A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘None whatever.’

  ‘Take care, Sir Edward,’ the herald warned. ‘You know what Nicodemus stands accused of. It is more than just Bray’s murder, much more. The selling of innocent children into slavery at Southampton. The murder of Jake Madford at Pont-Hébert. The attempted poisoning of several members of the Prince of Wales’s retinue at the Lammas feast, and the much more ambitious attempt to poison the king and all his captains at Poissy.’

  Tracey said nothing. ‘The king looks on you favourably,’ Merrivale continued, ‘and your banker brother has great influence. But if it is found that you have any connection with Nicodemus and his crimes, neither favour nor influence will save you. Hanging will be the kindest death you could face.’

  ‘I swear to God,’ Tracey said. His face had gone pale. ‘I swear on the bones of all the saints, I had nothing do with this. I employed Nicodemus because I thought he was reliable and had a good head for numbers. I had no knowledge of or interest in his other activities, so long as he served me faithfully.’

  ‘Oaths are easy to swear,’ the herald said. ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘For God’s sake, man! Why would I risk throwing my lands and wealth away for some insane plot to kill the king?’

  ‘I was wondering the same thing.’

  ‘Very well. If you think I am guilty, provide some evidence. I challenge you to do so. Prove a case against me if you can.’

  ‘I cannot,’ said Merrivale. ‘But you had better start making your peace with God, Sir Edward. Because if there is evidence, I will find it.’

  * * *

  ‘Do you believe him?’ asked Courcy.

  ‘He lied to me about Nicodemus’s whereabouts, that is certain,’ Merrivale said. ‘And I find his claim of ignorance about Nicodemus’s activities unconvincing at best. But at the same time, I also find it hard to believe that he is capable of organising a conspiracy of this size and scope.’

  ‘And he is right about one thing,’ Courcy said. ‘He already has power and wealth. What motive would he have for getting involved in a plot like this?’

  Gráinne was sitting on a bench beneath an oak tree, honing the blade of her sword to a glittering edge. She snorted. ‘Men who have power and wealth want only one thing. More of both.’

  ‘That’s two things,’ Courcy said.

  ‘Exactly.’ Gráinne stood up and tossed a feather in the air. She watched it flutter towards the ground for a moment, and swung her sword. The blade was a flash of light, faster than the eye could see, and the feather, cut cleanly in two, landed on the dead leaves at her feet.

  ‘Sharp enough,’ Gráinne said. She sheathed the sword and planted her hands on her hips. ‘Nicodemus could be threatening Tracey, or forcing him to pay blackmail. Perhaps he knows something about Tracey’s past to his discredit. Tracey does know what is going on, but Nicodemus is forcing him to keep silent.’

  ‘Possibly,’ the herald said.

  ‘You don’t think Tracey has the wit or ambition to be the kingpost of this conspiracy,’ Gráinne continued. ‘But your instinct tells you that he is involved somehow, or at least he knows what is going on.’

  ‘Yes. But I haven’t enough evidence to arrest him or question him further. He has already persuaded the king to order me to abandon the inquisition once again. I doubt I can persuade him to reopen it.’

  ‘And tomorrow, his Grace will have other things to worry about,’ said Courcy. ‘So this is our last chance. We go to Abbeville tonight.’

  ‘Yes,’ the herald said. ‘Are you still determined to come with me?’

  ‘Try stopping us,’ said Lady Gráinne.

  25

  Abbeville, 25th of August, 1346

  Night

  They halted in the shade of a coppice wood a mile from Abbeville. The last flames of sunset were fading from the sky. The smell of a charcoal burner’s fire drifted on the wind. ‘Wait here with the horses,’ Merrivale instructed Mauro and Warin. ‘Be ready. When we return, we may be in a hurry.’

  The two servants nodded. Merrivale looked at the others. Gráinne had abandoned her heavy armour and wore a stiff leather jerkin like her husband; a red stag, the badge of the MacCarthaigh Riabhachs of Carbery, shone in the dim moonlight on one shoulder. Both she and Tiphaine had tucked their hair under felt caps. Matt and Pip leaned on their bows, waiting.

  ‘Let us go,’ Merrivale said.

