The Splendid Hour: The Executioner Knights Book 7
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“I do.”
Peter wasn’t naïve. He knew why. Although the king enjoyed a good relationship with the Jewish population of London because the Catholic Church hated them, and he hated the Catholic Church, there were many Christians who did not like the Jews. There was prejudice in the veins of men and women who professed to be loving Christians. Peter didn’t make it a habit of interacting with people of the Jewish faith because he’d never honestly had the need to, but he knew that there was a definite divide between the Christians and the Jews, as there had been throughout history. He wasn’t oblivious to that, but he had to admit that he never understood why there was such bigotry on the part of the Christians when Jesus Christ was, in fact, Jewish.
It made no sense to him.
Even more so as he looked at Liora.
“And that little hoodlum of a brother,” he said after a moment. “He does not stray, either?”
Liora shook her head. “My mother tries to keep a tight rein on him, but you can see that it is nearly impossible.”
“There is just you and your brother?”
“Just us two,” she said. “And you? Do you have brothers and sisters?”
Peter untied his horse’s reins from the post he’d secured them to. “I have several,” he said. “Five brothers and four sisters.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “God’s Bones,” she said, impressed. “That is a great many. And do your brothers behave like Asa?”
He snorted. “I am the eldest,” he said. “After me, there is Curtis, who has seen ten years and two. He is what my mother calls an ‘old soul’. Richard is next and he is outgrowing his annoying phase, fortunately, but Myles and Douglas are still of an age where they need daily beatings. They make Asa pale by comparison, but my mother is certain they will grow out of it, too. Most boys do.”
She giggled, putting a hand over her mouth. “Then mayhap there is hope for Asa yet.”
He smiled at her, feeling the need to linger but knowing he had to go. He had tasks to attend to, but he’d never wanted to veer from his duties so much as he did at this moment. He wanted to stand in that smelly, cold kitchen yard and talk to Liora for the rest of the day. But he could not, so it was an effort to move his feet towards the gate.
“It seems that I must take my leave of you, Demoiselle,” he said. “Thank you for a pleasant diversion while I waited for the unpleasant one to pass.”
Liora didn’t accompany him to the gate. She remained standing in the middle of the kitchen yard, watching him unlatch the heavy iron panel.
“You are welcome,” she said. “And I wish you well, my lord.”
He paused, the smile still on his lips. “As I wish you well, also,” he said. “If… if you are ever in need of assistance, please do not hesitate to send word to me. It took my father five years to build it, but we now have a manse a few miles out of town, along the Thames. It is called Lonsdale and my mother has taken great care to furnish it, much to my father’s distress. He does not like to spend money, so they had great rows over the empty rooms. He thought building it was enough, but my mother assured him that it did indeed need a few beds and tables. You may send word there should you ever have need of my services.”
He was laughing as he said it, conveying the fact that that situation itself was humorous. The wildly wealthy Earl of Hereford and Worcester built a house at great expense but then was loath to actually spend additional money to furnish it.
Liora laughed softly.
“The poor man,” she said, gently mocking the earl’s pain. “But… well, I do appreciate your generosity, but it would not be seemly for me to impose upon you for any sort of assistance. I do thank you kindly for your offer, however.”
He knew her reluctance was because of their different religions, and different social statuses, but he chose not to recognize that. Before him, he saw a beautiful woman and that was all, and he hastened to reassure her of his position on the matter.
“It is not a random offer, Demoiselle,” he said. “It is because I owe you a favor and I like to pay my debts.”
She forced a smile, but he could tell that she wasn’t convinced. He was thinking he may have to persuade her otherwise, but not now. He didn’t have the time, but the curiosity of this magnificent woman had his attention.
It was a challenge and he liked challenges.
With the gate open, he swung himself into the saddle and gathered his reins. His helm, which had been affixed to his saddle, went on his head and he secured it at the neck. It was a great helm, or bucket helm, but it had a face plate he could lift and the design was new and sleek. He lifted the faceplate and dipped her head in her direction.
“Thank you again, Liora, daughter of Haim,” he said. “I do hope we meet again.”
Her smile turned genuine and she gave him a little wave as he departed the kitchen yard. With thoughts of that lovely woman on his mind, Peter was halfway down the alleyway when he heard something ping off his helm. Asa may have been trapped in the house, but he hadn’t surrendered. Not in the least. That kind of spirit did indeed remind him of his youngest brothers, demon children that they were.
A second ping hit him in the neck, but he didn’t give Asa the satisfaction of a reaction.
He did, however, laugh all the way back to Lombard Street.
It had been an afternoon well-spent.
CHAPTER ONE
Hollyhock House
London seat of the House of de Winter
There were two distinct sides.
Christopher de Lohr, the Earl of Hereford and Worcester, was sitting on one side of an enormous table that stretched from one end of an equally enormous chamber to the other. With him were many rebel warlords, including the men they called “The Northerners”. These were warlords from Yorkshire, Northumberland, and Cumbria, powerful men who held the borderlands between Scotland and England. They were also the warlords that were the most opposed King John and his rule. Being far from London and the politics therein, they were almost in their own world up in the wilds of the north and they deeply resented a king that no one could stand. In truth, many of them owed debts to the king, so there were some financial issues, as well.
