by C. C. Wiley
The men came, surrounding Drem with solemn good cheer and a pitcher of ale. He shook his head, praying he’d heard correctly. Somehow he would find a way to return the favor his king had shown him. Even if that payment involved the life of his father.
Left to his thoughts, Drem knocked back the last gulp of ale and set the mug down. Seagulls called from the bay as they circled over the king’s fleet. James had already returned to Terrwyn’s arms. The newlyweds would soon be headed to the Welsh borders to cut off any intrusions from the west.
Drem was hit with the realization that he had no idea what was to come next. He did not even know where he was to lay his head for the night. The hearth, though casting warmth from the fire, looked about as comfortable as sleeping in armor.
He groaned inwardly as Sir Darrick strode toward him. He fisted two mugs in one hand, a pitcher in the other. Drem itched under his scrutiny. He could tell, king’s edict or no, the knight did not trust him.
“A word or two,” Sir Darrick said.
“Aye?’
Sir Darrick poured a healthy portion for both of them. “You need to understand. You are not a knight yet. Not until Henry has performed the rite.” He held out the filled mug and took a sip from his own. “Despite the trust we’ve placed in you, you’ll be watched closely.”
Drem forced down the outrage that began to pulsate through his blood and pound in his temples. Despite being taken from his home, had he not been a good and loyal servant? “God’s blood,” he ground out. “On my oath as a Knight of the Swan, I will protect my king or die in the task.”
“’Tis because of your new position that your father may make contact.” Sir Darrick tapped his mug to Drem’s. “We are a secret brotherhood. And yet our enemies know of us. I can’t help but wonder how that is, and how I can put a stop to it.”
Sir Darrick rose, the pitcher and mug forgotten. “There is a cot in the corner. You may use it for tonight. Come morning, you may return to your lodgings above the tavern. We’ll give you time before we begin preparations for France. Sleep well, young Knight of the Swan.”
Chapter 2
Brigitte slipped inside the door. The makeshift bedchamber didn’t hold the luxury of a single cot. Instead, the children, cast-offs from the people of Harfleur, slept on pallets made of extra bits of clothing.
“Bee, get over here,” Master Alexandre barked.
The master of the Nest swung his arm overhead. Sweat stains coated the armpits of his leather jerkin and clung to the gray linen of his undertunic. He had obviously had taken time from his busy training schedule to dampen his hair and slick it back. The red satin ribbon tied around the knob of hair stood out like a streak of blood against his blond hair.
Brigitte released the latch she held in a vicelike grip and forced her legs away from the door. “Oui, Master Alexandre,” she said, careful to keep her voice calm. It never served anyone well to let their fear show.
She moved closer to his great chair, keeping enough distance to remain out of arm’s reach. Despite the twenty or more children milling about, the room became quiet, their lack of chatter stifling. She took a step forward.
The smell of bad wine wafted up and met her nose. His dark eyes glittered back at her. She had seen that look before.
Once, the night when she and her mother had been set out on the street. And when the stranger came to their home, threatening Maman and her scrawny brat. And when Maman’s lover had turned his back on them, the owner of the establishment had chased them out of the seaside town. But not before taking what he could. He took all but the brooch her mother had hidden. “For when the days have lost their luster,” mother had whispered.
Brigitte masked her fear, forcing her expression to remain calm and passive. It would do her no good to give away the hiding place of her few treasures.
“Oui, Master Alexandre,” she repeated.
Now, more often than not, the master of the Nest felt threatened. The rages came more frequently. What had displeased him this time?
“So!” He slammed down his empty mug. The table beside him wobbled at impact.
The children in the corner of the room began to shuffle and whimper. Brigitte flinched when he bolted from his chair.
“You guaranteed you’d train the new children personally. Instead, I hear that you bought Piers’s bread. You even read to them from the public notices.” He moved closer. The graceful steps belied his need for a cane.
“He is not suited for this.”
“His training is incomplete. You’ve been warned before, Bee. You cannot save anyone from what they are. From what you are.”
