Long and haunting, the notes of the trumpet echoed over the silent marshes. Listening to the call, the herald thought the silvery notes were like the sound of dawn, perfectly matching the ethereal light that seeped into the eastern sky and swallowed up the stars.
Swiftly the army formed up and prepared to march. By sunrise, the vanguard had crossed the marshes on the far side of Carentan and was already turning south, following the road to Saint-Lô through rolling hills patterned with hedgerows and clumps of trees. Spurred on by the thought of five thousand marks, the companies of Holland, Tracey, Despenser and the Red Company raced each other for the lead, but there was no doubt as to who would win; the Red Company were mounted, while the other three were on foot. By mid morning, Sir John and Sir Richard and their men were nothing more than dust clouds on the southern horizon.
Four miles short of Saint-Lô, the Red Company came to Pont-Hébert, a bridge over the River Vire with a hamlet of wood and stone houses at the far end. The marshes were far behind now, and the Vire ran through a steep valley a hundred feet deep; there was no other way across. And Robert Bertrand had left a detachment of crossbowmen on guard here, with orders to prevent the enemy from crossing.
He had reckoned without the Red Company. Dismounting, they drove the enemy back with showers of arrows and charged over the bridge, shooting or stabbing anyone who tried to resist. Assuming that the crossbowmen had been broken, Grey and Percy remounted their men and rode on towards Saint-Lô. But the remaining defenders were made of tougher metal. Waiting until the Red Company were out of sight, they came out of the houses where they had hidden and attacked the bridge with axes and hammers. By the time the Prince of Wales and the rest of the vanguard arrived at Pont-Hébert, the bridge was nothing more than broken timbers lying scattered on the banks of the river below.
‘If the Red Company are already over the river, that means they are cut off,’ said the prince. His young face looked worried. ‘Should we not try to rescue them, Lord Marshal?’
‘The Red Company know how to look after themselves, Highness,’ said Warwick. He turned to his esquire. ‘Fetch Master Hurley and his carpenters, and ask Sir Nicholas Courcy to join us too. We shall need his engineering expertise once more, I think.’
The esquire turned his horse and galloped away. The prince raised a gauntleted hand, shading his eyes against the sun. ‘The enemy are still there, on the far side of the river,’ he said. ‘Should we not drive them off first before we begin to rebuild the bridge?’
White-coated crossbowmen could still be seen lurking in the houses of Pont-Hébert, weapons levelled and pointed towards the ruined bridge. Warwick just managed to keep the surprise out of his voice. ‘Very good, Highness,’ he said approvingly, and turned to Holland and Tracey. ‘Sir Thomas, Sir Edward, you heard your prince. Drive those varlets off. At once, if you please.’
Spreading out, Holland and Tracey’s archers scrambled down the steep slope towards the bridge, lean figures in green and dun brown and russet pulling arrows from their quivers as they ran. In Pont-Hébert, more white-coated figures rose from their places of concealment. Crossbow bolts streaked through the air, dark blurs in the sunlight. Two archers went down, one clutching his leg, the other falling face forward and sliding down the slope for a moment before lying still. The other archers halted and raised their bows.
There was a moment of pause, long enough for an intake of breath, and then the first flight of arrows rose and arched over the river. The second followed almost before the first had reached its target, and then came the familiar pattern of nock-draw-release, nock-draw-release, fifteen times a minute, the thrum of the bows and hiss of feathered shafts vibrating in the air. In Pont Hébert the arrows fell like rain, embedding themselves in thatched roofs and wooden walls, skidding off the cobbled street, pinning the enemy as they tried to load their crossbows and staining their white tunics with blood. In less than a minute, a thousand arrows had been shot into Pont-Hébert, and the only crossbowmen visible now were fleeing up the opposite hill towards Saint-Lô, or lying twitching on the ground.
He had seen it before, but even so the power of the massed longbows left Merrivale a little shaken. The crossbowmen had stood no chance; what had happened just now was not so much a skirmish as a massacre.
He turned to the sound of hoofbeats, and saw Lord Rowton riding up the road from Carentan, followed by his esquire and a little party of men-at-arms. A moment later Rowton reined in beside them, raising his visor and saluting the marshal and the prince.
