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

‘That we come with you,’ said Llewellyn. He was a broad-shouldered man in mail corselet with a breastplate over top, armed with a sword and a heavy stabbing spear. ‘We haven’t had a proper fight since Caen. We’re getting bored, man.’

The Welshmen behind him nodded. ‘And you’ll need more muscle if you’re going to crack that castle,’ a voice said. Nicholas Courcy stepped forward, the eagles on his faded surcoat almost black in the dim light. Gráinne was beside him, along with Donnchad and the other gallowglasses. He grinned at Merrivale. ‘For a herald, you have a knack for getting into trouble.’

‘He does,’ Grey agreed. He turned to his master bowman. ‘Rob, you’ve scouted the place. What did you see?’

‘There’s a cluster of wooden houses at the water’s edge,’ said the archer. ‘I saw sentries there, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there are men posted in the houses. Immediately behind the houses is the lower bailey, with a strong gatehouse. The gates are open at the moment, but the portcullis is down. The upper bailey is about a hundred feet above the lower, at the top of a vertical cliff face. There are two ways up, an open stair and a covered passage carved through the rock. At the top is another gatehouse, and a high curtain wall around the donjon. All the walls and towers are manned.’

‘I doubt they would keep Mistress de Tesson in the lower bailey,’ Percy said. ‘I reckon she’ll be in the donjon.’

‘Trust the French to make things difficult for us,’ said Courcy, peering up at the dark tower.

‘Indeed,’ said Merrivale. ‘How do you propose to break into the castle, Sir John?’

Grey looked at Percy. ‘What do you think, Richard?’

‘There is a time for subtle and clever stratagems,’ Percy said. ‘This isn’t one of them. Clear the houses, sweep the wall, cut through the portcullis and then hard and fast up the stair and tunnel. Hold the donjon long enough to get the demoiselle out, and then back to the boats.’

‘That sounds simple enough,’ said Llewellyn. ‘So, what are we waiting for?’

La Roche-Guyon, 10th of August, 1346

Night

‘There they are, my lord. You can see them now.’

Rollond de Brus squinted into the darkness, staring at the faint shimmer of the river. He had not believed the sentry at first when he claimed to have seen boats moving on the water, but the man had persisted. And there they were, a column of shallops moving under oars along the river, shadows against the greater shadow of the south bank.

‘Are they ours, or theirs?’ he wondered aloud.

‘Can’t tell from this distance, my lord.’

Silence fell. The night air had cooled a little but was still clammy with humidity. Brus mopped the sweat from his forehead, straining his eyes into the night as he watched the boats continue upriver. No, wait… was the lead boat turning? Yes, it was… by God, they were all turning, rowing hard now for the north shore and aiming to land just below the lower bailey.

From down the hill he heard a trumpet blowing the alarm. Further uphill the call was repeated, and he heard men running across the cobbles and up the stone steps to their posts on the walls. La Roche-Guyon was powerful and well defended, he thought; why would the English attack it now? The answer came on the heels of the thought; they were here to rescue their spy.

He looked down at the pyre waiting in the courtyard. By God, we’ll see about that, he thought. She’ll not cheat the executioner, not this time. Alençon would have to be disappointed. Turning, he ran down the spiral stair, shouldering men out of the way as they climbed up to man the defences, and on down to Tiphaine’s cell. He knew he needed to go and put on his armour and take command of the defence, but that could wait. This was more important.

Unlocking the door, he drew his sword and stepped inside, peering around in the darkness. Tiphaine, who had been standing behind the door, smashed him across the back of the head with a length of heavy iron chain, and he staggered forward. A second blow, delivered with furious force, knocked him unconscious, and he fell heavily onto the cobbles.

‘Now,’ Richard Percy said quietly. ‘Boatmen, turn towards the castle and pull like hell. Crossbowmen, make ready.’

The boats turned and began driving across the water towards the flickering torches of La Roche-Guyon. The men around him crouched in the boats, waiting. Harry Graham sat beside the herald, bow resting on the thwarts beside him. Young though he was, he exuded a calm confidence that Merrivale found reassuring, and Matt and Pip, seated behind them, were ruthless killers. Grey was right, he thought. I have stopped thinking of them as women. They are archers of the Red Company, and I am glad I have them at my back.

Something whipped through the air and struck the water beside the boat with a hard splash. More followed, crossbow bolts hitting the river or thudding into the boats, and one of the Welshmen shouted with pain and dropped his oar, clutching at his bloody arm. The longbowmen of the Red Company were hampered by the crowded boats, but the crossbowmen, crouching in the bows, shot back, picking off the enemy on the waterfront. Steadily the boats pushed on across the dark waters of the Seine.

Keels grated on shingle. The men were over the side in seconds, splashing in the shallows and running up into the town. Harry Graham turned and courteously offered Merrivale a hand. My God, the herald thought, how old does he think I am? They ran up the bank, Matt and Pip flanking them and nocking arrows as they went.

A street lined with half-timbered houses led to the gatehouse. The gates were still open, but they would not be for long. Crossbow bolts continued to fly, shot from the windows and doorways of