He looked at the circle of men who had gathered on the side of a low hill above the village of Acheux. ‘I had considered trying to capture one of the seaports, Saint-Valery perhaps, in hopes of finding enough ships to take us home. But Godefroi reconnoitred the place this morning and saw no ships there.’
‘The adversary will have ordered all ships dispersed elsewhere, to prevent us from seizing them,’ said Warwick.
‘Doubtless,’ said the king. ‘And to save you saying it, Thomas, yes, it is a damned pity we ordered the fleet home earlier this summer. Huntingdon and his ships would have been quite useful right now. However, there it is.’
He turned to Rowton. ‘The Blanchetaque. Have you found it?’
Rowton looked down at his feet for a moment, then back up at the king. ‘No, sire,’ he said steadily. ‘I have not. I have failed you.’
Another monarch might have been furious, Merrivale thought, but Edward merely nodded. ‘Never mind, Eustace. You did your best.’
Rowton shook his head without speaking, the pain of disappointment plain in his face. The king turned to the others. ‘Well, gentlemen? What about the rest of you? I gather there was some wholesale butchery at Oisemont this morning. I don’t suppose any of you managed to take any prisoners?’
The captains looked at each other. ‘I did, sire,’ said Edward de Tracey. ‘We caught a party outside the west gate trying to escape towards Saint-Valery. We have them under guard now.’
‘Who are they? Anyone of quality?’
‘No, sire. Peasants mostly, called up under the arrière-ban.’ Tracey hesitated. ‘I was thinking of sending them home. They’re worthless in terms of ransoms, and we can’t afford to feed them.’
‘Bring them here,’ the king commanded.
The prisoners were paraded a few minutes later. There were about twenty of them, guarded by a quartet of Tracey’s archers, and they knelt in a row with their hands resting on the ground. Some of them were shaking with fear.
‘You know who I am,’ the king said.
The man at the end of the row looked up. ‘Yes, sire,’ he said.
‘Do any of you know about the ford over the Somme? The one called the Blanchetaque?’
The same man looked at his comrades, who continued to stare at the ground. Finally he nodded. ‘Yes, sire, I do.’
‘Where is it?’ the king demanded. ‘Where is the ford?’
The man said nothing. ‘Give him some money, Northburgh,’ said the king.
Northburgh tossed a leather pouch onto the ground in front of the man. It landed with a heavy metallic clunk. ‘Tell me where the Blanchetaque is,’ the king said.
The man made no move. The king motioned with his hand. ‘Very well. Take them away and hang them.’
The man sat upright. ‘Spare our lives, sire, all of us, and I will tell you,’ he said.
Silence fell. ‘I am waiting,’ the king said, his voice growling in the back of his throat.
‘The southern end of the ford is at the village of Saigneville, six miles from Abbeville. At low tide you will see it clearly, a road of white stones beneath the water. Then you can cross.’
‘When is low tide?’ the king demanded.
‘About now, sire.’
Rowton shook his head. ‘We will never get there in time. By the time we reach the river the tide will becoming in.’
‘No, but it will be low tide again at terce,’ Northampton said. ‘If we march at first light, sire, we can reach the ford by then.’ He looked at the prisoner. ‘I assume the French also know about the Blanchetaque. Is the ford guarded?’
‘Yes, my lord. I saw men-at-arms riding down the north bank yesterday.’
‘How many?’
The prisoner shrugged. ‘A few hundred, perhaps.’
A sigh of relief went up from the circle of men. The Prince of Wales clapped his hands. ‘They might have received reinforcements,’ Warwick warned.
‘They might,’ said the king, ‘but we’ll have to take the chance. Well done in securing these men, Sir Edward. You have given a very great service to your crown and country today. It will not be forgotten.’
Tracey bowed. ‘I am honoured to be of service, sire.’
The king turned to the prisoners. ‘You asked for your lives to be spared, and they will be. Go now, and return to your homes. And remember my generosity,’ he added, pointing to the pouch on the ground.
