Black Arrow

by J. P. Ashman

  ‘Spendley also swears there was a bloody big flag flying behind it. He said the ship was lit like the northern lights and he caught a glimpse of that flag.’

  ‘Aye, a king’s ship. One of Barrison’s own.’

  Hitchmogh shook his head and drew long and hard on his pipe before revealing what Charl Spendley had seen. ‘Wasn’t the flag of that royal Altolnan, Cap’n.’

  Mannino frowned. It didn’t take long at all for that frown to give away to surprise. ‘Edward?’

  Hitchmogh nodded once. ‘Aye. The Black Prince himself. Seems he’s got himself a dwarven-gun toting toy, and I was wondering whether he thought himself a pirate hunter. And I was wondering, Cap’n, whether he classes us as such and whether he has Sessio in his mind’s eye as a grand prize.’

  Mannino filled his cheeks and released his breath with a pop. ‘I sincerely hope not, man. I sincerely hope not indeed.’

  ‘Well that makes two of us.’

  Nodding, Mannino stood and moved to the very wall chart Hitchmogh had been staring at. ‘She may be a big ship,’ he said, tracing lines on the chart with his finger, ‘but she’s not fast. Not like us, and not like that ship following us.’

  ‘I had wondered whether it was her or not, Cap’n, but also thought the same about the speed we’ve been making. Plus, the boy in the nest says the following ship is much smaller. A galley, he reckons.’

  ‘No, it’s not Edward’s ship that follows, you’re right there. And I’d have to agree it’s a galley, too. Seems we have problems coming out of our ears at the moment, with little in the way of safe harbours to run to, what with the Chriselle Coast being patrolled by the gods know what.’ Mannino turned on Hitchmogh. ‘We could outrun whoever follows, give ourselves time to make plans.’

  ‘You mean I could have us outrun them?’

  Mannino nodded.

  ‘And if we run into more trouble? I mean that seems likely of late, doesn’t it, Cap’n?’

  Sighing hard, Mannino turned back to the charts. There was a pause where neither said a word.

  Hitchmogh savoured smoke then spoke. ‘At least Master Spendley effected repairs whilst we were… on shore leave.’

  ‘And they hold? They’re lasting repairs?’ Mannino said over his shoulder.

  ‘Aye, seems so. The new lad, Quin, he’s been useful and checked it all out. Seems confident. He may have been an apprentice but he knows his stuff it seems, and it turns out it was his master who assisted in said repairs, so he knows the man’s work.’

  ‘Good. He’s a nice lad. He’ll need toughening up though.’

  Hitchmogh drew on his pipe and nodded. There was no need to vocalise his agreement. Pulling his pipe from his mouth, he hesitated before going on. ‘Master Spendley spent a lot of what we had to make the repairs in such a time.’

  ‘That’s to be expected.’

  ‘Well, so long as you know how little we have left, Cap’n.’

  ‘Yes. Very good. Leave me now, Master Hitchmogh. I’ve charts to look at and thinking to do.’

  ‘Very well, Cap’n. Shout if ye need me. I’ll be down in the hold proper.’

  Mannino waved his hand without looking. ‘Will do. Will do. Glad you’ve recovered.’

  ‘Thank you, Cap’n,’ Hitchmogh said, before turning to leave. ‘Let’s hope we have a little more time though, eh? Before we run into owt else.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  Smiling to himself at his old friend’s reply, Hitchmogh left the room.

  ***

  ‘How’s the chaperone business going, de Valmont?’ Giles Bratby asked, appearing from a doorway reserved for servants.

  Amis looked to the broad-chested Earl and smiled. ‘As thrilling as you would imagine, messire.’

  Giles grunted a laugh. They stood in companionable silence a while, watching Flavell and Croal whispering in each-others ears and laughing, as close as ever.

  ‘They’re like children.’

  Giles looked to Amis and offered a sympathetic smile. ‘You yearn for her, don’t you, lad?’

  Amis looked to the side and huffed. ‘Why do people keep telling me that—?’

  ‘Because it’s true. I’ve said it before myself, to you, and you didn’t deny it.’

  The following silence was broken by a stream of laughter and nothing else. After the laughter settled and the watched couple returned to their whispers, Giles turned to face Amis – came around to block his view.

