A Queen's Spy by - (black authors fiction .TXT) 📖

disbelief in Jack’s voice as he recalled how he had missed the man. “He said, ‘Hold! This is not our argument.’ I turned and Richard was leaning against a tree. He had a goodly cut on his forehead and his left arm was tucked into his jacket – I found out later that he broke it in the fall – but he still had a sword in his right hand, levelled at my chest. I can tell you, my heart stopped.”

“What did you say? Surely you said something,” Jamie interjected eagerly.

“I did what all men should do when faced with Richard Fitzwarren and three feet of drawn steel, or woe betide them. I backed away.”

“Aye, lad, that’s what you know now, but what about back then?” Jamie directed Jack’s mind back to the time in the woods on Harlsey Moor.

“I knew if he was anything like Robert, he would have been taught well. I was going to invite him to take my horse when Harry came crashing through the undergrowth, yelling, asking me had I seen Richard. I raised my hand to signal Richard to be still where he was. Harry, the sop, rides up to me. I’m standing at his stirrup, looking up at his child’s face. He had no idea what game he played for Robert.” Jack paused, shaking his head.

Jamie didn’t interrupt, sitting patiently and waiting for Jack to continue.

“I grabbed his leg; I’ll never forget the surprise on his face as I threw him out of the saddle. He lay on the floor, wailing like a babe.” Jack was smiling broadly again. “Richard still stood there watching. He hadn’t moved and there was an odd look on his face. I threw the reins at him and we rode out of the woods like the devil was on our tails, and I suppose it was.” Jack chuckled as he dwelt on Harry’s downfall.

“So did you tell him who you were?” Jamie drew Jack’s attention back.

“I didn’t, not then. We finally pulled up outside the village…” Jack’s mind drifted back to the misty road again, two horses sweating and steaming in the morning air, stamping and pulling at their bits as their riders forced them to a halt.

 

†

 

Richard pulled his mount in front of Jack’s. “I am Richard Fitzwarren, as you might have guessed, and I believe I owe you my thanks for the horse.” The horse below him wheeled and pulled, turning to its other flank. With difficulty, Richard pulled the agitated animal back to square it with Jack’s mount. “You have sacrificed your position for me. Your master will not welcome you back.”

Jack thought Richard was reaching for money. “No, you are not indebted to me.”

“Here, it’s all I have.” Richard held in his hand the sword he had previously levelled at Jack. He threw it horizontally over the short distance between the horses and Jack intercepted the scabbard. Richard’s horse wheeled round again, pushing itself against Jack’s which took fright at the collision. It was only with extreme effort that he stopped the excited animal from taking flight.

“Make sure they give you a good price for it. Adieu.” With that Richard released the reins on the animal and horse and rider disappeared from view.

†

 

“Surely you followed him though?” Jamie asked.

Jack looked up, drawn back from the past. “No.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why. God, I didn’t know him, it seemed so…” Jack couldn’t find the words and was saved from having to by a whip crack and tumultuous roar from the elements.

“Ah, so that’s where you got it from. I was wondering.” Jamie pointed at the sword. Turning his head sideways he tried to read the etched inscription that ran along the quillons.

“Oderint dum metuant,” Jack read out the Latin inscription.

Jamie stopped him from supplying the translation. “I know, lad, I’m not as stupid as I look, and I’d lay a wager than my Latin is better than yours. Let them hate, so long as they fear. Am I right?” The look on Jack’s face told him he was and Jamie beamed happily. “Anyway, did you catch up with him again?”

“I did. I spent a year in London or thereabouts keeping out of Harry’s way. It wasn’t easy; he wanted my blood.” Jack grinned. “Eventually I went to France. There was a small village near Paris called… I can’t think of the name of it.”

“Never mind the name, my son.” Jamie smiled weakly at his slip. “Sorry, lad.”

“Huh.” Jack had missed Jamie’s closing words. He continued, “Anyway, there was a festival with a local champion swinging a sword around. I was short of money and I won myself a fair purse. I didn’t know Richard was there. He told me later he recognised the sword and set out to get it back. He bloody well challenged me!” The indignation in Jack’s voice was still fresh as he recalled it. “I couldn’t fight him. After some minutes he stopped and walked towards me…”

 

†

 

Jack had watched the competition for half an hour before he decided that he had little choice but to join in. He was out of money and out of luck.

Inside the circle of men, the game was a dangerous one. The blades were real and the blows aimed by the combatants were deadly. The current victor had a shield and a cuirass to protect him. Jack had nothing. The last challenger had taken a bad cut to his forearm and had wisely conceded.

Jack had watched the victor closely and he was confident that the man’s skill was lacking deftness and he was drinking heavily between matches.