‘How long will that take to repair?’ he asked, looking at the ruined bridge.
‘I’m waiting for Courcy to tell us,’ Warwick said. ‘But I doubt it will be much before midnight.’
The archers were coming back up the slope, carrying two dead men and supporting a third, who hobbled with a black bolt protruding from his leg. He would survive, Merrivale thought, providing the wound did not become infected. In this heat, it very well might.
Rowton looked dubious. ‘His Grace insists on reaching Saint-Lô by nightfall.’
‘His Grace must needs be disappointed,’ Warwick said. He grinned. ‘You have his ear, Eustace. You can break the news to him.’
‘Thank you very much,’ Rowton said wryly. ‘Is there anything I can tell him to sweeten the medicine?’
‘The Red Company are over the river. If I know John and Richard, they are already raising hell, and Bertrand will have his hands full. Tell the king we will be able to cross at first light, and will be at the gates of Saint-Lô by sunrise. Then all we have to do is find some way of taking the strongest fortress in Normandy… what the devil is that noise?’
Someone was shouting further along the riverbank, and now more voices joined in, raised in anger. The prince turned in his saddle. ‘Herald, find out what that commotion is, and put a stop to it. Remind the men that we are fighting the enemy, not each other.’
He had said much the same to his quarrelling knights in Valognes, Merrivale reflected. It sounded like a phrase someone had put in his mouth.
Further along the bank, archers from Holland and Tracey’s companies had gathered in an angry circle surrounding two men: Bate, the scar-headed vintenar from Lancashire, and Nicodemus, the archer from Tracey’s company. Yesterday evening at Carentan they had met and talked in apparent amity; now they stood crouched, glaring at each other and ready to fight. Bate had drawn a short sword, while Nicodemus held a slender-bladed poignard with a long, wickedly tapering point.
Dismounting and shouldering his way through the press, Merrivale saw another man lying on the ground between them. His head was twisted horribly to one side, and his green tunic was bright with blood. More blood covered his face and matted his hair. His throat had been slashed open from ear to ear, the gory wound revealing his severed jugular vein and windpipe.
Despite this, it was still possible to recognise him. It was Jakey, the Devon man who had been playing hazard outside Carentan last night.
At the sight of the herald’s tabard, the shouting was replaced by an uneasy silence. ‘By order of his Highness the Prince of Wales, I command you to cease and desist,’ Merrivale said. ‘Put away your weapons, both of you.’
Neither Bate nor Nicodemus moved. ‘The punishment for raising a weapon without permission is amputation,’ Merrivale said. ‘If you want to keep your sword hands, put up your weapons. Now!’
Sullenly Nicodemus slid his dagger back into its sheath. Bate turned towards the herald, his sword flashing in the sunlight. He was sweating heavily and the scar on his head pulsed a deep livid red. Looking into his eyes, Merrivale saw pure hatred.
‘You wish to kill me,’ he said calmly. He held his hands out from his sides, showing that he was unarmed. ‘Very well. You are welcome to try now, if you wish.’
A murmur ran around the circle of men. Merrivale ignored it. He saw the rage in Bate’s eyes fade a little, replaced by uncertainty. After a moment, the vintenar raised his sword, then slammed it down point first into the grass at his feet and stood back, breathing heavily.
Merrivale pointed at Jakey’s body. ‘What happened to this man?’
‘He was killed by the enemy,’ Bate said, his voice rasping in his throat.
That provoked another outcry from the Devon men. ‘Like hell he was!’ Nicodemus shouted. ‘The enemy were over the river, shooting crossbows! Are you telling me one of them swam across, cut Jakey’s throat and swam back again, without nobody seeing him?’
‘Happen all you Devon coneys are blind,’ said one of the northern men.
The shouting increased in volume. ‘Silence!’ Merrivale ordered, and slowly the noise died away again. ‘Did anyone see what happened?’
A long silence followed. ‘He was down at the bridge with the rest of us,’ one of the Devon men said. ‘I saw him there. But when we got back to the top of the bank, he was gone.’
