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

by Jude Chapman

  Wido bowed and resumed his petulant stance against the wall.

  The vicomte went on to say, “Wido’s bed is comfortable, is it not?” and winked before again sending disapproval in his son’s direction. “It shall remain yours for the duration of your convalescence. In the meantime, I wish to introduce you to Louis of Blois, the son of Comte Thibaud.”

  Slinking forward, Louis emerged from the shadows, his probing eyes peering up through long eyelashes. He and Drake clasped fingers and nodded politely to each other. “You have a fine Arabian, Grendel of Poitiers.”

  Drake shrugged in a disinterested way. “I won him in a tournament. He is ill-mannered, and I have been trying to unload him ever since.”

  “A man,” Louis of Blois said, “would give his arm for horse such as that.” And taking his eyes off Drake’s broken arm, bowed again, a grin rising on his lips. “My pardon.”

  The vicomte flourished a hand in the direction of the trestle, laid out in its usual high form though with several less places. “Since the vicomte and vicomtesse of Ventadorn leave first thing in the morning, they will not be joining us this evening.”

  The vicomtesse of Limoges took Drake’s sound arm and led him to the dais. “And how is it, Grendel, that your mother named you for a mythical dragon?”

  “She thought Beowulf a dull name.”

  “A wise woman, your mother.”

  The meal was morbidly quiet, which suited Drake’s mood. Like a mother, Alamanda spooned dishes into his trencher and cut up his meat. Gui talked in his usual mirthful manner and repeatedly elbowed his brothers, who grunted but never complained. Louis sought Drake’s attention with indirect looks. Meanwhile the vicomtesse of Limoges drew the boy out by asking after his mother’s health, how his uncle the king was holding up after the loss of his queen, what he thought about the attempts on his other uncle’s life, and whom did he suppose was the traitorous villain.

  “Could it be, my lady, that he occupies this very hall?” Gui proffered innocently, any hint of his usual giddy person hidden behind a serious expression. “Possibly eating at your very table?”

  “Whoever he is, he is not fit for company such as ours,” Wido said. “Most likely he is a despicable Brabançon, Aragonese, Navarrese, or Basque, whom the Lateran Council have likened with pagans and heathens. Is that not so?”

  Silence followed as everyone awaited a response.

  Gui broke the quiet by saying, “Are you asking me?”

  “My son, the one with his chin in his goblet, is being disagreeable as usual,” Lady Sarah said. “But never mind. I know the way Wido thinks. He hates all men who do not hail from the Limousin but is indifferent when it comes to women.”

  Alamanda commented, “I heartily agree where the Brabançons are concerned, but I hardly think the Aragonese, Navarrese, or Basques are guilty of anything, other than speaking in a language other than the lenga d’oc.”

  “Perhaps you are right, chère Alamanda. Perhaps we are too quick to judge those different from us. But as you say, the Brabançons are not exempt from such exhortation, and those that harbor them for their own wicked devices ought to be cast out with the rest. Glad, I was, to see the last of them leave us winter last, and may they never darken our hearthside again.”

  Thus ended a desultory feast, followed by uninspired entertainment, not due in any measure to the troubadours, who sang their hearts out in fine fashion, but to their dispirited audience. Drake fell asleep in a chair piled high with cushions and pillows, his feet propped up likewise on a stool, and his arm couched in a counterpane. When later Alamanda drew the empty goblet from his hand, he languidly opened his eyes. “Just leave me here, Alamanda, where I can die in peace.”

  Her studied gaze traveled from Drake to Louis, who hovered sullenly over a goblet of his own, before returning to the invalid. “A comfortable bed awaits, something no sane man can refuse. Come. I will feed you like the Old Man’s assassins, with soporifics that will drive away pain and awaken ecstasy.”

  * * *

  A single candle set down upon a coffer in the farthest corner flickered dimly.

  The door opened on a click, and a trespasser bearing a dagger traipsed surreptitiously forward. He sidled around the foot of the bed and furtively approached the flank, where the curtain had been drawn back. The dagger point leading the way, he reached out toward the sleeping form.

