A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  Rožmberk shook his head. ‘I am not happy about Alençon. He has exposed himself as an arrogant fool. Have we no better candidate for king?’

  Hainault paused, thinking. ‘There is Jeanne of Navarre,’ he said. ‘Or if the nobles will not accept her, then her son Charles. He is fourteen now; we could make something of him.’

  Grooms arrived with their horses. Hainault stepped easily into the saddle, armour clattering. ‘But first we must dispose of the English,’ he said.

  ‘Do you think the herald told the truth?’ asked Rožmberk. ‘They are waiting for us at Crécy?’

  ‘We will know soon enough. I am riding out with the scouts to see for myself.’ Hainault picked up the reins. ‘And I meant what I said. If Merrivale has played us false, he will die.’

  Crécy-en-Ponthieu, 26th of August, 1346

  Morning

  ‘It is a good position,’ Sir John Sully said. ‘Northampton has chosen well.’

  The ridge where the English would make their stand was high and steep, but not too high or too steep to deter the French from attacking. Anchoring the position on the right was the village of Crécy, a huddle of deserted houses next to the forest; the left flank was protected by another village and the marshes of a small river.

  A windmill stood on the highest point of the ridge, its sails unmoving in the hot, still air. Even though it was not yet midday, Merrivale could feel sweat trickling down his back, and his shirt was soaked beneath his thick tabard. Sully’s dog lay on the grass behind his master, panting in the heat.

  Around them the army flowed out of the forest, men-at-arms on horseback shining with metal and colour, long columns of archers in faded russet and green, the remaining baggage wagons pulled by their tired teams. Thomas Ughtred sat on his horse at the crest of the ridge, guiding each company into position. The wagons went to the rear; Mauro would be there, with the cart, and Merrivale had made sure that Nell went with him.

  Courcy had taken command of the guns and was siting them on the forward slope of the ridge a little east of the windmill, while men carried barrels of serpentine down from the wagon park. Gráinne and the gallowglasses were there too, protecting the gunners. Only Tiphaine and Warin remained with Merrivale.

  Michael Northburgh rode up beside them, mopping his brow in the heat. ‘You are a herald,’ he said to Merrivale. ‘You should stay out of the fighting.’

  Merrivale shook his head. ‘My place is with the prince.’

  ‘You have done enough already. You exposed Tracey.’

  Merrivale shook his head. ‘Too late. I did what I could, and tried to sow dissension amongst them. But I doubt it will be enough.’

  Northburgh nodded. ‘Then send the demoiselle with me. I will see she is kept safe.’

  Tiphaine looked at Merrivale, the bruise plain on her face. ‘You are not a fighter,’ the herald said gently. ‘Go with him. He will be near the king, and well protected.’

  She stared at him for a long time, and then suddenly, surprisingly, she smiled. ‘It seems we have another river to cross,’ she said. ‘I will see you on the further shore.’ She turned her horse and rode away, trotting beside Northburgh. Merrivale dismounted, handing over the reins to Warin. ‘Find Mauro and Mistress Driver. Stay with them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘A moment, young man.’ Sully slipped a lead onto his dog’s collar and handed it to Warin. ‘Take him with you, and keep him safe.’ He grinned at Merrivale. ‘I may be too old for demoiselles, but he is still precious to me.’

  ‘You will never be too old for demoiselles,’ said Merrivale. ‘Remember Algeciras?’

  ‘Every day,’ said Sully.

  The prince and his men-at-arms were dismounting too. Warwick and Ughtred were among them, giving quick, terse directions. The vanguard deployed across the forward slope, the dismounted men-at-arms and Welsh spearmen forming a dense hedge with the archers in wedges on each flank. Northampton and the second division were off to the left, covering that flank; the king’s division were in reserve, deployed around the windmill.

  It was a strong formation, the herald thought, and one that had given England victory before; but never against odds of four to one.

