by Jude Chapman
“In good health, the last I heard.”
“And your father?”
“Losing his temper daily.”
She smiled. “You would do well to learn everything you can from him. Your father may be Saxon, loyal to his heritage and his country, but he knows how to manipulate we conquering Normans as well as the next. Itchendel attests to that. He’s done well. You don’t know how well. You were born to your rank. William fitzAlan was not. A head for administration, bravery on the battlefield, political acumen … the lord of Itchendel possesses all these attributes … but he accomplished in one stroke what other means would have taken years to effect. He married your mother.”
“The daughter of your brother.”
“The daughter of my bastard brother Joscelin, whom I loved well. Know this if nothing else. He did not win your mother’s hand by guile. He earned it through loyalty and service to his king.”
Enlightened by the revelation, Drake glanced up. “Not so unlike me and Stephen.”
“Though a man cannot serve his king hanging from a gibbet, now can he?” Her smile was charming yet laced with mockery. “How, if I may be so blunt, is your neck?”
“So far, un-stretched.”
An eyebrow lifted as the queen sought Alais’ opinion. “I did not know my grandnephew was so skilled with a sword, did you Alais?”
His heart skipped a beat. “Milady is well-informed.”
“Milady must be well-informed since she is the eyes and the ears of her son.” She waited for him to speak.
Drake chose his words wisely, but they were tinged with some humor the queen would appreciate. “I can only say that I wish I were so skilled with a sword.”
Eleanor was pleased with his response. “In which case, you are not guilty of the foul acts of which you are accused.”
“Not a one, Milady.”
“Still, I am concerned. By the looks of your contusions, some aged, others wholly new, it appears you have been put upon more than once.”
“It hurts only when I smile.”
“Then you must take it upon yourself not to smile.” She could not help but smile herself, nor could Drake, even though it did hurt. “And do you regard these attacks upon your person as isolated approaches?”
“They are all connected. Except …”
“Oui, mon cher.”
“I have not yet put together the pattern.”
“But you think …?”
He yet carried the missive from Jenna, which he meant to deliver posthaste to the queen’s youngest son. Up until now, he had been on a trail of subterfuge leading to a moneylender, a secretive merchants’ alliance, the sweet-smelling proprietress of pleasure house, a mercenary knight, and the Winchester Treasury. The mutilated corpses of three lads were in their graves and the well-being of three others in mortal danger. Then there was the fair lass who sent a missive through the hands of her fiancé’s brother. All paths were converging at a single crossroads, and at its center was the seat of the crown.
Drake daren’t voice his suspicions. And so he shrugged.
The queen glanced in Alais’ direction. A brown braid snaking over her shoulder, the girl gazed modestly downward. “You know our dear Alais has been promised to Richard in marriage. You know the pledge was made many years ago. You know vicious rumors were put about attaching Alais’ name to my beloved Henry. Yet she is constant by my side. I love her as one of my own daughters. Indeed, she is the offspring of my first husband, Louis. Dear Louis. We produced only daughters, and so Henry Plantagenêt was my amorous consolation and his children—our children—my reward. Hence, my dear king and husband knew where to strike when retaliation was his. He robbed me of my sons and claimed them for his own.”
Tears came to her eyes, trembling to her body, and remorse to her heart, which she clutched with a bony hand.
“My punishment was almost too much to bear. But what choice did I have except to endure each day with the grace of a queen and wait for my day of vindication? God saw to it that Henry’s pride was justly punished, first by taking away our eldest son William as a child. Then by cutting down our younger son Geoffrey. And finally by taking away his namesake. His suffering, though, was my suffering, too. We made these sons together and watched helplessly as they left us one by one. When you lose a child ….”
She could not speak further, and so she blinked back salty tears.
With her face returned once more to serenity she said, “When at last my king allowed his queen the company of our surviving sons, I tried to make amends for those lost years, particularly when it came to John, a child of six when his father ripped him from a mother’s devotion.” Leaning forward, she placed her chin at the crux of two fists and held Drake’s eyes. “I see pain behind your eyes.”
