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

the king said. ‘I know there is a conspiracy against me. Isn’t there? Are you part of it, by any chance?’

‘No, sire,’ Hainault said steadily.

‘Are you telling the truth? I wonder. If I order a halt now, my brother will disobey me. He will attack and very likely defeat the English without me. This will be Alençon’s victory, not mine. His prestige will increase, and mine will decline. Men will murmur against me, more than they do already. But perhaps that is what you want.’

‘I want what is best for you, sire,’ Hainault said. ‘And for France.’

‘Of course you do,’ the king said ironically. ‘Therefore, the march to Crécy will continue as planned. Make it so.’

Crécy-en-Ponthieu, 26th of August, 1346

Late afternoon

First came the thunder, booming in the air and reverberating off the wall of the forest. Hailstones followed, quickly turning to pelting rain, soaking the tired and hungry men standing waiting on the slope above Crécy. For a while the valley below them was blotted out entirely, but after a few minutes the rain began to ease and the archers saw the fields and the distant road again.

But something had changed. The road was moving now, crawling with motion. As the curtain of rain lifted a little further, they saw the white coats of Genoese crossbowmen marching steadily forward. They waited, holding their breath, as more and more of the enemy came spilling out from behind the forest. ‘Christ,’ breathed a Red Company archer. ‘How many of them are there?’

‘Thousands,’ said Pip.

‘Five thousand at least,’ Fletcher said quietly. ‘They must have emptied half of Genoa.’

Matt touched her cap. ‘Do we string up?’ she asked.

‘Not yet,’ said Fletcher. ‘Not until the rain stops.’

‘What if it don’t stop?’ someone asked.

‘It’ll stop,’ Pip said. She pointed at the sky. ‘Storm’s clearing. There’s blue sky in the west.’

‘Aye. But will it clear before the Genoese come within range?’

Silence fell. The archers waited, listening to the patter of the rain and the sound of their own fast-beating hearts. The Genoese were swinging off the road now and moving into battle formation, long dense lines marching steadily towards them, crossbows at the ready. Behind them, bright colours blurry in the rain, came the first men-at-arms, hundreds of them pouring down the road after the Genoese.

The rain continued. The Genoese tramped steadily forward. They were a quarter of a mile away now, with a huge mass of mounted men, several thousand of them now, pressing eagerly behind. ‘They’re getting close,’ Matt said.

‘Wait,’ said Fletcher.

Down the hill a trumpet called, and the Genoese began to shout, five thousand voices roaring in the rain. ‘Morte!’ they bellowed. ‘Morte! Morte!’ Their voices echoed like thunder around the valley.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Pip.

‘Death,’ another archer said.

‘Christ,’ someone else whispered. ‘They’re getting awful near, Rob.’

‘Wait,’ Fletcher said again.

Pip looked up. The blue sky was over their heads now, and there came a sudden dazzle of sun. A few final raindrops flashed golden in the light and the storm was gone, grumbling away into the east. A rainbow danced against the clouds. Three hundred yards away, the Genoese halted and presented their bows. ‘Christ,’ a voice whispered again.

A black storm of crossbow bolts filled the air. The English archers tensed, bodies waiting for the impact, but the bolts fell short, plunging into the rain-softened earth in front of them and kicking up little spurts of mud. One landed almost at Matt’s feet; the others were yards away.

‘String your bows,’ Fletcher said.

‘For God’s sake!’ Doria snapped. ‘Why can’t we hit them at three hundred yards?’

‘We’re shooting uphill, my lord,’ one of his captains said. ‘And the bows are wet. The strings are losing their tension.’

‘Advance fifty yards and try again.’

A trumpet sounded. Chanting once more, the Genoese marched forward. Doria watched the enemy ranks ripple into motion, the archers stringing their bows and reaching for arrows. ‘They are preparing to shoot, my lord,’ the captain said.

Doria frowned. ‘Do they think they can hit us at this range?’

‘We’re about to find out…’

The air whispered, and then was torn apart by the passage of a thousand arrows. One hit the captain in the neck, two more piercing his body, and he fell to the ground. Doria’s horse was hit in the same instant, and the animal collapsed and pitched him out of the saddle. He fell heavily, rising with his white surcoat stained with mud, and stared in disbelief. The air was full of whistling death, arrows falling from the sky in clouds; all around him men were going down in heaps, their coats stained with blood.

‘Retreat!’ he shouted to the trumpeter, but the trumpeter was already dead.

The rest of the Genoese had not waited for the signal; they were running, desperate to get away from that hideous rain of arrows. Doria followed them, gasping as he laboured on foot. The French horsemen crowded forward, and he heard Alençon’s voice raging at the Genoese. ‘Stand firm! Stand firm, you bastards!’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ Doria screamed. ‘Can’t you see what is happening? They are slaughtering us!’

‘Cowards!’ Alençon spat. ‘Cowards and traitors, all of you! Come on!’ he shouted to his men. ‘Ride the bastards down!’

‘No!’ Doria yelled, but it was too late. Lowering their lances, Alençon’s men charged straight into the packed mass of crossbowmen, and the killing began.

The Genoese had betrayed them; that much was clear. They had taken English bribes and were refusing to fight. Alençon rammed his lance through the body of one crossbowman, felt the lance shatter, dropped the butt and drew his sword, slashing at the heads and shoulders of others. Up ahead, he saw Doria seize a crossbow, fit a bolt to the stock and shoot one of the French men-at-arms; the bolt punched through the man’s breastplate, and he slumped and fell from the saddle. Other Genoese were fighting back too, but Alençon ignored them. He rode straight towards Doria, bloody sword in hand. Rollond de Brus was beside him, yelling and waving the rest of