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

knight. Christ in heaven. The prince will be knighting his grooms next, or his tailor.’

‘Bray came from a good family, my lord.’

‘He had Eustace Rowton for a sponsor. Otherwise he’d still be slopping out pigs back in Cheshire.’

‘Did you kill him?’ Merrivale asked.

‘Did I— Jesus! You speak very boldly, herald!’

‘And I am waiting for an answer,’ Merrivale said. ‘Your attempt to lay claim to the lady Joan very nearly cost you your head, Sir Thomas. You were reprieved because the king respects you as a captain. Show him, and me, that you are worthy of that respect. Tell me the truth about what happened between you and Bray.’

‘He spoke badly of my wife and I punched him in the face. His friends dragged him away. That was all. I never spoke to him again, and I certainly never killed the little shit. Nor would I. He was beneath contempt.’

They looked at each other for a long time in the dull smoky sunlight. ‘Go in peace, Sir Thomas,’ the herald said.

Valognes, 18th of July, 1346

Late evening

It was nearly sunset when Warwick returned to Valognes. Along with Harcourt, Reginald Cobham and the Red Company, he had scouted far down the Cotentin, and he returned to headquarters dusty and tired and stinking of smoke. Dismounting, he handed over the reins of his horse, took a long draught from the glass of wine his esquire handed him and turned to Merrivale, who awaited him.

‘Well? Any news?’

‘Some,’ the herald said, and he related what the cowherd had told him. Warwick listened intently, wiping the sweat from his grimy face.

‘The fact that there are French spies in the army is hardly news. Is Fierville one of them?’

‘That is a possibility. On another note, we had an unpleasant incident this evening at the prince’s court.’

Again Warwick listened while Merrivale recounted what had happened. ‘My lord, was it a good idea to put those men to serve cheek by jowl in the same division?’

‘It was nothing to do with me,’ Warwick said briefly. ‘The order came from the king. I will speak to Despenser in the morning. As for the rest, let’s hope the prospect of some real fighting will give them a distraction.’

‘Oh?’

‘Robert Bertrand is in Carentan, and he intends to make a stand there. The town is surrounded by marshes and water, and it won’t be easy to take. We must try to keep those quarrelsome children under control until we get there, at least. And let me know as soon as you find Fierville.’

5

Sainte-Mère-Église, 19th of July, 1346

Afternoon

The long road south from Valognes was choked with traffic, wagons, carts and marching men pushing on through the shimmering heat. The air was full of dust and smoke. Earlier, they had passed Montebourg, piles of rubble and ash with scavengers picking through the ruins. Up ahead, the next town on the road, Sainte-Mère-Église, was already burning.

A hobelar, a light cavalryman armed with a long iron-tipped lance, reined in alongside Mauro’s cart. He was sweating profusely under his quilted jack. ‘Can you spare us a drink, brother?’

He caught the waterskin Mauro threw him and drank thirstily, then tossed it back. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Spain. And you?’

‘Westmorland. Both a damned long way from home, aren’t we?’

Up ahead, the traffic had jammed, for the dozenth time that day, and the long line of wagons rolled to a halt. Mauro engaged the brake on the cart, which contained his master’s tent, baggage, portable furniture and records, and sat waiting for something to happen. A file of archers, dusty in green and russet, prowled past with their bows over their shoulders. They looked eagerly at the waterskin, and Mauro smiled and handed it down.

‘Who are you with, brother?’ the hobelar asked their leader.

‘Sir Thomas Holland,’ the man said. He was a big man, bald as an egg in the sunlight, with the tanned naked skin of his head split by a livid scar running from forehead to crown. His neck was thick with muscle and his face was seamed with wrinkles. Small, vivid blue eyes watched the world with a mixture of cunning and calculation. A veteran, Mauro thought. God knows how many battlefields he has seen, or how many atrocities.

‘Holland? You lot are all Lankies, then?’ the hobelar asked.

Heads nodded. ‘Wigan and thereabouts,’ one man said.

‘Been out foraging? Any luck?’

The leader winked and lifted the flap of his haversack. Sunlight gleamed briefly off a pair of silver cups. The hobelar stared at them enviously. ‘Where’d you get those? Sainte-Mère-Église?’ The archers nodded. ‘That’s a lot of silver to be carrying around,’ Mauro observed. ‘Aren’t you worried someone will steal it?’

The leader smiled, showing broken yellow teeth. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not worried. Anyone who wants to try is welcome.’

‘We won’t be carrying it around for long,’ another man said. ‘The bank will take care of it for us. Then we’ll go out looking for another load, and another after that.’ He grinned. ‘This is a sweet little war, boys. Come summer’s end, we are all going to be very rich.’

The hobelar looked at him, his envy growing. ‘Bloody archers,’ he said. ‘We hobelars do the scouting, the men-at-arms do the close work once it gets sticky, but what do you lot do? Not much, I reckon.’

The leader turned to face him, caressing the riser of his longbow with a grimy hand. ‘We do the killing, mate,’ he said. ‘We’re hell’s gatekeepers. Never mind your precious men-at-arms, we’re the real butchers.’ He nodded. ‘Wait until the bastards show themselves. Then you’ll see what we do.’

‘Brag,’ said the hobelar in disgust. He turned his horse and rode away down the column. The archers stared after him, and one lifted his bow and sighted on the hobelar’s back. ‘Shall I give him a shaft up the arse? He’ll know we’re not bragging then.’

‘Don’t waste an arrow on that shit,’ the big man said. ‘We’ll get him alone one day. Then we’ll shove something else up his arse. Something he won’t forget.’

The