Alexandre’s flushed cheeks brightened with his temper. She braced for his rebuke and hoped he would understand this time. She once had called this man her friend. They had found themselves lost, abandoned by society. He had taken her in and shown her how to survive. There had to be some small portion of the kindhearted young man who had held her hand and led her to safety so many years before. “The children deserve a chance for something better.”
“Stupid cow. They deserve no more than the rest of us.” He leaned both hands on his cane to steady himself. His eyes narrowed above his pinched mouth. “Where is it?” he snapped.
His red knuckles were white around the joints. Brigitte stepped back. Often his cane became a weapon. “What do . . . do you mean?”
Alexandre lurched toward her. “I told you the only way I’d keep my promise was if you lifted a heavy purse.” He jerked his free hand out to her. “Put it in there.”
Brigitte eyed his palm. Step into my web, said the spider. Meeting his gaze, she held it without batting an eyelash and smiled. “Oh, why didn’t you say so before?” She plopped the gentleman’s purse into his hand.
“Well, well, what have we here?” Alexandre wrapped his long, pale fingers greedily around the pouch. “Though not as heavy as I’d hoped.”
“It should pay for Piers’s food and lodging for another week or two.” She searched his face. “Our bargain fulfilled. As promised.”
His full lips lifted at the corners as he tucked the purse into the hidden pocket inside his jerkin. “Daring chit. Are you telling me my business?”
His cane shot out, rapping her on the arm.
Brigitte sucked in a breath as pain seared through her body. Her knees gave way under her weight. She knelt on the dirty floor, afraid to turn her gaze from his cold stare. She closed her ears to little Piers’s cries of distress.
Still holding Alexandre’s stare, Brigitte reluctantly released her throbbing arm and slowly wiggled her fingers. No broken bones. He would know exactly how hard to bring her to her knees without putting her in a sickbed. ’Twas not an option. Her skills were too valuable to the Nest. Without her, they would struggle to read the banns and learn which homes were left vacant. Or which lady or gentleman might be carrying more gold than usual.
“You steal from me.” He pushed the cane down on her shoulder, digging into the sensitive flesh covering the bone.
Brigitte gasped in surprise.
“I want it all.”
Shivering, Brigitte nodded and rose from her knees. She slid her hand under her skirts, gripped the small pouch she had hidden earlier and yanked it free. The bag ripped open, spilling a few coins over the wooden plank floor.
“Piers!” She tossed the remaining coins in the air. “Run!”
* * *
The lush countryside laced along England’s backroads flashed by in a blur of the morning sun. Drem yawned and shook the weariness from his head. He could not allow his concentration to stray from the task at hand. If he did, he knew he would have already turned his mount around and headed for the nearest tavern. Instead, he followed the road to Dunstable Priory.
The note he had tucked into his jerkin seemed to sear his skin. The damned thing must have been delivered to his room above the tavern while he slept the night at the Cottage by the Sea. It was lying on the table beside his cot, waiting for him to see it first thing. He co
uld not ignore it. The words had stated it was a matter of life or death. He swore under his breath. God’s bones. Mayhap my own death.
Sir Darrick would gladly kill him if he learned of his absence. Though Drem was now a free man, there were enough strings attached that he felt like a prize hart. He had a day, maybe a bit more, before anyone noticed he had made his departure.
On the other hand, if this wild chase led him to his father’s whereabouts, he would use it to his advantage to regain Henry’s complete trust. It wasn’t just the king’s trust he needed. He wanted his position to be without question. Especially with Sir Darrick. It was clear the surly knight despised him.
Drem had to succeed. The threat of repercussions against his family remained.
By midafternoon, he drew Aeron to a halt just outside Dunstable. The church was easy enough to locate. It rose above the villagers’ cottages. The southwest gateway led to the smaller priory. That was where the author of the note had instructed him to go.
Drem stepped through the arched gateway and followed the path leading to the chapel. Warily, with one hand close to his sword, he pushed open the door and slipped inside. The chapel was empty of inhabitants. He strode toward the table holding the great Bible. The leather tome was closed, the clasp locked against unworthy eyes.
