A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘Right,’ said the master carpenter, waving the rest of his men towards the windlasses. ‘Put your backs into it.’

  The men threw themselves onto the cranks, straining. Gradually the big beam lifted out of the water and inched its way up towards the bridge platform. Time passed with grinding slowness in the murky air. The herald waited, full of foreboding. He could tell by the slope of his back as he hunched in the saddle that Northampton felt the same anxiety.

  Someone shouted from the far bank. ‘Enemy in sight!’

  * * *

  Out of the haze they came, sparkling specks of colour, a wedge of men-at-arms followed by the unmistakable white coats of crossbowmen, and then a column of carts each with a black tripod shape mounted in the back. ‘What are those?’ asked Mortimer.

  ‘Ballistae,’ said Merrivale. ‘They fire stone shot the size of a fist, and will punch through armour at twice the range of an ordinary crossbow.’

  Northampton jumped down from the saddle, handing his reins to his esquire, and walked out onto the bridge. ‘Master Hurley! How long until that beam is in place?’

  The beam was ten feet below the level of the bridge. ‘Long enough to say a rosary,’ said the master carpenter. ‘More or less.’

  ‘Make it less,’ said the constable. ‘A damned sight less.’

  The enemy were coming on quickly now, and the carts with the ballistae were spreading out, men jumping down to load and aim the big weapons. They looked a little like giant crossbows mounted on heavy wooden frames. Despenser ran up to Northampton. ‘I need the boats, my lord. I must get my men across the river.’

  ‘There isn’t time for the boats,’ said Northampton. He gestured at the beam. ‘We’ll cross as soon as that is in place. Where is Tracey?’

  ‘I don’t know, my lord,’ said Gurney. ‘I haven’t seen him since we arrived in Poissy.’

  ‘Never mind. Holland, Gurney, Mortimer, collect every man you can find. Then get ready to follow me.’

  Mortimer gazed down at the swirling river, doubtless remembering his near drowning at Carentan, and then back at the beam, a foot wide and dripping with water. ‘We’re going to cross on that?’

  ‘The rest of us are,’ Despenser snapped. ‘Come with us, or stay here and soil yourself. Your choice.’

  Mortimer stared at him and then turned on his heel. Gurney is right, the herald thought. They are like quarrelling children. Despenser turned away too, shouting to his vintenar, and Holland was calling for his men. More men-at-arms came running up to join them, Courcy and Gráinne among them, the bulky figure of Donnchad following. Harry Percy, Sir Richard’s brother, arrived at the run, followed by his own archers.

  On the far shore, the ballistae began to shoot, each one making an audible crack as it launched its stone shot. The shot were the size of apples, black streaks rushing through the air. Two punched into the walls of the houses near the bridge, knocking holes in the timber. A third struck a man-at-arms in the head, shattering his bascinet like an eggshell.

  ‘Hurley!’ Northampton snapped. ‘Get that goddamned beam in place!’

  ‘Nearly there, my lord. A couple more Aves should do it.’ One of the carpenters spun around with a crossbow bolt in his side, toppled and fell into the river. Another ran forward to take his place on the windlass. The beam continued to rise with painful slowness. On the far side of the river, a trumpet sounded, and the French men-at-arms lowered their lances and launched forward, charging across the flat fields towards the Red Company through showers of arrows. On the south bank, the English waited. Merrivale found he was holding his breath.

  The air vibrated as the French men-at-arms crashed into the Red Company. Standing at the south end of the bridge, the herald heard the shouts and screams of anger and pain, the hammer of metal on metal, the constant twang of bowstrings, and suddenly the hair stood up on the back of every neck as the Red Company began their war cry, ‘Rouge! Rooouge! Roooooouge!’ Just for a moment, he was back in Savoy, listening to the howling of wolves in the mountains; but these were men, not wolves, fighting with skill as well as fury, and one by one the French men-at-arms began to go down.

  But there were too many of them, and sheer weight of numbers began forcing the Red Company back towards the river. The beam reached the level of the bridge. Harry Percy, whose brother was fighting at the far end, ran forward to help lift it into place. It spanned the gap, a foot wide and shining treacherously wet, twenty feet above the rushing waters of the river. Someone whispered a prayer. Drawing his sword, Northampton jumped onto the beam and began to run.

