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

to silence him. If he had been brought back to England for trial, he would have told the truth about who was behind the king’s assassination. But the men of power could not let that happen. You were right to hide, Macio.’

‘The man who came in with Holland. Are you sure you didn’t recognise him?’

‘No. His surcoat bore three black chevrons on yellow, but I had never seen the device before. From his accent I would say he was Flemish, or from Hainault, perhaps. That is all I know. I never saw him again.’

‘And the third man?’

‘He never came upstairs. I only saw him once in the courtyard, and the torchlight was dim. He wore no device.’

The herald nodded. ‘And John Bray? What happened to him?’

‘He stayed behind like Holland. How he survived, I don’t know. But I never saw or heard from him again.’

‘Yet you knew his son.’

Chauffin shook his head. ‘No. But when I saw the body, I recognised the device. I asked Fierville who he was, and he told me. It felt like the past was coming back to stick its claws into me.’

Silence fell again. ‘Only you, Matthew and Holland know who I am,’ Chauffin said. ‘If you tell anyone else, I am a dead man. Mortimer is long in his grave, but there are still others with secrets to protect.’

‘Do you know who they are?’

Chauffin shook his head. ‘I was a lowly esquire. Maltravers did not confide in me. Matthew’s father knew, I think.’

‘He did, but he did not tell me,’ Gurney said. ‘I suspect he felt that confiding in me might have put me at risk also. Then when the tensions with France began, the king and his advisers decided to sweep the whole affair away, pretend it never happened, so everyone could forget about the past. Old sins were forgiven. Edward II had died of heart failure, it was suggested, or there was even a rumour that he was still alive, living in exile.’

He turned back from the door. ‘So it never happened. All the king’s knights now live in amity and brotherhood, united by their desire to slaughter Frenchmen. You see, Macio, you could have come home after all.’

Chauffin shook his head again. ‘The herald is right, I had made a new life. The past was over for me. Until now.’

‘There is one more thing,’ Merrivale said. ‘You are positive Sir Thomas Holland is not a traitor. What makes you so certain?’

‘Because I know the content of the messages he sent the Count of Eu. He betrayed no secrets and he sent no word of your plans.’

‘Then what message did he send?’

‘He wanted to borrow money,’ Chauffin said.

In the silence that followed, Gurney poured wine into another cup and drank it down in a single draught, slamming the cup back onto the table.

‘What happens to me now?’ Chauffin asked.

‘That depends on Sir Matthew,’ the herald said. ‘You are his prisoner. Presumably he will ask for a ransom, and if you agree terms and continue to honour your parole, you can go free.’

‘I don’t want your money,’ Gurney said abruptly. He motioned towards the door. ‘Get out of here. Go.’

Chauffin stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t want your money,’ Gurney repeated. ‘I wish to God you had died, along with my father and Robert Holland. I wish we had all died, so none of us would have to live with this stain. Go on, Macio. Go back to your Norman wife and your other life.’ He picked up Chauffin’s sword and scabbard, standing in a corner, corner and tossed them to him. ‘Live out the rest of your life, and stay away from me.’

Chauffin rose to his feet, holding the scabbard in one hand. ‘I have not told you anything about Edmund Bray,’ he said to the herald.

Merrivale shook his head. ‘You have told me something important, I think. But I am not yet certain what it means. Journey safely, messire.’

After Chauffin had gone, Gurney poured another full cup of wine and drained it. He offered the flask to Merrivale, who shook his head. ‘During the time we were camped at Portchester, did you see much of Bray?’ he asked.

‘No. We were cousins, but not especially close. In part because of the history you have just heard.’

‘What about Jean de Fierville? Were you friendly with him?’

‘No. He joined the prince’s games of hazard sometimes, that was all. He usually won.’

‘And Bray? Were he and Fierville friendly?’

‘They talked together, but I don’t know how close they were. Why do you ask?’

‘I have a hypothesis,’ Merrivale said. ‘But I shall need to test it.’ He rose, laying a hand on Gurney’s shoulder. ‘The sins of the father are not always visited on the son, you know.’

‘Try telling that to Hugh Despenser,’ Gurney said wryly. ‘The guilt remains, herald. I feel sometimes like the blood is on my hands, as well as my father’s.’

‘We all carry the burdens of the past,’ Merrivale said. ‘The fact that I could not save my mother or my sisters from the famine burns like hot iron in my soul. Nothing will ever erase those memories.’

Gurney turned to face him. ‘Why, herald? Why does God allow us to be so tormented? Is this the act of a kind God, a loving God?’

Merrivale smiled a little. ‘I do not know,’ he said. ‘I am a herald, not a theologian. Good night, Sir Matthew.’

13

Caen, 26th of July, 1346

Evening

Merrivale found Holland in front of the west door of the Abbaye aux Dames. ‘I wish to speak to you in private, Sir Thomas,’ he said without preamble. ‘Shall we go into the cloister?’

The colonnades of the cloister were silent and shadowy, lit only by a few lamps in the falling dusk. ‘You are attempting to raise a large sum of money,’ Merrivale said. ‘And you are using some rather unusual means to do so.’

‘What of it?’ Holland asked sharply.

‘I wasn’t sure of your purpose at first, but then I realised the answer is obvious. You