A Flight of Arrows Page 4

  ‘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 thorough and competent?’

  ‘No, sire. But they are likely to be busy carrying out your orders and conducting this campaign. My duties, as you have rightly pointed out, are largely ceremonial. I have the time to devote to this matter where other men might not.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I have served your Grace well in the past. Have I ever failed you?’

  ‘No,’ the king said. ‘You have not. Very well, herald, I am placing this matter in your hands. You have my authority to investigate Bray’s death. Report developments to my secretary, Master Northburgh.’

  Merrivale bowed. ‘Yes, sire.’

  The king raised a finger. ‘One more thing, herald. Whatever romantic notions about justice you may cherish, your principal task is to protect the Prince of Wales. If any harm comes to him, you will suffer for it. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sire,’ Merrivale said steadily.

  ‘Good. Find your man, and find him quickly. Very well, herald, that will be all.’

  * * *

  Merrivale’s official duties were few at present: acting as messenger and ambassador when needed, keeping record of which armorial bearings belonged to which knights, and adjudicating disputes over who had the right to bear arms. His unofficial duties were sometimes rather different.

  His status brought with it his own tent and a staff of two, a manservant and a groom. Warin, the groom, was a Devon man like himself; short and stocky, with a shock of red hair, he hailed from Hexworthy on Dartmoor, where his family were tin miners. Mauro, the servant, was, as his name suggested, a Moor, or at least part Moorish; he himself was vague about his parentage. He had come into Merrivale’s service when the latter was herald to the Earl of Lancaster on the embassy to Castile in 1343. Both men were discreet and utterly reliable.

  Entering his tent, Merrivale lifted his tabard over his head and laid it aside. Mauro poured a glass of wine, adding water to his master’s taste. ‘The prince’s steward bids me tell you that dinner is about to be served, señor.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ Merrivale rubbed his stomach. It had been a long day, and he was ravenous; dinner was always late when the army was in the field, served after they had made camp for the day. He drank some of his wine and set his cup down. ‘I need to speak to both of you,’ he said.

  They faced him, all attention. ‘A man was killed today,’ he said. ‘A young knight in the prince’s service. I believe the killer was someone on our side, and I intend to find him. I have the king’s authority to do so.’

  He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, rehearsing what he knew about the case and realising it was not very much.

  ‘The dead man is Sir Edmund Bray,’ he said. ‘He accompanied the Earl of Warwick and the Red Company on a reconnaissance party. Sir Edmund disobeyed orders and rode out into the field alone. Some men-at-arms found him later, shot in the back, and recovered his body. That is all we know.’

  ‘Perhaps it was a venganza,’ Mauro suggested. ‘Did he have any enemies, señor?’

  Merrivale shook his head. ‘None that I know of. He comes from Cheshire. Since he arrived at court he has had his share of young men’s quarrels, mostly over dice and girls, but nothing serious.’ He pondered. ‘But you may be right, Mauro. It is possible there was some family feud back in Cheshire. Someone may have followed him to Normandy and set a trap for him.’

  ‘There’s a lot of Cheshire men in the army, sir,’ Warin said. The prince was also Earl of Chester, and his officers had recruited heavily in his domain lands.

  ‘Lord Rowton knows Bray’s family. It was he who recommended the lad for a post in the prince’s household. I shall have a word with his lordship and ask if he knows of anything in Bray’s past.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ Warin said. ‘What if it turns out there was no feud?’

  ‘Then I must consider other possibilities.’ Merrivale thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps he ran across a party of looters and confronted them, and they killed him. Perhaps my lord of Warwick is right, and it was an accident. Or perhaps it really was the French. Someone in their force had a longbow, an English or Welsh deserter, perhaps.’

  ‘Forgive my presumption, señor,’ Mauro said. ‘But you are using the word “perhaps” in a way that suggests you do not believe what you are saying.’

  Merrivale smiled a little. ‘Correct. None of these explanations rings true, although for the life of me I cannot tell you why. And that is what bothers me. Nothing about this seems right.’

  The two servants watched him, waiting. ‘I need your help,’ Merrivale said. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open, both of you. Listen to servants’ gossip. If you learn anything, tell me.’

  Both men bowed. ‘Now I must go and dine with the prince,’ Merrivale said, picking up his tabard. ‘Make sure you get fed as well, and then you can retire. Despite Bray’s death, the young men will want to celebrate. I may return quite late.’

  He drained his wine cup and looked through the doorway of the tent at the shimmering sea dotted with ships. ‘Cheshire,’ he said quietly. ‘He came a long way to die, didn’t he? I don’t know who killed you, Edmund Bray, but with God’s aid I will find out.’

