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

Harcourt halted. ‘What is it?’

‘I wish to interview one of your men-at-arms, Jean de Fierville. Will you grant me permission to do so?’

The other Normans stared at him. ‘What do you want with this man?’ Harcourt asked.

‘He may have been present when Sir Edmund Bray was killed yesterday afternoon.’

‘Are you accusing him of involvement in the killing?’

‘No, my lord, but he may have seen the culprit. Do I have your consent?’

‘No,’ said Harcourt. ‘You will not question members of my retinue, or meddle with them in any way.’

‘My lord, I am investigating on the king’s orders.’

‘Then take it up with the king,’ Harcourt said, and limped past Merrivale towards the door.

‘My lord!’ the herald called after him. ‘I must speak with Jean de Fierville!’

One of the Norman men-at-arms spun around, hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘You heard my lord,’ he snarled. ‘Stay out of this, herald.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ Merrivale asked.

‘No, of course he isn’t,’ said another Norman, pulling the first man’s hand away from his sword. ‘All the same, herald, I would take his advice if I were you.’

4

Valognes, 18th of July, 1346

Afternoon

‘Gracious king, we humbly beseech you to spare our poor worthless lives. Our homes, our possessions, everything we own, we give to you. We ask only that you spare us and our families. In the name of the Blessed Virgin and her son Jesus Christ, we ask for mercy.’

The burgesses of Valognes, dressed in their richest clothes and some wearing chains of office, knelt in the dust of the road with their hands clasped in supplication. Behind them lay the houses, mills and priories of the unwalled and undefended town, its cobbled streets shimmering in the heat. Two dogs stood watching the scene, stiff-legged and ears pricked, ready to bolt.

Seated on the back of his massive black horse, the king raised his visor and smiled down at the kneeling men. ‘Do not fear, good people,’ he said, raising one mailed gauntlet in benediction. ‘You are my subjects, and thus under my protection. By my order, you and your possessions and chattels will be safe, and all the rights, privileges and customs of your town will be respected. Arise now, and go in peace.’

The burgesses scrambled to their feet, straightening their gowns and bowing low. ‘Sire, you are wise and merciful,’ stammered one. ‘God save your Grace for his clemency.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the king, waving his hand. ‘Oh, and we require billets for myself and my captains. Make it so.’

The burgesses hurried back into the town. The king watched them go, and turned to the men around him. ‘Did you see that?’ he asked. ‘My subjects ask for royal mercy, I grant them clemency, and they are grateful and praise me accordingly. Northburgh, make sure word of this gets back to England. I want people to know how magnanimous I have been. Northampton, Warwick, take note. Every time we conquer a new town, I want a reception like this.’

‘Yes, sire,’ said Northampton.

The king lifted the reins of his horse. ‘Now. Let us go and inspect our new possession and greet our loyal subjects.’

The army had remained another four days at Saint-Vaast while the last troops and stores came ashore. Looters continued to burn and pillage the countryside, and Merrivale waited for Jean de Fierville to appear. He had asked Mauro and Warin to keep watch, and he felt certain that Edward de Tracey would be looking out too, but there was no sign of the Norman. Northburgh reminded him that several of Harcourt’s men were carrying letters around the countryside urging people to defect to the English. ‘Fierville might be one of them. If so, he may not return for several days.’

‘That would be a pity. At the moment, he is my only remaining lead.’

Well, not quite. He thought about interviewing Matt and Pip again, and decided against it. Let us hear what Fierville has to say, he thought. Then, if he can prove he was somewhere else when Bray was killed, I shall be having a strong word with those two archers.

Before marching from Saint-Vaast to Valognes, the army was organised into three divisions. The Prince of Wales, to his loud and enthusiastic delight, was appointed to command the vanguard, although everyone knew that real command was vested in Warwick, the marshal.

‘And what a sack of cats he will be marshalling,’ said Sir John Sully. Returning from delivering a message to the king, Merrivale had encountered Sully as the last of the army was moving up off the beach. ‘Have you seen who his captains are?’

Merrivale raised his eyebrows.

‘Oh, they have given him some good men, no doubt,’ Sully said. ‘But whose idea was it to order Thomas Holland to serve alongside the Earl of Salisbury?’

Merrivale blinked. ‘Perhaps they will learn to get along,’ he said.

‘Holland? That man is so full of choler, it is a wonder he doesn’t boil over. Lock him up in an empty church and he’ll pick a fight with the gargoyles. And that’s not all.’

‘Oh?’

‘Hugh Despenser was originally ordered to serve in the rearguard, but at the last moment those orders were changed and he was assigned to the van. He will be rubbing shoulders with young Mortimer. And to crown it all, Matthew Gurney has been assigned to the same division as well.’

‘For God’s sake!’ the herald said sharply. ‘Why?’

‘There are two possible explanations,’ said Sully. ‘One is that our good marshal has taken leave of his senses. But I’ve known Tom Beauchamp since he was a wet-nosed pageboy, and I’ve never seen any sign of mental aberration. The other explanation is that someone is deliberately meddling in the dispositions of the army.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The army that fights well, fights together. The men put aside personal quarrels and rivalries and become brothers in arms. They are united in one task, defeating the enemy. If you want to break an army’s fighting spirit, the fastest way to do so is to sow