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

The great hall of Rouen Castle was full of activity, clerks carrying stacks of parchment, messengers and pages bringing in muster rolls and returns of supply. At the high table, a tall man stood staring down at a map unrolled before him, chess pieces weighing the corners to keep them from curling up. Despite the heat of the day, he wore a heavy blue robe powdered with gold fleurs-de-lys and an ermine collar. ‘The English failed at Elbeuf,’ he was saying to the man beside him. ‘Now they are attacking Pont de l’Arche, but du Bosq and Mesnil will hold them. That means they will move on to Vernon. Are the defences in place, Montmorency?’

‘Yes, your Imperial Majesty. We have put two thousand men-at-arms and a thousand crossbows into the town. And the walls of Vernon were repaired only last year.’

‘Good, good. Keep pushing the English east towards Paris. That’s where we’ll pin them down. We will finish this at Poissy, just as we planned. By God, Cousin Edward is playing into our hands. I thought he was a better commander than this.’ The tall man looked up sharply. ‘Yes, Brus? What is it?’

Brus bowed. ‘May I have a moment of your time, your Imperial Majesty?’

‘Of course.’ Charles, Count of Alençon and Perche, also claimed the title of Emperor of Constantinople, and liked people to use it. It also annoyed his brother the king, who was simply styled ‘your Grace’ and resented Alençon’s attempt to outrank him. ‘What is it?’

Two soldiers dragged Tiphaine forward and threw her onto the flagstones in front of the table. ‘We caught this woman creeping into the castle, disguised as a man,’ Brus said. ‘Fortunately, I recognised her. She is Tiphaine de Tesson, daughter of the executed traitor Jean de la Roche Tesson. I have reason to believe she is also an English spy.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘I interrogated her before I brought her here, your Majesty. She was asking questions about Jean de Fierville.’

‘Fierville! How does she know about him?’

‘Doubtless the English told her, your Majesty, which is clear proof of her guilt. I ask that she be placed on trial as a spy.’

Alençon raised his eyebrows. ‘There is no need. Have you forgotten? Since her escape from Carentan, she is attainted. She can be executed without trial.’

‘Then shall we carry out the sentence?’

‘Not yet. We’re too busy dealing with the English, and I want to be there when she dies. The king will wish to be there as well. Take her to La Roche-Guyon, and see she is held securely. And make certain there is plenty of firewood in store at the castle. We shall need it.’

Tiphaine raised her head then, staring up at Alençon in horror. ‘Yes,’ the count said, and he smiled. ‘You know the penalty for treason, demoiselle. For a man, it is drawing and quartering. For a woman, it is burning alive.’

18

Gaillon, 9th of August, 1346

Afternoon

‘Christ!’ said Sir Thomas Holland through clenched teeth. ‘Pull it out!’

The one-eyed knight lay sprawled on the grass, a black crossbow bolt protruding from his shoulder, punched deep through armour and doublet and embedded in the flesh beneath.

‘I can’t, sir,’ said his esquire. ‘It is wedged in too tightly.’

‘Take off his armour,’ the herald instructed. ‘The spaulder and the rerebrace both. Quickly now, lad. Cut the straps if you must. The longer that bolt is embedded in the flesh, the more likely it is the wound will become contaminated.’

Pale, his hands already stained with blood, the esquire obeyed, casting aside the shoulder and arm guards and taking a fresh grip on the bolt. Holland gasped and slammed his fist on the ground with pain, but this time the bolt gave up its grip and pulled free. Blood flowed, ruby red in the sunlight. ‘Staunch the wound,’ the herald instructed. ‘Then wash it out with a mixture of vinegar and clean water. It will be painful, but it will keep the infection at bay.’

The esquire looked helpless. ‘Where do I find vinegar, sir?’

Merrivale looked around. A column of wagons was passing down the road towards Vernon, followed by a herd of cattle chivvied along by a girl with a stick. ‘That is the royal kitchen,’ he said. ‘Find Master Clerebaud, the sauce-maker. He will give you vinegar.’

The esquire scrambled onto his horse and rode away after the wagons. Merrivale studied the flow of blood from the wounded shoulder and watched it began to slow. ‘Shouldn’t you put a compress on that?’ Holland asked.

‘Later, after the wound has been washed. Rest easy, Sir Thomas.’

The stink of burning filled their nostrils, just as it had done for weeks. Behind the English army lay a trail of ruins twenty miles wide, hamlets and farms, rich towns and monasteries, all reduced to rubble and glowing embers. Close at hand the town and castle of Gaillon were burning fiercely while the English archers and Welsh spearmen hunted the last French defenders to annihilation among the ruins. But they had held up the vanguard for several hours and Thomas Holland was only one of many casualties. Up ahead, more smoke rose as the king’s division, bypassing the fighting at Gaillon, began smashing its way through the suburbs of Vernon, hoping to break through to the bridge.

As the English army had moved east, the French had left Rouen and tracked them along the north bank, ready to throw them back should they manage to gain a foothold across the river. Any hope of aid from Jeanne of Navarre had been dashed too. As the herald knew, message after message had been sent to Évreux. No reply had come.

Holland stirred a little, and when he spoke, his voice was slurred with pain. ‘Did I hear you send my esquire to ask the king’s sauce-maker for vinegar?’

‘Yes.’

A note of humour etched its way through the pain. ‘Better hope he doesn’t put wolf’s-bane in it. Are you any closer to finding out who did that? Or do you believe this