  Quietly the six of them slipped away through the lambent shadows. Campfires burned in the fields around Abbeville, the vast French army waiting to resume its march in the morning. Lights flickered on the walls of the town, and glowed nearer at hand in the abbey of Saint-Pierre, outside the walls and surrounded by fields and gardens. To the left of the abbey was a dark patch of marshland where a minor stream ran down to join the Somme. Waiting in the coppice wood, Mauro and Warin listened to the distant murmur of the camp and the nearer, softer sounds of the horses stirring behind them.

  Another noise, the soft pad of a horse’s hooves. They both whirled around, Mauro reaching for his knife and Warin gripping a heavy wooden staff. A pony came trotting out of the darkness, and the girl riding it pulled up and slid down from the saddle.

  ‘Who are you?’ Warin demanded in a whisper.

  ‘My name is Nell Driver. I am a friend of the herald,’ she hissed.

  ‘A friend?’ said Mauro. ‘Ah, yes. You are the cowherd.’

  ‘And his friend!’ she insisted.

  Mauro was briefly amused. ‘What are you doing here, señorita?’

  ‘I followed you from the camp. Where is the herald?’

  ‘None of your business,’ said Warin.

  ‘He is going into Abbeville, isn’t he?’ Without waiting for an answer, she handed him the reins of the pony. ‘Watch the beast for me,’ she said. ‘I need to return him to his owner in the morning.’ Without waiting for a reply, she hitched up the hem of her kirtle and ran into the darkness.

  * * *

  The torches and fires of the camp were close at hand, but the marshes were still dark; for obvious reasons, no one had camped there. ‘If we have to leave quickly, we will come out through these marshes,’ the herald said. ‘Matt, Pip, I suggest you conceal yourselves here and wait.’

  ‘We were told to follow you everywhere, sir,’ Matt said.

  ‘I know. But if we must make a rapid retreat, we will need you to cover us. Remain here.’

  The two archers looked unhappy, but they obeyed. Followed by Tiphaine, Courcy and Gráinne, Merrivale walked towards the camp. Sentries around the nearest fire stepped forward, presenting their spears. A man-at-arms, clanking in armour plate and mail, opened his visor and stared at them. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Simon Merrivale, herald to the Prince of Wales,’ the herald said calmly. ‘Here is my laissez-passer from the Count of Vaud.’

  He presented the roll of parchment. The man-at-arms read it quickly and looked at the other three. ‘Who are these?’

  ‘My escort.’

  ‘Escort? Two of them are women!’

  ‘You are observant, messire. The Count of Vaud is waiting for me at the abbey. Take us there immediately, if you please. My business with him will not wait.’

  The man-at-arms hesitated. Merrivale touched his glittering tabard. ‘My business here is official, messire. You have no right to impede or delay me.’

  The man motioned with his hand. ‘Very well. Come with me.’

  Sometimes the laws of war were useful after all, Merrivale thought wryly. They followed the man through the camp towards the abbey gates, where more sentries admitted them. A messenger was sent to inform the count. They waited, listening to the sound of singing in the chapel; the monks, chanting the service at compline.

  A man in a brown Franciscan habit walked across the courtyard, putting his hands together and smiling as he bowed. ‘My dear Simon,’ said Raimon Vidal. ‘As always, it is a pleasure to see you.’

  ‘Are they here?’

  ‘They are waiting for us in the s
criptorium. Come.’

  An arched gateway led into the double-columned cloister. On the far side the chapter house blazed with lamplight and they could hear men’s voices raised in argument. Several did not sound particularly sober. One voice in particular was insistent, shouting over and over. Vidal wrinkled his nose. ‘The king is giving a banquet,’ he said. ‘Today is the feast day of Saint Louis of France. They have been at the board since this afternoon. I cannot begin to tell you how much wine has been consumed.’

  ‘The feast of Saint Louis? The canonised French king who managed to lead not one but two armies into disaster in the space of twenty years?’

  ‘The very same. Perhaps it is a portent, who knows? The king is attempting to use the feast to persuade his nobles to unite and follow him.’ Vidal nodded towards the chapter house. ‘You can hear for yourself how much luck he is having.’

  ‘Your friends are at work already, it seems.’

