A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

‘No one is conspiring against you—’

  ‘God damn it, Vaud, don’t interrupt me! I will be king, do you hear, king! And I will be emperor too one day, by God, and the world will kneel at my feet, and I will not tolerate any insolence from you, you treacherous upstart!’

  He really was very drunk indeed, Merrivale thought. Vaud’s lips tightened.

  ‘Have a care for your language!’ Doria said sharply.

  ‘Fuck you, Doria, you Genoese maggot! And you, Grimaldi, you pox-ridden pirate! By God, I ought to hang every last one of you right now!’

  Jean de Nanteuil moved forward. ‘Let us not be too hasty,’ he said. ‘If these men are traitors, then of course they will be dealt with. But we must make certain of our facts.’

  He turned to Merrivale. ‘I will ask my question again. What is your mission here?’

  ‘The Count of Vaud spoke truly,’ Merrivale said. ‘I came at his invitation to negotiate with him and the signores Doria and Grimaldi and the Count of Rožmberk. You see, I know about your conspiracy.’

  The Grand Prior’s eyes narrowed. ‘What conspiracy?’

  Merrivale said nothing. ‘He knows everything,’ Rožmberk said. ‘Or nearly everything. He even knows about Edward de Tracey.’

  ‘Tracey!’ Alençon exploded. ‘Jesus Christ! You told him about Tracey?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Vaud said coldly. ‘He already knew.’

  ‘How?’ asked Nanteuil.

  Vaud hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I begin to think his Imperial Majesty is right,’ Nanteuil said. ‘This looks very much like treason.’

  Grimaldi slammed his hand down on the hilt of his sword. ‘Enough. I will not be insulted, and I will not be called a traitor. I withdraw. I shall take my troops and my ships and return to Monaco. And do not ever call on me for aid again, Alençon. If you do, I will return your messenger’s head in a sack.’

  He strode out of the room. Doria followed him. Vaud glared at Nanteuil and Alençon. ‘You damned fools! What have you done?’

  ‘What have we done?’ demanded the Grand Prior. ‘It is you who have questions to answer, my lords.’ He turned to Alençon. ‘Call the guards. Arrest them all.’

  ‘No,’ said another voice from the door. ‘Wait.’

  * * *

  John of Hainault was in his late fifties now, but he still moved like the champion swordsman and jouster he had once been. Ignoring Courcy and Gráinne, silent spectators in the game, he walked forward and stopped a few paces from the herald, crossing his arms over his chest.

  ‘He knows about Tracey,’ Nanteuil said.

  ‘So it would seem,’ said Hainault. ‘Something needs to be done about that.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ Vidal said sharply. ‘Merrivale is not the problem that needs dealing with! The Count of Alençon’s drunken outburst has ruined everything. We have lost the Genoese!’

  ‘We shall get them back,’ said Hainault, his eyes still resting on Merrivale.

  ‘We don’t need them!’ Alençon snapped. ‘We are better off without them. They’re mercenary bastards who will work for the highest bidder.’

  ‘As do you,’ Hainault said. ‘Your price, I seem to recall, was a hundred thousand écus.’

  Alençon checked, swaying a little, and lapsed into sullen silence. Hainault continued to stare at Merrivale. ‘Why are you here?’

  Again, Merrivale said nothing. ‘He has promised us the support of Normandy,’ said Louis of Vaud.

  ‘Has he now? How interesting. But I think proof of his loyalty is required before we believe him.’ Hainault paused for a moment. ‘Tell me where the English army is.’

  ‘At this moment, they are concealed in the Forêt de Crécy.’

  Alençon started to speak, but Hainault silenced him with a sharp motion. ‘What are Edward’s intentions? Will he stand, or will he retreat to the north?’

  ‘He will stand. He has chosen a position on a ridge east of the forest. He will meet you there.’

  ‘Liar!’ Alençon shouted. ‘The English would not dare to stand against us! They are retreating towards Flanders! I told everyone this, but you fools will not listen!’

  ‘Perhaps that is because our scouts have found no sign of them,’ said Louis of Vaud. ‘If they have marched away north, they have left no trace behind them. Not so much as a hoof print on the ground.’

  ‘Why are you not listening to me? Edward of England has duped you, all of you! And now he has sent his spy to pour poison into your ears. God rot you all for blundering idiots!’

