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

companies, right across the army, and he’s acquiring more customers as word gets around. He’ll buy and sell anything from anyone.’

He paused. ‘Now this is where it gets really interesting. Bate and his lads realised how much money Nicodemus was making, and decided to set up in competition. When Nicodemus found out, he was furious. He thought one of his own men was spying for Bate, and killed him.’

‘Madford.’

‘Exactly. Then he accused Bate of the murder, hoping to cover his tracks. That’s what that little scene at Pont-Hébert was all about. You intervened and spoiled that plan, so he came up with another. He invented the story of the gambling debts, and one of Tracey’s archers, Jack Slade, became the scapegoat. The guessing is that he’s still out there somewhere, and still working with Nicodemus.’

‘Did Slade kill Madford?’

‘Could be. Or Nicodemus did it himself.’

Jakey was a good lad. Everyone liked him. The human capacity for deceit really knows no bounds, Merrivale thought. ‘Is Tracey aware of Nicodemus’s activities?’

‘Of course he is. According to Bate’s boys, he set up the entire scheme. Nicodemus is like a steward or a factor; he runs the operation. But the profit goes to Tracey.’ Courcy’s smile had little humour in it. ‘It looks like old Jeremiah was right,’ he said. ‘A leopard can’t change its spots.’

‘Yes.’ Everyone knew the unsavoury history of the Tracey family, but over the past few years, Edward de Tracey had emerged as a competent and reliable captain who had won the respect of his fellow knights and the favour of the king. But had he really left the past behind him?

‘And so this morning, Nicodemus’s men, disguised as locals, tried to get rid of their rivals?’

‘I think you have the right of it. Nicodemus learned that some of Bate’s lads were sleeping in the barn, and probably hoped Bate himself was with them, only he wasn’t. Someone is stirring the pot, herald.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Madford wasn’t spying for Bate. All the Lankies swear to that. And they don’t know how Nicodemus discovered their enterprise. I reckon someone is trying to set these boys against each other. And that is dangerous.’

Merrivale nodded. ‘An army that is divided against itself will not fight well.’

‘I meant dangerous for you. Bate still hates you. Watch your back, and remember, if they kill you, they’ll take that pretty young lady away as well. They reckon she’s unfinished business.’

In the distance, a trumpet sounded, rousing the men to march. ‘Thank you,’ Merrivale said. ‘You have well repaid my trust in you.’

‘It’s not over yet. You still haven’t discovered who killed Edmund Bray.’

‘Not yet. But I will.’

Saint-Germain-d’Ectot, 24th of July, 1346

Late evening

The last of the sunset glow had faded, bringing a night full of fire. Caen was less than twenty miles away and the vanguard’s camp was bright with watchfires, flotsam on a sea of flame. The countryside around them was flooded with pulsing orange light as villages and farms blazed. Out on the coast the northern horizon flickered and glowed like some unholy aurora as the English fleet burned its way east, targeting every ship and coastal port in its path.

In the camp at Saint-Germain-d’Ectot, the prince and his companions ate and drank and shouted and rattled the dice. As usual, the prince lost; as usual, the more he lost, the louder he laughed. Merrivale waited until they were all roaring drunk and then slipped quietly away. He found Tiphaine standing outside his tent looking at the fires. ‘The world is burning,’ she said quietly.

‘Yes. It is the king’s order. He has reversed his earlier edict and ordered the destruction of every town and village. He knows the smoke and flames will be seen in Caen.’

‘Your commanders hope this will persuade the citizens to surrender, lest their own city suffer the same fate.’

Sparks danced like fireflies in the night. ‘Do you think that is likely?’ Merrivale asked. ‘Will the citizens be dismayed by what they see?’

‘The citizens may, but the Count of Eu will not. Why should he care? It is not his lands that are burning.’

The herald said nothing. Tiphaine turned and looked at him, her eyes clear in the firelight. ‘I wish to apologise for my behaviour at Saint-Lô,’ she said. ‘I was rude to you, and that is unpardonable. I owe you everything, including my life.’

‘I am troubled for your safety,’ Merrivale said, ‘and this army is no place for you. If I can find you passage to England, will you go?’

‘England? What would I do there? I have no money, no friends, nowhere to live.’

‘We could find you a place, I am sure.’

‘Where?’

‘A convent, perhaps.’

‘Another prison? No thank you. I am staying here.’

Merrivale shook his head. ‘Be reasonable, demoiselle. We must find a place of safety for you.’

She turned on him, almost fiercely. ‘I do not care about safety. I told you at Saint-Lô. I intend to avenge my father.’

‘How?’

‘I do not yet know. But like the spider, I am patient.’

The shouting began a moment later, coming from the direction of the prince’s pavilion. Gripped by sudden apprehension, Merrivale turned and ran towards the scene. The knights and esquires and serjeants of the prince’s household had gathered, all staring in astonishment. He pushed through the crowd, not caring who he shouldered out of the way. It was only when he saw the prince standing swaying a little with wine cup in hand, but definitely unharmed, that he let out his breath.

Hugh Despenser was in the middle of the group, holding up a longbow arrow fletched with goose feathers and tipped with a gleaming broadhead; a hunter’s arrow, designed to embed itself in flesh and bone and not be withdrawn. ‘This was shot at me when I left the prince’s pavilion a few moments ago. It missed me by no more than an inch.’ His voice rose. ‘Some coward has tried to shoot me in the back!’

The prince stared, glassy-eyed. His tutor, Bartholomew Burghersh, stepped forward. ‘What are you saying,