  ‘They are. The French army is rotten from within. They will triumph tomorrow; given their advantage of numbers, they can hardly help but do so. But the king’s enemies are already waiting to pounce.’ Vidal opened a heavy wooden door and motioned them inside. ‘This way.’

  The scriptorium was lit dimly by candles in iron sconces around the walls. Rows of wooden desks stretched across the floor, each with a bench and writing set. The walls were covered in frescos of the Italian style, showing the temptations of Christ in the wilderness. Angels hovered overhead, looking down with dark, judgemental eyes.

  Five men stood on the far side of the scriptorium, watching them without expression. Merrivale had not seen some of them for eight years, but he recognised them without difficulty. Louis of Vaud, tall, distinguished, grey-haired, in a surcoat with a white cross on red. Doria, big and muscular, wearing the Saint George cross of Genoa. Carlo Grimaldi of Monaco, his hard, brutal face bearing some scars the herald did not remember, wearing a coat decorated with red and silver lozenges. Zajíc the Bohemian herald, in the familiar tabard blazoned with the lion with two tails, stood next to the bearded Count Rožmberk.

  Merrivale’s scalp tingled with apprehension. I wish Geoffrey was here, he thought. ‘Wait here,’ he said quietly to his companions, and he followed Vidal across the room. Stopping in front of Louis of Vaud, he bowed. ‘My lord count. It has been a long time since last we met.’

  ‘Some might say it has not been long enough,’ said Vaud. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Your associates made me an offer,’ Merrivale said. ‘I have come to name my price.’

  Ottone Doria raised his eyebrows. ‘Surely we should know what we are buying first.’

  ‘You intend to overthrow King Philip of France. You need my assistance.’

  Rožmberk looked sceptical. ‘We already have heralds of our own. I doubt we need another.’

  Merrivale smiled. ‘As you well know, my lord, I was not always a herald.’

  ‘Very well. What can you offer us?’

  ‘Normandy,’ said Merrivale.

  There was a pause of a couple of heartbeats. ‘Explain,’ said Grimaldi.

  ‘I control Normandy,’ Merrivale said. ‘I own the western half of the province already. And Jeanne of Navarre, who has the east in her hands, is ready to do my bidding.’

  Vidal stepped forward. ‘What?’ he said sharply. ‘How is this?’

  ‘I have been in correspondence with Queen Jeanne for more than five years,’ Merrivale said. ‘We have been laying our plans for nearly as long. Last winter, she wrote to say that she had doubts about the loyalty of the Count of Eu. I went to Caen to persuade Eu to honour the pledge he had made us, but I was too late. King Edward’s agents had already bribed him to turn his coat. So, I told Jeanne to withdraw from any arrangement she had made with you until I could negotiate a new agreement.’

  The others looked at each other. ‘You said you own western Normandy,’ Vaud said. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Merrivale turned towards the group by the door and beckoned with his finger. ‘Demoiselle,’ he said in a voice of command. ‘Come here. At once, if you please.’

  Ragged and pale, Tiphaine walked across the scriptorium to stand beside him. ‘This is the Demoiselle de Tesson,’ Merrivale said, ‘the heir of Jean de la Roche Tesson. When I learned she had been imprisoned at La Roche-Guyon, I raided the place and took her into my hands. She is now my prisoner.’ He paused. ‘Or my hostage? Hmm. Perhaps a little of both.’

  Rožmberk looked at the young woman. ‘This?’ he said with disdain. ‘This is the instrument through which you claim to control Lower Normandy?’

  ‘Certainly. The Norman rebels are bruised, but they are not beaten. When Godefroi d’Harcourt’s conspiracy failed, they transferred their loyalty to the demoiselle, the daughter of their former leader. Her loyalty in turn is to me. She follows my orders.’

  Rožmberk looked sceptical, but Grimaldi was thoughtful. ‘What force can you command?’

  ‘I can raise five thousand men-at-arms in Lower Normandy, and Queen Jeanne can raise another five thousand from her lands and those of her allies. Once the size of our army becomes known, I strongly suspect that those Normans currently loyal to King Philip will come over to us. They will want to be on the winning side.’

  Rožmberk snorted. ‘This is a tissue of lies.’

  ‘I am not so sure,’ said Louis of Vaud slowly. ‘We all know this man, remember?’ He looked at Vidal. ‘What do you think, Brother Raimon?’

