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

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