  The sun climbed higher in the sky. Flies buzzed around them in the heat, feasting off men’s sweat. Men-at-arms broke off the butts of their long lances to make them easier to handle on foot. Some of the Welshmen dug potholes in the ground in front of their position, hoping to trip up the enemy’s horses. Beyond them, archers sat on the ground, checking and rechecking the fletchings of their arrows and the stringing of their bows. The king arrived, accompanied by Northampton and Rowton, inspected the position and was gone. The Bishop of Durham followed, raising his pectoral cross and blessing the troops. Then he too departed.

  They waited.

  * * *

  Most of the Red Company were behind the front line, where Warwick had posted them as a tactical reserve, but their sixty longbowmen had been sent to join the other archers. They were waiting now at the tip of one of the wedges, closest to the enemy. ‘God’s bones, I’m hungry,’ said one of them, rubbing his stomach. Last night’s dinner had been pease pottage with onions; this morning there had been no food at all.

  ‘Where do you think the French will come from?’ Pip asked.

  Robert Fletcher, the master bowman, pointed to a road in the distance, running out from behind the forest and across the fields. ‘That’s the road from Abbeville. That’s where they’ll come.’

  ‘No sign of ’em yet,’ said Matt.

  Fletcher bent his bow and strung it, testing the string. ‘They’ll come.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Pip, looking at the sky. ‘That’s not the only thing coming. See those clouds?’ Bulbous white clouds were billowing up on the horizon. The air was thick and heavy, and the drone of the flies was a constant nagging song. ‘There’s rain on its way,’ Pip said.

  Fletcher squinted at the clouds for a moment, and then came to a decision. ‘Unstring your bows,’ he said to his men. ‘Put the strings under your caps.’

  They obeyed, and the other archers around them began doing the same. The bowstrings were waxed to keep them dry, but the rain that accompanied thunderstorms could be torrential; it was better to be safe than sorry.

  Thunder growled distant in the air. Matt pointed suddenly. ‘There,’ she said quietly.

  Bright specks of colour in the distance, four horsemen came riding up the road from Abbeville.

  Near Abbeville, 26th of August, 1346

  Early afternoon

  ‘We have found them, sire,’ John of Hainault said an hour later. ‘They are just where I said they would be, on the ridge above Crécy.’

  ‘What strength have they?’ King Philippe demanded.

  ‘Perhaps ten thousand, sire, no more. They have dismounted and are drawn up for battle. Now is the time, sire. You must order every man to march towards Crécy.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ The king looked around, nervous and irritable as always. ‘What has happened to my brother? Where is Alençon?’

  ‘He and the vanguard rode away towards the north-west, sire,’ said another man.

  ‘The north-west? For Christ’s sake, what for? Find him at once and tell him to march towards Crécy as quickly as possible. And tell him I don’t want any goddamned arguments this time. For once in his life, he is to obey orders. He is to march to Crécy and wait for me there before deploying his men.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Find Doria too, and tell him to get his men up there, now. I want him on the field before the rest of the army arrives, so his crossbowmen can cover us while we deploy for battle. Tell him I want him at the head of the column of march, in front of Alençon. Quickly now!’

  Hainault waved a hand and the messengers sped away, their horses kicking up clouds of dust in the heat. ‘Tell me this will work,’ Philippe demanded. ‘Tell me that bastard Edward won’t escape again.’

  ‘He cannot escape,’ Hainault said. �
��His army is all but finished. They are exhausted, footsore and out of food. But remember, a wounded lion is still dangerous. Be calm, sire, act with deliberation and remember the principles of war. If you do, you will prevail.’

  The king said nothing for a moment, biting his lip. ‘Very well,’ he said finally. ‘Our destiny awaits us at Crécy, it seems.’

  * * *

  The messengers found the Count of Alençon and the vanguard five miles north-west of Abbeville. ‘The scouts have located the enemy, Majesty. They are at Crécy, just as the reports said. They are drawn up and waiting for us.’

  ‘At Crécy?’ Alençon glared at them. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? Of course the English aren’t at Crécy. God damn it, I tell you, they are marching north!’

  ‘Sire,’ said Rollond de Brus. ‘The scouts have seen the enemy with their own eyes. They are at Crécy.’

