My men. That told Caius and the rest of them that the whispers of the man being the de Wrenville heir were more than likely true. He was young and strong, with pale eyes and pale hair, and he had a Nordic look about him.
He also had an entitled and arrogant manner.
Caius sensed that was nothing pleasant there.
“Is that so?” he said after a moment. “These are your men, are they?”
“They are.”
“Then introduce yourself.”
“Marius de Wrenville, son of Covington de Wrenville,” he said. “Baron Darliston. Surely you have heard of him.”
“I have not.”
It was a blow to the man’s ego. “Then you must not know very much about the important men in England,” he said, trying to shame him.
But Caius grinned. It was a genuine gesture at the audacity of the young warrior. It amused him. But unlike de Wrenville, Caius knew when to keep his mouth shut.
He didn’t have the time or the inclination to engage with an idiot.
“Come along, my prideful lad,” he said. “We are here to drink, not speak on England’s nobility. I believe it is my turn to go first this time and we shall see who is left upright after this round.”
“Do not rush me,” Marius said, waving him off. “I am here to celebrate, you know. I have been recalled home. I have been drinking all day and, still, I am drinking. With all of that, do you not think that I can match you?”
“I think that you are about to collapse.”
True as it was, that only seemed to infuriate de Wrenville. That lazy, conceited expression vanished.
“Fool,” he hissed. “Do you not know when you have met your match?”
“I do, actually. And you are not it.”
De Wrenville’s face turned red. Caius gazed at him with an unwavering stare, silently daring him to snap back. In a show of surprising restraint, the young heir made no sound even though his mouth was working, and de Wolfe uncorked the fourth bottle to the cheer of those standing around the table. He poured at least two swallows into the cup in front of Caius and also into the cup in front of the de Wrenville heir. The wine wasn’t red, but more amber-colored, and once the drink was poured, men began cheering on their particular drinker.
“Are you ready?” Caius asked, lifting his cup. “Time to prove your worth, young pup.”
De Wrenville stiffened, baring his teeth, but Caius was already in motion. He was the first to lift the cup to his lips, taking a deep breath before throwing back the drink, holding it in his mouth for a moment, and then ingesting it all in one big swallow.
He remained upright.
The table roared.
The pressure was on de Wrenville, who’s angry expression had faded when he realized Caius wasn’t going down. His men were muttering words of encouragement, slapping him on the shoulder, trying to bolster his courage to take yet one more drink of the powerful wine.
One more drink!
The moment of truth had arrived.
De Wrenville finally nodded and one of his friends held the cup to his lips. He opened his mouth, the contents were poured in, and he tried to swallow. He made a valiant effort at it. But half of it came spraying out as he coughed, choked, and ended up falling over backwards.
He was unconscious before he hit the floor.
The table exploded in cheers and laughter, some men winning, some men losing, and all the while, de Wolfe was extolling the drinking skill of Caius d’Avignon. Some of the tavern workers, who had been watching the drinking match, rushed off for buckets of cold water, one of which they dumped on de Wrenville to revive him and the other one tossed right into Caius’ face as he sat at the table.
Water splashed everywhere as men continued to laugh and exchange money. De Wrenville, still unconscious, was dragged away by his men. One of the servants who worked at The Pox approached Caius with a bar towel made from linen, handing it to him so that he could wipe his face. It wasn’t very absorbent, but he took it anyway.
“Well?” Bric said in his heavy Irish accent. “How do you feel?”
Caius was dripping wet from the shoulders up. He was still blowing water out of his mouth, even after he had wiped his face with the towel.
“That depends,” he said. “How much money did we make?”
The knights began counting their coinage.
“Six pounds,” Bric said.
“Four pounds,” Kevin said.
Morgan, Peter, Dashiell, and Gareth were all counting their money. Between the four of them, they’d made almost fifteen pounds, and Caius wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t add that all up in his head. Truth be told, his head was swimming and he was reluctant to move for fear of falling on his face, but almost twenty-five pounds made it all worthwhile.
