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

little shit is fond of no one but himself. He is just as arrogant as his father, perhaps even more so.’

‘You do remember I am his herald,’ Merrivale said, his voice still quiet. ‘And I should be careful also not to bite the hand that feeds you. Service in this army is a chance for redemption, for you and your family. Your knighthood is a symbol of that.’

‘Redemption? Why in hell do I need redeeming? I have done nothing wrong.’ Mortimer finally turned his head to look at Merrivale. ‘Why do you put up with it, herald? According to what I hear, you have precious little reason to be grateful to them.’

‘Whom do you advise me to hate?’ Merrivale asked. ‘Edward of Woodstock had not even been born when misfortune struck my family. His father the king was only nine years old. Those who harmed my family are long dead. And I have learned, Sir Roger, that there is very little profit in hating the dead.’

‘And the living bear no responsibility? They get off scot-free?’

‘I did not say that. But consider this. Perhaps, in his own clumsy, awkward, boyish way, the prince is also seeking… not redemption, that is the wrong word, but restitution. Perhaps by taking you into his service and knighting you, he is trying to make up for the loss you have suffered.’

‘You give him too much credit,’ Mortimer said. His voice had suddenly gone thick, as if he was having trouble speaking. ‘I know you mean well, herald, but please leave me.’

Silently Merrivale turned and walked out into the night. He stood for a while watching the torches flickering along the causeway and on the distant ramparts of Carentan. He remembered again the rain and the mud and the rotting sheep; the linen-swathed bundles that had once been his sisters and mother being lowered into the ground and the earth covering them; the bailiffs arriving to arrest his father for failure to pay his rents and seize his dark, drowning lands.

Nine years old, he thought. I was nine then too, the same age as the king. No child should have to see what I saw. And yet the world shows no sign of changing.

What had John Sully said? Do what your conscience tells you, and damn the rest. That’s the only thing a man can do.

Sighing suddenly, the herald turned away towards his own tent.

6

Carentan, 20th of July, 1346

Morning

In the end, the siege engines were not needed. At first light, the trumpets sounded and the army came down off the heights and hurried along the repaired causeway towards the town. As the vanguard drew closer, they saw the gates standing wide open, the ramparts empty of defenders. Unlike at Valognes, there was no procession of burgesses waiting to surrender and pledge their allegiance to the king. Carentan had been abandoned.

Yelling with delight, the leading companies began smashing doors and windows and breaking into houses. Smoke and flames were already rising from a dozen points by the time Warwick and the Prince of Wales entered the town. Swearing violently, Warwick directed his under-marshal to arrest as many looters as possible, but it was too late. The sounds of shouting, drunken singing, splintering wood and smashing glass and crockery echoed through every street and alley.

In the main square they found the Red Company, the only company to have maintained its discipline, standing guard over the church of Notre-Dame. Richard Percy walked forward, sheathing his sword, as Warwick and the prince rode up. ‘Most of the townspeople have fled,’ he said. ‘But there are refugees inside the church, about thirty in all. People who were too slow, or too old and infirm, to escape.’

‘Protect them as best you can. Any sign of the enemy?’

‘The castle is still holding out. The gates are shut and there are men on the ramparts, including at least one crossbowman.’

‘Is Bertrand there?’

‘There’s no sign of his banner.’

A row of arcaded shops along the eastern side of the square was burning, smoke pouring from windows and doors, tiles cracking as flames licked up through the roofs. The prince watched the destruction, his followers nudging each other and laughing. They cheered when a roof caved in and a shower of sparks danced up through the smoke. Their horses stirred, restless.

More men rode into the square, iron-shod hooves hammering on the cobbles, the red and gold banner of Harcourt floating over their heads. Harcourt rode up to Warwick, gesturing towards the fires. ‘What is this? The town has surrendered. It should be under the king’s protection.’

‘If the burgesses had remained, we could have protected them. Once the troops realised the town was empty, there was no stopping them. Why did the townsfolk flee, Godefroi? You sent them letters urging them to surrender, did you not?’

‘My messenger was ambushed and killed before he could reach the town. Another is missing too, Jean de Fierville. That son-of-a-whore Bertrand knew my men were coming and set traps for them.’

Warwick looked at the herald, seated on his palfrey amid the Prince of Wales’s household. Warin the groom was behind him, mounted on a shaggy pony. ‘Your pardon, my lord,’ Merrivale said. ‘But I saw Jean de Fierville last night in Saint-Côme-du-Mont. He was looking for you.’

Harcourt glanced at him sharply. ‘Did he say what his errand was?’

‘Only that it was urgent. I told him he could find you at Coigny, and he rode away.’

‘He never reached Coigny,’ said another of the Normans. It was the man who had threatened Merrivale the night after the landing. ‘You are right, my lord. He must have been ambushed too.’

‘Bertrand’s men are still holding the castle,’ Warwick said. ‘We need to prise them out. Godefroi, take your men around to the Saint-Lô gate and hold it. If the garrison tries to break out from the castle, stop them. John, Richard, leave a detachment of your men to guard the church, and follow me.’

The streets were full of clouds of choking yellow-white smoke, bearing