Crown of the Realm (A White Knight Adventure Book 2)

by Jude Chapman

  “You are Drake and not Stephen?” A shock of raven hair fell like a wing over his brow. “When you escaped from Nonancourt, John ranted loud enough to be heard in Dover and made grandiose plans to sail for Merrie England. Now I hear how you singlehandedly invaded Chinon Castle to make a second attack on the king, this time with your own arrow and not d’Évreux’s.” His head slanted on a curious tilt. “Oui, word travels fast in Normandy, faster than the north wind. The more I learn about Drake fitzAlan, the more I suspect he is akin to the proverbial cat, as now, when you seem to have escaped the king’s clutches yet again.”

  Rand Clarendon drew a parchment from his pouch. “He is still in the king’s custody, being transported back to Nonancourt.”

  “To join his fellow conspirators in the tower?” The chieftain reached down for the parchment but did not put his eyes to it.

  “And thence to Dover.”

  “For a speedy execution?” He returned the writ to the king’s marshal. “I’m not surprised to see the captain of Mortaigne’s guard with the prisoner, but I do not know you.”

  “Randall of Clarendon, the king’s marshal.”

  “Are you now? Since when?”

  “A sennight past.”

  “And does the king’s marshal grant the king’s prisoners swords in place of shackles?”

  Reading the glint in the chieftain’s eyes for what it was, Drake sheathed his sword. “You may stand down, gentlemen. Unless you wish to eviscerate the king’s favorite troubadour, Bertran de Born who, if I read him rightly, means us no harm.”

  “Does he not?” The troubadour sat back, the saddle crackling to the shift of his weight. “For you see, unlike most troubadours, I do not drone on about the art of courtly love. Rather, I shock my listeners with blood and gore, which makes me quite the more dangerous than your average singer of songs.” His hand swept across the strength of his army. “Behold.”

  At a gesture, his men sheathed their swords in unison.

  “But I beg to differ,” the troubadour went on, removing his gloves. “Being a burr at his backside, Richard would hardly miss me. Oyez! Does this mean I condone regicide? Hardly. But first we must ascertain who is the assassin and who, the scapegrace. And I do mean scapegrace and not scapegoat.”

  Throwing a leg over his saddle, he descended to the woodland floor and reached for Aveline’s hand. “We meet again, demoiselle.”

  She granted him a brash curtsey and commented to her gallant knight, “Sieur de Born escorted the queen’s chamber to Chinon.”

  “That he did.” Born slapped Drake on the back. “Except at the time, I did not know I was transporting the mystery woman of Dreux.”

  Chapter 16

  “I AM WHAT some call a landed seigneur, though woefully lacking in land. And a loyal vassal of Richard’s, except when he insults me, which is most of the time.”

  In the hastening dark, Bertran de Born saw to the security of the encampment’s perimeter, the comfort of the horses, and the spirit of his men. He was a master who controlled by wit rather than whip. When antics became too boisterous, he resorted to song, his voice soaring lofty and accomplished. He employed words meant to instill pride and courage, words written by the knight himself in the quiet hours when his men slept.

  The king’s knight and troubadour traveled hard but traveled well. He shared his stores as he shared his song. Munificently he passed out the freshest loaves of maslin bread, the sweetest tastes of Anjou wine, and the choicest cuts of roast piglet, the beast struck down shortly after making camp.

  Duties discharged and his sword set aside, he sat a respectful distance from Drake’s small party while stirring the campfire with a stick. “During my untold years with Richard,” he addressed Aveline, “I was forced many a time to put up with the infamous Plantagenêt temperament. FitzAlan here knows some of what I speak. Not all, as he and his brother were barely out of swaddling when they began their service. Was it three or four years past since you and Stephen joined Richard?”

  “Six,” Drake said, lifting one of Born’s silver goblets to his mouth.

  “So it was. Seven years ago, I joined Young Henry against his brother. Against my liege lord, you understand. Against the inestimable, the fierce, the handsome, the short-tempered duke of Aquitaine, not to mention his father, the king. When the debacle ended, Richard reluctantly took me back into the fold. He should have been grateful for what I did. If not for me and my Aquitaine allies, his brother would not have gone down the wayward path and met his untimely death. And Richard, alas, would not now be king.”