  ‘You’re a handsome lad,’ Giles said, holding Amis’ stare. ‘You could enjoy a maid or two, or any lass, whilst here. And find yourself a wife when you return home.’

  ‘I have a duty, messire.’

  Giles smiled and looked over his shoulder. ‘Aye, to see them two wed. A foregone conclusion is that and you know it.’ He looked back to Amis. ‘Relax, man. I’m the bloody prisoner here and I’m more relaxed than you.’

  Amis couldn’t help but smile at that. They again stood in silence, Giles turning to watch the young man and woman who were oblivious to the men watching them, as if the Earl and chevalier were but servants.

  ‘Do you think he loves her?’

  Giles paused before answering. ‘I think he thinks he loves her.’

  Frowning, Amis turned to Giles.

  ‘They’ve not known each other long,’ Giles explained. ‘But I think they’re intentions are genuine. Which says a lot considering it’s a noble marriage; arranged.’

  ‘Could be worse, I suppose.’

  ‘Aye, lad, it could.’

  ‘Were you made to marry your wife?’

  Giles barked a laugh, turning the heads of Croal and Flavell.

  ‘Apologies, messire, it was—’

  A hand stopped Amis’ apology. ‘We were matched by our fathers, yes. However,’ Giles smiled, ‘we found love nonetheless, I’m happy to report. Took us a lot longer than these two though; I reckon they’ll realise that this was lust before they’re ten years together. Then they’ll discover true love, if they’re lucky and if such a thing exists outside my head.’ The old Earl smiled softly, stealing a glance at the young man by his side.

  ‘You sound sceptical?’ Amis said.

  ‘I know how I feel about my wife, Amis. What to label it doesn’t concern me. True love is a fancy tag, but I know what it is, what she is, to me, and that’s what counts. I reckon love could mean all manner of things to different folk. No?’ He glanced at Amis once more.

  ‘I suppose so, messire.’

  ‘So, perhaps you don’t lust after the lady Flavell. Perhaps you—’

  ‘Don’t. Please.’ Amis kept his eyes front.

  Giles grunted. ‘Very well, lad. Let’s go and drink, you and I, like last time. These two can’t get up to much in here, surrounded by servants, though we rarely see them stood around, weighting on us…’ For the first time in a long time, Giles noticed the half dozen men and women stood backs to the walls, eyes high, but centred on the room.

  ‘Thank you, messire… Giles,’ Amis smiled, ‘but I must decline. I haven’t heard the last of it for the previous drinking session you lured me to.’ Amis looked at Giles and grinned.

  Giles gave a hard look back and took Amis by the arm. ‘I bloody well insist, lad. I need a supping partner or I’ll go mad, stuck in this damned chateau. And it’s about time you learnt to call me by the familiar. To me, that says you’re ready for sharing another pot or two with me.’ Without another word, Giles dragged Amis from the room and neither the servants nor the kissing couple batted an eyelid.

  Chapter 28 – Wrong turn

  The blustery morning wind hushed across scrubland and Fal’s ears both, masking a sound Fal stopped to listen to. He rubbed his cold lobes and relished the warm kiss of the sun every time a gust fell, leaving a lighter breeze in its wake.

  Turning his head to the side, Fal did his best to block out the wind, attempting to hear the noise once more.

  His elven-gifted steed shifted beneath him as its ears pricked up, angled straight ahead. Fal
turned his head further to the side, reducing the wind’s voice to a whisper.

  A dog barked in the distance.

  Fal hadn’t been told of any farms or hamlets ahead, by Gleave or Correia. He frowned and tilted his head again, trying to decide whether the animal was closing on him or not.

  Large gorse bushes and small, twisted trees leaning with the wind blocked Fal’s field of vision, but a second bark, closer now, confirmed what he’d feared as his steed pawed the ground.

  Fal stood in his stirrups, trying to see across the yellow flecked gorse ahead, squinting against the wind.

  Four great wolf hounds bounded around the thicket, accelerating towards horse and rider.

  Dropping back into his saddle, heart thumping, lips cursing, Fal pulled on the reins and turned the magnificent animal on the spot, an action the horse needed no encouragement in performing. Heels struck horse’s flank and the horse launched forward, passing a canter and swiftly reaching an all-out gallop. The sprawling gorse and gnarled trees rushed by, blurring in Fal’s periphery.

