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

Curry halted. The herald and his companions halted too, facing him, and Nell came panting up and joined them, still holding her bloody knife. The spearmen fanned out, prowling forward, intent on their quarry.

‘Riccon Curry,’ Merrivale said. ‘By the powers invested in me by the king, I am placing you under arrest for the killing of John Clerebaud.’

‘Go to hell,’ said Curry. Dragging his wounded leg, he staggered towards the parapet of the bridge.

‘You can still save yourself,’ Merrivale said. ‘Tell us where to find Nicodemus. If you do, I give you my word you will live.’

‘I will tell you nothing,’ said Curry. He hauled himself up onto the wooden parapet and stood for a moment, swaying.

‘Christ!’ Merrivale said sharply, and ran towards him, but he was too late. Gathering his strength, Curry turned to face the river, and jumped.

The current was strong; by the time Merrivale reached the parapet, Curry was already thirty yards downstream, splashing and floundering in the water. Pulling off his tabard and boots, the herald dived after him. He hit the river with a hard shock, water filling his mouth and nostrils, and kicked out, driving himself back towards the surface. Dimly he could hear people shouting from the bank. He spotted the scullion kicking feebly some distance downstream, and struck out after him.

Merrivale was a strong swimmer, having learned to swim in the cold pools of Dartmoor as a boy, but even so the currents buffeted him and sometimes tried to pull him under. He gained only slowly on the drifting man, and by the time he reached him, Curry had stopped moving. Hauling the inert body after him, the herald edged towards the southern shore. With the last of his strength he pulled the scullion into the shallows, where strong arms reached out and dragged them both ashore.

Mauro bent over him, eyes wide with anxiety. Tiphaine, white-faced, stood behind the manservant. Others gathered around too, a small crowd attracted by the chase and the shouting; he saw Mortimer and Gurney among them. The big leader of the Red Company’s spearmen was there too. ‘Señor!’ said Mauro. ‘Are you all right?’

Merrivale sat up and spat out river water. ‘Where is Curry?’

The scullion lay on his belly, eyes closed. Courcy knelt over him, pressing hard on his back and pumping the water out of his lungs in thin streams, but Curry did not move. After a while, Courcy lifted one of his arms and let it fall back limp. ‘Gone to feed the fires of hell,’ he said, and he turned the dead man over and closed his eyes with gentle fingers. O God, Son of the Father, who taketh away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us, the herald thought tiredly.

‘Wait a moment,’ Gurney said sharply. ‘Why did you call him Curry?’

‘That’s his name, sir,’ said Nell, looking down at the dead man with wide curious eyes. ‘Riccon Curry. He’s a sailor, or so he said.’

‘He damned well is not. He’s an archer, and his name is Jack Slade. He’s the man who joined Tracey’s company instead of mine.’

‘And deserted at Pont-Hébert after killing his comrade Jake Madford,’ the herald said. ‘He was working with Nicodemus all along.’ He looked at the Red Company man. ‘Have you found Nicodemus?’

‘Not yet, sir. But we found a wagon in the baggage train where we reckon a man has been sleeping at night. There were clothes and a bedroll, and several pairs of dice. One of them was weighted,’ he added.

So that was how they had trapped Clerebaud. They had let him win money at first, and then used the weighted dice to clean him out. Trapped in debt, he’d had no choice but to do whatever Nicodemus and Slade demanded of him.

‘It was Slade who poisoned the sauce at Lammas,’ the herald said. ‘He added the wolf’s-bane when he brought the sauce to the prince’s kitchen; he must have slipped it into one of the pots after the head cook had tasted it. I reckon that was a test, to see if it could be done. But Slade was not in the kitchens this morning.’

‘No, señor,’ said Mauro. ‘I think the poison was hidden in the garderobe. Clerebaud collected it when he went there, and hid it in his clothes when I could not see him. I am sorry, señor. I should have made sure.’

Yes, you should, the herald thought, but there was no point in dwelling on it now. ‘So, having added the poison to the sauce, Clerebaud then tried to escape, and Nicodemus ordered Slade to silence him.’ He looked down at the dead man. ‘Was he still hoping to make his own escape when he dived into the river? Or did he prefer death to capture?’

No one answered. Still dripping, Merrivale rose to his feet. Someone else came pushing through the crowd; another of the royal pages, a boy glittering in red and gold livery. ‘Sir Herald? The Prince of Wales bids you attend on him. Come quickly, sir. You must make ready for the feast.’

‘I will come,’ the herald said heavily. ‘But I doubt if I will have much appetite.’

22

Beauvais, thirty-seven miles south of the Somme, 18th of August, 1346

Morning

Dawn was a blaze of glory in the east, the sky painted with vibrant colours, and in the brilliant light the flames leaping from the roof of the abbey of Saint-Lucien seemed pale, almost transparent. Two more monasteries burned in the middle distance, smoke rising to cloud the fading stars. Watchfires glimmered on the walls of Beauvais, the city’s defenders standing to and waiting for the English assault.

The Prince of Wales and his father were shouting at each other. ‘What are they arguing about?’ asked Lord Rowton.

‘His Highness wishes to attack,’ Merrivale said. ‘His men are spoiling for a fight, he says, and the city is rich and offers many opportunities for plunder. His Grace says it would take too long and cost too many casualties.’

Rowton snorted.