  Leaning forward, he sliced off a pork loin. “Then I did the unthinkable. I tried to displace my older brother and take the family castle by force. Richard evicted me, the bastard. That time I did the forgiving, if not crawling on hands and knees.”

  Born’s eyes prowled the fire circle. “From the devil the Plantagenêts sprang, and to the devil they will go.”

  “You’re headed back to Chinon?” d’Amboise asked on a belch.

  Born nodded. “Richard leaves for a last reconnaissance of Aquitaine. He has some castle-mending to do. Also bishops to name. Seneschals to secure. Charters for a religious house or two. A visit to his only begotten son, bastard though he is. A hanging in Bigorre of some nameless noble who takes joy in plundering innocent pilgrims. A second meeting, I gather, with the kings of Navarre and Aragón. Richard will need swords to contain the Aquitaine during his absence. Spanish swords. The best kind there are when Norman swords are drawing blood elsewhere.”

  Drake leaned back on his elbows. “Then you’ll be going on crusade with Richard?”

  “I can’t afford to. I’ll keep the home fires burning, figuratively rather than literally.” His smile was barbarous. “You don’t fancy marrying the heiress of Angoulême? I hear she is a rare beauty and virtuous besides. Then there are her uncles Ademar and Aimery, who ought to make your life Hell. If you should survive the wedding night.” His laughter surpassed that of his men.

  Drake looked toward Aveline. Her eyes, golden from the campfire, stared beyond the pyre.

  When the piglet was reduced to charred bone, Born brought out a lute that had seen many wars. He tuned the instrument, stretching the catgut to a precise and pleasing tone. His voice had a grainy quality yet was melodious from a lifetime of practice. The song began pleasantly enough, exalting the joyful time of spring when flowers come into bloom and birds chirp gaily, but abruptly changed tone with images of war and of men bleeding and dying on those same blossom-laden fields.

  The last note brought mordant chortles. Gazing at his silent instrument, Bertran said to Aveline, “I know your man.”

  She slid her eyes sideways.

  “FitzAlan is loyal to Richard, that much is certain. Therefore, he is neither assassin nor traitor, which is why I didn’t hang him as soon as I laid eyes on him.” He shrugged as if the facts were trivial. “Clearly there are forces working against him. The king’s brother, most likely.”

  “But which one?”

  Born broke into genuine laughter. “She’s an uncommon lady, is the mystery woman of Dreux.”

  “That she is,” Drake agreed.

  Climbing wearily to his feet, Born said, “A long day greets us come morning. Captain d’Amboise, you’re welcome to join us. You wouldn’t want your lord to miss you for one day longer than necessary.”

  “There’s truth in that, monsieur.”

  As the seasoned knight tramped off to his bed beneath the stars, Drake washed weary eyes over Aveline. Despite flames licking her face, the chill of a spring night gripped the daughter of an alewife. Drake wrapped his tunic about her shoulders and held her close while she idly plucked the strings of Born’s lute. Discordant notes rang out. “Do not try to make me respectable, Drake fitzAlan. I have chosen my lot in life.”

  Two days and a hundred miles later, king’s assassin and king’s marshal entered Nonancourt Castle at vespers. As he had once before, Drake fitzAlan gained access to the castle precincts in
the guise of a king’s man. Covering his distinctive sun-kissed hair with a helm, wearing the red-and-gold surcote of the king’s guard, bearing a supercilious manner and a noticeable limp, presenting the king’s writ with a flourish of his ringed hand, and keeping at his side the newly appointed king’s marshal, he passed unrecognized and unchallenged.

