Black Arrow

by J. P. Ashman

  ‘Yes,’ Giles said flatly, unimpressed. ‘There better be more than that, lad. To wake me so.’

  ‘There is,’ Amis promised, voice low. He stepped into the room, fixing Giles’ inquisitive gaze with a confident one of his own. ‘The marquis has closed the borders to his lands.’

  Giles shrugged. ‘He’d already done—’

  ‘No, Giles,’ Amis corrected, before Giles could go on. ‘He’s closed them completely. To anyone! Even Sirretan messengers; even his own nephew, Croal.’

  There was silence. Amis could see Giles milling over what he’d been told. He clearly hadn’t heard the same.’

  ‘Messire—’

  Giles raised a hand and rubbed his face with them both. ‘He has me trapped,’ he said, with a finality to his tone.

  Amis pulled his lips into a tight, sympathetic smile. ‘No ransom will get through, no.’

  Giles released a short, bitter laugh. ‘The paranoid old shit of a man has done me over.’ Giles looked back to Amis. ‘If they truly have an Orismaran scout, a force won’t be far behind, and no border closure is going to stop that. Not the sort of force that’s made its way this far north. All it’ll stop is the genuine messengers and poor bastard refugees.’ Giles cursed and turned full circle, hands linked behind his greying head.

  ‘They’re coming, aren’t they, messire? The bastards are marching on us?’

  ‘I think that they are. And I think that the old coot knows it. He’s pulling his head and legs into his shell and hoping these fucking walls will protect him.’

  Amis frowned. ‘How though? How can an Orismaran army reach The Marches?’

  ‘The coastal road is my bet, lad.’ Giles crossed to a dresser and poured a glass of brandy. Turning, he gave it to Amis and poured himself one. ‘The Sirretan pricks in Lejeune will have pulled everything back to them if their capital and queen are threatened. They care little if another force marches, or lands, on the coast; towards my borders and Royce. The Sirretan nobles likely expect Hugh Torquill to ride out with his army, Royce’s Reds and all, to deal with Sirreta’s problems for them.’

  ‘But they’re coming here, not to Royce, from what Croal has been told?’

  ‘And why not, eh? This goat turd of a marquis is no Earl fucking Royce, lad. I tell you that.’

  Amis nodded. ‘And if they take Easson and this side of The Marches—’

  ‘They cut much of Sirreta off from direct aid and have a lovely spot to launch an assault into Altoln; next campaign season, mind, we have that at least. It’s too late in the year to do all they’d need to do now and march into Altoln proper.’ Giles shrugged. ‘Although, that depends how quickly they take Easson.’ He sighed at the thought.

  ‘We need to leave, messire. Leave before we’re caught in a siege.’

  Giles rocked back a bit at that. ‘You’d leave Mademoiselle de Steedon?’

  Amis rocked back the same. ‘I’d do no such thing! We’ll take her with us.’

  ‘With guards about and roads closed?’ Giles may have been questioning the idea, but Amis spied a glint in the older man’s eyes.

  ‘Where there’s a will, messire…’ Amis winked at Giles, who grunted a laugh.

  ‘So they say, lad, so they say.’

  Both men downed their brandy together.

  ‘There’s more,’ Amis said after sighing pleasantly at the taste and burn of the spirit. Giles poured a second round and waited for Amis to go on.

  ‘The Orismaran scout claims to be Altolnan, despite his darker skin and tribal tattoos.’

  A bark of laughter this time from Giles, followed by a clink of glasses.

  ‘Of course he did, lad.’ Giles continued to chuckle at the thought. ‘Of course he did,’ he repeated, before locking a serious stare on Amis. ‘I owe you for coming here, Amis. For telling me this.’

  Nodding to that, Amis added more. ‘The Orismaran claimed to be a pathfinder, I’ve not long ago learnt - there’s benefits to standing in on Flavell and Croal’s conversations.’ He grinned. The grin passed as quickly as it’d come and Amis levelled a serious look on Giles once more. He’d seen the look of recognition the Altolnan had revealed to the pathfinder title. ‘You know of what he speaks, Giles?’ Amis switched to the familiar, as Giles had told him to do repeatedly during their time together. He hoped it would bring forth the truth of it.

  Giles’ brow remained furrowed, more so than normal. Several moments of nothing passed by and Amis let it, giving Giles time to think. When nothing came, he prompted the man.

