Another day, another bridge, the herald thought; and this one more impossible than the others. Mantes lay on the south bank of the river, and its defences were even stronger than those of Vernon. After last night’s raid at La Roche-Guyon, the garrison was clearly on alert. From the low hill where he stood, Merrivale could see the ramparts bright with gleaming armour and white Genoese surcoats. Beyond the town, the bridge over the Seine was strongly fortified too, and over on the north shore the French army was drawn up, company after company of men-at-arms with brilliant banners streaming in the wind.
The English had not even tried to take Mantes. The men of the vanguard had circled around the town well out of crossbow range and were moving on east, archers trudging through dust and smoke with their bows over their shoulders. Around them, every hamlet and village for miles was burning, a trail of destruction carved through the heart of France. Ostensibly, this was to lure the French over the river and force them to give battle, but everyone knew that strategy was not working and would never work. No, thought the herald, this is sheer anger and frustration, the lashing out of a king who had been lured into a trap and can see no way out of it.
Tiphaine had been shaking with exhaustion and shock when they returned to camp last night, and she had collapsed into sleep almost at once. Today she was silent, pale under her sunburn, sitting on the grass with her hands clasped on her lap and staring at the army as it marched by. Warin stood quietly behind them, holding the reins of their horses.
Sir Nicholas Courcy and Lady Gráinne rode up the hill, followed by Mauro driving the cart. They dismounted, Gráinne shaking out her black hair. ‘Sir Nicholas, my lady, thank you for your help last night,’ Merrivale said. ‘Sir John Grey bids me tell you he is grateful for your assistance.’
‘John Grey acknowledging that he needed help?’ said Courcy. ‘Now that’s not a thing you hear every day. And how are you faring this morning, demoiselle?’
‘I feel lucky to be alive,’ Tiphaine said. She shivered a little. ‘I thought last night that my luck had finished. I shall never forget the hatred in their eyes.’
‘What happened?’ Merrivale asked gently.
‘When the attack began, my gaoler came to find me. I managed to knock him out with a length of chain and stole his sword, thinking I could escape. But one of the nuns saw me and raised the alarm, and then all the sisters came running. They forced me out onto the platform and barred my way, while others lit the pyre. They told me they were the instruments of God’s punishment, and that they would sooner burn with me than let me escape.’
‘You had a sword,’ Gráinne pointed out. The cut over her eye had been stitched up, quite expertly; there was, it seemed, no end to Sir Nicholas’s talents.
‘Could you kill a nun, my lady? A woman of God?’
‘Women of God bleed just like the rest of us.’
Tiphaine shook her head. ‘I lived in a convent as a child and was reared by nuns. It would have been like killing my own mother. I found I could not do it.’
Silence fell for a few moments. Armour and bright banners gleamed in the sunlight as the army marched on. Just two more bridges remained, Meulan and Poissy.
‘Poissy,’ Tiphaine said, echoing the herald’s unspoken thought. ‘They will finish this at Poissy. That is what the Count of Alençon said.’
‘Where did you hear him say this?’ Merrivale asked quietly.
‘In Rouen.’
‘And why did you go to Rouen?’
She raised her eyes and looked at him. ‘I wanted to know more about Jean de Fierville. I know someone who I thought could give me answers to my questions.’
‘And did he?’
‘Some of them.’ She paused, marshalling her thoughts. ‘Fierville was part of three plots; or four, if you count the fact that he was also in the pay of the French. One was Harcourt’s rebellion, now ruined. The second was the greater rebellion of the Count of Eu and the Queen of Navarre. That too will not take place.’
‘Why not?’ asked Courcy. Mauro and Warin stood silent, listening.
‘Because I advised the queen against it,’ Tiphaine said.
Merrivale considered this. ‘You have seen her? Where?’
Tiphaine nodded. ‘I went to her after I left Lisieux. I told her what I knew, that she too would be betrayed if she rebelled. The other conspirators wish to push Philippe off his throne, but they have no desire to see Normandy go free.’
‘I take it these “other conspirators” are the third plot you mentioned. Who leads it?’
‘Charles d’Alençon, the king’s brother,’ she said. ‘Montmorency the marshal, I think. I don’t know who else.’
‘I can add a few more names,’ Merrivale said. ‘Cardinal Aubert, of course, and the two Italian mercenary commanders, Doria and Grimaldi.’
Tiphaine nodded. ‘I saw Genoese crossbowmen in the camp at Rouen. One of Alençon’s chief lieutenants is a Norman baron, Rollond de Brus, the man I went to see. Jean de Fierville was his cousin.’
She told them what she had learned in Rouen. ‘This man, Sir John de Tracey, bought English slaves from Fierville. But there was another, who worked for a moneylender. I do not know his name.’
