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

That is Montebourg, the next town to the south. Those thieves you call your retinue have burned the place to the ground! Looted everything they could carry and put torches to everything they couldn’t. Churches, priories, everything gone. What do you think the king will do when he hears this?’

Holland shrugged one shoulder. ‘I have no idea. Why don’t you run and tell him?’

‘You stupid bastard! We are supposed to protect these people! How can we persuade them to join us when your brigands are burning them out of house and home?’

Matthew Gurney started to laugh. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘A Despenser showing respect for the law! Whatever next? A horse that can play the bagpipes? A fish that can walk on land? Or just another obnoxious donkey braying in our midst?’

Laughter exploded around the room. The prince watched the scene, dice forgotten in his hand. Despenser looked at the circle of laughing, jeering faces, and his own face reddened. He reached out to the nearest man and ripped the goblet of wine from his hand, raising it in the air.

‘I’m told you children like to play drinking games,’ he said. ‘Shall we play one now? It’s called Happy Families. I’ll show you how it works.’

He stabbed one finger at Holland. ‘Did your father burn my father’s lands, Sir Thomas? He did? Good! Take a drink! Are you a bigamist?’ he asked, rounding suddenly on Salisbury. ‘Why, of course you are! Take a drink! Ah, Sir Roger Mortimer, our newest knight. Did your grandfather hang my grandfather? Yes, by God, he did! Go on, take a drink!’ Shouting over the rising tide of noise, he turned on Gurney. ‘And you, Sir Matthew, did your father by any chance shove a red-hot poker up the old king’s arse? Why, yes, he did! Take a drink!’

Holland, Salisbury, Mortimer and Gurney were all moving towards him. Despenser threw his goblet on the floor, wine spraying across the rushes. ‘Do you want to fight me, girls? Come on outside, then. We’ll see who can hold their claret, by Christ we will!’

A fist banged on the high table. ‘Enough!’

Every head turned. To Merrivale’s surprise, it was the Prince of Wales who had spoken. He had risen to his feet, and now he banged the table again. ‘The only fighting to be done here is with the enemy! That is my order, do you hear? Sir Hugh, do you hear me?’

‘I hear you,’ Despenser said stonily. ‘Lord Prince, if you will not let me fight, then will you grant me another favour?’

The prince straightened. ‘What is it?’

‘My original post was with my lord of Arundel in the rearguard. Grant me permission to return there.’

Having briefly sounded like a leader of men, the prince now reverted to being a sixteen-year-old boy. ‘Return to the rearguard? The vanguard is the post of honour, Sir Hugh, though perhaps the term post of honour means nothing to you?’

Hugh Despenser reached for his sword. Had he drawn it, the act would have cost him his life, but before his hand could touch the hilt, Merrivale ripped the weapon out of its scabbard. ‘Outside! Now!’ he snapped. ‘My lord of Salisbury, I advise you to return to your seat immediately. Sir Roger, Sir Thomas, Sir Matthew, you will kindly accompany me. Now!’

He was not certain they would obey, but they did. Merrivale looked once at Burghersh, who should have intervened himself to stop this – who should have ensured that the scene had never happened in the first place – and the older knight gazed back at him with a face as blank as stone.

The herald followed the others out into the courtyard and presented Despenser with his sword, hilt first. Despenser slammed it back into the scabbard with a clash of metal.

‘I presume, Sir Hugh, that you already appreciate your folly in attempting to draw your sword in the royal presence,’ Merrivale said. ‘I will say no more on that matter. As for the rest, you all heard the prince. We are in the presence of the enemy. Fighting each other is foolish and dangerous, and will draw the king’s anger down on your heads.’

‘I don’t care,’ Mortimer snapped. ‘I will not stand idly by while this man insults my family.’

Despenser sneered. ‘I merely stated some historical facts.’

‘Lies,’ spat Gurney. ‘That is not how the old king died, and you know it!’

‘Do I? Ask any alewife between Canterbury and Carlisle and she will give you a different story.’

‘Then perhaps you should stick to keeping company with alewives, Despenser. You are clearly at home among them.’

‘Indeed I am. Give me an honest alewife over a thief or a murderer any day.’

‘Enough!’ barked the herald. ‘Sir Hugh, I will inform his Highness that you are unwell, and you will retire to your quarters. You will make your apology in the morning. Sir Matthew, Sir Roger, return to the hall, and let there be no further breaches of the peace. Sir Thomas, a moment of your time, if you please.’

The others departed. Holland shifted. ‘You take a great deal upon yourself, herald.’

‘If you dispute my actions, you may raise the matter with the king.’

‘What do you want with me?’

‘I am told that you had a dispute with Sir Edmund Bray at Portchester, not long before the fleet sailed. May I ask what that was about?’

Holland’s good eye glared at him. ‘How do you know this?’

Merrivale said nothing.

‘He insulted my wife,’ Holland said. ‘That is all I am prepared to say.’

‘Not everyone would agree that she is your wife.’

‘I don’t give a damn. In the eyes of God, she is mine!’

‘You have no idea what God sees, and neither do I,’ the herald said. ‘Did the quarrel persist? Did you exchange words with him again?’

‘No. The little turd avoided my company after that. He knew what I would do to him if I caught him alone. Then we embarked and I didn’t see him again until the ceremony at the church.’ Holland snorted. ‘Bray, a