A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  Rowton looked sceptical. ‘Even if there is a ford, it is fifteen miles from Abbeville to the sea. Finding it will not be easy.’

  The king turned on him. ‘God damn it, Eustace, what else are we supposed to do? We’ve food for only three more days and no other way across the river. What do you suggest?’

  Rowton said nothing. ‘Find that ford,’ the king said. ‘Either that, or find someone who knows where it is. That is an order, Eustace. I am holding you personally responsible for this.’

  Rowton bowed, his face stony. ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Good, make it so.’ The king turned again, shading his eyes in the sunset light. ‘Who are these people, and what do they want?’

  Three horsemen were riding down from the north, pulling up as they neared the camp. Their leader held a large white flag on a staff over his head. ‘It is Montjoie Herald, sire,’ said Andrew Clarenceux. ‘The adversary’s ambassador. It seems he wishes to parley.’

  ‘What in Christ’s name for? He already has us exactly where he wants us.’ The king nodded. ‘Very well, Clarenceux, go and see him. Merrivale, go with him. But if they are offering another proposal for peace, tell them to go to hell.’

  ‘What do you suppose they do want?’ Clarenceux asked as they trotted their horses towards the waiting men.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Merrivale, watching them with narrowed eyes. ‘Andrew, I suggest you talk directly with Montjoie. I will deal with the other two.’

  They reined in their horses a few yards from the waiting men and bowed from the saddle. ‘Montjoie,’ said Clarenceux. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I am glad to see you well, Andrew,’ the French herald said, smiling. ‘I heard you were running low on food. I can send for some bread, if you wish, or perhaps some fruit? The quinces have ripened early this year.’

  ‘Ah, you remember my fondness for quinces,’ said Clarenceux, bowing again. ‘It is kind of you to think of me, but the hour is growing late and I think we should get down to business.’

  ‘Very well. We took some of your men-at-arms prisoner today, and I believe you took some of ours a few days ago. Would your king be willing to consider an exchange, with prisoners on both sides to go free provided they give their parole?’

  ‘Certainly we can discuss it,’ said Clarenceux. ‘Whom have you taken?’

  Merrivale listened a moment while Montjoie began to list the prisoners, and then turned his mount and rode a few yards away. The other two horsemen followed.

  ‘Simon, my friend,’ said Vidal, the brown-robed Franciscan. ‘A pleasure to see you again. And you remember Vilém Zajíc, of course.’

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said Zajíc smiling. He wore a tabard with a distinctive badge, a white lion rampant with two tails on a field of red. ‘I see you survived your dip in the river.’

  ‘It was kind of your master to arrange for me to have a bath,’ said Merrivale. ‘What do you two want?’

  ‘I will be honest with you,’ said Vidal.

  ‘That would be a novelty.’

  ‘There is a first time for everything,’ he agreed. ‘You know about the plots, of course, the conspiracies in England and in France. But you do not yet know who is behind them.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me?’

  ‘Here and now? No. But there is a way you can gratify your curiosity.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You can join us,’ said Zajíc.

  ‘Ah,’ said Merrivale after a moment. ‘Why would I wish to do that?’

  ‘Because we are going to win,’ Vidal said. ‘What you said in Lisieux was right. The French plot centres around Alençon and Cardinal Aubert. The Italians are involved too, Cardinal Ceccano and Doria and Grimaldi. But there are others too.’

  Merrivale looked at Zajíc. ‘The King of Bohemia?’

  The other herald nodded. ‘Count Rožmberk his chamberlain is one of us.’

  ‘And the Knights of Saint John,’ said Vidal. He paused for a moment. ‘And an old friend of yours. Louis of Vaud, the regent of Savoy.’

  Merrivale turned his head for a moment, staring out at the livid red glow of the sunset, full of smoky brilliance like the entrance to a furnace, or the gates of hell. ‘Why do you mention him?’

  ‘As a lure, of course,’ said Vidal. ‘We know you trust Louis. With him on our side, you can be sure that our intention is genuine and that our actions will be honourable. We are doing this to bring about the end of the war, Simon. The fighting has already lasted for too long. We all need peace. Removing both Edward and Philippe is the only way to reconcile the two nations.’