  Encased in armour and mail, knowing that death awaited him in the river below, the constable ran lightly and easily, his arms outstretched for balance. Others followed him: Despenser, Mortimer, Gurney, Harry Percy, then Courcy and Gráinne and Donnchad and the other men-at-arms, running along the beam in single file while the stone shot continued to whip through the air around them. One man slipped and fell, hitting the water with a hard splash. Weighed down by eighty pounds of armour, he sank straight to the bottom. A trail of air bubbles marked the spot where he fell for minute or so, and then stopped.

  Northampton reached the far end of the beam and charged forward into the heart of the fighting. The others followed. At first they seemed to make no impact, but as more and more English men-at-arms piled in, the impetus swung and the French began falling back. As suddenly as they had charged, they broke, the Red Company running after them and shooting them down as they fled. The crews of the ballistae tried to reload, but were cut down by arrows and crossbow bolts. Within a few minutes, the surviving French had fled, disappearing into the haze. Someone had already set their carts on fire, and flames rose pale in the dim light.

  Northampton walked back across the beam, handing his bloody sword to his esquire for cleaning. ‘You may continue your work now, Master Hurley,’ he said calmly. ‘I want this bridge serviceable and ready for passage as soon as possible.’

  ‘Aye, my lord. We’ll do our best.’ The master carpenter said something under his breath and then turned to his men.

  Hugh Despenser looked grudgingly at Mortimer. ‘I was wrong,’ he said. ‘You didn’t soil yourself.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ said Mortimer tiredly, and he pulled his bascinet off and stood for a moment, sweat pouring down his face and hair clinging limply to his neck, watching the smoke of the burning carts rolling across the fields.

  21

  Poissy, 14th of August, 1346

  Morning

  ‘Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen,’ said the man from the West Country.

  ‘No,’ agreed the man from the north. ‘The French were damnably careless. They should have made certain that the bridge was completely destroyed, and ensured there was a decent guard on the north bank.’

  ‘That force from Amiens sent to protect it. Why were they so late?’

  ‘Their orders were delayed in arriving. That is all I have been told.’

  They stood on the riverbank downstream from the bridge, watching the carpenters at work. ‘However, it hardly matters now,’ the man from the north said. ‘What’s done is done.’

  ‘I wish I had your philosophy.’

  The man from the north smiled. ‘These things are sent to try us, my friend. Tribulations purify the soul, as Abelard said. Now we must decide what to do next.’

  ‘If all of Edward’s army escapes across the river, our entire plan is in ruins,’ said the man from the West Country. ‘They will march north to Flanders and safety, and Alençon and Hainault cannot attack Philip until Edward has been disposed of.’

  The man from the north frowned. ‘As always, you exaggerate the danger. First, Edward is not marching anywhere, not yet. It will be some time before that bridge is fully repaired. Second, Philip’s army is still at Saint-Denis, north of the river. If Edward does cross, the French can easily cut him off.’

  ‘Will Philip remain at Saint-Denis?’

  ‘No, and there I concede you have a point. There is
some risk.’ The man from the north pointed towards the columns of smoke rising in the east and spreading out on the soft wind. ‘Warwick and Harcourt are burning the suburbs of Paris now, trying to tempt Philip to cross the river and fight. This time, I think they will succeed; Philip has to protect Paris.’

  ‘The Parisians won’t forgive him if he doesn’t.’

  ‘Indeed. They are already accusing him and his councillors of betrayal. They have managed to get hold of a letter with the king’s seal insisting that the army does not have enough men to defend Paris and that the city should be abandoned. They are threatening revolt, and Philip will have to placate them.’

  ‘Where did this letter come from?’

  ‘I wrote it, of course. I have a copy of the seal, remember? The point is that once Philip is over the river, he can move west and trap the English here. We can trust Alençon and Hainault to remind him of this, even if he does not think of it for himself.’

