“Are you mad?” Hugh protested. “If you kill a royal servant our John might well demand your own death in return. If he doesn’t hang you, you’ll be banished for certain.”
“What choice have I?” Josce shot back. “I won’t allow my father’s murder to go unpunished.”
Silence filled the chamber. Josce glanced across his friends’ faces. Worry for him filled their expressions.
“I won’t be turned from this,” he warned them, the needs of vengeance once again roaring through him.
“Well then, if we want you to live past that day, we’d best find a way to prove du Hommet’s complicity in your sire’s death,” said Rafe. “No man will deny you the right to kill the sheriff if you reveal him as the bandit’s leader.”
Rafe’s words rang in the quiet. Buried deep beneath Josce’s grief the need to live on beyond his sire’s passing stirred. It persisted, growing even as grief tried to consume it.
“Aye, if I can prove to John that his sheriff killed a peer, no man will refuse me the right to meet du Hommet on the field,” he said.
Stephen shook his head. “If it’s du Hommet, something I find hard to believe,” he protested. “You’ve seen him at court. His bluster and blunder hide a craven core. Such a man hasn’t the liver to concoct and carry out such a plot.”
“Unless he only plays the buffoon to hide what he does,” Simon retorted, his expression one of consideration.
Josce’s speculation hardened into certainty with Simon’s words. A man capable of using his position to take from his own folk lacked any honor. Without honor and the honesty that accompanied it, du Hommet was free to portray himself as a man he wasn’t.
Unlike his daughter, who couldn’t hide her scrupulous nature. Doing his best to banish that thought, Josce plowed on.
“I believe my sire recognized someone in that troop. That’s why the thieves fought to the death when any other band would have retreated in the face of potential losses. And the price they paid was dear. My sire took at least half of the troop before they finished him.”
“If these dead men belonged to the sheriff, wouldn’t the coroner recognize them?” Alan asked.
“There was nothing left to recognize after the fire finished its work,” Josce replied with a lift of his brows.
Stephen caught a breath. “Jesus God! I remember now, don’t you, Hugh? Who was it who told us that these foul men burn their own dead?”
“I’d forgotten that,” Hugh murmured, stricken at the thought of such an unholy act. Simon’s mouth narrowed. Rafe’s skin paled a little.
“May God have mercy on their souls,” Alan muttered, crossing himself.
“And for that reason were your sweet sisters killed,” Simon said in soft sadness. “At the priory they lived within a shout of yon castle and no doubt knew these men by sight.”
It hadn’t occurred to Josce that his sisters might also have known their attackers, but as Simon spoke, the rightness of this settled in him. To be murdered by men they trusted only made his sisters’ deaths more heinous.
His hands in fists, he leaned forward, longing anew to take the sheriff’s life. “I think me I’ll go to yon castle and count soldiers. When I find twelve missing, I’ll demand du Hommet present them to me else I’ll cut his heart from his chest,” he growled.
“Guilty or innocent, he can’t account for his men this time of year,” Rafe retorted, his voice harsh. “With Michaelmas looming, men come and go from that castle like ants from their burrow. Best you take your count after du Hommet returns from court.”
Too long! Josce’s heart screamed for satisfaction. His vow of vengeance would hold him trapped in this emotional purgatory until he shed blood to free himself. To wait a minute longer than the remaining days of his fortnight before he swung his sword and shattered this prison was intolerable.
“I’m still not convinced it was du Hommet,” Stephen said, lowering himself to sit on his bench. “Only when I hear some yokel vow he saw the sheriff in the vicinity of that battle, or you can show me a connection between sheriff and the murdered merchants, will I believe he had aught to do with Lord Haydon’s death.”
What Stephen needed was no less than king and court would demand. Aye, but finding such proof meant Josce would have to live past the wreaking of his vengeance. “Then I must find a way to prove it to you. My first task must be to hie myself to the area of my sire’s last battle and speak with those who live nearby.”
This wouldn’t be an easy pilgrimage or a short one, as the battle scene lay almost a full day’s ride from Knabwell. Josce looked at his dearest friend. “Rafe, would you bear me company whilst I do this?”