  Attacked from behind by a solid elbow and a teeth-crunching body slam, he flipped ungracefully and landed with a bouncing thud atop a collection of pillows artfully arranged. The steel was ripped from his hand and tossed harmlessly away. Before he was able to regroup, something hard like a cudgel and soft like a pillow clamped across his exposed throat and silenced his protesting bellow. Trapped beneath the weight of his attacker, he fought for breath. With a certain irony, he came to realize that the weapon of his demise was a splinted arm and that his assailant was watching his every failing trick with bemused green eyes. Unless rescue came within moments, he wasn’t long for this world. He would go soundlessly, though not peaceful, with none to care except his mother, who might never learn of his fate: killed at the hands, or more accurately, the broken arm of his bastard cousin.

  Dread and hatred filling them, the pupils of Louis’ eyes became tiny dots in vast seas of blue. His eyelids closed languidly. At last he succumbed, his head falling aside. And Drake, growling like a kicked dog, lifted his splinted arm from Louis of Blois’ neck and sat back, agonizing loudly from pain. When he climbed weakly off his comatose cousin, he motioned silently to Devon, who went to work. Grumbling and moaning, Drake moved about the chamber and lit several candles. He filled a cup with wine and set it on a table before pulling up a chair and easing his arm beneath his good hand. He waited.

  In time, the captain of the Blois guard moaned and stirred. His arms jerked. A wheezing hack grasped his lungs. Trying to eject the remnants of suffocation, he attempted to sit up but found his spread-eagle arms inconvenienced by a set of ropes secured to the head posts of the bed. He stupidly tugged at his bonds, his fingers grasping helplessly at nothing. Upon focusing on his cousin, he intoned, “Saint Barthélemy!”

  Thereafter he became stupendously respectful since Devon had slipped the edge of a dagger against his blood-engorged throat. Suppressing needful coughing on peril of his life, he sputtered, “I didn’t … would you tell this maggot to get off me … he might stab me by mistake … and I’m accursed powerless as it is.”

  At a gesture from Drake, Devon withdrew.

  “God’s legs, what did you use on me?”

  Drake lifted his slung arm.

  “I hope it hurt you more than it did me.”

  Shifting uncomfortably, Drake said, “It did. But behold, look who is the trapped rat and who the complacent cat.”

  “I didn’t come to do you harm, Drake fitzAlan, or Grendel of Poitiers, or whatever you’re calling yourself these days.”

  “You were about to impale me with your dagger.”

  Louis struggled vainly at the ropes. “I was about to awaken you, damn you to Hell!”

  Skewered to the tip of Louis’ dagger, an unfolded parchment fluttered in the draft. “To share this?”

  “And defend myself, if need be, knowing the kind of scoundrel you are.” He settled back but clenched his trapped fists as if he would like to punch Drake senseless with them. “Then you’ve read it.”

  “Cryptic but succinct. The vultures gather. Twin lambs must be sacrificed. The twin lambs, I take it, are my brother and myself. No signature thereon but a seal bearing the idolized likeness of your uncle, the king of France. You have shown this to the vicomte?”

  His eyes possessed the look of guilt. “I was directed to deliver it to Comte Ademar.”

  “Who directed you? Your father? Your mother?”

  “Neither. I came upon the missive through a … a stranger.”

  “I see, or rather, don’t. And you stopped by Limoges because …?”

  “I heard Ademar was attending t
he tourney.”

  After folding the missive into his tunic, Drake lifted the wine cup and sipped. “You missed the comte by a day or two.”

  “I found that out when I arrived.”

  “And saw my Arabian in the castle stables. Hallelujah! Then you weren’t following me, per se, but were overjoyed in chancing upon my whereabouts, thus able to kill two birds with one stone, all for the bounty, honors, and accolades to follow.”

  “That’s not the reason I—”

  “And so,” Drake interrupted his cousin, “when you learned there was no fitzAlan brother hereabouts …”

  “I surmised Grendel of Poitiers, who took a hapless fall down a flight of stairs, was you. How did you really break your arm?”

  “I was searching for a lost brooch in the latrine and slipped. But we digress. We have established that you didn’t know where to find me but you did know where to find Stephen.”

  “I …” He moved restlessly, his elbows digging into the mattresses. “… came to free him myself.”

