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

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 Marshal 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.’

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.