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

castle and the Bourg-le-Roi. Looking through the narrow windows, Merrivale could see the sharp glitter of flames on the high ground west of the city. The storm was about to break.

Down on the bridge, the men around the barricade were alert, swords drawn, spears braced, crossbows ready. He could hear more men moving around on the roof of the tower overhead. Another column of men-at-arms and crossbowmen came down past the church of Saint-Pierre to the far end of the bridge and took up position in the half-timbered houses that lined the span, crouching in doorways or climbing up to lean out of windows The tide was nearly out, the river crowded with boats shrunk to a narrow channel with gleaming expanses of mud on either side.

Once again a key rasped in the lock and the door swung open. The Count of Eu walked into the room, clad in brilliantly polished metal armour with his bascinet tucked under one arm. The lion and cross on his surcoat were stitched with gold thread. Other men-at-arms followed him. One of them was Chauffin. Unlike the others, his face was pale and sweating and he looked sick with fear.

‘My apologies for disturbing you,’ the count said. ‘This room gives an excellent vantage point from which to survey the defences. My men and I will take post here.’

Merrivale bowed. ‘Do you wish me to withdraw, my lord?’

‘Stay. I may have need of your services before this is over.’

And what did that mean? the herald wondered. Eu had apparently made his choice; he seemed determined to fight.

‘I am at your service, my lord,’ he said. ‘If I may be so bold as to ask, is there any news of my friend Brother Geoffrey?’

‘He is in the dungeon at the castle. The Sire de Bertrand and the bishop have decided to remain there with their men. They will not join the defence of the city.’

‘We should all be in the castle,’ one of the other men-at-arms said. ‘We could hold it for weeks, long enough for King Philippe to arrive.’

‘And hand over the city and all its people to the enemy? We must make some attempt to defend them, Tancarville.’

‘But then why have you abandoned Bourg-le-Roi? At least it has walls.’

‘The walls are old and weak and easily undermined,’ Eu said, without looking at the herald. ‘Saint-Jean is an island, and easy to defend. Most of the population of Bourg-le-Roi have already fled here. We shall protect them.’

‘An island?’ Tancarville persisted. ‘See how low the water is! The enemy can cross the Odon with ease.’

Eu pointed to the boats full of crossbowmen drifting on the tide. ‘The river and the bridge are both strongly defended. Be at ease, Tancarville. The enemy shall not pass. We can hold Saint-Jean, and we will.’

Outside, the hot sun glared off the rooftops and the brown waters of the Odon. Up in the tower, the French men-at-arms waited, sweating in their armour as they watched the far end of the bridge and the lanes around the church of Saint-Pierre. Merrivale glanced again at Chauffin and saw terror plain in the other man’s face. He knows Eu is wrong, the herald thought. He knows the city will fall.

What has made the count change his mind? Why has he chosen to make his stand here, in practically defenceless Saint-Jean? Does he not know what will happen?

‘Here they come,’ someone murmured.

Three, four, five the archers came, distant figures in russet and green slipping around the apse of Saint-Pierre and staring out towards the river. In the tower they heard the distant clack of crossbows as the men in the boats began to shoot. One of the archers fell, rolling down the riverbank onto the gleaming foreshore. He tried to get up, but two more crossbow bolts slammed him back into the mud. The others vanished.

Voices murmured in the tower, almost whispering. ‘Have we seen them off?’

‘No. That was just a reconnaissance party. Those were only archers. The men-at-arms will come next.’

‘Our crossbowmen will see them off.’

‘No. Wait.’

More movement at the far end of the bridge, archers running out of cover and shooting at the men posted in the houses, dodging back again as the crossbow bolts lashed at them. Two fell kicking and twitching in the street, but suddenly there were more archers, and more, and the shower of arrows became a steady hail, thumping into the wooden walls and sticking out like porcupine quills. Beyond the bridge the watchers in the tower could see gleaming armour and bright shields, the English men-at-arms running forward to reinforce the archers, and Merrivale saw a flash of red and gold. Warwick the marshal was there, leading his troops from the front.

Streaks of flame arched through the air, fire arrows falling in swarms, plunging into walls and roofs tinder dry in the summer heat. Smoke rose almost at once, spreading across the bridge. Half a dozen French men-at-arms bolted from one burning house, running towards the shelter of the barricade at the southern end. The archers rose from cover and shot them as they ran, and their bodies tumbled down with arrows protruding from the joints of their armour. None reached safety.

Out on the river, the crossbowmen shot steadily, black bolts streaking through the air. Archers fell, their bodies littering the foreshore, but more and more were piling into the fight, shooting fast and accurately, and hundreds of grey-feathered arrows hissed like dragon’s teeth, shredding the air above the waters of the Odon and thudding into wood and flesh and bone. The showers of arrows scythed the Genoese down, some collapsing back into their boats and lying still, others falling overboard and drifting slowly downstream on the receding tide.

Some of these arrows were fire-tipped too. Already several boats were burning, and crossbowmen dived into the river to escape the flames; the archers shot them as they struggled in the water. The survivors crouched behind the gunwales of their boats and shot back desperately. Some archers were running out into