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

for numbers. I had no knowledge of or interest in his other activities, so long as he served me faithfully.’

‘Oaths are easy to swear,’ the herald said. ‘Why should I believe you?’

‘For God’s sake, man! Why would I risk throwing my lands and wealth away for some insane plot to kill the king?’

‘I was wondering the same thing.’

‘Very well. If you think I am guilty, provide some evidence. I challenge you to do so. Prove a case against me if you can.’

‘I cannot,’ said Merrivale. ‘But you had better start making your peace with God, Sir Edward. Because if there is evidence, I will find it.’

‘Do you believe him?’ asked Courcy.

‘He lied to me about Nicodemus’s whereabouts, that is certain,’ Merrivale said. ‘And I find his claim of ignorance about Nicodemus’s activities unconvincing at best. But at the same time, I also find it hard to believe that he is capable of organising a conspiracy of this size and scope.’

‘And he is right about one thing,’ Courcy said. ‘He already has power and wealth. What motive would he have for getting involved in a plot like this?’

Gráinne was sitting on a bench beneath an oak tree, honing the blade of her sword to a glittering edge. She snorted. ‘Men who have power and wealth want only one thing. More of both.’

‘That’s two things,’ Courcy said.

‘Exactly.’ Gráinne stood up and tossed a feather in the air. She watched it flutter towards the ground for a moment, and swung her sword. The blade was a flash of light, faster than the eye could see, and the feather, cut cleanly in two, landed on the dead leaves at her feet.

‘Sharp enough,’ Gráinne said. She sheathed the sword and planted her hands on her hips. ‘Nicodemus could be threatening Tracey, or forcing him to pay blackmail. Perhaps he knows something about Tracey’s past to his discredit. Tracey does know what is going on, but Nicodemus is forcing him to keep silent.’

‘Possibly,’ the herald said.

‘You don’t think Tracey has the wit or ambition to be the kingpost of this conspiracy,’ Gráinne continued. ‘But your instinct tells you that he is involved somehow, or at least he knows what is going on.’

‘Yes. But I haven’t enough evidence to arrest him or question him further. He has already persuaded the king to order me to abandon the inquisition once again. I doubt I can persuade him to reopen it.’

‘And tomorrow, his Grace will have other things to worry about,’ said Courcy. ‘So this is our last chance. We go to Abbeville tonight.’

‘Yes,’ the herald said. ‘Are you still determined to come with me?’

‘Try stopping us,’ said Lady Gráinne.

25

Abbeville, 25th of August, 1346

Night

They halted in the shade of a coppice wood a mile from Abbeville. The last flames of sunset were fading from the sky. The smell of a charcoal burner’s fire drifted on the wind. ‘Wait here with the horses,’ Merrivale instructed Mauro and Warin. ‘Be ready. When we return, we may be in a hurry.’

The two servants nodded. Merrivale looked at the others. Gráinne had abandoned her heavy armour and wore a stiff leather jerkin like her husband; a red stag, the badge of the MacCarthaigh Riabhachs of Carbery, shone in the dim moonlight on one shoulder. Both she and Tiphaine had tucked their hair under felt caps. Matt and Pip leaned on their bows, waiting.

‘Let us go,’ Merrivale said.

Quietly the six of them slipped away through the lambent shadows. Campfires burned in the fields around Abbeville, the vast French army waiting to resume its march in the morning. Lights flickered on the walls of the town, and glowed nearer at hand in the abbey of Saint-Pierre, outside the walls and surrounded by fields and gardens. To the left of the abbey was a dark patch of marshland where a minor stream ran down to join the Somme. Waiting in the coppice wood, Mauro and Warin listened to the distant murmur of the camp and the nearer, softer sounds of the horses stirring behind them.

Another noise, the soft pad of a horse’s hooves. They both whirled around, Mauro reaching for his knife and Warin gripping a heavy wooden staff. A pony came trotting out of the darkness, and the girl riding it pulled up and slid down from the saddle.

‘Who are you?’ Warin demanded in a whisper.

‘My name is Nell Driver. I am a friend of the herald,’ she hissed.

‘A friend?’ said Mauro. ‘Ah, yes. You are the cowherd.’

‘And his friend!’ she insisted.

Mauro was briefly amused. ‘What are you doing here, señorita?’

‘I followed you from the camp. Where is the herald?’

‘None of your business,’ said Warin.

‘He is going into Abbeville, isn’t he?’ Without waiting for an answer, she handed him the reins of the pony. ‘Watch the beast for me,’ she said. ‘I need to return him to his owner in the morning.’ Without waiting for a reply, she hitched up the hem of her kirtle and ran into the darkness.

The torches and fires of the camp were close at hand, but the marshes were still dark; for obvious reasons, no one had camped there. ‘If we have to leave quickly, we will come out through these marshes,’ the herald said. ‘Matt, Pip, I suggest you conceal yourselves here and wait.’

‘We were told to follow you everywhere, sir,’ Matt said.

‘I know. But if we must make a rapid retreat, we will need you to cover us. Remain here.’

The two archers looked unhappy, but they obeyed. Followed by Tiphaine, Courcy and Gráinne, Merrivale walked towards the camp. Sentries around the nearest fire stepped forward, presenting their spears. A man-at-arms, clanking in armour plate and mail, opened his visor and stared at them. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Simon Merrivale, herald to the Prince of Wales,’ the herald said calmly. ‘Here is my laissez-passer from the Count of Vaud.’

He presented the roll of parchment. The man-at-arms read it quickly and looked at the other three. ‘Who are these?’

‘My escort.’

‘Escort? Two of them are women!’

‘You are observant,