  The hounds continued their pursuit. Fal could hear them and so could his horse. They weren’t gaining, but nor, across the rough ground, was the horse leaving them behind.

  The dark green of The Marches stretched across the horizon like a sea of foliage as Fal crested and dropped down into a shallow vale. He remembered crossing the vale and was confident he raced towards his companions. Despite the distance he knew them to be, he was also confident he’d reach them before the hounds would him. Fal aimed for the narrow ford he’d used on the way out, eyes scanning the mottled vista for any sign of the stream it crossed.

  Another sound reached Fal, and his mount judging by the flutter of her ears.

  Turning in his saddle and trusting the horse, he looked back at the wolf hounds, which were closer now, able as they were to charge down the hill faster than Fal’s mount. He spied thick leather collars; his eyes drew to the fleeting glimpse of a rider far behind both him and the hounds. A rider who’d disappeared into a gully before Fal could make him out.

  Fal cursed and looked back the way his mount was taking him.

  The nimble horse cut left as a man appeared from behind a squat tree to Fal’s right. The sudden movement threw Fal from the saddle, his fall broken and life saved by the dense thicket his horse avoided ploughing into.

  The sound of retreating hooves wasn’t lost on Fal as he shook off the shock and impact of the fall. The nearby man on foot, closing rider and hounds flashed through Fal’s mind and he fumbled for his falchion. Thrashing, he tried to pull his arm through the gorse to reach his weapon, but the only one he saw was the blade that pressed against his throat; a long blade, held by a man silhouetted by the sun and flanked by four wolf hounds. Fal’s eyes looked from the silhouette to the grey furred animals, all of which sat at their master’s booted feet, tongues lolling as they panted in the sun.

  Before Fal could utter a word, something struck him on the side of the head.

  His vision blurred, before blacking out altogether.

  Chapter 29 – Our Queen

  ‘Where have you been?’ Flavell clung to Croal like a limpet to a rock. Knuckles white, she stopped him from pulling away as a shout for him to attend his uncle filled the corridor.

  ‘I must go, my sweet. I’ll speak to you—’

  ‘Now!’ Flavell demanded. ‘You’ll speak to me now, after disappearing for gods know how long.’

  Croal frowned and looked to the woman holding him firm. He didn’t miss the smirk that played across de Valmont’s face, despite the chevalier looking through an arrow loop in the wall.

  ‘We have a prisoner,’ Croal said, reluctantly.

  ‘Like the Earl of Bratby?’

  Croal shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, eyes flicking to and from Amis’ yellow clothed back. Flavell said nothing so he continued, pulled in by her green eyes. She always looked as if every word or sight or sound was a wonder. ‘We’ve taken an Orismaran warrior,’ Croal said, words tumbling from a mouth that wanted nothing more than to kiss his betrothed. ‘He was riding on our lands.’

  Flavell’s concern was evident in her searching eyes and part opened mouth. Amis turned at the news, his own concern as evident as Flavell’s.

  ‘How is that possible, messire?’ Amis asked Croal.

  Croal sighed and looked back down the corridor to where a soldier in the blue and white chevrons of Easson stood, awaiting his company.

  ‘Sirreta is invaded,’ Croal said, to Amis more than Flavell.

  ‘We know that, my love,’ Flavell said, attempting to draw his attention back to her. ‘But that is far from The Marches.’

  Yes, including Steedon, your father’s lands…

  Croal shook the thought away as he replied. ‘It seems they are moving up through Sirreta, my sweet. My uncle tells me he’s had no word for weeks, but my own scouts tell me much.’

  Amis stepped forward. ‘And you’ve told your uncle of this threat to his lands? What is the marquis doing about it?’ Amis shot the questions at Croal, his hand instinctively finding the hilt of his sheathed sword.

  Croal swallowed hard and looked from Amis to Flavell and back. He shook his head. ‘He does nothing, messire. Nothing.’

  Baulking at the answer, Amis came forward yet more, narrowed eyes locked on Croal’s. ‘Nothing?’ he said as if an accusation. ‘Surely he gathers his forces to him, at the least?’

  ‘No, de Valmont, he does not.’ Croal shook his head once more, sighed and took hold of Flavell’s cold hands. She said nothing, only looked between the two men.

