Black Arrow

by J. P. Ashman

  All Hitchmogh could do to that was nod his head and draw on his pipe.

  ‘The whole bloody lot of them,’ Mannino repeated, glancing at the broken shutters and breezy hole in the wall.

  Chapter 12 – Tilt and Parry

  Dawn silhouetted the great Scales in the bay as gulls cried and hawkers did the same. Ignoring it all, Mannino took a deep breath and watched an approaching sailor, whilst more dotted the street, looking out for their captain’s safety after the previous night’s events.

  ‘Quin’s in,’ Lefey said, walking up to the two men in the doorway.

  ‘Did you give him a choice?’ Mannino asked, a single eyebrow raised.

  Lefey shrugged. ‘I wasn’t aware he had one, Captain.’

  Hitchmogh grinned.

  ‘Are you well, Captain?’ Lefey asked, her eyes searching the man for signs of injury. ‘I heard what—’

  ‘He’s fine, Lefey. Now crack on will ye, lass.’

  ‘Of course, Master Hitchmogh,’ she said, turning and hurrying up the steep street.

  Turning to Hitchmogh, Mannino raised both eyebrows. ‘I can answer for myself, man.’

  ‘Of course, Cap’n, but we don’t have time, see? We need to move and move tonight. Our lads have been holed up long enough as it is. Two days already, or near as damn it and I feel bad that we came up with nothing yesterday.’

  Lips pursed, Mannino looked back up the alley in time to see Lefey disappear around a corner. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say nothing, man, but moving on…

  ‘Did Master Spendley get my message?’

  ‘Yes, Cap’n,’ Hitchmogh said, stepping out from the doorway and looking left then right. ‘He sent Parry to meet the others.’

  ‘Did I do right there?’

  Hitchmogh made a humming sound before answering. ‘It’s been a good while since Parry’s set foot off Sessio, Cap’n, but I think the man can handle it.’

  ‘I know he can handle it, Master Hitchmogh, it’s whether he knows when to stop handling it is what worries me. We can’t step in entirely here, you and I. Not here.’

  ‘I know,’ Hitchmogh said, biting his lip afterwards. Without another word, he walked off to the left and through a narrow gap in the white buildings. Taking a look around, Mannino did the same.

  ***

  Clods of earth flicked into the warm summer air as two powerful destriers charged one another. Each beast thumped along on its own side of a colourful wooden barrier stretching across the arena. Their riders leaned into the charge, lances lowering and straining jolted muscles as they closed on one another; one caparisoned in the blue and white chevrons of Easson, the other in nought but yellow. Shields held close, and tight, the moment of impact came. Croal de Geelan lifted his modern frog-mouthed helm a little to avoid splinters from the shattering lance striking his shield, whilst his opponent remained still, eyes on Croal through the slits of an ageing sugarloaf helm.

  The clattering explosion of wood on wood and wood on steel was drowned out by the cheer from both sides of the tourney ground. Women gasped as others shrieked in excitement and glee. Men roared and cursed and, some, wept as their bets were made or lost. The loved Seneschal d’Easson hung from the side of his high-backed saddle as his men ran out to catch hold of and calm the snorting beast he rode. His opponent, the rider who’d almost unhorsed him, slowed his mount to a proud trot, bringing the bay stallion around to prance in front of Eudes de Geelan’s box. Lowering his gifted lance to the marquis’ herald, the yellow knight received a blue and white striped victory ring, which slid down the remainder of his shattered lance to sit above his steel-clad fist. Amis de Valmont punched the air to a renewed vocal frenzy of the crowd. Horns blew, drums pounded and the distinctive whine of a hurdy-gurdy played along with the chants. And Amis buzzed from it all, his breath loud against the borrowed steel before his face. He turned his mount and scanned the marquis’ box for Flavell. When he found her, he cursed within his facial enclosure, the single harsh word louder than the cacophony of his heavy breaths. Flavell wasn’t in the stand. She was rushing to Croal’s squire- and page-swarmed side.

  ‘Well, my lady,’ Amis said for no one but himself, his mount sidestepping beneath him through excitement, ‘you have what you and my master wanted, it seems. I doubt the good seneschal will escape you now.’ Grunting a laugh at that, resigned as he was to his position in the whole affair, Amis punched the air once more with his broken lance and relished the cheers of the crowd.

