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

the kitchen in the Abbaye aux Dames, Merrivale procured a thick wedge of cheese and then walked down past the crumbling walls of Bourg-le-Roi towards Saint-Étienne. In the distance he could see men prowling the ramparts of the castle. Bertrand’s green and gold colours still flew defiantly above the donjon.

In the meadow behind Saint-Étienne the royal livestock grazed, the king’s war horses mingling with cattle and sheep. Chickens clucked in their crates and pigs grunted in wooden sties. Some of these were the original beasts that had crossed the water from England; others had been purchased or plundered along the way. He found the little cowherd sitting on the grass, shoes off in the sun and stick resting across her knees, watching her cows.

She jumped to her feet when she saw him and curtseyed. ‘Good day to you, sir. Can I be of assistance?’

‘You can, Mistress Driver.’ He offered her the cheese, and she stared at it with wide eyes. She still had the rind of the cheese he had given her in Saint-Côme-du-Mont; it resided in her pocket, stiff with lint, and every so often she took it out and sniffed it, inhaling the memory of its flavour. She had never expected to receive such bounty again. She took the cheese now and gazed at it, the expression on her face suggesting she was holding the keys to paradise.

‘Do you know an archer called Nicodemus?’ he asked. ‘From Sir Edward de Tracey’s company?’

‘Him that buys all the things the archers steal?’

‘Yes. I am told he sometimes comes around to the royal kitchens. Have you seen him there?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, staring at the cheese and wondering if it would be rude to start eating it now. ‘Some of the kitchen staff sell him things they have despoiled, just like the soldiers do. The sauce-maker, Master Clerebaud, he’s a great one for pillaging. There’s another one too, one of the scullions. He was only hired on a few days ago, but he knows where to find all sorts of things, gold and silver and everything.’

Merrivale smiled. ‘Not tempted to join them?’

She looked indignant. ‘Sir! I’m not a thief!’

‘Congratulations. You are one of the very few people in this army who is not. Have you heard Nicodemus speak? He is from Devon. I wondered if he could be the man with the West Country accent you heard that night at Freshwater.’

Nell gave this serious thought. ‘No,’ she said finally. ‘I don’t think so. The voice didn’t sound the same.’

‘The Norman knight you pointed out to me at Saint-Côme-du-Mont, Jean de Fierville. Did you ever see him with Nicodemus?’

‘No, sir. I can’t say I did.’

The herald nodded. ‘When Nicodemus came to the kitchen, did he speak to Master Clerebaud both times?’

‘Yes, sir. And to the scullion.’

‘This scullion. You say he is new. Where did he come from?’

‘He was a sailor, sir, with the fleet. He got left behind when his ship sailed back to England, so he came to the army looking for work. Master Coloyne the yeoman hired him to guard the cooking pots.’

‘Do they need guarding?’

‘Oh yes, sir. Those archers are terrible thieves. They come right into the kitchen, trying to take food out of the pots when no one is looking.’

The herald rubbed his chin. ‘Do you know the scullion’s name?’

‘Curry, sir. Riccon Curry.’

Merrivale nodded. ‘Thank you, Mistress Driver. As always, you have been most helpful.’

He found Michael Northburgh hard at work at his desk in the Logis du Roi, sheets of parchment before him. ‘Letters home,’ the secretary said. ‘His Grace is writing to Queen Philippa and all the bishops, telling them about the capture of Caen. The letters will be read out before the populace, who will rejoice at the great victories won by their king and rush out to pay their taxes. How may I serve you, Simon?’

‘I need an audience with the king. A brief one, I assure you.’

Northburgh shook his head. ‘He is closeted with his council. Have you heard the news? We are marching tomorrow, on Rouen.’

There was a moment of silence. Merrivale shook his head. ‘This is a blunder,’ he said. ‘We have won half of Normandy; now we need to hold it.’

‘I know it. You know it. Warwick and Northampton and Rowton know it, and frankly, I think the king knows it too. But the rest are clamouring for battle. If we don’t march, the men will start to desert. Why do you want to see his Grace?’

‘It concerns Brother Geoffrey,’ Merrivale said. ‘I assume the French are still holding him.’

‘Yes.’ Northburgh rubbed his chin. ‘What do you expect his Grace to do about it?’

‘Negotiate with Bertrand. Offer to pay a ransom. Anything that will set him free.’ When Northburgh did not answer, Merrivale said, ‘You know Geoffrey well, Michael. Should he really be abandoned?’

Northburgh rose. ‘I will see if his Grace can spare you a few minutes.’

A page ushered Merrivale into a solar. He waited, bathed in diamond patterns of sunlight coming in through the window. A door opened and the king walked in, robed in red. He looked hot and angry. ‘What is it?’ he demanded.

‘Three days ago, Lord Rowton told me measures were being taken to procure Brother Geoffrey’s release,’ Merrivale said. ‘May I ask, sire, has there been any progress?’

‘None. Bertrand won’t negotiate.’

‘Forgive me, sire, but how hard have we tried?’

A painted wooden chest stood on the rushes below the window. The king sat down on it, arranging his robe around him. ‘Still haven’t lost your taste for insolence, I see,’ he said. ‘The last time Clarenceux went to negotiate, they shot at him. They missed, but one of the clerks went out yesterday morning to try again and got a crossbow bolt in the leg. He may not live.’

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ the herald said.

‘It takes two to negotiate, Merrivale. If Bertrand refuses to talk, there is nothing we can do.’

Merrivale looked down at his hands. ‘When I was in your service, your