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

pinioned behind him, and Merrivale walked slowly forward to face him.

‘So this is how it ends,’ Tracey said.

‘Yes,’ said the herald. ‘But you knew the risks.’

‘I did.’

‘Then there we are.’ Merrivale turned his head. ‘Sir John, Sir Richard, ask your men to fetch a rope, if you please.’

Tracey stared at him. Blood dripped down onto his cloak, staining the white cross of Saint John. ‘You’re not going to hang me,’ he said.

There was a long silence. ‘No,’ Merrivale said finally. ‘Tempting though it is, I shall instead do something rather worse. I intend to bind you and take you to face the king whom you betrayed.’

Tracey’s hands were tied tightly behind his back. The archers dragged him into the saddle and more ropes secured him to the horse. ‘Take him out,’ Merrivale said.

Around them the Red Company were mounting and riding though the gateway. Out of the gloom came a single arrow, hissing a little in the wind, and Tracey sagged sideways, the feathered shaft protruding from his chest. The herald froze in shock, looking around to see a lone archer throw himself onto the back of a horse and ride hard away. There was just time to see his face before the mist swallowed him.

It was Nicodemus.

28

Valloire, 28th of August, 1346

Midday

Eight miles north of Crécy stood the abbey of Valloire, its gardens bathed in mellow sunlight. Bees buzzed around the last summer flowers, and a heron stood fishing in the pools of the nearby river. The air was tranquil and calm.

Wagons rolled up outside the abbey church and gentle hands lifted the dead men and carried them inside. The commoners, including the Genoese, had already been laid to rest in pits dug at the battlefield. It had taken four hundred men all day to bury them.

‘What will happen to the bodies?’ Tiphaine asked.

‘The remains of the French army are regrouping around Amiens. We have sent messengers with a list of the dead, telling their families to come and collect them if they wish. Those not claimed will be buried here.’

He looked at the young woman. ‘What about Brus? Will his family come for him, do you think?’

‘No. He is not one of the dead.’

‘But you saw him go down.’

‘I did,’ said Tiphaine. Her face was very still. ‘I was certain he had been killed. But I asked Master Northburgh. No knight bearing a red saltire was found on the field.’

‘Then he may have survived,’ Merrivale said. ‘Perhaps his friends discovered him once darkness fell, and carried him away.’ He paused. ‘I am sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘That this might somehow cause you distress.’

‘I am not distressed. Mostly I am angry, because I wanted the bastard dead. But a little piece of me still feels the sentiment. He really was beautiful to look at.’

They watched the wagons roll slowly forward. The heron continued to fish, undisturbed. ‘But that was in the past,’ said Tiphaine. ‘For the first time since I escaped from prison, I am beginning to realise that I am free.’

‘What will you do with your freedom?’ Merrivale asked.

‘I do not know.’ She looked up, the bruise on her face dark in the sunlight, and smiled her sudden smile. ‘But when I decide, I promise I will tell you.’

‘In Saint-Lô you spoke of needing to avenge your father. Have you done so?’

The smile faded. ‘Perhaps. I don’t yet know. I have learned that vengeance does not change the past.’

‘No,’ Merrivale said. ‘It does not.’

‘And you? Have you found justice for Sir Edmund Bray?’

‘Yes.’ Merrivale gazed out over the river. ‘But it has come at a high price.’

Roger Mortimer had been pale but composed when the herald told him what had happened. ‘Edmund did not die in vain,’ Merrivale said. ‘He was the first to expose the traitors. Thanks to him, the plot is ended for the moment.’

‘I suppose that will be some consolation to his family,’ Mortimer had said quietly.

‘What will you do now?’ Tiphaine asked.

‘Continue with my duties,’ the herald said.

‘That is not what I meant. Tracey, the man from the West Country, is dead, but what about the other? The man from the north. Will you try to find him?’

Three men had ridden to Berkeley Castle that dark night in 1327. One was Sir Robert Holland, and he was dead. The second was John of Hainault. The third was the one he must find.

Tiphaine studied him. ‘Why does this matter so much to you? The king, the prince, the knights and archers, the little girl who drives the cows; why do you care what happens to them?’

Merrivale looked at the river again. The heron gazed back at him with round dark eyes. ‘Because if I don’t, I have nothing,’ he said.

‘Farewell, Sir Herald,’ said Nell Driver. She dipped a little curtsey. ‘I wanted to thank you for all your kindness. And the cheese.’

‘It is I who should thank you,’ the herald said. ‘Where will you go?’

‘Back to England. Master Coloyne says we have captured some ships at a village over on the coast. One of them is going to England with letters for the court. I am no longer needed here. It is time I returned home.’

‘Then I wish you fair winds and a safe journey,’ Merrivale said. ‘You said once that you wanted to see what the rest of the world looked like. What do you think now that you have seen it?’

‘I think it is beautiful and terrible all at the same time. I have seen things that filled me with horror and things that made my blood sing. But I’m not denying I’ll be glad to see Southwick again, and feel its grass under my feet.’

‘You have had your fill of adventure?’

‘I think so. At least for the moment.’ She smiled up at him. ‘But perhaps when I am fully grown, I shall learn to shoot a longbow.’

‘You will need to be very strong.’

‘Try milking a dozen cows every morning and evening. That makes you strong.’ She glanced up at the sun. ‘I must go.’

‘Farewell, Mistress