“May I help you, my son?”
Drem whirled around, his sword halfway unsheathed. The man who spoke so softly wore a long woolen robe without adornment. He was tall and thin. A halo of snowy white hair covered his head. His only bit of jewelry, a wooden cross that hung from a leather thong around his neck.
“God’s bones!” Heat rushed to his cheeks when he realized the man of the cloth had heard his curse. When the man did not reprimand him, he began to wonder if he was an imposter. Drem refused, now, to believe what anyone said about who they were. His father’s betrayal had taught him that much. To remain armed and untrusting had been his best lesson yet.
“Excuse me . . .”
“Call me Father Timothy, if you must. We’re all brothers in God’s eyes.” His gray eyes twinkled with amusement as he motioned toward the grip Drem had on his sword. “Put your weapon away. ’Tis God’s role to judge, not mine.”
Still feeling the need to be ever vigilant, Drem nodded and let the sword slide into its sheath.
Father Timothy smiled at the sound of the hilt striking home. He pushed his hands into the voluminous sleeves of his robes. “Tell me, what brings you here? ’Tis too soon to celebrate the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin.”
“I’ve a message . . .” Drem started.
“Ah, you wish to hear God’s word.”
“No.” Drem glanced at the Bible on the altar. The note had directed him where to look. So far it hadn’t sent him into a hornets’ nest. “I wish to read of God’s word.”
“You wish to read it yourself?” The priest’s pleasant countenance slipped for half a breath. “You know your letters?” He pursed his lips in doubt, taking in every detail.
The healing burns on Drem’s head and hands began to sting with an uncomfortable awareness. He itched to be on his way. The sword at his side nearly sung with the temptation to be drawn out and used against the man. “Please,” Drem said. “Turn to 1 Samuel, chapter 17.”
“Ah.” The priest’s hesitant smile slipped back into place. He drew out a gold key from around his neck. “So you wish to read of the mighty David. You must be going off to France. ’Tis soon, aye?” He unlocked the clasp and carefully began to turn the parchment pages.
Drem caught the priest’s wrist. “Might I have some time alone? To read?”
Seeing his hesitation, Drem pressed a coin into the priest’s bent fingers. “If you would grant it, I would spend time with my Heavenly Father.”
“Of course, of course, my son. When you are through with your meditations, you may find me in the gardens.”
Drem released his hold and tried to feel remorse for the way the man rubbed the reddened skin. He watched him leave through the arched gateway before turning to the Bible. Aware of the treasure before him, with reverence, he turned the pages until he came to chapter 17. Tucked neatly between the parchment sheets was a small object, wrapped in linen, no bigger than his thumb. He looked for watching eyes, then gingerly picked up the barely legible note. It simply read, “Find its mate. Never stop.”
Drem swore softly. Grinding his teeth, he set to unfolding the linen. A white and silver, swan-shaped brooch slid into his hand. Its emerald eye winked up at him. Swearing again under his breath, he placed the fabric on the opened Bible and smoothed it flat. The livery badge, fashioned into a dancing lion, was made of the highest order and quality. I should leave it here. Let it molder and rot. Why should I place everything in jeopardy?
Drem fisted the badge and brooch. His fingers disobeyed, would not release them. He glanced at the Bible. How convenient. The main character was David. The same name as his father’s, though his father spelled it in the Welsh fashion, Dafydd. Had his father had the arrogance to draw him here only to thumb his nose at him? Rage began to bubble through his veins.
He had been tested and tricked. This was nothing but a fool’s errand. And he no doubt was the fool who would soon feel his neck stretched on the block.
“Sir Darrick, I presume,” he muttered.
Drem turned as a door whispered open. He saw no one. No movement. A sound, like the whisper of cloth, came before the pain to the back of his head. Then darkness swallowed him whole.
* * *
Drem peeled open an eyelid. Nathan’s towering form stood over him. He grunted when the knight tried to roll him over.
“Arise. We mustn’t tarry.”
