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

‘You are not joining them?’ Merrivale asked, indicating the gamblers.

A jongleur was playing a lute, rather well. No one was paying him the slightest attention. ‘I cannot afford it,’ Holland said brusquely. ‘I am not a rich man, herald. In case you hadn’t noticed.’

Merrivale pursed his lips. ‘I had. But some of your men seem to be doing rather well. There is one party of looters from Wigan who are making sizeable profits. Perhaps you know them. Their vintenar is a big man, bald, with a scar across his head.’

‘I know who you mean. So?’

‘They are professional looters. Did you know they were out on the Valognes road the day Bray was killed?’

Holland stiffened. ‘What are you insinuating?’

‘They might have seen what happened to him. Did they say anything to you?’

‘I don’t gossip with common soldiers.’

‘Will you make enquiries on my behalf?’

‘I will not. I owe you no favours, herald, and I don’t give a damn about what happened to Bray. I told you, I couldn’t stand the little turd.’

‘Then let me ask you another question. How well do you know Macio Chauffin?’

Holland stared at him. ‘What has that to do with anything?’

‘Chauffin was out on the Valognes road too, at the same time as your archers. Did you try to send him a message? Using Jean de Fierville as the messenger, perhaps?’

For a moment he thought Holland was going to reach for his sword, but unusually, the one-eyed knight managed to control his temper. ‘If you have an accusation to make, herald, then make it.’

‘No,’ said Merrivale. ‘But if you want to allay my suspicions, you could try answering my question.’

‘Not that it is any of your business, but I met Macio in Prussia. He was serving with the Count of Eu.’

‘The Constable of France.’

‘Yes,’ Holland said impatiently. ‘There was a truce between England and France at the time, if you recall. So we all went to Prussia to fight the pagans. We were in Königsberg, and then out on the frontier at Allenstein and Rössel. We served together for about a year, all told. I haven’t seen Macio since we left Prussia.’

‘But you remain on friendly terms.’

‘Yes. Is that a crime?’

‘No,’ said Merrivale. ‘So long as friendship is all that passes between you.’

‘Go to hell,’ said Holland, and he turned on his heel and walked away.

The prince had just lost a sizeable stake to his friend Salisbury. He yelped with laughter and called for more wine. Sir John Grey came and laid a hand on the herald’s shoulder. ‘You appear to have provoked Sir Thomas,’ he said.

‘I fear it takes very little to do so,’ said Merrivale. ‘He is an angry and bitter man.’

‘He has no monopoly on either anger or bitterness,’ Grey said unexpectedly. ‘But some of us manage to control our emotions rather better than he does. You had a couple of close shaves today. I came to see if you were well.’

‘I am, thanks to your forethought. Did you find the rest of the garrison?’

‘As you suspected, after Barbizan was killed, they fled through a postern behind the donjon. We caught them in the streets before they could get to the Saint-Lô gate. Thank you for sending Matt and Pip with the message.’

‘Tell me something, Sir John. When you decided to send your men after me, why did you choose those two?’

‘Because they are the best I have,’ Grey said.

‘Tell me more about them. You said they come from Warwickshire.’

‘Yes. Their father was a gamekeeper and forester on the Clinton estate at Kenilworth. Their mother died long ago, and their father reared them and taught them to shoot. When he died last year, the Kenilworth steward turned them out of their home. They were wandering vagabonds when my master bowman found them. He recruited them, and they have served us well ever since.’

In his mind’s eye Merrivale saw Fierville stretched dead on the cobbles, shot in the back in exactly the same manner as Edmund Bray. The similarities between the two killings were shocking, and yet they were not identical. He remembered what Pip had said at Quettehou. We wouldn’t have wasted a second arrow. One would have been enough.

Grey was watching his face. ‘If you think they had anything to do with Bray’s death, you are barking up the wrong tree. I have no doubts whatever about their fidelity.’

‘I am pleased to hear it,’ Merrivale said. ‘Thank you once again, Sir John.’

‘No thanks are necessary. I wish you good night.’

Grey departed. Merrivale watched the gamblers for a moment longer, and then he too walked away towards his tent.

Tiphaine de Tesson was waiting for him. Her red hair hung in ragged locks around her neck; rather than attempting to disentangle the matted, filthy tresses, she had cut most of them off. Her ruined gown had been discarded too, and she wore a man’s green tunic over a plain shirt, and baggy, wrinkled hose with a pair of soft leather boots. She looked tense and suspicious. ‘Your servants brought me here and found me some clothes,’ she said. ‘I assume they did so at your orders.’

‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘You need shelter until we can take you to a place of safety.’

She shifted from one foot to the other. ‘For me, there is no place of safety.’

He regarded her, seeing the suspicion and fear still dark in her eyes. ‘Have you no family or friends to whom you could go?’

She shook her head. ‘Many are dead. Most of the rest are scattered, in hiding or in exile. Those who remain are known and watched, and have been threatened with dire punishment if they consort with rebels. Even to admit me to their house would be a sentence of death.’

Merrivale frowned. ‘If you have been in prison for two years, demoiselle, how do you know this?’

‘Two friends of my father were captured and brought to Carentan in March. They told me that Robert Bertrand was sending riders all across the country, saying that the English were coming