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

the houses. ‘Clear them out,’ said Percy. ‘Llewellyn, take the left side, Courcy the right, Red Company straight up the middle. Stop for nothing.’

They ran, a solid corps of spearmen leading the way, the rest following. Genoese crossbowmen leaned out of the windows to shoot at them, and the Red Company’s archers fanned out across the street, picking off most of them before they could pull their triggers. A couple of spearmen fell wounded, tumbling down onto the cobbles, but the rest ran on, the air full of flying arrows and bolts, men shouting and yelling, the sounds of screaming behind them as the gallowglasses and the Welsh ran from house to house, smashing down doors, stabbing and killing.

Ahead loomed the gatehouse, gates already swinging shut. John Grey and the leading spearmen charged into the rapidly closing gap. There was a brief flurry of violence and the gates slammed open again. Men were still shooting from the ramparts, but clouds of arrows rose and a Genoese fell from the wall into the street, half a dozen arrows protruding from his body. More bodies lay in the arch under the gatehouse where Red Company men were attacking the portcullis with axes.

‘Ware the murder holes!’ someone shouted, and they all dodged to one side just as long lances stabbed down through holes in the ceiling, grating on the cobbles. A door in the stone wall slammed open and French men-at-arms charged out into the archway. For a moment Merrivale found himself hemmed against the wall by the mass of struggling, shouting men around him. Then Richard Percy crashed into the press, a dozen spearmen at his back, and the Red Company began howling their war cries – ‘Rouge! Roooouge!’ – and they drove French through the archway and out into the open courtyard beyond. The enemy turned to run, and the archers, stepping over the bodies of men bleeding on the ground, shot them one by one, steel points smashing through armour and flesh and bone and stretching the men-at-arms dead or dying on the cobbles.

They were in the lower bailey now, the cliff climbing above them towards the torchlit donjon dark against the clouds. At the top of the hill a trumpet was blowing the alarm, over and over. Close at hand a bowstring twanged, and Merrivale turned to see another crossbowman fall from the ramparts, transfixed by an arrow. Calmly, Pip nocked a fresh shaft and shot another man racing up the stairs towards the upper bailey. Courcy, Gráinne and the gallowglasses ran into the courtyard, followed by Llewellyn and his spearmen. ‘Everyone ready?’ asked John Grey. ‘Now comes the hard part.’

‘We’ll take the stair,’ Percy said. ‘The rest of you, up the tunnel. You too, herald. Rob, archers out in front this time.’

Heavy stones came crashing down the stair, hurled from the ramparts above, and the Red Company archers raised their bows and shot at the men silhouetted against the orange clouds, arrows black streaks in the unearthly light. Smoke began to boil up from burning houses below, sparks whirling around them like fireflies. Under cover of the smoke, the archers inched up the stairs, crouching, nocking arrows, rising, shooting and then ducking down again. The stones still fell, but less thickly than before.

Courcy nodded to his men and led the rush into the tunnel, the gallowglasses following with Merrivale and the Welshmen crowding behind. The tunnel was high and steep, the cobbles smooth and worn by the passage of wagon wheels and iron-shod horses, and the men around gasped and swore as they struggled to maintain their footing.

Torchlight flared ahead, the French shouting their own war cry, ‘Montjoie! Montjoie Saint-Denis!’, and heavily armoured men-at-arms ran down the slope, hurling themselves bodily into the gallowglasses. Courcy was knocked off his feet; Gráinne stood over him, her helm off, bleeding from a cut above one eye, slashing around her. A French knight raised a heavy mace, aiming a blow at her head, and paused in surprise when he realised she was a woman; and in that second of hesitation, Gráinne drove her sword point through his neck. Courcy was up again, the gallowglasses stabbing and slashing, the Welsh pressing forward, men screaming, the stench of hot blood strong in the air, and then they were moving again, driving the French back up the steep slope towards the top of the tunnel.

Gasping and bleeding, they broke out into the open space before the gatehouse. The Red Company were running up the stair, the ramparts were silent above them. A few bodies lay on the ground, pierced by feathered shafts. The gates were shut; the last of the French men-at-arms, with nowhere to run, turned and fought and died. Even as they fell, Red Company men were throwing grapnels over the ramparts of the gatehouse and beginning to climb. A crossbowman leaned over the wall to shoot at them; a dozen bowstrings twanged and the Genoese dropped his bow, which clattered to the ground in front of the gate. His body slumped against the rampart.

The first men reached the rampart and climbed over. There was a brief clatter of fighting beyond the wall, followed by a tense silence; then the gates swung open and the Red Company swarmed inside, followed by the rest. They ducked under the partly lifted portcullis and ran into the upper bailey, the archers picking off the last defenders as they tried to flee. A woman screamed, and Merrivale turned in sudden horror.

Tiphaine stood on the platform above the pyre. She held a sword in her hand. Facing her was a half-circle of nuns in black habits, their faces hard and implacable under their wimples, barring her escape. Below, more nuns with torches were lighting the faggots. In several places the fire had already taken hold.

Merrivale ran towards the pyre. One of the nuns turned towards him, swinging her torch viciously at his head, but he ducked under it and rammed her with his shoulder, knocking her off