The prisoner who had given the information tucked the pouch into his tunic and bowed. ‘Thank you, sire,’ he said. ‘Your liberality does you great honour. Hopefully one day France can repay the debt it owes you.’
‘Speak with respect to the king who showed you mercy,’ Tracey said sharply, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. The prisoners bolted into the darkness.
John Sully looked at Merrivale. ‘What do you suppose he meant by that?’
‘I don’t know,’ Merrivale said. ‘But I rather fear I can guess.’
* * *
The other captains dispersed. The herald and Sully walked down the slope towards the little stream at the bottom of the hill, Matt and Pip following them discreetly as ever. ‘The conspirators have made me an offer,’ Merrivale said.
‘I see.’ Sully considered this for a moment. ‘A good one?’
‘Terms are still to be negotiated, but I have no doubt they will be favourable. They are arranging for me to meet some of the conspirators. Louis of Vaud is one of them.’
‘The Regent of Savoy? I recall I met him some years ago, back when Aymon the Peaceful was still on the throne.’
‘So did I. Even though we were on opposite sides, I trusted him. More than I trusted some of our friends, come to that.’
‘Will you meet them?’
Merrivale shrugged. ‘You see the situation we are in. What do I have to lose?’
‘Your head,’ Sully pointed out. ‘If things go wrong.’
‘Things have already gone wrong,’ Merrivale said. ‘This is the last chance to put them right.’
Saigneville, south bank of the Somme, 24th of August, 1346
Morning
The sun rose in colours of carnelian and gold, flaming off the green fields and the rippling waters of the river. The towers and spires of Abbeville were silhouettes against the light. Looking west, Merrivale saw a dark fog bank hovering above the sea five miles away.
The ford was clearly visible, a pale ribbon beneath the water: the Blanchetaque, the White Road, just where the Frenchman had promised it would be. Grey and Percy and their men were already down at the river’s edge, testing the depth of the water. Everyone else was gazing at the north bank a mile and a half away, where a solid mass of men stood on the slope above the estuary. Some were mounted and some were on foot, lances and spears tipped with the bright flecks of coloured pennons. Armour flashed like sparks in the sunlight, and they saw the unmistakable white coats of crossbowmen.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ said Nicholas Courcy quietly. ‘That fellow told us there were only a few hundred of them. By Christ, there’s four thousand if there’s one.’
‘At least five hundred men-at-arms,’ said Thomas Holland, shading his good eye with his hand. They had seen little of Holland on the march north; the wound he had taken at Gaillon had begun to fester. He had spent much of the journey from Poissy consumed with fever, but he was here now, thin and wasted with illness and pain, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword.
‘And another five hundred Genoese,’ said young Salisbury. ‘And we can only ride about ten abreast across that ford. They will pick us off as we come, and if we do get a foothold on the north shore, the men-at-arms will charge downhill and drive us back into the river.’
‘Aye,’ said John Sully. He had taken off his bascinet, resting it on the pommel of his saddle, and his white hair shone in the sunlight. ‘It will be just like Stirling Bridge all over again.’
Mortimer turned his head. ‘What happened at Stirling Bridge?’
‘William Wallace held his
men back until about a third of our army had crossed the bridge. Then he charged home. Once the Scots seized the bridgehead, it was all over. Every Englishman who crossed the bridge died, apart from a few that could swim. I was one of them.’
Courcy grinned at Mortimer. ‘I’ll bet you’re glad you asked,’ he said.
‘Anyone who wants to survive should stick close to Sir John,’ Matthew Gurney said. ‘Clearly he has a knack for it.’
‘And the rest of us should pray for a miracle,’ said Salisbury. ‘Because we will need one to get across that river.’
Holland shook his head. ‘Save your breath,’ he said. ‘We already had one miracle, at Poissy, and we threw it away. I doubt if God is in the mood to grant another.’
Horsemen came riding up from behind, the Prince of Wales with Warwick and Northampton. ‘We have just seen his Grace,’ the constable said. ‘Bohemian horsemen are advancing down the south bank from Abbeville, with the rest of the French army behind them. The king and Arundel will hold them off as long as they can, while we seize the ford.’
