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

man in a blue and gold surcoat, folded his arms across his chest. The prince’s herald, wearing a tabard in the royal colours stiff with gold embroidery over a plain tunic and hose, cleared his throat.

‘With the greatest of respect, Highness, may I remind you that it is customary to reward the bearer of good news.’

‘What? Oh, yes, of course!’ The prince turned to Bray. Slipping off one gauntlet, he pulled a ring from his finger and pressed it into Bray’s hand. ‘Take this, Edmund, as a token of thanks for all the good services you have done me. Not just today, but in the past too.’ He smiled, his face vivid with excitement. ‘And also in the future, of course.’

‘It is I who must thank you, Highness, for allowing me to serve.’ The gift was a generous one; the ring was solid gold with a cabochon ruby. Selling it would recoup a fair amount of the money Bray and his father had spent on equipping him for this campaign.

The herald cleared his throat again.

‘What is it now?’ asked the prince.

‘It is also customary that when the king’s eldest son is knighted, he in turn knights some of his followers. Those he deems worthy of the honour, that is.’

All the other young men stopped and stared at the prince. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, of course, why not? Will,’ he said, turning to Salisbury, ‘you must be the first, my friend.’

Salisbury bowed his head. ‘Highness, you do me great honour.’

‘Nonsense. It is no more than you deserve. Now, who else… why, Roger, of course! Knighting you would really bury the past, wouldn’t it? People will finally stop talking about your grandfather, and how he was executed for high treason and all that.’

Mortimer bowed stiffly. ‘Thank you, Highness. Like my lord of Salisbury, I am sensible of the honour you do me.’

‘And my valiant esquires, of course, Edmund Bray and William Ros. And…’ The prince looked around at the circle of eager young faces. ‘Oh, hang it. My friends are gallant fellows, each and every one. I shall knight them all. I can do that, can’t I?’

‘Of course, Highness,’ replied the herald. ‘It is a very generous gesture.’

The prince looked pleased. ‘What about you, Merrivale? I could knight you too, if you wish.’

The herald smiled and bowed. Unlike the men around him, he wore no armour and there was no sword at his belt. ‘Thank you, Highness. But it would not be appropriate.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ The prince looked up, catching sight of a familiar figure further along the beach. ‘Oh look, there is Sir Bartholomew! I must go and tell him the news.’

He galloped away down the beach with a clatter of metal, all gawky arms and legs. Salisbury followed him like an attentive lapdog. The others watched them go.

‘Now they will see that I am no longer a child,’ someone mimicked.

‘There’s certainly one advantage to being a knight,’ Mortimer said. ‘We won’t have to wipe his snotty little nose any more. Or his arse.’

‘Careful,’ Bray cautioned. ‘We are still in his retinue. And he is the king’s son.’

The corpse of Mortimer’s grandfather had hung from a gibbet at Tyburn for two days, dangling in the wind until his lover, the king’s mother, received permission to take it down. ‘Damn that,’ Mortimer said darkly. ‘I am a better man than that boy will ever be. Mark my words, my friends. The day will come when I bow the knee to no one.’

Quettehou, 12th of July, 1346

Midday

Sunlight flowed golden through the windows of the church of Saint-Vigor. The king, standing with his back to the altar, was haloed with light. His polished armour shone dazzling silver, and the leopards on his surcoat were a golden blaze. His nose had stopped bleeding.

More than a hundred men were gathered inside the church. Looking around, Bray saw the king’s friend Lord Rowton standing with Warwick and the Earl of Northampton, the Constable of England. A couple of younger knights were with them, Sir John Grey and Sir Richard Percy, the captains of the Red Company. Both men were high in Warwick’s favour, but Bray’s nose wrinkled a little. He had met the pair back at Portchester before the army embarked. Percy was good company, but he thought Grey was superior and smug.

The king raised one hand. Silence fell inside the church. From outside they could hear a gentle murmur, the bustle of the army coming ashore on the beach below, and nearer at hand, the tread of restless feet, archers from Sir Thomas Holland’s retinue guarding the church.

‘Kneel, my son,’ King Edward said.

The Prince of Wales knelt before his father, hands clasped in front of him. The king drew his sword and held it up, a ribbon of steel shining in the sunlight, and then lowered the blade until it rested on the young man’s shoulder. His voice rang out, echoing a little off the stone walls.

‘Will you swear an oath, by the love of Jesus Christ and His Mother the Blessed Virgin Mary, to uphold the laws and customs of the ancient and honourable order of knighthood? Will you swear to defy anyone who does reproach to God, to your sovereign lord the king, to any woman or orphan or helpless person of any estate, or to any of the aforesaid laws and customs of knighthood?’

The prince’s voice was low and quiet. ‘I do so swear, before Jesus and the Virgin Mary.’

‘Knighthood is an honourable estate, the true occupation of a man of noble blood. For a knight to be true to his faith, he must be a lover of the common weal and the common good, for these things are greater and more necessary than his own good or need. Edward of Woodstock, will you devote yourself to this estate, humbly and truly in the eyes of your king and the Lord?’

‘So help me God.’

‘He is actually doing this rather well,’ Bray whispered to Mortimer. The latter looked sour and