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

‘And what is it doing on my plate?’ demanded Despenser.

Merrivale upended the sauce pot on the table, spilling green sauce across the cloth. There, plain to see, were several more pieces of wolf’s-bane. ‘Check the others,’ he said.

There were three other pots of juvert on the tables, but none of them contained any trace of the root.

Despenser was staring hard at Mortimer. ‘A craven attempt to poison me. Who could be behind such a thing, I wonder?’

‘Who can tell?’ snapped Mortimer. ‘Christ knows you have enough enemies, Sir Hugh.’

‘But not all of them are cowards,’ said Despenser.

Mortimer kicked the table over and reached for his sword just as Despenser slapped his hand on his own hilt. Before Merrivale could move, another man stepped between them, standing over the wreck of the table and holding up one hand. A hush fell in the chapel.

‘Hands off those hilts,’ said the Prince of Wales. His voice was high-pitched with nerves, but his young face was set hard. He drew his dagger from his belt, blade twinkling in the light. ‘Hands off, gentlemen! Or before God, I will cut them off.’

Slowly, sullenly, Despenser and Mortimer removed their hands from their swords. ‘Every man in this room is aware of the enmity your ancestors bore each other,’ the prince said. ‘But we are not our fathers, nor our grandfathers. We are the men we are here and now.’

Absolute silence had fallen. The candles flickered in a sudden waft of wind. ‘The past is gone, gentlemen, and you will leave it behind you. Do you hear me?’

‘With great respect, Highness,’ Despenser said through clenched teeth, ‘someone has just tried to poison me.’

‘An inquisition will be established,’ the prince said. ‘Whoever is responsible will be found and punished.’

Sir Thomas Holland bowed. ‘May I make a suggestion, Highness? Your herald, Master Merrivale, is a skilled inquisitor. Perhaps he should undertake this task.’

Merrivale looked at him sharply. Holland met his gaze, an ironic gleam in his eye. Was this a form of polite revenge, wondered the herald, or did the man have some other purpose? He bowed. ‘If it pleases your Highness, I shall of course undertake an inquisition.’

‘Good,’ said the prince. ‘It is settled. Sir Roger, Sir Hugh, you will apologise for the harsh words you have spoken. Now.’

Grimly, Mortimer and Despenser uttered words of apology.

‘Have the servants clear away and reset the table,’ the prince said. ‘The rest of you, return to your seats. The feast will continue.’ He slapped his dagger back into its sheath and threw up his hands. ‘Music, that’s what we need! Where are those musician fellows? I want to hear them play.’

Quietly, a little subdued, the prince’s knights returned to their seats. The prince paused for a moment and looked at Merrivale. ‘How did I do?’ he asked softly.

‘For a moment, Highness, you reminded me of your father.’

‘I did, didn’t I? Do you know, herald, I think I am beginning to understand.’

Head high, he walked back to his place. The musicians took up their instruments and began to play a roundelay. Sully came up beside Merrivale and rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘What do you think happened just now?’

‘At the moment, your guess is as good as mine,’ the herald said. ‘You called Spain a land of complicated loyalties, Sir John. You should take a closer look at England.’

16

Lisieux, 2nd of August, 1346

Late afternoon

‘The sauce came from the king’s kitchen,’ Mauro reported. ‘I spoke to the prince’s servants and they all said the same thing. It was sent over as a Lammas gift, along with the model ships and the salts. The prince’s head cook said it was an excellent juvert, the best he had ever tasted. Master Clerebaud is a wizard with sauces, he said.’

‘He tasted it? With no ill effects?’

‘None, señor. The sauce was put into four sauce pots and distributed around the dinner tables.’

‘And only one contained traces of wolf’s-bane.’

‘It might not have been intended for Sir Hugh,’ Warin said. ‘With respect, sir, they might have been trying to kill you.’

‘The thought had occurred to me,’ the herald agreed.

They were standing on the bridge outside the west gate of Lisieux, bathed in hot sunlight. The river beneath their feet stank of dung and urine, effluent from the tanneries that lined its banks. Behind them the tile roofs of the town climbed up the hill towards the towers and flying buttresses of the cathedral. From nearer at hand came the sounds of splintering wood and smashing crockery and glass as the troops ransacked the city.

There was still no sign of Tiphaine.

‘Which of the servants handled the sauce?’

‘The head cook decanted it into the sauce pots, señor,’ Mauro said. ‘The scullion who drove the cart from the king’s kitchen helped him. The servants then took the pots directly into the chapel and set them on the tables.’

‘Could one of the servants have slipped the wolf’s-bane into the sauce?’

‘It would have been difficult, señor, as they were in plain view the entire time.’

‘What about this man who drove the cart?’

‘His name was Riccon. The cook did not know him, nor did any of the others.’

‘Riccon Curry. I know who he is. And the cook himself? Could he have done it?’

Mauro looked doubtful. ‘He has been in the prince’s service for eight years, señor, and he values his position very much. It seems unlikely.’

‘Watch him all the same, both of you, and as many of the other servants as you can. Note anything unusual, where they go and who they speak to.’

Nell scrambled up from her milking stool as the herald approached. ‘Please,’ Merrivale said, ‘continue your work. I will not detain you for long.’

Obediently Nell sat down again and leaned forward, taking a firm hold on the cow’s teats and pulling. Milk streamed into the wooden pail. Around them the royal household was making camp in the fields, a safe distance from the city. Most of the population of Lisieux had fled at the English approach, but