A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘First the two Red Company archers, and now this,’ Merrivale said. ‘How many more women in armour have we among us, I wonder?’

  ‘I wouldn’t care to speculate,’ said Sully. He sat opposite the herald, his dog curled up beside his feet. ‘It happens in every army, boy. When the men go off to war, the women don’t always remain behind.’

  ‘Has that been your experience, Sir John?’ asked Edward de Tracey, smiling.

  ‘Aye. I counted twenty-six maids amongst the Welsh archers at Halidon Hill, and one of Ralph Ufford’s grooms was a damsel of good birth from Rutland who had run away from her family. And you remember Algeciras, Simon? That young Moorish crossbowman, Jalid?’

  ‘Yes,’ Merrivale said warily.

  ‘I never told you, but he turned out to be a she. Her real name was Durr. It meant pearl, she told me. Aye, well,’ Sully said nostalgically. ‘Enough said about her.’

  ‘You were at Algeciras?’ asked Mortimer. The question, to the herald’s mind, rather missed the point of the anecdote, but he was glad of the change of subject. He wondered where Tiphaine was.

  ‘I was, lad. So was the herald here, though he held no such lofty post back then. It was a grim siege and a bloody one, with all the forces of Morocco and Granada arrayed against us. I’ll never forget the bodies floating in the water after the battle on the Rio Palmones.’

  ‘I imagine Durr helped you forget the hardships,’ said Hugh Despenser, seated beside Merrivale and pointedly ignoring Mortimer. ‘How did you come to meet a Moorish woman? Wasn’t she one of the enemy?’

  Sully shook his white head. ‘Spain is a land of complicated loyalties, Sir Hugh. There were many Moors serving in King Alfonso’s army, just as there were plenty of Spaniards serving with Sultan Yusuf. Durr’s father had been executed by the sultan, so she changed sides.’ He grinned at Merrivale, lined face lively with mischief. ‘Just like your demoiselle.’

  ‘She is not my demoiselle,’ the herald said.

  Servants were carrying food into the chapel, and the smell of roasted meats and hot bread floated among the candles. Despenser pulled a plate of roast goose towards him and began cutting slices of breast meat and laying them on his trencher. ‘That’s not what the gossip says.’

  ‘I am not interested in gossip, Sir Hugh. And neither should the rest of you be. You are men-at-arms, not fishwives.’

  It had come out more sharply than he intended, and even Mortimer smiled. Despenser put a spoonful of salt on the edge of his plate next to the trencher and picked up the sauce pot, pouring brilliant green sauce over his meat. The smells of wine and garlic and fresh parsley rose to their nostrils. ‘I think we have touched a nerve, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You should have brought her with you, herald. I’d like to hear her side of the story.’

  He stabbed a piece of meat with his knife and raised it to his lips, then stopped, wincing in pain as Merrivale’s hand took his wrist in a crushing grip. ‘No,’ the herald said.

  ‘What in hell’s name are you doing?’ Despenser demanded.

  ‘If you eat that, you will die.’

  Letting go of the other man’s arm, Merrivale picked up his napkin and used it to remove something from the sauce. He held it up to the light, and saw a chunk of bulbous root, about an inch long, dripping thick blobs of green sauce back onto the table. Around them, everyone had stopped eating.

  ‘Do not eat the juvert sauce!’ Merrivale said sharply. ‘If it is already on your trencher, push your plate away and do not touch your meat!’

  ‘What is it?’ Tracey asked.

  The herald dropped the root on the table. ‘Wolf’s-bane,’ he said.

  A gasp went up around the room. ‘Aconitum,’ said John Sully thoughtfully. ‘Poison, said to come from the mouth of Cerberus, the dog that guards the entrance to the underworld. Just what is it doing in the juvert?’

  ‘And what is it doing on my plate?’ demanded Despenser.

  Merrivale upended the sauce pot on the table, spilling green sauce across the cloth. There, plain to see, were several more pieces of wolf’s-bane. ‘Check the others,’ he said.

  There were three other pots of juvert on the tables, but none of them contained any trace of the root.

  Despenser was staring hard at Mortimer. ‘A craven attempt to poison me. Who could be behind such a thing, I wonder?’

