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

the bishop and his armed retainers still held the cathedral and its precinct, shooting bolts at any English soldier who came too close.

‘Did Nicodemus call at the kitchens yesterday? At any time before the evening banquet?’

‘Yes, sir. I saw him when I brought in the evening milk. He spoke with Curry, just like before, and then he gave him something. I couldn’t see what it was.’

‘Did he talk to Master Clerebaud as well?’

‘No, sir, but after he left, Curry went to speak to Master Clerebaud. He gave him some money, three nobles. I saw them on the table as I walked past, sir.’

Three gold nobles was twenty shillings; a useful sum of money, but hardly a fortune. Part payment, perhaps? For services rendered, or about to be rendered? Merrivale nodded. ‘Thank you, Mistress Driver. Once again you have been most helpful.’ He smiled. ‘I owe you another piece of cheese.’

He found Coloyne, the yeoman of the kitchen, and asked to speak to Clerebaud. The sauce-maker came, his eyes full of fright, twisting his hands with nerves. Everyone else in the kitchen pavilion paused to watch him. ‘You know what happened last night,’ the herald said. ‘How do you explain it?’

‘I swear before God, sir, I do not know.’

‘Did you prepare the sauce yourself? Did anyone help you?’

‘No, sir. I prepared all the ingredients and made the sauce myself, just as I always do.’

‘Do you know where the wolf’s-bane might have come from? Do you keep stocks of it?’

‘No, sir! This is a kitchen! We would never keep anything so deadly here.’ His voice trailed off and he looked down at his hands.

‘Curry gave you money yesterday evening, three nobles,’ Merrivale said. ‘What was it for?’

The hands twisted again. ‘It was money Nicodemus owed me, sir. Curry collected it from him.’ Clerebaud swallowed. ‘It was a gambling debt, sir.’

‘You won three gold nobles at dice? You must have been playing for high stakes.’

‘I had a run of luck, sir. You know how it is sometimes.’

‘Look at me,’ the herald said.

Unwillingly Clerebaud raised his eyes and met the herald’s gaze.

‘Are you speaking the truth?’ Merrivale asked. ‘The money was to settle a gambling debt, nothing else? For example, did Nicodemus want you to perform a service for him?’

The hand-wringing increased. ‘I swear to God, sir! I am innocent of any crime!’

Merrivale watched him for a long time. ‘Then you have nothing to fear,’ he said finally. ‘You may go.’

Riccon Curry was a big, truculent man with shaggy dark hair, missing the last two joints of his left index finger. ‘Did you help Master Clerebaud prepare the juvert sauce last night?’ Merrivale asked him.

‘No.’

‘Did you drive the cart from the royal kitchen over to the prince’s camp?’

‘Yes.’

‘You helped the prince’s cook decant the sauce. What did you do?’

‘Held the pots while he poured the sauce in. Then I left.’

‘How well do you know Nicodemus?’ the herald asked.

One shoulder lifted. ‘A little.’

‘Only a little? You have spoken to him three times in the past week.’

The shoulder lifted again. ‘Commerce,’ said Riccon Curry. ‘We’re in the same trade.’

‘Looting, you mean. Nicodemus gave you something yesterday evening. What was it?’

‘Money,’ said Curry. ‘He owed me for a purchase he made a couple of days ago. And he asked me to pass on some money to that sauce-maker. For settling a debt, he said.’

Well, thought Merrivale as he rode back to the Prince of Wales’s camp, all that proved was that they had arranged their stories beforehand. On the other hand, it seemed impossible that either of them could have introduced the poison into the sauce, given that the prince’s cook had tasted it before it was decanted and the wolf’s-bane was found in only one pot.

Logically, the poison must have been introduced at the prince’s kitchen, and that left two choices: the kitchen servants, or someone who sitting at the table. But Mauro was positive that it was not one of the servants, and he trusted Mauro’s judgement; and the others sitting around them – Mortimer, Despenser, Sully, Edward de Tracey – had been in plain view the whole time. Despite Despenser’s accusation, Merrivale doubted Mortimer hated him enough to want to poison him, and neither Sully nor Tracey had any motive.

Wolf’s-bane was a powerful poison, but it was also rare and expensive. Whoever had procured it had the wealth and the means to do so, and also knew that sauce from the king’s kitchen was due to be served at the prince’s table. Merrivale made his way to Sir Nicholas Courcy’s tent.

The gallowglasses were sprawled on the grass outside the tent, some of them asleep in the sun. The giant Donnchad sat cross-legged, honing the edge of his sword on a whetstone. ‘Is Sir Nicholas here?’ Merrivale asked.

Donnchad motioned silently towards the tent. Merrivale opened the flap and stepped inside. ‘Sir Nicholas? Pardon the intrusion, but I have a question for you—’

A turmoil of heaving, glistening skin on the palliasse in the corner of the tent, two bodies thrashing against each other like flails on the winnowing floor; then a woman’s voice said, ‘Máthair Dé!’ and hands scrambled to snatch blankets from the floor beside the bed. From outside came a sound like two slabs of granite scraping together, which Merrivale realised was Donnchad laughing.

After a moment, Courcy sat up, holding one of the blankets around his waist. ‘Herald,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Tell him to frig off!’ snapped Lady Gráinne, still covering herself.

Merrivale held up a hand. ‘My profuse apologies. I shall wait outside.’ He walked back out into the sunlight, where Donnchad lay flat on his back, still laughing. ‘You did that on purpose,’ the herald said.

‘He understands English, but he doesn’t speak it,’ said Courcy, stepping out of the tent. He had pulled a tunic over his head, and he mopped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘And yes, he did it on purpose, the evil old bastard. How may I help