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

as they passed, Merrivale saw a wooden door standing open. A cart was parked before it, tipped forward and resting on its shaft. The crossbowman stood on the gatehouse roof above them, crossbow pointed at their backs.

‘Drop your swords,’ said the man in the courtyard.

Courcy and Donnchad drew their swords and laid them on the cobbles. Out of the corner of his eye, the herald saw Courcy glance once at Donnchad, and saw too the almost imperceptible lift of the other man’s head.

‘Who are these men?’ the Frenchman demanded.

‘My escort,’ Merrivale said. ‘Sir Nicholas Courcy of Kingsale and his attendant. Have I the honour of addressing Messire Raoul de Barbizan?’

‘I am he. What do you want?’

‘Robert Bertrand stripped the garrison when he withdrew this morning,’ Merrivale said. ‘We know you have only a few men. You cannot hope to resist our army. Surrender now, and save your lives. You and your men will be fairly treated. I give you that assurance in the name of the Prince of Wales, my master.’

Barbizan considered this for a moment. ‘You underestimate us,’ he said. ‘You have seen how strong this castle is. Twenty men could hold it for a week.’

‘If you refuse, the offer will not be repeated.’

Barbizan said nothing. Merrivale bowed. ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘Farewell, messire. I salute your courage.’ He turned away towards the gate.

‘Wait,’ Barbizan said.

The herald waited. ‘I will surrender only to the king,’ said Barbizan. ‘He must come here in person. I will kneel to him and offer him my sword and the keys to the castle. To him only, herald. No one else.’

Merrivale shook his head. ‘The king has not yet entered the town. But the Prince of Wales is near at hand. You may surrender to him if you wish.’

‘The prince? I do not kneel before children,’ Barbizan snapped.

Merrivale let a few moments pass. ‘The prince will receive your surrender outside the castle,’ he said firmly.

Barbizan hesitated, glancing towards the gatehouse. ‘No. I demand that the surrender takes place here, inside the castle.’

‘Why?’ demanded Merrivale. ‘Why is that so important?’

‘I do not answer to you, herald. Only to your master.’

‘Then I am afraid we are at an impasse,’ said Merrivale, and he turned away again.

Something hit him in the back like a battering ram: Donnchad, slamming into him and shoving him bodily behind the cart just as a crossbow bolt smacked into the cobbles where he had been standing and ricocheted away in a shower of sparks. Courcy pulled a knife from the sleeve of his leather tunic and threw it, and Barbizan collapsed with blood gushing from his throat. The Irish knight picked up the two swords, throwing one to Donnchad and pointing up at the crossbowman on the roof. ‘Téigh! Críochnaigh é, go gasta!’

Donnchad ran through the door into the gatehouse and they heard his boots pounding on the stairs as he raced towards the roof. The crossbowman was already reloading; they had about twenty seconds before he shot again. There was a strange smell in the air, and after a moment Merrivale recognised it as sulphur. Looking inside the cart, he saw traces of fine pale grey dust on the floorboards, glistening a little in the strong sun.

‘Sir Nicholas!’ he called. ‘Come quickly!’

Shouts sounded from the roof of the gatehouse; Donnchad was fighting with the crossbowman. Courcy hurried over to the cart, and Merrivale pointed to the powder. The Irishman shut his eyes for a moment, and the herald saw him go pale under his sunburn. ‘Oh Jesus,’ he said.

‘They used this cart to transport the gunpowder,’ Merrivale said. He turned and began to walk towards the gatehouse door. After a moment’s hesitation, Courcy ran up alongside him. ‘Stand back, herald,’ he said grimly. ‘This is a job for a fighting man.’

Silently Merrivale followed him into the gatehouse. Just inside the door, the stairs rose in a steep spiral towards the roof, where the clatter of swords could now be heard. Another door led to the guardroom. Courcy tried the latch, but it did not budge.

‘Barred on the inside,’ Merrivale said.

‘Not for long.’ Courcy stepped back and kicked the door hard, then again, and again. On the fourth blow they heard wood begin to splinter, and on the fifth the door sprang open, bouncing off the stone wall behind. Sword in hand, Courcy shouldered his way through.

Sword blades clashed, steel rasping on steel, and someone shouted with pain. The herald pushed through the doorway into sudden gloom; the guardroom was lit only by shafts of sun coming through the arrow slits. In the dim light he saw Courcy fighting desperately, holding off two men, one of them bleeding but still coming on. Behind Courcy stood a third man, armoured but with the visor of his bascinet raised so he could see more clearly. His surcoat was white with a red lion rampant, combatant. His sword was raised for a killing stroke.

The sword was already descending when Merrivale grabbed Jean de Fierville’s arm with a grip of iron and spun him around so that the blow intended for Courcy’s head clattered off the stone floor of the guardroom. Before Fierville could raise his weapon again, Merrivale punched him hard in the face. The Norman staggered, his nose streaming blood, and Merrivale hit him twice more, driving him back against the wall of the guardroom. On the far side of the room was a row of stacked wooden barrels, with something hissing and fizzing on the floor in front of them: a powder train, already burning. The air stank of sulphurous smoke.

One of the men Courcy was fighting was down, clutching at his chest, dying. Merrivale hit the Norman again, a powerful back-handed blow that broke his jaw with a sickening crack, and then tore the sword from his grasp. Ripping Fierville’s bascinet off, he clubbed the other man hard over the temple with the pommel of the sword. Fierville’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor with a