“You know I will,” Rafe replied, offering a brief smile, then his eyes narrowed in consideration. “At the same time we must trace the merchant’s trail, following him back to his last market. Someone might have seen something important, or the merchant may have carried some distinctive possession that we can identify were it to be sold in one of this shire’s markets.”
With Rafe’s words the image of the sheriff’s bed appeared in Josce’s inner eye, resplendent in its richness. Aye, too rich for Coneytrop’s means. “Holy Mother,” he cried in excited triumph, looking at the men around him. “Rafe’s right, we need to know as much as we can about what’s been taken in these robberies, then compare that to what the sheriff owns.”
“To do that we’d have to win our way into the sheriff’s home to survey his belongings,” Hugh replied, the shake of his head saying he thought such a thing impossible.
Josce’s smile was small and tight. “Lady Beatrice and I already reside in the sheriff’s home.”
Hugh’s jaw dropped. Alan’s expression was no less astonished than either Simon’s or Stephen’s. Rafe’s eyes were so wide that Josce could see a full circle of white about their dark irises.
“You’re staying in the home of a man you’ve vowed to battle?!” Rafe cried in disbelief.
“At his invitation, no less. Nay, at his insistence.” Josce glanced across their faces. “Do you see now how all this leads me to suspicion? Is it regret over a job poorly done that drives the sheriff, or is he an evildoer trying to keep a potential adversary under his watchful eye?”
He looked at Simon and Hugh. “The coroner will give me the names and cities of residence for those merchants attacked in these past years. When I have them, will you two race to the nearest to make a list of what was lost?”
Both men nodded, but Simon eyed him in rising excitement. “So, tell me. What is it you’ve seen in the sheriff’s house that makes you think he has what he shouldn’t?”
Josce’s lips lifted in triumph. “A bed, one worthy of a king’s ransom.”
He looked to Alan. “Priest, while at court ask your cousin if he recalls a will some four years past that named du Hommet as a beneficiary. The sheriff’s bailiff and daughter claim du Hommet inherited the bed from a distant relative.” Alan nodded.
“Stephen,” Josce looked to the man at the table’s end, “I have a chore for you, if you don’t mind riding with Priest to court.”
Stephen’s familiar merry smile flashed across his face, then disappeared under a put-upon expression. “A hardship, indeed. You know the sort of surly company he makes,” he teased.
The corner of Alan’s mouth lifted, just a little. “As you are for me, you great fool. With you, it’s naught but incessant jests and the chasing of hems at every stop.”
“But without a wench in my arms and a laugh on my lips there’s nothing worthy about me at all,” Stephen protested. “Such is the duty of a younger son, to make his sire regret his birth.”
That made his companions laugh. Despite all that troubled him, Josce couldn’t stop his own grin. These taunts and pokes were a comfortable habit, a reminder of how long they’d all known each other.
“So what is it you’d have me do at court?” Stephen asked.
“You’ll join Haydon’s steward as my representative. Martin presently seeks out t
hose noblemen attached to my lord sire, hoping to muster support enough to force our dear monarch to accept my sire’s will as written. It’s your gilded tongue I’d employ in this cause.”
“And what shall I say to my lord father’s peers?” Stephen asked, a hint of the sober and intense man who hid behind the carefree mask appearing in his voice.
“Why, you’ll convince all who listen that I’m the king’s man. You’ll say that come what may, even in the face of rebellion, I’ll support my sovereign. That is, as long as our royal master honors my lord sire’s will and makes me warden of my stepmother and my youngest sister.”
It was the newborn possibility that he might survive past the sheriff’s death that brought these words to Josce’s lips. More than one of the men around him caught his breath as they heard this. It was his certainty that the king would never honor the Baldwin’s will that made Josce ignore them to continue.
“You’ll also hint that should our gracious monarch refuse me and take half of Haydon for himself, I may be driven into the rebels’ arms. Indeed, I may be so upset that I’ll take my new brother-by-marriage with me, putting half of Haydon’s wealth and all of Haydon’s army at our backs.”