‘I do,’ Merrivale said. ‘He is called Nicodemus.’
Mauro looked dubious. ‘Begging your pardon, señorita, but Sir John de Tracey died seven years ago.’
‘What about his son?’ asked Gráinne.
‘Sir Edward has always been at pains to distance himself from his father,’ Merrivale said. ‘He became angry to the point of hostility when I last questioned him. Given what you have told us, demoiselle, I understand why.’
He pondered for a moment. ‘Very well. Nicodemus is said to have deserted, but I am convinced he is not far away. Perhaps he and Slade, the other deserter, are working together. We need to find them, and soon.’
As the army made camp that evening on high ground overlooking the Seine, Merrivale called on his ever-reliable informant the cowherd. ‘You do not look happy, Mistress Driver.’
‘No, sir. My poor cows are getting so gaunt and weary with all this marching, and the milk they are giving is so thin, there’s hardly any cream at all. Marigold is in real distress, sir. Are we going to be able to escape across the river?’
‘I hope so,’ Merrivale said. ‘I came to ask if you had seen anything of Nicodemus. Has he approached the kitchen in the last few days?’
‘No, sir. Folk are saying he deserted. He won’t be the last one, either, the way things are going.’
‘No.’ After the failure at Mantes, the mood of the army was more depressed than ever. The heady aftermath of victory at Caen seemed a long time ago. ‘The man who watches the cooking pots, Curry. Has he had any callers, or does he go anywhere?’
‘No callers that I have seen, sir, and he never leaves camp, just sleeps on the ground next to the cooking fires. He’s fallen out with Master Clerebaud too, I think.’
‘Oh?’
‘He keeps staring at the poor man. Poor Master Clerebaud has gone all quiet and never talks to anyone now, not even me.’
Something tingled along the herald’s spine. ‘Does he ever leave the kitchen?’
‘Yes, sir, most evenings once dinner is finished. He’s either looking for plunder or playing dice with some of the archers. I reckon he goes to get away from Curry.’
Clerebaud had once won money from Nicodemus. Was the defrocked priest still attending these games of dice? the herald wondered. Perhaps in disguise?
‘Thank you, Mistress Driver,’ he said, handing over a piece of cheese. ‘Once again, you have been a wellspring of information.’
Inquisition into the death of Edmund Bray, knight, near the village of Quettehou in Normandy on the XIIth day of July, in the nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward III. This report was composed on the XIth day of August, at the village of Aubergenville.
Item, it seems likely that an archer calling himself Nicodemus, formerly of Sir Edward de Tracey’s retinue, was also a conspirator along with Jean de Fierville. Nicodemus deserted the army two days ago, but I believe he is still in the vicinity, possibly along with another deserter, Jack Slade. I have ordered a search for both men.
Item, I have received information that the French intend to strike a blow at our army when and if it reaches Poissy. The nature of the coup they are planning is not known, but I believe this information to be true and correct.
Simon Merrivale, heraldus
Michael Northburgh read the brief report and laid it to one side. ‘Tracey? Could he himself be involved?’
‘Anything is possible, of course. But he says he had nothing to do with his father’s activities, and I have no reason to disbelieve him. And there is another thing.’
‘What is it?’
Merrivale outlined the wide-ranging conspiracy aimed at both King Edward and Philippe de Valois. ‘Could Edward de Tracey, greedy and rich though he is, organise a coup like this alone? Frankly, I doubt it.’
‘Then who could?’
‘Of the others I have suspected? None. Mortimer is too young and inexperienced. Holland has the right connections, but the king has already bought his loyalty. Despenser has motive, perhaps, but he lacks the resources, especially money. The same is true of Gurney.’
Northburgh nodded. ‘So, to sum up, you have strong evidence of a conspiracy within our army, but have no idea who is behind it.’
‘Yes. Which means I am no further ahead than I was before,’ the herald said bitterly. ‘I know why Bray was killed, but I cannot prove who did it. That is why I must find these two renegade archers. At the moment, they are my only hope.’
Northburgh frowned. ‘I will pass on your report to his Grace, of course, but he may not have time to read it. He is too busy worrying about bridges.’
‘Is there any hope at Meulan?’
‘Warwick and Northampton have gone forward with an advance party to see if a surprise attack can be mounted. If that fails, then it will be one last throw of the dice at Poissy.’ Northburgh glanced at the report again. ‘Where you say the enemy have something planned for us.’
‘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.’
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 wise. I must say I am tempted to remain neutral myself. Yours is a complex plan, my lords, and in my experience, complex plans have a habit of going wrong. You have set a trap for Edward here at Poissy. But what if he should escape from it?’