“I get half of that for defeating that arrogant halfwit,” he said, pounding the table in front of him with a big fist. “Give me my winnings, you bloody vultures. How dare you force me to drink simply so you can make money.”
They were grinning, but dutifully handed over half of what they made. It ended up in a big pile in front of Caius, who was pleased at the results. He pulled out his coin purse in a clumsy gesture, stuffing it full of the silver coins he’d been given. But he was starting to see double, which was never a good sign, so he tucked his coin purse away and grabbed Bric by the arm.
“Food,” he said. “Bring me food and boiled fruit juice so I can walk from this place at some point tonight.”
Bric was still grinning as he motioned to Morgan and Gareth, who charged off towards the rear of the crowded place in search of a meal for Caius. Then, Bric, Dashiell, Peter, and Kevin sat down at the table, stealing a chair from a nearby table by pushing a man off of it. The man plummeted to the dirt floor, leaping to his feet as if ready for a fight, but the sight of Dashiell and Kevin posturing threateningly dampened his sense of revenge. Triumphant over the stolen chair, Kevin sat down upon it.
“Alice, my sweet, what joys you teach,
With some wine and a good deal of piffle.
My love for you grew,
Until the time that I knew
That Alice had a phallus, ’tis true!”
It was Caius at the end of the table, drunkenly singing a song in his surprisingly glorious baritone. It was a song only suitable for taverns and when he sang it a second time, they all joined in. Kevin’s off-key rendition made Bric clap his hand over the man’s mouth midway through. They’d barely finished the second round when another group of knights neared their table, calling out to Caius as the man sat there and tried to stay upright.
“A wager!” a knight in the gold and green colors of the House of de Rydal called out. As his friends tried to stop him, he brushed them off. “I’ll wager my drunken friend can walk a straight line better than you can, Giant.”
Caius heaved a heavy sigh as he looked over at the knight. He was laughing, indicating a half-unconscious knight he was supporting. Before he could brush them off, Bric was on his feet, kicking the raucous pair away.
“Get out of here, you filthy rats,” he said, shoving at them and slapping one man in the head. “You are no match for The Britannia Viper, so be gone with you.”
Those within ear shot were laughing, including those at the table with Caius. The challenge had been in good fun and in a place like this, everything was up for a wager. Earlier in the evening, they’d seen men bet on who would vomit first from all of the ale they’d been drinking. Then it was a bet on how far the vomit would go. That’s what made a place like this so much fun and, in truth, so very dangerous. William Marshal didn’t like his men to visit the place.
There were no rules at The Pox.
Bric turned back to the table, grinning.
“Idiots,” he muttered.
Peter de Lohr looked at him, exasperated. “Why did you chase them off?” he demanded. “It would have been certain money!”
As Bric snorted at him, Caius held up a hand. “Mayhap not,” he said. “I am not e
ntirely sure I can stand right now, much less walk a straight line, so mayhap it is best we do not tempt fate. Let us eat our meal and be done with this place. I have a strong urge to find my bed and stay there.”
Peter grinned at a man he’d not known a long time, but someone he had come to admire a great deal. He knew that Caius had served Richard the Lionheart in The Levant, part of the close circle of the king’s trusted men that included Peter’s father, Christopher de Lohr. Caius was jovial and witty at times, and great fun to be around, but that was deceiving. He was also one of the most brilliant, deadly tacticians around, and in battle he was unmatched. His reputation was so well-known that the Saracen commanders called him Britania Faybr –
The Britannia Viper.
He was big, fast, and deadly.
“If you are bedding down at The Marshal’s townhome, then you must tell him you got drunk somewhere other than The Pox,” Peter said. “And you must not, under any circumstances, tell him that I was with you. He will tell my father and the man will ride all the way from the Welsh Marches to take a stick to me. You remember what happened last year when he found out I had come here. With my sister, no less.”
