A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  * * *

  Tiphaine was sitting on a bench outside the tent when the herald returned from dinner. ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.

  ‘Salt fish. I did not enjoy it.’

  ‘The food at the prince’s table was little better. Salt fish and dried mutton are about all we have left. Who is on watch tonight?’

  ‘The younger one. Pip.’

  Merrivale turned to see the archer standing in the shadows not far away, motionless and watchful. Since the Red Company’s deployment into the field, the two sisters had been keeping watch in turns. Merrivale had offered to send them back to their company, but John Grey had refused. ‘Keep them with you,’ he had said tersely. ‘You are still in danger, perhaps now more than ever.’

  ‘You should be sleeping,’ the herald said to Tiphaine.

  ‘Inside the tent it is hot and airless. Out here it is cool. Sit down, if you wish.’

  Merrivale pulled off his heavy tabard and sat down on the bench beside her. The night air smelled of smoke and sweat, bruised grass and the scent of horses in the lines nearby. Silence fell. Tiphaine sat gazing towards the east, where the glow of the Bohemian campfires was a thin orange line on the horizon.

  ‘They will be over the river tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Won’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘And we have no way of stopping them. Jean of Bohemia will win the race.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I don’t know. It is up to our commanders to devise some way out of this latest trap we have fallen into.’

  Another long silence ensued. Merrivale watched Tiphaine’s face, faint in profile in the dim light. He saw the long Norman nose, the straight, serious eyebrows and the thin, firm-set mouth. A strong face, he thought, and yet her chin was surprisingly soft, her eyelashes as delicate as silk threads. A perplexing face, a mixture of hard and gentle, like the soul that lay beneath it.

  ‘Why did you go to Rouen?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘The queen told me I would find Rollond de Brus there. I thought I could talk to him and he would not betray me. I was wrong,’ she added.

  ‘You knew him from before?’

  ‘Of course. His, like mine, is a prominent family. He is a cousin of the kings of Scotland, the Bruces. There was talk of a match between us. I knew Rollond wanted me for his wife. I was less certain.’

  ‘Why?’

  Tiphaine looked down at her hands. ‘He is a very comely man; many would say he is beautiful. When he suggested we become lovers, I was more than willing.’ She glanced up at Merrivale with a wry smile. ‘And why not? You would not buy a horse without riding it first, would you?’

  ‘Was this what he said?’

  ‘That is what I said. And I will tell you the truth. I found the ride very agreeable at first.’

  She waited to see if he was shocked. ‘What happened?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘After a time, once the delights of fornication had worn off, I began to realise his true nature. He is beautiful, but no one admires his beauty more than he himself. Narcissus could not rival him for vanity. And he knows the power that his charm gives him over women; oh, and men too, and that is what he lives for. There is not a single particle in his body that has ever given a thought for the happiness and well-being of anyone other than himself. I realised that I was just another mirror, into which he looked in order to admire himself more fully.’

  She paused. ‘I left him. But when I did so, I did not realise how much I had wounded his pride, or how badly he desired to revenge himself on me. When I walked into the castle at Rouen, he was overjoyed. I was foolish enough to believe that he was delighted to see me once more. Too late, I learned how wrong I was.’

  ‘Yes,’ Merrivale said. ‘We all learn too late.’

  Silence fell. The words lay between them, almost visible in the air, settling like dew on the grass.

  ‘I asked you once if there had ever been a woman in your life,’ Tiphaine said. ‘You did not answer. I assume that means there was.’

  ‘Yes,’ Merrivale said finally. ‘There was.’

  ‘Is she still alive?’

  ‘Yes. But she is unobtainable, at least to me.’

  ‘Did you love her?’ Tiphaine asked quietly.

  He considered the question for a long time. ‘Love,’ he said finally. ‘Such a small and insignificant word. It hardly begins to describe the turmoil of the soul, the terror and ecstasy and lunacy that burn like fever-candles… yes, I did love her. But those words don’t do her justice, nor me.’

  ‘Tell me about her.’