  Brought presently within the turret chamber where the prisoners had been held under close guard for a long month, Drake oversaw his supposed accomplices locked in chains by the brisk Nonancourt turnkeys at the best of the authoritative Randall of Clarendon. The auburn-haired Chauvigny, the swarthy Béthune, and the dun-colored Fors were shocked into mute mistrust. Devon, his hair flaming brighter than usual, was the only one to smile, which Drake corrected with an incisive remark. Three astonished knights and one subdued squire were conducted to the gatehouse, clanking like galley slaves, while their warden hobbled several paces behind. Saddled horses waited. They were, one and all, mounted.

  Not until they traveled some five miles west, broached the woodland shores of the River Eure, and arrived at a stand of chestnut trees did the traitors of Nonancourt Tower clamor for explanation.

  Drake held up a key, which silenced them. While knights and squire released themselves from their chains, their rescuer said, “You are still, one and all, prisoners of the king, as am I, and under the custody of the king’s marshal Randall de Clarendon. Unless, that is, we can prove ourselves innocent of treason.”

  “And how are we to do that?” asked Baldwin.

  “By unmasking the king’s true assassin.”

  André said, “You so avow he isn’t yourself?”

  “On the contrary. He is. I tried to assassinate Richard at Chinon by shooting an arrow into his chest. But alas, he survived, woe unto us all.”

  Baldwin said, “We heard about that. We didn’t believe it.”

  “’Tis true.”

  “They say you stormed the castle, an army of one,” Fors said. “They say you aimed for the heart. They say God in his mercy intervened.”

  “Three shirts of mail intervened.”

  André urged his steed abreast Drake. “Then Richard was expecting you?”

  “He was.”

  “And d’Évreux? He was in league with you after all?”

  “Whoever used d’Évreux used me. The difference being, d’Évreux knew the man he served, which is why he was killed. I, on the other hand, do not, which is why I live, though Richard’s largess has much to do with my continued longevity.”

  “Mon Dieu,” invoked Chauvigny.

  “—Cannot help.” Playing with the reins of his Arabian, Drake surveyed the knights. “You did not, any of you, have prior knowledge of Tancrede d’Évreux’s misdeeds? Or know if he conspired with any man or men, other than the feisty Jacotte? Or heard him boast of riches, power, or glory to come?”

  To a man, the knights disavowed every implication.

  “Are you in collusion with the comte of Mortaigne?”

  “We are not,” André said adamantly.

  “Or the archbishop of York? Even to hear your confession, or he yours?”

  To a one, they shook their heads.

  “Or King Philippe? Or any of his minions? Guillaume des Barres, for example, who was quick to accuse me.”

  “You know the answer to that, Drake,” said André.

  “I do, but I need to hear it from your lips.”

  To a man, they denied every involvement.

  “May God take you if you have lied to me,” said Drake. “Because if He doesn’t, I will.”

  “And yourself, Drake fitzAlan?” asked Baldwin. “We haven’t heard a disavowal come from your lips.”

  “No, but you shall hear this. The knight known as Stephen fitzAlan is being held hostage at the behest of one or all or none of those heretofore named men as surety against the successful assassination of King Richard … by me.”

  “God’s cock,” said Chauvigny.

  “And unless we find Stephen, free him, and unmask his kidnappers as traitors, it will behoove me to complete my mission. Or die trying.”

  The force of his statement brought respectful silence.

  André de Chauvigny said, “Then we are with you. Where do we start looking?”

  Drake cast his eyes on the darkening verdant landscape. “Here. Where I was abducted by a half-dozen knights.”

  “English or Norman?” Baldwin asked.

  “French,” Drake answered.

  “God’s cock,” intoned Fors.

  Drake sent forth a trilling whistle. As Aveline came out of hiding, bringing along her steed, he said, “May I present my squire-in-training.”

  “But she’s a woman,” Devon said.

  “Really?” he said, looking her up and down. “I hadn’t particularly noticed.”

  To which every man laughed.

  Chapter 17

  WHEN WEAK SUNRAYS pierced the haze of early morning, Chauvigny, Béthune, and Fors came to a unanimous accord.

  “Nothing short of a sound beating will do,” Béthune said, buckling the girth straps of his bay. And added, “Meant in the spirit of reenacting your abduction and forced ride.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but I was merely surrounded and unpleasantly disarmed.” Drake mounted his palfrey.

