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

discord, particularly among the captains. Once they start fighting each other, the army quickly falls apart. I’ve seen it before, lad. At Bannockburn, and elsewhere too.’

‘Do you really think these men will start fighting each other?’

‘They’ll be at each other’s throats before midnight,’ Sully predicted.

‘You think someone is meddling. Who?’

‘Now then, boy, wouldn’t that be useful to know?’ said Sully.

And so the army marched, through pomegranate-red sunlight along the dusty roads and tracks of Normandy. Men-at-arms jingled with harness and spurs, bright-polished armour dazzling in the light, brilliant surcoats and shields and banners a kaleidoscope of moving colour; light horsemen, hobelars from the north country and the Welsh marches, fanned out across the fields in little companies, with lances upraised like the quills of a hedgehog; long columns of archers in green and russet slouched down the road with their bows over their shoulders and quivers strapped across their backs; Welsh and Cornish spearmen sweated in their quilted gambesons and heavy leather skullcaps, daggers and axes tucked through their belts. The prince’s division passed, then the centreguard under the king, with Northampton and Harcourt at his right hand, then the long rumbling column of baggage wagons, among which could be found a young English girl driving a small herd of recalcitrant milk cows, and finally the rearguard, commanded by the Bishop of Durham and the Earl of Arundel. As the dust settled behind them, the smoke of burning farms began to rise once more.

In Valognes, the citizens hid indoors while armoured men-at-arms rode through the streets looking for their billets. To the south, an enormous column of smoke billowed into the sky, obscuring the sun. By the time Merrivale reached the Duke of Normandy’s house, where the king had taken up residence, the wind had changed and smoke was blowing across the town, dropping ash and sparks onto the thatched roofs below. An archer stood in the courtyard of the house with the carcass of a deer over his shoulders, haggling with one of the cooks. ‘Come on, man! Look at her, she’s a prime red deer hind! That’s worth ten pence of the king’s money any day!’

‘Ten pence! Do you think we are made of money? Sixpence and not a farthing more.’

Northburgh came out to meet the herald. ‘Chaos,’ he said, motioning towards the hall. ‘Not content with that piece of mummery outside the town, the king has invited the burgesses to join him for dinner, so that they can make further speeches praising his generosity. Any news?’

Merrivale shook his head. ‘I am afraid not. There’s still no sign of Fierville.’

Northburgh paused for a moment. ‘Simon, my friend,’ he said. ‘Please do not take this the wrong way. But is it possible that you are mistaken? Is the prince’s life really in danger?’

‘I can only give you the same answer I gave the king,’ Merrivale said. ‘I do not know. The problem is that all the more commonplace explanations, such as accident or enemy action, do not stand up to scrutiny. I am convinced that Bray was killed deliberately.’

‘And what is the link to Fierville?’

‘He was spotted on the Valognes road at about the same time.’

‘He might well have been on reconnaissance,’ Northburgh said. ‘Several Normans were sent to spy out the country soon after we landed. Fierville may have been one of them.’

‘Yes. According to witnesses, he was seen riding hard down the road from Valognes, away from the enemy. But as soon as he saw our men, he wheeled and rode away again, back towards the enemy. Why?’

Northburgh did not answer. The cook and the archer struck a bargain at eight pence and the latter ran out of the courtyard whooping with delight, clutching the equivalent of nearly three days’ pay in his hand. In an hour’s time, Merrivale thought, he and his friends will be roaring drunk.

‘There is something you should know,’ Northburgh said finally. ‘Our arrival at Saint-Vaast was expected by the enemy. They had a strong force ready in wait for us, on both land and sea.’

‘Why did they withdraw?’

‘We don’t know. More worryingly, we also don’t know how they knew when and where to expect us.’

Northburgh went back inside. Merrivale turned to find the cook standing in front of him, bowing. ‘Sir Herald. Might I have a word with you?’

‘Of course. You’re Coloyne, aren’t you? The king’s head cook.’

‘I am the yeoman of the kitchen, sir,’ the man said stiffly.

Which meant, head cook. ‘What is it?’

‘I must apologise, sir, but after that impertinent archer departed, I fear I overheard some of your conversation with Master Northburgh. Concerning the landing at Saint-Vaast, that is.’

Behind him, two more cooks were hard at work skinning and butchering the deer. ‘Go on.’

‘While the court was ashore at Freshwater, one of my junior staff overheard something. She reported it to me, as was right, but I am afraid I dismissed the matter as being of no importance. But after hearing what Master Northburgh said, I fear I may have been wrong.’

‘What did she overhear?’

‘Perhaps it would be best, sir, if I summoned the girl and she told the story in her own words.’ Coloyne turned to one of the men behind him. ‘Fetch the cowherd, if you please.’

She came into the courtyard a few minutes later. Merrivale recognised her at once as the girl he had seen herding the cattle away from the fires at Saint-Vaast. She wore a pair of scuffed leather turnshoes with laces around her ankles, and an unbleached kirtle in an indeterminate shade of grey. Seen close up, she was not quite so young as he had thought; thirteen or fourteen, but small for her age. Her eyes widened a little at the stiff, glittering embroidery of his tabard, but she curtseyed and then stood straight with her hands at her sides, meeting his gaze. She was not short of confidence, he thought.

‘What is your name, girl?’ he asked.

‘Nell Driver, sir.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Southwick, sir. It is hard by Portchester.’

‘How do you