But that didn’t make their stance any less dangerous.
Three months earlier, the rebel warlords of England as a collective whole had forced King John to sign a document known as the Magna Carta. It was a long and complicated document outlining their grievances and demanding concessions from a monarch who had thus far in his reign been at odds with most of the men who were supposed to be loyal to him. The Magna Carta was a last-ditch effort to force John into behaving as if his vassals meant something to him and were not, in fact, his enemies. It was an attempt to corral a king and force him to behave fairly, for not in the entire history of England to this point had a monarch behaved with such willful deceit, corruption, and selfish ambition.
The Magna Carta had been the rebel warlords’ attempt to exact fair and equitable treatment from the man they so freely hated.
But it had been a battle – literally.
Even now, the warlords opposed to the king held London. They had captured it in the siege of London earlier in the year and although the terms of the Magna Carta had called for them to surrender the city, three months later, they still occupied London and controlled it. That was why the king had come – tensions, three months after the signing, were not any better.
Something had to give.
The gathering of the king and his warlords was being held in the home of Daveigh de Winter. His father, Hugh the Elder, had passed away the year before, leaving Daveigh head of the house. This wasn’t the larger group of barons who rebelled against the king, but a smaller and more powerful core. It was the only neutral territory that they would agree upon even though the House of de Winter was siding with the king in this matter. It wasn’t that they agreed with John or had any particular love for him – it was simply that, without fail, the House of de Winter supported the king. It always
had, it always would.
It was their legacy.
Some warlords even referred to de Winter as the “royal army”. Daveigh and the de Winter war machine was one of the most powerful armies in all of England and a close friend and ally of Christopher de Lohr, who was on the opposite side of the table this day. It was the only time in Christopher’s and Daveigh’s lifetimes that they had been on opposite sides.
In fact, it was the first time that many of them had been on opposite sides but, above all, love and friendship held steady. Even if Christopher would not fight for John, he would not take a stand against Daveigh. It made for an incredibly complex and sad situation because, once, Christopher had been the right hand of King Richard. There had always been an extremely complicated relationship between Christopher and John because of it. More than de Winter even, the House of de Lohr represented the Crown.
But no longer.
John was aware of this. He had arrived just before the nooning meal, escorted by de Winter and royal household troops. The de Winter troops were led by Bric MacRohan, an Irish legacy knight who hated John more than anyone in England, so to see him riding escort for the king was truly something to witness. Bric was joined by the House of de Nerra, the hereditary Itinerant Justices of Hampshire, including Cullen de Nerra, who was very much part of William Marshal’s stable of agents. But Cullen’s father, Val de Nerra, was the current Itinerant Justice, an appointment that came straight from the king. Were Val to side with the rebels, he would undoubtedly lose his position and everything else that went with it, which made for a difficult decision on Val’s behalf. He very much allied himself with de Lohr and the rest of them, but he wasn’t willing to jeopardize his legacy.
There was a good deal of alcohol flowing on this day and even at this early hour, it wasn’t watered down. It was full strength because the men in that chamber were going to need the reinforcement for what they were about to discuss. No one was happy, on either side, so much like Runnymede and the signing of the Magna Carta, this meeting had the potential to blow up.
The stronger the alcohol, the more fortified the man.
Christopher was sitting with his brother, David, the Earl of Canterbury, along with his allies, men who had fought under William Marshal for many years. Edward de Wolfe, Earl of Wolverhampton, was one of the most important, followed by Bentley de Vaston, Duke of Savernake. The Earl of East Anglia, Talus du Reims was present along with his eldest son and heir, Dashiell du Reims, who used to serve Savernake.
And then, there were “The Northerners” – Ajax de Velt, the warrior known as The Dark Lord, perhaps the most feared warlord in all of England, and his son’s father-in-law Alastor de Bourne of Castle Keld. The de Bournes were descended from the Kings of Northumbria. Juston de Royans, a mentor to many of the men at the table, had a place of honor next to Christopher, along with Caius d’Avignon, Lord Hawkstone and commander of Richmond Castle. Gilbert d’Umfraville, Lord of Prudhoe Castle was sitting towards the end of the table along with Maxton of Loxbeare, one of William Marshal’s premier assassins.
But the last Northerner baron in the room was perhaps the most legendary of all. A man who had gone to The Levant with Christopher, David, and many other legendary knights, a man who was as mysterious as he was deadly, but always in support of Christopher. Marcus Burton, Lord Somerhill and Dunnington, usually spent all of his time in the north and although he allied with William Marshal, he was considered a retired Executioner Knight. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t looked upon with reverence and awe. Marcus, Christopher, and John had a long and sometimes violent association.
Having the three of them in the room was like looking at history repeating itself.