He hesitated before acknowledging the truth of her observation.
“Many trials and tribulations can happen in one’s lifetime. Yet we bear them as we must. We do not begrudge the past and look forward to what the next day will bring. Whatever occurs, Drake fitzAlan, I know your heart will be forever on the side of your king.”
“I have so pledged.” He touched hand to heart.
“That is all I ask. We shall inform the king of your—that is, Stephen’s—arrival, and thus allow your game of deceit and trickery to play out. And now let us eat and drink and talk of merry subjects.”
She signaled Alais, who came forward and offered an arm.
“And how is Geneviève de Berneval holding up? Does she still wish to wed a notorious felon and outlaw?”
“She does. But her parents may have something to say about it.”
“Her parents will not stand in your way. The fitzAlan name is a proud name. Jenna is destined to become lady of Itchendel, as you will become lord. Richard might have preferred pairing you with a more notable lady, but Jenna is a lovely child, versed in the ways of court. She will make you an exceptional wife.”
Once Drake would have believed the queen’s words as gospel. Now he was not so certain.
Chapter 21
LONDON WAS IN A CELEBRATORY mood. Thousands of visitors come for the coronation had poured into town. Streets had been cleaned and spread with fresh straw. Half-timber houses were whitewashed anew and festooned with tapestries and flowers. Thatched roofs were spruced with clean rushes. Taverns, inns, and alehouses were well-stocked with food, drink, and conviviality. Shops were doing a brisk trade. Every day was market day. The festivities for the crowning of a new king were various and constant. Men, women, and children roamed the streets and alleyways, jovial and carefree. On this, the eve of the coronation, the celebrating was destined to last until daybreak, when it would begin afresh.
Drake sat alone in a noisy tavern on Watling Street, having neither the heart nor the stomach to lose himself in liquor and gaiety. He rummaged under his tunic and found Jenna’s letter. The seal had been broken, not by him but by the jostle of a seventy-mile ride. The note scorched his fingertips. He started to untie the strands as he had done many times before, but stopped himself as he had done each one of those times.
Not long after midnight, Drake stepped outside. Seeing that London was a town built for catching fire, couvre-feu was strictly enforced. The only illumination came from a few open windows or the rare torch toted by a servant for his master. Dangerous gangs regularly prowled the byways and alleyways after dark, but this night the streets teemed with revelers unwilling to call an end to the day. Making his way down Eastcheap, Drake cautiously glanced to his rear.
A robed monk, his head bent to the cobbled pavement, followed ten paces back, shiny leather boots kicking billowing skirts. Drake stepped up his pace. The monk adjusted his. Drake took a side street leading back toward Watling. The monk followed.
Rambling among merrymakers who reeled on unsteady feet, Drake made his way down to the Thames quayside. Cook fires lit up the river and set the sky aglow. From a shop, he bought a leg of roasted chicken dripping in a spicy sauce. From a wine merchant, he purchased
spirits to wash down the chicken. Strolling along the wharf, he watched crates and baskets of goods being loaded onto one of three ships docked portside.
The monk sauntered past the spot Drake had occupied moments before. He halted briefly before pressing on. Slipping out from his hiding place, Drake smoothly swept a dagger around the front of the monk’s neck.
“Crist’s blood, Drake, you could kill me with that thing.”
Though the voice was familiar, Drake chose not to tempt fate. He convinced the monk, pointedly, to turn around. Not about to tempt fate himself, the monk obeyed the unspoken command, hands raised and unarmed. Drake used the dagger to push back the monk’s hood. The dark hair, mangy and in need of trimming, was unfamiliar. But the high forehead and hawklike face were more familiar to him than his own features, as was the long nose, down to the slight bump at center. The clear seawater eyes told him the stalker was harmless. Drake withdrew the dagger. “You’re supposed to be in Chinon posing as me.”
