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

‘Persuaded them?’ said Warwick. ‘How?’

Percy smiled. ‘That was John’s doing,’ he said. ‘He claimed we had captured a supply train with all the silver that was meant to pay their wages. They opened the gates and walked out a few minutes later.’

‘Where has Bertrand gone?’

‘According to the prisoners, he withdrew further up the valley towards Torigni. But we think that too is a deception. We reckon he’s retreated to Caen.’

Caen was the second city of Normandy, even bigger than Saint-Lô; it lay about thirty-five miles to the east. ‘Why do you think this?’ asked the prince.

He was, Merrivale thought, beginning to ask some rather sensible questions. ‘The prisoners told us the Count of Eu has just arrived in Caen, Highness,’ Percy said. ‘He has summoned all the Norman men-at-arms to join him there. Also, there is no other defensible place west of Caen.’

Nicholas Courcy had ridden with the prince’s knights. Despite his shabby appearance, he was well regarded at court now, thanks in part to his successful return of the stolen gunpowder. ‘So that is where Eu will make his stand,’ he said. ‘I’ve been to Caen, and it’s a powerful place. I’m thinking the cannon might come in useful.’

The prince looked up at the gatehouse, pointing at three round, pale objects hanging suspended by chains. ‘What are those?’

‘They are skulls, highness,’ said a female voice. They turned to see Tiphaine de Tesson dismounting from a horse. ‘Skulls,’ she repeated. ‘All that remains of the last Normans who tried to start a revolt against our French overlords. Their leader was my father, Jean, Sire de la Roche-Tesson. He and his friends were beheaded here two years ago and their heads hung over the gate as a warning to other traitors.’

No one else spoke. Tiphaine looked at Warwick and the prince. ‘I should like to see my father.’

Warwick nodded. ‘Bring them down,’ he said.

Carefully and with great respect, the skulls were brought down from the gatehouse and placed on a blanket on the ground. Time, wind and carrion birds had picked away all vestiges of hair and skin; only the bones remained, eye sockets full of shadow in the sunrise, teeth grinning broken and yellow. Tiphaine knelt before them, studying them intently, oblivious to the men watching her in absolute silence. Roger Mortimer bit his lip and turned suddenly away. Nicholas Courcy shifted a little, his face full of sympathy. ‘The pity of it all,’ he said softly.

‘What do you mean?’ Merrivale asked quietly.

‘The fair maiden gazing on the face of death.’

Tiphaine lifted one of the skulls and held it up to the light. ‘This one,’ she said. ‘This is my father.’

Her fingers traced the line of one cheekbone. Closing her eyes, she kissed the skull on the forehead, and then rose to her feet still holding it in her hands. ‘The rest of the body was dismembered and scattered,’ she said. ‘This is all I have of him. I wish to bury him, so that he might at last find rest.’

‘Send for Brother Geoffrey,’ Warwick said. ‘Ask him to conduct the service.’

They gathered in the church of Notre-Dame overlooking the ramparts and the valley of the Vire. The prince and his knights removed their bascinets and stood bare-headed in the apse, watching with a mixture of respect and fascination while Nicholas Courcy and Matthew Gurney prised up one of the flagstones and heaved it to one side. ‘Well,’ said Gurney, looking down. ‘He’ll not want for company.’

Beneath the flagstone were other graves of unguessable age, full of brown decaying bones. The men bowed their heads as Tiphaine walked forward cradling the skull of her father in both hands. There came once again to Merrivale’s mind the image of Bertrand de Born carrying his severed head before him. Jean de la Roche-Tesson too had sown discord, and paid the price for it.

Tiphaine’s face showed no sign of emotion. Silently she knelt and laid the skull among the other bones, then rose and stepped back. At a sign from Warwick, two more men came forward carrying the other skulls and laid them quietly to rest beside the first. Geoffrey of Maldon lifted the crucifix hanging around the neck of his black Augustinian robes and recited the burial prayers. ‘I wish to leave money for a mass to be said for his soul,’ Tiphaine said at the end.

‘I will arrange it,’ said Merrivale.

‘No,’ said another voice. ‘Allow me.’

It was Godefroi d’Harcourt who had spoken. Merrivale had not seen him enter the church, but now he limped forward, taking one of Tiphaine’s hands in his own and raising it to his lips. ‘Your father was my friend,’ he said. ‘I can do little else for him, or you. But allow me this much at least.’

Tiphaine nodded, unspeaking. Harcourt bowed and walked away, dragging his bad leg. Merrivale watched him for a moment. Tiphaine needed a protector, and he had thought of asking Harcourt; but now, with all the Norman’s plans and schemes in ruins and so many of his friends dead, it was Harcourt himself who was likely to need protection.

The prince and most of his knights departed. Courcy lingered a little, talking quietly with Tiphaine. Merrivale felt a hand descend on his shoulder and turned to find Sir John Sully standing beside him, regarding him with what the herald could only describe as benevolent mischief. His dog stood behind them, regarding the gravestone with interest.

‘Why are you smiling at me?’ Merrivale asked.

‘Now what reason would I have to smile?’ Sully asked. ‘She is a comely maid,’ he added, nodding towards Tiphaine. ‘But why have you dressed her as a boy?’

‘This was the best my servant could do.’

Sully’s smile grew broader. ‘What are you planning to do with her?’

‘Find her a place of safety. If necessary, I will send her to England.’ Merrivale looked at the older man. ‘Unless you would care to take her off my hands?’

‘Me? No, boy, I am far too old. I don’t