  Merrivale shook his head. ‘This is not about the war. This conspiracy has longer roots than that, Raimon. Is John of Hainault involved?’

  The two men glanced at each other. ‘Yes,’ said Vidal. ‘He is.’

  ‘King Philip’s councillor and friend. Formerly, councillor and friend to the young King Edward. And before that, he was Roger Mortimer’s right hand. This conspiracy has been twenty years in the making, has it not, Raimon?’

  ‘I cannot answer that,’ Vidal said. ‘But Louis of Vaud can.’

  Silence fell. ‘We have told you who the actors are,’ said Zajíc. ‘If you want to know the rest, how the plot began and who is pulling the strings, all you have to do is join us. But of course you will never be able to go back.’

  ‘You will not want to,’ Vidal said. ‘This time you will be on the winning side.’

  ‘I wish to speak to Louis of Vaud,’ Merrivale said. ‘And to Doria and Grimaldi. All three of them.’

  Again the two men glanced at each other. ‘Perhaps it can be arranged,’ said Zajíc.

  ‘Where and when?’

  ‘That depends on whether they are willing to meet you,’ Vidal said. ‘We will let you know.’

  * * *

  Clarenceux and Montjoie finished their business, parting with professional courtesy. Silently Merrivale rejoined his colleague and rode back towards the camp around Airaines. Vidal and Zajíc watched him go. ‘He is an unusual man,’ said Vidal.

  ‘Why do you say so?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, he didn’t even ask how much we were going to pay him.’

  * * *

  Inquisition into the death of Edmund Bray, knight, near the village of Quettehou in Normandy on the XIIth day of July, in the nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward III. This report was composed on the XXIInd day of August, at the town of Airaines.

  Item, one of the leaders of the conspiracy can now be identified as John of Hainault, Lord of Beaumont, a member of the adversary’s council.

  Item, John of Hainault was also a lieutenant of Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, and was present at Berkeley Castle the night the king’s late father was assassinated. Hainault was also privy to a plot by Mortimer to remove his Grace the king and to rule England in the name of the King of France.

  Item, some of Hainault’s late co-conspirators are still working with him, and are attempting to complete the plot they began at Berkeley Castle. Their aim is the overthrow of both England and France. They have powerful allies, including the King of Bohemia, the Count of Alençon, Cardinals Aubert and Ceccano, the Knights of Saint John, the captains of the Genoese mercenaries, and possibly the regent of Savoy, Count Louis of Vaud.

  Item, the conspirators attempted to destroy the English army at Poissy. They are now attempting to complete their work, and are undermining our foundations even as I write these words.

  Simon Merrivale, heraldus

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

  Night

  ‘What in hell’s name is this?’ The king, in his night robe, waved the piece of parchment at the herald. ‘You were appointed to enquire into Bray’s death, not go raking up old events. For Christ’s sake, Merrivale, what did you think you were doing?’

  ‘There is something else I did not put in the report, sire,’ said Merrivale. ‘Edmund Bray’s father was also present at Berkeley Castle tha
t night. He fell out with the others when he learned of your father’s death, and never spoke to them again.’

  The king stared at him. ‘Bray’s father? How do you know this?’

  ‘Does your Grace really wish me to answer that question?’

  The king paused for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, God damn it, I don’t. I want this entire business to disappear. Do you understand me? If my father really did die at Berkeley, it was twenty years ago. There is nothing to be gained by bringing it up again now. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sire. What about John of Hainault?’

  ‘Even if he is plotting against the King of France, so what? Let the bastard plot. Have you any direct evidence that he is plotting against me also?’

  ‘No, sire. Just rumours and suspicion.’

  ‘Rumours and suspicion,’ the king repeated. ‘The usual stock-in-trade of you spies.’

  ‘Yet someone tried to poison you and your entire court at Poissy, sire.’

  ‘The poisoners are both dead. Can you connect them with Hainault?’

  ‘No, sire. But men wearing his badges also raided our camp several days before Poissy. It is possible that they were attempting to assassinate you and the prince.’

