A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  She was small, but the knife was long and sharp and she knew how to use it; back in Hampshire, she had once had to drive off a wolf that was trying to attack her cattle. Curry saw her coming and reached for an arrow, but before he could draw it from the quiver, Nell was at close quarters, slashing with the knife. Curry dodged the first two blows and then stepped forward and kicked her, knocking her onto her back. He swore at her and raised his heavy bow to club her over the head, but Nell rolled away and the bow thudded into the ground. Curry overbalanced, and Nell rolled over again and stabbed him in the thigh.

  The archer shouted, dropping the bow and clutching at his leg. Nell raised the knife again. Curry turned to see the Red Company spearmen charging towards him and realised he was cut off; he could no longer reach the shelter of the forest. He turned and ran back towards the town, sprinting with desperate speed despite his damaged leg, pursued by the spearmen. Drawing breath, Nell hitched up her kirtle and raced after them.

  * * *

  Matt raised his bow to shoot, but the herald knocked it aside. ‘No!’ he commanded. ‘This time, I want him alive.’

  ‘Then we had better get after him,’ said Courcy.

  They ran, but fast as they went, Curry was faster still. The scullion was wounded and leaking blood, but he was also running for his life. Passing the palace, they raced down the high street towards the bridge. Merrivale watched the fleeing man closely; if Curry dodged into one of the narrow lanes that ran off the street, he could hole up in an abandoned house and be hard to discover. But Curry did not turn. Injured, panicked and desperate, he ran without thought, hoping against hope for rescue.

  By the time they reached the bridge, injury and loss of blood had begun to take their toll. Hobbling rather than running now, he struggled on towards the gap in the centre of the span. ‘Stop him!’ Merrivale shouted to the carpenters. ‘Do not let him cross!’ The carpenters looked startled, but they picked up their hammers and mallets and turned to face the running man, barring his way.

  Curry halted. The herald and his companions halted too, facing him, and Nell came panting up and joined them, still holding her bloody knife. The spearmen fanned out, prowling forward, intent on their quarry.

  ‘Riccon Curry,’ Merrivale said. ‘By the powers invested in me by the king, I am placing you under arrest for the killing of John Clerebaud.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ said Curry. Dragging his wounded leg, he staggered towards the parapet of the bridge.

  ‘You can still save yourself,’ Merrivale said. ‘Tell us where to find Nicodemus. If you do, I give you my word you will live.’

  ‘I will tell you nothing,’ said Curry. He hauled himself up onto the wooden parapet and stood for a moment, swaying.

  ‘Christ!’ Merrivale said sharply, and ran towards him, but he was too late. Gathering his strength, Curry turned to face the river, and jumped.

  * * *

  The current was strong; by the time Merrivale reached the parapet, Curry was already thirty yards downstream, splashing and floundering in the water. Pulling off his tabard and boots, the herald dived after him. He hit the river with a hard shock, water filling his mouth and nostrils, and kicked out, driving himself back towards the surface. Dimly he could hear people shouting from the bank. He spotted the scullion kicking feebly some distance downstream, and struck out after him.

  Merrivale was a strong swimmer, having learned to swim in the cold pools of Dartmoor as a boy, but even so the currents buffeted him and sometimes tried to pull him under. He gained only slowly on the drifting man, and by the time he reached him, Curry had stopped moving. Hauling the inert body after him, the herald edged towards the southern shore. With the last of his strength he pulled the scullion into the shallows, where strong arms reached out and dragged them both ashore.

  Mauro bent over him, eyes wide with anxiety. Tiphaine, white-faced, stood behind the manservant. Others gathered around too, a small crowd attracted by the chase and the shouting; he saw Mortimer and Gurney among them. The big leader of the Red Company’s spearmen was there too. ‘Señor!’ said Mauro. ‘Are you all right?’

  Merrivale sat up and spat out river water. ‘Where is Curry?’