  “Oh please.” Throwing back his head, Drake drained the goblet in a single gulp. “You really expect me to swallow that as I did this?”

  “I swear to you, Drake.”

  “The name is Grendel, if you please. Who was the messenger? Who delivered your king’s pithy note and directed you to this chance locale.” He got up to pour himself another drink.

  “Philippe’s chaplain.”

  Drake spun around. “Andreas Capellanus? By God, I almost believe you.” Staring down at the putout face of his cousin, he chortled. “I’ll wager it was your mother who sent you on this noble mission since neither you nor your father have any honor.”

  “I wouldn’t mind having some of that wine.”

  Drake raised the goblet as an offering.

  “Humiliation deserves a swallow or two to wash down the gore.”

  Feeling generous, Drake approached his prisoner.

  “My hands. Not much I can do without the use of my hands.”

  “Lift head and pucker lips.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Louis took his fill, but spilled more on his tunic than down his throat. After licking his lips, he said, “My men are camped two miles east.”

  “Dear God, Louis of Blois ….” Sitting delicately beside his cousin, he bent and kissed him on the mouth. “That was for your mother, not you.”

  “Thanks be to God.”

  Drake was thinking. “What was your plan? How did you intend to liberate Stephen? With your charm? Your wit? Your dozen swords? Vos jolis yeux bleus?”

  “We were going to ride for Angoulême, give over the message, and bargain for your brother. But not to execute him. To liberate him. Since he is, God forbid, my cousin.” He struggled with the bindings. “That is …”

  “You shan’t bother Comte Ademar with our piddling troubles.”

  “No?”

  “I have another idea.”

  Hope in his voice, along with a slight amount of desperation, Louis said, “Does that mean you’re going to release me?”

  “It’s a big bed. Devon and I can stretch out beneath your armpits. I trust you bathe monthly?” He cast an apologetic look at Devon. “I suppose we’ll have to hold our noses.”

  The squire crept about the chamber and blew out all the candles save one. Cradling his arm, Drake painfully lowered himself beside his cousin. “Sleep well, Louis of Blois. And try not to snore.”

  Chapter 26

  AS THE SUN rose in the east, the vicomte and vicomtesse of Ventadorn departed the Château d’Aixe via the eastern road. Drake watched from a far distance and bid a silent adieu.

  An hour earlier, the brothers d’Ussel, Alamanda d’Estancs, Guiraut Bornelh, Gaucelm Faidit, Grendel de Poitiers, and Roger de Maussac, making apologies for their hasty departure, rode out amidst a caravan of raillery.

  Released from his bindings long before dawn, indeed soon after Devon and Drake curled up beneath his armpits, Louis had already mustered his men. Poised on his lofty Arabian, Drake took in the succulent river valley rippling verdantly below, a sharp contrast to the erect hilltop fortress looming starkly above. Like Drake, Louis sat his horse with an effortless carriage, his steed’s broad muscles flexing restlessly beneath. Devon lingered close. Louis’ men awaited orders. The rest of their traveling caravan perched themselves near the juncture of the castle’s approaches, safely positioned well back from the forked roads but ideally situated to observe the events about to unfold.

  At prime, a single rider rode out from the gatehouse.

  “And so, we outfox the fox. Are you still with me?”

  Louis centered his eyes on Drake. “I am.”

  Carefree and unobservant, the approaching horseman loped at an easy pace, his chainmail reflecting the luster of a nascent sun. Leaving Drake behind, Louis urged his palfrey forward and emerged from the concealing woodland. He and the rider exchanged brief words. Their discussion centered on a familiar parchment ruffling in Louis’ hand. The debate escalated into a dispute, and the dispute into a shouting match. Wheeling their horses around each other, they quarreled. The rider was for Louis coming with him to the castle. Louis refused and galloped hell bent on the western road. The knight gave chase. When both reached a narrowing in the path, the Blois guard deftly surrounded the two.

  Before the rider was able to unsheathe his sword, the points of a dozen blades fanned about his throat. He had little choice but to yield his weapon. “What’s this all about, Blois?”

  Drake and Devon emerged into the open.

  “Poitiers? Tell this man to release me.”