‘He will not,’ said the man from the north.
The burly man cleared his throat again but said nothing. The man beside him, weather-beaten and scarred like the cliffs of his homeland in Monaco, growled under his breath. ‘What about the money? You offered twenty thousand écus. I want more.’
‘And you shall have it, Signor Grimaldi,’ said the man from the West Country. ‘For you, and also for you, Signor Doria, and for all of you. Count Rožmberk, the high chamberlain of Bohemia. Count Louis of Vaud, the regent of Savoy. Marshal de Montmorency. My lord John of Hainault. Cardinal Aubert and you also, Cardinal Ceccano. – When the deed is done and the Count of Alençon is crowned King Charles V of France, there will be a reward of forty thousand écus in gold.’
‘You are doubling the money?’ asked Louis of Vaud, the grey-haired man. His face was incredulous.
‘We are. Are you tempted now to join us?’
Vaud said nothing. ‘And you, Grand Prior?’ the man from the north asked. ‘I know the Knights of Saint John have forsaken all worldly goods. But monastic poverty can still be endured in comfort, I think. And forty thousand écus would buy you a great deal of comfort.’
‘The money would be useful to my order,’ the Grand Prior said smoothly. ‘More to the point, I believe King Charles V will make a better king than his brother; and, of course, he will look kindly on the Knights of Saint John and will favour them in future. I am with you.’
‘And me?’ demanded Charles d’Alençon. ‘What is my reward?’
‘The throne of France, of course. And one hundred thousand écus, to pay off your debts and suppress your enemies. And distribute to your loyal friends, of course,’ added the man from the north, glancing at Rollond de Brus.
Montmorency raised his eyebrows. ‘You will pay out almost half a million écus, at a time when your king is nearly bankrupt? I did not realise there was so much money in all of England.’
‘There are reasons why King Edward has no money,’ the man from the West Country said, and he smiled.
‘And once this plan is complete, what then?’ demanded the bearded Count Rožmberk. ‘What is in this for you?’
‘We shall make profit out of chaos,’ said the man from the north. ‘And invite you to join us. In this room are representatives of some of the greatest powers of Europe: the papacy, France, England, the Knights of Saint John. And others that were once great, and could be again: Genoa, Savoy.’ He looked again at Louis of Vaud. ‘Savoy is a mere county now. With our support, you could make it a kingdom once more.’
‘We have tried that before,’ Vaud said. ‘We failed.’
‘Forty thousand écus, remember? With that amount of money, you could buy the fealty of your fellow rulers. Your kingdom could stretch from Provence to the Rhine.’
The man from the north turned back to Count Rožmberk, the bearded man. ‘We are waiting for King Jean of Bohemia. Has his army arrived yet?’
‘Indeed. They have joined the royal army at Saint-Denis.’
‘King Jean is ambitious and desires further conquests to enlarge his kingdom, but he needs money. We can provide it.’
‘And I say again. What do you intend to do?’
‘Say rather what do you want to do? Unite the embattled kingdoms of Spain and lead them to conquer the Moors? Crush Venice and take over the spice trade? Launch a new crusade to reconquer Jerusalem? Overthrow the Greek empire and restore the empire of Constantinople? Where do your ambitions lead you, my lords? Whatever they are, we can help you achieve them. We are the brokers of power, who will make a new Europe. We call on you to be part of it.’
There was a moment of silence. The man from the north looked around the room for a moment, then drew his sword and held it up by the blade, so the hilt formed the sign of a cross. Beside him, the West Country man touched the hilt and then raised his hand in the air. ‘This is our pledge,’ he said. ‘Join us.’
Jean de Nanteuil, the Grand Prior of the Knights of Saint John, stepped up and touched the hilt, kissing his fingers as he withdrew. Grimaldi of Monaco followed him, and so after a little hesitation did Ottone Doria from Genoa. The two cardinals followed. Alençon looked at Rožmberk and Vaud. ‘Well, my lords? It is time to choose sides.’
Silently Rožmberk stepped forward and touched the hilt. Vaud smiled a little. ‘Forty thousand écus,’ he said. ‘It appears, gentlemen, that you have found my price,’ and he too touched the sword. Montmorency and Hainault followed, and last of all came Alençon. He rested his fingertips on the hilt, and then suddenly wrapped his hand hard around it, as if he intended to rip it from the other man’s hands.
‘Do not fail me,’ he said.
‘We will not,’ said the man from the West Country.
A moment passed, and then Alençon relaxed his grip. Without another word he turned and walked out of the room, followed by the others. John of Hainault lingered for a moment, looking into the eyes of the man from the north and smiling a little. ‘My congratulations,’ he said. ‘You have a played a long game with patience and skill.’
