A Flight of Arrows by A.J. MacKenzie (most recommended books txt) 📗

red hair fell in tangled clouds around her shoulders and over her face. Her gown had once been fine, but it was soiled and ragged now, and one sleeve had been half torn off, the points ripped and dangling. Her feet were dirty too, and he could see blood on one of them. She was young, he realised, no more than twenty.

‘Thanks to you, I am unharmed,’ she said. Her voice was shaky but strong. ‘May I know the name of my saviour, monsieur?’

‘I am Simon Merrivale, herald to the Prince of Wales. Who are you, madame, and where did you come from?’

‘It is demoiselle. My name is Tiphaine de Tesson, and I have been imprisoned in the castle of Carentan for the past two years. When your army advanced on the town, I escaped and came here hoping to find your commanders. You must take me to them, monsieur. It is urgent.’

He saw the desperation in her brown eyes. Questions could wait, he thought. ‘We have horses waiting. Are you well enough to ride? Good, come with me. Warin, give her your pony and follow us on foot. Lead the way, demoiselle.’

The castle lay in the southern quarter of the town, not far from the Saint-Lô gate. The streets here had not yet begun to burn. They found Warwick and his officers crouched behind the corner of a jettied stone house, looking out at the castle on the far side of the square. The prince and his knights and serjeants of his bodyguard waited further back, out of range of enemy crossbows. No one was visible now on the ramparts of the castle, but the gates were still firmly shut.

‘My lord Warwick!’ the herald called, sliding out of the saddle and reaching up to help Tiphaine down. ‘This lady has recently escaped from the castle. She says she has urgent news.’

Warwick rose and came towards them. The other officers followed, armour and mail clanking. ‘Who are you, demoiselle?’ the marshal asked.

‘I am Tiphaine de Tesson. My father was the lord of La Roche Tesson, whom King Philippe executed for rebellion and treason two years ago. I was arrested along with my father, and I have been held in prison in Carentan castle ever since. My cell was in the walls, directly under the ramparts, and I often overheard officers of the garrison talking. This morning when your army began to advance, I heard Messire Robert Bertrand giving orders to the commander of the castle.’

‘One moment, demoiselle. How strong is the garrison? How many men?’

‘Not more than twenty. Messire Bertrand has withdrawn with the rest to Saint-Lô.’

‘Only twenty?’ said Edward de Tracey. ‘We can storm the place easily.’

John Grey nodded. ‘No need to wait for the mangonels. A simple ram will break the gates down.’

The woman shook her head violently, her tangled hair swinging around her shoulders. ‘No, messire! A trap is waiting for you!’

‘A trap?’ Warwick said sharply. ‘What sort of trap?’

‘I do not know, messire. I only heard Messire Bertrand say to the commander, “Wait until they enter, then spring the trap. Once it is done, escape with your men as best you can.” And the commander said, “Do not fear. They will be destroyed.”’

‘What is the name of the commander?’ Merrivale asked.

‘He is called Raoul de Barbizan. He is one of King Philippe’s officers.’

Merrivale turned to Warwick. ‘Let me parley with this man, my lord. Once I am inside the castle, perhaps I can discover what this trap is.’

Warwick frowned. ‘Herald, you are an ambassador, not a scout. You would be overstepping the bounds. If Barbizan were to discover what you are up to, he would be perfectly entitled to kill you.’

The flames were drawing nearer; a gust of smoke swirled in the street around them. ‘He will not discover it,’ Merrivale said.

‘Perhaps not,’ said Nicholas Courcy, stepping forward. ‘But all the same, herald, I think Donnchad and I will come with you. I’m thinking you might need a little assistance.’

Donnchad was a shaggy mountain of a man, bigger even than the Lancashire archer Merrivale had faced down a few minutes earlier. ‘I do not need assistance,’ the herald said. ‘I can gain entrance to the castle without difficulty.’

‘I am sure you can. But I fancy you might need a wee bit of help getting out again.’

The rest of Carentan was fire and chaos, but the square before the castle was silent as death. The loudest sound was the boots of the three men rasping on the cobbles. The herald walked straight towards the gate, hands at his sides, his tabard shining in the smoke-tainted sunlight. Courcy and Donnchad still wore their swords, but they held their hands out wide, away from their weapons.

A man appeared on the roof of the gatehouse, resting a crossbow on the ramparts and levelling it. His voice echoed hollow off the stone walls around him. ‘Who are you? State your business!’

‘I am Simon Merrivale, herald to the Prince of Wales. I wish to speak to the Sire de Barbizan.’

‘What do you want with him?’

‘Carentan has fallen. We know your defences are weak and you cannot withstand an assault for long. I am here to negotiate your surrender.’

The crossbowman said nothing. He remained motionless, his weapon pointed at the three of them. After some little time, a postern gate in the wooden door swung open.

‘You may enter,’ the crossbowman said.

Merrivale stepped through the postern, Courcy and Donnchad following. Glancing up at the gate arch, he saw that the portcullis had been raised. Courcy noticed it too. ‘That’s a curious thing.’

‘Yes.’ If the defenders were preparing to resist an assault, the portcullis should have been lowered.

A single man stood waiting for them in the courtyard of the castle. He wore full armour, but in the heat of the day he had removed his bascinet and pulled the cowl of his mail coat down so he was bare-headed. His sweat-damp hair clung to his forehead in curls. Glancing back at the gatehouse