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

question, if I may. The shafts of the arrows had been broken off. Were they like that when you found the body?’

Courcy nodded. ‘I reckon someone tried to pull the arrows out, but the shafts snapped. The heads were lodged very deep in the body.’ He paused. ‘That must have been some powerful bow. Either that, or the archer was standing almost within touching distance. The poor fellow was wearing an iron backplate over a mail coat, and the arrows drove straight through both of them.’

‘Yes.’ That also ruled out Warwick’s idea that it had been an accident. Bray had been killed deliberately. ‘Thank you,’ Merrivale said. ‘I hope my questions did not give offence.’

‘Not in the least. If you’re trying to catch the fellow who shot him, good luck to you.’ Courcy eyed him for a moment. ‘Do you not carry a weapon, herald?’

Nearly every other man in the army wore a sword or a knife at his belt, but the herald was unarmed. ‘The laws of war forbid it,’ he said.

‘Do they now? I seem to recall that a herald is permitted to wear a blunted sword.’

Merrivale shook his head. ‘A sword that has no edge is not a sword, just a useless encumbrance. I prefer to do without.’

‘But surely you are allowed armour.’

‘My status as herald gives me all the protection I need.’

‘Sure, now. To attack you would be an offence against God, and a breach of the laws of war. All the same, herald, let me give you a piece of advice. If you intend to investigate this matter, watch your back. That tabard won’t keep out a longbow arrow any more than Sir Edmund Bray’s armour did.’

Morsalines, 13th of July, 1346

Evening

The smoke hung thick, obscuring the view across the bay. Ships and boats moved slowly through drifting clouds full of sparks and ash. Merrivale could taste the smoke in his mouth, and his clothing and hair stank of it. At his tent he called for water and washed his face and hands thoroughly, but could not rid himself of the smell.

He dined with the prince’s household in a pavilion outside Morsalines. The young men talked eagerly about how well Saint-Vaast had burned, and Barfleur. A minstrel came in and sang some old verses by the troubadour Bertran de Born about the joys of war and plunder.

Love wants a chivalrous lover,

Skilled at arms and generous in serving,

Who speaks boldly and gives generously

And knows what he should say and do

In his hall or outside it, as befits his power.

A lady who lies with a lover such as that

Will be cleansed of all her sins.

The prince and his companions cheered raucously and began to play a drinking game, shouting and laughing. Lord Rowton was right, the herald thought. Edmund Bray will soon be forgotten.

After the prince withdrew, unsteady with wine, Merrivale rose and went out into the hot evening, where the crimson bars of sunset competed with the glow of fires. The prince’s bodyguards bowed as he passed. Further on, a man stepped out of the shadows with a jingle of mail, inclining his head.

‘Good evening, Sir Edward,’ said Merrivale.

‘And a fine evening to yourself, herald,’ said Sir Edward de Tracey of Dunkeswell. He smiled a little. ‘I enjoyed the singing.’

‘Did you?’ said Merrivale. ‘I remember that Dante consigned Bertran de Born to the eighth circle of hell. He appears naked, carrying his severed head in front of him glowing like a lantern.’

The other man chuckled. ‘Dante had quite an imagination, didn’t he? To be fair, I believe the punishment was for Bertran’s role as a sower of discord rather than for his sirventes.’

‘That may be so,’ said Merrivale. ‘Your memory is better than mine. Were you waiting for me?’

‘I was hoping to have a word with you, yes. Rumour has it you are looking for a man with a particular device. A red lion rampant, head combatant, on white.’

Merrivale became alert. ‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘As it happens, I do. His name is Jean de Fierville. He comes from the Cotentin.’ Tracey hesitated. ‘I’ve known him for a good few years. His family and mine have… done business together for some time now.’

‘May I ask what sort of business?’

The pause this time was longer. ‘The Fiervilles are shipowners. That is to say, they are involved in all sorts of trade. Some legitimate, some not. Not dissimilar to my own family, come to that.’

The Traceys had gone through some dark times during the troubled years of the king’s father’s reign and emerged with a rather dubious reputation. Sir Edward’s father, Sir John de Tracey, had been accused of piracy and other crimes, for which he was eventually pardoned. Times had changed: Tracey’s brother was the king’s banker, and Tracey himself had married the sister of the Earl of Arundel.

‘So, the Fiervilles,’ Merrivale said. ‘Are they pirates?’

‘Frankly, it’s hard to tell the difference between trading, smuggling and piracy. You’re likely to find the same ship doing all three things, sometimes even at the same time.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

‘Yes,’ Tracey said finally. ‘Fierville was involved in the attack on Southampton back in ’38.’

The French attack on Southampton in 1338 was notorious. Hundreds of people had been slaughtered, and many others were still missing; it was widely believed that they had been sold into slavery by the pirates. The herald struggled to keep the distaste out of his voice. ‘Whose side is Fierville on now? Is he one of Bertrand’s men? Or one of ours?’

‘One of ours, definitely. I saw him in Portchester, and he told me was in Harcourt’s retinue. I have to say, I was surprised.’

‘Why?’

‘The Fiervilles always look out for their own interests. What would possess a man like Jean de Fierville to risk everything by taking up with a rebel like Lord Godefroi?’

‘Do you know where he is now?’

‘No idea, I’m afraid. In all the confusion of embarkation and landing, I haven’t seen him since Portchester.’

‘I want to talk to him,’ Merrivale said. ‘If