“Lights in the meadow, sir.” As his horse shifted, Pellier pointed to the east and cursed. “Mon Dieu. It is the patrol.”
“By the saints. They must have doubted thy account, else fortune frowns on our endeavor.” In a flash, Arucard heeled hard the flanks of his stallion. “We must hurry, if we art to escape.”
To avoid wagon ruts, he kept to the grassy verge, with Pellier in his wake. His heart pounded, beating in rhythm as he pushed his destrier harder and faster. They veered left, then right, and then left again, snaking amid the sludge with the King’s guard in their tracks. At last, the dense foliage yielded to sparse outbuildings, heralding they neared the quaint seaside town, whither the lanes improved, and Arucard picked up speed.
Racing through the marketplace, which was closed for the day and thus sparsely populated, he glanced over his shoulder and discovered the King’s guard had gained valuable ground, and he swore under his breath. “Ride for the ship, Pellier. Do not stop until thou hast boarded the Olifant. And tell the men to throw off the ropes and weigh anchor, as we must sail, immediately.”
“Aye, sir.” At the docks, Pellier abided Arucard’s orders, signaling with a mock salute.
“To arms! To arms!” In turn, Arucard pounded the boards, to sound the alarm and alert his brothers. “Onward, Demetrius. Randulf, abandon the wine, as thou must go—now. Philip’s patrol nears.”
At his proclamation, sailors scrambled in all directions, toppling bags of flour and rice, as they ran for their respective transports. The original plan had been to trail the merchant vessels, which ventured on the morrow tide, to avoid rousing even a mere soupçon of consternation, but they could not wait for dawn, so he altered his tack.
Charging the gangplank, he brought his stallion to a halt and slid from the saddle, as his single-masted cog slipped from its berth. When the wind caught the canvas, he took the helm and set a course for the open seas. But he could not rejoice, as Demetrius remained dangerously close to the docks, within striking distance, and young Randulf, reluctant to relinquish the cask, had just pulled his lines, when the archers took aim.
Then, to his unutterable horror, soldiers rolled in three carro-ballistas and launched a hailstorm, in rapid succession, of flaming bolts into the air. Cries of terror formed a morbid cacophony, echoing on the gentle breeze. Helpless to aid his brothers, Arucard clenched his fists and gnashed his teeth, as first Demetrius and then Randulf’s ship caught fire.
“What can we do, sir?” With a grimace, Pellier rubbed his neck. “How can we save them?”
“It appears Demetrius has extinguished the small blaze that threatened the Tigus, but I fear thither is naught we can do to assist the Spearintine, as the hold is engulfed, and the gadling founders.” Even as he voiced the obvious, he prayed he was wrong. With his thumb and forefinger, Arucard stared into the twilight and touched his forehead, chest, and left and then right shoulder, as the King had just claimed a victim—the first of many, no doubt. “May the Almighty Father have mercy on Randulf’s soul.”
In what seemed as several painful hours, but was in reality a few minutes, the knarr sank beneath the water’s surface, disappearing bit by bit until not even the masthead remained visible. On the outside, he maintained his composure, as his crew relied on him for guidance, but inside he wept for his friend, a regrettable cost—a human sacrifice exacted by Philip’s cursed lust for wealth and power.
As the Olifant rode the waves, gliding in a graceful dance as the craft passed the golfe’s foreland, a familiar sight that had always soothed his often frazzled nerves, he fixed his attention on the bow, on the road that lay ahead, and vowed never again to surrender one of his brothers in the name of greed. And so it was with that train of thought he gave his attention to the charts.
“Sir, dost thou ever believe we will go home, again?” Leaning against the rail, Pellier stared a-stern. “Or dost thou think Edward will kill us, on sight?”
“We have no home, Pellier.” Listing with the motion of the ocean, Arucard swallowed hard, as a crude reality set in with a vengeance just then. Yet all was not lost, and he coveted hope to be won in a foreign land. “But if we art to endure, mighty England is our future, and if she will have us, we shall serve her with honor until we breathe our last.”