Draping his cloak over the fence and drawing his own sword, Jack declared himself as the next challenger.

He had two advantages: his opponent had already fought two rounds, and Jack was well trained. Estienne was the name the crowd shouted. Jack waited, ready, while the other downed a jug of proffered ale.

You drink as much as you want, mate. Jack, sober, knew better than to enter a fight with clouded judgement.

Estienne finished the jug and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Your name?” Estienne demanded in his native language.

“Does that matter?” Jack replied, also in French.

“Ah, so you’re an English dog. This is a fight I would take for no wager!” Estienne spat back. Jack’s French was fluent but not good enough to disguise his origins.

The crowd were encouraging Estienne, slapping him on the shoulders and pushing him towards Jack. Another full jug was produced for their champion; from the jeers, they too shared his dislike of the English.

This is not going well, thought Jack. The way they were looking at him, he was going to have to fight Estienne and then take on the crowd.

“I’m not English, you idiot, I’m Scots,” Jack lied quickly, a hurt expression on his face.

“Ah, Scotland, the true ally of France,” Estienne replied gravely, raising the jug in a toast to his homeland.

Go on, get another jug-full inside you.

“Drink to France and to her valiant ally against the English, Scotland,” encouraged Jack cheerfully.

Estienne, belching loudly, thrust the jug into the hands of the spectators and drew his sword. “So we shall see who is the victor then,” he announced. “Will it be Scotland, or will it be France?” A cheer went up around him. Estienne, his own hands in the air and sword held aloft, bellowed with them.

Then, without warning he ran, howling, sword outstretched towards Jack.

You don’t run in a sword fight, you bloody idiot. Jack neatly sidestepped his advance, smacking the flat of his sword against the retreating backside, much to the delight of the onlookers.

Angry, Estienne glared back at Jack who maddened him even further by joining the laughing crowd.

The next blow was meant to kill. Jack sent the blade away from him with more force than it had been delivered with. The look on Estienne’s face told of the pain in his arm as the energy from the blow charged into him.

Jack needed to wrong foot him and get him on the ground, but he didn’t want to injure Estienne. If he did, the spectators would have him for sure. He got in two loud strikes to the cuirass, both of them leaving impressions on the steel. Estienne was laughing, but the blows had sent him backward. There was a fallen post two steps further back; Jack had every intention of forcing him onto it.

He took the next two blows and parried both. Then a return swing brought his own blade screeching down Estienne’s until the hilts clashed together. Jack, faster, got the punch in first, sending Estienne staggering backwards to snare his feet in the wood and land heavily on his backside with Jack’s sword resting on his shoulder. The blade, inches from the exposed flesh of his neck, made a clear threat.

Estienne conceded.

Jack offered an outstretched hand to pull him back to his feet.

The crowd applauded their fallen champion who, arms raised, was acting as if he was still the victor.

Jack cared little, he just wanted his money. He advanced on a small man sat on the floor at edge of the ring, a wooden board on his knees set with neatly-placed lines of coins.

Jack held his hand for his winnings.

The little man met his eyes for a moment and then bending to his left, looked past him. “You have a challenger. The money stays in.”

That’s all I need. Grumbling under his breath he turned to see the new entrant to the ring. The low sun was facing him so his eyes picked out only an outline of a man with a drawn sword.

Jack took three quick paces to his left to get the sun from his eyes. The newcomer was dressed, like Jack, without protection and was relying on his skill for a victory.

Jack, still struck by surprise, hadn’t even raised his blade in defence, the point still resting on the grass, his grip loose. When the attack came, it was one meant to rip the blade from his hand. He nearly lost his sword, retaining it only by spinning quickly along the line of the blow. The impact on the blade came just beneath the hilt making his fingers jar painfully from the blow.

Wrong footed, exposing an undefended side to his opponent, Jack swore.

Turning rapidly back to face the other man, his raised blade screamed as it brought the other’s to a halt. The crowd roared.

Sun glinted down the sharpened steel as he easily parried another attack, his blade quickly blocking and deflecting the lethal steel. Clearly on the defensive, Jack watched for each new attack and met them with practiced ease.

“Why?” Richard lowered his blade. “I’ve seen your skill. Why won’t you exercise it on me?” Then his eyes widened in recognition. “Harlsey Moor! Thank you again for the horse. I see you put that to good use.” He tapped the steel in Jack’s hand with his own blade.

“You remember?” Jack found himself struck partially dumb in the presence of his brother.

“Of course.” Richard turned to the crowd and yelled, “All bets are off.” He threw an arm around Jack’s shoulders. “Come, let me repay you properly.”

Late into the night, with alcoholic courage, Jack had told Richard his secret. He had shown him the cross he wore around his neck that bore the Fitzwarren crest. Richard