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

‘Saint-Lô is reputed to be the strongest fortress in Normandy,’ Merrivale said. ‘Taking it will not be easy.’

‘Yes, well. The king has determined that this is what shall happen, and so it will happen. Bertrand will be captured and paraded around Normandy to persuade other nobles to forswear their allegiance to the adversary and join us instead. His Grace and the lord of Harcourt have offered a reward to the man who captures Bertrand. Five thousand marks of silver.’

‘Five thousand marks? I thought the treasury was empty.’

‘It is. God knows where the money will come from. Thankfully, that’s not my problem. Get some sleep, my friend. And if you should dream of your Norman demoiselle… well, do come and tell me all about it, won’t you?’

Walking back through the camp, Merrivale spotted a shadow moving ahead of him, a man going carefully and staying out of the firelight. Something about him seemed familiar; after a few moments he realised it was Holland’s vintenar, the man with the scarred head. Shrugging off his bright tabard, he rolled it up and tucked it under his arm, and followed the man across the camp and out beyond its eastern limits. Soon they had passed beyond the watchfires and were deep in shadow. Out on the marshes, moonlight glowed bright off stagnant pools. The calls of night birds echoed across the water.

The big man stopped. Another shadow joined him almost at once, another archer with his bow over his shoulder. There was a brief whispered conversation, too far away for Merrivale to hear, and then the two men parted. On impulse, rather than going after the vintenar, he followed the other man back through the firelit camp. He was a lean, long-limbed man, and he walked furtively past the tents and banners, hunched over a little and often looking around him, so that the herald was forced to keep his distance.

Not far from the Saint-Lô gate, the man came to a campfire. Other archers sat around it, playing dice on a blanket laid on the ground. They grinned up at him. ‘Roit, me ’ansom,’ said one of them in Devon dialect. ‘How be ’ackin’?’

‘We’re to Saint-Lô tomorrow, boy,’ said the tall man. ‘Bate told me all about it just now. Time to fill our purses when we get there. What you playing, boys?’

‘Hazard, me ’ansom,’ said the first man. ‘Farthing a stake.’ He grinned again. ‘You want to fill your purse tomorrow, Nicodemus, you’ll need to empty it first.’

Standing in the shadows, the herald saw a shield outside a tent further along: two red bends, diagonal bars, on a yellow field, the arms of Edward de Tracey from Dunkeswell. These men were presumably from his retinue. The man called Nicodemus sat down on the ground, folding his long legs and leaning forward.

‘Here, boys,’ he said, lowering his voice a little. ‘You know what else Bate told me? He and the Lanky lads found a nice little pullet in town this morning.’

The other archers chuckled. ‘Did they swyve her?’ one asked.

‘They was all set to, but then that herald came along and took her off ’em. Bate, well, he ain’t happy.’

This made them chuckle still more. ‘Bate’s in a bate?’ suggested one, and they all roared with laughter. ‘Now you listen, boys,’ Nicodemus said urgently. ‘This is serious. Bate says he’s going to send that herald across the river.’

The laughter stopped. ‘Send him across the river?’ said the man who had spoken first. ‘Has Bate gone mad? You don’t go round killin’ your own folk, me ’ansom. Especially not a herald. They’ll hang him so high he’ll be able to see England from the gallows.’

‘Not if they don’t know who did it,’ said Nicodemus. There was a moment of silence. ‘Now you keep quiet about this, all of you,’ Nicodemus warned. ‘You never heard anything. That means you, Jakey boy. Keep your trap shut.’

‘So we’re just going to sit and do nothing?’ the other man said, the unhappiness plain in his voice.

‘That’s right,’ Nicodemus said. ‘We keep out of it. The master wouldn’t like it. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ the man said finally, and the others nodded.

8

Pont-Hébert, 21st of July, 1346

Late afternoon

Long and haunting, the notes of the trumpet echoed over the silent marshes. Listening to the call, the herald thought the silvery notes were like the sound of dawn, perfectly matching the ethereal light that seeped into the eastern sky and swallowed up the stars.

Swiftly the army formed up and prepared to march. By sunrise, the vanguard had crossed the marshes on the far side of Carentan and was already turning south, following the road to Saint-Lô through rolling hills patterned with hedgerows and clumps of trees. Spurred on by the thought of five thousand marks, the companies of Holland, Tracey, Despenser and the Red Company raced each other for the lead, but there was no doubt as to who would win; the Red Company were mounted, while the other three were on foot. By mid morning, Sir John and Sir Richard and their men were nothing more than dust clouds on the southern horizon.

Four miles short of Saint-Lô, the Red Company came to Pont-Hébert, a bridge over the River Vire with a hamlet of wood and stone houses at the far end. The marshes were far behind now, and the Vire ran through a steep valley a hundred feet deep; there was no other way across. And Robert Bertrand had left a detachment of crossbowmen on guard here, with orders to prevent the enemy from crossing.

He had reckoned without the Red Company. Dismounting, they drove the enemy back with showers of arrows and charged over the bridge, shooting or stabbing anyone who tried to resist. Assuming that the crossbowmen had been broken, Grey and Percy remounted their men and rode on towards Saint-Lô. But the remaining defenders were made of tougher metal. Waiting until the Red Company were out of sight, they came out of the houses where they had hidden and