Helmut paled. “You would not do as much!”
“Stephen,” Wulfe said and the boy stepped forward to bow low. “Do you know the location of Montmorency?”
“Aye, sir, for you told me just this day how to get there.”
Wulfe smiled. “And you are blessed with an excellent memory. Ride ahead of us, Stephen. Take the faster palfrey. We shall be fast behind.”
“Aye, sir.” Stephen ran out of the barn, and Wulfe gestured that Christina should precede him. She stepped out into a starlit night filled with greater promise than she might have expected.
Simon stood a distance away with the horses. She untied the tethered reins of Helmut’s steed and led it to the others, not wanting Wulfe to be distracted from his task. Stephen rode off with enthusiasm, and Wulfe bound the other end of the rope to his saddle.
“I will ride,” Helmut insisted but Wulfe only shook his head.
“You will walk, for I will grant you no opportunity to escape. It will only take a few days to reach Montmorency, and truly, you can use the time to pray for your immortal soul. I do not doubt that you have a great deal to confess in your prayers.”
While Helmut fumed, Wulfe returned to Christina’s side. He considered her injuries and touched her cheek with a careful fingertip. “I should like to kill him myself,” he murmured.
Christina claimed his hand and leaned her cheek against it, ashamed that she shed tears of relief. “I thank you.”
He did not kiss her, but fetched a cloth and sent Simon to soak it in the cool water of a nearby stream. He bathed her face, a frown between his brows, then bade her hold the cloth against her swollen eye. Then he lifted her to the saddle of Helmut’s steed, and as the moon drew clear of the clouds, they rode in pursuit of Stephen.
To Montmorency and justice long overdue.
Friday, August 28, 1187
Feast Day of Saint Augustine of Hippo
Chapter Seventeen
Wulfe hoped that he could give Christina one gift that encouraged her to remember him with kindness, in ensuring justice for her lost husband. They spoke little as they traveled to Montmorency, and their passage was not quick with Helmut walking. Wulfe used the time to consider how best to prove Helmut’s guilt.
The simplest plan would be to ride through the gates, with Helmut’s hands bound, and accuse him of his crimes before the duke and his court. Had there not been such a lapse of time since Everard’s departure, Wulfe would have preferred that scheme. That it had been a decade since Everard’s departure from his father’s home meant that many in the keep would be too young to recall him. The memory of others would have faded. Helmut had Everard’s signet ring, but was unshaven and dirty.
If Wulfe escorted a man who claimed to be the duke’s son into the bailey, bound like a prisoner, outrage at his treatment might ensure that none looked too closely at the man himself. Christina’s testimony might be dismissed, for she was a stranger and not garbed as an aristocrat, and he was similarly unknown in these parts. He would hope that his Templar surplice would give him credibility but that could not be guaranteed. If Everard had been as well loved as Wulfe suspected, people might find it preferable to welcome him home and ignore a stranger’s charges.
A bolder ploy might be the better choice. What if he let Helmut arrive as Everard? Surely people would look more at the man? Surely Helmut would err and reveal that he was not Everard?
Wulfe could not forget that his own father had recognized him at a glance, more than a decade after having but one glimpse of him as an infant. Everard’s father—and much of the household—had seen the duke’s son at full manhood.
Surely the truth would be discerned?
In the end, Wulfe resolved to trust that it would.
They had halted close to the duke’s keep that last night, for he wished to arrive at the court in the morning. It seemed to him most likely that the father might be awake earlier in the day rather than later, or that a sickened man might be more alert then. Helmut fumed at being restrained, but his shock was clear when Wulfe unbound his hands.
“Simon, you will ride with me on this morning,” Wulfe said. “And the lady will ride your palfrey.”
Helmut eyed him with suspicion.
“To allow that you ride your own steed.” Wulfe grimaced at a realization. “Or Everard’s steed. I have no idea whether you stole that from him as well.”
“What is this?” Helmut demanded.
