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

saw a couple of priests in black robes, but the rest were women: noblewomen in gowns and cauled headdresses with jewels sparkling darkly in the light, nuns in black habits and wimples, all staring at her in a mixture of fear and anger. Brus bowed to them with a flourish, bending one knee.

‘Mesdames,’ he said. ‘Allow me to introduce our guest, the Demoiselle de Tesson. I regret the inconvenience of housing her here, but do not fear; she will not outstay her welcome.’ He smiled. ‘She will, ah… how shall I put it? She will depart in the morning.’

Some of the women laughed openly. One of the nuns, her face hard as a slab, walked up to Tiphaine and slapped her across the face, twice. Tiphaine’s head rocked back and she felt the blood rush to her bruised cheeks.

‘You accursed harlot!’ the nun snapped. ‘You whore of Babylon! You have brought the English upon us! My convent has been despoiled and burned, my nuns dispossessed, our lands ruined and our tenants robbed of all they possess.’

‘I did not bring—’

The nun slapped her again, then spat in her face. Held rigid between her guards, Tiphaine could not move or respond. She felt the spittle running down her forehead. ‘Silence!’ the nun screamed. ‘Do not speak, harlot! Go to your cell and wait until the hour of your execution! Do not expect us to pray for your soul, for that would be blasphemy. You sold your soul to the English and the devil!’

‘Take her down,’ Brus said to the guards.

‘Farewell, demoiselle!’ shouted one of the noblewomen. ‘Tomorrow I shall enjoy watching you burn!’ Others joined in the clamour. Brus motioned with his hand and the guards seized Tiphaine’s arms and dragged her down the spiral stair into the darkness below, her heels bumping on the stone steps.

At the bottom of the stair was a heavy door. Brus unlocked it and pushed it open, and the guards shoved Tiphaine inside, so hard that she stumbled and fell sprawling on the damp cobbled floor. The door slammed shut and the key turned in the lock.

She lay for a moment, gasping in the pitch blackness, and then sat up. Her hand touched something metallic and flaking with rust, and after a moment she realised it was a length of chain. She pulled it towards her, gathering the links in her hand. Suddenly the chain pulled taut. Feeling her way along its length, she bumped into the stone wall of her cell. Her hands groped around the end of the chain and found it affixed to the wall through a metal eye.

The stone around the eye was damp too, and crumbling. Sudden hope seized her. Grabbing the chain in both hands, she heaved with all her strength, hoping to pull it out of the wall. Nothing happened. She tried again, this time bracing her feet against the wall and throwing all of her weight against the chain. Again and again she pulled, straining, arms aching, gasping with effort.

Nothing happened. The chain did not budge.

She stopped, leaning her forehead against the wall and sobbing for breath. It was hopeless; she simply wasn’t strong enough. But in the back of her mind, a flame began to burn. No, she thought, I did not survive two years in prison in Carentan in order to end like this. Drawing a long, deep breath, sucking the damp, fetid air into her lungs, she set herself against the wall once more and began to pull.

Freneuse, 10th of August, 1346

Evening

‘I need your help,’ the herald said.

‘For what purpose?’ asked John Grey.

‘The Demoiselle de Tesson was captured in Rouen, and is now imprisoned in La Roche-Guyon. The French intend to execute her at dawn. We need to bring her out.’

Richard Percy smiled. ‘A damsel in distress?’

‘I believe she was spying for us when she was taken.’

‘You believe?’ said Grey.

‘She did not confide her plans to me. But if she has information about the French and their movements, we need to hear it.’

‘If?’ said Percy. ‘What if she was caught before she learned anything at all?’

‘Then the expedition to free her will be pointless and futile,’ the herald said.

John Grey smiled. ‘What do you think, Richard?’

‘Sounds like the perfect task for the Red Company,’ Percy said. He looked at La Roche-Guyon. ‘How do we get across the river?’

‘Boats. We need to talk to Llewellyn.’

‘Which one?’

‘Ap Gruffud, the one from Conwy. His men stole some boats at Elbeuf, remember, when the rest of us were trying to force a passage across that godforsaken bridge. Ask if we can borrow them, and some men to row them.’

‘All right. I’ll bring the boats up and meet you north of Freneuse.’

Percy departed. ‘Jacques, François, Rob!’ Grey called. ‘Get the men together, as quickly as you can. We have work to do.’

Suddenly the camp was full of quiet, purposeful movement, archers and crossbowmen and spearmen collecting their weapons and gathering around their vintenars. ‘Are you going to ask Warwick or Northampton for permission?’ Merrivale asked.

‘No,’ said Grey. ‘They wouldn’t give it, so why bother? Do I take it you are intending to come with us? I can lend you a sword.’

Merrivale shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no.’

‘Please yourself.’ Grey turned to a tall young man in armour with a sword at his belt and a longbow and quiver strapped across his back. ‘This is my esquire, Harry Graham. He, Matt and Pip will look after you. Jacques, are we ready? Good, let’s get moving. I want to be over the river before Warwick realises we have gone.’

Freneuse, 10th of August, 1346

Night

The sky overhead was inky black, but the lights of campfires and the watchful torches on the walls of La Roche-Guyon reflected off the dark river. The boats lay huddled along the bank, invisible in shadow. Behind them the ground rose sharply into low chalky cliffs, pierced here and there by the doors and windows of troglodyte houses, all deserted.

‘Llewellyn agreed to lend us his