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

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 bolts 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!’

The French hesitated, their momentum checked by the Red Company’s counter-attack, and the fighting in the shallows turned into a vicious mêlée full of stabbing spears and hissing arrows. Holland’s men came up the middle, slamming into the fray, and then the prince and his household reached shore. Merrivale urged his horse out of the water across a foreshore churned to red mud and carpeted with bodies. Courcy rode across in front of him, yelling and dodging the lance thrust of a French man-at-arms and then slashing at the man’s head. Gráinne jumped down from the back of the horse and ran after him, followed by the gallowglasses. Another Frenchman rode towards Merrivale, lance lowered, but at the last moment he saw the herald’s tabard and checked, pulling up his horse; as he halted, Donnchad ripped him out of the saddle and hurled him to the ground, pulled open the visor of his bascinet and stabbed him. Northampton and Warwick were already in the middle of the fray, swords swinging. The prince rode forward, yelling to his companions to follow him, making for the spot where Mortimer and Gurney were still defending the fallen Despenser.

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