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

looters to be hanged, but every time the serjeants go out to arrest them, they disappear.’

‘Andrew, I am looking for two men-at-arms. I know their devices, but I don’t recognise them, and I am hoping you might know who they are. The first is a red lion rampant on white.’

Clarenceux considered. ‘How was the head positioned? Guardant or combatant?’

‘I fear I do not know.’

‘If it was guardant, it might be one of the Lestranges… but no, none of them are serving with the army. If it was combatant, I have no idea.’

‘Could it be a French device?’

‘That is entirely possible. I know the coats of all the important French nobles, of course, but there are thousands of provincial knights. I haven’t yet managed to memorise all their devices.’

‘The other is three red eagles displayed on white, with elevated wings. It was his men who brought Bray’s body into camp yesterday afternoon. I wondered if that might be an Irish device.’

Clarenceux nodded. ‘Sir Nicholas Courcy, from Kingsale. He is in Northampton’s retinue. Is this about Bray, then? Do you really think you can find out who shot him?’

‘Yes,’ said Merrivale.

The first wagons were already rolling away. A man and a girl herded the cattle behind them, the girl calling to the cows and waving a long stick. She looked barely more than a child, Merrivale thought.

The town was burning hard now. Smoke blew across the bay in clouds, and the sails of the fleet shimmered through haze and heat waves. Still the landing went on, boats grounding in the shallows and men coming ashore. Some of them laboured around a boat, dragging a portable blacksmith’s forge up onto the beach; others carried hurdles and bundles of faggots and coils of rope. Further on, another group were unloading wooden barrels and heavy stone spheres, piling them up at the head of the beach next to four long hollow wrought-iron cylinders. The barrels were marked with black arrowhead brands, signifying that they were the property of the royal armoury.

More smoke blew around them. ‘Jesus, cover those powder kegs!’ a man shouted. ‘One spark on those and we’ll all be seeing paradise a damned sight sooner than we’d like. Quickly now!’

Men rushed to drag a tarpaulin over the barrels. Merrivale looked at the shouting man and noticed with surprise that he was one of those who had brought in Bray’s body, wearing the same scuffed leather jerkin and cracked boots. He saw the herald, and grinned. ‘Serpentine,’ he explained. ‘It’s the very devil to handle. Too wet and it won’t burn at all, too hot and it burns when you don’t want it to. Have you heard of gunpowder, herald?’

Merrivale nodded. ‘Master Mildenhall the armourer told me about the new guns the king has ordered. Do you work with him?’

‘From time to time, when needed. I dabble in alchemy, so I know a wee bit about powder.’

‘I am looking for your master,’ Merrivale said. ‘Can you tell me where to find him?’

The other man smiled. ‘Sir Nicholas Courcy knows no master but God,’ he said.

‘You are Sir Nicholas?’

Grey eyes twinkled in a broad, handsome face. ‘The devil himself.’

‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’

Courcy waved a negligent hand. ‘At your service, sir.’

‘Thank you for recovering Sir Edmund Bray’s body. Where did you find it?’

‘Out on the Valognes road, perhaps two miles from here. One of my fellows, Donnchad, spotted him and realised he was a man of worth. I recognised his coat and knew he was the Prince of Wales’s man, so we brought him in.’

‘Then you disappeared before anyone could talk to you.’

‘Aye, well, we weren’t interested in hanging around. To tell you the truth, we were hoping there might be a reward. But when the prince walked off, we realised nothing was coming our way, so we got back to work.’

‘You are of course due some recompense for your services,’ Merrivale said. ‘I will speak to the prince’s steward. What were you doing out there? Were you involved in the fighting?’

Courcy grinned again. ‘Indeed we were. Afterwards, once old Bertrand had retreated, we decided to take a look around. You know. In case someone had left something behind.’

‘Looting,’ Merrivale said.

‘Don’t be too hard on us poor fellows, herald. My father’s family are richer than Midas, but I was born on the wrong side of the sheets. I must make a living however I can.’

‘Then you missed a chance,’ Merrivale said. ‘Bray had quite a valuable ring on his finger. Did you not notice?’

‘I still have some pride, herald. I haven’t taken to robbing corpses. Yet.’

‘I have a theory that he may have run across a party of looters and confronted them, and they killed him.’ He looked Courcy in the eye. ‘What do you think?’

Most men would have been offended at the insinuation; some would have exploded with rage. Courcy just grinned again. ‘I think that’s unlikely now, don’t you? Me and Donnchad and the boys were the first ones into that area after old Bertrand and his lads cleared out. And Bray was already dead when we got there.’

Merrivale waited. ‘Ah, I see now. You think we might have killed him. But why would we go to the trouble of bringing in the body with all that nice expensive armour still on it, and that grand big ruby on his finger? That wouldn’t be good commerce, herald.’

‘You were involved in the fighting, you say. Did you see any archers among the enemy?’

‘Not a one. A pother of men-at-arms, no more.’

‘And do you have any archers in your own retinue?’

Their eyes met. ‘No, herald. My gallowglasses don’t approve of killing at a distance. They like to get in close and see the whites of their enemy’s eyes before they ram a spear through his guts.’

The gallowglasses were Courcy’s Irish followers, professional soldiers. ‘During your travels, did you happen to see a man-at-arms bearing a device of a red lion rampant on white?’

‘No.’ It was said quickly and definitely.

‘One more