  Saint-Vaast, 12th of July, 1346

  Night

  Lit from within by lamps and candles, the coloured silk pavilions glowed like jewels in the warm night. Two men stood on the beach not far from the smoking embers of the burned warships
, gazing at the king’s red pavilion. They were far from the camp, away from any eavesdropping ears; this time there was no young cowherd to overhear them.

  ‘What do you suppose they are doing in there?’ the West Country man asked.

  ‘Holding a council of war,’ said the man from the north. ‘They are deciding the plan for the rest of the campaign.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in there with them?’

  ‘Oh, I will rejoin them in a moment. I merely stepped out for some fresh air. In any case, I already know the plan. Once the army has landed, we will march west to Valognes, then south to take the bridges at Carentan. After that, we will move east to Caen. If Philip still won’t yield, at least we have a base for launching further raids into France, until he capitulates or his nobles overthrow him and sue for peace.’

  ‘Ambitious,’ the other man said mockingly.

  ‘One cannot accuse Edward of lacking ambition on this campaign. What happened to Bertrand? He was supposed to attack with all the force he could muster, not three hundred poxy men-at-arms.’

  ‘That was all the force he could muster. He received our message about the delay, but by then he had run out of money.’

  The man from the north stared at him. ‘Out of money? In God’s name, how did that happen?’

  ‘The French royal finances are in a state of chaos. Bertrand’s crossbowmen and the sailors demanded their pay, and when they didn’t get it, they deserted their posts. All Bertrand could gather was his own retinue and some local gentry.’

  ‘Suffering Christ. We had a golden opportunity today, and it slipped through our hands. We need to get Doria on board with this venture.’

  ‘I have talked to him, several times. He won’t budge. His loyalty is to France, he says.’

  ‘God preserve us from honest mercenaries.’ A sudden note of humour entered the northern man’s voice. ‘If only they were all like you, my friend. The world would be a much simpler place. Although not necessarily a better one.’

  From the Prince of Wales’s pavilion they could hear music playing and voices uplifted in song, punctuated by bursts of laughter and cheering. ‘Celebrating their first day of war,’ the northern man said. ‘There will be sore heads in the morning. Very well, our first plan failed. Now we need another one, and quickly.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I shall leave the details to your fertile imagination. I don’t think we should meet again, at least not until after Carentan. I know I can trust you to do whatever is necessary.’

  ‘Indeed you can,’ said the West Country man. ‘Then I wish you good night. Sleep well, and dream of the riches and power we shall soon acquire.’

  ‘I dream of nothing else,’ said the man from the north.

  3

  Quettehou, 13th of July, 1346

  Morning

  They buried Sir Edmund Bray in Quettehou church, his comrades standing around the grave with uncovered heads while Brother Geoffrey of Maldon, the Augustinian canon who served the king’s household, recited prayers. The prince stood silent throughout the ceremony, biting his lip. When it was over, he strode out of the church, mounted his horse and rode back down to Saint-Vaast.

  Merrivale thanked Brother Geoffrey, whom he had known for many years, and walked out of the church into the morning sunlight. To his surprise, Lord Rowton was waiting for him. ‘A sad day,’ his lordship said quietly. ‘Bray was a fine young man. I know his family well, and his loss will hit them hard. I grieve for them as well as for Edmund himself.’

  Generous words, Merrivale thought. Perhaps you could teach them to the Prince of Wales. ‘We all feel the same, my lord. He was so young, with so much before him. There is a sense of waste, as well as loss.’

  ‘Indeed there is.’ Rowton paused. ‘I assumed you would want to speak to me.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord. What do you know of his family? Were they involved in any quarrels with their neighbours, perhaps, or their overlord?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. The Brays are well regarded by all, including myself. John Bray has lands next to mine in Lancashire, and I bought one of his manors in Cheshire when he was short of money. He’s a decent and honourable man. Is your theory that Edmund was killed as part of some family feud?’

  ‘It is one of several,’ Merrivale said cautiously.

  ‘Then allow me to point out a flaw. Edmund’s decision to ride out was taken on the spur of the moment. How could a killer have known when and where to find him?’

  ‘Perhaps it was not really the spur of the moment,’ Merrivale said. ‘He may have been going to a prearranged meeting, which turned into a trap.’

  ‘Have you any evidence to support this notion?’

  ‘No.’

  Rowton nodded. ‘You should go through his baggage. See if he received any letters inviting him to a rendezvous.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord. I shall do so.’