  ‘You’re troubled by this news the most?’

  Giles nodded. ‘Troubled, aye. Troubled, intrigued and hopeful all at once.’

  It was Amis’ turn to frown. He swirled the second brandy around in the glass.

  ‘If he’s a pathfinder,’ Giles explained, ‘he is indeed Altolnan. And if that’s true, we may have a way out, after all.’

  ‘How so?’

  Giles knocked back his brandy and poured a third. ‘I shall tell you, my friend. I shall tell you…’

  Confident in their plans should the opportunity arise, Giles and Amis settled into conversations of other matters.

  ‘And what of her now, Amis? Do you trust she is safe in her room, in this chateau?’

  Amis frowned. ‘You think Croal would attempt to—’

  ‘Croal?’ Giles laughed. ‘That’d be a matter of bringing things forward for future man and wife, nothing more. No, lad, not Croal. I’d be more worried about that old dog Eudes. You’ve seen how the marquis leers at your lady. You’ve seen how he paws at the maids. And that, my lad, is in front of his court, and his wife!

  ‘Wait!’ Giles wheezed the word as he pushed himself to his feet, in an attempt to chase Amis. The door hung open and all Giles heard was the echoing thud of boots on stone.

  ***

  Flavell tried but failed to scream as the rough hand pressed hard against her mouth, the other pulling at her nightgown, trying to lift it. Eudes’ weight pinned her body to the bed. Eyes wider than ever, Flavell stared at the bloodshot eyes looking back at her, accompanied as they were by the foul, rasping breath of the marquis. Her ears were filled with her own suppressed screams and the awful man’s grunts and curses of exertion as he tried to part her legs and hold them out with his bared knees.

  ‘You think,’ he started, between grunts and curses, delicate hands slapping uselessly against his side and head. ‘You think you can strut in here and wed my nephew… taking our wealth for your unknown family?’

  The question was mute, for Flavell couldn’t answer the man. Her eyes welled, her pale cheeks flushed red and her thighs burnt at the strain of keeping them together. Eudes was a much older man, but strong from years at the tilt and training yards, at hunt or at war.

  ‘There’s no way… I’m losing a valuable asset like Croal… to a title-less whore like you…’ he managed, hands slipping further up, between Flavell’s warm thighs, ‘…without,’ he went on, spittle welling and dropping from his bottom lip, ‘trying you out first… seeing if you—’

  A shout and a clash of steel silenced Eudes’ words and Flavell’s struggles. They held their breaths as more shouts, a curse and a thud came from the far side of the door. Eudes’ grip loosened and Flavell managed to bite the hand over her mouth before screaming as loud as she could. Eudes’ shout of shock and pain joined hers to drown out the noise from the corridor.

  Amis pulled his blooded sword from the blue and white chevroned gambeson of the second man at the door. Blood spilt and the guard attempted to stem the flow before Amis finished him with a pommel to the crown.

  Steeling himself for what was to come, Amis noticed a confused and concerned maid appear from a room down the corridor.

  ‘Fetch the seneschal,’ Amis shouted. ‘Now! Fetch Croal!’

  The ashen-faced girl hoisted skirts and ran.

  Amis turned the handle and threw the door open. With a snarl, he rushed into the room, sword leading. He hardly felt the dull thud across the back
of his head, nor did he see where it came from. All he saw before the light faded was Eudes atop Flavell, her beautiful face a mask of fear.

  Croal ran, two of his retainers at his back. The crying girl he followed, who he’d balled at for having his servants wake him, turned a corner, then another. His heart pounded. He’d got little sense out of the emotional maid, but he knew his uncle’s chateau and he knew where the girl was leading him.

  ‘That sounds like Bratby?’ Croal said to no one in particular. The girl rounded a corner and Croal followed her. The screams and bellowing struck Croal as much as the developing scene in the darkened corridor they entered. The first person he saw was indeed Giles Bratby, who held one of the marquis’ men by the throat, the man’s sword arm gripped and held out wide by the large Earl.

  ‘What is the meaning of this, Bratby?’ Croal demanded, slowing to a fast walk as the maid shot inside a closer room and slammed the door. Croal’s sword was in his hand, although he had no recollection of drawing the thing. Giles’ eyes remained locked on the open doorway before him, rather than on the armoured man he held or the approaching men.

