by Jude Chapman
“Where can I find him? Where is my brother?”
When Widomar didn’t answer, the whip drew more blood. The repeated reports of the lashes meeting raw flesh scattered the last of the sparrows. Widomar’s breath came in scattered huffs. He twisted his head around and gasped, “Locked … in a forgotten … dungeon … which you … will never … find.”
Drake made a brusque motion. Widomar was cut down. Needing help to stand, he stumbled around to face Drake. His eyes were enflamed with wretchedness and utter defeat.
“Then he’s still alive. I feared …” Drake straightened his back and glared into the sallow face of the heir of Limoges. “I trust your father values your life as much as I value my brother’s. And I hope he is never called upon to weigh your life against someone he loves as much.”
With a gesture, Widomar de Limoges was hoisted onto horseback and taken away by three Blois knights.
Drake threw down the whip and walked away. Near the oak of Wido’s castigation, he braced a hand and tried to stop shaking. The others moved supportively behind him. Leaning over, he emptied his gut. When he was done, he wheeled around and launched a grim smile. “Louis,” he said, “if you would.”
A messenger was sent. Less than an hour later the vicomte of Limoges, unarmed and alone, urged his black steed down castle hill. Reining his horse abreast the dappled gray, he acknowledged the mounted knight with a curt nod and said, “Where is my son?”
“On his way to Blois, where he will be welcomed into a dark dungeon for time indefinite.”
The comte bent his head and studied the reins working through his gloves. “For a broken arm?”
“For a lost brother.”
“Ah. Then you know.” His eyes, so like his son’s, glanced up. “It is just. But I don’t have to like it.”
“Neither did my brother.”
The sun burned off the morning haze to unveil a pure azure sky, devoid of cloud or breeze to cool the blistering heat.
Immediately striking out, the party traveled over rugged ground, across shallow creeks, through tall grasslands, and up and down hillocks. Graceful, shiny, and sleek, the black and gray steeds rode at the head of the column. Like their proud and headstrong mounts, the men had little to say to one another for the first few miles.
Drake held the reins steadily in his one hand. The other arm, despite being strapped snugly against his chest, jostled with discomfort. He said, “Surely you realize that you were but one of many caught up in an intricate plot.”
“Do I?”
“The comte of Blois did not know the whereabouts of my brother. Until he received this.”
After throwing his sight over the single line and remarking the affixed seal, Aimery handed the parchment back without comment.
“The routier Botolphe,” Drake said. “Did he have two masters? Three? More?”
“Myself. My brother. Mercadier. And one other to whom I have not put a name.”
“The king of France?”
“The parchment would indicate so, but I have no proof.”
“Hence, the mastermind is a genius at keeping his identity secret while others are condemned.”
“Yet you were right to suspect us,” said the vicomte of Limoges. “We have much at stake.”
“Except, perhaps you did not know, I refused the hand of your niece and thus her marriage portion.”
“Many men have refused similar offers. And afterwards, succumbed.”
“I would not have.”
Aimery’s fox-brown eyes hardened into pebbles. “Then others would have happily taken your place. Your brother, for one. If not him, another. Make no mistake, your king was the target; you and your brother, the pawns. But we did not need a witty missive with France’s seal to tell us the vultures were gathering. Had it not been for your well-timed rendezvous with the vicomtesse of Ventadorn, you would have been in Purgatory already, you and your brother, and the evidence of our guilt long since buried. As it was, my son was an idiot, the vicomte of Ventadorn vindictive, and your friends devoted.” He hitched a shoulder. “It was a matter of bad timing. Remember that when next you make your confession.”
“And the sins I have committed?”
“Only one that I care about. Of allying yourself with the duke of Aquitaine, which in your youth and ignorance, you cannot help.” The smile was real even if tinged with derision.
“You forget. He is also my liege lord. As he is yours.”
“An unfortunate detail that I am now obliged to honor, despite all I live by, and whether or not you hold my son hostage.”
