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

men came flooding in; these wore the caps of the Red Company, a solid hedge of spearmen with archers behind. As suddenly as they had come, the enemy melted away, leaving a scattering of bodies on the ground.

Merrivale bent over Lord Rowton. ‘My lord. Are you badly hurt?’

Rowton wrenched off his dented vambrace and tried to flex his fingers, grimacing in pain. ‘God, it’s broken, Those bastards broke my fucking arm. Who the hell were they? Where did they come from?’

‘The river,’ said Sir Richard Percy, coming through the press with a bloody sword in his hand. ‘They came across by boat. We spotted them landing just below the camp of the prince’s division, and drove them back into the river. But while we were busy, this lot slipped past us and attacked the king’s camp as well. Thank God you and his lordship spotted them before they could reach his Grace.’

‘They didn’t attack the king’s pavilion,’ Merrivale said. ‘They attacked us. Without your two watchdogs and the arrival of Sir Nicholas and his men, we would be dead.’

The Red Company were dragging the dead men together. Matt and Pip pulled arrows out of the bodies and began carefully cleaning the arrowheads. Merrivale followed them, looking down at the dead men. ‘Who were they?’ he asked.

‘An excellent question,’ said Percy. ‘They’re not French or Genoese, not with those weapons. Those big crossbows look like Flemish arbalests. And those short, broad-bladed swords could be Spanish, but many Spanish blade-makers have settled in Flanders.’

Something glinted in the firelight, a clasp brooch on one of the dead men’s cloaks. Reaching down, Merrivale unfastened it and held it up to the light. Crudely painted on metal was a badge, black chevrons on a yellow field.

‘Flanders?’ he asked. ‘Or Hainault, perhaps?’ He turned to Rowton, who was on his feet again, cradling his broken arm, his face set with pain. ‘My lord, I think you should see this.’

Rowton glanced at the badge. ‘John of Hainault,’ he said slowly.

‘Yes. We appear to have summoned the devil. One moment we are talking about Hainault, and the next his men are coming out of the night to kill us. What might we have done to attract his attention, do you suppose?’

The Prince of Wales’s camp, when Merrivale returned, was in uproar. More fires had been lit and men were milling about in confusion, some dragging bodies away through the drizzling rain. Among the dead were several English archers and spearmen. Sir Thomas Ughtred, the under-marshal, confirmed what had happened. ‘While the Red Company were driving the main body back, small parties slipped into the camp. There was some bloody fighting before we drove them off.’

Lightning flashed, far away; the storm was moving on. ‘What do you think their purpose was?’ the herald asked. ‘To sow confusion?’

‘Oh, that all right, but some captains were deliberately attacked. Warwick, myself, Sully, Holland, Despenser and Tracey all appear to have been targets. Tracey in particular was hard pressed. He lost two men before young Mortimer and some of the prince’s knights came to his aid.’

Tracey was cleaning blood off his hands when Merrivale found him. ‘It was an assassination,’ the Devon knight said. ‘They cut my men down and were inside my tent almost before I could draw sword. I was fighting for my life when Mortimer arrived.’ He bowed to the younger man. ‘I owe you a debt, sir.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ said Mortimer, still breathing deeply.

Another man was suddenly alongside them, drawn sword in hand, and they realised it was the Prince of Wales. ‘What has happened here?’

Tracey told him.

‘Two good men,’ the prince said. ‘Very well, I want the night guards doubled from now on. We must have no more such incidents. Sir Edward, I am very glad to see you are safe.’ He laid a hand on Mortimer’s shoulder. ‘As for you, Roger, very well done.’

The prince walked away through the camp, calling out to his men. Bartholomew Burghersh, following him, glanced at the herald and their eyes met briefly before Burghersh moved on. Merrivale looked at Mortimer and saw conflicting emotions in his face: the old bitterness, mixed with something raw and confused.

One of Tracey’s archers ran up, touching his forehead in salute. ‘The rest of them got away, sir. We took no prisoners.’

‘Where is Nicodemus?’ Tracey asked.

The archer looked worried. ‘I’m afraid he’s gone, sir.’

‘Gone? What do you mean, gone?’

‘He’s vanished, sir. There ain’t a trace of him, nowhere.’

Freneuse, 10th of August, 1346

Afternoon

The previous night’s storm had done nothing to lessen the heat and humidity. The army sweated and toiled in the heat as it pressed on upriver towards the next bridge at Mantes. Across the river, the vast French army matched it step-for-step, banners waving and spear points shining like a bright forest, flowing along the north bank past the massive walls and keep of the castle of La Roche-Guyon.

‘After Mantes, there are only two more bridges,’ the Earl of Salisbury said. ‘And Paris is only forty miles away.’

‘Never mind,’ said the prince. ‘We will gain the victory in the end. My father will find a way.’

‘I am sure he will, Highness,’ said Salisbury, but his was not the only face that looked dubious. Mortimer remained silent, watching the French across the river.

The wind died away, and the heat increased still further. The herald turned his horse and, followed by Warin, rode back along the column until he came to Sir John Sully’s company, the ermine and red chevrons hanging limp in the lifeless air. The old knight greeted him with his usual good cheer.

‘I’m glad to see you well, boy. I hear you had a close call last night.’

‘It felt like it at the time. Now I am not so sure. Are you?’

Sully studied him for a moment as they rode side by side. The dog trotted between them, glancing up at his master from time to time. ‘So. Those men last night were play-actors? Putting on a piece of mummery