  Vidal scratched his tonsured scalp. ‘It would explain certain things about the behaviour of the Queen of Navarre,’ he said finally. ‘Including her sudden withdrawal from our coalition. Reports say she has gone into seclusion at Évreux, but she is clearly waiting for something. A signal, perhaps?’

  ‘Suppose you are telling the truth,’ Doria said to Merrivale. ‘You mentioned a price. What is it?’

  ‘Affirmation of the agreement Queen Jeanne and I have already made,’ Merrivale said. ‘We will divide Normandy between us. She will take Rouen and the east and add them to her lands, and I will take Caen and the west to rule as my own independent duchy.’

  ‘You?’ demanded Grimaldi. ‘An upstart English adventurer, ruling a duchy?’

  ‘We all have to start somewhere,’ Merrivale said mildly. ‘Like your father, Signor Grimaldi. He was an upstart Italian adventurer, was he not, when he seized Monaco and declared his independence?’

  Grimaldi growled in his throat. ‘I will also take the demoiselle as my wife,’ Merrivale continued. ‘She is nubile, and I have found her biddable, but more importantly, through her I can command the loyalty of the Norman nobles. She can bring me five thousand men-at-arms. That is a dowry worth having.’

  Tiphaine turned and stared at him. ‘You bastard,’ she said slowly.

  Merrivale slapped her, hard enough to knock her to her knees. ‘Speak only when you are spoken to. When you are my wife, you will know your place.’

  In the silence that followed, Zajíc the herald cleared his throat. ‘Will Queen Jeanne confirm that this arrangement has been made?’

  ‘Of course.’ Merrivale gestured around the scriptorium. ‘Write to her yourself, if you wish.’

  ‘Why delay until this moment to come forward?’ asked Rožmberk, his face still suspicious.

  ‘I decided to wait and see if you could carry out your promises. I am glad I did so.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Vaud.

  ‘So far, your conspiracy has not been very successful, has it? The incompetence of King Philip hasn’t helped, of course, but the English should have been trapped at Poissy, and they really should have been annihilated at the Blanchetaque. Frankly, I am a little worried. If Edward escapes again tomorrow, what then?’

  He shook his head. ‘I fear, gentlemen, that you chose the wrong Englishman for your partner. Sir Edward de Tracey is wealthy and has influence, but he has no experience of this sort of business. You needed a man who was adept at intrigue. Someone like me.’

  ‘How did you
know Tracey was involved?’ demanded Vaud.

  ‘I wasn’t certain, until now. But thank you, my lord, for confirming it.’

  The silence was broken by Vidal clapping his hands. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Very, very good, my friend. You have not lost your touch. So, you want to take Tracey’s place. Would you like an English duchy to add to your French one?’

  ‘If I can ensure that Edward’s army is defeated tomorrow, will you give me one?’ Merrivale asked.

  The wooden door to the scriptorium slammed open, bouncing off the walls. A tall man with a coronet on his head and wearing a blue robe studded with the lilies of France stood in the doorway. ‘Treason!’ shouted the Count of Alençon. ‘By God, I can smell its stink a mile away!’

  Unsteadily, the count stalked forward across the room. Another man followed him, cloaked in red with the white cross of the Knights of Saint John. Courcy and Gráinne stood silently by the door, unnoticed, waiting to see what would happen.

  Alençon glared at Merrivale. His eyes were red and he smelled strongly of wine. ‘English spy!’

  ‘I am no spy,’ said Merrivale. ‘I am a herald.’

  ‘And what is this whore doing here?’ Alençon seized Tiphaine’s arm and jerked her violently to her feet. ‘I ordered her to be burned!’

  ‘And I pulled her out of the fire. She belongs to me, my lord. She is protected, and so am I.’

  The Knight of Saint John spoke in a cold voice. ‘You claim immunity as an ambassador? Then what is your embassy?’

  ‘He came at my invitation, Nanteuil,’ Louis of Vaud said sharply. ‘If you ask whose protection he is under, it is mine.’

  Alençon exploded. ‘Negotiating with the English behind my back! What about the oath we swore at Poissy, hey? Hey? What about the pledges you made, sworn on the hilt of a sword? And now you invite an English spy and a Norman traitor into our house to conspire against me!’