  Circling the biddable Arabian around Widomar de Limoges, Drake followed the dull brown eyes that warily tracked him. “Your father promised me redress.”

  Drake could see it in his eyes, the affront. Fear followed. Just as quickly, defiance charged to the fore. And the bland youth who was destined to inherit the title vicomte, though not this day, dug spurs into his steed. With little ado, the Blois guard bridled the warhorse and unseated the knight. Drake watched impassively as the ensuing brawl ended with Wido lashed to a broad oak, his hands bound about the wide circumference and his wrists straining purple against the leather strapping. Stripped of hauberk and bared to the waist, Wido wore his martyrdom arrogantly: a swelling eye, a scraped arm, bruises everywhere, and grime ingrained in sweat. His cheek was pressed flat to the bark. His restive eyes rolled. His back shined brilliantly, a target waiting for the cutting lash.

  Devon put the whip into Drake’s steady hand. He hefted the handle, gauged the weight, and laced the knotted thongs through the fingertips of his slung arm. Everyone—troubadours, knights, squires, and sons of lords—held collective breaths for the carnage to come. All except Drake, who addressed the bound lordling with a honeyed voice. “When your men were beating me, you said, ‘Not his sword arm.’ Why would say that, I wonder?”

  Already the color of parchment, Widomar became moon-faced but stubborn. His eyes blackened. His throat huffed. His nostrils flared. His lips snarled. His jaw clenched. With defiance bred of hatred, he moved his head back and forth.

  The air whistled. The lash descended. The leather cords struck. The bound man groaned but refused to cry out. The muscles of his back undulated with agony. Blood seeped from ripped flesh.

  With the same syrupy voice, Drake answered for him. “To better wield a sword against the duke of Aquitaine perhaps?”

  The whip struck again. Wido bucked. Strained against the ropes. Shuddered at the violation of flesh. Whimpered. Swallowed hard. And grew still.

  “The routiers,” Drake went on calmly, “transferred my brother into the custody of a man named Gui, described as a rather dull fellow with dull features and duller mind.”

  The lashes leapt out and struck once more. Reverberations traveled far and wide. Welts thickened and oozed. The victim weakened and would have crumpled into a heap save for the ropes that held him in place.

  “Is it only your mother who calls you Gui?”

 
The whip lashed out yet again, the report echoing in the stillness of the morn. Widomar groaned. Blood flowed in rivulets down his back and seeped into the dew-covered ground at his feet. Sealed against agony, his eyes slowly opened.

  Sweeping overhead, its rounded wings outlined against the sky, a goshawk ululated stridently. Drake allowed his vision to drift upward in salute. He smiled brutally before lowering his eyes to the whip clutched in his trembling hand. As if each represented a whip mark across a ruined back, Drake counted out his even breaths, timed with the rhythm of a steady pulse. “You and your father didn’t recognize me.”

  Wido reacted, his sweat-soaked head moving almost unperceptively against the tree trunk.

  “I suppose that when a man is mistreated like a dog, as the routiers must have mistreated my brother, he often looks like a dog. Ever since, he has been entombed in a dungeon from which no light escapes. Thus, you don’t know the first thing about a man you condemned to the dark, not even the color of his eyes.”

  The whip reported. Wido still refused to cry out, but tears stained his bloodless face.

  “For your sake, I hope he will recover from his mistreatment. The routiers, by the bye, have already paid with their lives. And as much as I enjoyed seeing them delivered safely to Hell, I don’t wish to repeat the carnage.”

  Wido opened his eyes to slits. The cat-o’-nine-tails caught him unawares. His arms quivered. His hair rained sweat.

  “You found me out when Gui invited me to dance and called out my name.”

  “Mon Dieu, I didn’t,” said Gui d’Ussel.

  Drake looked at the lad. “It was bound to happen sometime. I don’t blame you.”

  “But I do.”

  The lash bit again. Widomar’s legs were giving out, and his hands, bloated and useless. His head lulled back. Though nearly insensate from pain and loss of blood, the lordling of Limoges heard every spoken word.

  “And then you came for me, using the vicomte of Ventadorn to keep your hands spotless.”

  The whip reported and the goshawk shrieked.