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

‘Then be a good and faithful knight, honouring God, your liege lord and your vows just taken.’ The king lifted his sword and laid the flat of the blade against the side of his son’s neck, holding it there for a moment before withdrawing. ‘You may now rise, Sir Edward of Woodstock.’

The prince rose to his feet. Father and son embraced, breastplates and armguards clanking together. ‘As a mark of my favour, I now permit you to knight those of your followers whom you deem worthy,’ the king said. ‘You may summon them now.’

Red-faced with pride, the prince turned to Simon Merrivale. ‘Call their names, herald.’

Salisbury was first, of course; Salisbury would always be first. Mortimer followed, reciting his oath in a voice so quiet that people strained to hear. William Ros was next, and then came Bray’s turn. He knelt, listening to the prince’s young voice as it stumbled a little with excitement. He recited the oath, pleased at how calm his own voice sounded, and felt the cold steel blade against his neck and heard the prince’s voice again: ‘You may rise now, Sir Edmund Bray.’

He stood waiting while the others were knighted, the words repeating themselves in his mind. Sir Edmund Bray. Sir Edmund Bray. Ah, he thought, it does have a nice sound to it. I understand how the prince feels. I am a man of consequence now, deserving of respect.

The ceremony ended and the new knights stepped back. Godefroi d’Harcourt, the Norman exile, a battle-scarred older man in a surcoat decorated with red and gold horizontal bars, limped forward and knelt before the king. ‘I, Godefroi d’Harcourt, Vicomte de Saint-Sauveur, renounce my allegiance to the false king and usurper Philippe de Valois, and declare King Edward III to be the rightful king of France and my own liege lord. I will remain faithful to you, sire, even unto death.’

‘So be it,’ said the king, and he took Harcourt by the hand and drew him to his feet. Harcourt stepped back to join his own Norman retainers. One of them was missing, Bray saw. Well, that was no surprise, given what he had learned back in Portchester.

Absolute silence fell once more. Everyone knew what was coming.

‘Hear now my words,’ the king said. ‘We did not wish for this war. As all men know, I am the rightful king of France; my lady mother is the only surviving child of the old king, Philip IV, and by rights the throne should have passed through her to me. But I was content to forgo my claim, so long as my own lands and those of my lady mother should be left to us in peace. That is all I asked.’

A gentle murmur ran around the church. ‘But Philip would not have it so,’ the king continued. ‘He has chosen war, and resisted all our offers of peace. Very well. By choosing war, he has also chosen his own doom.’

A chorus of agreement echoed off the stone walls. The king’s voice grew stronger. ‘Before you all, I make this solemn vow. I swear to you by the blood of Christ that we shall prosecute this war to the end. We shall break the usurper’s power. We shall do such damage to the might of France that it will wither and blow like dust before the wind of England!’

The crowd shouted, men clashing their gauntleted hands against their breastplates and yelling their approval; and then, cutting through the noise, they heard the sound of a trumpet blowing the alarm.

Outside the church, Holland’s archers were alert and ready, bows strung and arrows resting in the nock. A company of spearmen from Carmarthenshire came hurrying up from the beach to reinforce them; another band of archers, Tracey’s men from Devon, were also moving up the hill, with Hugh Despenser’s company close behind them. Men-at-arms crowded around the church door, calling for their horses. Bray spotted his own horse and ran to it, stepping into the saddle and taking the reins from his groom just as Roger Mortimer rode up alongside him. ‘Where are the French?’ Mortimer asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Bray shaded his eyes against the sun, watching the fields and hedgerows stretching away to the west of the village. ‘I can’t see anything. Do you suppose it’s a false alarm?’

‘I hope not. I’d like to do some fighting.’

Bray grinned at him. ‘You sound just like the prince.’

‘Be very careful,’ Mortimer warned.

A scout, another of the Norman exiles, dismounted and knelt before the king. ‘I spotted horsemen coming up the road from Valognes, about two miles away, sire. They’re riding under a banner, green lion rampant on gold. Bertrand’s colours,’ he added.

The king turned to Northampton and Warwick, the constable and marshal. ‘What do you advise?’

‘For your own safety, sire, we should retreat to the beach,’ Northampton said.

‘Retreat?’ The king stared at him. ‘Did you not hear what I said just now? We came to seize this country and hold it. How will we do that if we fall back now, without even striking a blow?’

Warwick cleared his throat.

‘Take that look off your face,’ the king snapped at him. ‘I know you advised delay, but what’s done is done. Can we hold this position?’

Northampton frowned. He was quite calm, Bray thought. If there was danger, he did not seem very worried about it. Come to that, neither did the king or Warwick. ‘How many men does Bertrand have?’ the constable asked the scout.

‘I am not certain, my lord. At least two or three hundred, possibly more. They had outriders and flank guards, and I was unable to get close.’

Northampton looked at the marshal. ‘Further reconnaissance is needed, I think.’

Warwick nodded. ‘I will go myself.’

‘Take a strong escort,’ Northampton said.

‘I’ll take the Red Company. That should be enough.’ Warwick turned his horse.

Mortimer raised a hand, intending to volunteer to go with him, but Bray grabbed his arm and pulled it down. There was something he needed to do, and he was not