‘Had he quarrelled with anyone?’
‘No,’ said Nicodemus. He glared at Bate again. ‘Jakey was a good lad. Everyone liked him.’
‘I had nothing to do with this,’ Bate said. ‘Nor did any of my men.’
‘You’re lying, Bate. One of you Lanky bastards killed him. And when I find out who it was, I swear to God I’ll cut his throat, just like you did to poor Jakey here!’
‘God rot you!’ Bate roared. ‘We didn’t do it, I tell you!’
‘And another thing, Bate,’ said Nicodemus. ‘We’re not trading with you no more. You want a buyer, you look elsewhere. We don’t have dealings with murderers. You got that, boy?’
Red with rage, Bate reached down for his sword, but Merrivale kicked the weapon away, sending it spinning across the grass. Bate glared at him, clenching his fists until the knuckles were white. The scar on his head throbbed again. Calmly the herald waited, watching the emotions flicker through the vintenar’s savage, red-rimmed eyes. Time seemed to stop; the men around him held their breath.
Bate threw back his head like a bull and shouted at the sky, an inarticulate bellow of rage and frustration, and turned and walked away. Men scattered out of his path. The herald turned to Nicodemus. ‘Take your friend and bury him. The rest of you, return to your posts. Go.’
Nicodemus and another man carried the body away. The rest of the men scattered, some still muttering. Merrivale turned to see Lord Rowton sitting on horseback, watching him. ‘I thought you might need help,’ Rowton said. ‘But clearly you had the situation under control.’ He paused. ‘That big man wanted to kill you. Why didn’t he? He had a sword, and you were unarmed.’
‘Perhaps that is the reason,’ Merrivale said. ‘Someone cut the man’s throat, my lord. It wasn’t a neat job either, but a wild hack with a heavy blade that nearly took his head off. As you saw, and heard, Tracey’s men think one of Holland’s archers did it. I have my doubts.’
He waited for Rowton to ask him what those doubts were. Instead, the other man shook his head. ‘This is not your business, herald.’
‘The man was murdered, my lord.’
‘He was one of Tracey’s men. Let Tracey deal with it. Concentrate on finding out who killed Bray.’ Rowton lifted the reins of his horse. ‘Come, it is time we returned to his Highness.’
At day’s end, the English army made camp on the high ground above the Vire, listening to the thump of hammers and the rasp of saws echoing along the riverbank. Most of the kitchen wagons were still on the road from Carentan, so dinner was a simple affair of stockfish and salt salmon, boiled and served with bread and pickles. After the meal was finished, the prince and his knights settled down to their usual evening amusements of wine and dice. Hugh Despenser, who had apologised profusely to the prince after the incident at Valognes – but to no one else – was among them, apparently now in high favour. Merrivale wondered about this.
Tiphaine was waiting outside his tent when he returned. ‘When shall we reach Saint-Lô?’
‘Not until tomorrow morning, I fear.’ He took a closer look at her face, tense and drawn. ‘Why is that important?’
‘My father was executed there,’ she said abruptly, and turned and went into the tent.
Merrivale stood for a moment wondering whether to go after her. A voice hailed him, and he turned to see Sir Edward de Tracey coming towards him. ‘I heard what happened this afternoon,’ Tracey said. ‘I wanted to thank you in person. You prevented what could have been a very nasty incident.’
‘Have you discovered what happened?’
Tracey grimaced. ‘I’m afraid it turns out one of my own men is responsible. The fools were gambling last night and Jake Madford, the dead man, got into debt and couldn’t pay. There was an altercation, and he and some of the others came to blows. Madford finally promised to pay after we took Saint-Lô – presumably he was hoping for a share of the loot – and my vintenar thought the matter was closed. But it looks like someone saw a chance during the fighting today to settle his account for good.’
‘Do you know who the killer is?’
‘They closed ranks, of course, and refused to say, but it is perfectly obvious who it must be. Another of my archers, Jack Slade, disappeared this afternoon and hasn’t been seen since.’
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ Merrivale said.