Wulfe spoke mildly, knowing he took a risk but certain it would bear fruit. “We reach our destination. Here is the keep of Montmorency. Surely you recognize it?” He smiled. “I welcome you to prove your identity to those within and claim the legacy of Everard. Here is your opportunity to show the lady’s charges wrong. If you succeed, I will depart and leave you to your ill-gotten gains.” He held Helmut’s gaze, even as that man’s eyes lit. “Be aware that if you flee, or if you injure the lady again, I will hunt you down. I will ensure that your demise is not an easy one, and no court will raise a hand against me.”
Helmut shivered at the menace in Wulfe’s tone but he spared a glance at the distant keep, his hope clear. He squared his shoulders and licked his lips with some trepidation. “I will prove the truth to be so,” he declared with a bravado Wulfe thought undeserved. He fingered the stubble upon his chin and messed his own hair, surveying the dirt on his tabard with satisfaction. “They will never discern the difference,” he murmured, but Wulfe was not so certain of that.
Indeed, he relied upon the opposite.
Christina said naught, but merely looked between the men. That she did not challenge Wulfe encouraged him that his course made sense to her.
They mounted and set out on the fine road that led to the village. With a gesture, Wulfe ensured that Christina was far to his left, on the opposite side from Helmut, and that his hand was clear to seize his sword. Simon had the wits to leap from Teufel’s back if need be, and Wulfe was glad that both boys had learned so readily.
“I will declare that you escort me, and you will not challenge it,” Helmut said, his anticipation evident.
“You have no lack of confidence,” Wulfe noted.
“The missive said he had gone blind,” Helmut sneered. “You are a fool to grant me this opportunity, for you will see that I will triumph.”
Christina sniffed, her doubt of that most clear and they rode on in silence.
At the gates, Helmut cantered ahead and raised his voice. “Open the gate!” he shouted. “It is Everard returned home! I pray my father yet breathes!”
There was a cry of delight from the porter and Wulfe glimpsed Stephen inside the bailey. It was clear that preparations had been made for the return of the duke’s son, and many were gathered to witness his return.
Helmut rode with confidence beneath the gates, pausing to greet members of the court by name. “Eustache! How well you look! How does Margaret fare?”
“Very well, my lord,” responded that man and bowed low. “I thank you for recalling her.”
“How could I forget? I pray that son of yours who was so reluctant to enter the world is hale?”
Eustache beamed. “He is tall and strong, my lord, just as you declared he would be.”
Helmut gave a great booming laugh, obviously a mimicry of Everard. The sound seemed to reassure many.
“Of course, he knows them all,” Christina murmured. “Surely some soul with recognize him.”
But it seemed those in the bailey saw what they wished to see: their lord’s son returned home in time.
“What excellent tidings!” Helmut dismounted, then turned to the man who took his steed’s reins. “Yvan? Is that you?”
“Aye, sir!” The ostler bowed, then ruffled his own hair. “There is more silver than once there was, my lord, but I am yet here.”
“And good it is to see you. I am certain the steeds in my father’s stable are glad of your fine care.”
“This is a handsome beast, sir.”
“Do you think? I had to
choose another in Outremer without your wise counsel, and could only do my best.”
“I think him most fine, sir. Some oats and a good brush, and he will be ready to run anew.”
“Excellent. Excellent!” Helmut loosed that laugh again and this time, more in the company smiled. He raised a hand, ensuring that his signet ring flashed in the sunlight.
“He lies well,” Christina said softly.
Wulfe nodded but once, watching the other man with care. The greatest test was yet before him.
Helmut gestured to Wulfe. “And I have been so fortunate as to be escorted on this journey by a knight sworn to the Templars. Pray make him welcome.”
Gazes slid from Wulfe to Christina and he did not doubt they noted the bruises upon her face. He said naught, letting Helmut contrive an explanation.
“Another in need of the order’s defense,” that man said in a whisper. He granted a significant glance at Wulfe, as if to intimate that Wulfe was responsible for the bruises, and Wulfe caught his breath in outrage.