  ‘Who can tell?’ snapped Mortimer. ‘Christ knows you have enough enemies, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘But not all of them are cowards,’ said Despenser.

  Mortimer kicked the table over and reached for his sword just as Despenser slapped his hand on his own hilt. Before Merrivale could move, another man stepped between them, standing over the wreck of the table and holding up one hand. A hush fell in the chapel.

  ‘Hands off those hilts,’ said the Prince of Wales. His voice was high-pitched with nerves, but his young face was set hard. He drew his dagger from his belt, blade twinkling in the light. ‘Hands off, gentlemen! Or before God, I will cut them off.’

  Slowly, sullenly, Despenser and Mortimer removed their hands from their swords. ‘Every man in this room is aware of the enmity your ancestors bore each other,’ the prince said. ‘But we are not our fathers, nor our grandfathers. We are the men we are here and now.’

  Absolute silence had fallen. The candles flickered in a sudden waft of wind. ‘The past is gone, gentlemen, and you will leave it behind you. Do you hear me?’

  ‘With great respect, Highness,’ Despenser said through clenched teeth, ‘someone has just tried to poison me.’

  ‘An inquisition will be established,’ the prince said. ‘Whoever is responsible will be found and punished.’

  Sir Thomas Holland bowed. ‘May I make a suggestion, Highness? Your herald, Master Merrivale, is a skilled inquisitor. Perhaps he should undertake this task.’

  Merrivale looked at him sharply. Holland met his gaze, an ironic gleam in his eye. Was this a form of polite revenge, wondered the herald, or did the man have some other purpose? He bowed. ‘If it pleases your Highness, I shall of course undertake an inquisition.’

  ‘Good,’ said the prince. ‘It is settled. Sir Roger, Sir Hugh, you will apologise for the harsh words you have spoken. Now.’

  Grimly, Mortimer and Despenser uttered words of apology.

  ‘Have the servants clear away and reset the table,’ the prince said. ‘The rest of you, return to your seats. The feast will continue.’ He slapped his dagger back into its sheath and threw up his hands. ‘Music, that’s what we need! Where are those musician fellows? I want to hear them play.’

  Quietly, a little subdued, the prince’s knights returned to their seats. The prince paused for a moment and looked at Merrivale. ‘How did I do?’ he asked softly.

  ‘For a moment, Highness, you reminded me of your father.’

  ‘I did, didn’t I? Do you know, herald, I think I am beginning to understand.’

  Head high, he walked back to his place. The musicians took up their instruments and began to play a roundelay. Sully came up beside Merrivale and rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘What do you think happened just now?’

  ‘At the moment, your guess is as good as mine,’ the herald said. ‘You called Spain a land of complicated loyalties, Sir John. You should take a closer look at England.’

  16

  Lisieux, 2nd of August, 1346

  Late afternoon

  ‘The sauce came from the king’s kitchen,’ Mauro reported. ‘I spoke to the prince’s servants and they all said the same thing. It was sent over as a Lammas gift, along with the model ships and the salts. The prince’s head cook said it was an excellent juvert, the best he had ever tasted. Master Clerebaud is a wizard with sauces, he said.’

  ‘He tasted it? With no ill effects?’

  ‘None, señor. The sauce was put into four sauce pots and distributed around the dinner tables.’

  ‘And only one contained traces of wolf’s-bane.’

  ‘It might not have been intended for Sir Hugh,’ Warin
said. ‘With respect, sir, they might have been trying to kill you.’

  ‘The thought had occurred to me,’ the herald agreed.

  They were standing on the bridge outside the west gate of Lisieux, bathed in hot sunlight. The river beneath their feet stank of dung and urine, effluent from the tanneries that lined its banks. Behind them the tile roofs of the town climbed up the hill towards the towers and flying buttresses of the cathedral. From nearer at hand came the sounds of splintering wood and smashing crockery and glass as the troops ransacked the city.

  There was still no sign of Tiphaine.

  ‘Which of the servants handled the sauce?’

  ‘The head cook decanted it into the sauce pots, señor,’ Mauro said. ‘The scullion who drove the cart from the king’s kitchen helped him. The servants then took the pots directly into the chapel and set them on the tables.’