  ‘But this is exactly what I mean. Once Philip is south of the river, that leaves the way open for Edward. All he needs to do is repair the bridge and he can cross and march away.’

  The man from the north shook his head. ‘By the time the bridge is repaired, it will be too late. All the French will need to do is mop up. We will have already administered the coup de grâce, remember? Time to put our plan into effect.’

  ‘Is everything ready?’

  ‘It will happen exactly as we planned it.’ The man from the north smiled. ‘Just remember not to touch the eggs.’

  Poissy, 14th of August, 1346

  Late afternoon

  ‘We’ve done everything we could,’ Warwick said. ‘We burned every village and manor house and monastery to the ground, Saint-Germain-en-Laye, Montjoie, Nanterre, Saint-Cloud, the lot. Some of our hobelars were within shouting distance of the southern gates.’

  ‘We destroyed three more of the adversary’s palaces,’ said the Prince of Wales. ‘If that doesn’t make him come out and fight, nothing will.’

  ‘We don’t want him to fight, your Highness,’ said Northampton. ‘We only want to draw him south of the river and leave us with a free run to the north.’

  The prince looked disappointed. ‘When shall we fight?’

  ‘When we are strong enough, Highness,’ said Lord Rowton. He had come up from the king’s headquarters to view the work on the bridge, meeting Warwick and the prince just as they returned from their raid towards Paris. His broken arm was strapped into a sling, and he seemed still to be in considerable pain. ‘When we reach Flanders and join forces with the rebels, then we shall be strong enough. Not before then.’

  ‘I think you underestimate the fighting spirit of our army, Lord Rowton,’ the prince snapped. ‘You should have more faith in our men.’

  Rowton turned to him. ‘I bow to your superior experience, Highness. But the troops are tired from marching, food is running low, the captains are bickering amongst themselves, and the enemy have four times our numbers. Given all of this, do you think the army is ready to fight a battle, here and now?’

  The prince stared at him. ‘I would not presume to make such a decision,’ he said. ‘I would defer to my father, the king. You see, Lord Rowton, I know my place. I am not sure you do.’

  Rowton’s face went red. Merrivale looked up to see Warwick raise a hand to his face, hiding a smile. Northampton turned to the master carpenter. ‘How much longer, Hurley? And tell me in real time, not rosaries or Aves or chanting psalms.’

  ‘The bridge won’t be ready today, my lord. I can tell you that much for a fact.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow evening, perhaps. No sooner.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Hurley!’ Northampton said. ‘The king wants this bridge repaired now. Work through the night if you have to.’

  ‘Now see here, Lord Constable!’ The master carpenter glared at him. ‘We bloody well did work through last night, and we’ll be working through the night to come. But this isn’t the Carentan causeway or Pont-Hébert. That gap is sixty feet long, and we’ll need two more support beams at least. Which means we have to find an oak tree that’s tall enough, fell it, cut two beams and size them, drag them up here and fix them to the supports, and then we still have to cut and plane down the planks to build the roadway and fix them in place. We’ve run out of nails too, and the blacksmith is sweating his guts out to forge some more, but it all takes time. So you tell the king, if he wants the bridge repaired any faster, he can come down here and pick up a fucking hammer!’

  Northampton held up a hand. ‘Just do your best.’

  ‘I am certain you are working as hard as you can, Master Hurley,’ the prince said. Northampton and Warwick looked at each other, eyebrows raised. ‘And we are all grateful for your efforts. I shall tell my father as much when I see him.’

  He turned and walked away. Merrivale prepared to follow, but Northampton raised his hand again. ‘Stay a moment, herald. We need a word.’

  Merrivale inclined his head. ‘I am at your service, my lord.’

  ‘I am pleased to see that you survived your escapade at La Roche-Guyon unharmed,’ the constable said. ‘I assume your purpose was to rescue the Demoiselle de Tesson. Was she spying for you?’

  ‘I did not request her to do so,’ said Merrivale. ‘But yes, in effect that is what she was doing. I should add that I take full responsibility for the raid. I hope you have not rebuked Sir John Grey and Sir Richard Percy.’

