A Flight of Arrows Page 2

  ‘Quettehou is on the perimeter of our position,’ Warwick said. ‘We have sent out scouts to the west, but have yet to hear reports from them. If Bertrand attacks during the ceremony, you and the prince will be vulnerable, sire. If we are going to do this, do it down here, on the beach.’

  Rowton shook his head. ‘We should hold the ceremony in a sacred place, to show the people that God is on our side. God himself will be witness to the oaths that are sworn there. I am sure the king’s household knights will be able to protect him and the prince.’ He looked at Warwick. ‘And you said it yourself, my friend. The enemy have departed. For the moment, at least, I think the danger is hypothetical.’

  The king rubbed his chin. ‘What do you say, Thomas?’

  Warwick knew when he was beaten. He smiled. ‘I defer to the sage advice of my friend Lord Rowton.’

  ‘Good,’ said the king. ‘It is settled. Send word to all the captains, and instruct them to join us as soon as they land. God is welcome to attend this ceremony, but I want plenty of mortal witnesses as well. Master Bray, tell the Prince of Wales to attend on me at the church in Quettehou at midday.’

  Bray bowed his head. ‘Yes, sire.’

  The king waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Thomas,’ he said to the marshal, as Bray turned away, ‘I want to know how the devil Robert Bertrand knew we were landing at Saint-Vaast. Find out for me, will you?’

  * * *

  Bray hurried back along the beach through curtains of drifting smoke. More men were coming ashore, men-at-arms in glittering mail and plate, archers with their longbows slung across their backs, Welsh and Cornish spearmen shouting to each other in their own tongue. Skittish horses, released from confinement aboard ship, pranced and galloped on the beach while grooms tried to round them up. Further on, men were dragging wagon boxes up onto the sand and jacking them up to fit them with axles and wheels.

  Sniffing the smoke in the air and quivering like a hunting dog waiting to be let off the lead, the sixteen-year-old Prince of Wales stood waiting by the boats. His esquires and attendants gathered around him, the golden dragon standard of Wales floating overhead in the wind. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Did you find him?’

  ‘Yes, Highness,’ said Bray. ‘We are summoned to join the king at midday, at the church in Quettehou.’

  ‘Oh yes, the ceremony,’ the prince said carelessly. ‘My father is going to claim the throne of France. Again. Where are the enemy, Edmund?’ he demanded. ‘When do we get to do some fighting?’

  ‘Patience, Highness,’ Bray said, smiling. ‘As part of the ceremony, his Grace will also confer on you the honour of knighthood.’

  ‘He’s going to make me a knight?’

  ‘That is what he said, Highness.’

  ‘Yes!’ With a clash of armour, the prince raised one clenched fist in the air. ‘At last I shall have my spurs! Now everyone will see that I am no longer a child!’

  The young Earl of Salisbury, the prince’s closest friend, clapped him on the back with delight. Fitz-Simon, the standard-bearer, waved the gold dragon with enthusiasm. The others cheered, some more dutifully than others. Roger Mortimer, a tall young man in a blue and gold surcoat, folded his arms across his chest. The prince’s herald, wearing a tabard in the royal colours stiff with gold embroidery over a plain tunic and hose, cleared his throat.

  ‘With the greatest of respect, Highness, may I remind you that it is customary to reward the bearer of good news.’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, of course!’ The prince turned to Bray. Slipping off one gauntlet, he pulled a ring from his finger and pressed it into Bray’s hand. ‘Take this, Edmund, as a token of thanks for all the good services you have done me. Not just today, but in the past too.’ He smiled, his face vivid with excitement. ‘And also in the future, of course.’

  ‘It is I who must thank you, Highness, for allowing me to serve.’ The gift was a generous one; the ring was solid gold with a cabochon ruby. Selling it would recoup a fair amount of the money Bray and his father had spent on equipping him for this campaign.

  The herald cleared his throat again.

  ‘What is it now?’ asked the prince.

  ‘It is also customary that when the king’s eldest son is knighted, he in turn knights some of his followers. Those he deems worthy of the honour, that is.’

  All the other young men stopped and stared at the prince. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, of course, why not? Will,’ he said, turning to Salisbury, ‘you must be the first, my friend.’

