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

‘Oh, I will rejoin them in a moment. I merely stepped out for some fresh air. In any case, I already know the plan. Once the army has landed, we will march west to Valognes, then south to take the bridges at Carentan. After that, we will move east to Caen. If Philip still won’t yield, at least we have a base for launching further raids into France, until he capitulates or his nobles overthrow him and sue for peace.’

‘Ambitious,’ the other man said mockingly.

‘One cannot accuse Edward of lacking ambition on this campaign. What happened to Bertrand? He was supposed to attack with all the force he could muster, not three hundred poxy men-at-arms.’

‘That was all the force he could muster. He received our message about the delay, but by then he had run out of money.’

The man from the north stared at him. ‘Out of money? In God’s name, how did that happen?’

‘The French royal finances are in a state of chaos. Bertrand’s crossbowmen and the sailors demanded their pay, and when they didn’t get it, they deserted their posts. All Bertrand could gather was his own retinue and some local gentry.’

‘Suffering Christ. We had a golden opportunity today, and it slipped through our hands. We need to get Doria on board with this venture.’

‘I have talked to him, several times. He won’t budge. His loyalty is to France, he says.’

‘God preserve us from honest mercenaries.’ A sudden note of humour entered the northern man’s voice. ‘If only they were all like you, my friend. The world would be a much simpler place. Although not necessarily a better one.’

From the Prince of Wales’s pavilion they could hear music playing and voices uplifted in song, punctuated by bursts of laughter and cheering. ‘Celebrating their first day of war,’ the northern man said. ‘There will be sore heads in the morning. Very well, our first plan failed. Now we need another one, and quickly.’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘I shall leave the details to your fertile imagination. I don’t think we should meet again, at least not until after Carentan. I know I can trust you to do whatever is necessary.’

‘Indeed you can,’ said the West Country man. ‘Then I wish you good night. Sleep well, and dream of the riches and power we shall soon acquire.’

‘I dream of nothing else,’ said the man from the north.

3

Quettehou, 13th of July, 1346

Morning

They buried Sir Edmund Bray in Quettehou church, his comrades standing around the grave with uncovered heads while Brother Geoffrey of Maldon, the Augustinian canon who served the king’s household, recited prayers. The prince stood silent throughout the ceremony, biting his lip. When it was over, he strode out of the church, mounted his horse and rode back down to Saint-Vaast.

Merrivale thanked Brother Geoffrey, whom he had known for many years, and walked out of the church into the morning sunlight. To his surprise, Lord Rowton was waiting for him. ‘A sad day,’ his lordship said quietly. ‘Bray was a fine young man. I know his family well, and his loss will hit them hard. I grieve for them as well as for Edmund himself.’

Generous words, Merrivale thought. Perhaps you could teach them to the Prince of Wales. ‘We all feel the same, my lord. He was so young, with so much before him. There is a sense of waste, as well as loss.’

‘Indeed there is.’ Rowton paused. ‘I assumed you would want to speak to me.’

‘Thank you, my lord. What do you know of his family? Were they involved in any quarrels with their neighbours, perhaps, or their overlord?’

‘No, absolutely not. The Brays are well regarded by all, including myself. John Bray has lands next to mine in Lancashire, and I bought one of his manors in Cheshire when he was short of money. He’s a decent and honourable man. Is your theory that Edmund was killed as part of some family feud?’

‘It is one of several,’ Merrivale said cautiously.

‘Then allow me to point out a flaw. Edmund’s decision to ride out was taken on the spur of the moment. How could a killer have known when and where to find him?’

‘Perhaps it was not really the spur of the moment,’ Merrivale said. ‘He may have been going to a prearranged meeting, which turned into a trap.’

‘Have you any evidence to support this notion?’

‘No.’

Rowton nodded. ‘You should go through his baggage. See if he received any letters inviting him to a rendezvous.’

‘Thank you, my lord. I shall do so.’

‘May I ask a question of my own? Why did you insist on being appointed as inquisitor?’

Merrivale considered this for a moment. ‘You said it yourself,’ he said finally. ‘He was a young man, full of promise, and he deserves justice. If I do not take up his cause, then who will?’

Rowton grimaced. ‘No one, of course. As you said to the king, everyone else is busy, and most of his erstwhile friends agree that he was a casualty of war. By the time this campaign is over, they will have forgotten him.’

‘Then, my lord, you have answered your own question,’ Merrivale said.

Rowton departed. Roger Mortimer was standing by the door of the church, staring out across the bay and the rippling sea beyond. There is one who will not forget, Merrivale thought.

On impulse, he walked over to the young man and put a hand on his arm. ‘You have suffered a great loss, Sir Roger, but do not let your sorrow overwhelm you. Remember that your friend has gone to a better place.’

‘Do you believe that priest’s cant?’ Mortimer asked. ‘I am not sure I do.’

‘That is grief talking,’ Merrivale said gently. ‘Grief, and perhaps remorse also. You feel partly responsible for his death.’

Mortimer looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You tried to volunteer for the reconnaissance, but Sir Edmund forestalled you. Now you believe that if you had gone in his place, he would still be alive.’

‘I should have insisted,’ Mortimer said.