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

It was growing late by the time they finished eating. They offered her a blanket in the kitchen to sleep on, but Nell wanted to keep an eye on Marigold, who hadn’t given as much milk as usual and might be suffering from the long confinement aboard ship. She accepted the blanket and went back to the byre to check on the cows, then lay down in a pile of straw, pulling the blanket over her and falling asleep. After a while, she slipped into a dream, in which she could hear voices, quiet like they were coming from a long way away.

Curse this weather. If the wind stays against us, the king could abandon the entire expedition and go home. All that preparation and expense, and nothing to show for it.

Calm yourself. The king’s heart is set on this venture. He won’t turn back, not now.

Something in the straw tickled her nose and she woke up. She heard again the two voices from the dream, only it wasn’t a dream and the men were right outside the byre, speaking softly.

‘This delay could ruin everything.’

‘The weather won’t last forever,’ the second voice said. ‘The wind will change, and as soon as it does we will cross over to France. Trust me, I know the king as well as anyone. He’ll not turn back now.’

‘And Bertrand? If the army doesn’t arrive when expected, he and the other Norman loyalists will think we have played him false. What do we do about him?’

Nell lay still, listening hard. Their English was accented, and she had to concentrate to understand what they were saying. The worried man sounded like he came from the West Country; she thought the other might be from somewhere in the north.

‘We need to get word to him,’ the second man said. ‘Get a messenger across to Normandy and tell him the king still intends to land at Saint-Vaast but it will be later than planned. He needs to hold his men together and wait.’

‘And how am I meant to get a message to France? My ships cannot sail into a headwind, any more than the king’s can.’

‘You have money,’ the northerner said. ‘And as you keep telling me, with the right amount of money, anything is possible. Make it happen.’

The West Country man growled under his breath. ‘Oh aye, very well. I’ll see what I can do. What about Harcourt?’

‘If Bertrand succeeds, then Harcourt will be discredited. Do you see now why this is so important? You must get that message to Bertrand.’

‘I will. Christ, now it’s raining again. A pox on this bloody weather!’

The voices faded as the two men walked away. Silence fell. Nell lay for a moment in the darkness, trying to work out the meaning of what she had heard. They needed to send a message across to Normandy, to warn someone called Bertrand. But who was Bertrand? An enemy? Or one of the king’s Norman friends?

She wondered if she should tell someone what she had overheard. But she was a fourteen-year-old cowherd from Hampshire, and she had no idea who to approach or whether they would listen to her. She couldn’t tell her own master, the chief herdsman, because he was still sick aboard the transport. She would tell Master Coloyne tomorrow, she decided, and let him decide the matter.

Pleased at having reached a decision, she fell back into sleep.

1

Saint-Vaast, 12th of July, 1346

Morning

As the northern man had predicted, the bad weather did not last forever. On the 11th of July, the clouds rolled away and the wind changed. The invasion force unfurled its sails, swept down the Solent and out into the open sea, turning its bows south towards Normandy.

At dawn on the 12th, the first ships arrived in the Bay of Saint-Vaast and the leading companies of the army came ashore. Archers and men-at-arms jumped out of their boats into the shallow water, alert and looking for the enemy. Some climbed up the steep escarpment overlooking the bay, taking up defensive positions around the village of Quettehou. Others ran towards a row of ships drawn up on the sand near the little fishing port of Saint-Vaast. Within a few minutes, these were burning fiercely.

King Edward III of England came ashore mid morning, landing on the beach beneath a sky stained with smoke. Clad in armour and a surcoat bearing the royal arms, three snarling gold leopards on a field of red, he stepped out of the boat and stood for a moment, hand resting on his sword hilt, while he gazed at the scene around him.

‘I have come to claim what is mine,’ he said. He took a long stride up the beach, tripped, and fell flat on his face.

His courtiers paused in horror, then rushed to help him to his feet. Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick and Marshal of England, coughed behind his hand. ‘It seems your land is eager to embrace you, sire.’

‘Don’t be sarcastic, Thomas,’ the king said curtly, brushing sand off his surcoat and wiping blood from his nose. ‘What is our position?’

‘We have met with no resistance, sire. Both Saint-Vaast and Quettehou are abandoned.’

‘Any sign of the enemy?’

‘Not yet.’ Warwick paused. ‘But they were here, and quite recently too. And what is more, they were expecting us.’

The king stared at him. ‘How do you know?’

‘We found the remains of campfires near Saint-Vaast.’ Warwick pointed to the smouldering remains of the ships. ‘And those vessels were fitted out for war. They had castles fore and aft, and some were armed with mangonels. There is no doubt about it, sire. Robert Bertrand and his men intended to mount a strong defence of this place.’

Blood continued to drip down into the king’s moustache. His secretary handed him a square of linen. Irritably he wiped the blood away. ‘But how did they know we were landing here?’ he demanded. ‘How did they know about Saint-Vaast?’

Warwick shrugged his shoulders, not an easy thing to do