“Brilliant!” Stephen hooted as the rest of the men added their own votes that this would win Josce the agreement he needed.
Their confidence lifted some of what sat so heavily on Josce. Once again he looked at his friends. “By God, but I don’t know what I’d do without all of you. Did I forget to tell you that I’m glad to see your homely faces?”
“As we are yours,” Alan replied, landing a friendly buffet on Josce’s back. “Stephen, go you and charm the goldsmith’s lass back down here so we might break our fast and be on to these chores our Josce sets us.”
So thin he was nigh on skeletal, one shoulder humped higher than the other, Thomas Attegate, the porter who tended the door of Knabwell’s royal castle, grinned at Elianne. “Well now, aren’t you just a sight for these old eyes, mistress.”
“Thank you kindly, Thomas,” Elianne said. With her free hand, she gave a matronly pat to her headgear, a modest linen scarf held in place by a ring of braided fabric, then offered him a prim bob. The skirt of her better green overgown, worn atop a fine white undergown, touched the landing’s surface.
As she moved, the makeshift pack slung over her shoulder shifted. Elianne straightened with a start to keep it in place. Thomas shook his head at the sheriff’s daughter and her unwieldy burden.
“What brings you to us this day, looking the part of a lady but with a peddler’s pack upon your back?”
“If you have to ask that, Tom, then you’re more addled than usual,” Elianne teased. “What ever brings me to this drafty heap of stones except my sire and some chore he sets me? Today he craves linens for his bed and a fresh tunic,” she said, shifting her bundle off her shoulder and into her arms. Rolled into the fullness of one sheet were the bed linens and her father’s clothing.
“As for my attire”—she sent him an arch look—“didn’t I just shock this town to its toes by racing through the marketplace two days past in my workaday fare? I thought I might repair the damage by actually looking the part of a sheriff’s daughter for once.”
Thomas only laughed. “That’s it, mistress. Keep the gossips guessing. One day a hoyden, the next a gentlewoman.”
The cheeky grin Elianne shot him died into a sigh once she was inside the castle’s hall. She had a far better reason for what she wore than appeasing the town gossips. Once she gave her father what he wanted, she intended to visit Prioress Gertha, or at least to try to visit her.
Elianne prayed the prioress would see her. Nay, she prayed the other nuns could convince the prioress to rescind her ban on the du Hommets and take her in as a lay sister. Awakening in the garden with the memory of Josce in her arms left Elianne no doubt that she needed the convent’s sanctuary, and swiftly so.
Better still would be heavenly intervention, some angel with a blazing sword to keep her away from Josce. After the pleasure of last night, she knew without doubt that she’d sin again with him at the first opportunity.
As always at this time of year, the hall was noisy and crowded with men waiting to see her father. Threading her way around clutches of folk, Elianne made her way to her sire’s office. Sir Gilbert stood before her father’s closed door, his stance saying he’d see to it no one pestered his employer this morn.
All the better for her, since she had no desire to meet her sire, especially not today. There’d be hell to pay if even a hint of what passed between her and Josce reached her father. An hour had elapsed since Pippa and Aggie had found her in that garden, and Elianne yet shook over what might have happened if Josce had yet been with her.
“Mistress du Hommet.” Sir Gilbert’s greeting was brusque. He had little liking for her. At more than a head shorter than she, he hated looking up into her face.
“Here.” Elianne shoved her bundle at him. “My sire called for these. You may give them to him when he has a free moment.”
Sir Gilbert shoved the bundle of linen right back into her arms. “Take them yourself. He waits for you, and none too patiently, either. He expected you at Prime.”
“Sir Adelm told me to arrive an hour before Terce,” Elianne snapped back, liking the deputy as little as he did her.
Gilbert’s lip curled. “That’s what our lord sheriff gets for sending a bastard to do a true man’s work.”