“And the reason for the abrupt volte-face?” Drake said.
“The reports we have received. That Richard meets with King Sancho of Navarre and King Alfonso of Aragón. Both are natural enemies of Toulouse, which buffer our land to the south, and thereby our enemies as well. If Richard calls on their Spanish swords, and it is certain he has, we are sworn, whether we wish it or not, to desist from treachery, both now and while Richard is on crusade.”
“Else?”
“Invasion. And destruction. An alliance with Aragón worked twice before. Now with a fortified union that includes Navarre … well …. the winds tell me Richard has promised King Sancho something wholly clever and irresistible.”
“And King Philippe?” Drake said. “Will he honor this undeclared truce?”
“I do not serve the king of France.”
“But the missive …”
“—Would mean nothing to me if it did not also support my own interests.”
“John will be disappointed.”
The vicomte slanted his head. “John?”
“Or is it Geoffrey?”
The comte used a shoulder to swipe sweat from his face. “They say Richard will name his nephew as successor.”
“Arthur is but two or three.” When Aimery did not expand on the observation, Drake surmised, “Which means … Eleanor?”
The bland eyes lit up. “She will act as regent. The queen does not allow emotion to cloud her judgment. More to the point, she does not ride at the head of an army.”
“But you underestimate John. He has ambition.”
“But not an army.”
“Bringing us back to Philippe.”
The grizzled eyebrows arched. “You are indeed a shrewd man. No wonder Richard values you and your brother so highly.” Then after a sigh, he admitted, “Oc, Philippe. Otherwise ….” But he stopped himself from saying more.
“Otherwise,” Drake finished for him, “you would not have entered into a pact with the Devil.”
This time the eyebrows shot up without comment.
“It’s true,” Drake said. “Eleanor does not ride at the head of an army. John cannot win a sword fight, much less protect an empire. And Geoffrey is too enamored of his mirror. You supposed Philippe would protect your interests. He would not.”
“If we are allies—”
“You are but a pawn, Aimery of Limoges, you and your brother. Anon, you would toast Richard’s tomb and reclaim your lost castles, if you dare. For I promise, Philippe would sweep into the Aquitaine and take it for his own. And you would find yourself kneeling before a French king instead of an English one.”
“You paint a pretty picture.”
“I paint the only picture there is.”
Chapter 27
STANDING HIGH ON a rocky plinth ten short miles south of Aixe, the Château de Châlus rose regally over a rugged landscape. The cylindrical donjon, mortared with native rock, stood lookout on the valley below, while in its bowels, Drake and Louis followed Aimery and two wardens down the wheel staircase, lit darkly by a single torch carried aloft. A key was produced. A door was thrown open. Within the cell, a chain stirred.
The occupant rose from a narrow cot. He held a shielding hand to blinded eyes and peered fearfully at the men converging on him. His complexion was the color of dried mud. He had lost weight. His hair was a tangle. His beard had grown in brownish and sparse. Yet despite everythin
g, he looked the same.
A second key was produced. The shackle tethering his leg to the wall was unlocked and cast aside.
Dread was yet imprinted on the prisoner’s seawater eyes until, as if awakening from a nightmare, he gradually brought into focus the man who had pushed himself to the fore. “If you expect hosannas …,” he said, his voice husky and fatigued.
“I had my own problems,” came the blithe response. Drake moved a step closer.
“Two months … nearly three … my loving brother … a dilatory hero. Well, don’t expect any. Hosannas, that is.”
“The hosannas I reap are seeing you in such a bad mood. Are you well?”
“Well enough, considering.” He glanced up at the vicomte and the turnkeys flanking him on either side. “Who are you? Where am I?” And when Aimery informed him, “Then you haven’t come to chop off my head?”
“Your brother has come to set you at liberty. He will not be prevented from doing so.”
“I was prepared to leave this world.”
Drake said, “Surely God will be just as glad to gather you into His bosom eighty years from now.”
“Perish the thought.”