  Salisbury bowed his head. ‘Highness, you do me great honour.’

  ‘Nonsense. It is no more than you deserve. Now, who else… why, Roger, of course! Knighting you would really bury the past, wouldn’t it? People will finally stop talking about your grandfather, and how he was executed for high treason and all that.’

  Mortimer bowed stiffly. ‘Thank you, Highness. Like my lord of Salisbury, I am sensible of the honour you do me.’

  ‘And my valiant esquires, of course, Edmund Bray and William Ros. And…’ The prince looked around at the circle of eager young faces. ‘Oh, hang it. My friends are gallant fellows, each and every one. I shall knight them all. I can do that, can’t I?’

  ‘Of course, Highness,’ replied the herald. ‘It is a very generous gesture.’

  The prince looked pleased. ‘What about you, Merrivale? I could knight you too, if you wish.’

  The herald smiled and bowed. Unlike the men around him, he wore no armour and there was no sword at his belt. ‘Thank you, Highness. But it would not be appropriate.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ The prince looked up, catching sight of a familiar figure further along the beach. ‘Oh look, there is Sir Bartholomew! I must go and tell him the news.’

  He galloped away down the beach with a clatter of metal, all gawky arms and legs. Salisbury followed him like an attentive lapdog. The others watched them go.

  ‘Now they will see that I am no longer a child,’ someone mimicked.

  ‘There’s certainly one advantage to being a knight,’ Mortimer said. ‘We won’t have to wipe his snotty little nose any more. Or his arse.’

  ‘Careful,’ Bray cautioned. ‘We are still in his retinue. And he is the king’s son.’

  The corpse of Mortimer’s grandfather had hung from a gibbet at Tyburn for two days, dangling in the wind until his lover, the king’s mother, received permission to take it down. ‘Damn that,’ Mortimer said darkly. ‘I am a better man than that boy will ever be. Mark my words, my friends. The day will come when I bow the knee to no one.’

  Quettehou, 12th of July, 1346

  Midday

  Sunlight flowed golden through the windows of the church of Saint-Vigor. The king, standing with his back to the altar, was haloed with light. His polished armour shone dazzling silver, and the leopards on his surcoat were a golden blaze. His nose had stopped bleeding.

  More than a hundred men were gathered inside the church. Looking around, Bray saw the king’s friend Lord Rowton standing with Warwick and the Earl of Northampton, the Constable of England. A couple of younger knights were with them, Sir John Grey and Sir Richard Percy, the captains of the Red Company. Both men were high in Warwick’s favour, but Bray’s nose wrinkled a little. He had met the pair back at Portchester before the army embarked. Percy was good company, but he thought Grey was superior and smug.

  The king raised one hand. Silence fell inside the church. From outside they could hear a gentle murmur, the bustle of the army coming ashore on the beach below, and nearer at hand, the tread of restless feet, archers from Sir Thomas Holland’s retinue guarding the church.

  ‘Kneel, my son,’ King Edward said.

  The Prince of Wales knelt before his father, hands clasped in front of him. The king drew his sword and held it up, a ribbon of steel shining in the sunlight, and then lowered the blade until it rested on the young man’s shoulder. His voice rang out, echoing a little off the stone walls.

  ‘Will you swear an oath, by the love of Jesus Christ and Hi
s Mother the Blessed Virgin Mary, to uphold the laws and customs of the ancient and honourable order of knighthood? Will you swear to defy anyone who does reproach to God, to your sovereign lord the king, to any woman or orphan or helpless person of any estate, or to any of the aforesaid laws and customs of knighthood?’

  The prince’s voice was low and quiet. ‘I do so swear, before Jesus and the Virgin Mary.’

  ‘Knighthood is an honourable estate, the true occupation of a man of noble blood. For a knight to be true to his faith, he must be a lover of the common weal and the common good, for these things are greater and more necessary than his own good or need. Edward of Woodstock, will you devote yourself to this estate, humbly and truly in the eyes of your king and the Lord?’

  ‘So help me God.’

  ‘He is actually doing this rather well,’ Bray whispered to Mortimer. The latter looked sour and said nothing.