  ‘Christ’s blood, Brus, you too? Are you as incompetent as the rest?’ Brus looked at him, tight-lipped. ‘First you let the enemy snatch that treacherous little bitch from La Roche-Guyon before you could burn her,’ Alençon said. ‘Then you let her and that damned herald walk straight into our camp, and even worse, let them get away again. You failed me, Brus. I don’t like people who fail.’

  ‘I apologise if I have given offence, your Imperial Majesty. Meanwhile, the English are at Crécy, and every minute that passes increases the chance that they will escape once more. Is that your desire?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Alençon told him. ‘Where is this place Crécy, anyway? Does anyone know?’

  Brus said nothing. ‘Eight miles to the north-east, Majesty,’ said one of the messengers.

  ‘Then what does the king want me to do?’

  ‘You are to march to Crécy with all possible speed, Majesty. Once you reach the field, you are to wait until the king arrives.’

  ‘Wait? Why wait, for Christ’s sake? Very well, find my captains and tell them to turn the column. But by God, my brother had better be right about this.’

  * * *

  Ponderously the vast column of men-at-arms turned and began riding north-east across the open fields towards Crécy, the dark shape of the forest ahead on the left. To the right, boiling clouds of dust showed where other columns were also marching hard towards the battlefield. Alençon seethed behind his visor, furious at being made to look like a fool in front of his own men. He needed someone to blame for this, someone he could punish in order to restore his esteem. He considered taking it out on Brus again, but Brus was useful. A different scapegoat was needed.

  An hour later, he found one. The vanguard reached the road running north-east from Abbeville and swung into column, but almost immediately their progress stalled. Couriers came galloping back from the leading companies. ‘There are men on the road ahead of us, sire. It’s Doria and his Genoese.’

  ‘By Christ!’ Alençon exploded. He turned to Brus. ‘I shall deal with these bastards myself.’

  Clouds were building up over the forest, the unmistakable anvil heads of thunder clouds. Tired from the heat and marching, the white-coated Genoese plodded wearily up the road. Alençon galloped through them, scattering them and lashing out with his riding whip at any who were slow to respond. ‘Doria!’ he shouted. ‘Get these men off the road! At once, do you hear me?’

  Ottone Doria turned his horse. ‘Why?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘Your peasants are blocking the way. Move them and allow my men through.’

  Doria shook his head. ‘I have orders from the king. I am to lead the line of march and cover the rest of the army while it deploys.’

  ‘Lead the line of march? Christ’s blood, Doria! I command the vanguard, not you! Now get these men off the road!’

  ‘No,’ said Doria. ‘I do not take orders from you.’

  Another horseman came galloping up; Brus, his face red with heat under his bascinet. ‘Blois and Lorraine are close behind us. They are demanding that we move forward so they can get to grips with the enemy.’

  Doria slapped his thigh in anger. ‘Do they teach you nothing about war in this country?’ He pointed towards a distant huddle of houses. ‘That village is called Marchemont. When we reach it, we will be able to see Crécy and the enemy. I will deploy my men there and move forward, and you will follow me. Those are the king’s orders. Is that clear?’

  ‘It will be done,’ Brus said curtly, and he turned his horse.

  Alençon lingered for a moment, eyeing Doria. ‘There will be a reckoning between us,’ he said.

  Out on the far horizon, thunder growled. ‘I look forward to it,’ Doria said. ‘Now, if there is nothing else, your Imperial Majesty, we shall resume our march.’

  * * *

  The clouds towered over them now, dark bellies pregnant with lightning. Couriers rode in, all telling the same story. ‘We have forty thousand men crammed in on half a dozen roads,’ Hainault said. ‘The captains are not following the order of march. The men-at-arms are riding ahead too quickly and apart from the Genoese the rest of the foot soldiers are lagging behind.’

  King Philippe bit his lip again. ‘What do you suggest we do?’

  ‘Halt and make camp. We can use the rest of the day to restore order to the army and make certain each company is in position. At the moment, everything is darkness on the face of the deep.’