  ‘I have pleaded with my uncle to send me south, with his and my men—’

  ‘And he turns you down?’ Amis cut in. ‘But it is his duty to respond to such news.’

  ‘Yes, messire, it is, but he says he is to hold Easson against Altoln, Suttel to be specific, more than he is to move against Orismaran raiders harrying our country’s centre; he claims that is the work of nobles elsewhere.’ Croal was exasperated with it all and he let that show.

  ‘Hold against Suttel?’ Amis said, incredulous. ‘Hold against the very man you have prisoner? Giles Bratby?’ Amis scoffed. ‘The Three with that, messire. Your uncle, the Marquis d’Easson no less, has no threat from a man he holds prisoner, Earl or not. And even if your uncle did and a Suttel army marches through the forest road crying for his head, I’m damned sure Giles Bratby, the Marquess of Suttel after all, would put those men to better use on Orismaran raiders, once he knew the situation.’

  ‘I know that!’ Croal shouted, releasing Flavell’s hand as he did so. His frustration and anger and impotence at the whole situation burst forth into those three words. The relief of release was immense. ‘I know all of that, messire,’ he said, lowering his voice, which made him sound more dangerous than when he’d shouted. He stood toe to toe with the yellow chevalier of Steedon, and both men flinched not once under each-others regard. ‘But what would you have me do? Eh? What would you have me do?’

  Amis filled his cheeks and stepped back a pace before releasing his breath. The soldier down the corridor cleared his throat. Croal held up a hand to silence the man, eyes intent on Amis, who searched the low ceiling for answers. His eyes snapped to Croal’s.

  ‘Have Giles send word, by bird or rider, that he is safe and well and—’

  Croal sighed. ‘We allowed him that as soon as we took him. They’ll be raising his ransom, collecting from their tenants and—’

  ‘I know how chivalric ransoms work, messire, but did he say not to attack, in his message? Did he specifically say not to attempt a rescue? If not, have him do so now. Have him sign and send such a message, then, with that honourable agreement in place, your uncle might send you—’

  ‘Stay!’ Flavell blurted. She pulled Croal back round to face her. ‘Stay, my love. Don’t march. No matter what.’

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ Amis said, ‘you know nothing of such matters—’

  ‘De Valmont,’ Flavell said with venom, wi
thout looking to him, ‘you overstep your rank.’

  Amis’ face reddened as Croal glanced at him.

  Flavell’s face soften as she followed Croal’s glance to Amis. ‘Do you not talk to Earl Bratby, de Valmont? Do you not hear of his wife holding his castle whilst he resides here?’

  ‘His son, Sir Allon—’ Amis started.

  ‘Commands his forces, yes,’ Flavell interrupted, ‘but his wife does indeed command Bratby Castle, I’ve heard it said.’

  Croal confirmed it.

  Gritting his teeth, Amis nodded, conceding. ‘And your point, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Her point, messire,’ Croal said, looking down at Flavell in realisation, ‘is that Flavell has a say in this whole affair, as my future wife.’ They both smiled. Croal heard Amis grunt.

  ‘Messire Seneschal,’ the Easson soldier said, coming forward. ‘I must insist you follow me to see your—’

  ‘Alright,’ Croal snapped. ‘Go, I will follow.’

  ‘Messire.’ The man nodded and sped off.

  ‘Stay,’ Flavell said again, pulling Croal in close. ‘I can’t lose you now. Your Queen’s armies will hold…’

  Our Queen, my love.

  ‘…Orismaran raiders will never pass the heart of Sirreta, will they? Stay and do your duty here: defend Easson, as your uncle wishes. Defend me!’ She reached up on her toes and kissed Croal, and his heart fluttered and his body tingled. Oh how he wanted nothing more than to pull her away to his chambers and forget all of this.

  ‘First,’ Croal said as their lips parted, ‘I will see what my uncle has to say. Then,’ he continued, fingers interlocking with Flavell’s, ‘I shall pay this Orismaran prisoner a visit—’

  ‘And?’ Amis demanded.

  Croal turned on the man. ‘And I shall make a decision, along with my uncle. Watch your station, de Valmont. I shall ask for your advice should I need it, otherwise, hold your tongue.’ Croal turned from a red-faced Amis, resolve filling him with his love at his side. He kissed Flavell once more and walked away before she, or Amis de Valmont, could say anymore.