  ‘What can I say? She was everything. She was Iseult and Morgana and Blanchefleur all rolled into one. She was the fire and the flame; she was the lily, and the rose.’

  Tiphaine’s voice was low. ‘But it ended.’

  ‘Yes. It turns out that the storybooks are all wrong. Our wishes were not granted. The kindly fates did not bring us together. No Olympian gods turned us into stars and planted us in the night sky to shine for evermore. No smiling Virgin looked down from her ikon and granted us eternal bliss. What we had turned to ashes and left us with nothing. And I still don’t understand, Tiphaine. Why give us happiness in the first place, if only to take it away?’

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, echoing his own words.

  ‘She was unobtainable. There is really no more to say.’

  Tiphaine did not speak again. After a while, she turned and kissed his cheek, her lips soft as a bee’s wing as they brushed his skin, and then she rose and went inside the tent.

  * * *

  Memories, the herald thought. As if we do not have enough cares in the present world, the past sends its phantoms to plague us as well. He shivered as he shrugged on his tabard once more, and he knew that it was not the cold that made him shiver.

  He walked away from the tent, looking out towards the orange glow in the east. Ten miles to the Somme, he thought. Irrational hope suggested that there might still be a way across; after all, they had triumphed at Poissy when all seemed lost. Reason told him this was a lie. Lightning did not strike twice.

  Something rustled in the darkness behind him. Nell Driver’s voice screamed, ‘Sir Herald! Look out!’

  That half-second of warning saved his life. Merrivale turned, and the cudgel that had been aimed for the crown of his head hit his left shoulder instead. The padding of his tabard absorbed most of the blow, but it was still hard enough to numb his arm and make him wince with pain. He stumbled, a second blow thudding into his back, and then the man behind him was grappling with him, trying to slip something around his throat. A few yards away Pip was fighting with another man in the shadows. With his good hand, Merrivale caught hold of the bowstring his assailant was trying to use to choke him and pulled it forward, shuffling his boots to locate the other man’s foot and then stamping down hard. The man grunted, his grip on the bowstring slackening, and Merrivale ripped it out of his hands and spun around, hitting him with a back-handed blow across his jaw that knocked him onto his back.

  Pip was down on her knees, and her attacker had looped his own bowstring around her neck and was pulling hard. Choking silently, she scrabbled at the string, trying to pull it free. Merrivale ran straight into the man, knocking him sideways. The man stumbled but stayed on his feet and swung his fist, hitting Merrivale a powerful blow in the midriff and knocking the wind from his lungs. Gasping, the herald sank to his knees, seeing a dim flash of light as the man pulled something from his belt. Out of the shadows Nell came running, knife in hand, but the man turned to face her, towering over her with his own knife raised for the kill.

  A bowstring twanged and an arrow drove into the man’s ribs, burying itself halfway to the fletchings. Shot through the heart, he collapsed and fell without a sound, blood pouring black from his mouth as he lay on the grass. Pip walked forward, carrying her bow in one hand and rubbing her neck with the other. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Merrivale said, getting to his feet. His arm was still tingli
ng, but he could feel his fingers again, and when he flexed his shoulder, nothing seemed to be broken.

  Tiphaine appeared, followed by Mauro and Warin. The shot man lay lifeless on the ground. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Pip said. ‘Looks like we’ve done it again. You probably wanted him alive to question him.’

  ‘Under the circumstances, you were fully justified. What about the other one?’ But there was no sign of the man Merrivale had knocked down. Clearly I didn’t hit him hard enough, he thought. He looked at Nell.

  ‘What are you doing here, Mistress Driver?’

  ‘I overheard them two talking with Nicodemus, sir. They were Devon men, I reckon. They called him Nic, like they were friends.’

  ‘From Tracey’s retinue,’ the herald said grimly. ‘Did you see where Nicodemus went?’

  ‘No, sir, but I followed the other two. Nicodemus promised them money to do something, but I didn’t realise what it was till now.’

  Rowton had said he would speak to Tracey about Nicodemus. This was the archer’s response. ‘How much did he offer them?’ the herald asked.

  ‘Ten florins each, sir.’

