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

when wearing a mail coat with plate armour over top. ‘We have spies in Paris. We must assume the adversary also has spies in London.’

The king looked dissatisfied. ‘So where are they now? Why did they not stay and fight?’

‘We don’t know.’ Warwick paused again. ‘The first element of the plan is complete, sire. Lord Cobham, Sir Thomas Holland and the Red Company have established a defensive line to protect the beach. Shall we proceed with the landing?’

The king nodded, wiping his nose again. ‘Make it so. Where is my son?’

Edmund Bray, esquire to the Prince of Wales, stepped forward. ‘His Highness has just come ashore, sire. He sent me to ask what your orders might be.’

More ships were moving into the bay, dark red sails glowing in the strong sunlight. ‘Now that the prince is here, I think we should hold the ceremony without delay,’ the king said. ‘I shall first confer the accolade of knighthood on my son and heir. After that, as a demonstration that I am king of France, Godefroi d’Harcourt will do homage to me for his lands in Normandy. That will hearten the troops and put the fear of God into the rest of the Norman nobles. It will make good reading back home, too.’

Warwick raised his eyebrows. ‘I am certain it will, sire. But is this the right time? We need to get the rest of the army ashore first, find the enemy and learn what strength they have. Robert Bertrand and his troops might still be in the area. With respect, sire, I think we have better things to do.’

Another man, stocky and dark-haired in a blue surcoat with white trefoils over his gleaming armour, shook his head. ‘The purpose of this campaign is to take and hold Normandy,’ he said. ‘If we can wrest our adversary’s richest and most important province from his control, his power will begin to crumble. His nobles will turn against him and he will be forced to make peace, on terms advantageous to us.’

‘Get to the point, Eustace,’ the king said impatiently.

‘We cannot hold Normandy without the support of the Norman nobility, sire. You said it yourself. My lord of Harcourt’s pledge of fealty to you, especially with fifteen thousand troops at your back, will concentrate their minds. Once they learn that one of the most important Norman barons has publicly backed you, others will follow his example.’

‘Yes,’ said the king, dabbing at his nose again. ‘Yes, I am persuaded, Eustace. Where shall we do this?’

Eustace Maninghem, the lord of Rowton, pointed towards Quettehou up on the escarpment. ‘What about the church up there? I believe it is dedicated to Saint-Vigor, one of the patron saints of Normandy. Perfect symbolism, sire, don’t you think?’

‘Quettehou is on the perimeter of our position,’ Warwick said. ‘We have sent out scouts to the west, but have yet to hear reports from them. If Bertrand attacks during the ceremony, you and the prince will be vulnerable, sire. If we are going to do this, do it down here, on the beach.’

Rowton shook his head. ‘We should hold the ceremony in a sacred place, to show the people that God is on our side. God himself will be witness to the oaths that are sworn there. I am sure the king’s household knights will be able to protect him and the prince.’ He looked at Warwick. ‘And you said it yourself, my friend. The enemy have departed. For the moment, at least, I think the danger is hypothetical.’

The king rubbed his chin. ‘What do you say, Thomas?’

Warwick knew when he was beaten. He smiled. ‘I defer to the sage advice of my friend Lord Rowton.’

‘Good,’ said the king. ‘It is settled. Send word to all the captains, and instruct them to join us as soon as they land. God is welcome to attend this ceremony, but I want plenty of mortal witnesses as well. Master Bray, tell the Prince of Wales to attend on me at the church in Quettehou at midday.’

Bray bowed his head. ‘Yes, sire.’

The king waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Thomas,’ he said to the marshal, as Bray turned away, ‘I want to know how the devil Robert Bertrand knew we were landing at Saint-Vaast. Find out for me, will you?’

Bray hurried back along the beach through curtains of drifting smoke. More men were coming ashore, men-at-arms in glittering mail and plate, archers with their longbows slung across their backs, Welsh and Cornish spearmen shouting to each other in their own tongue. Skittish horses, released from confinement aboard ship, pranced and galloped on the beach while grooms tried to round them up. Further on, men were dragging wagon boxes up onto the sand and jacking them up to fit them with axles and wheels.

Sniffing the smoke in the air and quivering like a hunting dog waiting to be let off the lead, the sixteen-year-old Prince of Wales stood waiting by the boats. His esquires and attendants gathered around him, the golden dragon standard of Wales floating overhead in the wind. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Did you find him?’

‘Yes, Highness,’ said Bray. ‘We are summoned to join the king at midday, at the church in Quettehou.’

‘Oh yes, the ceremony,’ the prince said carelessly. ‘My father is going to claim the throne of France. Again. Where are the enemy, Edmund?’ he demanded. ‘When do we get to do some fighting?’

‘Patience, Highness,’ Bray said, smiling. ‘As part of the ceremony, his Grace will also confer on you the honour of knighthood.’

‘He’s going to make me a knight?’

‘That is what he said, Highness.’

‘Yes!’ With a clash of armour, the prince raised one clenched fist in the air. ‘At last I shall have my spurs! Now everyone will see that I am no longer a child!’

The young Earl of Salisbury, the prince’s closest friend, clapped him on the back with delight. Fitz-Simon, the standard-bearer, waved the gold dragon with enthusiasm. The others cheered, some more dutifully than others. Roger Mortimer, a tall young