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

wagons and carts turning off the Carentan road and settling in the fields east of the town. A small herd of cows wandered among them, lowing, and he spotted the little cowherd chivvying them along with her stick.

‘Sir John would have sent those two archers, Matt and Pip. They are the best he has, he says. But I do not trust them.’

‘They saved you and Warin at Carentan, señor. And la señorita.’

‘They also killed Fierville. And they were not far away when Bray died.’

‘I’ve been asking around about them, sir,’ said Warin. He hammered in the last tent peg and stood up. ‘They are well respected by their comrades.’

The herald shook his head. ‘There is something odd about them. Mauro, when you are finished, set up the table and my writing case. I have work to do.’

Inquisition into the death of Edmund Bray, knight, near the village of Quettehou in Normandy on the XIIth day of July, in the nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward III. This report was composed on the XXIInd day of that month, at the town of Saint-Lô.

Item, it remains my view that Sir Edmund Bray was killed after witnessing a meeting between Jean de Fierville and the French miles Macio Chauffin. However, there is still a lack of direct evidence. Archers of the Red Company and Sir Thomas Holland’s company may have been eyewitnesses, but all deny seeing the killing. The only other potential eyewitness, Macio Chauffin, is in the retinue of the Count of Eu, and is presumably in Caen.

Item, it has come to my attention that Bray quarrelled on separate occasions with Sir Thomas Holland and Sir Hugh Despenser. Holland has already denied any involvement in Bray’s death, but the presence of his archers in the field when Bray was killed cannot be discounted. I have yet to speak to Despenser. It should be stated that there is absolutely no direct evidence against either man.

Simon Merrivale, heraldus

Outside, a high-pitched voice was calling his name. Mauro opened the tent flap to admit one of the king’s pageboys in red and gold livery. ‘Sir Herald? His Grace has sent for you. He wishes to see you at once.’

The king had taken up residence in the Abbey of Saint-Croix, outside the town walls to the east. Merrivale followed the pageboy through the cloister and up a stone stair to the abbot’s solar. The boy stopped and knocked at a heavy wooden door. ‘Enter,’ the king’s voice commanded.

The solar was a bright, vividly painted room with rush mats on the floor. A Greek ikon, a blue-robed Virgin on a gold background, hung on the wall opposite the brick fireplace. The king had removed most of his armour and was standing by one of the windows, looking out across the valley of the Vire. Lord Rowton and Michael Northburgh were the only other people in the room.

Merrivale bowed. ‘This is my latest report on the inquisition into the death of Sir Edmund Bray,’ he said.

The king held out his hand. Merrivale gave him the parchment and the king scanned it quickly before passing it to Northburgh. ‘Very well,’ he said abruptly. ‘Bray may have been killed because he discovered Fierville’s treasonable plot. Or he may have been killed as a result of rivalries between the knights. Which is it?’

‘I do not yet know, sire. I believe the former, but the latter cannot be discounted.’

‘Mmm. This incident with the gunpowder at Carentan. Was that an attempt to kill me or my son?’

Thankfully, the king had not asked where the powder had come from. ‘I suspect it was,’ Merrivale said. ‘Barbizan insisted that he would only surrender to yourself or the prince, and that you must come in person to the castle. It all fits.’

‘Will there be another attempt?’

‘Very likely, sire. Assassination is one of the oldest weapons in war.’

‘Mmm.’ The king looked out of the window, tapping one long forefinger against his chin. ‘I am concerned about this friction between my knights. Holland and Despenser and Gurney are fine fighting men, but they can be troublesome.’

Merrivale cleared his throat. ‘I was surprised that the lord marshal posted them all to the vanguard, sire, along with Mortimer and the Earl of Salisbury. Putting them in close proximity would seem to be doing Discord’s work for her.’

The king continued to gaze out of the window. ‘My son asked for them all to be placed under his command,’ he said.

‘Do you know why, sire?’

‘God alone knows what goes on in that boy’s head.’ Realising that he had just criticised his son and heir in front of one of the prince’s own servants, the king checked. ‘But if they endanger the prince, then I will have no mercy on any of them.’

He paused for a moment. ‘Could one of them be the traitor? The man who was working with Fierville?’

‘I believe there are at least two traitors,’ Merrivale said. ‘One from the West Country and one from the north.’

‘Gurney is from Somerset,’ Rowton said thoughtfully, ‘and Holland comes from the north. Mortimer is from a Marcher family, and the Despensers have lands there too. It is possible, sire.’

‘It is,’ the herald agreed, ‘but I confess, sire, that I struggle to understand what motive these men might have. All have much to lose. My lord of Salisbury has everything he could want: lands, riches, the friendship of the prince. Why would he turn his back on it all? The others surely hope to restore their reputations and regain their families’ lost lands and titles; and Holland, of course, still wishes to recover the woman he claims as his wife.’

‘But it is for precisely these reasons that they may have turned traitor,’ Rowton said. ‘You spoke of Discord, herald. Anger, jealousy and the desire for revenge are all arrows in her quiver.’

‘My lord, we have no evidence against these men,’ Merrivale pointed out. ‘If you are thinking of arresting them for treason, you risk a grave injustice.’

‘And it would be bad