  ‘Bratby!’ Croal yelled, coming to a stop a swords length away.

  Giles practically growled. ‘Stay there, pup,’ he said, without turning to address Croal and his retainers. The guard Giles held cried out in pain as Giles twisted his sword arm further, the wrong way.

  ‘I’ve stopped,’ Croal said, fearing the sound of soon to be breaking bones or joints or both. ‘Now explain yourself, messire.’

  ‘It’s your bastard uncle who needs explain himself, lad.’

  Croal frowned. A moment passed in which he heard his uncle’s muffled voice from Flavell’s room; the bottom fell out of Croal’s stomach.

  ‘Uncle?’ Croal moved forward, chest heaving, regardless of Giles or his squirming prisoner. Heart thudding in his ears, Croal, loyal men at his back, forced Giles from his path, stumbled over a bloody mess of a man in the doorway and screamed his uncle’s name as he surged into his beloved’s bed chamber. Croal almost fell over another prone form: Amis. Eyes moving up from the downed chevalier, Croal took in his half-dressed uncle, who stood to the side of the bed, knife to Flavell’s throat. Her face was red, cheeks wet. Her bosom heaved within her white nightgown and she struggled against Eudes’ grip.

  ‘Stop there, boy,’ Eudes said. ‘This doesn’t concern the Queen’s Seneschal—’

  ‘Doesn’t concern me?’ Croal balked. He found it hard to talk, hard to breath. His palms were slick with sweat and he checked the grip on his familiar sword, the weight a comfort in the confusing, tumultuous situation.

  ‘I needed to see what the little bitch was really about—’

  ‘Don’t lie to him, Eudes,’ Giles shouted from the corridor, the marquis’ man held firm. ‘He’s your bloody nephew, for ’morl’s sake.’

  ‘Croal,’ Flavell managed, between sobs.

  ‘Quiet!’ Eudes commanded, his knife pressing in to her pale skin so much it was a wonder it didn’t break.

  Croal stepped forward, sword raised. He’d taken on an offensive posture without thinking. Years of training took over, his muscles comfortably raising the length of steel to such a place, ready to strike where and when needed, or defend should it come to it.

  Eudes laughed at his nephew. ‘Oh, come on, boy,’ he said, spittle flecking his claret-stained bottom lip. ‘You’ll not act so over a bitch. Come to your senses. Half the shites running around Easson are mine. You think I would let this fine bit pass me by?’

  Croal’s snarl was enough to cause Eudes to take a shocked step back, pulling Flavell with him as he went.

  ‘Harm her and I shall gut you, Uncle. You mark my words. I’ll gut you and hang you from your own gatehouse, like you’ve done to others in the past.’

  ‘You haven’t the stomach for it, Croal. Now put that sword down. Now!’

  ‘He’s mad—’

  ‘Quiet, Bratby,’ Croal said, without turning. ‘Or I’ll gut you too so help me White.’

  ‘You know what’s coming, lad,’ Giles went on anyway. ‘You know the folly of your uncle’s actions. Hiding away in his chateau so he can rape—’

  ‘I said quiet!’ Croal screamed.

  Flavell used the shock of that outburst to break free of Eudes’ grip, but not before his knife scored a line across the side of her neck. Crying out, white gown spattered red, Flavell fell forward, into Croal’s arms. Eudes lunged after her, knife leading, but Croal’s sword was quicker. It jolted as it caught ribs and slid past vertebrae.

  Eudes dragged the length of steel down to the floor, his own blade clattering on the stone beside him. Croal’s arm and eyes followed it all down. He released the hilt of his sword and wrapped Flavell in a protective embrace as he watched his uncle curl around the bloody blade, attempting to pull at the hilt protruding from his chest. It was a while, without a word or move from any of the onlookers, until Eudes lay still. Silence followed. Even Flavell’s crying had stopped, her hand pressed to the cut on her neck, her red eyes, along with everyone else’s, on the body of the former marquis.

  ‘Well… shit…’ Giles said, breaking the silence. The man he held broke free and tried to run. Without an order, one of Croal’s chevaliers chased and cut the man in the same livery as he down, the audible thud and following slaps of his sword reaching Croal. He couldn’t even bare to imagine the thrice hacked man, for his uncle’s bloody corpse stole all his mind could produce.