  Chauvigny innocently put in, “Binding him hand and foot would probably motivate him just as well.” And went on tightening the crupper.

  “Myself,” the usually placid Fors grumbled, “I’m with Béthune. A punch or two to his pretty face would teach the knave a lesson.” He slipped a foot into the stirrup and hoisted himself up.

  “Others,” said Drake, patting the Arabian across the withers, “have been there before you, and see the result.”

  “I can attest to that,” said Marshal Clarendon, riding up to join them. “He’s more hard-headed than ever.”

  Fors shrugged. “A man needs more than one lesson for the point to be made. And it would compensate for the thrashing we took at the inn. Especially in the case of Baldwin there.”

  Drake wheeled the gray around. “And should I have invited every last one of you inside, served up a round of drinks, and let you hang me at sunrise for something I didn’t do?”

  “Drake, you misjudge us, truly you do,” said Baldwin, hand to heart and eliciting like responses from the other two. “We would never have hanged you.”

  “But we probably would have knocked you senseless and dragged you by your heels all the way back to Nonancourt,” said Chauvigny.

  Fors mildly agreed, “There would have been a certain justice to that.”

  “Myself, I rather fancy the idea of gagging him.”

  Drake sent his squire-in-training a stony glare.

  Aveline fumbled with the reins of her horse. “From my experience, silence is golden.”

  “Any day of the week,” Chauvigny agreed, riding up beside her, and taking her hand, lifted it to his lips.

  “There,” she said, vindicated. “André agrees.” And caught the subtle exchange between Drake and her gallant defender. “What …?”

  “Only that,” André said, “you have my sincerest apologies, ma demoiselle.”

  “I do? For what?”

  “For maligning you before ever having met you. For you, my dear Aveline, are a woman of noble bearing. And more than a match for fitzAlan here.”

  She smiled with vindication, spurred her horse forward, and delivered a cloth into Drake’s upturned hand.

  “If you would be so kind … ma demoiselle,” said Drake. Beaming with satisfaction, she tied the length of linen about his eyes, rendering him hopelessly blind. Even through the grit of the road and the sweat of the horses, she carried on her person the fragrance of lavender. He couldn’t help but take advantage of her nearness by using his fingers to describe her divine curves.

  Once done with her task, she slapped him virtuously away. “I do believe we should tie his hands after all. Given the choice, I prefer a tractable man.” She snatched the re
ins from his hands. “Although this may be reward enough.” And led him along.

  From that point forward Drake brought each of his senses to bear. Sniffing the air and observing its resonance. Searching for the indefinable yet recognizable: a caustic sensation, a fullness of aroma, or a thready emptiness. Using the radiance of the sun to guide the way. Paying particular attention to the slanting rays that penetrated the treetops or didn’t penetrate. And observing the subtle shift of angle to the left or right or straight ahead. In particular, listening, above all listening. To the latent breezes and the twill of the birds. To the lap of a stream and the echo of a distant hill. And to the smothering hush of a forest deep or the openness of a bee-laden meadow.

  More than once he demanded complete silence, using only the percussive cadence of the hoof beats, the snorting of the horses, the jangling of the spurs, and the chafing and snapping of leather to confirm his impressions. Here and there, as if a picture had risen before him, he described the scenery. They agreed that yes, there is the creek, running southwest, scrub bracketing its eastern shallows and a boulder set midstream. To which he directed them to cross the waters and head southeast, but only for so many rods before continuing due south. And yes, they fed back to him, there is the field on the right, just as you describe, and the hilly terrain on the left. And yes, they both descend into a narrow trail, through which only one horse at a time has breadth enough to pass. Ahead, he further directed, the woods open up, affording a passage of two or three abreast, on flat ground, beside which sits a duck pond. And yes, they agreed once more, everything is as you say.

  Rand and the rest obeyed his every command, and by the hour they grew more subdued as he read the wind as if by wizardry. Confirmation was no longer needed, only the sweep of his hand as he described which fork in the road to take, which stream to cross, and which path led from the clearing or into the woods.