“He was so noble as to defend me from an assailant’s attack,” Christina said, touching her fingertips to Wulfe’s arm. “Had he not happened upon us in that moment, I should have died.”
The company nodded approval at this, a situation more in line with their expectations of knights of the order.
Helmut laughed again, and it struck Wulfe that the one trait of Everard’s the other man could reliably mimic was quite inappropriate for visiting a beloved father’s deathbed. “Oh, I have so many tales to share,” Helmut said, shaking his head. “But first, I beg of you, show me to my beloved father.”
“He awaits you, sir,” said an older man who must be the castellan. “Though he is not well.” That man’s expression was inscrutable, but Wulfe noted how he could not seem to stop surveying Helmut.
The castellan had doubts.
The father would only have more.
* * *
Christina had no intention of leaving Helmut’s success or failure to chance.
As soon as possible, she went to the kitchens, for all the world a maid seeking some morsel of bread.
“Is it true?” the cook asked her and she was not truly surprised that tidings journeyed so quickly as that. He was a man not much older than herself, and she wondered whether he had been in this abode ten years before. “Does the lord’s son return?”
“Apparently so.”
“And the Templar saved you from abuse?”
“Aye. He is an excellent man and a doughty fighter.”
“So they are all said to be.” The cook nodded. “I should like to have a look at this son of the duke’s. He fairly took his time returning to see his father.”
“You cannot make an accusation against my lord Everard,” declared an older woman, clicking her tongue at the cook. She was forming loaves of bread and had flour upon her nose. “He is a man above chastisement, so pious and good that he fair had a halo as a boy.” She smiled. “We thought him one of the angels come to earth.”
“You might have been deceived,” the cook said. “There is many a man whose heart is not as good as his countenance would suggest.”
The woman shook her head. “Not this one. Ah, he was good from the cradle. He must have had good reason to delay his return, and I am certain his return will give strength to the duke, even now.”
“He has need of every bit of it,” muttered the cook, and Christina appreciated that there were no stars in his eyes.
She accepted a piece of bread at the woman’s invitation and a cup of ale. “Your lord Everard must have been blessed with many friends, then,” she dared to say.
“Aye, he did.” The woman halted and faced Christina, one floured hand propped on her hip. “My lord Everard has never had any ability to discern wickedness in others. Even when he grew to manhood, he always believed the best of every soul.”
“I will wager there were those who took advantage of that trait,” the cook said, his manner dour. He tasted a sauce, the spoon held out by the saucemaker’s boy, and shook his head. “A measure more salt, I think.”
The woman raised her brows. “Aye, there was, to be sure. I remember a companion of his. God in Heaven, but the duke chose that warrior to accompany his son and defend him on his pilgrimage. I was glad to see the last of him, that is for certain, for there was aught in his manner I disliked.” She pivoted to face Christina. “Tell me that the mercenary Helmut did not return with my lord Everard?”
Christina put down her cup, knowing she had found the ally she sought. “Perhaps you should come and greet the lord returned,” she said quietly.
The cook and the woman exchanged a glance, then both wiped their hands and strode toward the hall with purpose. She could only admire how protective they were of their lord duke and hoped their testimony would be believed.
* * *
The cur would succeed.
Wulfe could not believe it.
The duke was carried to the hall to greet his returned son, and but one glimpse of the feeble invalid made Wulfe fear the outcome. Helmut was exultant, though he hid his reaction well. He feigned dismay at the first glimpse of his father, then straightened as if unwilling to trouble the older man with the truth of his reaction. Several in the hall nodded in sympathy, but the old duke clearly could not see far.
“Everard?” he demanded, his voice reedy and thin.
“Father!” Helmut declared, his voice booming so loudly that none could fail to hear it. Clearly this was a trait of the true Everard, for the old duke sat a little taller. Helmut then emitted that laugh and the duke gripped the arms of his chair. “I had tidings that you were unwell,” he said. “But here you sit, as fit as ever!”