Stephen said, “As you see, I’m not.”
Drake ruffled Stephen’s mangy dark locks. “What happened to your hair?”
“Henna.” His grin was self-conscious. “I’m told it will wash out in time.”
Drake pulled his brother into his arms. Something under the monk’s robes jabbed him at the waist. Stephen brought out an unstrung bow encased in leather wrapping. The length of yew more closely resembled a blind man’s cane than what it was: a lethal weapon in skilled hands. Stephen was beside himself with devilment, his broad smile infectious. “Someone has to protect Drake fitzAlan from Drake fitzAlan.”
“Then Aveline doesn’t have a secret penchant for bow and arrow?”
“Only when it comes to Cupid.”
“I should have guessed. You always bested me at archery. Which were you? The leper? The beggar? The blind man?”
“And the monk.” He spread the voluminous habit to both sides. “Clever, am I not?”
“Not clever enough.” Drake flipped the dagger and caught it midair. “Aveline knew.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Do you really think she feeds all the beggars loitering outside her door with the best scraps available?”
Stephen raised his eyebrows and chuckled. Drake hugged his brother again, throwing him off-balance, which gave him the opportunity to drive a gloved fist under his chin. “That’s for not staying in Chinon.” He slammed the same fist, already smarting, at the juncture of jaw and skull. “And for letting Graham stab me.”
Stephen smiled a crooked smile just before collapsing into Drake’s arms. Plentiful river water soon revived him. Picking each other up, they left the quay and headed for the nearest tavern to celebrate their reunion.
Once seated, Drake raised his goblet and toasted, “To Richard.”
They clanked drinking vessels.
Raucous and overloud, the rest of the tavern had begun toasting the new king hours before and would go on toasting him until dawn and beyond.
“When did you return to Winchester?” Drake raised his voice over the din. “How did you return to Winchester?”
“Mallory delivered me to the Esnecca as promised, before high tide, and threw me into the cargo hold roped like a galley slave.” Stephen grinned and pumped his eyebrows. “I had a dagger. And you know what a good swimmer I am.”
“You’re the Devil in disguise, truly.”
“And other disguises,” he allowed. The inane grin hadn’t left Stephen’s face even while weals puffed up on chin and jaw. “How’s your back?”
“Sore.”
“You’ve been to see the Jew. Twice.” Stephen sat back. “And Tilda, also twice. So you know about the gambling debts.”
“William knew anyway,” Drake said.
“God save me, no.”
“The tribute was meant to cover the loans.”
Stephen ran a hand through his unkempt mane. “Truly? Father knew from the start?” His face filled with profound regret overlaid with unexpected gratitude. “I never could keep anything from him.”
“Your guilt has been lessened somewhat.”
As he brought the cup to his lips, Stephen asked, “How so?”
“I found out, don’t ask how, that William owns a share of taverns and bawdyhouses.”
Stephen choked on his ale. “You’re jesting.” Then, “You’re not jesting.”
“And gambling establishments all along the coast.”
“Surely not the righteous William fitzAlan.”
“And most likely broke the king’s laws in the bargain.” He leaned forward. “You know that places like Hogshead buy their gut-rotting drink through smuggling and piracy.”
“Oh, God.” Stephen tittered softly, holding his side. “Lord fitzAlan, the paragon of virtue.”
Drake joined his brother’s mirth, and still laughing, made the accusation that had been burning on his tongue for days. “Maynard didn’t bed Jenna, did he? ’Twas you.”
Stephen stopped laughing and gazed into the living mirror that reflected back his unspoken confession. He froze into a pillar of fire and ice, swallowing spittle and staring unblinkingly.
Drake laughed no more but fortified himself with drink, focusing into the dark depths of his goblet to keep from looking into his brother’s guilt-ridden eyes. After he had had his fill, he kept his eyes downcast and gazed into the equally dark hollow of his heart. “Did all of Winchester know you’ve been cuckolding your twin brother?”