  The scullion lay on his belly, eyes closed. Courcy knelt over him, pressing hard on his back and pumping the water out of his lungs in thin streams, but Curry did not move. After a while, Courcy lifted one of his arms and let it fall back limp. ‘Gone to feed the fires of hell,’ he said, and he turned the dead man over and closed his eyes with gentle fingers. O God, Son of the Father, who taketh away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us, the herald thought tiredly.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ Gurney said sharply. ‘Why did you call him Curry?’

  ‘That’s his name, sir,’ said Nell, looking down at the dead man with wide curious eyes. ‘Riccon Curry. He’s a sailor, or so he said.’

  ‘He damned well is not. He’s an archer, and his name is Jack Slade. He’s the man who joined Tracey’s company instead of mine.’

  ‘And deserted at Pont-Hébert after killing his comrade Jake Madford,’ the herald said. ‘He was working with Nicodemus all along.’ He looked at the Red Company man. ‘Have you found Nicodemus?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. But we found a wagon in the baggage train where we reckon a man has been sleeping at night. There were clothes and a bedroll, and several pairs of dice. One of them was weighted,’ he added.

  So that was how they had trapped Clerebaud. They had let him win money at first, and then used the weighted dice to clean him out. Trapped in debt, he’d had no choice but to do whatever Nicodemus and Slade demanded of him.

  ‘It was Slade who poisoned the sauce at Lammas,’ the herald said. ‘He added the wolf’s-bane when he brought the sauce to the prince’s kitchen; he must have slipped it into one of the pots after the head cook had tasted it. I reckon that was a test, to see if it could be done. But Slade was not in the kitchens this morning.’

  ‘No, señor,’ said Mauro. ‘I think the poison was hidden in the garderobe. Clerebaud collected it when he went there, and hid it in his clothes when I could not see him. I am sorry, señor. I should have made sure.’

  Yes, you should, the herald thought, but there was no point in dwelling on it now. ‘So, having added the poison to the sauce, Clerebaud then tried to escape, and Nicodemus ordered Slade to silence him.’ He looked down at the dead man. ‘Was he still hoping to make his own escape when he dived into the river? Or did he prefer death to capture?’

  No one answered. Still dripping, Merrivale rose to his feet. Someone else came pushing through the crowd; another of the royal pages, a boy glittering in red and gold livery. ‘Sir Herald? The Prince of Wales bids you attend on him. Come quickly, sir. You must make ready for the feast.’

  ‘I will come,’ the herald said heavily. ‘But I doubt if I will have much appetite.’

  22

  Beauvais, thirty-seven miles south of the Somme, 18th of August, 1346

  Morning

  Dawn was a blaze of glory in the east, the sky painted with vibrant colours, and in the brilliant light the flames leaping from the roof of the abbey of Saint-Lucien seemed pale, almost transparent. Two more monasteries burned in the middle distance, smoke rising to cloud the fading stars. Watchfires glimmered on the walls of Beauvais, the city’s defenders standing to and waiting for the English assault.

  The Prince of Wales and his father were shouting at each other. ‘What are they arguing about?’ asked Lord Rowton.

  ‘His Highness wishes to attack,’ Merrivale said. ‘His men are spoiling for a fight, he says, and the city is rich and offers many opportunities for plunder. His Grace says it would take too long and cost too many casualties.’

  Rowton snorted. His arm was still strapped in its sling, now dirty with travel and fighting. ‘His Grace is right, of course. Spoiling for a fight? Christ, have you seen the men? We’ve marched thirty miles in two days since Poissy, and they’re exhausted. Their boots are wearing out, and we’re running low on
flour and pottage. I tell you, this army is in no condition to give battle.’

  ‘I am inclined to agree, my lord. What is the latest news of the French?’

  ‘While we were at Poissy, the main body of their army moved to defend Paris as we assumed they would. But King Jean and his Bohemian troops remained at Saint-Denis, and they are already in pursuit. Philip and the main army are a day behind us now, but the Bohemians are closer, and they have fast light cavalry called panzerati that can make up the ground quickly. If the prince wants fighting, he is going to see plenty of it in the days to come.’

  The shouting match ended as everyone knew it would; the prince throwing his arms in the air and stalking away in a fury, the king watching him with a small smile of satisfaction on his face. Around them the army streamed past in long columns, skirting the city and pressing on north.