  Hainault rounded on him. ‘Shut up,’ he said.

  ‘How dare you—’

  Hainault’s fist did not travel far, but it thudded into Alençon’s midriff like a tree trunk, knocking the wind out of the count and doubling him over in pain. ‘Enough!’ he commanded. ‘You damned puppy! I have spent nearly half my life on this project, and I will not see it fail now. You will keep a civil tongue in your head and obey orders, Alençon, or by God I will find another king!’

  ‘Or queen,’ said Merrivale. ‘Jeanne of Navarre has as good a claim to the throne as this man.’ He eyed Alençon with open insolence. ‘And more balls,’ he added.

  Vidal laughed. Alençon glared at them, his face almost purple with rage, his mouth opening and shutting silently. Still clutching his midriff, he staggered out into the cloister. A moment later, they heard the sound of retching.

  Hainault stood for a moment, his own eyes calculating. ‘Your idea is not without merit,’ he said.

  ‘Of course, there is a problem,’ Merrivale said. ‘The law says that a woman cannot inherit the throne of France.’

  Hainault waved a dismissive hand. ‘We invented that law, and we can abolish it just as easily. So. Edward intends to fight. How strong is his army?’

  ‘With the losses he took at the Blanchetaque, fewer than ten thousand. They are tired and hungry, and desertions are increasing. But I give you fair warning, my lord. They are still formidable, and the position at Crécy is a good one; Northampton himself has chosen it. You are likely to take heavy losses.’

  Hainault shrugged. ‘Sometimes one must sacrifice pieces to win the game.’ He looked at Vaud. ‘Have you reached an agreement?’

  ‘We have,’ said Merrivale before Vaud could answer.

  ‘Then this is your test. If Edward is where you say he is and we win the victory tomorrow, we will pay whatever price you have agreed. But if you have played us false, I will put every assassin in Europe on your trail. As surely as night follows day, you will die. Have I made myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Merrivale said.

  Hainault nodded. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘And let us see what tomorrow brings.’

  * * *

  Merrivale turned and strode across the scriptorium towards the door, Tiphaine hurrying behind him like a dog. ‘Quickly,’ he whispered to Courcy and Gráinne. ‘Before they change their minds.’

  Outside, there was no sign of Alençon. They hurried through the cloister and into the courtyard, and nearly collided with a man running in the opposite direction. Tiphaine gasped. The man looked at her, and his eyes opened wide.

  ‘You! What the devil?’

  Tiphaine turned to run, but the man grabbed her arm and spun her around, drawing his dagger from his belt. ‘You treacherous bitch! I’m going to finish you, here and now!’

  Courcy hit him on the point of the chin with an audible crack, and they saw his eyes roll back in his head before he slumped to the ground. Merrivale looked around, but no one seemed to have noticed the brief commotion in the shadows. Restraining the impulse to run, he walked calmly to the gatehouse. ‘Where is the man who brought us here?’

  ‘Gone,’ said the captain of the gate. ‘He said he wasn’t going to wait around all night. Do you need an escort, Sir Herald?’

  Merrivale smiled and touched his tabard. ‘This will do.’

  ‘Then I bid you good night, sir.’

  They walked away from the gatehouse
towards the camp, quickly veering towards the darker patch of the marshes. ‘Who was that fellow?’ demanded Courcy.

  ‘Rollond de Brus,’ said Tiphaine. ‘My former lover, and the man who betrayed me in Rouen.’

  ‘He was your lover?’ said Gráinne. ‘Máthair Dé, girl, but you have terrible taste in men.’

  ‘I should have hit him harder,’ said Courcy. ‘Either he has woken up, or someone has found him. There goes the alarm.’

  A trumpet sounded from the abbey, harsh and urgent. Another joined the call. ‘This way,’ Merrivale said, and they hurried towards the marshes.

  The moon was down behind the trees; they had only the reflected glow of the campfires to guide their way. Water squelched around their boots. Smells of rotting vegetation rose to their nostrils, along with other things more foul; the men in the camp had clearly been using the marshes as a latrine. They followed the winding course of the little stream, guided by the faint glimmer of light off water, hearing the commotion behind them growing louder. ‘They’ll be sending out search parties,’ Courcy predicted.

