Sword of Justice (White Knight Series)

by Jude Chapman

“If so, I’ve no complaints. Neither does Drake.”

  “I suppose you’ve made some inquiries of your own, then, about the mutilations.”

  “Aye, for all the good it’s done. Whoever killed Maynard of Clarendon covered his tracks well enough.”

  “Mayhap the murderer is no longer hereabouts, making Drake an outlaw for the rest of his days. ’Twould be a shame.”

  Drake shrugged a shoulder. “Neither of us will rest until the truth has been laid bare.”

  Mallory nodded understanding, but his face was sanguine. His kind knight—the kind who lived by the sword and more times than not, died by it—didn’t believe in high tales or fair justice. “Myself, I live on the edge of steel, the rumps of loose women, and the dregs of a keg of ale. You lads, you’re different. You have the mark of grace upon you. I can see that as well as any man. Hence, I have no fear you’ll come out smelling sweet. Dead, mayhap, but rosy.” With that, the chevalier sighed and staggered to his feet. “Never forget, always watch your backside.” He rejoined his fellow knights, who roundly congratulated him and bought him another drink.

  * * *

  When Graham de Lacy entered the alehouse, pretty as you please, and sat among congratulating compatriots as if nothing untoward happened a few days past, Drake was once more on the receiving end of Aveline Darcy’s calculating eye. She delivered ale and wordless warning in equal measure, saying more with a single look than any daughter of an alewife. She glided away with a sigh and a sway, and didn’t look back.

  “You were looking for me.” Graham compensated for his short stature with fine clothes and brash conceit. He stood above Drake and drank thirstily from his tankard. “How’s your brother? Recovering or near death? The latter, I trust.”

  “You’ve been making yourself scarce.”

  His eyes flitting into every dark corner, Graham measured up every man and woman present. “Only when not in mixed company.” Since only one woman was in the vicinity, his sights landed on Aveline Darcy.

  “Aye, but how to get in and out of mixed company.”

  “Drake is the only one who should be looking over his shoulder.” Graham clapped his empty tankard down to alert Aveline. She strode over and filled the vessel to the top, eyeing him as if he were no better than the lowliest grass snake. Not understanding that she had just relegated him to the bowels of the earth, Graham sent her a lecherous smirk. Her parting glare further reduced him to a mud worm.

  “What happened to Seward and Rufus, and Maynard for that matter, wasn’t Drake’s doing,” Drake said in his own defense.

  “You would say that, him being your brother.”

  “Though you have a legitimate reason to look a little piqued around the edges, after what you did to him.”

  Graham tugged at his finely embroidered blouse. “You were there too, don’t forget.”

  “And had I interfered …?”

  Graham smirked. “Well … anger was running high.”

  “Drake,” Drake went on, “has never killed man, woman, or child, much less hacked off indispensable body parts, either prelude or postscript.”

  Graham pulled over a chair and leaned close. “If not Drake, then who? You? Drake or you, Stephen, you were the only ones who could have.” Beads of perspiration clung to his brow. Graham was usually as cool as the snake Aveline Darcy likened him to, but not tonight and maybe never again.

  “They meant to hang him, Rufus and Seward.”

  Graham shook his head in denial.

  “Where were you when it happened?”

  He banged the table with his fist. “And where were you, Stephen? Could be you saw an easy way of altering the meaning of those three breaths separating one brother from another.”

  Controlling his voice, Drake said, “You’re lucky I don’t hack off your cock myself.”

  “’Twasn’t my doing, Stephen, I swear. It was all swagger and bluff. We only wanted to teach Drake a lesson, him being so cocksure of himself and a favorite of the king. Doesn’t go down well with any of us. You most of all.”

  You most of all. If Stephen were jealous of him, it was news to Drake. If he wasn’t, then Graham and the others had imagined the worst of both brothers.

  Graham went on. “We meant him no harm. Truly. We were going to let him go. Rufus and Seward, they were drunk. But it was a prank. They wouldn’t have hanged him.”

  “They would have,” Drake said. “God knows, they meant to.”