  ***

  Dozens of white campaign tents scattered the vale like breakwater atop a choppy sea. Closer to the centre, white canvas gave way to a large pavilion striped in the Marquess of Suttel’s green and black, white harts emblazoned on pennants of the same. Surrounding the pavilion stood bell tents of various sizes and colours, as well as the staked and rotting bodies of half a dozen men in the marquess’ own colours.

  ‘This isn’t good,’ Sav said, coming into view of the camped army, eyes flitting between tents and men, alive and dead.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Gleave pulled up beside him, Pecker clucking away in his lap, ‘there’s usually money to be made at such places.’ Gleave patted his dice belt and grinned. A prod from his other side stole that grin.

  ‘Follow me in,’ Correia said, encouraging her mount forward.

  Gleave did as he was told, as did the others.

  As the group walked their horses down the gentle slope to the edge of the camp, a picket of archers fanned out, arrows casually knocked on the strings of their tall war bows. Correia held her empty hands out wide. The others did the same.

  ‘Spymaster Burr,’ she announced. ‘I’m here to speak with Bratby. Move aside.’

  ‘I love it when she talks like that,’ Sav said, louder than everyone thought necessary, his confidence once again high after the words he and Correia had shared at their hillock camp. One of Correia’s hands lowered all but one finger. Sav laughed, others smiled, including most of the archers facing them.

  Before those archers could make a decision on whether to let the group through or not, despite their smiles and grunts of mirth at Correia and Sav, a sergeant-at-arms in Suttel colours strode from between two tents, shield on back, hand on sheathed sword. He waved his free hand to shoo the archers away and beckoned for Correia to move forward.

  ‘Greetings, milady,’ he said, southern accent strong. ‘The Earl of Bratby isn’t available, but his son will see you, if you have time to wait on him?’

  Correia stopped her horse before the sergeant and scanned the camp, saying nothing, nostrils flaring. The pause was awkward, with everyone bar Correia chewing lips or looking anywhere but the now nervous sergeant.

  With a simple nod, Correia rode forward, allowing her horse’s reins to be taken by the man.

  ‘Where is the marquess?’ Correia asked.

  The sergeant shrugged. ‘Not for me to say, milady. None of us are sure, bar his son and his officers, of course.’

  ‘And the army’s purpose?’ she asked, noticing carpenters sawing, nailing and fixing together wood in the ominous shapes of siege engine components.

  Another shrug.

  ‘Not your place, eh?’ she said, unamused.

  ‘That’s right, milady.’

  The rest of the walk through camp passed in silence, apart from the usual camp noises; dogs barked, men shouted and others laughed. Metal clanged as field forges were worked by smithy teams whilst horses whinnied and pack animals lowed and bleated. A cockerel crowed and Pecker attempted a reply. Sav laughed. Gleave glared.

  On top of the sounds were the smells. The group pulled various faces as they passed butchered animals, open latrines and the general sweat and stink of hundreds of men and camp followers.

  ‘Here we go, milady,’ the sergeant said, leading the group to a bell tent striped red and black.

  ‘Whose tent is this?’ Correia asked, brow furrowed.

  ‘Sir Thomas Gaskin’s, milady. He’s a day or so away, so won’t be needing it yet. I knew it to be f
ree, so thought you might want it whilst you wait on Sir Allon, the Earl’s son.’ He grinned at Correia as she dropped from her saddle. The others copied her movement.

  ‘And I’m expected to wait here for how long, that I need a tent?’

  Fal and Sav winced, expecting the sergeant’s shrug to be followed by a clout, or at least a sharp word, but Correia sighed and nodded.

  ‘Very well, Sergeant. Have me brought to Sir Allon as soon as he’s willing, I have pressing news for him since his father is absent.’ The sergeant inclined his head and made off at a quickened pace.

  ‘Nice tent,’ Gleave said, checking the seams after placing Pecker down in a corner, the bird sleeping soundly.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Correia agreed, pulling Gleave round to face her. ‘And I want no trouble from you. Do you understand me this time?’ Gleave’s smile faded. He swallowed hard and nodded once. ‘I mean it,’ Correia went on. ‘Nothing like last time we were in someone else’s camp. I know what Mearson, Tom and you did.’

