a moment. ‘Very well. Nicodemus is said to have deserted, but I am convinced he is not far away. Perhaps he and Slade, the other deserter, are working together. We need to find them, and soon.’

  Aubergenville, 11th of August, 1346

  Evening

  As the army made camp that evening on high ground overlooking the Seine, Merrivale called on his ever-reliable informant the cowherd. ‘You do not look happy, Mistress Driver.’

  ‘No, sir. My poor cows are getting so gaunt and weary with all this marching, and the milk they are giving is so thin, there’s hardly any cream at all. Marigold is in real distress, sir. Are we going to be able to escape across the river?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Merrivale said. ‘I came to ask if you had seen anything of Nicodemus. Has he approached the kitchen in the last few days?’

  ‘No, sir. Folk are saying he deserted. He won’t be the last one, either, the way things are going.’

  ‘No.’ After the failure at Mantes, the mood of the army was more depressed than ever. The heady aftermath of victory at Caen seemed a long time ago. ‘The man who watches the cooking pots, Curry. Has he had any callers, or does he go anywhere?’

  ‘No callers that I have seen, sir, and he never leaves camp, just sleeps on the ground next to the cooking fires. He’s fallen out with Master Clerebaud too, I think.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He keeps staring at the poor man. Poor Master Clerebaud has gone all quiet and never talks to anyone now, not even me.’

  Something tingled along the herald’s spine. ‘Does he ever leave the kitchen?’

  ‘Yes, sir, most evenings once dinner is finished. He’s either looking for plunder or playing dice with some of the archers. I reckon he goes to get away from Curry.’

  Clerebaud had once won money from Nicodemus. Was the defrocked priest still attending these games of dice? the herald wondered. Perhaps in disguise?