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

Sullenly Nicodemus slid his dagger back into its sheath. Bate turned towards the herald, his sword flashing in the sunlight. He was sweating heavily and the scar on his head pulsed a deep livid red. Looking into his eyes, Merrivale saw pure hatred.

‘You wish to kill me,’ he said calmly. He held his hands out from his sides, showing that he was unarmed. ‘Very well. You are welcome to try now, if you wish.’

A murmur ran around the circle of men. Merrivale ignored it. He saw the rage in Bate’s eyes fade a little, replaced by uncertainty. After a moment, the vintenar raised his sword, then slammed it down point first into the grass at his feet and stood back, breathing heavily.

Merrivale pointed at Jakey’s body. ‘What happened to this man?’

‘He was killed by the enemy,’ Bate said, his voice rasping in his throat.

That provoked another outcry from the Devon men. ‘Like hell he was!’ Nicodemus shouted. ‘The enemy were over the river, shooting crossbows! Are you telling me one of them swam across, cut Jakey’s throat and swam back again, without nobody seeing him?’

‘Happen all you Devon coneys are blind,’ said one of the northern men.

The shouting increased in volume. ‘Silence!’ Merrivale ordered, and slowly the noise died away again. ‘Did anyone see what happened?’

A long silence followed. ‘He was down at the bridge with the rest of us,’ one of the Devon men said. ‘I saw him there. But when we got back to the top of the bank, he was gone.’

‘Had he quarrelled with anyone?’

‘No,’ said Nicodemus. He glared at Bate again. ‘Jakey was a good lad. Everyone liked him.’

‘I had nothing to do with this,’ Bate said. ‘Nor did any of my men.’

‘You’re lying, Bate. One of you Lanky bastards killed him. And when I find out who it was, I swear to God I’ll cut his throat, just like you did to poor Jakey here!’

‘God rot you!’ Bate roared. ‘We didn’t do it, I tell you!’

‘And another thing, Bate,’ said Nicodemus. ‘We’re not trading with you no more. You want a buyer, you look elsewhere. We don’t have dealings with murderers. You got that, boy?’

Red with rage, Bate reached down for his sword, but Merrivale kicked the weapon away, sending it spinning across the grass. Bate glared at him, clenching his fists until the knuckles were white. The scar on his head throbbed again. Calmly the herald waited, watching the emotions flicker through the vintenar’s savage, red-rimmed eyes. Time seemed to stop; the men around him held their breath.

Bate threw back his head like a bull and shouted at the sky, an inarticulate bellow of rage and frustration, and turned and walked away. Men scattered out of his path. The herald turned to Nicodemus. ‘Take your friend and bury him. The rest of you, return to your posts. Go.’

Nicodemus and another man carried the body away. The rest of the men scattered, some still muttering. Merrivale turned to see Lord Rowton sitting on horseback, watching him. ‘I thought you might need help,’ Rowton said. ‘But clearly you had the situation under control.’ He paused. ‘That big man wanted to kill you. Why didn’t he? He had a sword, and you were unarmed.’

‘Perhaps that is the reason,’ Merrivale said. ‘Someone cut the man’s throat, my lord. It wasn’t a neat job either, but a wild hack with a heavy blade that nearly took his head off. As you saw, and heard, Tracey’s men think one of Holland’s archers did it. I have my doubts.’

He waited for Rowton to ask him what those doubts were. Instead, the other man shook his head. ‘This is not your business, herald.’

‘The man was murdered, my lord.’

‘He was one of Tracey’s men. Let Tracey deal with it. Concentrate on finding out who killed Bray.’ Rowton lifted the reins of his horse. ‘Come, it is time we returned to his Highness.’

Pont-Hébert, 21st of July, 1346

Evening

At day’s end, the English army made camp on the high ground above the Vire, listening to the thump of hammers and the rasp of saws echoing along the riverbank. Most of the kitchen wagons were still on the road from Carentan, so dinner was a simple affair of stockfish and salt salmon, boiled and served with bread and pickles. After the meal was finished, the prince and his knights settled down to their usual evening amusements of wine and dice. Hugh Despenser, who had apologised profusely to the prince after the incident at Valognes – but to no one else – was among them, apparently now in high favour. Merrivale wondered about this.

Tiphaine was waiting outside his tent when he returned. ‘When shall we reach Saint-Lô?’

‘Not until tomorrow morning, I fear.’ He took a closer look at her face, tense and drawn. ‘Why is that important?’

‘My father was executed there,’ she said abruptly, and turned and went into the tent.

Merrivale stood for a moment wondering whether to go after her. A voice hailed him, and he turned to see Sir Edward de Tracey coming towards him. ‘I heard what happened this afternoon,’ Tracey said. ‘I wanted to thank you in person. You prevented what could have been a very nasty incident.’

‘Have you discovered what happened?’

Tracey grimaced. ‘I’m afraid it turns out one of my own men is responsible. The fools were gambling last night and Jake Madford, the dead man, got into debt and couldn’t pay. There was an altercation, and he and some of the others came to blows. Madford finally promised to pay after we took Saint-Lô – presumably he was hoping for a share of the loot – and my vintenar thought the matter was closed. But it looks like someone saw a chance during the fighting today to settle his account for good.’

‘Do you know who the killer is?’

‘They closed ranks, of course, and refused to say, but it is perfectly obvious who it must be. Another of my archers, Jack Slade, disappeared this afternoon