  ‘So little? I would set a higher value on my life than that.’

  He looked around the little group. ‘I think that is quite enough excitement for one night,’ he said. ‘I suggest we all get some sleep. Tomorrow promises to be a long day.’

  Airaines, four miles south of the Somme, 21st of August, 1346

  Evening

  ‘That was a damned stupid thing to do,’ said the man from the north.

  ‘Someone had to do something,’ snapped the man from the West Country. ‘You promised you would take care of the herald, but you didn’t. He sank us at Poissy, and now we have to go and grovel in front of our partners and explain what went wrong.’

  ‘I said I would take care of him, and I will.’

  ‘Would you care to tell me how?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What do you mean, not yet? You haven’t thought of anything, have you?’

  ‘No, but I will,’ said the man from the north. ‘Now concentrate on the matter at hand. This is going to be difficult.’

  The horizon was full of fire. To the west, watchfires glowed on the walls of the towns of Oisemont and Abbeville; to the east and south lay a long convex arc of orange light marking the positions of the main French army. And ominously, to the north, clusters of twinkling lights showed where Bohemian troops now guarded the bridges over the Somme. The race was over, and the blind king had won.

  Closer at hand, the flames of burning farms and villages flickered like candles as the English continued their work of devastation. The lurid light showed five men waiting by a grove of trees, standing by their saddled horses. The man from the north frowned. ‘There should be more of them,’ he murmured. ‘Something is wrong.’

  John of Hainault stepped forward and bowed, stiffly and with a muffled clank of armour under his cloak. Nanteuil, the Grand Prior of the Knights of Saint John, was with him. ‘Welcome,’ Hainault said quietly.

  ‘Where is the Count of Alençon?’ asked the man from the north.

  ‘His duties do not permit him to leave the army,’ a younger man said smoothly. ‘He sent me in his place to represent him. We met at Poissy, my lord. My name is Rollond de Brus.’ He gestured to the other two men. ‘This is Monsignor Raimon Vidal, secretary to Cardinal Aubert. He represents the cardinals, and by extension Signors Doria and Grimaldi. And this is Vilém Zajíc, herald to King Jean of Bohemia. He represents the interests of Count Rožmberk.’

  They don’t want to meet us, the man from the north thought in sudden anger. They are fobbing us off with their underlings. The Savoyard, Louis of Vaud had not even bothered to send a representative.

  ‘Tell us what you want,’ said Brus. ‘Quickly, so that we may be gone.’

  ‘We have a new plan,’ said the man from the West Country.

  The Grand Prior raised his eyebrows. ‘What happened to the last one? You promised us you would cripple the English at Poissy. The king and his captains would die, and – what was your phrase? We could round up the rest at our leisure.’

  ‘That plan failed. We have another one. Must we go over old ground?’

  Vidal the secretary cleared his throat. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think we must. My master the cardinal insists on knowing what went wrong.’

  ‘We attempted to poison the food at the feast of the Assumption,’ the man from the West Country said. ‘We thought the plan was foolproof, but someone found out about it.’

  ‘Someone?’ demanded Zajíc the herald. ‘Who?’

  ‘Simon Merrivale,’ said the man from the West Country. ‘The Prince of Wales’s herald.’

  Zajíc and Vidal looked at each other in the dim light. ‘That man is dangerous,’ said Vidal. ‘You must remove him.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ said the man from the West Country. ‘We have tried to kill him several times.’

  ‘I did not say, kill him,’ said Vidal. ‘I said, remove him from the game. Or even better, turn him. Bring him over to our side.’

  There was a long pause. ‘Can that be done?’ asked the man from the north.

  ‘I know Merrivale well, as does my friend from Bohemia. We have sparred with him in the past. He is impressive. We could use his services.’

  The West Country man was reluctant. ‘Killing him would be safer.’

  Vidal shook his head. ‘But you have failed already, remember? Merrivale is a survivor. And as long as he lives, he will make trouble for you. My advice is to buy him.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ asked the man from the north.

  ‘Tomorrow your army will attack the bridges on the Somme and try to force a passage,’ said Zajíc. ‘They will fail, of course. No one has ever defeated the blind king.’