  The king looked at him. ‘Do you think if I ordered the captains to halt now, they would obey me?’

  Hainault said nothing. ‘I know what is happening,’ the king said. ‘I know there is a conspiracy against me. Isn’t there? Are you part of it, by any chance?’

  ‘No, sire,’ Hainault said steadily.

  ‘Are you telling the truth? I wonder. If I order a halt now, my brother will disobey me. He will attack and very likely defeat the English without me. This will be Alençon’s victory, not mine. His prestige will increase, and mine will decline. Men will murmur against me, more than they do already. But perhaps that is what you want.’

  ‘I want what is best for you, sire,’ Hainault said. ‘And for France.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ the king said ironically. ‘Therefore, the march to Crécy will continue as planned. Make it so.’

  Crécy-en-Ponthieu, 26th of August, 1346

  Late afternoon

  First came the thunder, booming in the air and reverberating off the wall of the forest. Hailstones followed, quickly turning to pelting rain, soaking the tired and hungry men standing waiting on the slope above Crécy. For a while the valley below them was blotted out entirely, but after a few minutes the rain began to ease and the archers saw the fields and the distant road again.

  But something had changed. The road was moving now, crawling with motion. As the curtain of rain lifted a little further, they saw the white coats of Genoese crossbowmen marching steadily forward. They waited, holding their breath, as more and more of the enemy came spilling out from behind the forest. ‘Christ,’ breathed a Red Company archer. ‘How many of them are there?’

  ‘Thousands,’ said Pip.

  ‘Five thousand at least,’ Fletcher said quietly. ‘They must have emptied half of Genoa.’

  Matt touched her cap. ‘Do we string up?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Fletcher. ‘Not until the rain stops.’

  ‘What if it don’t stop?’ someone asked.

  ‘It’ll stop,’ Pip said. She pointed at the sky. ‘Storm’s clearing. There’s blue sky in the west.’

  ‘Aye. But will it clear before the Genoese come within range?’

  Silence fell. The archers waited, listening to the patter of the rain and the sound of their own fast-beating hearts. The Genoese were swinging off the road now and moving into battle formation, long dense lines marching steadily towards them, crossbows at the ready. Behind them, bright colours blurry in the rain, came the first men-at-arms, hundreds of them pouring down the road after the Genoese.

  The rain continued. The Genoese tramped steadily forward. They were a quarter of a mile away now, with a hug
e mass of mounted men, several thousand of them now, pressing eagerly behind. ‘They’re getting close,’ Matt said.

  ‘Wait,’ said Fletcher.

  Down the hill a trumpet called, and the Genoese began to shout, five thousand voices roaring in the rain. ‘Morte!’ they bellowed. ‘Morte! Morte!’ Their voices echoed like thunder around the valley.

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Pip.

  ‘Death,’ another archer said.

  ‘Christ,’ someone else whispered. ‘They’re getting awful near, Rob.’

  ‘Wait,’ Fletcher said again.

  Pip looked up. The blue sky was over their heads now, and there came a sudden dazzle of sun. A few final raindrops flashed golden in the light and the storm was gone, grumbling away into the east. A rainbow danced against the clouds. Three hundred yards away, the Genoese halted and presented their bows. ‘Christ,’ a voice whispered again.

  A black storm of crossbow bolts filled the air. The English archers tensed, bodies waiting for the impact, but the bolts fell short, plunging into the rain-softened earth in front of them and kicking up little spurts of mud. One landed almost at Matt’s feet; the others were yards away.

  ‘String your bows,’ Fletcher said.

  * * *

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Doria snapped. ‘Why can’t we hit them at three hundred yards?’

  ‘We’re shooting uphill, my lord,’ one of his captains said. ‘And the bows are wet. The strings are losing their tension.’

  ‘Advance fifty yards and try again.’

  A trumpet sounded. Chanting once more, the Genoese marched forward. Doria watched the enemy ranks ripple into motion, the archers stringing their bows and reaching for arrows. ‘They are preparing to shoot, my lord,’ the captain said.