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

Lorraine and most of the others who could have taken command. Their army is leaderless now.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ asked the king.

‘A counter-attack,’ said Lord Rowton. ‘At dawn tomorrow, before they have time to muster. The scouts tell us they are spread out, camped all across the country between here and Abbeville. We can exploit this before they have a chance to re-form. Sire, we destroyed part of the French army today. Tomorrow we can complete the work.’

‘I won’t risk the whole force,’ the king said. ‘Take five hundred men-at-arms and two thousand archers, and do as much damage as you can.’ He looked at Northampton. ‘William, you are in command. Thomas, Eustace, go with him.’ The three men nodded.

The king turned to the herald, waiting to one side. ‘You wish to speak with me?’

‘I know where Edmund de Tracey is, sire. He is with the enemy at Saint-Riquier.’

‘Is he, by God?’ The king turned to Rowton, then paused and looked instead at Warwick. ‘Order the Red Company to go to Saint-Riquier tomorrow morning. Herald, you’ll go with them. Bring back Tracey, or bring back his head. I don’t care which.’

Saint-Riquier, 27th of August, 1346

Morning

The mist had risen in the night and turned into a cold, clinging fog that draped like a blanket over the fields and forests. Drops of water hung from the leaves and branches of the trees, and dew glittered on the grass. Visibility in the dawn light was not much more than a quarter of a mile.

The Red Company had stuffed wadding around the bridles and bits of their horses to reduce the noise, and they moved almost soundlessly through the fog. ‘It’s an old Border trick,’ Sir John Grey said. ‘Both sides do this when they are out stealing cattle.’

‘An interesting example to follow,’ the herald said drily.

‘We learn where we can. Who knows? We may need to take up cattle-stealing ourselves one day.’

Shapes in the fog ahead, the pavilions and tents of a French encampment; they had already passed two of these. Northampton and Warwick, following behind, would deal with them. Grey raised a finger for silence and then motioned left, and the column slipped away through the fog.

Leaving the camp behind, they passed over broad open fields. The light grew a little stronger, the fog swirling around them. More silhouettes loomed up, houses this time, and beyond them the tower of an abbey church, dark and indistinct. Grey held up his hand again and the column came to a halt. Richard Percy, who had been scouting ahead, rode back to join them. ‘The Knights are there,’ he said. ‘Some in the houses, some in tents in the meadow beyond. The Grand Prior’s banner flies over the gateway of the abbey.’

‘Then that is where Tracey will be,’ Merrivale said. ‘Nanteuil will keep him close, I think.’

‘The Knights are supposed to be neutral, under the protection of the pope,’ Percy said. ‘Are we certain we want to do this?’

‘The Prior of France is not neutral,’ Merrivale said. ‘Nanteuil has mustered his men and is serving in the adversary’s army. As one makes one’s bed, so one finds it.’

‘The Grand Master will be angry,’ Grey said.

‘The Grand Master is far away on Rhodes, killing dragons,’ Percy pointed out. ‘He has other things on his mind.’

Sudden commotion in the fog, the distant sound of shouting as Northampton and Warwick began to overrun the sleeping camps. ‘Let’s go,’ said Grey. ‘Quickly, before they are alert.’

The Red Company exploded out of the fog, surrounding Saint-Riquier on three sides and riding hard into the town, men jumping down from the saddle and shooting or stabbing the startled knights and their retainers who came running out of the houses. Grey, Percy and their esquires, followed by twenty archers and Merrivale, rode straight to the abbey gates, ignoring the fighting around them. Two of the red-cloaked Knights of Saint John who tried to bar their way were shot down in pools of blood; the rest fled. ‘These fellows really aren’t as tough as I thought they would be,’ Richard Percy said.

‘I agree,’ said Grey. ‘My money is on the dragons.’

Behind them, the brief carnage in the streets was already over, the surviving knights fleeing across the fields into the safety of the fog. More red-capped men ran up to the gatehouse, pushing an empty wagon. ‘Battering ram,’ Grey explained. ‘All right, Jacques, break it open.’

Rammed by the wagon, the abbey gates opened with a splintering crash and the archers raced inside. Two more knights were shot down in the courtyard almost before they could move. Grey, Percy and Merrivale rode through the gates and dismounted. ‘Where is Nanteuil?’ Grey asked.

‘I am here.’

Jean de Nanteuil walked out of the abbey church, his cloak with its white cross swirling around him. He held a loaded crossbow in his hands. ‘In the name of Christ,’ he said sharply. ‘You are committing blasphemy! Those men you killed were crusaders, sworn to the service of God. And you have stained this holy place with their blood.’

‘Where is Edward de Tracey?’ Merrivale asked.

Nanteuil’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want with him?’

‘To see justice done to a traitor.’

‘Justice done to a traitor,’ Nanteuil repeated slowly. ‘How ironic.’ He raised the crossbow, aiming at Merrivale. Bowstrings twanged in unison, and Nanteuil fell down the steps of the abbey, arrows protruding from his chest and neck. His body twitched once and lay still. Blood pooled on the worn stone, shining in the dim light.

Percy stepped over the body and walked inside the church. He returned a moment later. ‘Tracey is there,’ he said. ‘He is at the altar, claiming sanctuary.’

‘Sanctuary be damned,’ said John Grey. ‘Bring him out. Use whatever force is necessary.’

Two archers dragged Tracey outside. He wore the same red cloak as Nanteuil, over a simple robe, the habit of the Knights; he was neither armed nor armoured. Blood ran down his face from a cut on his forehead. The archers held him upright, arms