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

Jean will not fight us, Highness, not yet. I know his mind and how he thinks. He aims to reach the Somme before us and seize the bridges. If he succeeds, we will be in even greater peril than we were at Poissy.’

‘Ah.’ There was a pause while the implications sank in. ‘Then we shall keep the men moving tomorrow,’ the prince said abruptly. ‘I will see to it, herald, and I will order the lord marshal to make it so.’ He hesitated. ‘You say you know King Jean’s mind. Have you met him?’

‘Once,’ the herald said. ‘It did not go well.’

‘What happened?’

‘He ordered me to be tied inside a sack and thrown into a river to drown. It is his favourite way of getting rid of those who displease him.’

The prince’s jaw dropped. ‘Why did he do that?’

‘I brought him a message he did not like. He is a choleric man, and it takes little to anger him.’

‘But… a sack in the river, to drown like a rat.’ The prince paused, clearly re-evaluating his hero. ‘How did you survive?’

Memories were crowding around the herald, and he was growing tired of them. ‘I didn’t,’ he said. He bowed, turned and left the pavilion. Behind him he heard the prince explode into sudden laughter.

Molliens-Vidame, ten miles south of the Somme, 20th of August, 1346

Night

They had eaten Marigold two days ago, the night after the passage around Beauvais. She was the last of the milk cows to go; Garnet had been taken the day after they marched from Poissy. Milk cows were not meant for marching long distances over hard ground, and the poor beasts were so tired and worn that Nell thought it was almost a kindness to slaughter them. A farmer’s daughter, she was unsentimental about her cows, or pretended to be, but now that they were gone, she had nothing to care for and no real occupation. She helped out in the royal kitchen where she could, eating leftovers in the evening and sleeping in the open fields with the other servants. She found she was beginning to miss her home.

She knew the danger, of course. They had marched hard today, but the rumours, running fast through the army, said they would never reach the Somme. Already there had been skirmishes out on the right flank. Everyone knew about Blind Jean, the famous King of Bohemia, and the kitchen staff discussed the battles he had fought and victories he had won in hushed, apprehensive voices. Now King Jean and his veteran troops were just over the eastern horizon, poised to reach the Somme before them and cut off their advance. If that happened, her chances of seeing her home again were small.

Kicking off her worn shoes and carrying them in her hand, she walked away from the camp. After the heat of the day, the grass felt cool under her feet. The moon was a thin scimitar already low in the west, and darkness lay heavy over the fields. She stopped after a while, looking up at the stars and seeing the familiar patterns, Arthur’s Wain, the Harp, the Archer with his belt. In a moment of whimsy, she wondered where a mere archer had managed to find a belt with so many glowing jewels. Probably looted it from somewhere, she thought.

She realised she could hear voices, very dim and faint, just on the edge of hearing. For a moment she was reminded of being back in Freshwater, waking in the barn with Marigold and listening to the men outside, but these were different voices, speaking with Devon accents; and moreover, she thought she recognised one of them. She strained for a moment, listening to the faint whispers, and realised with a shock that one of them was Nicodemus.

‘That’s the orders, boy. Do it right away, you hear? There’s no time to waste.’

‘What about the money, Nic?’ whispered another voice. ‘When do we see it?’

‘Tomorrow, when you’ve done your work. Ten florins it’ll be, for each of you. But no mistakes now. If you fail, there’s no money for any of us.’

‘Aye, Nic. We’ll attend to it.’

The voices ceased. Nell listened, holding her breath. Two shadows detached themselves from the blackness. Neither was Nicodemus; they were too tall and too broad in the shoulder. Taking a deep breath, she followed the two men back towards the camp.

Tiphaine was sitting on a bench outside the tent when the herald returned from dinner. ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.

‘Salt fish. I did not enjoy it.’

‘The food at the prince’s table was little better. Salt fish and dried mutton are about all we have left. Who is on watch tonight?’

‘The younger one. Pip.’

Merrivale turned to see the archer standing in the shadows not far away, motionless and watchful. Since the Red Company’s deployment into the field, the two sisters had been keeping watch in turns. Merrivale had offered to send them back to their company, but John Grey had refused. ‘Keep them with you,’ he had said tersely. ‘You are still in danger, perhaps now more than ever.’

‘You should be sleeping,’ the herald said to Tiphaine.

‘Inside the tent it is hot and airless. Out here it is cool. Sit down, if you wish.’

Merrivale pulled off his heavy tabard and sat down on the bench beside her. The night air smelled of smoke and sweat, bruised grass and the scent of horses in the lines nearby. Silence fell. Tiphaine sat gazing towards the east, where the glow of the Bohemian campfires was a thin orange line on the horizon.

‘They will be over the river tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Won’t they?’

‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘And we have no way of stopping them. Jean of Bohemia will win the race.’

‘And then what?’

‘I don’t know. It is up to our commanders to devise some way out of this latest trap we have fallen into.’

Another long silence ensued. Merrivale watched Tiphaine’s face, faint in profile in the dim light. He saw the long Norman nose, the straight,