  ‘I know. Hurry.’

  Somewhere up ahead Matt and Pip would be waiting. They too would have heard the trumpets and be ready… on the heels of the thought, Merrivale saw someone coming out of the shadows ahead, an archer with a longbow in hand. ‘Is that you, Matt?’ he whispered.

  The archer said nothing. He stopped, pulling an arrow from his quiver and nocking it. Then he turned his head, and Merrivale saw his face.

  It was Nicodemus.

  * * *

  The four of them halted and stood very still. The range was no more than twenty yards. Even in the dim light the archer could hardly miss. Merrivale waited, watching the barbed arrowhead glinting in the light; the same kind of arrow that had killed Edmund Bray.

  Nicodemus smiled. ‘I am going to enjoy this.’

  ‘Then get on with it,’ said Merrivale.

  ‘What’s the hurry? You have caused me more trouble than you can imagine. You owe me a little suffering.’

  ‘Like the suffering of the slaves you sold at Southampton?’

  ‘Don’t be so fastidious, king’s messenger. You’ve done dirty deeds yourself in your day.’

  ‘I have made mistakes, Nicodemus, but you are human filth. The mud of this sewer is pure and noble compared to you.’

  Nicodemus raised his bow. ‘I know just where to plant this arrow, herald. It’s going to take you a long time to die.’

  A figure hurtled out of the gloom and crashed into Nicodemus, hitting him in the small of the back. He stumbled and fell to his knees in the mud, dropping the bow and arrow. Nell Driver jumped on him, climbing onto his back and pummelling him with her fists. Raging, Nicodemus shook her off, picking her up by the shoulders and throwing her hard into the mud. Gráinne and Courcy were already running forward; Nicodemus saw them coming and reached for his bow. He was too late. Courcy slipped in the treacherous mud and fell, but Gráinne’s sword flashed like lightning in the gloom, slashing Nicodemus across his side. The archer yelped with pain, but he raised the bow and clubbed Gráinne’s arm, knocking the sword from her hand. Before she could pick it up again, he had bolted into the darkness.

  Nell stood up, mud dripping from her tunic. ‘Are you all right?’ Merrivale asked her.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He wanted to ask what she was doing here, but that would have to wait; from behind he could hear Brus’s voice, perilously close, urging the pursuers on. Matt and Pip were running towards him, splashing through the water. ‘Go on, sir,’ Matt said, low-voiced. ‘We’ll cover your retreat.’

  They ran, hearing behind them the venomous hiss of arrows and shouts of pain. They were beyond the perimeter of the camp now, and they came up out of the water and sprinted towards the copse of trees where Mauro and Warin waited with the horses, expecting at any moment to be spotted and the French to come yelling after them. But the darkness hid them well, and they reached the trees without incident. Matt and Pip followed a few minutes later, breathing hard.

  ‘We let the air out of a few of them, sir,’ Matt said. ‘But there’s more coming after us. Horsemen too. That fellow who leads them isn’t giving up.’

  ‘Time we were gone,’ Merrivale said. ‘Ride for the forest, and ride fast.’

  They heard the drumming of hooves behind them, but they reached the dense forest before the pursuit could catch them. Once there, Matt and Pip led them deep into the woods, where they dismounted and stood in silence, holding the muzzles of their horses to keep them silent and listening to the sounds of their pursuers crashing through the undergrowth trying to flush them out. The sky was pale with dawn by the time Brus shouted angrily to his men and they rode away towards Abbeville.

  In the wan light, Merrivale turned to Tiphaine and took her hands gently in his. ‘I am so very sorry,’ he said softly.

  ‘Don’t be. I know you had to do it, to convince them. There is no better way for a man to prove himself to other men than to treat a woman like a dog.’

  They rode in silence back to the English camp.

  The sentries recognised them at once and let them pass. Merrivale rode to the cluster of tents around the king’s pavilion, dismounting outside Northburgh’s tent and going inside to shake the secretary awake. ‘We must arrest Edward de Tracey. Immediately.’

  Northburgh sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘It’s him?’

  Doubt still nagged the herald, but he pushed it aside. Vaud, Zajíc, Rožmberk, Alençon; they had all named Tracey. ‘It is,’ he said.

