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

messire. The Count of Vaud is waiting for me at the abbey. Take us there immediately, if you please. My business with him will not wait.’

The man-at-arms hesitated. Merrivale touched his glittering tabard. ‘My business here is official, messire. You have no right to impede or delay me.’

The man motioned with his hand. ‘Very well. Come with me.’

Sometimes the laws of war were useful after all, Merrivale thought wryly. They followed the man through the camp towards the abbey gates, where more sentries admitted them. A messenger was sent to inform the count. They waited, listening to the sound of singing in the chapel; the monks, chanting the service at compline.

A man in a brown Franciscan habit walked across the courtyard, putting his hands together and smiling as he bowed. ‘My dear Simon,’ said Raimon Vidal. ‘As always, it is a pleasure to see you.’

‘Are they here?’

‘They are waiting for us in the scriptorium. Come.’

An arched gateway led into the double-columned cloister. On the far side the chapter house blazed with lamplight and they could hear men’s voices raised in argument. Several did not sound particularly sober. One voice in particular was insistent, shouting over and over. Vidal wrinkled his nose. ‘The king is giving a banquet,’ he said. ‘Today is the feast day of Saint Louis of France. They have been at the board since this afternoon. I cannot begin to tell you how much wine has been consumed.’

‘The feast of Saint Louis? The canonised French king who managed to lead not one but two armies into disaster in the space of twenty years?’

‘The very same. Perhaps it is a portent, who knows? The king is attempting to use the feast to persuade his nobles to unite and follow him.’ Vidal nodded towards the chapter house. ‘You can hear for yourself how much luck he is having.’

‘Your friends are at work already, it seems.’

‘They are. The French army is rotten from within. They will triumph tomorrow; given their advantage of numbers, they can hardly help but do so. But the king’s enemies are already waiting to pounce.’ Vidal opened a heavy wooden door and motioned them inside. ‘This way.’

The scriptorium was lit dimly by candles in iron sconces around the walls. Rows of wooden desks stretched across the floor, each with a bench and writing set. The walls were covered in frescos of the Italian style, showing the temptations of Christ in the wilderness. Angels hovered overhead, looking down with dark, judgemental eyes.

Five men stood on the far side of the scriptorium, watching them without expression. Merrivale had not seen some of them for eight years, but he recognised them without difficulty. Louis of Vaud, tall, distinguished, grey-haired, in a surcoat with a white cross on red. Doria, big and muscular, wearing the Saint George cross of Genoa. Carlo Grimaldi of Monaco, his hard, brutal face bearing some scars the herald did not remember, wearing a coat decorated with red and silver lozenges. Zajíc the Bohemian herald, in the familiar tabard blazoned with the lion with two tails, stood next to the bearded Count Rožmberk.

Merrivale’s scalp tingled with apprehension. I wish Geoffrey was here, he thought. ‘Wait here,’ he said quietly to his companions, and he followed Vidal across the room. Stopping in front of Louis of Vaud, he bowed. ‘My lord count. It has been a long time since last we met.’

‘Some might say it has not been long enough,’ said Vaud. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Your associates made me an offer,’ Merrivale said. ‘I have come to name my price.’

Ottone Doria raised his eyebrows. ‘Surely we should know what we are buying first.’

‘You intend to overthrow King Philip of France. You need my assistance.’

Rožmberk looked sceptical. ‘We already have heralds of our own. I doubt we need another.’

Merrivale smiled. ‘As you well know, my lord, I was not always a herald.’

‘Very well. What can you offer us?’

‘Normandy,’ said Merrivale.

There was a pause of a couple of heartbeats. ‘Explain,’ said Grimaldi.

‘I control Normandy,’ Merrivale said. ‘I own the western half of the province already. And Jeanne of Navarre, who has the east in her hands, is ready to do my bidding.’

Vidal stepped forward. ‘What?’ he said sharply. ‘How is this?’

‘I have been in correspondence with Queen Jeanne for more than five years,’ Merrivale said. ‘We have been laying our plans for nearly as long. Last winter, she wrote to say that she had doubts about the loyalty of the Count of Eu. I went to Caen to persuade Eu to honour the pledge he had made us, but I was too late. King Edward’s agents had already bribed him to turn his coat. So, I told Jeanne to withdraw from any arrangement she had made with you until I could negotiate a new agreement.’

The others looked at each other. ‘You said you own western Normandy,’ Vaud said. ‘What do you mean by that?’

Merrivale turned towards the group by the door and beckoned with his finger. ‘Demoiselle,’ he said in a voice of command. ‘Come here. At once, if you please.’

Ragged and pale, Tiphaine walked across the scriptorium to stand beside him. ‘This is the Demoiselle de Tesson,’ Merrivale said, ‘the heir of Jean de la Roche Tesson. When I learned she had been imprisoned at La Roche-Guyon, I raided the place and took her into my hands. She is now my prisoner.’ He paused. ‘Or my hostage? Hmm. Perhaps a little of both.’

Rožmberk looked at the young woman. ‘This?’ he said with disdain. ‘This is the instrument through which you claim to control Lower Normandy?’

‘Certainly. The Norman rebels are bruised, but they are not beaten. When Godefroi d’Harcourt’s conspiracy failed, they transferred their loyalty to the demoiselle, the daughter of their former leader. Her loyalty in turn is to me. She follows my orders.’

Rožmberk looked sceptical, but Grimaldi was thoughtful. ‘What force can you command?’

‘I can raise five thousand men-at-arms in Lower Normandy, and Queen Jeanne can raise another five thousand from her lands and those of her allies.