  Graham met Drake’s glare. He studied his face as if he didn’t recognize him, which was true enough, but Drake prayed he wouldn’t figure it out tonight or any night soon. “And who’d blame them?” Graham said. “God’s cock, you saw what he did to Maynard’s.”

  “You didn’t see Drake do it, and neither did I. Someone else killed Maynard and put the blame on my brother.”

  “The stories about Maynard cuckolding your brother were all about. No one else had reason for wanting him gelded. No one. Your brother turned Maynard into a eunuch, then Seward and Rufus, and would have me, given the chance. By God, he’s going to hang for it, see if he doesn’t.” His hand shook as he lifted the tankard to his lips.

  “From what I hear, Maynard had no desire to cuckold anyone’s paramour, unless the paramour happened to be a round-faced lad with long eyelashes.”

  “You’re not saying …?”

  “If a rumor was spread about linking him to Jenna, Maynard would be the last to deny it.”

  “Willing to propagate a falsehood? Aye, maybe. Akin to the rape.”

  “What rape?”

  “Happened, oh, I don’t know, last spring. Before you and Drake got back from Normandy. From what I heard, Maynard used a lass with a rough hand.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Had no family hereabouts. Took in any lad with fuzz on his chin and a penny in his hand. A couple months later, she was found floating face down in the Itchen. An unwanted babe, folks said. If it were true, it could have been anybody’s. Maynard never owned or denied the rape within my hearing, even though everyone took it as fact.”

  Through the din of bawdy laughter, a loud and brash voice belonging to no less than a giant flowed out from the other side of the hall. Drake recognized the tenor and cadence. He nodded in the big man’s direction. “Could he be the killer?”

  “Baldric? He has no particular grudge against any of us. Nay, it has to be Drake.” Graham took note of his bruises. “I heard tell you found a fight of your own.”

  Drake rubbed his jaw. “Drogo always was a brute.”

  “Oh, I know Drogo, all right,” Graham said.

  Just then, Drogo Atwell entered the alehouse and stamped his muddy boots at the threshold. Not a pretty fellow, but not the ugliest either, Drogo was always begging for someone to knock the chip off his shoulder and usually got his wish. His beady eyes first landed on Graham and then on the man he presumed to be Stephen.

  Graham made a hasty retreat, sidling up to men who looked meaner and tougher than Drogo. Drogo ignored him, plodded across the hall, grabbed a chair, and placed it foursquare next to Drake’s. He grinned.

  “Drogo, old friend.”

  “Sergeant Drogo, it is, for the likes of you. Or didn’t you learn your lesson yesternight?” Reaching over, he jabbed knuckles into Drake’s chest. “Why don’t you fight back, Stephen? My vow as a Christian, I won’t break anything. Beyond repair.” He guffawed like a loon. “We may have grown up together, but you’re not looking at Drogo Atwell anymore.”

  “Who am I looking at?” Drake said, grunting from yet another punch.

  “A sergeant under his lordship the sheriff of Hampshire. Not like last night. Last night was strictly personal. Tonight I’m here on official business.”

  Drake absorbed two cuffs delivered in quick succession, one forehanded and the other backhanded, the backhanded blow causing the most damage on his already damaged face.

  “Crook so much as your little finger at me, and you won’t see another sunrise for the rest of your natural bo
rn days.” He leaned forward, his breath stinking, new clouts coming in quick succession. “So tell me, and tell me quick. Where’s Drake?”

  Nobody paid heed to what was taking place in the corner of the alehouse, where a sergeant was forming new bruises on an already bruised knight; nobody except for one kind heart who didn’t want any more chairs broken than was absolutely necessary for profits and sport. “Stop that, Drogo Atwell, or you have my permission to leave.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Drogo took in the daunting presence of Aveline Darcy. “Do I? Do I have permission?”

  She opened her mouth to give him hell and more. Thinking better than to argue with the daughter of an alewife, Drogo raised his hands in surrender. Heeding the call of one of her patrons, she sidled away, her fetching eyes narrowed and her pretty nose out of joint.

  Drogo turned back to Drake. His eyebrows disappeared beneath sandy locks. “I know you know where Drake is.” The smacks stopped but the jabs continued, underhanded, where no one could see.