  ‘Could one of the servants have slipped the wolf’s-bane into the sauce?’

  ‘It would have been difficult, señor, as they were in plain view the entire time.’

  ‘What about this man who drove the cart?’

  ‘His name was Riccon. The cook did not know him, nor did any of the others.’

  ‘Riccon Curry. I know who he is. And the cook himself? Could he have done it?’

  Mauro looked doubtful. ‘He has been in the prince’s service for eight years, señor, and he values his position very much. It seems unlikely.’

  ‘Watch him all the same, both of you, and as many of the other servants as you can. Note anything unusual, where they go and who they speak to.’

  * * *

  Nell scrambled up from her milking stool as the herald approached. ‘Please,’ Merrivale said, ‘continue your work. I will not detain you for long.’

  Obediently Nell sat down again and leaned forward, taking a firm hold on the cow’s teats and pulling. Milk streamed into the wooden pail. Around them the royal household was making camp in the fields, a safe distance from the city. Most of the population of Lisieux had fled at the English approach, but the bishop and his armed retainers still held the cathedral and its precinct, shooting bolts at any English soldier who came too close.

  ‘Did Nicodemus call at the kitchens yesterday? At any time before the evening banquet?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I saw him when I brought in the evening milk. He spoke with Curry, just like before, and then he gave him something. I couldn’t see what it was.’

  ‘Did he talk to Master Clerebaud as well?’

  ‘No, sir, but after he left, Curry went to speak to Master Clerebaud. He gave him some money, three nobles. I saw them on the table as I walked past, sir.’

  Three gold nobles was twenty shillings; a useful sum of money, but hardly a fortune. Part payment, perhaps? For services rendered, or about to be rendered? Merrivale nodded. ‘Thank you, Mistress Driver. Once again you have been most helpful.’ He smiled. ‘I owe you another piece of cheese.’

  He found Coloyne, the yeoman of the kitchen, and asked to speak to Clerebaud. The sauce-maker came, his eyes full of fright, twisting his hands with nerves. Everyone else in the kitchen pavilion paused to watch him. ‘You know what happened last night,’ the herald said. ‘How do you explain it?’

  ‘I swear before God, sir, I do not know.’

  ‘Did you prepare the sauce yourself? Did anyone help you?’

  ‘No, sir. I prepared all the ingredients and made the sauce myself, just as I always do.’

  ‘Do you know where the wolf’s-bane might have come from? Do you keep stocks of it?’

  ‘No, sir! This is a kitchen! We would never keep anything so deadly here.’ His voice trailed off and he looked down at his hands.

  ‘Curry gave you money yesterday evening, three nobles,’ Merrivale said. ‘What was it for?’

  The hands twisted again. ‘It was money Nicodemus owed me, sir. Curry collected it from him.’ Clerebaud swallowed. ‘It was a gambling debt, sir.’

  ‘You won three gold nobles at dice? You must have been playing for high stakes.’

  ‘I had a run of luck, sir. You know how it is sometimes.’

  ‘Look at me,’ the herald said.

  Unwillingly Clerebaud raised his eyes and met the herald’s gaze.

  ‘Are you speaking the truth?’ Merrivale asked. ‘The money was to settle a gambling debt, nothing else? For example, did Nicodemus want you to perform a service for him?’

  The hand-wringing increased. ‘I swear to God, sir! I am innocent of any crime!’

  Merrivale watched him for a long time. ‘Then you have nothing to fear,’ he said finally. ‘You may go.’

  * * *

  Riccon Curry was a big, truculent man with shaggy dark hair, missing the last two joints of his left index finger. ‘Did you help Master Clerebaud prepare the juvert sauce last night?’ Merrivale asked him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you drive the cart from the royal kitchen over to the prince’s camp?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You helped the prince’s cook decant the sauce. What did you do?’

  ‘Held the pots while he poured the sauce in. Then I left.’

  ‘How well do you know Nicodemus?’ the herald asked.

  One shoulder lifted. ‘A little.’

  ‘Only a little? You have spoken to him three times in the past week.’

  The shoulder lifted again. ‘Commerce,’ said Riccon Curry. ‘We’re in the same trade.’