  Vidal nodded. ‘When the fighting is over, we will send a flag of truce and offer to exchange prisoners. Make certain Merrivale is one of those who comes to meet us. Vilém and I will speak to him then. Be prepared to pay whatever price he asks.’

  ‘Why are you so certain he will betray his masters?’ asked the man from the West Country.

  ‘Everyone has his price,’ the Grand Prior said. ‘You have proven that already, my lords.’

  The man from the north nodded. ‘We will do as you ask,’ he said.

  ‘And then what?’ asked the Grand Prior. ‘You spoke of another plan.’

  ‘Edward’s army is exhausted and running low on food. You must use the Bohemians to hold the bridges, as Master Zajíc suggests, while the rest of the army drives Edward west. Beyond Abbeville, the Somme broadens out into a wide estuary, and there are no more bridges.’

  ‘But there is a ford,’ John of Hainault said. ‘The White Road across the Somme, which can be crossed at low tide. Remember?’

  ‘We remember. And we will ensure that Edward remembers too. He is running out of ground for manoeuvre. Faced with a choice between starvation and being pushed into the sea, he will attempt the ford. Once his army is in the river, all you need do is stop up both ends of the ford, pin him there and wait for the tide to come in.’

  ‘The entire English army will drown,’ said the man from the West Country. ‘And that, gentlemen, will be your moment to strike.’

  ‘I think you may rely on us to know when it is time to strike,’ said the Grand Prior. He moved towards his horse and stepped up into the saddle. ‘Come, it is dangerous to linger here. Have your money ready, gentlemen. We shall require payment in full.’

  He turned his horse and rode away. Brus, Vidal and Zajíc followed him. Hainault waited until they were out of earshot. ‘You must make no mistake this time,’ he said.

  ‘We shall not,’ said the man from the north.

  ‘Things happen in war. I understand this, but my friends are less tolerant. Alençon in particular will lose patience quickly. Are you certain you can find the White Road?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Good.’ Hainault mounted his hors
e and sat for a moment in the saddle, looking down at them. ‘Good luck, my friends. And remember, no more mistakes.’ Hainault rode away. The man from the north stood looking after him for a moment, and then suddenly, uncharacteristically, he spat hard on the ground.

  ‘He always was an arrogant bastard,’ he said.

  Airaines, four miles south of the Somme, 22nd of August, 1346

  Evening

  ‘We have tried every bridge,’ said Warwick. The marshal looked exhausted, his armour covered with dust and his surcoat dark with dried blood. ‘Pont-Remy, Longpré, Hangest, Picquigny, every time with the same result. Our archers cut the Bohemians to pieces, but they stood their ground and replied with crossbows and stone shot. We could gain no ground.’

  Another sunset flamed and died in the west, the end of the hardest day of the campaign so far. A few miles away to the south, the rearguard under Arundel, reinforced by the Red Company, had spent the entire day fighting off a relentless series of French attacks.

  ‘We left the causeway at Pont-Remy paved with blood,’ said Godefroi d’Harcourt. ‘Their losses were terrible, but so were ours. God curse King Jean. Even blind, he can read a battlefield better than most men.’

  ‘What about Amiens?’ the king demanded.

  ‘Heavily fortified, and now most of the adversary’s army are inside the walls. It is even more impregnable than Paris.’

  ‘Abbeville? That is the last bridge downstream.’

  ‘Fortified too, with a garrison of local troops and a contingent of Bohemians to stiffen them.’ Warwick paused. ‘There is still the Blanchetaque. The White Road.’

  ‘The ford west of Abbeville,’ said the king. ‘I’ve heard of it, of course. Does anyone know where it is?’

  ‘The Blanchetaque? It is a myth, sire,’ said Lord Rowton. ‘The country people talk about a white road under the water where ghosts of Roman soldiers march when the moon is full.’

  ‘Perhaps it is a myth, and perhaps it isn’t,’ the king said. ‘But if the ford is there, and we can’t force the bridges, then it may be the answer to our prayers.’