  Drake rocked with every blow but managed to eke out a weak, “Do I?”

  Drogo reached under Drake’s tunic and grabbed something near and dear to any man. “Stephen, Stephen, Stephen, that’s no way to speak to a sergeant serving the king’s pleasure. Shall we try again? Where’s Drake?”

  “Sitting here before you,” Drake said, his voice rising two octaves higher.

  Drogo laughed and made a final point about the difference between the truth and what he wanted to hear. Something sharp pricked the root of Drake’s manhood.

  In a rush, Drake said, “Somewhere in Normandy. I don’t know where. William made the arrangements.” Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited for the next assault. When it didn’t come, he opened a single eye. Drogo was gone. He took a steadying breath and dropped several coins onto the table.

  Making his way out of the alehouse in the company of several men, Graham felt duty-bound to pay his final respects to the daughter of an alewife, and did it in such a way that the lady in question turned as red as one of Queen Eleanor’s garden roses.

  “Graham,” said Drake, “release the lady.”

  Graham removed his hand from under her skirts and squeezed her jaw in the grip of his fist. “Pucker up, sweetie,” he said, daring Drake and the lady both.

  “She doesn’t like you, nor do I blame her.”

  “And who will make me stop? You, Stephen?”

  Drake unsheathed his sword and said simply, “Aye. Me.”

  Chairs scraped. Footsteps fell away. And Aveline’s brothers forced their way through a ring of cowards.

  Graham considered the odds and released his victim. “God’s eyes, you’d think the lady never had a man in her skirts before.” Graham suddenly doubled over. In unspeakable agony, he slowly raised his head, his face a peculiar hue.

  Drake sent home his sword. “Go, Graham, while you still have your manhood intact.” With the help of his companions, Graham breathlessly vacated the premises, limping like a very old man.

  When Drake turned toward Aveline, she was staring at him, her eyes wide with wonder, but her expression unreadable. “I apologize,” he said, “for me and my friend.” She held his eyes a moment longer, then regally made her way through gawking onlookers.

  Mallory slapped him across the back before making his way out of the alehouse.

  Aveline’s brothers looked him up and down, not trusting him a bit.

  And Drake took his leave while the taking was good.

  ~ Opening Game ~

  The stage of the game where the players develop and maneuver pieces into strategic positions for later play.

  Friday, the 25th of August, in the Year of Grace 1189

  Chapter 7

  DRAKE BARELY HAD BREATH TO croak but managed to emit, “You set a trap.”

  “So I did.” The low-pitched voice was as sober as it gets for any man drunk to the gills while possessing the worst of intentions.

  When Drake had left the alehouse, he spotted Baldric’s broad back weaving up Staple Gardens. The giant was stumbling along, humming a mindless tune, and drinking from a wineskin. Drake tracked him along the north walls and toward East Gate, but soon lost him. He was about to backtrack along the corridors when an iron arm hooked him around the neck and towed him with successive throat-closing yanks into a back alley.

  After those first words, Drake was unable to utter a peep. Fat fingers fumbled at the buckle of his girdle. A beefy hand seized the scabbard on the descent and tossed the lion sword aside. A cat shrieked and scuttled off. Baldric winched his elbow tighter. Someone overhead tossed out the contents of a chamber pot. Drake shot a foot back, but his leg wrenched into empty space. Baldric chortled. With the laugh, his grip loosened just enough. Drake stomped the heel of his boot on his captor’s foot. Baldric yowled and let go, hopping on his good foot and squeezing the other. Wheezing and rubbing his throat, Drake watched the clumsy antics of the big man.

  “That hurt,” Baldric whined.

  “Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

  “Heaven forfend.”

  With unexpected grace, Baldric swung around and jabbed his untrammeled foot into the pit of Drake’s gut. Drake doubled over. Baldric clubbed his mallet fist down onto the crook of his neck. Drake landed flat on his belly, arms and legs splayed out, stunned beyond sensation. Lumbering on unsteady legs, the giant leaned over his victim. Drake found a last measure of strength. He flipped over, threw out a leg, and clipped Baldric behind the knees. His legs buckled. Drake twisted away and used an identical kick to whack him across the kidneys. The giant toppled. The earth trembled and pitched. Both men wallowed in collective misery, spitting out rushes and nursing mammoth bruises.