‘Don’t be. Slade was not only a thief and a liar, he was also a terrible shot. My company is better off without him. I daresay he has gone over to the French by now, and if we catch him at Saint-Lô, I will have the pleasure of hanging him myself.’
Merrivale bowed. ‘Thank you for letting me know, Sir Edward.’
Tracey departed.
Jakey was a good lad. Everyone liked him. Clearly that was not true. But if Slade had killed him, why did Nicodemus and the others accuse Bate?
Later that evening, Lord Rowton sought out the herald. ‘I have read the reports you submitted to the king’s secretary. May I ask if there has been any further progress?’ He paused. ‘I am thinking of Edmund’s family.’
Merrivale shook his head. ‘I think he saw Fierville meeting with Chauffin, and was killed to silence him. But I have no proof.’
‘Are there other possibilities?’
The herald paused for a moment. ‘Sir Thomas Holland admits that he and Bray quarrelled at Portchester,’ he said finally. ‘He makes no secret of the fact that he disliked Bray. But enough to kill him? I am not certain.’
Rowton frowned. ‘What was the subject of their dispute?’
‘Holland says that Bray insulted his wife. Or rather, the woman he claims as his wife.’
‘Ah, the fair and divisive Joan… I had not heard of this. It may interest you to know, however, that while at Portchester, Bray also had an altercation with Sir Hugh Despenser.’
Merrivale looked at him. ‘You witnessed this, my lord?’
‘Yes, I did. Curiously, this quarrel too was about gambling debts.’ Rowton shook his head. ‘Gambling is an absolute curse in this army. We have more disputes and affrays over games of chance than any other single cause. If I had my way, I would ban gambling throughout the army, and put any man who transgressed into the stocks.’
‘I suspect that would not be practical,’ Merrivale said.
‘Of course not, given that the Prince of Wales is the biggest gambler of the lot.’
Earlier in the year, Merrivale had helped the prince’s treasurer settle the young man’s debts, which had risen to around sixty-five pounds; much of it owed to his mother, Queen Philippa. The problem was that the prince loved gambling for its own sake; he simply did not care whether he won or lost, with the result that he lost far more often than he won. ‘Had Bray run into debt?’ Merrivale asked.
‘No, but his friend Mortimer had. Despenser bought the debt from someone else, possibly as a way of putting one over on Mortimer, and demanded repayment. Bray interceded, asking Despenser for more time. When Despenser began to insult Mortimer, Bray stood up for him.’
‘As a true friend would.’
‘Indeed. However, some quite harsh words were said, and Bray made comments about Despenser’s character and parentage that I daresay an older and wiser man would have eschewed. At this point I intervened, ordered them both to apologise, and sent them away. But I fear Despenser is the sort of man who carries a grudge.’
‘Yes. Thank you for informing me, my lord.’
‘There is no need to thank me. I am sorry I did not tell you earlier.’
Rowton took his leave. Merrivale stood for a moment, thinking. Despenser’s company had also been ashore early at Quettehou. And Despenser had many archers in his retinue.
Despenser is the sort of man who carries a grudge. But who in that tortured generation, stained with their fathers’ crimes and their fathers’ blood, did not? How could anyone have survived that grim decade of famine and anarchy and come through it unmarked? He himself had not.
But… had he been wrong all along? He had become convinced – or, he admitted, he had convinced himself – that Bray had been killed because he had discovered Fierville was working with the enemy. But what if that was not the case? Bray had been a well-liked young man, but he had also made enemies along the way. Perhaps I am wrong about Holland, Merrivale thought. Perhaps he did allow his anger to get the better of him. Or perhaps Despenser, brooding over past histories and past wrongs, had snapped and decided to end the life of the man who had confronted him.
Sunset was a fading fire. Overhead, stars broke out in the darkening sky. Somewhere in the camp, a man played a lute and sang a lai by Marie de France. The herald recognised the song at once; he had heard it sung before, years ago, in another country.
The lives of the others are done.
Their love has cooled.
Yet I remain alive
and my destiny is to be with the woman I love
without ever knowing the bliss I seek.
I cannot possess her. I long for her embrace
and with every breath I draw I suffer.
I envy the others wrapped in death.