  ‘Go for help,’ the man with the bloody sword said to the other. ‘I’ll watch Croal.’ He walked back to stand by the doorway, peering into the room. ‘It’s all yours now, Sieur—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Croal snapped, throwing a dangerous look his chevalier’s way. The man nodded and stepped back.

  Flavell buried her head into Croal’s shoulder, floods of emotions breaking free. She shook and cried again as he held her, rocked her, told her she was safe.

  ‘What will you do now?’ Giles asked, leaning on the door.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Croal admitted, eyes back on the body of his uncle. ‘I don’t know.’

  Shouts came from a way off down the corridor.

  ‘They’re yours, Sieur,’ the chevalier behind Giles confirmed.

  Croal didn’t care. He hugged his love and merely nodded at his man’s words. Flavell continued to weep as multiple boots neared.

  Amis groaned and stirred.

  Croal’s men were sent through the chateau, quickly, quietly and in some cases brutally. Their orders were simple: turn those men who they thought they could turn, and kill those they knew to be loyal to the late marquis and his wife. The marquise and her children were locked in their chambers as servants ran and cried, shouted and, again, in some cases died. Croal couldn’t risk a knife in the back by one of his uncle’s supporters, whether soldier or laundress. His men knew them all, knew who they could rely on and trust, or buy. There was no doubt in Croal’s mind that some old scores were to be settled by his men, without his knowing, but he was, in a way, glad they would be dealt with, rather than hanging over him and his loyal few. There were troubling times enough heading their way.

  ‘It’s done, Sieur.’ The chevalier was breathing heavily, the blue and white chevrons he wore spattered red.

  Face grim, Croal nodded.

  ‘Are the borders to remain closed?’

  ‘Yes, for now at least. Send more men out in the morning though, at dawn’s break. I want to know who travels my lands.’

  The man failed to hide a smile.

  ‘I did not plan this. Remember that. Have all remaining remember that.’ Croal shook his head and began pacing the dark chamber. His uncle’s body remained where he’d felled it.

  ‘I know, Sieur, but the fact remains… Eudes had no sons. Sieur, you are the new Marquis d’Easson!’

  Croal swallowed hard, his back straighter than it had been, despite his mental and near physical exhaustion at it all. ‘Well, we’ll have time to discuss such things at some poin
t. It’s not as simple as that and titles and such are not my concern right now.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Flavell, Sieur? Is she well?’ he said wisely, changing tack.

  Croal turned and smiled at his man, his friend in comparison to everyone else he knew. ‘Well enough, after all that has happened.’ He looked again to his dead uncle, his dead father’s older brother. His stomach threatened to empty itself, as it kept on trying to do. ‘I sent her with de Valmont. Giles Bratby promised he would stay with them.’

  A babe cried from somewhere nearby and Croal’s eyes narrowed. ‘I want no innocents harmed in this. Not unless there’s no other way. I said that already, didn’t I?’

  The man raised his bloody hands. ‘They won’t be. I’ve warned the men. It’s a babe wanting a tit is all, Sieur. I assure you.’

  ‘Good. Good. Go, ensure all is as it should be. I’m to my aunt’s chambers to… well.’ Swallowing hard, bile burning his throat yet again, Croal offered his man a weak smile before they parted company.

  Rubbing his face hard, Croal de Geelan, Seneschal d’Easson and now, potentially and by rights, marquis of the same, left the room he’d killed his uncle in and locked the door behind him. The thought of facing his aunt twisted his stomach more than anything else.

  Chapter 31 – Enemy on the horizon

  ‘How is your aunt?’ Flavell’s voice wavered from all that had happened. She’d been holed up in Giles’ bed chamber all night, accompanied by Giles himself, and Amis, the latter pacing like a caged beast, hand on the hilt of his sword and, luckily, seemingly unaffected by the knock to the head he’d received.

  Croal smiled weakly and leaned in to Flavell, touching his forehead to hers. He had to, for his eyes couldn’t help but linger on the strip of blood-stained white linen around her neck.

  ‘She struck me,’ he said. ‘Several times. And I let her. How could I not, after what I did?’ The red marks on his face weren’t obvious in the poor light, but they were there, he could feel them.

  ‘I’m sending her away,’ he said finally.