Caius grunted with humor. In fact, they all did. “You mean Lady de Sherrington?” Caius said, referring to Peter’s younger sister, Christin, who had enjoyed a stellar career as part of William Marshal’s spy ring until she married one of the best agents The Marshal had in Alexander de Sherrington. “I hear your father has made her remain at Lioncross Abbey Castle and refuses to let her out.”
Peter smirked. “I believe it has more to do with the fact that she has just had a child and not because he is trying to cage her,” he said. “Sherry agrees with him, though he has remained with my father in command of his army since the passing of my father’s captain, Jeffrey Kessler. In any case, when my father found out I permitted Christin to come to The Pox, he yelled at me for two days.”
Caius snorted. “You survived.”
“Barely. Being scolded by my father is not pleasant, Cai.”
Caius wagged a finger at him. “You forget that I served with your father in The Levant,” he said. “Christopher de Lohr is terrifying in any shape or form. And why are you not in command of your father’s army? Why Sherry? Aren’t you his heir?”
Peter shook his head. “Nay, I’m not.”
“But you are his eldest son.”
Peter nodded. “I am, but I’m his bastard,” he said quietly. When Caius gave him a blank expression, he smiled wryly. “Did you not know that?”
Caius was trying to think on that, but his alcohol-soaked brain refused to work properly. “I do not know,” he said. “Mayhap I heard that, once, but I cannot recall.”
Peter became mildly subdued from his boisterous behavior just moments before. “He did not even know of me until I was eight years of age,” he said. “My mother, the woman who gave birth to me, died in an accident and I came to live with him. My father’s earldom will go to my brother, Curtis. He is the eldest son of my father and his wife, Dustin.”
Caius cocked his head, curious, trying not to fall over when he did so. “You call Lady de Lohr your mother. I suppose I did not realize that she was not.”
Peter shook his head. “She is not, but she has raised me as her own,” he said. “She never treated me any differently. To me, she is my mother. I was fortunate enough to have two.”
Caius stared at him a moment before shrugging. “I have known your father for many years and now I feel like a fool,” he said. “Forgive me, Peter. If I was told this, I do not recall.”
Peter remained subdued a moment longer as if reflecting on the lot life had dealt him, as the bastard son – and eldest child – of a great earl, before forcing a smile. “It does not matter,” he said. “Even though I do not inherit the earldom, my father has made it so that I will inherit property, so I will certainly not be destitute. Curt will make an excellent earl when the time comes.”
They were cut off from further conversation as the food began to arrive. Morgan and Gareth were followed by a veritable parade of servants who began to put all manner of food on the table before them. Big trenchers full of boiled beef and carrots, and crispy cakes made from diced parsnips, onions, and egg, fried in fat until they were golden-brown were laid out. There were also smaller bowls with onions and gravy poured over chunks of stale bread.
In all, it was quite a feast and the knights dug into the food. Everyone at the table had more wine with their meal except for Caius, who had boiled apple juice with cinnamon and cloves and honey in it. A serving wench brought a big pitcher of it and he drank liberally as he stuffed his face with the succulent beef.
In truth, he wasn’t feeling much like eating and his head was swimming, but he knew the food and fruit juice would help him get his equilibrium back enough so that he could walk the half-mile back to William Marshal’s townhome of Farringdon House. He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to tell The Marshal about where he’d been – where they’d all been – but he’d think of something. He was, if nothing else, resourceful.
Unfortunately, time was not on his side.
As Caius and the other men devoured the meal and the good bread that a wench had brought to the table, the front door of the tavern lurched open and the moldy, stale smell of the river wafted in on the evening breeze. It pushed aside the smoke of the place, mingling with it to create a nauseating stench.
But the open tavern door revealed two more of The Marshal’s men, pushing through the crowd. They were clearly searching for their own kind and spied them just about the time Caius glanced up from his meal. Before he could react, Kevin, sitting next to him, was on his feet.
“Over here!” he said, lifting an arm to wave the pair of knights over. “Have my seat, Sean. I’ll get another.”
