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

the mud now, seeking to close the range, and now they were so close the crossbowmen could not miss. More archers fell and died, but the deadly rain of arrows continued.

In the tower room the voices whispered again. ‘No matter how many of them we kill, they keep coming. They do not stop.’

Welsh spearmen, men from Merioneth and Caernarvon, ran down the bank and plunged into the river, half wading and half swimming towards the boats. The fire arrows streaked out again and another boat began to burn; its crew dived into the stream, and then the Welsh were on them, spears rising and falling until the brown waters of the Odon were streaked with blood. In the boat nearest the bridge a handful of crossbowmen were still shooting steadily, and a Welshman reared back clutching at a bolt protruding from his chest, and slid under the water. His comrades reached the boat, stabbing wildly inside with their spears, the Genoese clubbing at them with the butts of their crossbows; the boat capsized and pitched them all into the water, men stabbing and grappling with each other in a shouting, screaming frenzy until the bodies of friend and foe alike went still and began floating away towards the sea.

The houses on the bridge were burning fiercely now, flames roaring and sparks shooting into the air. One collapsed, spilling flaming timbers into the river. A few more French defenders broke cover and ran, preferring a quick death in the street to burning slowly in their houses, but most stood fast. The clatter of metal sounded through the smoke as the English worked their way from house to burning house, clearing the defenders, still covered by those deadly clouds of arrows. More English men-at-arms ran forward across the bridge.

‘I see Northampton’s colours,’ said one of the French knights, looking out of the lancet window. ‘The English constable is here. And Warwick, and Thomas Holland as well.’

‘Holland,’ said the Count of Eu. His lips twisted into a smile. ‘My old friend from Prussia. How ironic.’

Tancarville turned on him. ‘Your old friend who is going to kill us all! The defences are collapsing, Constable! They are eating us up! We might as well defend a sand dune against the tide!’

‘The barricade will hold firm,’ the Count of Eu said. Chauffin had closed his eyes, his lips moving in silent prayer.

An arrow rattled against the stone wall of the tower and bounced away. ‘I recommend you stand away from the windows,’ Merrivale said quietly.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ the man watching the bridge said. He wore an open-faced helmet rather than a visor. ‘The window is narrow and high. Their archers cannot possibly hit it.’

A rushing hiss and a noise like a storm of sleet, arrows hammering at the wall outside, and the man who had spoken fell back into the room with four arrows protruding from the bloody wreckage of his face, their points driven deep into his brain. More arrows flew through the window, streaks of death seeking their target, and another man gagged, clutching at his throat. He collapsed across the gaming table, which broke and smashed beneath his weight, and lay sprawled on the splintered wood with blood spurting around the feathered shaft. Everyone else ducked, while the storm went on and arrows continued to fly in showers into the room. Screams and shouts overhead told them the defenders on the tower roof were being picked off.

In the street below, all was chaos, men shouting and screaming, the hammer of weapons reverberating off the walls, smoke and flames blowing everywhere, and then the cry went up: ‘England! Saint George, Saint George!’, a shout of victory ripped from a thousand throats. ‘The barricade has fallen,’ Tancarville said, and he drew his sword. ‘We are next.’

He had barely finished speaking when something smashed hard against the door of the tower. Merrivale looked at the Count of Eu. ‘The city is lost, my lord,’ he said. ‘There is no point in further resistance. Let me parley on your behalf. I will speak to the earls of Warwick and Northampton and ask them to accept your surrender.’

Eu smiled wryly. ‘Find me Thomas Holland instead. I wish to surrender to him.’

The door reverberated like the stroke of doom. The English were using rams; it would not be long before they broke the door down and swarmed inside.

‘Why?’ the herald asked.

‘He saved my life once in Prussia,’ the count said. ‘This is the least I can do for him.’

Chauffin leaned against the wall, eyes closed. Spent arrows crunched under Merrivale’s feet like kindling as he walked across the room. Descending the spiral stair, he heard the ram smashing into the lower door again and again; by the time he reached the bottom of the tower, the wood was already splintering around the hinges. He raised his voice.

‘I am Merrivale, herald to his Highness the Prince of Wales! I am sent by the Count of Eu to parley!’

The hammering on the door ceased, and he heard a confused muttering outside. Drawing a deep breath, he lifted the bar of the door, swung it open and stepped outside. Swords and spear points raised to confront him lowered slowly – and, he thought, not without a little disappointment – when the men saw his herald’s tabard. The bridge around the barricade and the street behind it were covered with bodies, some still, some moving feebly. A wounded Frenchman waved a hand, struggling to sit up, and one of the English archers ran over to him, pulled his head back to expose his throat and plunged a knife into his neck. The air stank of smoke and fresh blood. Gurney and young Mortimer were there, breathing hard, their armour dented, bright surcoats splattered with blood. ‘Where is Sir Thomas Holland?’ Merrivale asked.

‘Here.’ Holland pushed through the crowd of men around the door. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘The Count of Eu is within,’ Merrivale said. ‘He asks that you receive his surrender. Will