  ‘May I have a moment of your time, my lord?’ Merrivale asked. ‘There is a rather delicate matter I wish to discuss with you.’

  ‘Is this to do with that unfortunate incident at Poissy?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Something is rotten in Sir Edward de Tracey’s retinue. The deserter, Slade, killed the king’s sauce-maker and twice attempted to poison the food. I am certain that Clerebaud was corrupted by Nicodemus, and that Slade was also working to Nicodemus’s orders.’

  ‘Have you found Nicodemus yet?’

  ‘No, my lord, but the search by Grey and Percy’s company confirmed he is still with the army, probably in some sort of disguise. Unfortunately, I am no longer able to avail myself of their services.’ The Red Company were out on the army’s eastern flank, ready to ward off the expected attacks of the Bohemians; only Matt and Pip remained behind, continuing their vigil as the herald’s bodyguards.

  ‘What do you need from me?’ Rowton asked.

  ‘How much influence does Sir Edward de Tracey have with the king?’

  By the look on his face, it was clear that Rowton had not been expecting the question. ‘How much do you think he has? His brother is the king’s banker, after all.’

  ‘I ask, my lord, because someone persuaded the king to stop me from investigating Sir Edmund Bray’s death.’

  ‘And you think that might have been Tracey. Why?’

  ‘To protect Nicodemus, who formerly worked for Sir Edward’s father, Sir John de Tracey. Among other things, Sir John and Nicodemus bought and sold slaves after the sack of Southampton. Several hundred English children were sold to buyers overseas.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Rowton stared at him. ‘Can you prove this?’

  ‘At the moment, it is hearsay only. If I could lay hands on Nicodemus, I daresay I could.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Tracey about this?’

  ‘No, my lord. For whatever reason, I believe he is still protecting Nicodemus.’

  The golden rim of the sun broke over the eastern horizon, inaugurating another day of fire. ‘Leave this with me,’ Rowton said. ‘I will speak with the king, and with Tracey. If he really is protecting this man, then God help him.’

  Grandvilliers, twenty-five miles south of the Somme, 19th of August, 1346

  Evening

  ‘The prince’s division only made twelve miles today,’ said Richard Percy. ‘Any idea why?’

  Percy had been in the field all day; he had ridden in to report to the king’s headquarters at Sommereux, a couple of miles away to the north-west, and had stopped en route to see if there was any news.

  ‘The men disobeyed orders,’ Merrivale said. ‘They stopped to plunder and burn a couple of towns as we passed.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. Did the prince do nothing to stop them?’

  ‘No.’ As at Carentan, the young men had sat on the backs of their horses and laughed at the flames, cheering when roofs collapsed and ignoring the marshal when he tried to hurry them on. ‘They are boys,’ the herald said, ‘and they have a boy’s love of fire.’

  ‘Well, they had better start growing up. The Bohemians are there.’ Percy pointed to the east, where the sky was darkening to periwinkle blue and the first stars were pricking out. ‘They drew level with us today, and they are marching faster and harder than we are. If King Jean reaches the Somme and its bridges before we do, then we can bend over and kiss our arses farewell.’

  Still angry, Percy rode away towards headquarters. The herald stood for a moment, watching the stars, and then turned and walked into the Prince of Wales’s pavilion. Dinner had finished, though plates littered with fish bones were still stacked on the tables. There were no sauces.

  ‘Highness,’ said the herald. ‘May I have a brief word?’

  The prince paused, dice in hand, and waved to his companions. ‘Leave us for a moment. What is it, herald?’

  ‘Your defiance of your father does you credit,’ Merrivale said. ‘It is good to see you asserting your authority. Independence of spirit is one of the assay marks of a good leader.’

  The young face glowed with pride. ‘I am pleased to hear you say so, herald. I value your opinion, as you know.’

  ‘Thank you, Highness. However, there must be no repeat of the scenes today.’

  The prince’s face lost some of its brightness. ‘Why not?’ he demanded.