  ‘I will call the serjeants at once.’

  But Tracey was not in his tent, and his bewildered esquire and servants had no idea where their master had gone. The serjeants scoured the waking camp, but Sir Edward de Tracey had vanished.

  26

  Abbeville, 26th of August, 1346

  Morning

  Alençon’s head hurt, and the inside of his mouth tasted like a slurry pit. He had no idea how much wine he had drunk last night, most of it unwatered. There were significant gaps in his memory of the evening’s events, but he could recall some things; arguing with his brother the king, for example, then going outside to get away from that gloomy, horse-faced idiot and clear his head. He remembered also the confrontation with Vaud and the Genoese, and Hainault’s intervention, and the taste in his mouth became more bitter still.

  Around him, the men-at-arms of the vanguard were mustering in the fields outside Abbeville, brilliant with gleaming metal and the shimmering colours of heraldry, lances raised like the quills of porcupines. He watched them gathering in their thousands, and his headache receded a little. To hell with Hainault, he thought, to hell with all of them. I don’t need those treacherous bastards. I can do it alone, without anyone’s help. This will be my day, my victory. And then, who will dare to stop me?

  Rollond de Brus rode alongside him, raising his visor. ‘What are the orders, your Imperial Majesty?’

  ‘The English have retreated north,’ Alençon said. ‘We shall follow the river and pick up the trail after they crossed the ford. Their men are tired and hungry. They won’t have got far.’

  Brus raised his eyebrows. ‘Hainault says they are waiting for us at Crécy. The herald told him as much.’

  ‘The herald was lying, and so probably is Hainault. For Christ’s sake, Brus, they are trying to throw us off the scent! If we ride hard, we can overtake the English by sundown.’

  ‘But sire—’

  ‘God damn it, Brus, are you challenging my authority?’

  Angry and sullen, Brus bit back his retort. He was still smarting from last night, when John of Hainault had reprimanded him for sending pursuit after Tiphaine and the herald. ‘But my lord, she is a traitor,’ he had protested.

  ‘She is also useful,’ Hainault had said. ‘And in future, Brus, mind your own goddamned business.’

  ‘No, sire,’ he said now.

  ‘Good.’ Alençon slammed his visor down, wincing at the pain in his head. ‘Find Mars
hal de Montmorency,’ he said. ‘Tell him to order the advance.’

  * * *

  ‘You may congratulate me on my cleverness,’ said Jean de Nanteuil, smiling.

  Like the others, he was fully armoured, wearing the bright red surcoat and white eight-pointed cross of the Knights of Saint John. John of Hainault looked at him. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I have acquired Tracey,’ Nanteuil said.

  ‘What do you mean, acquired him?’

  ‘He realised last night that his secret was out, and escaped from the English camp just before they came to arrest him. He approached me for sanctuary, and I gave it on condition that he join my Order. The Knights of Saint John will protect him and ensure his safety.’

  ‘So what? He is of no use to us now,’ said the Count of Rožmberk.

  ‘Oh yes, he is. Like everyone who joins the Order, he swore a vow of poverty. He has agreed to hand over all of his wealth to us. I have already written to the Grand Prior of England asking him to take Tracey’s estates into his hands. That will preserve them from confiscation by the English.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Zajíc. ‘We now have Tracey’s money and can divide it among ourselves, without waiting for him to act as paymaster. But my lord is right. We have no further need of him.’

  Nanteuil shook his head. ‘The financial transactions are not yet complete. Records and deeds must be signed and sealed. Once that is done, and the money is safely in our bank, then we will have no need of him.’

  ‘What will you do with him?’ Hainault asked.

  ‘Send him out to one of the eastern garrisons. Smyrna, perhaps. Once there, he will soon disappear. If the Turkish arrows don’t get him, the dysentery will.’

  Zajíc laughed. ‘And if those fail, there is always a knife in the back.’

  Nanteuil’s smile broadened. ‘Precisely.’

  Hainault nodded. ‘You have done well. That fool Alençon nearly ruined everything last night, but I think we have recovered. I spoke to Doria, and he has agreed to remain with us. Vaud and Grimaldi have withdrawn, but we can go ahead without them. Now that we have Tracey’s money, we are strong enough to proceed.’