  ‘Then be a good and faithful knight, honouring God, your liege lord and your vows just taken.’ The king lifted his sword and laid the flat of the blade against the side of his son’s neck, holding it there for a moment before withdrawing. ‘You may now rise, Sir Edward of Woodstock.’

  The prince rose to his feet. Father and son embraced, breastplates and armguards clanking together. ‘As a mark of my favour, I now permit you to knight those of your followers whom you deem worthy,’ the king said. ‘You may summon them now.’

  Red-faced with pride, the prince turned to Simon Merrivale. ‘Call their names, herald.’

  Salisbury was first, of course; Salisbury would always be first. Mortimer followed, reciting his oath in a voice so quiet that people strained to hear. William Ros was next, and then came Bray’s turn. He knelt, listening to the prince’s young voice as it stumbled a little with excitement. He recited the oath, pleased at how calm his own voice sounded, and felt the cold steel blade against his neck and heard the prince’s voice again: ‘You may rise now, Sir Edmund Bray.’

  He stood waiting while the others were knighted, the words repeating themselves in his mind. Sir Edmund Bray. Sir Edmund Bray. Ah, he thought, it does have a nice sound to it. I understand how the prince feels. I am a man of consequence now, deserving of respect.

  The ceremony ended and the new knights stepped back. Godefroi d’Harcourt, the Norman exile, a battle-scarred older man in a surcoat decorated with red and gold horizontal bars, limped forward and knelt before the king. ‘I, Godefroi d’Harcourt, Vicomte de Saint-Sauveur, renounce my allegiance to the false king and usurper Philippe de Valois, and declare King Edward III to be the rightful king of France and my own liege lord. I will remain faithful to you, sire, even unto death.’

  ‘So be it,’ said the king, and he took Harcourt by the hand and drew him to his feet. Harcourt stepped back to join his own Norman retainers. One of them was missing, Bray saw. Well, that was no surprise, given what he had learned back in Portchester.

  Absolute silence fell once more. Everyone knew what was coming.

  ‘Hear now my words,’ the king said. ‘We did not wish for this war. As all men know, I am the rightful king of France; my lady mother is the only surviving child of the old king, Philip IV, and by rights the throne should have passed through her to me. But I was content to forgo my claim, so long as my own lands and those of my lady mother should be left to us in peace. That is all I asked.’

  A gentle murmur ran around the church. ‘But Philip would not have it so,’ the king continued. ‘He has chosen war, and resisted all our offers of peace. Very well. By choosing war, he has also chosen his own doom.’

  A chorus of agreement echoed off the stone walls. The king’s voice grew stronger. ‘Before you all, I make this solemn vow. I swear to you by the blood of Christ that we shall prosecute this war to the end. We shall break the usurper’s power. We shall do such damage to the might of France that it will wither and blow like dust before the wind of England!’

  The crowd shouted, men clashing their gauntleted hands against their breastplates and yelling their approval; and then, cutting through the noise, they heard the sound of a trumpet blowing the alarm.

  * * *

  Outside the church, Holland’s archers were alert and ready, bows strung and arrows resting in the nock. A company of spearmen from Carmarthenshire came hurrying up from the beach to reinforce them; another band of archers, Tracey’s men from Devon, were also moving up the hill, with Hugh Despenser’s company close behind them. Men-at-arms crowded around the church door, calling for their horses. Bray spotted his own horse and ran to it, stepping into the saddle and taking the reins from his groom just as Roger Mortimer rode up alongside him. ‘Where are the French?’ Mortimer asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Bray shaded his eyes against the sun, watching the fields and hedgerows stretching away to the west of the village. ‘I can’t see anything. Do you suppose it’s a false alarm?’

  ‘I hope not. I’d like to do some fighting.’

  Bray grinned at him. ‘You sound just like the prince.’

  ‘Be very careful,’ Mortimer warned.

  A scout, another of the Norman exiles, dismounted and knelt before the king. ‘I spotted horsemen coming up the road from Valognes, about two miles away, sire. They’re riding under a banner, green lion rampant on gold. Bertrand’s colours,’ he added.

  The king turned to Northampton and Warwick, the constable and marshal. ‘What do you advise?’