ARUCARD
CHAPTER ONE
England
The Year of Our Lord, 1312
Locked in the tiny stone cell in the tower keep for an untold period, which he estimated at well nigh five years as marked by the canonical hours, Arucard gazed at the azure morning sky, gave thanks for another day above ground, and wondered how his brothers fared in captivity. Were they alive and well, or had Edward executed them for the blasphemous but fallacious allegations that threatened the once great Order of Knights Templar?
The rasp of the metal lock and the screech of the hinges had him bracing for the final sentence, as he broke his fast at dawn with a customary light sop, and the bells had yet to signal sext, so he had not anticipated the noon meal. Had the Crown’s men, at last, come for him? “Thither who goes?”
“It is Brewer, Sir Arucard.” The steward, who had been very kind throughout Arucard’s imprisonment, entered along with a small army of servants bearing a large ancere, a stack of linen cloths, and buckets of water, in the company of a familiar, much-welcomed face. “Thou art to prepare for an audience with His Majesty. I bring thee a square of barilla soap, a sharp blade for shaving, and a change of clothes, which the King requests thee wear for the singular occasion.”
“Am I to be tried for Philip’s spurious claims?” On edge, he charged the poor soul but drew up short, as Brewer was not to blame for Arucard’s predicament. “Am I to dress for my death?”
“His Royal Highness does not see fit to apprise me of his intentions, Sir Arucard. As I am but a fleak, I do His bidding, naught more.” Brewer directed the attendants and then loomed in the entry. “Thou hast an hour to tend thy needs, and then the royal escort will convey thee to St. John’s Chapel. That is all I know, sir.”
Once Brewer departed, Arucard and Pellier locked forearms in companionship. “My friend, it is good to see thee.”
“And thou, sir.” Misty-eyed, and a bit worse for wear, Pellier smiled. “The crew has been tormented by thoughts of thy demise, as we have had no word of thee.”
“Thou art housed together?” Releasing his comrade, he stumbled back and gave thanks in silence. “The men prevail?”
“Aye.” Drawing a shaky breath, Pellier dipped his chin. “By the benevolence of God, we art all well and accounted for, sir. Even when young Thomas caught the ague, the King sent a physician to treat the boy. And I am summoned to assist thee in grooming for an important event.”
The revelations did much to soothe Arucard’s nerves, as it made no sense for Edward to maintain the crew’s health and Arucard’s appearance, if the Crown intended to kill them, in the end. Glancing at the steaming tub, he doffed his linen underclothes and woolen stockings.
As he sank into the water, he savored the experience, as baths were a rarity in confinement. For a Templar Knight, cleanliness was a priority, second only to his daily devotional, and the denial of what most deemed a simple pleasure had actually served only to intensify the wretched conditions of his cell. After a thorough scrubbing of his body and washing his hair, he emerged as a new man, stepped into clean braies, and sat with the patience of a saint, as Pellier shaved the long beard and cut the tangled locks.
“Thither, sir.” With hands on hips, Pellier admired his work. “Thou dost look as thee did the night we departed France, if a tad older.”
“So thy humor remains in fine form.” With a chuckle and a much-improved spirit, Arucard donned the chausses, the linen shirt, the calf-boots, the navy wool cotehardie, over which he pulled on the matching doublet bedecked in gold braids. The fur-lined cloak of equal splendor left him perplexed, as did the ailette, fashioned of leather and bearing a unique wind-star design foreign to him, which was typically laced t
o the shoulder, over armor, and bore the bearer’s coat of arms. “Well, what dost thou think? Am I fit to receive the King?”
“I cannot say, sir.” Pellier shrugged and then flinched, as the steward returned. Retreating to the small table, whither Arucard partook his meals, the marshalsea frowned. “But I pray fortune smiles upon thee, and we meet tomorrow to celebrate glad tidings.”
“If thou wilt follow me, Sir Arucard.” Brewer inched aside. “His Majesty awaits thy presence.”
Without a word, Arucard strolled into the dark corridor, and an escort armed with shields and pointed halberds surrounded him. Stiffening his spine, he promised to withstand, with grace and honor, whatever Edward had in store, as he would not embarrass his ancestors. The stone passage, aglow in the soft amber light from cresset lamps spaced in equal distances on the wall, led to a narrow winding staircase, which he ascended. At the landing, the guards turned left, and a vast expanse spread before him.