‘Twenty years,’ said the man from the north. ‘We have had our setbacks, but we have won through.’
‘You have. I hope you get the reward you deserve.’
‘I will,’ said the man from the north. ‘We all will. Are you certain about Alençon?’
‘He is a bombastic, arrogant fool,’ said Hainault. ‘But he is also the king’s brother. We must either use him, or kill him. The former is easier and less risky.’ He smiled a little. ‘Worry not. I shall keep him under control.’
‘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 we arrived in Poissy.’
‘Never mind. Holland, Gurney, Mortimer, collect every man you can find. Then get ready to follow me.’
Mortimer gazed down at the swirling river, doubtless remembering his near drowning at Carentan, and then back at the beam, a foot wide and dripping with water. ‘We’re going to cross on that?’
‘The rest of us are,’ Despenser snapped. ‘Come with us, or stay here and soil yourself. Your choice.’
Mortimer stared at him and then turned on his heel. Gurney is right, the herald thought. They are like quarrelling children. Despenser turned away too, shouting to his vintenar, and Holland was calling for his men. More men-at-arms came running up to join them, Courcy and Gráinne among them, the bulky figure of Donnchad following. Harry Percy, Sir Richard’s brother, arrived at the run, followed by his own archers.
On the far shore, the ballistae began to shoot, each one making an audible crack as it launched its stone shot. The shot were the size of apples, black streaks rushing through the air. Two punched into the walls of the houses near the bridge, knocking holes in the timber. A third struck a man-at-arms in the head, shattering his bascinet like an eggshell.
‘Hurley!’ Northampton snapped. ‘Get that goddamned beam in place!’
‘Nearly there, my lord. A couple more Aves should do it.’ One of the carpenters spun around with a crossbow bolt in his side, toppled and fell into the river. Another ran forward to take his place on the windlass. The beam continued to rise with painful slowness. On the far side of the river, a trumpet sounded, and the French men-at-arms lowered their lances and launched forward, charging across the flat fields towards the Red Company through showers of arrows. On the south bank, the English waited. Merrivale found he was holding his breath.
The air vibrated as the French men-at-arms crashed into the Red Company. Standing at the south end of the bridge, the herald heard the shouts and screams of anger and pain, the hammer of metal on metal, the constant twang of bowstrings, and suddenly the hair stood up on the back of every neck as the Red Company began their war cry, ‘Rouge! Rooouge! Roooooouge!’ Just for a moment, he was back in Savoy, listening to the howling of wolves in the mountains; but these were men, not wolves, fighting with skill as well as fury, and one by one the French men-at-arms began to go down.
But there were too many of them, and sheer weight of numbers began forcing the Red Company back towards the river. The beam reached the level of the bridge. Harry Percy, whose brother was fighting at the far end, ran forward to help lift it into place. It spanned the gap, a foot wide and shining treacherously wet, twenty feet above the rushing waters of the river. Someone whispered a prayer. Drawing his sword, Northampton jumped onto the beam and began to run.
Encased in armour and mail, knowing that death awaited him in the river below, the constable ran lightly and easily, his arms outstretched for balance. Others followed him: Despenser, Mortimer, Gurney, Harry Percy, then Courcy and Gráinne and Donnchad and the other men-at-arms, running along the beam in single file while the stone shot continued to whip through the air around them. One man slipped and fell, hitting the water with a hard splash. Weighed down by eighty pounds of armour, he sank straight to the bottom. A trail of air bubbles marked the spot where he fell for minute or so, and then stopped.
Northampton reached the far end of the beam and charged forward into the heart of the fighting. The others followed. At first they seemed to make no impact, but as more and more English men-at-arms piled in, the impetus swung and the French began falling back. As suddenly as they had charged, they broke, the Red Company running after them and shooting them down as they fled. The crews of the ballistae tried to reload, but were cut down by arrows and crossbow bolts. Within a few minutes, the surviving French had fled, disappearing into the haze. Someone had already set their carts on fire, and flames rose pale in the dim light.
Northampton walked back across the beam, handing his bloody sword to his esquire for cleaning. ‘You may continue your work now, Master Hurley,’ he said calmly. ‘I want this bridge serviceable and ready for passage as soon as possible.’
‘Aye, my lord. We’ll do our best.’ The master carpenter said something under his breath and then turned to his men.
Hugh Despenser looked grudgingly at Mortimer. ‘I was wrong,’ he said. ‘You didn’t soil yourself.’
‘Go to hell,’ said Mortimer tiredly, and he pulled his bascinet off and stood for a moment, sweat pouring down his face and hair clinging limply to his neck, watching the smoke of the burning carts rolling across the fields.