  “You’re not Stephen,” Baldric rasped. “You’re Drake.”

  “If it soothes your pride any,” said Drake, rasping likewise, “so be it.” He sat upright. The Winchester night spun sickeningly. The giant laughed jovially and slapped him on the back. Though the buffet was a friendly one, Drake struggled to catch his breath.

  Still laughing, Baldric reached down and hoisted him off the ground. “Come.” He took Drake to a dilapidated shack down by the river. Outside, a tall roan of fine breeding and good legs was tethered to a tree. Inside, the air was damp, musty, and stank with the foul odor of river water. Shuffling over an earthen floor, Baldric lit tapers and gestured toward a stool for Drake to sit. “Since no one wanted the use of it except the vermin, I moved in, so I did.”

  “Cozy.” Drake took in the squalor.

  “Aye, a touch of home, it is.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Here, there, and everywhere.” He slapped a ewer along with two earthenware goblets onto a rough-hewn board balanced over tree stumps. “I’m an itinerant knight who’s seen more bad times than good. I follow the tourneys and hire out my services when there’s pay to be had.”

  “And a man to be hanged?”

  “That,” he said, claiming the remaining stool, “comes without charge.” Baldric braced his back against the daub-and-wattle wall and spread his enormous legs outward like a wishbone. “Like old times,” he said, holding a goblet aloft. “Except for you being hog-tied like a sacrificial lamb.”

  “It gladdens my heart to know someone was passing a pleasant evening.”

  The giant drank deeply and let out a belch. “Aye, the Twyfords are exemplary hosts, particularly when leaving castle and hearth in the hands of their spoilt son.”

  “Was the wine good?”

  “Plentiful might be a better word.”

  “The Twyfords are known for getting by on show instead of substance.”

  “So I noticed.”

  Drake brought the goblet to his mouth, sniffed, and drank. Instantly repentant, he wheezed, “What’s this brewed from? Cow dung?”

  A broad smile rose on the giant’s fat lips. “You like?”

  “It has a certain … punch.”

  “Brewed it myself, I did.” Baldric sucked and slurped, then sigh
ed with a gust of wind.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Drake took another taste. The brew clearly had curative value. “You needn’t have tied the ropes so tight.”

  “’Tis true, Drake, I will not deny my part in your near demise. Acted upon my code as a righteous knight, I did, against what I believed to be a depraved killer, serving justice where justice cried out for revenge.”

  “God save me from righteous mercenaries.”

  “But when I ascertained you were a victim, likely as much as our dear departed Maynard, I did what was within my power.”

  “Tied the knots tighter?”

  “After Graham lit out with Satan on his shoulder, for certes I knew we had been betrayed.”

  “As in you and me?”

  “I was prepared to save your skinny neck from the rope. But … as it came about … you rescued yourself.” Drake’s eyes leapt up. “Aye, I watched from a distance. Wouldn’t have believed you had the cunning did I not see it with my own eyes.”

  “And let me run around in circles.”

  “Who was I to intrude on a family reunion?”

  “We could have gone for ale and celebrated properly.”

  “The way you rearranged Rufus and Seward was a mark of courage, not to mention skill. I hold a great deal of respect for you, Drake, make no mistake.”

  Drake took another swallow, each one bringing him nearer the Elysian Fields.

  “Tell me, your father received no ransom note?”

  “As well you know.”

  “I know nothing until I am told. I am but a knight who heeded the hue and cry of my fellow knights.”

  “Only too eager to hang an innocent man, not knowing the live man or the dead man or the members of the posse comitatús?”

  “If that’s the way you see it, as you say, so be it.”

  “You haven’t mentioned my brother’s part.”

  His mouth formed a crooked smile. “Why ruin your voyage of discovery?” Baldric reached over and refilled his goblet. “Brothers can be treacherous partners in Hell, don’t you know. Being so far as that goes, I well remember some inconsistencies that point to your innocence though I saw with my own eyes your hand gripping the killing sword.” Baldric’s thirst hid an uncommon mind.