Huge glazed windows filtered the sun’s bright rays, and vibrant tapestries decorated the great hall. Servants and elegantly garbed nobles scurried in various directions, sparing nary a glance at him. At a double-door entrance, a sentry set wide the heavy panels, revealing a vaulted chapel—not a block for beheading.
Four massive columns connected by plain arches, and decorated with naught more than pedestrian carvings of scallop and leaf designs, flanked either side of the wide aisle, and an identical combination of similarly ornamented thick round piers, on a smaller scale, formed the apse. But it was the group of men identically uniformed and gathered before the altar that gave him pause.
“Brothers.” With splayed arms, he greeted his fellow Templar Knights, and they exchanged fraternal salutations and hearty backslaps. “Demetrius, Aristide, Morgan, and Geoffrey, dost my eyes deceive me? Am I dreaming?”
“Hither we art, but I am concerned for thy mental state, if thou dost resort to fantasies of me to pass the time.” Ever the wit, Demetrius elbowed Arucard in the ribs. “As it stands, I summoned visions of tables overflowing with roasted pork and smoked herring. And what I would give for a tankard of beer, as we have been restricted to wine and Adam’s ale, which I wilt argue is cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Well I like that.” Aristide shuffled his feet. “On the verge of our demise, thou dost think only of thy belly.”
“And that surprises thee?” Geoffrey snickered. “I wager Demetrius expected food fit for a king, not a disgraced and exiled knight.”
“But thou art no longer disgraced or exiled.” At the railing of the second floor gallery, His Majesty inclined his head. “While Philip burned at the stake some fifty-four knights, in May of thirteen-ten, the Vatican Chinon Parchment, issued by Pope Clement V, absolved the Knights Templar and Grand Master de Molay, though he remains a prisoner of France, and we anticipate will suffer the same fate.”
“And what of us?” Peering at his brethren, Arucard compressed his lips, as King Edward strolled to the rear and then descended the stairs. “Art we to be treated thus?”
“Although our French adversary refuses to recognize the Papal Bull Vox in Excelsis, which suspended thy order, or the Ad Providam, which redistributed thy assets to the Hospitalliers, save the fortune thee brought to my shores and so generously donated to my treasury, we would offer a proposal to serve our combined purpose.” His Majesty’s voice echoed on the stone walls of the chapel, as he navigated the aisle. “As thou dost seek to live, and we require warriors of unmatched prowess upon whom we can rely, let us collaborate in noble endeavors. In recompense, we shall reward thee with thy own distinguished order, the benefits of royal favor, and our unadulterated protection.”
The bargain sounded too good to be true, and Arucard raised his defenses and gazed at his brothers. “Given our devout beliefs, if I may beg thy indulgence, what would thee ask of us, Sire?”
“As we recall, Sir Arucard, thou dost shepherd thy men.” The King narrowed his stare. “Thine is a courageous occupation, and we do not envy thee, but at present our needs art simple. We require an oath of loyalty, obedience in all matters of state, and unimpeachable allegiance, but we art not ignorant of thy faith, so we shall bear that in mind when issuing decrees. That is our agreement, else thou mayest retire to thy quarters and spend the remainder of thy days, however many or few that may be, in reflection and solitude.”
Thither was no mistaking the veiled threat, and for a few minutes, Arucard searched his mind for a response. Were his choice limited to his future, alone, he would answer without delay, as he would rather die with his soul intact than risk eternal damnation for a prolonged existence of comfort and prestige he neither demanded nor desired. But he could not ignore his crew and the consequences his response might mete upon them, so he would gladly sacrifice himself to keep them safe from harm. With his course determined, he studied his friends for any sign of reluctance, and each conveyed their acceptance in a nod of affirmation.
“Well, then.” With a fist pressed to his chest, Arucard knelt, his kindred followed suit, and so it was done. “On our honor, we art at thy command, Majesty.”
“Given thy reputation, which precedes thee, absent Philip’s attack on thy character, we take thy word as thy oath.” In that second, the King unsheathed an impressive sword, which he tapped to each man’s shoulders. “Then arise most virtuous knights of the Order of the Brethren of the Coast.”