  ‘For your own safety, sire, we should retreat to the beach,’ Northampton said.

  ‘Retreat?’ The king stared at him. ‘Did you not hear what I said just now? We came to seize this country and hold it. How will we do that if we fall back now, without even striking a blow?’

  Warwick cleared his throat.

  ‘Take that look off your face,’ the king snapped at him. ‘I know you advised delay, but what’s done is done. Can we hold this position?’

  Northampton frowned. He was quite calm, Bray thought. If there was danger, he did not seem very worried about it. Come to that, neither did the king or Warwick. ‘How many men does Bertrand have?’ the constable asked the scout.

  ‘I am not certain, my lord. At least two or three hundred, possibly more. They had outriders and flank guards, and I was unable to get close.’

  Northampton looked at the marshal. ‘Further reconnaissance is needed, I think.’

  Warwick nodded. ‘I will go myself.’

  ‘Take a strong escort,’ Northampton said.

  ‘I’ll take the Red Company. That should be enough.’ Warwick turned his horse.

  Mortimer raised a hand, intending to volunteer to go with him, but Bray grabbed his arm and pulled it down. There was something he needed to do, and he was not going to let his friend get in his way. ‘My lord of Warwick, may I accompany you?’ he asked.

  ‘And me,’ Mortimer said quickly.

  Other voices joined in. Warwick frowned. ‘This is a reconnaissance, not a hunting party. Very well, one of you may join us. Sir Edmund, as you were first to speak, let it be you. We’ll give you a chance to win those new spurs of yours.’

  ‘Bastard,’ Mortimer hissed at Bray. The latter grinned back at him.

  ‘All is fair in love and war,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring you back a Frenchman’s head.’

  * * *

  Inland from Quettehou the landscape was a patchwork of fields and forests, bisected by lanes and thick hedgerows. The Norman scout led the way down the road towards Valognes; he was a local man, he said, and knew this area well. The Red Company, a polyglot mix of archers, crossbowmen and spearmen identifiable by their dark red steel caps, fanned out across the surrounding fields. Ordinarily the Red Company was mounted, but most of its horses had not yet come ashore. Its commanders, John Grey and Richard Percy, rode beside Warwick, scanning the landscape and talking about the enemy.

  None of them paid any attention to Bray. He did not mind; he was where he wanted to be. Everything was working out just as he had hoped.

  ‘Bertrand is uncertain of our inte
ntions,’ Grey said. ‘He garrisoned Saint-Vaast and brought in warships, and then for some reason withdrew. Of course, we arrived about a week later than planned. Perhaps he decided we weren’t coming after all and pulled his troops back. It is likely that he received reports of the landing, and has come to investigate.’

  Percy agreed. ‘Bertrand and my father served together in the Scots wars, twenty years ago. He is a canny old soldier, and a hard fighter, too. He knows all the tricks.’

  ‘I wish to God we had more men ashore,’ Warwick said. ‘If Bertrand finds out how weak we are, even three hundred men-at-arms and crossbowmen could do a great deal of damage.’

  Grey looked around at the woods and hedges. ‘Especially in close country like this. Lines of sight are limited, and there are plenty of places for an ambush.’

  ‘I agree,’ Warwick said. ‘Halt your men.’

  A horn sounded and the Red Company stopped, archers nocking arrows and crossbowmen kneeling down and presenting their weapons.

  ‘We need a vantage point,’ Warwick said to the scout. ‘Somewhere we can spy out the country.’

  ‘There is the chapel of La Pernelle,’ the Norman said. ‘It is on a hill a little way north of here. From there, you can see for miles.’

  ‘Take me there. John, Richard, hold your company here and wait for further orders. Sir Edmund, stay with them. Watch how Sir John and Sir Richard handle their men. You could learn from them.’

  Warwick and his esquire rode away across the fields, following the Norman. Bray waited, fidgeting on horseback. His dislike of John Grey had increased. Learn? he thought. Learn what? Arrogance? Grey had spent the entire ride out from Quettehou trying to show Warwick how clever he was. And earlier, at the church, during that powerful speech when the king had proclaimed his lordship of France, he had caught a glimpse of Grey’s face. He could have sworn that the other man was trying not to laugh.