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

all the nobles and senior knights. A dish of poached eggs and saffron sauce was to be placed on every table.’

Courcy’s jaw dropped. ‘Jesus Christ. They intended to kill every single captain. They would decapitate the entire army, and leave it leaderless in the face of the enemy.’

‘Yes,’ said Merrivale, staring at the pot. ‘That was their intention.’

‘But what about the feast?’ asked Coloyne, his face white with shock. ‘The king is due to take his seat in the hall in a few minutes.’

‘The other sauces may not have been poisoned,’ Merrivale said. ‘But we need to find a volunteer to taste the food, and quickly.’

‘There is no need to risk a man’s life,’ said Sully. He turned to his dog, snapping his fingers. ‘Sit, boy. Sit.’

‘No, Sir John,’ Merrivale said quietly. ‘I know how much he means to you.’

‘Aye, he’s a good and loyal companion. But he is still a dog, and his life is not worth that of a man.’ Sully picked up pieces of bread from the table and dipped them one by one in the other sauces. The animal looked up at him, brown eyes trusting, and opened its mouth to receive the first piece of bread, swallowing it quickly. The rest followed. Silence fell in the kitchen, everyone turning to watch.

‘The poison acts quickly,’ Courcy said. ‘We will soon know.’

Time passed slowly, the curl of smoke from the fires the only movement in the kitchen around them. The dog looked up at Sully, gave the gentlest of belches and sat back. Raising one leg and lowering its head, it began to lick its own bollocks. Gráinne watched with disapproval. ‘I reckon you’d do that, if you could,’ she said to her husband.

Sully closed his eyes with relief. Merrivale gripped his shoulder tightly and nodded to the yeoman of the kitchen. ‘Master Coloyne, you may serve your feast. The rest of you, come with me. We must find Clerebaud.’

The ditch below the garderobe shaft was muddy where someone had landed, and footprints had flattened the grass. Beyond the palace enclosure was another courtyard, surrounded by stone barns, leading to open fields where a few cows grazed in the middle distance, tended by a girl with a stick. To the right lay the picketed horses and rows of parked wagons of the baggage train.

Master Clerebaud the sauce-maker stood in the courtyard, leaning against a wooden water butt. His arms dangled loosely at his sides and his head lolled forward on his chest. Two arrows pinned him to the butt, holding him upright. Blood had welled up around the shafts, staining the front of his smock and dripping bright ruby droplets from its hem onto the ground.

He had been dead for no more than a few minutes. Merrivale ran past the barns and looked out across the fields. A man was running towards the pasture where the cows grazed. He carried a longbow in one hand and had a quiver slung across his back. Beyond the pasture lay a dense belt of woodland, part of the royal hunting preserve at Saint-Germain-en-Laye. If the archer gained the shelter of those trees, it would be impossible to find him.

Movement caught his eye, and he turned to see spearmen from the Red Company emerging from among the parked wagons. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted at them. ‘Quickly! Stop that man!’

Nell Driver heard the herald’s shout, and looked up to see Riccon Curry rushing towards her. She had never much liked him, especially after he started to bully her friend Master Clerebaud, and when she heard the herald shout the order to stop him, she did not even think. She drew the knife she carried at her belt and ran towards him.

She was small, but the knife was long and sharp and she knew how to use it; back in Hampshire, she had once had to drive off a wolf that was trying to attack her cattle. Curry saw her coming and reached for an arrow, but before he could draw it from the quiver, Nell was at close quarters, slashing with the knife. Curry dodged the first two blows and then stepped forward and kicked her, knocking her onto her back. He swore at her and raised his heavy bow to club her over the head, but Nell rolled away and the bow thudded into the ground. Curry overbalanced, and Nell rolled over again and stabbed him in the thigh.

The archer shouted, dropping the bow and clutching at his leg. Nell raised the knife again. Curry turned to see the Red Company spearmen charging towards him and realised he was cut off; he could no longer reach the shelter of the forest. He turned and ran back towards the town, sprinting with desperate speed despite his damaged leg, pursued by the spearmen. Drawing breath, Nell hitched up her kirtle and raced after them.

Matt raised his bow to shoot, but the herald knocked it aside. ‘No!’ he commanded. ‘This time, I want him alive.’

‘Then we had better get after him,’ said Courcy.

They ran, but fast as they went, Curry was faster still. The scullion was wounded and leaking blood, but he was also running for his life. Passing the palace, they raced down the high street towards the bridge. Merrivale watched the fleeing man closely; if Curry dodged into one of the narrow lanes that ran off the street, he could hole up in an abandoned house and be hard to discover. But Curry did not turn. Injured, panicked and desperate, he ran without thought, hoping against hope for rescue.

By the time they reached the bridge, injury and loss of blood had begun to take their toll. Hobbling rather than running now, he struggled on towards the gap in the centre of the span. ‘Stop him!’ Merrivale shouted to the carpenters. ‘Do not let him cross!’ The carpenters looked startled, but they picked up their hammers and mallets and turned to face the running man,