  The king waved the parchment again. ‘Of course they were. We are at war, and Hainault is on the enemy’s side. He always was a ruthless bastard. Well, so am I, Merrivale. This army will cross the Somme, and we will reach Flanders and safety, and Hainault is damned well not going to stand in our way. Right now, that is the only thing that matters.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Dragging up the past is not going to help. Twenty years ago, we were a nation divided and riven by strife. I have spent two decades reuniting us and giving us a sense of purpose. I will not see that undone now. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Good. Now, make an end to your enquiry and resume your usual duties. Let Edmund Bray rest easy in his grave.’ The king paused for a moment, staring into space. ‘His father, you say. Is he still alive?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Hmm, well… a matter for another time, perhaps.’ The king dropped the parchment onto a side table. ‘That is all, Merrivale. You may go.’

  23

  Airaines, four miles south of the Somme, 23rd of August, 1346

  Morning

  ‘The Bohemians are on the move,’ the scout said breathlessly. ‘I saw their banner, the lion with two tails. The blind king is coming.’

  Dawn was still breaking when word began to run through the camp. Trumpets sounded the alarm. ‘It is not just the Bohemians,’ Sir John Sully’s esquire reported as he buckled on his master’s armour. ‘It’s the whole French army. The adversary himself is on the way.’

  ‘Well, we can’t fight him here,’ Sully said, looking around at the flat open fields around the camp. ‘So we’ll have to keep running.’ He glanced at Merrivale. ‘But I reckon we can’t run for much longer, boy. My archers have worn through the soles of their boots, and they’re thin as rakes. Sooner or later we’re going to have to fight.’ He picked up his painted shield and stood while his esquire strapped it to his forearm. ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘What can I do? The king has ordered me to drop the inquisition. We have more important things to worry about, he says.’

  ‘He has, there’s no doubt about that. But what about you?’

  Merrivale glanced at the esquire. Sully nodded. ‘See to the horses, Baker,’ he said.

  The esquire bowed and departed. Sully waited, those ridiculously young bright blue eyes resting on the herald’s face.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Merrivale said. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘So long as I’ve known you, boy, you’ve always done your duty.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘I have. And for what? My father did his duty and lived a blameless life. His reward was the loss of his wife, his daughters, his lands and his sanity. I have been a king’s man for sixteen years, faithful to my sovereign and my country. My duty is a sacred trust to me.’

  The trumpets continued to blow, harsh and urgent in the heavy morning. Thomas Ughtred, the under-marshal, rode through the camp shouting orders. ‘Leave the heavy wagons! Get the royal households moving, and bring the food, the arrows and bows, the cannon and shot and serpentine! Leave everything else! Get every man on the road and marching west, now!’

  ‘And this is where it has led us,’ Merrivale said. ‘A chaotic retreat, a day of disaster, and most likely our deaths. And for what?’

  ‘God alone knows,’ said Sully. He smiled. ‘But let’s make sure we ask Him, shall we, when we reach the gate of pearls.’

  Oisemont, four miles south of the Somme, 23rd of August, 1346

  Late morning

  It was very hot now, the air thick with dust and humidity, and the stink of fresh blood was so strong that the herald could almost taste it in his mouth. The bodies of men and horses lay in a thick trail across the fields towards the open gates of Oisemont half a mile away. Smoke boiled above the town, rising in furious clouds into the sky. Even at a distance the screaming could be heard as the English, ruthless as terriers, ran through the streets exterminating the last defenders. As at Caen and Gaillon, the defenders had failed to surrender; therefore, according to the laws of war, they could expect no mercy.

  The laws of war, thought the herald. Of all the falsehoods that had been perpetrated by humanity, the notion that wars had laws that must be obeyed was surely one of the most cynical.

  Roger Mortimer raised his visor and wiped the sweat from his face. ‘Stupid bastards. There were only a few hundred of them, they never had a chance. Why did they come out to fight us?’

  ‘Orders, of course,’ said Warwick. ‘They were sacrificed to slow us down so the main French army could keep up with us. Is there any news of the adversary? Is he still moving?’

