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

‘I fear that is the case, yes.’

‘Well, we shall have to fight our way through somehow and force a river crossing. We cannot stay south of the river forever.’ Northburgh smiled. ‘On the other hand, you must be glad to have your demoiselle back.’

‘For the last time, Michael, she is not my demoiselle.’

‘Of course she isn’t,’ Northburgh said soothingly. ‘Not yet. Be patient, my friend. Ripe fruit will fall from the tree eventually. You must be waiting, ready to seize and pluck it.’

‘You are a disgrace to the priesthood,’ Merrivale told him. ‘Good night, Michael.’

‘You too, old friend. Sweet dreams.’

Poissy, 12th of August, 1346

Afternoon

The thump of hammers and rasp of saws echoed over the rippling water of the river. The beams of the central span were being cut down; most had drifted away on the current, but one was still bumping against the stone piers below them.

‘Warwick failed at Meulan this morning,’ said the man from the West Country.

‘Good,’ said the man from the north. ‘It is exactly as we planned it. Both Edward and Philip have played into our hands.’

The other man looked across the river. ‘Why aren’t the French guarding the north bank?’

‘They will. Philip is anxious to get his army into Paris before the Parisians all die of fright. They’re angry enough with him already for failing to stop the English. A force coming down from Amiens has been commanded to guard the bridge. They should arrive tomorrow morning.’

‘How strong is this force?’

‘Four hundred men-at-arms, as well as crossbowmen and ballistae.’

‘Only four hundred? Will that be enough?’

‘Of course. The bridge is broken, and anyone trying to swim the river or cross in boats will be shot to pieces.’ The man from the north smiled. ‘Come. Let us go and meet our friends.’

They turned their horses and rode through the deserted streets of Poissy. All those residents who had not already fled had been taken away to the safety of the walls of Paris that morning. The fine stone and timber houses they passed were silent and empty.

‘The herald has been asking too damned many questions,’ the man from the West Country said. ‘I thought you were going to take care of him.’

‘I thought I had,’ said the man from the north. ‘The king ordered him to abandon the inquisition. Now he seems to have told him to take it up again. I don’t know why.’

The man from the West Country looked at him. ‘Isn’t it your job to know why?’

‘I shall assume that is an ill-advised attempt at humour,’ said the other man. ‘I do not recommend you try it again.’ They rode on in silence.

One of King Philip’s many hunting lodges in the forests and fields west of Paris lay on the southern edge of Poissy, next to a deserted Dominican priory. Grooms stood in the courtyard, holding the reins of a dozen horses. The door to the hall opened and a young man with a surcoat bearing a red saltire on yellow came down the steps, bowing as the two men dismounted. ‘Gentlemen, I am honoured to meet you. I am Rollond, lord of Brus. His Imperial Majesty and the others are waiting for you inside.’

The lodge’s servants had fled in haste, without bothering to pack away their valuables. In the hall, tapestries still hung on the walls, red and blue figures of horses and huntsmen in pursuit of a white unicorn with gold horn and collar, all brilliant with sunlight. A fine film of dust lay on the polished wood of the high table. Beneath the tapestries, ten men stood waiting, watching them with calculating eyes. One wore a red cloak bearing the white eight-pointed cross of the Knights of Saint John. The man from the north nodded with satisfaction. They were all here.

He bowed. ‘Your Imperial Majesty, my lords. It is a pleasure to welcome you.’

Charles d’Alençon held up a hand. ‘Let us wait and see what you have to offer. Only then will we know whether it has truly been a pleasure.’

‘I think we can promise you complete satisfaction, your Imperial Majesty,’ said the man from the north. ‘You see, we have fulfilled our part of the bargain. Edward of England is trapped. Even as we speak, the last bridge over the Seine is being broken. Edward cannot cross the river to the north. Nor can he retreat west through lands he has already devastated, because he is running out of food and needs somewhere to forage. And if he tries to advance east, he will batter himself to death against the walls of Paris.’

‘He could march south,’ said Cardinal Aubert. ‘There is another English army in Gascony. They might try to join forces.’

The man from the north shook his head. ‘Edward and his captains will come to Poissy tomorrow,’ he said. ‘And there they will die. The English army will be left leaderless. The men-at-arms are already quarrelling and demoralised. Without their captains, both they and the archers will soon begin to desert. One or two disciplined units may hold together, but you have more than enough men to overwhelm them. The rest you may round up at your leisure.’

‘How do you intend to accomplish this?’ demanded another man. He was tall and thickly bearded, and he spoke French with the strong accent of central Europe.

The man from the north shook his head. ‘Leave that to us,’ he said. ‘And make ready. As soon as the English army has been destroyed, you must strike.’

A burly man standing by the wall cleared his throat. ‘And where is the Queen of Navarre? We understood from Cardinal Ceccano that she would be joining us.’

‘She has changed her mind,’ said the man from the West Country. ‘She has decided to remain neutral, and no, Signor Doria, I do not know why. However, I strongly suspect that once our coup is complete, she will return to join us.’

A grey-haired older man nodded. ‘I think she is