  Gleave sucked in a breath and rubbed his mangled ear whilst his narrowed eyes looked anywhere but Correia’s. She let him go with a shove and he almost stumbled, what with his injured leg. ‘Go see what you can find out before settling and changing your dressings. You too, Errolas.’ She pointed into the camp and the two disappeared.

  ‘What did they do?’ Sav asked. The look he received may not have answered the question, but it was enough to silence him.

  ‘Shall we make a fire?’ Starks said, turning away from Correia and Sav.

  ‘Aye, let’s,’ Fal agreed, rushing off with Starks to source firewood.

  ‘Think I’ll tie up and tend the horses,’ Sav said, since he’d been handed everyone’s reins bar Correia’s. She handed him hers and he moved away.

  Taking a deep breath, Correia took one more look about, at the tents and the curious faces looking back, and ducked into the dark, striped tent to find space to think.

  ***

  Flavell laughed and leaned in to Croal, the formal bench they sat upon doing little to deter their closeness.

  ‘I think I threw up a little in my mouth,’ Amis said, watching from his standing position by the window, always by a window.

  ‘I might have done the same,’ the Earl of Bratby said.

  Amis glanced sidelong at the Altolnan Earl, a smile creeping across his face. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you properly, Messire Bratby.’

  ‘Please, Amis, call me Giles. I insist. We’re both prisoners here, although yours is of a different internment to mine.’

  Amis chuckled and nodded. ‘I can’t argue that, messire.’

  Giles rolled his eyes. ‘You chevaliers struggle to drop formalities, don’t you?’

  Amis shrugged. ‘I can’t speak for all chevaliers, Giles,’ he glanced sideways again and smiled, Giles doing the same, ‘but I have to agree that I do indeed find it hard. I’m no hedge knight, but grow up with your betters reminding you that they’re your betters, day in, day out, despite my family having a certain standing of their own, and you start to believe it.’

  ‘I never said I wasn’t your better, lad.’

  There was an awkward pause until Giles laughed and Amis followed suit.

  ‘Look at her,’ Amis said a moment later, nodding for Giles to do just that. ‘My master sends her here to attempt a coupling with this powerful family and she takes to it like a—’

  ‘Pig to shit?’

  Amis laughed. ‘Yes, although I was going to say a duck to water.’

  ‘You care for her?’

  The question struck Amis, but he recovered well. ‘In a way, messire. In a way.’

  ‘You’d bed her if you could? She is beautiful; does something to the loins, like a kick, but a pleasant one if there is such a thing.’

  Amis’ eyes were wide as he turned to the powerful man next to him.

  Giles held up both hands. ‘I meant no offence. Man-talk is all.’

  Nodding, Amis turned back to the now kissing couple. I like these Altolnans, Amis admitted.

  ‘Didn’t take them long, did it?’

  Amis shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘And all because you slotted Croal in the tourney.’

  ‘My first.’

  Giles’ barked laugh drew looks from the canoodling couple, as well as from the normally unseen servants dotted about the room. ‘Truly?’ Giles said, turning on Amis.

  ‘She wanted me to tilt, so I did. I had to borrow men to assist, and lances. I borrowed them from the very man I beat. I had to borrow some armour too, since mine is for guarding her on the road, not charging in for an intended lance strike.’

  Giles nodded. ‘Nasty business, jousting, at times. The armour thickens each year, but so too do the lances.’ He grunted a laugh. ‘Lost my youngest son to it two years past.’ Giles flinched at the hand which appeared on his arm.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, messire.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ Giles said, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, before smiling at Amis, who removed his hand and offered a sympathetic smile in return.