Anger for the sake of the two bastards she loved raced through Elianne. She drew herself up to her tallest and leaned toward him, her superior height forcing him to crane his neck. Face black, Gilbert glared up at her, his neck stiff and his shoulders so tense they looked ready to shatter.
“Little knight,” Elianne said, her voice harsh, “has anyone ever told you how small a man you really are? Small, smaller, smallest,” she said, holding up a hand and closing her thumb and forefinger until they met. Leaving him sputtering at her insult, Elianne pushed past him and opened her sire’s door.
Inside, Reiner paced. Not yet three hours old, the sun streamed into the room through the office’s narrow window, offering up a vibrant slice of a golden autumnday. It was bright enough for Elianne to see the stain that marked her father’s new gown. She stifled a groan. How could he be so careless? Then again, why should this gown be any different than the myriad other things he’d ruined?
Almost slamming the door to announce herself, she started toward his worktable. He whirled to face her.
“Here,” she said, dropping her pack upon its surface. “Your linens and your fresh gown, as you commanded. Now, remove that tunic.” She held out her hand. “With any luck that stain hasn’t yet set.”
“Where have you been!” her father shouted, bracing his hands on his table as he leaned toward her. “You were to be here at Prime.”
“I was not,” Elianne retorted, crossing her arms. “Sir Adelm said an hour before Terce. That means I’m right on time.”
He frowned, then grimaced, chagrin dancing across his face. “I thought I told him Prime.”
“Well, you didn’t. Now, strip,” she commanded her sire, “and I’ll be on my way. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m entertaining a noblewoman in our house.”
Hot color leaked into Elianne’s cheeks; it wasn’t the lady she entertained. As proof of her guilt burned on her skin she cursed herself and her long habit of goading her sire. It was foolish to irritate him when she needed him calm if she was to shield herself and the wrong she did.
Rather than snap at her, panic once more set to whirling in her father’s gaze. He gnawed at a thumbnail. “It’s good that you dress well to honor the lady,” he said, sounding more nervous than approving as he acknowledged his daughter’s attire. “So, how does she?”
Elianne frowned. Where was his warning to watch her tongue? God knew her comment had been sharp enough to warrant it. Something was very wrong here.
“She’s well enough to forbid me any access to your bedchamber,
leaving me to sleep in the kitchen with Aggie and her girls.” As the frustration of dealing with the noblewoman overwhelmed Elianne, her heart opened and words flowed from her mouth before she knew they were there. “Father, when next you invite guests, can it please be someone who truly wishes to visit?”
Elianne’s hand flew to her mouth as she stifled a groan at what she’d said. What was wrong with her! Here she was goading him yet again. Tensing, she waited for her sire to scold or even reach across the table and strike her for her boldness.
Instead, he spat out his thumbnail, and asked, “And, the noble bastard? What of him?”
A bubble of almost hysterical laughter rose to fill her throat. What did her sire want to know? That his daughter had nearly cried when she’d awakened to find Josce already gone this morn? Or that the very thought of his eventual departure from Coneytrop made her ache? Perhaps her father wanted to know that Josce had called her ‘Lianne last night, taking her name and changing it into something that belonged solely to him.
Aye, Reiner du Hommet might want to know all this, but there wasn’t any chance his daughter would tell him a word of it. “What of Sir Josce?” she asked.
Her father started on his other thumbnail. “Does he ask after me and my doings, or talk to you about the thieves?” he asked as he gnawed.
Comprehension hit Elianne like a stunning blow. All caution dissolved. “You traded my hope of a future with the nuns so that I might bear tales to you about what Lady Haydon and her stepson do in our home?! Oh Papa, how could you!”
Her sire flinched at her cry, but rather than the decent shame or a hint of guilt her charge should have wrung from him, annoyance filled his face. “You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak to me,” he snapped, sounding like himself at last, then his irritation collapsed.
“Have pity, Elianne. You must know I did my best to corner these thieves. Yet here comes Lord Haydon’s son, promising to take my life for what I cannot change. Help me just a little,” he wheedled. “Tell me what he says to you.”
The Warrior's Maiden (The Warriors Series Book 2) Page 16