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

Merrivale found Warwick still in full armour, talking with Sir Thomas Ughtred, the under-marshal. ‘We will not advance inland until all the troops are ashore,’ Warwick was saying. ‘That is Northampton’s view, and I agree. We have seen off Bertrand for the moment, but we have no idea what resistance awaits us at Carentan, or Caen.’

‘I am worried about those French warships,’ Ughtred said. ‘There might be more of them in other ports; Barfleur or Cherbourg. They could do a good deal of mischief.’

‘Huntingdon is preparing to attack Barfleur,’ said Warwick. ‘Cherbourg will follow. Very well, Tom, that is all for the moment.’

Ughtred departed. ‘What is it, herald?’ Warwick asked.

‘Sir Edmund Bray, my lord. Did you know he was dead?’

‘Yes. Damned fool. He should have obeyed orders, instead of walking into a French ambush.’

Merrivale shook his head. ‘Sir Edmund was killed by one of our own men, my lord. I am quite certain of it. He was shot by an archer, not a crossbowman.’

Warwick paused. ‘You are certain of this?’

‘I am, my lord. I saw the arrows still embedded in his back.’

‘Perhaps it was an accident.’

‘Perhaps. But there should be an inquisition all the same.’

‘For God’s sake, herald. You are right, of course, but think of the practicalities.’ Warwick gestured at the torchlit chaos around him. ‘Do you think we have nothing better to do?’

‘Certainly,’ Merrivale said. ‘I have no intention of adding to your burdens or those of the other officers. I propose to conduct the investigation myself. My office gives me certain powers.’

Warwick snorted. ‘The power to adjudicate in disputes over coats of arms, yes. Not to investigate a death.’

‘That power can be extended, surely. Murder is a crime, on the campaign trail just as anywhere else. You are right, my lord, it may well have been an accident. But if Bray was murdered, then his killer should be brought to justice.’

Warwick seemed amused by this. ‘Have you any idea how many convicted murderers we have in the ranks of this army? The king offered pardons to all who would agree to serve, as an alternative to the hangman’s noose. Suppose we do arrest this man and convict him of murder. Shall we then pardon him and send him back to his post?’

‘What happens after he is convicted is not up to me,’ the herald said. ‘If the principle of justice does not sway you, my lord, then consider this. Bray was a friend of the prince. Whoever killed him may well intend to kill again. Others of the prince’s companions might also be at risk.’ He paused for effect. ‘Or even the prince himself.’

‘Body of Christ.’ Warwick looked up at the sky, cloudy with smoke, and then back at the herald. ‘Very well. Come with me.’

The royal kitchens were sited in and around tents not far from the beach, and as they passed, Merrivale smelled the tang of coal smoke and the more pleasing scents of mustard and garlic. He followed Warwick to the king’s pavilion, its canvas covered with royal leopards on red silk. Guards bowed their heads and moved aside to let them enter.

The king was closeted with his secretary and two advisers, Lord Rowton and Thomas Hatfield, the Bishop of Durham. He had removed his armour and was clad in a long red robe. ‘Who is setting all these damned fires, Warwick?’ he demanded as the marshal entered.

‘Looters, sire,’ said Warwick. ‘I am afraid there is nothing we can do to stop them.’

‘Nothing we can do? God damn it, Thomas, I am the king! Northburgh,’ he said to the secretary, ‘draw up a proclamation. Remind the troops that arson and looting are strictly forbidden. Anyone caught plundering or fire-raising will be hanged immediately. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sire,’ said the secretary.

Rowton shook his head. ‘There is an old rule in warfare, sire, that goes back to the Romans and beyond. Never give an order unless you know it will be obeyed. I fear this particular order will not.’

‘The men want plunder,’ Warwick agreed. ‘Many joined the army to enrich themselves, both men-at-arms and ordinary soldiers. If you hang every looter, sire, you will soon have no army left.’

‘This is my country!’ the king protested. ‘For Christ’s sake, I laid claim to it again only this afternoon. The Normans are my subjects. Are you telling me I can’t protect them?’

‘Perhaps you could make an award of compensation, after the fighting is over,’ Rowton suggested.

The king looked at him. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Eustace. What would I compensate them with? We have already drained the exchequer to pay for this campaign.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Very well. If we can’t protect the countryside, at least we can preserve the towns from harm, and the churches and monasteries. See it done, Northburgh.’

‘Yes, sire,’ the secretary repeated.

Warwick cleared his throat. ‘A rather delicate matter has arisen, sire,’ he said. He turned to Merrivale. ‘Repeat to the king what you told me.’

The herald did so. The king listened intently. At the end he said, ‘Do you think there is a threat to my son?’

‘I do not know,’ Merrivale said. ‘But it is possible. To make certain, we need to find out who killed Sir Edmund Bray, and why.’

The king nodded. ‘Then we shall take no chances. Warwick, see that my son’s bodyguard is doubled. And we need someone to carry out an inquisition into Bray’s death.’

Merrivale bowed. ‘I have already asked my lord of Warwick for permission to do so, sire.’

‘You? You are a herald, a messenger and ambassador and a scholar of armorial bearings. Not a sheriff.’

‘I am familiar with the principles of conducting an inquisition, sire. I respectfully request that you place me in charge of this one.’

‘Why?’ the king demanded. ‘Why you in particular?’

‘Because if I am in charge, sire, the inquisition will be carried out thoroughly and competently,’ Merrivale said. ‘I will see to it that justice is done.’

‘Are you implying that my other officials are not