by K. M. Grant
Hal looked at the floor. Gavin’s mouth was twitching badly, and sweat soaked his hair. “Alan sent two men out just after you had gone,” he said more quietly. “They were brought back by John, and he and his men have been here ever since. I have been a virtual prisoner in my own castle. You were lucky you didn’t jump straight over the moat and into their hands.” He sat down. “Goodness, though, I am relieved to see you back. Is Will outside? I must speak to him.”
“The earl has been taken by de Scabious’s men.” Hal hated saying it and seeing how it made Gavin sag. “I escaped because—but never mind that now. The important thing is that at least I know where the constable is, and Miss Ellie is there, too.”
Gavin pulled himself up. “Did you see her?”
“No,” said Hal. “But she is there.” He watched Gavin rub his hand over his face as if he could rub the fever away.
It was a moment before Gavin spoke again. “You heard all that the man who would be our king had to say?”
Hal blushed. “I did, sir,” he said.
“Things are complicated, Hal. How many men would we need to take the place if it comes to that?”
“I don’t know,” said Hal, feeling suddenly depressed. “It’s a tower built to be impregnable.”
But Gavin wasn’t listening. “And even if we are successful, what then?” he muttered to himself.
“But Earl William is a prisoner,” said Hal, his voice growing louder in its urgency. “We must go at once.”
“How can I go, Hal?” Gavin’s voice ascended from a well of despair. “I am so sick that I can hardly stand up, never mind ride. And I can’t send my men out, in direct opposition to John, if I don’t know that Richard still lives. Certainly I can’t send them without me at their head to take the blame if it all goes wrong.”
He struggled to his feet and climbed onto the dais to sit in his father’s old seat, one of the few things he had left. The wedding chairs he had had made for himself and Ellie had been burned to cinders. He looked about him, feeling like a ghost in his own home. If he shut his eyes, he could still see Ellie in her wedding dress, wearing the green jasper necklace. His heart contracted. How could Will think that he, Gavin, did not love her? He loved Ellie as he had loved nobody else. But his love was not blind, and he would not allow it to dictate his actions, even if Will thought this made him heartless. Surely Ellie would understand that?
Gavin sat for a long time, hunched into himself, and Hal had little choice but to wait.
Marie and Marissa reappeared carrying candles, but Gavin was oblivious until Marie went to him, and, with a gesture of utmost tenderness, put out her hand and touched his cheek. The effect was electric. Gavin’s whole face lit up with hope and longing. “Ellie?” he breathed. “Ellie?”
Marie shrank back. Whatever had possessed her? She never forgot the look of blank confusion Gavin gave her when he realized he had made a mistake. It was as if somebody had struck him. “Marie,” he said, and sat up straight, trying to calm himself. “Marie.”
Marie took a deep breath. She might be frightened of most animals, but the years after her sister’s accident had cured her fear of sick people. “Gavin, I can help you,” she said. “But you have to rest.”
“There is no time. I must decide what to do. I cannot leave Ellie and Will in de Scabious’s hands, but if Richard is not dead and I support John …”
His obvious anguish put unaccustomed steel into Marie’s soul. “You cannot decide in a fever,” she said, “but I can make you better, and soon. Come.”
Gavin gave a wan smile. “Even your potions can’t give me back my wedding day or my arm,” he said.
“But I can give you back your health, and with that other things will follow. I know it.”
Marie would not give up now, and in response to her soft-spoken authority, he allowed her to help him up. Hal came to assist, and Gavin found himself carried into a small chamber that Marie had already made comfortable. Bowls and strips of cloth were stacked in neat piles in the corner. “I’m going to dress his arm,” she said to Hal, rolling up her sleeves.
Hal was appalled. “You can’t,” he said. “You’re too young. Medicine is for old women or men from the university.”
Marie ushered him toward the door. “How old-fashioned you are,” she said, and pushed him out so that she could begin her grisly work.
The squire returned to the great hall, where Marissa was stroking the dogs. “Your sister,” he said to her, “is the bravest girl I have ever met.”