The duke chuckled to be so teased and Wulfe saw a tear glisten on his cheek. “My son,” he whispered and reached out a hand.
Helmut crossed the room, flung out his cloak and dropped to his knee to kiss his father’s ring. “I am mired from the road, Father, and unfit to be in your company in this state.” He ensured that his voice broke. “But I had to see you as soon as possible.”
“My son!” the duke declared and gripped Helmut’s hand.
Surely, he could not be so readily fooled?
The duke’s hands were thin and lined with blue veins. He looked feeble and thin, and clutched at Helmut as his tears flowed. “How does my son look, Rupert?” he asked the seneschal who stood protectively behind him.
“Like a changed man,” Rupert said tightly. “Indeed, I would scarce have recognized him, save for the ring on his finger.”
Helmut uttered that laugh yet again, and truly Wulfe tired of its sound. “Ah, Rupert, you have always been the most vigorous in my father’s defense.” He dropped his voice low. “I prayed at the Holy Sepulchre that you would find relief from the ache in your left knee. Has it improved?”
The seneschal was visibly startled. “It has not, but I thank you for the prayer, sir.” He peered at the new arrival, his doubts shaken.
Wulfe was horrified by Helmut’s dexterity with falsehood. How could he convince them all to see the truth that stood before them?
It was clear they wished for this illusion to be truth so vehemently that they would disregard their own impressions, lest the duke be disappointed. He must be held in great fondness by his people, which made this travesty all the worse.
“I am glad to have seen you again, my son,” the duke whispered, his voice hoarse. He did not relinquish his grip upon Helmut’s hand and that man gave a fair impression of a devoted son kneeling at his father’s feet.
“You!” a woman cried from the far side of the hall and Helmut looked up.
An older woman in an apron, flour all over her kirtle, marched across the floor in fury. “How dare you return to this place, and without my lord Everard? What have you done to him, fiend?”
The duke looked bewildered. Anger flashed in Helmut’s eyes for a heartbeat before he, too, managed to appear confused.
The seneschal straightened, eyes
glittering as he watched.
Wulfe saw that a dark-haired man with his sleeves rolled up had accompanied the woman. He watched with obvious curiosity. Beside him was Christina, her expression so filled with satisfaction that Wulfe knew she had ensured the woman arrived in the hall in this moment.
“Marthe, is it?” Helmut said, as if uncertain of his memory. He snapped his fingers as the woman bore down upon him. “Aye, Marthe! I remember your baking well, to be sure, for there has not been another in all these years to make a loaf so fine and light…”
“It should be more than my baking you recall, you cur!” Marthe declared and struck him across the face.
The entire company gasped.
“Marthe! You forget your place,” the seneschal said, but with no real heat.
“I am not the one who forgets. Look this man in the face! He is not Everard! He is that black-hearted villain Helmut, that mercenary hired to defend my lord Everard.” She looked him up and down. “From my stance, it appears that he tries to trick us all, to feign that he is Everard!”
Whispering began but Helmut stood tall before her. His tone became imperious. “You have no right to make such an accusation…” he began but got no further before the duke lifted his head.
“You do sound like Helmut,” he said quietly, his hands shaking as he folded them in his lap.
“Father!” Helmut appealed, changing his tone. “Surely you cannot take the word of a woman from the kitchens against that of your own son?”
“If you are his own son,” Marthe said, challenge in her tone.
“I am!” Helmut laughed again. “It is evident to all.”
The seneschal’s lips tightened. “The truth can be readily proven,” he said softly but with resolve. “My lord Everard has a pattern of moles upon his back.” He snapped his fingers and four men of the guard fell upon Helmut.
“This is an outrage! Father, you cannot allow this indignity to be served upon me…”
But the duke waited for his seneschal’s verdict.
Wulfe bit back his smile as Helmut was easily divested of his tabard. That man struggled but he was no match for the determined knights. Only when they removed his chemise, leaving him bare chested, did the fight abandon him. He bowed his head as Rupert walked around him and the hall was silent in anticipation.
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