The prince stared across the river at the massed French troops. ‘How many of them are there?’
‘Sir Nicholas Courcy reckons four thousand,’ said Salisbury. ‘With men-at-arms and crossbows.’
‘Four thousand.’ The prince looked at Warwick and Northampton. Suddenly he grinned. ‘Then we’re fucked, aren’t we?’ he said.
‘Hardly the language to use to encourage the men, Highness,’ murmured Burghersh, his tutor. But he was wrong; the men around them were smiling, some of the archers sniggering behind their hands.
‘Ah now,’ said Courcy. ‘I seem to recall old Caesar saying something very similar when he crossed the Rubicon. And that turned out pretty well.’
‘What Caesar actually said was “the die is cast”,’ Burghersh said.
‘Translate it into Irish and it comes out the same thing,’ said Lady Gráinne.
The prince laughed out loud. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘The die is cast indeed. Well, Lord Marshal, Lord Constable? Shall we decide the order of march?’
‘The Red Company goes first,’ said Warwick, pointing to the men down by the river.
‘No,’ said Hugh Despenser.
In the silence, every eye turned on Despenser. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I have spent this entire campaign waiting for a chance to prove myself, to wipe out the sins of my father and grandfather. This is my hour.’
‘And I am coming with you,’ said Mortimer.
‘So am I,’ said Matthew Gurney, riding up alongside them and halting. ‘Sir Hugh is right, Highness. We deserve our chance.’
Despenser looked at Gurney. ‘You said that anyone who wanted to survive should stick with Sir John.’
‘I did. I didn’t say I was one of them.’
‘So be it,’ said the prince. ‘Sir Hugh’s men will lead and the Red Company will follow. Sir Thomas Holland’s company is third, and I will come after them.’
‘Highness,’ said Burghersh. ‘Think of your safety.’
The prince did not turn his head. ‘Once we are in that river, there is no safety for any of us. Very well, Lord Marshal. Make it so.’
Warwick nodded. ‘We cross as soon as the water is low enough.’ He rode a few paces forward and shouted down to the men on the bank. ‘John! Richard! Are we ready?’
‘Not yet,’ Grey called back. ‘The water is still too deep. We must wait.’
* * *
They waited. The sun climbed higher into the sky. Dust clouds boiled in the east as the Bohemians drew closer and closer. More companies came crowding down onto the riverbank, followed by the royal servants and some of the remaining carts and wagons. Merrivale spotted Tiphaine on the back of a pony and motioned to her to join him. ‘Stay close to me,’ he said. ‘On my left side. You will be downriver, and I can shield you from the current.’
He looked around again and saw another familiar figure, the little cowherd. My God, he thought, water that is chest height on a man will be over her head. He beckoned to her quickly. ‘Mistress Driver! Come here, girl. Up on the saddle in front of me, quickly now.’
She scrambled up, holding onto the mane of his horse. Michael Northburgh rode past and grinned at him. ‘Adding to your collection of demoiselles, I see.’
The dust clouds were very close now. Some of the Red Company men were venturing out into the river, linked by ropes. They called something to the shore, and John Grey nodded. Turning towards Warwick, he cupped his hands and shouted, ‘The water is deep, but we can cross.’
High and clear, cutting across all other sounds like an angel announcing that the gates of heaven had opened, a trumpet called.
The Blanchetaque, 24th of August, 1346
Mid morning
The water was cold, despite the summer’s heat, and it deepened quickly. Despenser’s archers, leading the way, were soon up to their chests, holding their bows over their heads to keep the strings dry. The Red Company followed, their ponies half walking and half swimming, and then Holland’s Lancashire men and the prince and his household, Warwick and Northampton riding with them. Courcy and Gráinne and the gallowglasses had moved up to join them. Merrivale felt his boots fill with water, and Nell’s kirtle was quickly wet to the waist. She leant forward, twining her fingers into the horse’s mane.