Closing the gap, they embraced, long and hard. If a tear or two had been shed, it would have been forgiven. “You don’t wish to live to a ripe old age?” Drake asked his brother.
“I wish to die at the end of a sword, quick and true.”
“Hah! You’re a romantic, like me.” Drake pointed over Stephen’s shoulder. “This is your cousin, Louis of Blois.”
And Stephen, leaving his brother’s arms, hugged Louis, much to the lad’s astonishment.
The brothers walked out of the dungeon, arms clasped about each other. Stephen blinked into the blinding sun and felt the warmth on his face. Then he blinked at the strangers gathering around him.
Holding up three fingers, Gui greeted Drake’s brother in his usual style. “How many fingers have I?”
“Eleven.”
“How so?”
“Ten on your hands and one down below.”
Slapping Stephen vigorously on the back, Gui exclaimed, “Huh! He is indeed fitzAlan’s long-lost brother, never mind his paleness.” Then gathering him to his chest like his own brother, he kissed him on the lips. “It is good to make your acquaintance, Stephen fitzAlan, even if you do stink like a dungeon.”
Mounting his palfrey, Drake looked down at the vicomte of Limoges. “Come. We ride for Angoulême. There to retract fangs, rectify grievances, and uphold the mighty scepter, not necessarily in that order.”
Aimery stood spellbound to the ground-patch beneath his feet. He was a stubborn man. And proud.
“Unless,” said Drake, “you wish Richard to employ his droit de seigneur on your high-born niece prior to our wedding night.”
The invitation was crude but taken.
They rode a few short miles and camped beside the Tardoire River. Stephen bathed in the chill waters, clothes and all, and waded out singing. Alamanda took a razor to his beard. He emerged like a sheered lamb, and grinned just as foolishly. Afterwards, she turned her attention on Drake, who subjected himself to the same razor.
As the sun set, they feasted on cheese, bacon, and barley bread as if it were the most delicious and abundant banquet on God’s green earth. Gaucelm brought out his lute and sang a troubadour’s lament.
Stephen swept a hand across the night sky, flung thick with stars. “Why is it we can’t touch them?”
Head propped on saddle and blanket drawn about his shoulders, Drake was stretched out beside his brother. Nearby, the campfire licked holes into the dark. “Too far away.”
“If you stacked ten tall ladders, one on top of the other, could you reach them then?”
Clutching the lame arm close to his chest, Drake shook his head. “They say the pyramids of Africa are higher than a thousand oaks, but if you climbed to the top, still you could not touch the stars.”
Stephen turned onto a shoulder. His eyes drooped. He was close to sleep. “What happened to your arm? Did you have to ram it up the vicomte’s arse for him to give me up?”
“Oh, it’s much better than that. Two women. A scullery maid and a kitchen servant. Sisters. Plump. Correction, fat.”
“Then it was worth the inconvenience.”
“It most definitely was.” Drake let the night seep into his restored soul. To have his brother lying beside was to become whole once more. “The routiers are dead, every one.”
“Good,” was all Stephen said. Drake thought the prisoner of Châlus had drifted off, but then he said, “When a man sits alone in the dark for days on end, he has a lot of time to think.”
“About?”
Lifting his arm, he traced the constellation Sagittarius—half archer and half horse—and let his arm drop. “Duty. Loyalty. Brotherhood.”
“And the conclusions he has drawn?”
“I will need more time for conclusions.”
A few days of leisurely travel would bring the troupe to Châteauneuf, one of the many castles of Aimery’s half-brother Comte Ademar of Angoulême. Since there was no hurry, they took their time, stopping along the way for food, drink, conviviality, and restoration. On the third day, before the sun was to dip unseen behind a cloudy sky, Aimery goaded his horse and caught up with the brothers fitzAlan, riding point.
Because of the constancy of pain in his arm, or more likely the change he experienced in himself—an odd alchemy that had nothing to do with broken bones or even with broken spirit—Drake was keeping to himself. Summerlike breezes cooled his face but not his temper. From the outset of the jaunt that morning, he hadn’t spoken to anyone, not even to his brother. When the vicomte appeared, something clearly on his mind, Stephen reined in his mount and fell back.
