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

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ Merrivale said.

‘Don’t be. Slade was not only a thief and a liar, he was also a terrible shot. My company is better off without him. I daresay he has gone over to the French by now, and if we catch him at Saint-Lô, I will have the pleasure of hanging him myself.’

Merrivale bowed. ‘Thank you for letting me know, Sir Edward.’

Tracey departed.

Jakey was a good lad. Everyone liked him. Clearly that was not true. But if Slade had killed him, why did Nicodemus and the others accuse Bate?

Later that evening, Lord Rowton sought out the herald. ‘I have read the reports you submitted to the king’s secretary. May I ask if there has been any further progress?’ He paused. ‘I am thinking of Edmund’s family.’

Merrivale shook his head. ‘I think he saw Fierville meeting with Chauffin, and was killed to silence him. But I have no proof.’

‘Are there other possibilities?’

The herald paused for a moment. ‘Sir Thomas Holland admits that he and Bray quarrelled at Portchester,’ he said finally. ‘He makes no secret of the fact that he disliked Bray. But enough to kill him? I am not certain.’

Rowton frowned. ‘What was the subject of their dispute?’

‘Holland says that Bray insulted his wife. Or rather, the woman he claims as his wife.’

‘Ah, the fair and divisive Joan… I had not heard of this. It may interest you to know, however, that while at Portchester, Bray also had an altercation with Sir Hugh Despenser.’

Merrivale looked at him. ‘You witnessed this, my lord?’

‘Yes, I did. Curiously, this quarrel too was about gambling debts.’ Rowton shook his head. ‘Gambling is an absolute curse in this army. We have more disputes and affrays over games of chance than any other single cause. If I had my way, I would ban gambling throughout the army, and put any man who transgressed into the stocks.’

‘I suspect that would not be practical,’ Merrivale said.

‘Of course not, given that the Prince of Wales is the biggest gambler of the lot.’

Earlier in the year, Merrivale had helped the prince’s treasurer settle the young man’s debts, which had risen to around sixty-five pounds; much of it owed to his mother, Queen Philippa. The problem was that the prince loved gambling for its own sake; he simply did not care whether he won or lost, with the result that he lost far more often than he won. ‘Had Bray run into debt?’ Merrivale asked.

‘No, but his friend Mortimer had. Despenser bought the debt from someone else, possibly as a way of putting one over on Mortimer, and demanded repayment. Bray interceded, asking Despenser for more time. When Despenser began to insult Mortimer, Bray stood up for him.’

‘As a true friend would.’

‘Indeed. However, some quite harsh words were said, and Bray made comments about Despenser’s character and parentage that I daresay an older and wiser man would have eschewed. At this point I intervened, ordered them both to apologise, and sent them away. But I fear Despenser is the sort of man who carries a grudge.’

‘Yes. Thank you for informing me, my lord.’

‘There is no need to thank me. I am sorry I did not tell you earlier.’

Rowton took his leave. Merrivale stood for a moment, thinking. Despenser’s company had also been ashore early at Quettehou. And Despenser had many archers in his retinue.

Despenser is the sort of man who carries a grudge. But who in that tortured generation, stained with their fathers’ crimes and their fathers’ blood, did not? How could anyone have survived that grim decade of famine and anarchy and come through it unmarked? He himself had not.

But… had he been wrong all along? He had become convinced – or, he admitted, he had convinced himself – that Bray had been killed because he had discovered Fierville was working with the enemy. But what if that was not the case? Bray had been a well-liked young man, but he had also made enemies along the way. Perhaps I am wrong about Holland, Merrivale thought. Perhaps he did allow his anger to get the better of him. Or perhaps Despenser, brooding over past histories and past wrongs, had snapped and decided to end the life of the man who had confronted him.

Sunset was a fading fire. Overhead, stars broke out in the darkening sky. Somewhere in the camp, a man played a lute and sang a lai by Marie de France. The herald recognised the song at once; he had heard it sung before, years ago, in another country.

The lives of the others are done.

Their love has cooled.

Yet I remain alive

and my destiny is to be with the woman I love

without ever knowing the bliss I seek.

I cannot possess her. I long for her embrace

and with every breath I draw I suffer.

I envy the others wrapped in death.

9

Saint-Lô, 22nd of July, 1346

Morning

Seen from a distance, the walls and towers of Saint-Lô were like a gigantic ship floating above the trees and hedgerows. Surrounded on three sides by steep valleys and on the fourth by massive ramparts and gates protected by towers and bartizans, the city was virtually impregnable. The vanguard moved forward cautiously, hobelars trotting across the fields in little groups to scout, archers spreading out on the flanks, men-at-arms riding in glittering, bright-coloured streams up the centre with the standard of Wales in the lead.

They could see no banners flying from either the ramparts of the town or the castle perched at its far end. The gates were wide open, and the men standing guard outside them wore red iron caps on their heads. The impregnable city had fallen.

‘It was another ruse,’ said Sir Richard Percy, who came down to meet them at the gate. ‘Bertrand left about fifty men to defend the place, and pulled out with the rest. We seized the gates yesterday afternoon, and took the town without a fight. The garrison at the castle held out for most of the night, but this