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

Brother Geoffrey raised a hand in greeting as the herald rode up. ‘Well, old friend? Shall we stick our heads in the lion’s mouth once more?’

Despite the plain cassock, Brother Geoffrey was much more than just a canon and a priest. Over the past decade, he had visited half the courts of Europe, acting as ambassador, building coalitions of support for King Edward, paying out pensions and bribes and gathering information. Merrivale had been the hard-riding king’s messenger who supported him, carrying coded letters to and from the offices of state in London.

‘You make it sound like it might be the last time,’ the herald said.

Brother Geoffrey laughed. ‘Every time might be the last time.’ He picked up the reins of his horse, nudging it with the heels of his sandalled feet. ‘Very well. Let us go.’

Caen, 25th of July, 1346

Midday

Behind them, towers of smoke climbed hundreds of feet into the sky. Ahead lay the walls of Caen, church spires rising behind them. The massive bulk of the castle brooded against the skyline. To its left stood the great abbey church of Saint-Étienne, the burial place of William the Conqueror, surrounded by cloisters, outbuildings and a cluster of houses. Further east, beyond the castle, they could see another big abbey on a low hill; La Trinité, the Abbaye aux Dames, resting place of the Conqueror’s wife Queen Matilda. The place Tiphaine had once called home, and to which she refused to return.

Brother Geoffrey shaded his eyes with his hand. ‘The district next to the castle is the old town, the Bourg-le-Roi. To the south is the Saint-Jean quarter. That, we are told, is the richest district of the city. As you can see, it is surrounded by water, and there are marshes further south. A strong position, would you say?’

Merrivale studied the defences. ‘I am not sure. Bourg-le-Roi is walled, but apart from the water, Saint-Jean is protected only by a wooden palisade. That will keep wild beasts out, but not our army.’

‘What about the castle?’

‘That is another matter.’ The castle stood on rising ground at the northern edge of the Bourg-le-Roi. The stone walls were high and looked thick, sprouting towers and turrets and bartizans. The big gatehouse probably had at least two portcullises, with murder holes to deal with any attacker who managed to get through them. It too was surrounded by a wet moat. No, taking the castle would not be easy.

Brother Geoffrey pointed. ‘We have been spotted.’

A column of men-at-arms rode out of the gates of the Bourg-le-Roi. Their leader bore an unusual device, a white mastiff on a field of red. Twenty more men rode behind him, all heavily armed and armoured.

The man with the mastiff device made a circular motion with his hand. At once the men-at-arms fanned out, sweeping around to encircle the two Englishmen and then closing in, lowering their lances as they did so. Brother Geoffrey and Merrivale halted their horses and dropped their reins, raising their hands to show they were unarmed. ‘We come in peace,’ the canon said. ‘We are emissaries from King Edward, with a message for your commanders.’

The leader inclined his head. ‘Very well. Come with us.’

The Englishmen picked up their reins once more and, still surrounded by the men-at-arms, rode forward towards the open gates of the city. Crossbowmen covered them from the ramparts, and more men-at-arms watched them from the shadows behind the gates. The city streets were deserted. The hooves of their horses echoed in an empty silence.

They came to the castle, crossing a drawbridge over a broad moat full of brackish water. More armed men crowded the wall-walk overhead, staring down at them. In the courtyard, they dismounted, and the man with the mastiff device gestured towards a big stone hall. ‘This way,’ he said.

They climbed the wooden stair to the door of the hall, and the leader ushered them inside. They found themselves in a long room with a beamed ceiling, timbers stained with smoke from two centuries of hearth fires. Banners, some old and faded, hung from the walls. A group of men sat around a long oak table, some in clerical black, one wearing a bishop’s mitre. Some of the others were well dressed; one wore several rings on his fingers, gold set with amethysts and lapis lazuli.

A white-haired man in a surcoat with a green lion rampant on gold, his face scarred and his arm in a dirty sling, sat opposite the bishop. This was Robert Bertrand, the man they had been fighting for the past twelve days. Bertrand gazed at the two Englishmen with eyes that radiated hate. The hairs on Merrivale’s neck rose in sudden alarm. Tiphaine had been right, this was a trap, but it was too late. They were surrounded by armed men. There was nowhere to run.

The bishop rose to his feet. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘State your names and purpose.’

‘We are emissaries from King Edward,’ the canon said. ‘I am Brother Geoffrey of Maldon, canon of the Augustinian order. My companion is Simon Merrivale, herald to the Prince of Wales. We carry a letter from the king, addressed to the commanders of the garrison of Caen.’

He laid the king’s letter on the table. The bishop broke the seal and held it up to the light. His face flushed dull red with anger. ‘It is, as we suspected, a demand for surrender,’ he said. The man with the rings laughed. Bertrand spat with contempt.

‘What answer do you give, my lords?’ Brother Geoffrey asked patiently.

The bishop tore the parchment in half, ripped each piece in half again and threw the fragments on the floor, grinding them under the heel of his boot. ‘That is our answer!’ he snarled. ‘We know who you are, Brother Geoffrey, and why you have really come here. You are spies, both of you, and you will meet a spy’s death. Take them outside and hang them.’

11

Caen, 25th of July, 1346

Midday

Hard