A Flight of Arrows by A.J. MacKenzie (mobi reader android .txt) 📕

at work cutting up onions and fresh herbs. He winked at her as she passed, as he usually did. He was a nice man, Master Clerebaud, always friendly but not too friendly, and sometimes he gave her sauce bowls to lick clean. The new man, Curry, prowled around the cooking pots on guard, a knife at his belt and a cudgel in his hand. Nell had her doubts about him. He seemed diligent and good at his job, but she had grown up within sight of the sea, and she thought he didn’t look like much of a mariner.

She delivered her milk to the scullions and heard the heavy thump of the butter churn begin almost at once. The woman in charge of the dairy gave her a piece of bread and honey and Nell sat down to eat it, wiping the honey from her chin with one finger and licking it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Curry talking with the archer Nicodemus, the one the herald had been interested in. They spoke for a few moments, then Nicodemus handed something to Curry, who tucked it swiftly inside his tunic. Nicodemus said something else, and Curry nodded. The archer departed.

Curry looked around to see if anyone was observing him, and Nell quickly bowed her head, concentrating on her bread and honey. She watched from under her eyebrows as Curry walked over to the sauce-maker’s table. He said a few words to Master Clerebaud and laid something down on the table; Nell could not be sure, but she thought she caught a gleam of gold. Then he turned away and went back to watching his pots. Master Clerebaud looked down at the table for a moment, then picked up his knife and began peeling cloves of garlic. When Nell walked past him to return to her cows, he did not look up.

Léaupartie, 1st of August, 1346

Evening

Further east, at the Prince of Wales’s camp, the knights of the vanguard gathered for the Lammas feast. There was a little hamlet nearby, which someone said was called Léaupartie; on its edge was an old stone chapel where the feast would be held.

Merrivale and Sir John Sully walked through the camp, where the archers were already making merry with wine they had looted from Rumesnil as they passed. ‘There will be sore heads in the morning,’ Sully commented.

‘There always are after Lammas,’ Merrivale said. He never enjoyed Lammas; the feasting and celebration always reminded him of those terrible years when the harvest had failed. He saw once again the bodies wrapped in white being lowered into the ground, the thin, wasted faces of the survivors watching and wondering when their turn would come.

Sully nudged him. ‘Isn’t that your demoiselle?’

Tiphaine had returned to the tent late last night, and departed this morning before the army marched, without saying a word. Now she was with Courcy again, her hand resting on his arm, smiling at him.

‘She is making free with Sir Nicholas,’ the older man commented. He turned to look at Merrivale. ‘Should you allow that to be happening?’

‘She is not my property,’ the herald said irritably.

‘You rescued her, boy.’

‘She is not obligated to me, or I to her.’

‘Some might see it differently.’

‘She needs a protector,’ Merrivale said. ‘Perhaps she has found one.’

‘Sir Nicholas Courcy? The greatest rascal in the army?’

‘No. Believe me, there are many worse.’

Something moved in the corner of his eye; the man-at-arms he had seen last night at Troarn was stalking slowly forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Merrivale started forward, but he was too late. Courcy bowed to Tiphaine, then raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. The man-at-arms leaped forward, raised one fist and punched him on the jaw. Startled, Courcy fell to the ground, and the man-at-arms stepped forward and kicked him hard in the ribs.

Tiphaine started towards him, but the man-at-arms turned on her. ‘Get away from him, harlot! And stay away, or I’ll cut out your liver and lights and feed them to the crows!’

Tiphaine stopped.

‘Who are you, sir?’ Merrivale demanded. ‘And how dare you threaten this lady?’

‘I think I can explain,’ said a voice from the ground.

Everyone looked at Courcy, who sat up rubbing his jaw. ‘Faith,’ he said. ‘That’s one hell of a punch you have there, my darling.’

‘Darling?’ said Sully blankly.

Courcy nodded. ‘Take off that ridiculous helm and show yourself,’ he said to the man-at-arms.

Slowly the helm was removed. The face beneath it was haughty, with high cheekbones, a long nose and a grimly set mouth, all framed by a tied-back mass of curling hair the colour of a raven’s wing. Blue-grey eyes, like the sea in storm, glared at Courcy.

‘Allow me to make the introductions,’ Courcy said, rising to his feet. ‘Demoiselle de Tesson, gentlemen; may I present to you the lady Gráinne MacCarthaigh Riabhach, daughter of the Prince of Carbery – and my wife.’

‘What in the devil’s name are you doing here?’ Courcy demanded.

‘Looking for you, you lazy, useless, pox-brained piece of goat shit,’ said Lady Gráinne. ‘You went off and left me without so much as a word, so I followed you. I assumed I’d probably catch you fornicating with some whore, and so I have.’

‘I have not fornicated with anyone!’ Courcy protested. ‘Least of all with that lady!’

Tiphaine slapped Courcy hard across the other cheek and marched away. Merrivale thought about going after her, but did not.

‘Lady, is she?’ demanded Gráinne. ‘So why have you dressed her up as a boy? Is that where your tastes lie? Well, you’ll fancy me now, won’t you?’

Men were gathering around them, watching open-mouthed. Merrivale turned to them. ‘Sir Nicholas and his wife have been reunited after a long parting,’ he said. ‘Grant them some privacy.’

Reluctantly the bystanders moved on. Courcy rubbed his jaw again. ‘Where did you get the armour?’ he asked.

‘My brother. I traded him the tavern for it.’

Courcy’s eyes opened wide. ‘The tavern? You got rid of that godforsaken tavern? Ah,