Sir Sean de Lara was Kevin’s older brother. An enormous man with a fearsome reputation, he was wearing a cloak with a hood up over his head because, unlike The Marshal’s men who moved about freely, Sean was not privileged enough to do that. He did, indeed, serve William Marshal, but he served the man in the capacity of the personal bodyguard to the king, keeping an eye on the king and being privy to the king’s inner circle, so moments when he publicly mingled with The Marshal’s men were rare.
Normally, Sean kept tightly to John’s side as a terrifying henchman known as the Lord of the Shadows, whose loyalties publicly were with John. Whatever dirty deed the king wished, Sean would do. But privately, he was a spy who served William Marshal and as a mole to the king, his work was invaluable.
Invaluable and reputation-destroying.
But tonight, he had come away from his post, and it was a moment not lost on Caius. In fact, it concerned him to simply see the man.
“Wait,” he said, stopping Kevin as he went to throw another man off a chair and confiscate it. He turned to Sean. “I am assuming you’ve not come to join us.”
As Sean shook his head, the second Marshal knight came to stand next to him. Maxton of Loxbeare was one of the original Executioner Knights, a specialty group of assassins within The Marshal’s stable. A big man with dark hair and dark eyes, he was unpredictable and dangerous, which made him the perfect assassin. He was also deeply loyal to his fellow knights and a man of great command ability. He came alongside the table, his focus on Caius.
“We thought we’d find you here,” Maxton said, looking with some disapproval around the table. “Don’t you lot know better than this? If The Marshal finds out, there will be hell to pay.”
A lecture from Maxton was not meant to be taken lightly and those at the table tried not to look guilty. Except for Caius; he and Maxton were very old and very good friends. Maxton was the perfect assassin, but Caius could match him and then some. There was great mutual respect.
He grunted at the man.
“You and I and Kress and Achilles have been in worse places than this,” he muttered, mentioning the names of the other Executioner Knights. “Do you recall that place in Iskenderun
? The one by the sea where all of the Black Sea pirates would haunt?”
The corner of Maxton’s mouth twitched with a smile at the memory. “We are not speaking of Iskenderun.”
Caius reached up and grabbed his arm, shaking it as if to pull the man in on the humorous and frightening memories. “Aye, we are,” he said deliberately. “Remember the woman who wandered the place in her big, dark robes and would strike up a conversation with a man only to have her children emerge from under her robes and rob the man blind? She did it to Achilles and he thought her children were midgets. Remember? He tried to fight one of them and then realized he was doing battle with a ten-year-old boy who nearly bested him.”
Maxton couldn’t hold back the grin. “Shut your lips, you drunkard. We are not here to discuss Achilles’ failings as a warrior.”
When it came to their friend and comrade, Achilles de Dere, no insult was too great. Caius burst into laughter as Sean watched with mild amusement.
“Cai,” he said. “If I were you, I would sober up quickly. The Marshal has asked to see you.”
They were back on the subject of Sean and Maxton’s appearance. Caius looked at him. “Sean, my beauteous lad,” he said. “I see two of you and you are twice as gorgeous. But you can see that I am clearly in no position to face The Marshal.”
Sean looked at Maxton, who shook his head and looked away, grinning. “How did you get so drunk?” Sean demanded. “I’ve seen you drink bottle after bottle of wine and feel nothing. What in the hell is the matter with you?”
Caius cocked a dark eyebrow and pointed to the men around the table. “You have these jackasses to thank,” he said. “They bet a man rumored to be the heir to the House of de Wrenville that I could outdrink him. Well, I did. I won. Now we are all richer for it.”
The smiles vanished off the faces of Maxton and Sean.
“The de Wrenville heir,” Maxton repeated hesitantly. “Marius de Wrenville?”
Caius lifted his shoulders. “I do not know his name,” he said. “And I do not care. So long as I have his money.”
Winter of Solace (The Executioner Knights Book 5) Page 2