  ‘Because while we lingered and watched French towns burn, their army marched. We have now lost all the advantage we gained when we departed from Poissy.’

  ‘The adversary is close at hand?’

  ‘The royal army is still a day behind us, Highness. But King Jean of Bohemia and his troops are far too close for comfort.’

  The prince’s face lit up again. ‘Blind King Jean? The crusader, the greatest general and warrior of our time? Oh, herald! It would be such an honour to match a lance with him!’

  ‘King Jean will not fight us, Highness, not yet. I know his mind and how he thinks. He aims to reach the Somme before us and seize the bridges. If he succeeds, we will be in even greater peril than we were at Poissy.’

  ‘Ah.’ There was a pause while the implications sank in. ‘Then we shall keep the men moving tomorrow,’ the prince said abruptly. ‘I will see to it, herald, and I will order the lord marshal to make it so.’ He hesitated. ‘You say you know King Jean’s mind. Have you met him?’

  ‘Once,’ the herald said. ‘It did not go well.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He ordered me to be tied inside a sack and thrown into a river to drown. It is his favourite way of getting rid of those who displease him.’

  The prince’s jaw dropped. ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘I brought him a message he did not like. He is a choleric man, and it takes little to anger him.’

  ‘But… a sack in the river, to drown like a rat.’ The prince paused, clearly re-evaluating his hero. ‘How did you survive?’

  Memories were crowding around the herald, and he was growing tired of them. ‘I didn’t,’ he said. He bowed, turned and left the pavilion. Behind him he heard the prince explode into sudden laughter.

  Molliens-Vidame, ten miles south of the Somme, 20th of August, 1346

  Night

  They had eaten Marigold two days ago, the night after the passage around Beauvais. She was the last of the milk cows to go; Garnet had been taken the day after they marched from Poissy. Milk cows were not meant for marching long distances over hard ground, and the poor beasts were so tired and worn that Nell thought it was almost a kindness to slaughter them. A farmer’s daughter, she was unsentimental about her cows, or pretended to be, but now that they were gone, she had nothing to care for and no real occupation. She helped out in the royal kitchen where she could, eating leftovers in the evening and sleeping in the open fields with the other servants. She found she was beginning to miss her home.

  She knew the danger, of course. They had marched hard today, but the rumours, running fast through the army, said they would never reach the Somme. Already there had been skirmishes out on the right flank. Everyone knew about Blind Jean, the famous King of Bohemia, and the kitchen staff discussed the battl
es he had fought and victories he had won in hushed, apprehensive voices. Now King Jean and his veteran troops were just over the eastern horizon, poised to reach the Somme before them and cut off their advance. If that happened, her chances of seeing her home again were small.

  Kicking off her worn shoes and carrying them in her hand, she walked away from the camp. After the heat of the day, the grass felt cool under her feet. The moon was a thin scimitar already low in the west, and darkness lay heavy over the fields. She stopped after a while, looking up at the stars and seeing the familiar patterns, Arthur’s Wain, the Harp, the Archer with his belt. In a moment of whimsy, she wondered where a mere archer had managed to find a belt with so many glowing jewels. Probably looted it from somewhere, she thought.

  She realised she could hear voices, very dim and faint, just on the edge of hearing. For a moment she was reminded of being back in Freshwater, waking in the barn with Marigold and listening to the men outside, but these were different voices, speaking with Devon accents; and moreover, she thought she recognised one of them. She strained for a moment, listening to the faint whispers, and realised with a shock that one of them was Nicodemus.

  ‘That’s the orders, boy. Do it right away, you hear? There’s no time to waste.’

  ‘What about the money, Nic?’ whispered another voice. ‘When do we see it?’

  ‘Tomorrow, when you’ve done your work. Ten florins it’ll be, for each of you. But no mistakes now. If you fail, there’s no money for any of us.’

  ‘Aye, Nic. We’ll attend to it.’

  The voices ceased. Nell listened, holding her breath. Two shadows detached themselves from the blackness. Neither was Nicodemus; they were too tall and too broad in the shoulder. Taking a deep breath, she followed the two men back towards the camp.