Their steeds in harmonized step, vicomte and knight rode in silence for a mile or more before Drake said, “But for your petty feud, none of this would have happened.”
“But for a virtuous maiden.”
“For a virtuous maiden’s lands.”
“You make the case for me,” Aimery said. “They are one in the same.”
“Marriages of convenience. Isn’t that how alliances are formed? Hasn’t that been our way for hundreds of years?”
“Here in the Limousin, inheritances pass first to surviving brothers, and only then to offspring. When Matilda’s father died, my brother Guilhem stood to inherit, and after his demise, Ademar. Richard chose to ignore this. For ten years, he has retained custody of our niece as a yoke about all our necks.”
“But isn’t Richard your liege lord? As his vassals, aren’t you and your brother obliged to obey his command?”
“He is. We must. But only because he has an army to force us. The duke of Aquitaine is presumptuous.”
Overhead, wood-pigeons scattered amidst fluting beats of wings. “And what of Wido’s mother? Wasn’t she used in the same manner Richard proposes for the chaste Matilda of Angoulême?” When Drake caught Aimery’s glance, he drove home the point. “As was the lady vicomtesse of Ventadorn? For that matter, Queen Eleanor herself? Tell me, where lies the difference?”
Though not always a considerate man, Aimery was a considering one. “You forget. Eleanor took her husbands willingly.”
“Only to escape being raped by any suitor come to pay court, including the sanctimonious father of Louis de Blois, who eventually accepted the queen’s infant daughter as consolation. My God!” Ruefully shaking his head, Drake said, “I have gained a certain respect for women. Above all, I admire them for accepting their place in life. But in truth, we are all pawns upon the game board, to be moved at will.” He let some time pass before saying, “We laid eyes upon each other once before. Two years past. When you and your brother were forced to sue for peace.”
“Oc, another failed rebellion.” Little surprised the vicomte, but Drake’s statement did. “You were with Richard? During the negotiations? But how? I don’t recall …”
“As his squires.”
“But it is. My mother, now dead, was the daughter of Queen Eleanor’s baseborn brother Joscelin.”
On a sudden movement, the many-times vanquished Aimery de Limoges twisted in the saddle and sought out Louis of Blois, riding at the head of his guard. Noting the subtle similarities between the future comte of Blois and his distant cousin, he shook his head, chagrined. “You perhaps do not know that Wido’s mother Sarah is the daughter of Rainald, Earl of Cornwall. You perhaps are too young to know that Rainald was one of the countless bastards begot by the first King Henry, Richard’s great-grandfather.”
Drake was becoming too versed at connecting complicated lineages through the generations. “Making your son second cousin to Richard by half as I am also cousin to him by a different half. We are strangely related, Wido and I. In a similar way that Eble of Ventadorn and I are related.”
The fact penetrated slowly, but penetrate it did. “It seems I am mocked. It seems the enemies we make are not enemies in the least. It seems, in whatever season, water naturally seeks its source. It seems no matter which side we place ourselves, we are all connected to the same unholy family, may they and we be damned to everlasting Hell.”
“Yet you still fight each other.”
“Who else do we have to fight but each other? We are all one big happy family.” The vicomte laughed in way he had probably not laughed for years. A deluge of tears—some elated and others sorrowful—streamed down his face. “Among us … my brother Ademar, Eble, and I … we have managed to lay siege against ourselves. How ironic. The Plantagenêts have practiced courtly love to a fine art, spreading the yellow broom of their badge far and wide. God Himself could not have planned any better. If we are not already, soon we will be a nation of one family, each of us a distant cousin to any man we may meet on the byway.”
The vicomte’s laughter went on a good deal longer, while Drake, not seeing the humor in quite the same way, kicked his dappled gray and spurred ahead, leaving Aimery in a wake of dust and aborted spirit.