  ‘Looting, you mean. Nicodemus gave you something yesterday evening. What was it?’

  ‘Money,’ said Curry. ‘He owed me for a purchase he made a couple of days ago. And he asked me to pass on some money to that sauce-maker. For settling a debt, he said.’

  Well, thought Merrivale as he rode back to the Prince of Wales’s camp, all that proved was that they had arranged their stories beforehand. On the other hand, it seemed impossible that either of them could have introduced the poison into the sauce, given that the prince’s cook had tasted it before it was decanted and the wolf’s-bane was found in only one pot.

  Logically, the poison must have been introduced at the prince’s kitchen, and that left two choices: the kitchen servants, or someone who sitting at the table. But Mauro was positive that it was not one of the servants, and he trusted Mauro’s judgement; and the others sitting around them – Mortimer, Despenser, Sully, Edward de Tracey – had been in plain view the whole time. Despite Despenser’s accusation, Merrivale doubted Mortimer hated him enough to want to poison him, and neither Sully nor Tracey had any motive.

  Wolf’s-bane was a powerful poison, but it was also rare and expensive. Whoever had procured it had the wealth and the means to do so, and also knew that sauce from the king’s kitchen was due to be served at the prince’s table. Merrivale made his way to Sir Nicholas Courcy’s tent.

  * * *

  The gallowglasses were sprawled on the grass outside the tent, some of them asleep in the sun. The giant Donnchad sat cross-legged, honing the edge of his sword on a whetstone. ‘Is Sir Nicholas here?’ Merrivale asked.

  Donnchad motioned silently towards the tent. Merrivale opened the flap and stepped inside. ‘Sir Nicholas? Pardon the intrusion, but I have a question for you—’

  A turmoil of heaving, glistening skin on the palliasse in the corner of the tent, two bodies thrashing against each other like flails on the winnowing floor; then a woman’s voice said, ‘Máthair Dé!’ and hands scrambled to snatch blankets from the floor beside the bed. From outside came a sound like two slabs of granite scraping together, which Merrivale realised was Donnchad laughing.

  After a moment, Courcy sat up, holding one of the blankets around his waist. ‘Herald,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Tell him to frig off!’ snapped Lady Gráinne, still covering herself.

  Merrivale held up a hand. ‘My profuse apologies. I shall wait outside.’ He walked back out into the sunlight, where Donnchad lay flat on his back, still laughing. ‘You did that on purpose,’ the herald said.<
br />
  ‘He understands English, but he doesn’t speak it,’ said Courcy, stepping out of the tent. He had pulled a tunic over his head, and he mopped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘And yes, he did it on purpose, the evil old bastard. How may I help you?’

  ‘You told me once you were an alchemist.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go so far. But I have studied the subject.’

  ‘If you wanted to procure wolf’s-bane, enough to poison someone, how would you go about doing it?’

  ‘Most apothecaries carry a stock. It is used in preparing certain medicines.’ Courcy considered for a moment. ‘There were apothecary’s shops in Caen, and Saint-Lô.’

  ‘Someone might have stolen the wolf’s-bane from one of those shops.’

  ‘They might, but you would really have to know what you were doing. Even touching the stuff can be dangerous. And only an educated man would recognise aconitum for what it is. Like an alchemist,’ he added.

  ‘Or a priest?’

  ‘Only if he had studied medicine as well as theology. But that is not unknown at the universities.’ Courcy paused. ‘An educated man who is skilled at looting. Are you thinking of Nicodemus?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘I heard what happened last night. Are you investigating this as well as young Bray’s death?’

  ‘Yes.’ The herald nodded towards the tent. ‘I am pleased to see that you and your wife are reconciled.’

  Courcy grinned. ‘Oh, we’re all of that. Ever since we arrived at Lisieux we’ve been reconciling the arse off each other. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I said I wouldn’t be long.’

  * * *

  The red and yellow colours of Tracey were clearly visible in the distance. Beyond them was the camp of the Red Company, neat and orderly amid the haphazard jumble of tents. Tracey’s esquire greeted the herald with an air of polite curiosity. ‘I wish to speak with your master,’ Merrivale said.