  ‘He loved it,’ Giles went on. ‘He died doing what he loved. People say that, have always said that and I never quite understood. Imagine this though, Amis. Imagine never being able to do as you please, with anything. Then imagine dying. You wouldn’t know about it of course, you’d be dead and buried, unless you believe in better places and all that, as most do. But, how dull, no? My lad, he did everything he wanted. I wasn’t a pushover, mind, and nor is my wife, but we allowed him to pursue all sorts, from archery – despite being of noble birth – to falconry, and finally tourney fighting and jousting. He was wicked with a longsword.’ Giles took Amis’ shoulder and squeezed it tight, a light in his eyes. ‘You should have seen how he handled such a weapon, Amis. Using every part of it to score points and win!’ Giles’ enthusiasm fell away. ‘Jousting, however…’ He turned back to the room, eyes set on nothing in particular. Amis listened, intently. ‘Well, jousting wasn’t his thing. You won your first tilt, Amis, and my son lost his, along with his life. Oh, how he loved it though. The training and preparation, the wearing of the Suttel colours on his shield and surcoat and mount’s trapper. The cheering and the excitement. He was as happy as I’d ever seen him, before I placed that helm, very similar to the sugarloaf you wore, upon his head.’ Giles smiled. ‘My last look upon my son was a happy one, Amis.’ There was a long pause, with nought but the sound of giggling and whispers coming from Flavell and Croal in the centre of the room. Amis said nothing, awaiting Giles’ continued tale. Eventually the man went on. ‘I didn’t allow his helmet to be removed after his death.’

  ‘I can understand that, messire,’ Amis said, after a while.

  Giles nodded and smiled. ‘I reckon you could, lad. I reckon you could.’ With another deep breath, Giles turned and slapped Amis on the arm. ‘Come, let us leave these love birds to their lips and tongues and find some mead to quaff, instead of this Samorl forsaken wine they keep thrusting upon us, eh?’

  Amis hesitated as Giles took off.

  ‘Come, de Valmont,’ Giles said without turning. ‘That’s an order from one of your betters. The lass is fine with Croal, he’s a bloody pussycat compared to most around here.’ With a barked laugh, Giles left the room. After a few moments, eyes locked on Flavell, who was locked on Croal, Amis followed.

  Chapter 13 – Spaulders

  The tent flap opened, letting in a burst of camp noise; dogs, horses and hundreds of people talking and shouting, all accompanied by a strong smell of wood smoke.

  Sav looked up, back down and back up as Gleave limped into the tent.

  ‘King’s teeth, Gleave,’ Sav said, ‘where’d you get plate spaulders?’

  Gleave’s armoured shoulders scraped together as he shrugged.

  ‘They’re expensive,’ Starks said, looking up in awe at the polished strips of steel.

  ‘Found ’em. No big deal.’ Gleave took a seat on the cot opposite the others, groaning as he lowe
red himself.

  Correia, who was crouched nearest to Gleave and threading a leather thong through her left boot, was clearly unimpressed. ‘Found them where, Gleave?’ she asked, without looking up from her work.

  ‘Lying about they were.’

  ‘Lying about,’ Correia repeated. ‘Plate spaulders, lying about.’ She closed her eyes and drew in a long, steady breath. ‘Lying about, where?’

  ‘In a posh looking tent…’

  Sav and Starks laughed. Correia pushed her tongue into her left cheek and glared at Gleave.

  ‘Not a campaign tent,’ he went on, with no apparent care for self-preservation. ‘I mean a real posh, colourful thing. Even nicer than this one,’ he added, looking about the canvas walls. ‘Was even darker inside. Funny that, ain’t it? Brightly coloured on the outside, dark on the inside. Worked in my favour though.’

  Fal spoke for the first time, rolling over to look across the tent at Gleave and the spaulders.

  ‘What were you doing in a tent like that?’

  Gleave shook his head as he picked at his dirt-filled nails. ‘Wrong question, Fal.’

  Fal screwed up his face, as did Starks. Correia continued to glare at Gleave whilst Sav laughed.

  ‘Fal,’ Sav said, ‘you need to ask ‘who’ was he doing in a tent like that, not ‘what’. Right, Gleave?’

  Gleave grinned and Correia stood, having tied her boot’s thong into a knot. She cringed and left the tent, calling behind her, ‘I’d rather not know anymore.’

  Starks looked even more impressed now. ‘Who was she, Gleave?’

  ‘Damned if I know.’ Gleave brushed his spaulders off carefully as he spoke. ‘But I got more out of it than I was hoping for.’ He grinned again then stood with a wince. ‘Better go and green these.’ He tapped his new armour. ‘As nice and shiny as they are, they ain’t gonna do us any good if they draw attention to us in Sirreta—’