Drem sat up to gain his bearings and then tried to stand. He lurched forward. The pain exploded in his head. He clutched at his scalp and did his best to form words through clenched teeth. “Christ on the cross, who did this?” He cut his glance to Nathan. “Why . . . are . . . you . . . here?”
“Not here. Later.” He grabbed Drem’s elbow. “Can you ride?”
He shook free of Nathan’s hold. “Aye.”
Nathan’s auburn brows rose. His mouth flattened in a tight line. “We must make haste. We’ll be hard-pressed to arrive by morning.”
Drem closed his eyes and soon realized his error when the spinning renewed its strength. “Aye.”
Nathan put his arm around Drem’s waist to support him. “You can explain on the ride back why you slipped out to Dunstable without letting anyone know.”
It took everything Drem had in him to pull his back straight. “I had my reasons.”
“It had better have been damn well worth it. There are some who’d rather see you in chains. They’re sitting in judgment. Searching for your sins.” Nathan left him and headed for the door. He paused at the threshold. “You just gave it to them.”
Drem stumbled and caught himself on the table. The Bible was missing. Clarity returned with each burning breath. The livery badge and brooch were missing as well. He felt for his sword, his short blade, the small purse in his belt. They were all there. What thief attacks a man only to steal God’s word and a torn bit of material? He wished he had more time to examine the swan brooch. Did it mean a message had been sent, asking for help from the Knights of the Swan? But who sent it? And why to him?
Still braced against the table, he slipped his hand inside his leather jerkin. He withdrew his trembling hand. Empty. His attacker had taken the note. Or had Nathan removed it when Drem lay unconscious?
“The priest?” Drem cleared his throat. “Where is Father Timothy?”
“Do you require help?” Frowning, Nathan folded his arms over his broad chest.
“I must speak with him. Thank him for his hospitality.”
“’Tis my understanding he’s gone.”
“Gone?” Drem ran a shaking hand over his face. How was he to explain his absence and the reason for his ride to Dunstable Priory?
“One of the parishioners said he mentioned leaving in haste
to see an ailing member of his flock. Weeks ago.” Concern flowed from his gaze. “’Tis time we ride.”
Drem forced his leaden legs to move toward the doorway. Thoughts of running from the knight raced through his head. He pushed them back. Running would only prove his enemies had won. He’d find a way to verify that his intentions were only to capture his father.
Nathan sat on his black stallion. He gave him a curt nod and held out the reins. “Mount up, young Drem. We set sail tomorrow morning.”
Ignoring the pounding in his head, Drem plastered a smile on his face and strode to his mount. Soon enough, he would discover why Nathan had taken the note. And why the priest had disappeared.
Chapter 3
Drem gripped the ship’s railing and watched the shores of Southampton slip out of view. He tore his gaze from the smoke that still lingered over the horizon. This had been his father’s handiwork. Less than two weeks ago, Dafydd ap Hew and his cohorts had attempted to take King Henry’s life by torching the ships. He could still feel the heat of the flames singe his skin as he’d helped put out the fires.
“How many men were injured in the attack on the king’s fleet?” he asked the captain.
“Ack! I’d wager no more than two score. Outa that ’twas only one life that left us.” The captain shot a glance and met Drem’s eyes. “No doubt that poor soul has met the devil himself by now.” His gaze slid to the bandages wrapped around Drem’s head. “No doubt you’ve had your share of injury caused by that traitor. ’Twas a jackal in man’s skin. Given half a chance, I would have strung him up from the yardarm.”
Drem flinched at the disregard in the man’s voice. Did the captain know just how closely they’d all been betrayed? He perhaps felt the cut the deepest. The only balm to his wounds would be to regain the king’s trust. And that of the Knights of the Swan.
He turned to see Sir Darrick striding toward them. The invitation to join the Knights of the Swan was held captive by that knight’s disbelief of his complete innocence. Drem supposed he should feel blessed that he still had the capability to breathe. It had taken every bit of fast talking to explain his disappearance. He would know soon enough if the note was a trap set by his father or by the knight charging up to stand by his side.