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

Item, the conspirators attempted to destroy the English army at Poissy. They are now attempting to complete their work, and are undermining our foundations even as I write these words.

Simon Merrivale, heraldus

Airaines, four miles south of the Somme, 22nd of August, 1346

Night

‘What in hell’s name is this?’ The king, in his night robe, waved the piece of parchment at the herald. ‘You were appointed to enquire into Bray’s death, not go raking up old events. For Christ’s sake, Merrivale, what did you think you were doing?’

‘There is something else I did not put in the report, sire,’ said Merrivale. ‘Edmund Bray’s father was also present at Berkeley Castle that night. He fell out with the others when he learned of your father’s death, and never spoke to them again.’

The king stared at him. ‘Bray’s father? How do you know this?’

‘Does your Grace really wish me to answer that question?’

The king paused for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, God damn it, I don’t. I want this entire business to disappear. Do you understand me? If my father really did die at Berkeley, it was twenty years ago. There is nothing to be gained by bringing it up again now. Understood?’

‘Yes, sire. What about John of Hainault?’

‘Even if he is plotting against the King of France, so what? Let the bastard plot. Have you any direct evidence that he is plotting against me also?’

‘No, sire. Just rumours and suspicion.’

‘Rumours and suspicion,’ the king repeated. ‘The usual stock-in-trade of you spies.’

‘Yet someone tried to poison you and your entire court at Poissy, sire.’

‘The poisoners are both dead. Can you connect them with Hainault?’

‘No, sire. But men wearing his badges also raided our camp several days before Poissy. It is possible that they were attempting to assassinate you and the prince.’

The king waved the parchment again. ‘Of course they were. We are at war, and Hainault is on the enemy’s side. He always was a ruthless bastard. Well, so am I, Merrivale. This army will cross the Somme, and we will reach Flanders and safety, and Hainault is damned well not going to stand in our way. Right now, that is the only thing that matters.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Dragging up the past is not going to help. Twenty years ago, we were a nation divided and riven by strife. I have spent two decades reuniting us and giving us a sense of purpose. I will not see that undone now. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Good. Now, make an end to your enquiry and resume your usual duties. Let Edmund Bray rest easy in his grave.’ The king paused for a moment, staring into space. ‘His father, you say. Is he still alive?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Hmm, well… a matter for another time, perhaps.’ The king dropped the parchment onto a side table. ‘That is all, Merrivale. You may go.’

23

Airaines, four miles south of the Somme, 23rd of August, 1346

Morning

‘The Bohemians are on the move,’ the scout said breathlessly. ‘I saw their banner, the lion with two tails. The blind king is coming.’

Dawn was still breaking when word began to run through the camp. Trumpets sounded the alarm. ‘It is not just the Bohemians,’ Sir John Sully’s esquire reported as he buckled on his master’s armour. ‘It’s the whole French army. The adversary himself is on the way.’

‘Well, we can’t fight him here,’ Sully said, looking around at the flat open fields around the camp. ‘So we’ll have to keep running.’ He glanced at Merrivale. ‘But I reckon we can’t run for much longer, boy. My archers have worn through the soles of their boots, and they’re thin as rakes. Sooner or later we’re going to have to fight.’ He picked up his painted shield and stood while his esquire strapped it to his forearm. ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘What can I do? The king has ordered me to drop the inquisition. We have more important things to worry about, he says.’

‘He has, there’s no doubt about that. But what about you?’

Merrivale glanced at the esquire. Sully nodded. ‘See to the horses, Baker,’ he said.

The esquire bowed and departed. Sully waited, those ridiculously young bright blue eyes resting on the herald’s face.

‘I don’t know,’ Merrivale said. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘So long as I’ve known you, boy, you’ve always done your duty.’

‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘I have. And for what? My father did his duty and lived a blameless life. His reward was the loss of his wife, his daughters, his lands and his sanity. I have been a king’s man for sixteen years, faithful to my sovereign and my country. My duty is a sacred trust to me.’

The trumpets continued to blow, harsh and urgent in the heavy morning. Thomas Ughtred, the under-marshal, rode through the camp shouting orders. ‘Leave the heavy wagons! Get the royal households moving, and bring the food, the arrows and bows, the cannon and shot and serpentine! Leave everything else! Get every man on the road and marching west, now!’

‘And this is where it has led us,’ Merrivale said. ‘A chaotic retreat, a day of disaster, and most likely our deaths. And for what?’

‘God alone knows,’ said Sully. He smiled. ‘But let’s make sure we ask Him, shall we, when we reach the gate of pearls.’

Oisemont, four miles south of the Somme, 23rd of August, 1346

Late morning

It was very hot now, the air thick with dust and humidity, and the stink of fresh blood was so strong that the herald could almost taste it in his mouth. The bodies of men and horses lay in a thick trail across the fields towards the open gates of Oisemont half a mile away. Smoke boiled above the town, rising in furious clouds into the sky. Even at a distance the screaming could be heard as the English, ruthless as terriers, ran through the streets exterminating the last defenders. As at Caen and Gaillon, the defenders had failed to surrender;