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

battlefield, herald. I have killed the Prince of Wales. Now I will kill you, unless you yield.’

The first blow of the staff smashed the sword out of Aumale’s hand. Reversing his grip, Merrivale aimed the second at his head, knocking his bascinet off; before it had hit the ground, the third blow fractured Aumale’s skull and he reeled out of the saddle. Sensing rather than seeing the men behind him, Merrivale whirled around, ducked under the belly of an onrushing horse and clubbed another man to the ground. Standing over the prince’s body, he fended off the blows aimed at him, splinters flying from the staff. A detached corner of his mind said, I cannot hold them for long. Not alone.

And then, he was no longer alone. Holland was beside him, and Salisbury and Despenser and Mortimer, and Gurney guarding their backs, and they fought with a desperate fury that stunned the French and drove them back. For a few moments the enemy circled them, probing with sword and mace, looking for an opening. ‘Christ,’ said Holland through his teeth. ‘We’re outnumbered.’

‘Nothing new,’ said Mortimer. His arm was dripping blood.

‘Let us make a good death, gentlemen,’ said Despenser, and the French turned again and closed for the kill.

But even as the first blows fell, the wolves began to howl, ‘Rouge! Roooooouge! Roooooouge!’ and the Red Company were there, smashing bodily into the French and shoving them back. Warwick and Sully followed with a phalanx of men-at-arms behind them. Three of the French went down in a moment, and the bloody spears rose and fell as they lay on the ground. The rest, bleeding and battered, broke and fled down the hill, desperately trying to escape the arrow storm and return to their own lines.

Merrivale leaned on his broken staff, gasping for breath. Thomas Holland knelt over the body of the prince, unfastening his bascinet and feeling his neck. ‘Praise God,’ he said, and when he looked up, there were tears on his face. ‘He is alive.’

‘They’re running out of arrows on the front line,’ said the messenger. He was panting with effort, having run all the way from the prince’s division to the baggage train. ‘We need volunteers to carry them down to the archers.’

Mauro and Warin were on their feet at once, other men crowding forward. ‘Me too,’ said Nell.

‘All right, lass. We’ll strap them to your back, like so.’

The arrows were in bundles of four dozen; they were not heavy, but they were bulky to carry. They strapped five bundles across her back, loading her like a donkey, and she tucked two more under her arms and ran after the others down towards the prince’s division, passing the guns on the way and smelling hot metal and the strange brimstone stink of the burnt serpentine. The last of the French were galloping down the slope, still pursued by arrows. The men down at the far tip of the wedge would have been shooting longest, she reasoned; they would be most in need of arrows. She ran along the ranks of the archers until she came to the men in the red iron caps.

‘I brought arrows,’ she said breathlessly.

‘Good girl,’ said the master bowman. He unfastened the bundles and began handing round the arrows. Other archers came in from the field where the dead men and horses lay thickly on the slope, carrying more arrows with bloody points that they had pulled out of the corpses. Pip was one of them, holding an arrow that still had a string of flesh hanging from the barbs. ‘Did you bring any water?’ she asked.

‘No. I’ll bring a waterskin next time.’

‘Do it, and I’ll light a candle for your soul.’ The ground vibrated to sudden thunder, and she looked around sharply. ‘Here they come again. Get down, girl, and stay behind me.’

Another French company was launching itself up the hill, bright banners flowing, lances levelled, men shouting ‘Montjoie! Montjoie Saint-Denis!’ The archers waited, tense and still, arrows embedded point first in the ground in front of them. Crouched behind Pip’s legs, Nell heard someone murmuring a prayer.

‘Steady,’ the master bowman said quietly. ‘Wait till they’re in range…’

There were fewer horsemen than before, only a few hundred this time, but the drumming of their hooves was deafening and the ground shivered. Sudden panic seized Nell, and she looked around for somewhere to run.

‘Now,’ said the master bowman.

Pip nocked an arrow, drew back the string to her ear and released. The first arrow was still in flight when she shot the second, and then she and all the archers around her became machines, nock-draw-release, nock-draw-release, nock-draw-release, over and over without pause. The grey-feathered shafts rose and fell, descending on the French like hail. Looking between Pip’s legs, Nell saw men falling and dying, some pierced with arrows, some trampled under the hooves of horses running mad with pain, more arrows sticking out of their bodies like pins in a cushion. She heard the shouting and screaming, the cries for help, the hoarse exhortations to charge on, charge on, until the French battle cries of Montjoie! were finally drowned out by the sounds of death.

The enemy almost made it to the English line; the last horseman was shot down so close that his mount rolled kicking and thrashing in among the archers, knocking several down. Its rider lay on the ground a few feet from Nell, and she watched with fearful fascination as blood poured from the breathing holes in his bascinet. Then he gave a long groan of pain as his soul left his body, and lay still.

‘That’s the last of them for now,’ Pip said. She looked down at Nell. ‘Go on, girl, we need more arrows. And don’t forget that waterskin.’

The second attack had been led by the Count of Blois (white bend on blue, the herald’s mind recorded with detachment) and his brother-in-law the Duke of Lorraine (three white eagles on red). Both men were shot down within a few