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

of the cloister caved in, flames rushing up from the wreckage and sparks dancing in the air. ‘Are you certain there is nothing more you can tell me?’ Merrivale persisted.

‘Mary, Mother of God!’ Tracey exploded. He pointed to the burning abbey. ‘Here we are, death and destruction all around us, the army fighting for its life, and all you can think about is things that happened twenty years ago.’

‘Yes,’ said the herald quietly. ‘We are fighting for our lives. And yet you and Nicodemus still trade in plundered goods, and you’re making more than just a few hundred pounds. I have some idea of how wide your trading network is, and I reckon you have both made a fortune. Or should I say another one, as well as the land you own? Do you need the money so badly, Sir Edward?’

‘Rents from land don’t pay for a man’s upkeep, herald. You of all people should remember that. I have investments in commercial ventures from one end of England to the other, iron mines in the Weald, sea coal in Yorkshire, salt from Nantwich. This is just another venture. Now kindly leave me alone.’

Longueville, 9th of August, 1346

Night

In just a few days, the mood of the army had changed. The attack on Caen and the plundering of the city had sent spirits soaring; the march east to Rouen had been triumphant, confident of victory. But now, everyone in the army knew the obstacle that faced them. They stood along the riverbank, archers and men-at-arms, grooms and farriers, Welsh spearmen and Irish gallowglasses, looking at the watchfires of the French army camped on the heights. The fires, hazy in the smoky air, extended to the horizon in both directions. ‘Blessed Jesus,’ an archer whispered, ‘there’s thousands of them. Tens of thousands.’

‘Támid marbh,’ said Donnchad, and he spat on the ground and turned away.

Lightning flickered on the southern horizon, and thunder boomed again just as the herald reached the king’s pavilion. ‘If you want an audience, I should wait,’ Michael Northburgh said as he entered. ‘He’s angry as a bear. Rowton and the Bishop of Durham went in to see him just now, urging a retreat to Caen. He tore them both to shreds.’ The secretary gestured towards the inner chamber. ‘They’re still in there, trying to calm him down.’

A few raindrops pattered on the canvas overhead. ‘It was actually you I came to see, Michael. Sir John Tracey of Dunkeswell was killed while out riding in January 1339. Do you happen to recall the details of his inquisition post mortem? I know the records are back in London at the Tower, but I hoped that fine memory of yours might recall their contents.’

Northburgh frowned. ‘I remember his death, of course. A controversial man, to say the least. He was killed while riding, you say?’

‘Yes. I wondered if there were any further details.’

The secretary shook his head. ‘I really don’t remember, I fear. But Sir John Sully was escheator for the county of Devon that year. Try him.’

‘I had forgotten that. Thank you, Michael, I shall seek him out.’ The door of the inner chamber opened and Lord Rowton strode out, still in full armour, his face red with anger. Behind him the king and the bishop could be heard, still arguing. ‘My lord,’ Merrivale said quickly. ‘Might I have a word in private?’

For a moment he thought Rowton was going to ignore him, but his lordship motioned with his hand. ‘Come with me,’ he said curtly.

Outside, they walked away until they were out of earshot of the guards. The army’s campfires flickered around them, a tiny cluster compared to the endless blaze of lights along the north shore. Rowton stopped and took a deep breath. ‘What is it?’

‘This may seem an odd question to ask at this time and place, my lord. But how well did your late father know John of Hainault?’

Rowton stared at him. ‘You are right. That is a damned odd question. Why do you want to know?’

‘I have a theory that Bray’s death is connected to the events of 1327,’ the herald said.

More lightning flashes, and the air growled with thunder. ‘Then you already know the answer to your question,’ Rowton said.

‘I have heard that Hainault helped reconcile your father and the king after Mortimer’s death.’

‘He did,’ Rowton said. ‘I was already in the king’s household, along with Montacute and Bohun – or Salisbury and Northampton, as they later became – and I asked for clemency for my father. When the king hesitated, I appealed to Hainault. He stepped in and persuaded his Grace.’

‘You supported the king, and your father had supported Mortimer. Was that a source of friction between you?’

‘Yes,’ Rowton said. ‘It was. But my father behaved honourably in the end, and was the king’s loyal servant until his death.’

Sudden and sharp in the distance came the noise of fighting: men shouting, swords clashing on armour. A trumpet called urgently, blowing the alarm. Before Merrivale or Rowton could respond, a crossbow bolt came winging out of the darkness, hitting Rowton’s vambrace and whirring away into the shadows. He shouted with pain, stumbling to his knees and clutching at his arm. Hooded men in dark clothing were swarming up from the river, dim silhouettes against the watchfires, and more shouts and screams broke out. Merrivale turned to call for Matt and Pip, but there was no need; they were already at his shoulders, shooting fast and accurately into the press of men. Three went down, two more clutched at arrows embedded in their bodies. Another crossbow bolt hissed past Merrivale’s ear, and then the dark figures were surging around them.

‘Fág a’ Bealach! Fág a’ Bealach!’ Out of the darkness came the gallowglasses, slamming into the enemy and pushing them back. Merrivale caught a glimpse of Courcy, swinging his sword, and beside him Gráinne raising her blade and driving it through the chest of a crossbowman just as he lifted his weapon to take aim. More