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

of sunburn, his fair hair fashionably curled, his doublet and hose uncreased and unstained. He looks more like a wall painting than a real man, she thought, but then he always did. He had about as much personality, too.

His blue eyes widened. ‘Tiphaine! How intriguing to find you here.’

‘I need to talk with you,’ she said. ‘Privately.’

‘Come with me.’ He led the way inside, up to a bare little chamber on the first floor of the tower; it had a single narrow window. ‘Sit down,’ he said, pulling up a bench. ‘Tell me what I can do for you.’

She sat, gazing up at him as he stood by the door. ‘Truly? You are willing to help me?’

Brus smiled. The first time she had seen that smile, it had melted her heart. By the end of their romance, it had been like a file rasping on her nerves. There had only ever been one thing between them, and so far as she was concerned, that fire had soon died.

‘You must have known I would be willing,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, you would not have come here. What do you need? Say the word.’

Tiphaine fought to control the trembling in her legs. ‘I need to know about Jean de Fierville.’

‘Ah.’ Brus stroked his chin for a moment. ‘My late and unlamented cousin. What do you wish to know?’

‘Who was paying him when he died?’

‘My dear, everyone was paying him. He was in Godefroi d’Harcourt’s retinue, but he was also receiving a retainer from the Queen of Navarre and, of course, from Robert Bertrand. Jean was like that. Loyalties did not bind him, faith did not hold him. All that interested him was gold.’

Brus paused, looking at her. ‘Why does it matter, now that he is dead?’

‘He betrayed Harcourt this year, and some of my father’s friends along with him. I wonder if he betrayed my father as well.’

‘I would not answer that even if I could. Your father and I were on opposite sides. Remember?’

‘But you and I were not,’ Tiphaine said. ‘There was a time when we were inseparable. Remember?’

‘And then you left. You ran away.’ Brus paused. ‘I missed you, you know.’

‘I am sorry,’ Tiphaine said. ‘I never intended to cause you hurt.’

‘But you did, all the same. You should have stayed with me, Tiphaine. As my wife, you would have been untouchable.’

‘Do you think that is all I care about? My own safety?’

Brus said nothing. ‘When did Fierville first have dealings with the English?’ Tiphaine asked.

‘Why should I answer that question? Are you here to make amends? Do you wish to come back to me?’

Tiphaine steeled herself. ‘If you answer my questions, I will return to you,’ she said. ‘I will be your lover again, if you wish it. Even your wife.’

Brus stared at her for a long time, and then a slow smile spread across his face. She could see the joy dancing in his eyes.

‘Jean led a contingent of Norman ships that joined the French fleet in the summer of 1338,’ he said. ‘They burned their way along the south coast of England, sacked Portsmouth and then took Southampton. Jean had some sort of spy in the city, a man who helped him rob one of the biggest moneylenders of all his gold and silver. He sold slaves too, girls mostly, but some boys as well, and got a very good price for them. There are parts of the world where English slaves are very much sought after.’

Tiphaine shivered. ‘What happened to them? The slaves?’

‘As I recall, he sold them in England. He had a dealer there, already lined up.’

‘He sold English slaves to another Englishman?’

‘I know. I have always said the English have no morals. Perhaps slavery is all they are really good for.’

‘Who was this agent?’

‘Tiphaine, I fail to see why this is so important. Jean is dead. He is no longer a danger to anyone.’

‘No, but his masters are. You were wrong, Rollond, he was loyal. He served his true masters faithfully to the end.’

Brus’s eyes narrowed a little. ‘His true masters?’

‘The ones who betrayed Harcourt and my father. The ones who will betray Jeanne of Navarre. And the ones who will betray King Philippe and bring him to his death.’

‘Ah.’ Brus’s eyes narrowed a little. ‘And these masters. Do you know who they are?’

‘Not yet. But tell me who Fierville’s contact in England was and I may be able to find them. When I do, I will tell you, and you can get the credit for saving the king.’ Tiphaine watched his face. ‘Unless, of course, you too are one of the plotters.’

A long silence followed. Dust motes glinted silver in the sunlight falling through the window.

‘Jean sold his slaves to Sir John de Tracey,’ Brus said finally. ‘Ah. I see the name means something to you.’

‘Perhaps,’ Tiphaine said. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t you? Well, never mind. As I said, it hardly matters now.’ Brus walked towards the door and opened it. ‘So. Will you keep your word? Will you come back to me?’

Tiphaine swallowed. ‘Yes. If that is your wish.’

‘If that is my wish,’ Brus repeated, and the same slow smile crossed his face. She saw the look in his eyes, and realised with horror what she had done.

‘Do you know what hurt most when you left me, little Tiphaine?’ he asked. ‘The mockery of my friends. They made me into a jest, the man who could not keep a woman, not even a plain little scrap of a thing like you. You never had the power to wound me, but my friends, oh yes. It took a long time for their mockery to fade.’

‘You never cared for me,’ Tiphaine said. ‘You had no intention of marrying me.’

‘You were good for one thing only. One thing, and you weren’t even very good at that. As for marriage, I would sooner have married a pox-ridden whore lying in a ditch than the daughter of a traitor.’ He opened the door and called down the stairs.