  ‘Do you think rebuking them would have made the slightest difference to their behaviour?’ asked Warwick. ‘The king has shown us your report from the following day.’

  Merrivale raised his eyebrows. ‘I was not certain that he had read it.’

  ‘He has read it, and he takes it very seriously. Something will happen at Poissy, you said. What?’

  ‘I don’t know, my lord. The demoiselle overheard the Count of Alençon say this to one of his officers, the Seigneur de Brus. That is all she knows.’

  Rowton looked at the bridge. ‘Surely it is obvious,’ he said. ‘The French knew that if they blocked or broke down each bridge in turn, we would eventually arrive at Poissy. Assuming we cannot cross the river, and with the king still unwilling to sanction a retreat to Caen, we would have no choice but to stand and fight. This is where they intend to give battle.’

  He looked at Northampton and Warwick. ‘Was his Highness by any chance right? Could we offer battle with any real hope of success?’

  Northampton shook his head. ‘Reluctantly, Eustace, I must agree with you. The men are tired, and apart from a few companies like Grey and Percy’s, they are in no condition to give battle. And the terrain is flat, with no defensive features. The enemy would roll over us.’

  ‘Which undoubtedly has been their plan all along,’ Rowton said. ‘I said as much to the king, but he wouldn’t listen. Now all we can do is pray that Master Hurley can finish the bridge before the French army arrives on our doorstep.’

  ‘Oh, we’re all doing that,’ Warwick said. ‘The Bishop of Durham and his priests are in the priory right now, rubbing their knees raw while they pray to the Virgin and every saint in the calendar. But even if we do finish the bridge on time, it is still a hell of a long way to Flanders and safety. And don’t forget, gentlemen, before we reach Flanders, there is still another great river to cross. The Somme.’

  Poissy, 15th of August, 1346

  Late morning

  ‘Is there any word on Nicodemus?’ the herald asked. ‘Has he been seen?’

  Mauro and Warin both shook their heads. ‘We have spoken to men from nearly every retinue in the army, señor,’ Mauro said. ‘We did not speak to Sir Edward de Tracey’s men, for I do not think they would tell me the truth. But all the others, even some of Holland’s men.’

  ‘I also called at the royal kitchen this morning,’ Warin said. ‘I wasn’t very welcome, because they’re all running about like chickens without heads, preparing for the feast this afternoon. But I wanted to know if Nicodemus had a
pproached Curry or Master Clerebaud.’

  ‘And had he?’

  Warin shook his head again. ‘No one has seen Nicodemus, or is prepared to admit it. I did learn one thing, though, from one of the scullions. Master Clerebaud has recently lost a lot of money at dice. He is deeply in debt.’

  The herald considered this, wondering what it meant, if anything. ‘With whom does he gamble?’

  ‘No one knows, sir. He slips out pretty much every night, once they’ve cleaned up the kitchen. Only he didn’t go last night because they were already hard at work preparing for the feast.’

  ‘The enemy is at hand, food is running out, and your king has ordered a feast?’ Tiphaine asked.

  Today was the feast day of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin; along with Lammas, it was the most important celebration of the summer. ‘It is a symbol,’ Merrivale said. ‘To sit down and feast with the enemy gathering in Paris a few miles away shows the army that he is in control. Rather than rush to cross the river by any means possible, abandoning our baggage, we will wait until the bridge is repaired and then cross in an orderly fashion.’

  ‘And you agree with this?’

  ‘As it happens, I do. In times of crisis, the leader must present a calm face to his men. If he is frightened or worried, he must never show it.’

  Tiphaine looked dubious. ‘I think I would prefer to rush, and get away. But then I am not a king. Or a herald.’

  ‘You may go if you wish,’ he said gently.

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘My duty is here. I am bidden to attend the feast along with the prince.’

  Her chin came up. ‘If you stay, then I stay.’

  ‘There is one other thing that may be of interest, señor,’ said Mauro. ‘Nicodemus has vanished, but some of Tracey’s men are continuing to buy plunder. There has been plenty of spoil in the rich towns and abbeys we have passed. They are still making a great deal of money.’