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

feet and swung his fist, hitting Merrivale a powerful blow in the midriff and knocking the wind from his lungs. Gasping, the herald sank to his knees, seeing a dim flash of light as the man pulled something from his belt. Out of the shadows Nell came running, knife in hand, but the man turned to face her, towering over her with his own knife raised for the kill.

A bowstring twanged and an arrow drove into the man’s ribs, burying itself halfway to the fletchings. Shot through the heart, he collapsed and fell without a sound, blood pouring black from his mouth as he lay on the grass. Pip walked forward, carrying her bow in one hand and rubbing her neck with the other. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Likewise,’ Merrivale said, getting to his feet. His arm was still tingling, but he could feel his fingers again, and when he flexed his shoulder, nothing seemed to be broken.

Tiphaine appeared, followed by Mauro and Warin. The shot man lay lifeless on the ground. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Pip said. ‘Looks like we’ve done it again. You probably wanted him alive to question him.’

‘Under the circumstances, you were fully justified. What about the other one?’ But there was no sign of the man Merrivale had knocked down. Clearly I didn’t hit him hard enough, he thought. He looked at Nell.

‘What are you doing here, Mistress Driver?’

‘I overheard them two talking with Nicodemus, sir. They were Devon men, I reckon. They called him Nic, like they were friends.’

‘From Tracey’s retinue,’ the herald said grimly. ‘Did you see where Nicodemus went?’

‘No, sir, but I followed the other two. Nicodemus promised them money to do something, but I didn’t realise what it was till now.’

Rowton had said he would speak to Tracey about Nicodemus. This was the archer’s response. ‘How much did he offer them?’ the herald asked.

‘Ten florins each, sir.’

‘So little? I would set a higher value on my life than that.’

He looked around the little group. ‘I think that is quite enough excitement for one night,’ he said. ‘I suggest we all get some sleep. Tomorrow promises to be a long day.’

Airaines, four miles south of the Somme, 21st of August, 1346

Evening

‘That was a damned stupid thing to do,’ said the man from the north.

‘Someone had to do something,’ snapped the man from the West Country. ‘You promised you would take care of the herald, but you didn’t. He sank us at Poissy, and now we have to go and grovel in front of our partners and explain what went wrong.’

‘I said I would take care of him, and I will.’

‘Would you care to tell me how?’

‘Not yet.’

‘What do you mean, not yet? You haven’t thought of anything, have you?’

‘No, but I will,’ said the man from the north. ‘Now concentrate on the matter at hand. This is going to be difficult.’

The horizon was full of fire. To the west, watchfires glowed on the walls of the towns of Oisemont and Abbeville; to the east and south lay a long convex arc of orange light marking the positions of the main French army. And ominously, to the north, clusters of twinkling lights showed where Bohemian troops now guarded the bridges over the Somme. The race was over, and the blind king had won.

Closer at hand, the flames of burning farms and villages flickered like candles as the English continued their work of devastation. The lurid light showed five men waiting by a grove of trees, standing by their saddled horses. The man from the north frowned. ‘There should be more of them,’ he murmured. ‘Something is wrong.’

John of Hainault stepped forward and bowed, stiffly and with a muffled clank of armour under his cloak. Nanteuil, the Grand Prior of the Knights of Saint John, was with him. ‘Welcome,’ Hainault said quietly.

‘Where is the Count of Alençon?’ asked the man from the north.

‘His duties do not permit him to leave the army,’ a younger man said smoothly. ‘He sent me in his place to represent him. We met at Poissy, my lord. My name is Rollond de Brus.’ He gestured to the other two men. ‘This is Monsignor Raimon Vidal, secretary to Cardinal Aubert. He represents the cardinals, and by extension Signors Doria and Grimaldi. And this is Vilém Zajíc, herald to King Jean of Bohemia. He represents the interests of Count Rožmberk.’

They don’t want to meet us, the man from the north thought in sudden anger. They are fobbing us off with their underlings. The Savoyard, Louis of Vaud had not even bothered to send a representative.

‘Tell us what you want,’ said Brus. ‘Quickly, so that we may be gone.’

‘We have a new plan,’ said the man from the West Country.

The Grand Prior raised his eyebrows. ‘What happened to the last one? You promised us you would cripple the English at Poissy. The king and his captains would die, and – what was your phrase? We could round up the rest at our leisure.’

‘That plan failed. We have another one. Must we go over old ground?’

Vidal the secretary cleared his throat. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think we must. My master the cardinal insists on knowing what went wrong.’

‘We attempted to poison the food at the feast of the Assumption,’ the man from the West Country said. ‘We thought the plan was foolproof, but someone found out about it.’

‘Someone?’ demanded Zajíc the herald. ‘Who?’

‘Simon Merrivale,’ said the man from the West Country. ‘The Prince of Wales’s herald.’

Zajíc and Vidal looked at each other in the dim light. ‘That man is dangerous,’ said Vidal. ‘You must remove him.’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ said the man from the West Country. ‘We have tried to kill him several times.’

‘I did not say, kill him,’ said Vidal. ‘I said, remove him from the game. Or even better, turn him. Bring him over to our side.’

There was a long pause. ‘Can that be done?’ asked the man from the north.

‘I know Merrivale well, as does my friend from Bohemia. We have sparred