A Flight of Arrows by A.J. MacKenzie (most recommended books txt) 📗

clatter of metal. Behind him, Courcy feinted high and low, then closed in and kicked his opponent hard on the knee. He doubled over in pain and Courcy stabbed him through the chest, stepping back to let the body slide to the floor.

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ Courcy said breathlessly, and both men ran across the guardroom towards the barrels. A trail of flame snaked across the floor, breathtakingly fast, eating up the powder train. It was less than a foot away from the stacked barrels of serpentine; only a few heartbeats between them and oblivion. Then Courcy’s boot came down hard on the flame, stamping and stamping, snuffing it out, while the herald kicked away the rest of the powder to scatter the train. More smoke wafted into the air, but the flame died.

‘It has stopped,’ Merrivale said.

‘Jesus,’ Courcy said again. He was white as a sheet now, bent over and rasping for breath. ‘Faith, that was as close as I ever want to come. I am not yet ready for paradise, herald. And I am pretty damned sure paradise isn’t ready for me.’

Boots thundered on the stairs and Donnchad burst into the room, bloody sword in hand. ‘You took your time,’ Courcy said. ‘Go find out where the rest of the garrison are, you great ox, and this time hurry back.’

Donnchad disappeared. Courcy turned to Merrivale, wiping the sweat from his face. ‘You’re a fraud,’ he said, grinning.

‘What do you mean?’

‘A true herald shouldn’t know how to fight like that. Coats of arms are his profession, not weapon craft.’

‘I wasn’t always a herald,’ Merrivale said.

‘Oh? What were you?’

Merrivale said nothing. What do I say? he thought. That once upon a time I was a small boy who fought other boys for scraps of food? That I was a king’s messenger and fought for my life more times than I can count?

‘Look out!’ Courcy shouted.

Fierville was on his feet, face a mask of blood, a dagger in his hand. He hurled it at Courcy, who ducked just in time; the dagger missed him by a hair’s breadth and thudded into one of the casks of serpentine. The Norman ducked through the guardroom door and ran outside. Merrivale followed him, but by the time he reached the courtyard, Fierville was already sprinting across the cobbles towards the donjon on the far side.

Two men ran up beside the herald, archers with arrows nocked. ‘Stop him!’ Merrivale shouted without thinking.

One of the archers raised his bow, drew and released. The bowstring hummed; the arrow, a blur of motion faster than sight, hit Fierville in the back, slamming through his backplate and driving deep into flesh and bone. He stumbled once, pitched forward and fell onto the cobbles. In that shattering moment, the herald saw how Edmund Bray had died.

Fierville was still breathing when Merrivale reached him, but his eyes were closed and his face was pallid. His armoured limbs twitched a couple of times and then relaxed into death.

Merrivale rounded on the archers. It was the Red Company men again, Matt and Pip. ‘Why did you kill this man? We needed him alive!’

‘You ordered us to stop him, sir,’ Pip said. ‘You didn’t say how.’

The fact that it was his own mistake only made Merrivale more angry. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

‘Sir John’s orders, sir. When you failed to return, he sent us to investigate.’

‘Why did he pick you?’ Merrivale demanded.

‘We don’t know, sir,’ said Matt. As usual, his confidence bordered on insolence. ‘You would have to ask Sir John.’

Merrivale bit back his anger. ‘Tell Sir John the garrison have refused to surrender. Five are dead, but there are still fifteen to be accounted for. I suspect they are trying to escape through a postern gate. Fierville was running to join them.’

Matt nodded. ‘We will tell him, sir. Er… the lady was asking after you, sir. The one you rescued. May we tell her that you are safe?’

‘Tell her whatever you wish,’ the herald snapped, and walked back into the gatehouse.

Courcy was still in the guardroom, staring at the barrels of powder. ‘I am not the only fraud in this room, Sir Nicholas,’ Merrivale said.

Courcy turned towards him, face full of resignation. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You most certainly are not. How did you work it out?’

‘It was not exactly difficult. Those barrels have the arrowhead mark branded on them. They come from the Tower armoury. English gunpowder, Sir Nicholas. Powder that was in your custody.’

‘Yes,’ said Courcy.

‘Fierville and Barbizan set a trap for us. Once the surrender was accepted and the army had advanced through the gates, the powder train was to be set alight. The explosion would blow out the walls of the guardroom and bring the entire gatehouse down on the men beneath it. Scores could have been killed. When they realised we had seen through the plan, they set light to the train anyway in hopes of killing us, at least, and destroying the evidence.’

‘Yes,’ Courcy said again.

Merrivale faced him. ‘You sold the serpentine to Fierville, didn’t you?’

‘As God is my witness,’ Courcy said, ‘I had no idea this was his intention. I thought he was on our side. He told me he wanted the powder to arm some ships.’

‘Ships?’

‘Apparently he is a shipowner, and some of his ships are armed with guns. Pots-de-feu, they call them in these parts. He was powerful knowledgeable about powder, quite put me to shame. I thought he was a fellow professional.’

‘So you sold him the powder, no doubt for a tidy profit. What next? You’re an alchemist, you said. You intended to make more powder yourself, and offer it to the king’s officers to replace the missing stocks. Once again, for a profit.’

‘I saw no harm in it,’ Courcy said. ‘Making gunpowder is easy, herald. You only need three ingredients: sulphur, charcoal and saltpetre. Getting hold of the sulphur is easy if you know the right people. Charcoal is cheap and plentiful, and if you want saltpetre, all you