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

going to let his friend get in his way. ‘My lord of Warwick, may I accompany you?’ he asked.

‘And me,’ Mortimer said quickly.

Other voices joined in. Warwick frowned. ‘This is a reconnaissance, not a hunting party. Very well, one of you may join us. Sir Edmund, as you were first to speak, let it be you. We’ll give you a chance to win those new spurs of yours.’

‘Bastard,’ Mortimer hissed at Bray. The latter grinned back at him.

‘All is fair in love and war,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring you back a Frenchman’s head.’

Inland from Quettehou the landscape was a patchwork of fields and forests, bisected by lanes and thick hedgerows. The Norman scout led the way down the road towards Valognes; he was a local man, he said, and knew this area well. The Red Company, a polyglot mix of archers, crossbowmen and spearmen identifiable by their dark red steel caps, fanned out across the surrounding fields. Ordinarily the Red Company was mounted, but most of its horses had not yet come ashore. Its commanders, John Grey and Richard Percy, rode beside Warwick, scanning the landscape and talking about the enemy.

None of them paid any attention to Bray. He did not mind; he was where he wanted to be. Everything was working out just as he had hoped.

‘Bertrand is uncertain of our intentions,’ Grey said. ‘He garrisoned Saint-Vaast and brought in warships, and then for some reason withdrew. Of course, we arrived about a week later than planned. Perhaps he decided we weren’t coming after all and pulled his troops back. It is likely that he received reports of the landing, and has come to investigate.’

Percy agreed. ‘Bertrand and my father served together in the Scots wars, twenty years ago. He is a canny old soldier, and a hard fighter, too. He knows all the tricks.’

‘I wish to God we had more men ashore,’ Warwick said. ‘If Bertrand finds out how weak we are, even three hundred men-at-arms and crossbowmen could do a great deal of damage.’

Grey looked around at the woods and hedges. ‘Especially in close country like this. Lines of sight are limited, and there are plenty of places for an ambush.’

‘I agree,’ Warwick said. ‘Halt your men.’

A horn sounded and the Red Company stopped, archers nocking arrows and crossbowmen kneeling down and presenting their weapons.

‘We need a vantage point,’ Warwick said to the scout. ‘Somewhere we can spy out the country.’

‘There is the chapel of La Pernelle,’ the Norman said. ‘It is on a hill a little way north of here. From there, you can see for miles.’

‘Take me there. John, Richard, hold your company here and wait for further orders. Sir Edmund, stay with them. Watch how Sir John and Sir Richard handle their men. You could learn from them.’

Warwick and his esquire rode away across the fields, following the Norman. Bray waited, fidgeting on horseback. His dislike of John Grey had increased. Learn? he thought. Learn what? Arrogance? Grey had spent the entire ride out from Quettehou trying to show Warwick how clever he was. And earlier, at the church, during that powerful speech when the king had proclaimed his lordship of France, he had caught a glimpse of Grey’s face. He could have sworn that the other man was trying not to laugh.

He was looking for someone, another of the Norman knights, but there was no sign of him. Irritable, restless and just young enough to be foolish, he pointed down the road towards Valognes. ‘I’m going to ride on ahead. I might be able to catch sight of the enemy.’

‘Warwick told you to wait here,’ Percy said.

‘I am a retainer of the Prince of Wales, not the Earl of Warwick,’ Bray said sharply. ‘He does not command me.’

‘Strictly speaking, as marshal of the army he commands all of us,’ Grey said. ‘Didn’t you hear? You could be walking into a trap.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ Bray said sharply. ‘Are you?’

The men around him murmured, and he realised he had overstepped the mark. John Grey gazed at him for a few moments, brown eyes level and cold, until Bray began to squirm inside his armour.

‘No,’ Grey said. ‘I am not afraid. I am realistic, and I don’t take risks unless I need to. You should read your Vegetius. He who hopes for success should fight on the basis of principle, not chance.’

‘I don’t care what some dead Roman said,’ Bray snapped. ‘I am going to scout. I will report back if I find anything.’

He pulled the visor of his helmet down and urged his horse to a canter, riding away down the track to the west. Behind him, Grey and Percy looked at each other. Percy shrugged. ‘You heard Warwick. Let him win his spurs.’

‘Robert Bertrand may well have crossbowmen. If he runs into those, he won’t be winning his spurs, he’ll be coming back on his shield.’ Grey called to two of the red-capped archers. ‘Matt, Pip, go after him. If he gets into trouble, try to get him out of it.’

Riding hard and fast, Bray rounded a bend in the road. Ahead he saw two horsemen, men-at-arms in armour and bright surcoats, halted in the middle of the road and talking together. They had heard him coming; one was already hauling his horse around spurring hard and galloping away down the road towards Valognes. The other turned towards Bray, drawing his sword.

Bray pulled his horse to a halt. He was suddenly acutely aware that he was alone, with no one to rescue him if things went wrong. ‘What the devil are you doing out here?’ the other man demanded.

‘I could ask you the same question,’ Bray said. ‘Who was that man?’

‘That is none of your business! Why did you come here? Who else knows you are here?’

Bray’s eyes narrowed. ‘He was a French man-at-arms, wasn’t he? What did you tell him?’

‘Nothing that concerns you. Stay out of this, Bray!’

‘You bloody traitor,’ Bray said, and he reached for his sword.

Something whispered in the