But Marissa was not listening. “What can we do?” she agitated. “We can’t just sit and wait. We must do something now for Will and Hosanna.”
“And Ellie.”
Marissa made a dismissive noise. Now that Ellie was not here, she liked to pretend she did not exist.
“Well,” said Hal, thinking hard. “I agree we must do something, but we can’t muster an army on the count’s behalf.” He weighed everything up carefully in the methodical manner of a good groom. “To do anything at all, we need to know for certain whether King Richard is alive or dead.”
“You could go and find out.” Marissa was triumphant.
“I suppose I could try,” said Hal doubtfully. “But I need to go back to Hangem, just in case there is an opportunity—” He broke off and stared into the fire. “No,” he said finally. “I should find out about Richard. That’s what the earl would do.” He glanced outside. “It’s too dark to leave tonight, and Dargent is too tired. I’ll be off at first light.”
“Yes, at first light,” said Marissa, jumping up, impatient that there should be even a moment’s delay. “Do that.”
Nobody at Hartslove slept well, but when the abbey bell sounded through the dawn and Hal, who had been through a dozen plans in his mind only to discard them, went to saddle Dargent, he found, to his intense frustration, that the horse had cast a shoe. Marissa hovered. Hal ran out but returned, disconsolate, to saddle up the rangy black that Alan Shortspur usually rode.
“The farrier is drunk,” he said, yanking the girth strap. “I’ll have to leave Dargent here.”
Shouting to the porter to let him out, Hal settled himself, smiled apprehensively at Marissa, then urged the black horse over the drawbridge and was soon speeding his way to the coast.
Marissa watched him go, then turned away, dragging her leg. All that day, and the next, and the next, she was alone and never had time passed so heavily. Marie did not want her, for she knew the atmosphere in sickrooms gave Marissa nightmares, and the servants avoided her because of her temper.
She stood for hours just outside Dargent’s box, since apart from the ruby brooch, he was the only thing of Will’s she could find. Eventually she made herself go into the stable and stroke the horse’s neck. Endlessly amiable, Dargent began to look forward to her visits.
More than a week later, the longest week of Marissa’s life, she found him saddled up in the courtyard, and hesitated only slightly when asked to hold his rein while Alan, who was to ride him, went to give some last-minute instructions about the great hall’s roof. Climbing onto the mounting block, Marissa could see that the drawbridge was already lowered to let them out. She had no real intention of getting on at first. It was just a dream she had. But then there was a dispute, and Alan called that Dargent would have to wait.
“I’ll take him back to his stall,” Marissa heard herself saying, but she didn’t take him back. Instead, she slipped her leg over his withers, and before she knew it, with a heart beating fit to burst, she was trotting over the moat and out onto the open road.
7
John’s journey to de Scabious’s tower was a royal procession. When the sun shone, the knights in his retinue could feel its heat, and they rejoiced doubly. Their lord’s power was rising like spring sap. As he passed through villages the prince heard himself addressed as king and did not contradict it. In the towns and monasteries from which he demanded hospitality, he made sure to sit a little above everybody else at supper. It was a
lways a pleasure to be superior.
When he finally arrived at Hangem Tower, however, he was not very impressed. “I can see why you want to marry the de Barre heiress,” he remarked to a toadying de Scabious as he dismounted. “This is a dismal sort of place.”
The constable, who was in a panic about the quantities of food and drink he must offer his royal visitor, shuffled his legs and tried to smile. “Oh, I quite like it up here,” he said. “But, as you say, it will not really do.”
“No, indeed,” said John. “A man like you deserves something else entirely.”
De Scabious simpered. John looked round the courtyard, then up at the window. He saw a girl’s face vanish behind the shutters. Ah, he thought. Eleanor. “Well, something to eat, man,” he said sharply to the constable. “We have traveled a great distance.”
De Scabious led the way up the steps. “The cooks have done their best,” he gushed, rubbing his hands together. As John made his way to the top table de Scabious muttered to his own retinue to keep their appetites small.