“The Brethren of the Coast?” With a grimace, Geoffrey quirked his brows. “Never have I heard of them.”
“That is because we created the appointment to accommodate our new men-at-arms.” Edward waved to his minion, who carried a tray draped in blue velvet, which the King drew back with a flick of his wrist. “The official seal of thy occupation, for our Nautionnier Knights. Thine ships remain whither thee docked them, and we have seen to their care, as we engender immediate departure, following a ceremony of some importance to solidify our ties.”
“Gramercy.” Arucard studied the heavy gold object and frowned, as it struck him as garish for a humble servant. “Thou art most kind, Sire.”
“See to their comfort in chambers befitting their station,” His Majesty stated to the attendant. “As we have a private matter to discuss with Sir Arucard.”
Now that caught his attention, and he gulped. Was it not enough that he would surrender his life for the Crown? When the King ushered Arucard to a side room, he halted before a small table, upon which sat a crystal decanter and goblets. After pouring two portions of wine, Edward turned. “May we offer thee a refreshment? As we believe thou wilt need it.”
“Gramercy, Majesty.” With quivering fingers, he grasped the stem, as his thoughts ran amok. What more could the King want? “To what shall we toast?”
“Thy wedding.”
#
It was a brisk fall morning in London, and the wind whispered and thrummed in the trees, casting a shower of leaves on the path, as Isolde de Tyreswelle shivered beneath her threadbare wool cloak and filled two buckets with water from the well. Balancing the shoulder yoke, she huffed and puffed, as she carried the load into the undercroft of her family’s town dwelling and struggled with the weight as she shuffled into the scullery.
“Lady Isolde, thou art not a maid.” After wiping her hands on her apron, Margery, who worked as a steward, of sorts, folded her arms and frowned. “Thy mother, God rest her, would be furious with thy father, as he has not done right by thee.”
“And thou wilt tell him that?” she inquired, with a grimace at the prospect.
“To see thee suffer the consequences of my forthrightness?” Margery scoffed. “Not on thy life. Yet I would not permit thee to toil as a commoner, when thou art of noble blood.”
“But he ordered a bath, and I dare not tarry, else he will not hesitate to spill my noble blood.” With a grunt, she hoisted the pail to a pot for boiling. “Thou dost know well his temper.”
“Let Anne do it.” Margery wrinkled her nose. “Oh, whither is that daggle-tailed girl? Anne?”
“Sorry, Anne.” Pondering her father’s strange mood, Isolde yielded the chore with reluctance, as she had no reason not to return to her chamber, and she rued a chance encounter with her sire. “Then I should leave thee to it.”
Mustering a smile, she nodded and walked into the kitchen, whither the cook plucked a whole chicken. Whistling a frisky little ditty, Isolde strolled through the central hall, ensured the table had been cleared and cleaned, adjusted a couple of chairs with precision, and then continued to her private apartment, which functioned as her sanctuary.
So many times, she had considered running away, but whither could she go? Despite her impressive connections, no one would have sheltered a fleeing female, given the law had defined her as the earl of Rochester’s property. And her lone attempt to escape, which she had ventured a few years ago, had resulted in the abrupt dismissal of a beloved nanny and a sound beating Isolde would never forget.
Breathing a sigh of relief, as she had nary a glimpse or signal of her father, she hurried to her room. After closing the door, she turned—and shrieked.
“What is wrong with thee, chitty-face?” The lord of the manor scowled, and she raised her guard.
“Father, my apologies.” With a bow of her head, she averted her stare, as he did not like her to look at him. And on the rare occasion she forgot his peculiar edict, he reminded her in his favorite manner. “I supervised the preparations for thy bath, and—”
“Not my bath, thou stupid girl.” As he neared, she could not stop shaking. When he grabbed her chin and brought her gaze to his, she swallowed hard as he scrutinized her. “Wash, and make thyself respectable, as I may finally have found some use for thee. Thither art new clothes, which thou art to wear tomorrow, for a very special occasion, which His Majesty has seen fit to bestow upon thy unworthy hide. And if thou dost embarrass this house and disappoint the King, thou wilt not live past the sunset. Dost thou understand?”
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