A Flight of Arrows A.J. MacKenzie (black authors fiction TXT) 📖

with him in the past. He is impressive. We could use his services.’

The West Country man was reluctant. ‘Killing him would be safer.’

Vidal shook his head. ‘But you have failed already, remember? Merrivale is a survivor. And as long as he lives, he will make trouble for you. My advice is to buy him.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ asked the man from the north.

‘Tomorrow your army will attack the bridges on the Somme and try to force a passage,’ said Zajíc. ‘They will fail, of course. No one has ever defeated the blind king.’

Vidal nodded. ‘When the fighting is over, we will send a flag of truce and offer to exchange prisoners. Make certain Merrivale is one of those who comes to meet us. Vilém and I will speak to him then. Be prepared to pay whatever price he asks.’

‘Why are you so certain he will betray his masters?’ asked the man from the West Country.

‘Everyone has his price,’ the Grand Prior said. ‘You have proven that already, my lords.’

The man from the north nodded. ‘We will do as you ask,’ he said.

‘And then what?’ asked the Grand Prior. ‘You spoke of another plan.’

‘Edward’s army is exhausted and running low on food. You must use the Bohemians to hold the bridges, as Master Zajíc suggests, while the rest of the army drives Edward west. Beyond Abbeville, the Somme broadens out into a wide estuary, and there are no more bridges.’

‘But there is a ford,’ John of Hainault said. ‘The White Road across the Somme, which can be crossed at low tide. Remember?’

‘We remember. And we will ensure that Edward remembers too. He is running out of ground for manoeuvre. Faced with a choice between starvation and being pushed into the sea, he will attempt the ford. Once his army is in the river, all you need do is stop up both ends of the ford, pin him there and wait for the tide to come in.’

‘The entire English army will drown,’ said the man from the West Country. ‘And that, gentlemen, will be your moment to strike.’

‘I think you may rely on us to know when it is time to strike,’ said the Grand Prior. He moved towards his horse and stepped up into the saddle. ‘Come, it is dangerous to linger here. Have your money ready, gentlemen. We shall require payment in full.’

He turned his horse and rode away. Brus, Vidal and Zajíc followed him. Hainault waited until they were out of earshot. ‘You must make no mistake this time,’ he said.

‘We shall not,’ said the man from the north.

‘Things happen in war. I understand this, but my friends are less tolerant. Alençon in particular will lose patience quickly. Are you certain you can find the White Road?’

‘I am.’

‘Good.’ Hainault mounted his horse and sat for a moment in the saddle, looking down at them. ‘Good luck, my friends. And remember, no more mistakes.’ Hainault rode away. The man from the north stood looking after him for a moment, and then suddenly, uncharacteristically, he spat hard on the ground.

‘He always was an arrogant bastard,’ he said.

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

Evening

‘We have tried every bridge,’ said Warwick. The marshal looked exhausted, his armour covered with dust and his surcoat dark with dried blood. ‘Pont-Remy, Longpré, Hangest, Picquigny, every time with the same result. Our archers cut the Bohemians to pieces, but they stood their ground and replied with crossbows and stone shot. We could gain no ground.’

Another sunset flamed and died in the west, the end of the hardest day of the campaign so far. A few miles away to the south, the rearguard under Arundel, reinforced by the Red Company, had spent the entire day fighting off a relentless series of French attacks.

‘We left the causeway at Pont-Remy paved with blood,’ said Godefroi d’Harcourt. ‘Their losses were terrible, but so were ours. God curse King Jean. Even blind, he can read a battlefield better than most men.’

‘What about Amiens?’ the king demanded.

‘Heavily fortified, and now most of the adversary’s army are inside the walls. It is even more impregnable than Paris.’

‘Abbeville? That is the last bridge downstream.’

‘Fortified too, with a garrison of local troops and a contingent of Bohemians to stiffen them.’ Warwick paused. ‘There is still the Blanchetaque. The White Road.’

‘The ford west of Abbeville,’ said the king. ‘I’ve heard of it, of course. Does anyone know where it is?’

‘The Blanchetaque? It is a myth, sire,’ said Lord Rowton. ‘The country people talk about a white road under the water where ghosts of Roman soldiers march when the moon is full.’

‘Perhaps it is a myth, and perhaps it isn’t,’ the king said. ‘But if the ford is there, and we can’t force the bridges, then it may be the answer to our prayers.’

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,