The sides of the table were lining up with one notable absence – William Marshal himself. Christopher passed a questioning expression across the table to Daveigh, who lifted his shoulders slightly. The Marshal was supposed to be in attendance, but still hadn’t arrived. However, unwelcome men who had arrived were Peter des Roches, a man recently appointed the king’s Justiciar whom the warlords detested, and several of John’s personal guard, men who had served alongside John’s greatest guard, Sean de Lara, until Sean’s fall from grace earlier that year.
Sean had been one of William Marshal’s premier spies in the battle to keep John on an even keel and for nine years, he’d performed flawlessly until his cover was blown. Even now, he was recovering from near-mortal wounds received in the siege of London and Christopher knew his counsel would be sorely missed. If anyone knew John, it was Sean de Lara.
But they were going to get along without him.
“Good lords, I am sure you know that our king is a busy man and that you respect his need to be brief in this meeting,” Peter des Roches began in his heavy French accent. “If you are agreeable, we shall come straight to the point.”
Christopher looked at a man he hated a great deal. Peter was not English, but French by birth, and was now in a position of extreme power in the court of the king. Peter was arrogant, reckless, and calculating, and he hated the English with a passion. He rubbed nearly every warlord in England the wrong way. For a Frenchman to have such power in the English court was an insult to Englishmen everywhere. Christopher’s gaze lingered on the man for a moment before addressing John directly.
“Your Grace, we are agreeable to this meeting, but not with that trained dog as a mediator,” he said. “Remove him and let de Winter mediate.”
Des Roches flared. “Espèce de bâtard arrogant,” he hissed. “Comment oses-tu…!”
David, always quick to temper and especially when it came to his brother, slammed his gloved hand on the table to shut des Roches up. “Speak to him like that again and I will cut your vile tongue out of your filthy mouth,” he growled, leaping to his feet. “No one will weep over one less French pig in the world.”
Des Roches began to shout, which brought John’s bodyguards to the table. David was already on his feet, but Maxton of Loxbeare shoved the Earl of Teviot out of the way in order to get across the table to John’s henchmen. Caius d’Avignon, a massive man of enormous power, rushed to Maxton’s side as Christopher himself leapt up to pull his brother back over the table. Juston and Talus were pulling on Maxton and Caius until Marcus Burton bolted to his feet and gave a good yank on Maxton, pulling the man back from the brink of hand-to-hand combat in Daveigh’s hall. They all saw, very clearly, when Bric, standing with John’s men, grabbed des Roches by the neck and yanked the man back so hard that he nearly snapped his neck.
That was no friendly grasp from the fiery Irishman.
It was Marcus who finally threw up his hands and boomed.
“Enough!” he shouted, immediately silencing the chamber. He pointed at Maxton and Caius. “Sit down, both of you. David, if you cannot behave, I will personally escort you outside. And you – des Roches – insult the Earl of Hereford and Worcester again and I will turn every man at the table loose on you and I can promise that you will leave your share of blood on the floor. Mayhap they didn’t teach you manners in Paris, but it is extremely bad form to insult a warlord who could overrun your holdings, kill your family, and destroy everything you know. If you value your life, you’ll keep your damnable mouth shut. Is this in any way unclear?”
Des Roches was a proud man who, most of the time, didn’t know how to shut up. He took pride in having command over English warlords, wielding John’s power like a dagger. He was rubbing his neck where Bric had grabbed him, his mouth working furiously, but the king put up a hand to him, silencing him. Even John knew how badly this could go if his courtiers misbehaved. With des Roches silent, he looked to Christopher.
“I do not think we need a mediator, de Lohr,” he said. “You and I have known each other a very long time. This is not the first time we have been at opposite sides of the table and it will not be the last.”
Christopher was regaining his seat. “Nay, Your Grace,” he said. “Let us come to the point before we destroy Daveigh’s chamber.”
Right in the middle.
Everyone was looking at William and the papal legate with confusion. It wasn’t unusual for William to be here, as he had been expected to be present during this discourse, but it was well known that John and the Catholic Church had a contentious relationship. No one had any idea why the papal legate had come – at least, Christopher and his allies didn’t. They were looking at William as if the man’s expression might give them a clue, but William’s expression was like stone. He wasn’t sitting on John’s side of the table, but he wasn’t with Christopher, either. He simply stood at the end of the table, looking at everyone involved.
“I hope I am not too terribly late,” he said, then looked to John. “I have brought Verraccio, as you requested.”
John perked up in his seat, motioning the papal legate forward. “Excellent,” he said. “Your timing could not be better. I have a feeling that your message to my warlords will end this conference quickly, so please speak freely to them. You have my permission.”
Clad in heavy ecclesiastic robes of a dark brown color that were fine and silk-lined, the papal legate looked every inch the representative of Rome. Pandulf was a short man, thin and fragile like a woman, but with dark, intense eyes that conveyed the man’s power and intelligence.
Christopher knew of the man; they all did. He was very sharp and reasonably fair, not at all like the sometimes political-minded clergy that held high positions in the church. Therefore, they had some trust in him, as much as there could be with a papal representative, but Christopher and the others were more than curious about the man’s presence and now, evidently, with a message he bore. What was even more disturbing is that The Marshal, with no great love for the church, had brought the man.