  ‘May I ask a question of my own? Why did you insist on being appointed as inquisitor?’

  Merrivale considered this for a moment. ‘You said it yourself,’ he said finally. ‘He was a young man, full of promise, and he deserves justice. If I do not take up his cause, then who will?’

  Rowton grimaced. ‘No one, of course. As you said to the king, everyone else is busy, and most of his erstwhile friends agree that he was a casualty of war. By the time this campaign is over, they will have forgotten him.’

  ‘Then, my lord, you have answered your own question,’ Merrivale said.

  * * *

  Rowton departed. Roger Mortimer was standing by the door of the church, staring out across the bay and the rippling sea beyond. There is one who will not forget, Merrivale thought.

  On impulse, he walked over to the young man and put a hand on his arm. ‘You have suffered a great loss, Sir Roger, but do not let your sorrow overwhelm you. Remember that your friend has gone to a better place.’

  ‘Do you believe that priest’s cant?’ Mortimer asked. ‘I am not sure I do.’

  ‘That is grief talking,’ Merrivale said gently. ‘Grief, and perhaps remorse also. You feel partly responsible for his death.’

  Mortimer looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You tried to volunteer for the reconnaissance, but Sir Edmund forestalled you. Now you believe that if you had gone in his place, he would still be alive.’

  ‘I should have insisted,’ Mortimer said. ‘I should have pushed him out of the way. I should have knocked him off his damned horse and stood on his head, done whatever I had to do to prevent him from going.’

  ‘He knew the risks,’ Merrivale said, although he was not entirely certain this was true.

  ‘He was my friend, herald, my only real friend. All the others whisper behind my back, even the prince. But not Edmund, not ever. His friendship was honest and true. God, how I miss him… and that little shit just stood there by the grave in silence, and then walked away.’ There were tears in Mortimer’s eyes.

  ‘Sir Roger, I must ask you this,’ the herald said. ‘Did Sir Edmund have any enemies in the army? Did he ever speak of feuds concerning him, or his family?’

  ‘No,’ said Mortimer. He thought for a moment. ‘He did quarrel with Sir Thomas Holland, back in Portchester before we embarked.’

  This was news to Merrivale. ‘Do you remember what it was about?’

  ‘The Countess of Salisbury,’ Mortimer said. ‘Holland made some slighting reference to the earl, her husband. Edmund then said something coarse about the countess. We had to pull them apart. So far as I know, they never spoke to each other again.’

  The herald considered this. Salisbury, the prince’s close friend, was married to the king’s first cousin, the lady Joan of Kent. Only after the marriage vows had been exchanged did it emerge that a year or so earlier she had secretly married Sir Thomas Holland. When Holland returned from service overseas and learned of the marriage to Salisbury, he tried to assert his rights but was firmly rebuffed: he had married a ward of the king without the ki
ng’s consent, which meant – according to one interpretation of the law, at least – that the marriage was invalid. Angry and humiliated, Holland seldom missed a chance to denigrate his rival.

  The feud between Holland and Salisbury was a bitter one, and Bray had been a fool to get caught up in it. But was it sufficient justification for murder? Holland could be an unpleasant man, even a dangerous one, but would he order an assassination at the start of an important campaign? Surely he would meet his enemy face-to-face; as the prince had said, that was what men of honour did.

  The question, of course, was whether someone who entered into a secret marriage with the king’s cousin could be considered a man of honour.

  * * *

  Bray’s servant was sitting inside his master’s tent, staring at nothing, probably wondering what would happen to him now that his master was dead. ‘I wish to see Sir Edmund’s baggage,’ Merrivale said. ‘Unpack it for me, please.’

  The baggage consisted of two painted wooden chests. The first contained Bray’s armour, including his blood-stained arming doublet; the second held several suits of clothes, fashionably cut, and personal effects including a razor and a comb. The ruby ring the prince had given him was there too; the friars must have removed it when they washed the body last night. Merrivale thought about returning it to the prince, but put it back in the chest. Let Bray’s family have something to remember him by.

  All around them the camp murmured with the tramp of marching feet and the rumble of wagon wheels as the army continued to flow ashore.

  ‘Did your master receive any letters? Between the time the household left London and the embarkation at Portchester?’

  The servant shook his head, mute. Merrivale walked out of the tent and stood for a moment, thinking.

  Why did Bray leave his post and ride out to meet his death? The last people to see him alive, apart from the killer, were Sir John Grey and Sir Richard Percy and the men of their company. Perhaps they could shed some light.