  ‘His men halted at Airaines to plunder our baggage, as we knew they would,’ said Thomas Holland. ‘That won’t distract them for long, though. They will be marching again soon.’

  ‘And the king? Any word from him?’

  The king had ridden north with a strong party to reconnoitre the walls of Abbeville, in the faint hope that a coup might be possible. The Earl of Salisbury shook his head. ‘A messenger came back a few minutes ago. The walls are high and thick and the ramparts are full of troops. His Grace is retiring to join the main body.’

  Warwick turned to John Grey. ‘A night attack? You pulled it off at La Roche-Guyon.’

  Grey shook his head. ‘The defenders of La Roche-Guyon were few, and they were not expecting an assault. Abbeville sounds like the exact opposite. Is there any word about this ford?’

  ‘Lord Rowton is searching for it now,’ Warwick said.

  The smoke from Oisemont continued to rise, choking off the sun. One of Warwick’s esquires rode up, flipping up the visor of his bascinet. ‘Flag of truce approaching, my lord.’

  ‘Again? Who is it? Montjoie, come to gloat?’

  ‘No, my lord. It is Bohemia’s herald.’

  Warwick looked at Merrivale. ‘Go and see what he wants.’

  Vilém Zajíc sat on his horse in the middle of a field of stubble, looking at the smoke and the corpses with disapproval. ‘Such a waste,’ he said as Merrivale rode up. ‘There is no honour in slaughtering peasants.’

  ‘Oh? Would your master agree with you?’

  ‘His Grace has slaughtered many peasants in his day, but always for expediency. Never for honour.’

  ‘It is the same with us. These men were trying to slow us down and prevent us from reaching our destination.’

  Zajíc raised his eyebrows. ‘And what is your destination? The sea? Are you planning to swim back to England?’

  ‘Perhaps. Do you have a message for my king?’

  ‘I do. It comes from his Grace the most serene and puissant Jean, King of Bohemia and Count of Luxembourg. He challenges your King Edward to single combat. The outcome will
determine who is victorious in this campaign, and who is the loser.’

  Merrivale raised his eyebrows. ‘King Jean is challenging King Edward to a joust?’

  ‘Exactly so. His Grace bids me add also that he knows he is the older man, and blind in both eyes, but even so he is a more noble warrior and skilled master of arms than Edward Plantagenet will ever be. Therefore, if Edward Plantagenet refuses to meet him, King Jean will know that he is afraid and wishes to avoid defeat. His fear will be understandable, although of course,’ Zajíc added, ‘it will also show that he is a dishonourable man and not fit to wear his crown.’

  ‘I see,’ said Merrivale. ‘You realise that my king will be greatly offended by these words.’

  Zajíc smiled. ‘That is my lord’s intention,’ he said. ‘Now, to more important business. The Count of Vaud and Signor Doria have agreed to meet you. Signor Grimaldi also.’

  ‘Where and when?’

  ‘In two days’ time, at compline. They will be in the cloister of Saint-Pierre, outside the walls of Abbeville. You will be expected. Your herald’s tabard will identify you, but the count sends you a laissez-passer in case there are difficulties.’ Zajíc reached inside his own tabard and brought out a small parchment roll tied with a blue ribbon.

  ‘It seems a long time to wait,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘Count Louis is here, but his troops are a long way behind, still marching up from the south. He has four thousand men, and he wants them at his back before he makes his next move.’ Zajíc paused for a moment. ‘I am curious. Aren’t you going to ask what we are offering you?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ asked Merrivale. ‘Clearly you want my services. If the conspiracy is successful, I can name my price. And if it fails, it will not matter.’

  Acheux, five miles south of the Somme, 23rd of August, 1346

  Evening

  ‘We might be able to take Abbeville,’ the king said. Like most of the men around him, he was still in full armour, the gold leopards on his surcoat angry in the firelight. ‘But it would cost too many men and take too much time. The adversary is close at hand. Long before we could storm the town and get our men and the remaining wagons over the bridge, the whole French army would be upon us.’