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

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,’