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

‘You might have to narrow it down a little.’

‘The year 1327,’ Merrivale said. ‘Bray’s father was at Berkeley Castle, along with Robert Holland and Macio Chauffin. Mortimer’s grandfather had already killed the Despensers, and he sent Holland to give the order to kill the king. With him was another man, with a device of three black chevrons on yellow.’ He looked steadily at Sully. ‘Do you remember him?’

‘Aye,’ said Sully quietly. ‘I do. John of Hainault, Lord of Beaumont and uncle of our Queen Philippa.’

‘I didn’t remember him at first, when Chauffin mentioned him, but I had just started as a messenger and was often away from court. I only saw him once or twice. But you knew him, I think.’

‘He was a comrade in arms, of sorts. We served together at Berwick, and Halidon Hill. Then he went back home to Hainault.’

‘Tell me about him, Sir John.’

‘When the Earl of March and the King’s mother, Queen Isabella, returned to England, Hainault commanded the army that escorted them. He was Mortimer’s loyal lieutenant, helping him hunt down supporters of the king and the Despensers. For a time, anyway.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There were many rumours flying about. Some said Hainault’s real master wasn’t Mortimer, but the King of France, who was controlling events from the shadows. Isabella, after all, was the French king’s daughter.’ Sully paused. ‘And now you say he was there at Berkeley that night.’

‘So I have been told. These rumours you speak of. Did they link him to the king’s death?’

‘There were whispers,’ Sully said. ‘And perhaps that he had a hand in the execution of the old king’s brother, Edmund of Kent. After that, it was pretty obvious what the plan was. Once his father and uncle were dead, the young king would die too, and Isabella and Mortimer would rule, with Hainault as the French pro-consul, guiding their hands. Fortunately the king had a wise head on young shoulders, and pre-empted them.’

‘After the queen and Mortimer were arrested, what did Hainault do?’

‘Changed sides at once, of course, and pledged his loyalty to the king. He was instrumental in helping the king become reconciled to some of his late father’s enemies. For example, it was he who procured a pardon for Sir John de Tracey of Dunkeswell and his sons.’

‘Did Hainault remain long in the country?’

‘A few years. Then he went back home, in hopes of wresting control of Hainault and Holland from his brother. When that failed, he went to France and joined the court of the adversary. He is now one of King Philip’s most trusted councillors.’

The man who had brought the orders to kill the King of England standing now at the right hand of the King of France. The herald gave an involuntary shiver. Sully glanced at him. ‘What’s wrong, boy? Someone walk over your grave?’

‘Perhaps,’ the herald said. ‘Or perhaps it wasn’t my grave.’

Neubourg, 6th of August, 1346

Late afternoon

‘It was a trap, of course,’ Sir John Grey said. ‘They abandoned the southern faubourgs and let us burn those, while they were concealed in the towers at the south end of the bridge. Then they waited until we were within crossbow range and shot us to pieces.’

All around them men were riding back into the camp outside Neubourg, the remnants of the reconnaissance party Godefroi d’Harcourt had led out towards Rouen that morning. Some were pale with pain, black crossbow bolts still embedded in their armour. An esquire led a horse with the body of an armoured man draped across the saddle, arms dangling loose. The horse had been wounded too, and its blood and that of its dead master leaked together onto the ground. ‘John Daunay,’ said Grey. ‘A good man, or at least he was.’

‘How many did you lose?’ asked Merrivale.

‘Of our company? None. But there’s at least two men-at-arms dead, and a score of hobelars and archers.’

‘And the bridge?’ asked Nicholas Courcy. ‘Can we force it?’

Grey shook his head. ‘The centre of the span has been broken down, and there is a barricade and more towers at the north end. Even if we managed to repair the bridge under fire, our losses would be disastrous, and we would then have to fight our way through the streets of Rouen against the French army.’

‘Are there other bridges?’ asked Gráinne.

The appearance of the Lady Gráinne MacCarthaigh Riabhach had caused a stir in the army, but the sensation had been brief. The troops were already used to the sight of Courcy’s wife in her antiquated armour and now paid her little attention. Gráinne herself seemed determined to stay with her husband, though whether this was due to infatuation or mistrust, the herald was not quite certain. Probably a mixture of both, he thought.

‘Downstream, no,’ Grey said. ‘The river broadens out into a tidal estuary, and is unbridgeable and unfordable. Upstream, there are six bridges: Elbeuf, Pont de l’Arche, Vernon, Mantes, Meulan and Poissy.’

‘Then we’ll have to seize and cross one of them,’ Courcy said.

‘Yes,’ Grey said. ‘I will wager any amount of money you care to name that every one of those bridges has been broken down or is heavily defended, or both. I said this was a trap. And we have advanced towards it willingly and stuck our neck into its jaws.’

‘We could retreat,’ said Roger Mortimer, who had just joined them. He had a dent the size of a goose egg in his breastplate where a crossbow bolt had hit him but failed to penetrate his armour.

Grey shook his head. ‘If the king gives the order to retreat now, the army will melt away. By the time we reach the coast, there won’t be one man in five still with the banners. You have studied history, Sir Nicholas; you know what happens when an army retreats.’

‘I have,’ Courcy agreed. ‘Our only choice is to advance, and hope to Christ we can find a way across the river.’

‘And then bring the French to battle,’ Mortimer said. ‘Surely we will