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

is easier and less risky.’ He smiled a little. ‘Worry not. I shall keep him under control.’

Poissy, 13th of August, 1346

Afternoon

‘So much for the last bridge,’ Thomas Holland said, staring glumly at the sixty-foot gap that had been ripped out of the middle of the bridge at Poissy. The rest of the span still stood, wooden planks and beams resting on broad stone pillars, but for the heavily armed and encumbered army, the gap in the middle might as well have been sixty miles.

Thanks to the wound he had taken at Gaillon, Holland was still unable to wear his shoulder guard; his arming doublet bulged over a thick wad of bandages. ‘What in hell’s name do we do now?’ he asked.

‘We were rather hoping that a veteran soldier like yourself might tell us,’ Hugh Despenser said cuttingly. ‘And where the fuck is the enemy?’

They stood for a few moments looking out at the empty fields on the north bank of the Seine. Unlike the bright sunlight of the last few days, the sky was dull and grey, the air heavy with humidity and smoke. Behind them, the inevitable fires burned; Bures and Ecquevilly, where they had camped the night before, were blazing on the western horizon.

‘There’s no sign of them,’ said Richard Percy. ‘Which is damned odd, given that they have been glaring across the river at us every day since we left Rouen.’

The Prince of Wales pointed to the escarpment, far to the north now and a dim line on the horizon. ‘They could be beyond those hills,’ he said. ‘But why abandon the river?’

‘I have no idea, your Highness. But their absence is our opportunity. If we move quickly, we might just have time to rebuild the bridge.’

‘Rebuild it?’ the prince asked quickly. ‘Is that possible?’

Percy pointed to the river. A long wooden beam floated in the water next to the stone piers, pressed against them by the current. ‘If we can salvage that, your Highness, we could make a start.’

More horsemen came down the road from the town, Warwick and Ughtred, and with them Northampton the constable. The prince turned eagerly to meet them. ‘My lords! Sir Richard believes we can rebuild the bridge. But we must start at once, before the enemy arrive.’

Northampton looked puzzled. ‘Where are the French?’

‘An excellent question,’ Percy said. ‘However, his Highness is right. We should get to work straight away, before they reappear.’

Warwick laughed, flipping up the visor of his bascinet. ‘Do you know you are beginning to sound damned near as imperious as your brother-in-law?’

‘John Grey is a contagion,’ Percy said. ‘Spend enough time around him and he rubs off on you. What are your orders, Lord Marshal?’

Warwick glanced at Northampton, who nodded. ‘Find Llewellyn and tell him to get his boats up here, and then ferry the Red Company over the river to guard the bridgehead. Tom,’ Warwick said to Ughtred, ‘find Hurley and his carpenters. Get them up here, now.’

‘I would like to volunteer my company to guard the bridgehead, my lord,’ Despenser said.

‘Certainly. You may cross later, after the Red Company and the carpenters. Very well, gentlemen, make it so.’

Warwick rode away, followed by the prince and his esquires and bodyguard. Northampton lingered, sitting in the saddle, leaning forward a little and watching the flat horizon smudged with haze. Behind him the knights stood muttering. ‘Why does the goddamned Red Company always go first?’ Despenser muttered.

‘Perhaps because, unlike some, their captains actually know what they are doing,’ said Mortimer.

Despenser took a step towards him. ‘Oh, for the love of Christ!’ snapped Matthew Gurney. ‘I am sick to death of this. Grow up, both of you!’

Despenser stalked away. Mortimer slammed the visor of his bascinet down and sulked behind it. Merrivale stood watching the boats take the Red Company across to the north bank. The carpenters arrived, driving their wagons full of tools and equipment, and the boats returned and ferried some of them over the river, where they began assembling windlasses with ropes and blocks on the broken ends of the bridge. Slings were lowered and men swam out into the river to loop these around the ends of the beam.

‘Right,’ said the master carpenter, waving the rest of his men towards the windlasses. ‘Put your backs into it.’

The men threw themselves onto the cranks, straining. Gradually the big beam lifted out of the water and inched its way up towards the bridge platform. Time passed with grinding slowness in the murky air. The herald waited, full of foreboding. He could tell by the slope of his back as he hunched in the saddle that Northampton felt the same anxiety.

Someone shouted from the far bank. ‘Enemy in sight!’

Out of the haze they came, sparkling specks of colour, a wedge of men-at-arms followed by the unmistakable white coats of crossbowmen, and then a column of carts each with a black tripod shape mounted in the back. ‘What are those?’ asked Mortimer.

‘Ballistae,’ said Merrivale. ‘They fire stone shot the size of a fist, and will punch through armour at twice the range of an ordinary crossbow.’

Northampton jumped down from the saddle, handing his reins to his esquire, and walked out onto the bridge. ‘Master Hurley! How long until that beam is in place?’

The beam was ten feet below the level of the bridge. ‘Long enough to say a rosary,’ said the master carpenter. ‘More or less.’

‘Make it less,’ said the constable. ‘A damned sight less.’

The enemy were coming on quickly now, and the carts with the ballistae were spreading out, men jumping down to load and aim the big weapons. They looked a little like giant crossbows mounted on heavy wooden frames. Despenser ran up to Northampton. ‘I need the boats, my lord. I must get my men across the river.’

‘There isn’t time for the boats,’ said Northampton. He gestured at the beam. ‘We’ll cross as soon as that is in place. Where is Tracey?’

‘I don’t know, my lord,’ said Gurney. ‘I haven’t seen him since