“Why should we do that?” asked one. “I thought this was a feast.”
“It may be a feast, but there is not enough food, you numbskull,” whispered another as a cook dumped down four small legs of lamb. “And that’s because the constable is mean and the head cook is a dishonest knave. But, naturally, the king’s men must not go hungry.”
Ellie was summoned. She persuaded Old Nurse to put on a clean apron and come down with her. As the old lady now reminded her daily, John was, after all, the son of old King Henry. He could not be all bad. If she found the right words, maybe he would make everything right again. When she found herself scrutinized, not unkindly, her spirits rose.
“Miss Eleanor de Barre?” he asked courteously enough. Ellie inclined her head. John looked her up and down. “What it must feel like to be pursued by so many worthy men! I almost feel honor bound to join them.”
Panic washed over Ellie’s face, and she unconsciously put up her hand to touch her necklace. John laughed. “Oh no, don’t worry!” he said. “I have my eye on bigger fish, although I must say”—and here he paused and let his eyes roam lazily over her once again—“if you had more lands, I would certainly be tempted.”
Ellie’s heart sank, but she managed a stiff smile. “Why is the constable allowed to keep William, earl of Ravensgarth, in captivity?” she asked, keeping her voice very civil. “He should be released at once.”
“He will be released when he agrees to swear allegiance to me as his lord,” said John genially. “Will he do that?” He took a whole chicken, pulled a piece off, and, with de Scabious’s famished knights watching his every move, threw it to the dogs.
“He is always loyal to the king.” Ellie made it a statement of fact.
John laughed. “That’s an old trick,” he said, “but a neat one, particularly for a girl. Perhaps you could tell me which king, Miss Eleanor. Answer me that.”
It was impossible to smile now.
John grasped a lamb chop and bit into it contemplatively. “Have some dinner,” he said, and when Ellie didn’t move, made a dismissive gesture. “You will be married by the end of two months, that’s certain, whether you eat dinner or not.”
“Two months?” broke in de Scabious. “I thought maybe, well, maybe this visit …?”
“Not this visit,” said John. De Scabious hid his disappointment with an obsequious bow.
Ellie tried to leave the table, but she was not allowed to; so she sat bolt upright and watched as John rejected most of the contents of de Scabious’s kitchens and cellar and scowled at the makeshift musicians who twanged and plucked in the ridiculous minstrels’ gallery.
Old Nurse, who had parked herself firmly next to Ellie, sniffed and settled her mouth into its most disapproving line. The food at this so-called feast would be fit only for the dogs at Hartslove. All her housekeeping instincts rose up in horror at the lumpy custards, stodgy tarts, and half-cooked meat.
John smiled at Old Nurse’s obvious disgust and, with conspiratorial secrecy, made a disparaging face. Old Nurse was quite unnerved, and this amused the prince greatly. But he seldom took his eyes off Ellie, watching her as carefully as she watched him. As dinner progressed, her lips began to pucker slightly from the strain, and John felt sorry for her. He hoped she would end up married to Gavin. Indeed, had he not decided on a very particular job for de Scabious, he would have ordered her release. It really was intolerable to think of such a pretty girl at the mercy of this portly puffball. But—and John gave a genuine sigh—until Gavin and Will declared their loyalty and the constable’s job was done, life would be uncomfortable for all of them.
When dinner was over, John indicated that he wanted a private word with his host, and was shown into a small antechamber just off the hall. The room was a cheerless place on which the few flames in the hearth made little impression. Two ancient wolfhounds were lying in the corner scratching themselves. To try to create a more homely atmosphere, a huge and ancient tapestry had been hung from the top to the bottom of the wall, at right angles to the fire, but the prevailing smell was of rot. John sat on the edge of a chair and pressed on with his business, anxious to be gone. However, he had to be careful. He leaned toward the constable as if to draw him into his confidence. Oh, but de Scabious’s breath was vile! If Gavin de Granville did not do the right thing, Ellie would have to be very brave.
