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

hold with these May and December romances. You keep her. Look after her well.’

‘Who said anything about romance?’

Sully winked, snapped his fingers to summon the dog and walked away. Courcy raised Tiphaine’s hand and kissed it, lips lingering rather longer than was strictly necessary, and followed. Merrivale walked over to where Tiphaine stood staring down at the gravestone. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked gently.

She raised her eyes to his, liquid and dark brown. ‘I have given him peace,’ she said. ‘Now I must avenge him.’

Merrivale did not answer. She continued to stare at him. ‘Have you a father, herald?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ It was true, although the old man no longer recognised his own son, or knew who he himself was. Time and horror had destroyed his memory.

‘If someone killed him, what would you do?’

‘I don’t know,’ Merrivale said. He paused for a moment. ‘But I know how terrible it is to lose a parent. You must give yourself time to grieve.’

‘Grieve? Why should I grieve for him? I barely knew him. My mother died when I was young, and I was raised by nuns at the Abbaye aux Dames in Caen. I lived with them until I was arrested. I rarely saw my father and I never knew my true home.’

‘And yet you wish to avenge him.’

‘I am Norman,’ Tiphaine said. ‘That is what we do.’

Again it was impossible to answer this. ‘What did Sir Nicholas want?’ the herald asked.

‘To offer his condolences, and to exercise his charm on me. Do not worry. I am proof against men like him.’ She smiled, the first time he had seen her do so. ‘The nuns trained me well.’

A thought struck Merrivale. ‘You could go back to them for shelter.’

‘The Abbaye aux Dames is one of the richest houses in the land, filled with the daughters of nobles and kings. Do you think they will accept the penniless child of a traitor back into their midst? And in times like these, do you think nunneries will be spared?’

They walked out into the morning sun. ‘Are you married, herald?’ Tiphaine asked suddenly.

‘No.’

‘There is no woman in your life?’

‘No.’

‘No? Has there ever been one?’

With every breath I draw I suffer. Merrivale let the question die in the air between them. ‘We must find you some more suitable clothes,’ he said after a moment. ‘I will see if something can be arranged.’

‘I am quite comfortable as I am, thank you.’ There was an edge of anger in her voice. ‘If I need anything further, I shall ask Mauro. I have found him to be most helpful.’

She walked away down the street. Merrivale wondered briefly if it was safe to let her go alone, but unlike Carentan, the occupation of Saint-Lô had been largely peaceful; the Red Company had seized the town ahead of the rest of the army, and its disciplined soldiers could be seen on every street, maintaining order. The pillaging of the town had begun, but this time it was organised and led by the king’s purveyors, working methodically to seize stocks of food and wine and merchandise.

Returning to the town gates, Merrivale found Sir John Grey talking urgently to one of his officers, a craggy-looking man in a mail tunic, carrying a heavy spear. ‘There’s a thousand tuns of wine in those warehouses on Rue des Fossés,’ Grey was saying. ‘For God’s sake put a strong guard on them, Jacques, until the king’s men can come and take over. If the army gets hold of that wine, we’ll have fifteen thousand dead-drunk men, and Bertrand will be able to walk back in here and take over whenever he pleases.’

‘It shall be done,’ the spearman said, touching his red iron cap in salute. He was about twice Grey’s age, the herald thought, but he took orders from the young knight without question.

‘Thank you.’ Grey turned towards Merrivale. ‘Sir Herald. May I have a word?’

‘Of course.’

The spearman departed. ‘I heard about the fracas at Pont-Hébert,’ Grey said. ‘The rumour says that one of Tracey’s archers got his throat cut by someone from our side.’

‘Yes. It was a quarrel over gambling debts, it seems.’

‘Oh?’ Grey’s gaze was steady. ‘That’s not what I heard. According to the gossip one of my men picked up this morning, the archer was talking about a plot by one of the Lancashire men. A plot to kill you, in fact.’

Merrivale said nothing.

‘Were you aware of this?’ Grey asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And what are you doing about it?’

Sir Edmund Bray had found Grey irritating. Merrivale was beginning to understand how he felt. Grey had won a great reputation on the Scottish borders over the past couple of years, but his calm arrogance grated on the nerves. ‘The man you refer to is a vintenar in Sir Thomas Holland’s company,’ the herald said. ‘His name is Bate. I have confronted him, and he knows I am aware of his intentions. He will be more circumspect now, I think.’

‘Perhaps. But Bate also has some very unpleasant friends. They killed Tracey’s man to stop him from talking, and they’ll kill you if you give them half a chance.’ Grey paused. ‘We can protect you, if you wish.’

‘I am a herald,’ said Merrivale. ‘I do not need protection.’

‘A lot of dead heralds have said the same. Don’t be foolish. I will send men to guard you.’

‘Thank you, but no,’ Merrivale said. ‘My own men are sufficient.’

Grey looked at him for a long time. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘That is your choice.’

Mauro said much the same thing. ‘This is madness, señor,’ he said as he and Warin pitched the tent. ‘I have seen these men. They are not ordinary soldiers. They are veterans of many wars, who know no restraint and no pity. The fact that you are a herald will not stop them. You should have accepted Sir John’s offer, señor.’

Dust boiled in the air. The king’s division had arrived at Saint-Lô, and now the rest of the baggage train was moving up, a steady stream of