A Flight of Arrows A.J. MacKenzie (black authors fiction TXT) 📖

‘No, sire. But they are likely to be busy carrying out your orders and conducting this campaign. My duties, as you have rightly pointed out, are largely ceremonial. I have the time to devote to this matter where other men might not.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I have served your Grace well in the past. Have I ever failed you?’

‘No,’ the king said. ‘You have not. Very well, herald, I am placing this matter in your hands. You have my authority to investigate Bray’s death. Report developments to my secretary, Master Northburgh.’

Merrivale bowed. ‘Yes, sire.’

The king raised a finger. ‘One more thing, herald. Whatever romantic notions about justice you may cherish, your principal task is to protect the Prince of Wales. If any harm comes to him, you will suffer for it. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sire,’ Merrivale said steadily.

‘Good. Find your man, and find him quickly. Very well, herald, that will be all.’

Merrivale’s official duties were few at present: acting as messenger and ambassador when needed, keeping record of which armorial bearings belonged to which knights, and adjudicating disputes over who had the right to bear arms. His unofficial duties were sometimes rather different.

His status brought with it his own tent and a staff of two, a manservant and a groom. Warin, the groom, was a Devon man like himself; short and stocky, with a shock of red hair, he hailed from Hexworthy on Dartmoor, where his family were tin miners. Mauro, the servant, was, as his name suggested, a Moor, or at least part Moorish; he himself was vague about his parentage. He had come into Merrivale’s service when the latter was herald to the Earl of Lancaster on the embassy to Castile in 1343. Both men were discreet and utterly reliable.

Entering his tent, Merrivale lifted his tabard over his head and laid it aside. Mauro poured a glass of wine, adding water to his master’s taste. ‘The prince’s steward bids me tell you that dinner is about to be served, señor.’

‘Thank God for that.’ Merrivale rubbed his stomach. It had been a long day, and he was ravenous; dinner was always late when the army was in the field, served after they had made camp for the day. He drank some of his wine and set his cup down. ‘I need to speak to both of you,’ he said.

They faced him, all attention. ‘A man was killed today,’ he said. ‘A young knight in the prince’s service. I believe the killer was someone on our side, and I intend to find him. I have the king’s authority to do so.’

He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, rehearsing what he knew about the case and realising it was not very much.

‘The dead man is Sir Edmund Bray,’ he said. ‘He accompanied the Earl of Warwick and the Red Company on a reconnaissance party. Sir Edmund disobeyed orders and rode out into the field alone. Some men-at-arms found him later, shot in the back, and recovered his body. That is all we know.’

‘Perhaps it was a venganza,’ Mauro suggested. ‘Did he have any enemies, señor?’

Merrivale shook his head. ‘None that I know of. He comes from Cheshire. Since he arrived at court he has had his share of young men’s quarrels, mostly over dice and girls, but nothing serious.’ He pondered. ‘But you may be right, Mauro. It is possible there was some family feud back in Cheshire. Someone may have followed him to Normandy and set a trap for him.’

‘There’s a lot of Cheshire men in the army, sir,’ Warin said. The prince was also Earl of Chester, and his officers had recruited heavily in his domain lands.

‘Lord Rowton knows Bray’s family. It was he who recommended the lad for a post in the prince’s household. I shall have a word with his lordship and ask if he knows of anything in Bray’s past.’

‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ Warin said. ‘What if it turns out there was no feud?’

‘Then I must consider other possibilities.’ Merrivale thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps he ran across a party of looters and confronted them, and they killed him. Perhaps my lord of Warwick is right, and it was an accident. Or perhaps it really was the French. Someone in their force had a longbow, an English or Welsh deserter, perhaps.’

‘Forgive my presumption, señor,’ Mauro said. ‘But you are using the word “perhaps” in a way that suggests you do not believe what you are saying.’

Merrivale smiled a little. ‘Correct. None of these explanations rings true, although for the life of me I cannot tell you why. And that is what bothers me. Nothing about this seems right.’

The two servants watched him, waiting. ‘I need your help,’ Merrivale said. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open, both of you. Listen to servants’ gossip. If you learn anything, tell me.’

Both men bowed. ‘Now I must go and dine with the prince,’ Merrivale said, picking up his tabard. ‘Make sure you get fed as well, and then you can retire. Despite Bray’s death, the young men will want to celebrate. I may return quite late.’

He drained his wine cup and looked through the doorway of the tent at the shimmering sea dotted with ships. ‘Cheshire,’ he said quietly. ‘He came a long way to die, didn’t he? I don’t know who killed you, Edmund Bray, but with God’s aid I will find out.’

Saint-Vaast, 12th of July, 1346

Night

Lit from within by lamps and candles, the coloured silk pavilions glowed like jewels in the warm night. Two men stood on the beach not far from the smoking embers of the burned warships, gazing at the king’s red pavilion. They were far from the camp, away from any eavesdropping ears; this time there was no young cowherd to overhear them.

‘What do you suppose they are doing in there?’ the West Country man asked.

‘Holding a council of war,’ said the man from the north. ‘They are deciding the plan for the rest of the campaign.’

‘Shouldn’t