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

She blinked at the formality, but he wanted to show her she had nothing to fear. ‘The herdsman was looking for someone to help with the cows, sir. The pay was good, a penny a day, so I said I would go.’

‘Did your parents make no objection?’

‘There’s only my ma, sir, and she didn’t mind. I’m one less mouth to feed. I wanted to see what the rest of the world looked like, sir,’ she added.

Ash fell like black snow in the courtyard, and the men butchering the deer had to cover the carcass. This is what the world looks like, thought the herald. ‘I understand you overheard something at Freshwater. Tell me what happened.’

‘I went to sleep in the byre, sir, so I could keep an eye on the cows. One of them had been poorly. When I woke up, I heard two men outside. They were talking of the wind, and the delay it had caused, and how it could ruin all their plans. One man told the other he must get a message to France, to someone called Bertrand.’

Despite the summer heat and smoke, a cold finger ran down the herald’s spine. ‘Did they say what the message was?’

‘Yes, sir. The first man said the king would still land at Saint-Vaast as planned, and Bertrand should hold his men together and wait. He said it was important, because if Bertrand succeeded, then my lord of Harcourt would be discredited.’

Merrivale kept his voice calm. ‘Was there anything more?’

Nell thought. ‘It was mostly just more of the same, sir. The one man kept repeating how important this all was. Then it started to rain and they went away.’

‘Did they call each other by name?’

Nell shook her head. ‘No, sir.’

‘Would you recognise their voices if you heard them again?’

She paused. ‘I don’t know, sir. I might. They had powerful strong accents, both of them.’

‘Where were the accents from, would you say?’

‘The one man’s was a bit like yours, sir, from out west somewhere. The other was from the north, I think.’

‘Can you be more specific, mistress? Was it a hard accent like Northumberland or Cumberland? Or rounder, like you would find in Lancashire or Cheshire?’

For the first time, some of her confidence deserted her. ‘I really don’t know, sir. I’m not even sure where them places are. Until I joined the army, I’d never been further than Portsmouth.’

Merrivale smiled. ‘Of course. It was a foolish question on my part. Just one more thing, mistress, if I may. During your travels with the army, have you seen a man-at-arms with a red lion in white on his coat and shield? His name is Jean de Fierville, and I wish very much to talk to him.’

‘I have seen no such man, sir. I am sorry.’

‘There is no need to be sorry, mistress. You have done very well.’ Reaching into his purse, he took out a groat and handed it to her. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

A groat, four pence, was worth several days’ wages. To his surprise, she smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m well provided for, sir. Send it to my ma in Southwick, if you please. She needs the money more than me.’

The Prince of Wales had taken up residence in the second largest house in Valognes, a big town house belonging to the Bishop of Coutances, hanging his banner over the gate. Here too the courtyard was full of servants preparing dinner; ovens were roaring in the kitchens, and the smell of the prince’s favourite spiced beef pies filled the air.

In the great hall, men milled about, some still in part armour or mail, others changed into tunics and hose and soft shoes, talking, drinking, shouting, laughing, celebrating the first day of the march. The prince sat at the high table playing dice with his friends, banging his fist on the table when he won, shouting with laughter when he lost, which was often. His tutor, Sir Bartholomew Burghersh, sat behind his shoulder, watching the play with a faint smile on his lips.

Most of the vanguard captains were there; Merrivale saw John Sully talking with John Grey and Richard Percy and the latter’s older brother, Harry. Nicholas Courcy was there too, and their eyes met briefly before Courcy smiled and raised his glass. Thomas Holland was on the far side of the room next to a big brick fireplace, standing pointedly with his back to the Earl of Salisbury. He was a square-built man, dark-haired and deep-voiced, with a Lancashire accent; there were scars on his neck and cheek, and he wore a black patch over one eye. That sense of restless, barely suppressed anger that Sully had spoken of was palpable. Holland shifted on the balls of his feet, fingers sometimes tapping on his sword hilt.

Spotting Holland reminded the herald of the quarrel Mortimer had mentioned back at Portchester. Bracing himself for a difficult interview, he began to make his way across the room towards him.

He was halfway there when someone stamped into the hall and slammed the door shut. ‘Holland!’ a man shouted. ‘I want a word with you!’

Holland stiffened but did not turn around. The man by the door was still in full armour, stained with dust and smoke, his face bathed in sweat. Merrivale did not need to see his surcoat – white quartered with gold frets on red and a black ribbon – to know that the newcomer was Sir Hugh Despenser. Twenty years might have passed, he thought, and yet for some in the room it still felt like no time at all.

‘Holland!’ Despenser shouted again. ‘God damn you, look at me!’

Slowly, so slowly that the movement was an insult in itself, Holland turned to face him. ‘What do you want, Despenser?’

Sir Hugh walked forward, people hurrying to get out of his way. ‘Did you not hear the king’s proclamation? No towns are to be burned or looted!’

‘I heard it.’

‘Do you see that smoke out there?