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

‘They didn’t press home their attacks. They could have killed Lord Rowton and myself with ease, but they hung back.’

Sully nodded. ‘My men put them to flight easily enough.’

‘And yet the attack was meticulously planned. But for the alertness of the Red Company, we would never have seen them coming. Whoever organised them was careful to give them Flemish weapons, knowing that Hainault and Flanders are adjacent. And in case we missed that point, one of the dead men wore a brooch with John of Hainault’s colours.’

‘That’s hardly surprising, though, is it? Hainault is the enemy.’

‘Yes. Sir John, I have another question for you. When you were escheator of Devon, did you conduct the inquisition post mortem into Sir John de Tracey of Dunkeswell?’

‘I did.’

‘Do you recall the cause of death?’

‘He was out riding, as I recall. A hunting party, I think. His horse threw him, and he broke his neck when he fell.’

‘Was there anything suspicious about his death? Tracey had plenty of enemies. Even his own sons disliked him.’

‘You’re right, and hunts are notoriously good places for disposing of men and making it look like an accident. There were no witnesses who saw him fall. His other son, Gilbert, discovered the body and worked out what had happened. No tears were shed at his funeral.’

One of the royal serjeants rode up alongside them, raising his visor and saluting. ‘Sir Herald? His Grace summons you.’

Nodding farewell to Sully, Merrivale turned his horse and followed the serjeant back towards the village of Freneuse on the riverbank. Grey and white columns of smoke rose all around them, but Freneuse itself had not yet been burned. He saw the royal standard there, and alongside it the banners of the two cardinals, Étienne Aubert and Annibale Ceccano. The two men stood conversing calmly with the king, their red robes like splashes of flame against the green river beyond.

As Merrivale dismounted, handing over the reins to Warin. Raimon Vidal laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘In the name of God, it is hot,’ the Franciscan said, wiping the sweat from his face with his brown sleeve. ‘How are you, my friend? I think things do not go so well for your army, no?’

‘We have not given up,’ Merrivale said. ‘Do the cardinals bring new peace proposals?’

‘No, it is the same old dish, reheated and served on a new plate. I doubt if your king will be so polite as he was the last time, and I suspect we will soon be on our way once more. While we wait for our exodus, I have some news for you. Some good, some perhaps not so good.’

‘One cannot have everything,’ Merrivale said.

‘Indeed, it is so. The good news first. Your friend Brother Geoffrey of Maldon has been released from prison in Caen.’

Merrivale did not attempt to disguise his relief. ‘I know I have you to thank for this.’

‘I merely spoke to the cardinal. He did the rest. Brother Geoffrey is on his way back to England. He is a little worse for wear, but I am assured that Bishop Bertrand’s gaolers did him no permanent damage.’

‘I am very glad to hear it.’

‘I was certain you would be. You may not be so sanguine, however, when I tell you my next piece of news. King Philippe’s men arrested an English spy in Rouen a couple of days ago.’ Vidal watched the herald’s face. ‘A woman,’ he said.

‘What was her name?’ Merrivale asked quietly.

‘She is called the Demoiselle Tiphaine de Tesson. I fear things will not go well for her. Since she escaped from Carentan and joined your army, she is under sentence of death as a traitor. That sentence will shortly be carried out.’

‘I see,’ Merrivale said. ‘Where is she now?’

Vidal pointed to the grey stone fortifications of La Roche-Guyon, towering grim on the north bank. ‘She is there. Locked up in a cell from which there is no escape, inside a powerful castle. Ironic, is it not? You are so close, but you cannot see her, or she you. But if you rise early in the morning, you might able to see the smoke from her pyre rising over the castle walls.’

Vidal paused for a moment. His voice, when he resumed, was entirely neutral, but there was a trace of sympathy in his dark eyes. ‘If you watch closely, you might even catch a glimpse of her soul as it goes, rising towards heaven.’

19

La Roche-Guyon, 10th of August, 1346

Late afternoon

The pyre was already prepared in the upper courtyard, a wooden platform with a tall stake in its midst, and faggots of dry wood stacked all around. The smell of pine resin was thick in the air. She shivered a little, and one of her guards noticed and laughed.

‘The wood smells sweet, doesn’t it? Not half so sweet as you’ll smell burning, you traitorous bitch.’

Rollond de Brus strode down the steps from the entrance to the donjon. He had ridden on ahead to prepare her reception, and had taken advantage of the moment to change out of riding clothes into courtly doublet and hose. Of course, he had, Tiphaine thought. Vanity is what this man lives for. That is why I am to be burned; to heal his injured pride.

‘Bring her inside,’ Brus said curtly. ‘Our hostesses want a look at her before she goes down to her cell.’

The guards dragged her down from the saddle and stood her upright, still in her filthy tunic and hose with her hands bound tightly in front of her. Her hands tingled and her wrists were rubbed raw by her bonds. One of the guards shoved her in the back and she followed Brus up the stairs and into the donjon, through an antechamber and into a dark circular chamber. Despite the evening’s heat, the stone tower was cold, and a fire burned in the grate at the back of the room. Lamps flickered in sconces around the whitewashed stone walls.

The hall was crowded with people. She