“Constable,” he said, hiding his disgust in his most companionable voice. “Your means are not large, but you have done your best to entertain me and my men. I appreciate it. Now, we have a small problem, which I am relying on you, relying on you, Constable,” he repeated pointedly, “to fix. Once fixed, your life will be … I think transformed is not too grand a word to use.”
“You know you can rely on me, sire,” said de Scabious, licking his lips.
John looked at him long and hard. He needed to be sure of his man. “I hear a rumor,” he said slowly and carefully, “quite a reliable rumor, Constable, that my brother is still alive and that a ransom is to be demanded for his release.”
The color fled from de Scabious’s face. “Alive?” he said stupidly. “The king is alive? But I thought …”
John got up and stood behind him. “He is not the king,” he hissed in his ear. “Kings care for their kingdoms. Richard cares for nothing but foreign wars. After the Saladin tithe, what do you think a ransom will do? I’ll tell you what. It will cripple the barony of England. We will all be made paupers. And for what? To redeem a king who will milk us again so that he can go back to Palestine and pursue an impossible goal. I tell you, de Scabious, those who are anxious for England’s well-being cannot let this happen.” John walked around and sat down again. “Do you see my point?”
The constable opened his mouth, then closed it again. He swallowed hard. He had gambled everything on Richard being dead. John had encouraged him. What was coming next?
John patted the constable on the arm. “I see already that you and I understand each other very well, Piers,” he said. “We are both men who think of England first and ourselves afterward.”
The constable smiled uncertainly. He understood nothing, only that something was wrong when a king addressed a constable by his first name.
“You must act quickly,” John continued, holding out his hands toward the fire. “And there must be no mistake.”
“No mistake?” said the constable, a horrible realization slowly beginning to dawn.
“No mistake,” said John impatiently. “You know what to do?”
“Do?”
John was exasperated. “Don’t just repeat what I say, man.”
The constable could hardly speak. “Are you saying that I should arrange to have Richard killed?” His voice was strangled.
John came close. “Who should be king?” he asked softly, his words half caressing and half menacing. “If Richard is king, where does that leave you?”
De Scabious’s palms were sweaty. “It will cost money.”
>
John shrugged. “In the corner of the stable where you have put William of Ravensgarth’s red horse, you will find money,” he said. “Use it wisely. There is a man—a foreign man called Abdul al-Baku—waiting by the sea. He has been sent, at my request, by the Old Man of the Mountain.”
At the mention of the Old Man, a small moan escaped from de Scabious’s lips. The Old Man was a legendary assassin.
John watched, then leaned forward again. The constable jumped as he felt a hand on his leg. “That is all you need to know,” John said. “Al-Baku is expecting you and is experienced in these matters. Now, sadly, I must be off first thing in the morning. And doubtless you yourself will not want to waste time. The quicker you do your duty”—John threw a glance toward the hall, where Ellie and Old Nurse sat together, and made a lewd gesture with his hands—“the quicker you collect your prize.”
De Scabious tried to laugh, but it emerged as a bat squeak.
John was now halfway out of the room. As he reached the door he turned. “Remember, Piers,” he said, making his face deliberately stern. “Remember how I rely on you. Oh … and also remember that I forget nothing.” He returned to the hall.
The constable sat in front of the fire for a few more minutes. His head was reeling. Richard alive! John had specifically told him this was impossible. The constable held on to his chair. Now his only choice was to do John’s bidding, for if Richard ever returned, John would sell de Scabious straight down the river. Oh, what a fool he had been.
He got up, went to the door, shut it, returned to the fireside, swore long and loudly, using language he had learned in the gutter, then threw his goblet of wine into the hearth and kicked one of the dogs as hard as he could. It howled, so de Scabious kicked it again and again. But then he began to think. Perhaps this was not really so bad. After all, if he did as Prince John asked, King John would be eternally in his debt. Richard would not come back. Richard must not come back. Then the constable would still get Ellie. He must fix his attention on that.