On a hiss of breath, Stephen said, “Not even Jenna knew.”
Too late, too late …
Drake chose not to contradict him. Perhaps there had been a time when she didn’t know; certainly she knew now. “You took what was mine? By impersonating me?”
A schism divided brother from brother.
“Jenna didn’t know she was … that she and I … that we … she didn’t know she was betraying you, truly Drake, even when the talk was at its peak.”
“It was your idea to spread the rumor, then, about Jenna and Maynard?”
Stephen shook his head. “Jenna’s.”
Had I known a simple lie would lead to murder …
Attempting to hang onto something that wouldn’t break in his grasp, Drake curled stiffened fingers around his wine cup.
And Stephen, who so desperately wanted to replace the truth with a lie—a lie that he had talked himself into despite all logic—finally understood. “She knew. Dear God, she knew. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have ….”
“Aye, she knew.”
In the midst of a clangorous tavern, the silence between them was a clear pane of glass waiting to be broken.
“Jesus, Drake … how did I let it come to this?”
Drake wanted to strangle his brother with his bare hands. Crush his skull the way he was crushing the goblet. Watch him bleed as he had bled; hurt as he was hurting now; banish him from hearth and country as he had been banished.
“It started as a game, just a silly game,” Stephen said. “I never meant to … I never thought—”
“You never do.”
The schism widened.
Twin heads, one parti-colored with yellow and brown streaks, the other dark as the new moon, were bowed in what looked like prayer. What was going through their minds, though, was far from prayer.
“Tragedy knocked on the front gate,” Stephen said, “and I, like a fool, opened it. How was I to know where it would lead? Three good men murdered, you declared an outlaw, and me as good as. How can I ever forgive myself? I … I would sooner cut off my right arm than lose my brother.” His last words came on a sob.
Drake wondered how they could have been such different men, having come from the same seed, arrived on the same night, sucked milk from the same breasts, slept in the same crib, played the same games, took the same dares, chased the same lasses, made the same friends, and shared the same dreams. Come to think, they weren’t so different, after all. So why shouldn’t they have shared Jenna, too? “But I will,” he finally said.
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br /> “You can forgive me, and I’ll always love you for it. But I can’t.” Stephen gathered his things and made to go.
The schism closed to a stone’s throw.
Drake lowered his goblet. His eyes were still locked on its bottomless depth. His throat burned with grief. Shaking his head with regret and a profound sense of loss, he stood.
The tap on Stephen’s shoulder spun him around. Hope sprang from his heart. Tears formed in his eyes. They embraced until it hurt. The schism melted. They sat and signaled for more drink.
Stephen looked askance at Drake. “I saw Jenna go into the alehouse.”
“She wanted me … or rather, you … to deliver a note. To John.” Drake removed the parchment from his tunic and tossed it onto the table.
Stephen touched the missive but withdrew his fingers as if scorched. “John? Our cousin John? Do you think …?” He stopped himself.
Tucking the letter away, Drake finished for him. “Aye. The most beautiful woman in all of Hampshire, if not the kingdom, has been unfaithful to one identical twin by bedding the other, and betrayed both by bedding a pretender king.”
“That’s why Jenna spread the rumor.”
“Aye,” said Drake. “She wasn’t protecting you. Or me. She was protecting the brother of the king.”
Chapter 22
IN THE BENEDICTINE ABBEY OF Westminster, thirty of England’s ecclesiastic elite, chanting in plainsong and wearing purple-and-white robes, marched solemnly along the red woolen path toward the altar. England’s highest nobles followed.
Four barons carrying four golden candelabras.
Godfrey de Lucé—bishop-elect of Winchester—bearing the king’s cap of state.
William Marshal carrying the golden scepter.
His brother John Marshal, the sheriff of York, toting the golden spurs.
The king’s illegitimate brother William Longespée—earl of Sarum—holding aloft the golden staff.