Progress was painfully slow. Men and horses, struggling against the weight of the water, seemed to move only inches at a time. As they left the shelter of the shore, the current increased, the flow of the river amplified by the receding tide. The water eddied and boiled around them. The bed of the ford was uneven, and both men and horses stumbled. Tiphaine’s pony tripped, nearly pitching her into the river, but Merrivale grabbed her arm, dragging her back into the saddle.
Up ahead, a mounted man-at-arms veered off the road into the deeps, and he and his horse were both quickly sucked under. They saw the horse rise again, whinnying with fright, kicking and thrashing against the tide that swept it away towards the sea. The man-at-arms did not resurface.
It seemed to take an eternity to reach the middle of the river. Merrivale glanced back briefly, seeing the long, glittering column following them across the ford. The ominous dust cloud was no more than a mile from Saigneville. Up ahead, the figures of the enemy were becoming more distinct, the coats of arms on surcoats visible now, men-at-arms resting on their horses with lances raised, Genoese winding their crossbows, foot soldiers armed with gleaming swords and spears, waiting.
Another horse slipped and fell, pitching its rider into the river; Gráinne. Even as she went under, Courcy was already diving from the saddle after her. They saw him struggling to lift her, burdened by her antique armour, and Merrivale tried to urge his horse towards them, but the pressure of the water held him back. It was Donnchad, surging past them in a shower of spray, who lifted Gráinne and slung her over the back of Courcy’s horse, while Courcy himself grabbed the pommel and dragged himself back into the saddle, shedding water. ‘Are you all right there, my lady?’ he asked.
‘Shut up and get us out of this goddamned river,’ she gasped.
Silence fell, the only sound the rushing water around them. Merrivale fancied he could hear his own heart beating. In front of him Nell was trembling a little with nerves and cold. ‘When the shooting begins, stay low,’ he said quietly to Tiphaine. ‘If your horse is hit, get out of the saddle as soon as you can and swim for the shore.’ She nodded, face pale under her sunburn.
The north bank was a quarter of a mile away. Despenser’s men were still in deep water, bows over their heads. Up on the bank, the Genoese were in motion, moving down to the foreshore, kneeling and taking aim. Wading slowly, unable to shoot back, Despenser and his archers were vulnerable as fish in a barrel.
At a range of three hundred yards, the Genoese began to shoot.
* * *
One by one Despenser’s men went down, floating away on the current, some struggling to pull the bolts from their bodies, others already inert. Other bolt
s flew high, whistling past the Red Company and Holland’s men to land among the prince’s household. One bolt passed between Merrivale and Tiphaine; another splashed into the river alongside him. Up ahead, the Red Company’s archers and crossbowmen were shooting from the saddle, and some of the Genoese fell too, white coats littering the foreshore. The rest of them dodged for cover, their fire slackening as they raised their heavy wooden shields, and in that brief respite the first of Despenser’s men reached the shallows, plucked arrows from their quivers and began to shoot back.
The shields provided some protection, but not enough. More Genoese fell, and the rest sagged back. Merrivale saw Despenser come ashore, Mortimer and Gurney behind him, all three with drawn swords in their hands. Despenser shouted something and the three of them launched themselves at the enemy, the remainder of the company running after them, screaming like maniacs. The Genoese turned and fled, scrambling up the bank.
A trumpet sounded, and the French men-at-arms lowered their lances and launched themselves down the slope, crashing into Despenser’s men, spearing some of them and driving the rest back into the water. Merrivale saw Despenser go down, bludgeoned by the butt end of a lance. Mortimer stood over him, sword sweeping in steel arcs as he slashed at the horsemen milling around. Gurney fought his way towards them, dragging a French man-at-arms off his horse and stabbing him, and then the Red Company were roaring ashore, horns blowing, jumping from their saddles and breaking left and right to allow passage for the troops behind them, spearmen driving solid wedges into the French, archers following and shooting down any who resisted, and that howling war cry he had heard at La Roche-Guyon went up again, ‘Rouge! Roooouge! Roooooouge!’
A Flight of Arrows Page 35