“How long has he been your husband?”
“H-how long? Ten months, my lord.”
He nodded to Roland to bring his helm. "Are you with child?"
Amie's jaw dropped. "No. By God's good graces, no, He has spared me that indignity at least. Were it so, I would have bashed my own head with a candlestick."
He continued to study her face while he brusquely fastened the pennyplate camail of small metal links across his throat, and his gaze chose some small detail to focus upon while he considered his options—in this instance, a tiny white scar at the corner of her mouth. With unaccustomed distraction, he wondered how it had come to be there and why he had not noticed its presence before now.
He looked up into her eyes again. “You struck him with a candlestick?”
“Yes, my lord. As hard as I could.”
“The marks on your back and flanks... how did you get them?”
Amie’s eyes burned with shame, but she did not look down or away. “Odo de Langois enjoys inflicting pain. He used a whip as a way to break me of the habit of biting him."
Tamberlane stretched out his arm and Roland was quick to smack the hilt of a sword into the gloved hand. "And did it work as a deterrent?"
"No, my lord," she answered calmly. "It only made me bite harder the next time."
Ciaran studied the blade a moment, his keen eyes gauging the sharpness of the edge before flickering over to Amie again. “If I were to give you back, would you run away again?”
“No my lord. I expect I would be rendered unable to run anywhere ever again."
Marak stepped forward as if to speak but Tamberlane held up a hand, the palm flat, the look in his eyes gone well beyond a mere warning.
“I will hear the whole tale before the day is through. For now, there are hunters in my woods and I have not granted them permission to trespass.”
The surcoat that went over his mail hauberk was deep hunter green with no markings. The hilt of his sword lacked ornamentation of any kind, yet the blade was exquisitely wrought of the finest Damascene steel, and of such a length as to suggest it had been specially made for his taller frame.
He tucked a misericorde into the span of his belt and for one wild, panicked moment, Amie thought it would be an easy matter to reach out, take the knife, and draw it across her wrists to end it once and for all. How many times had the thought entered her mind before? Each and every day for the past ten months, at the least. God would surely forgive her. Regardless if Canon Law decreed that she be buried unshriven, God would forgive her. He could not possibly expect her to walk calmly back into her husband’s clutches to endure whatever manner of agonizing death awaited her there.
Hesitation cost her dearly, for before she could act on the thought, Tamberlane’s enormous piebald stallion was led up from the stables. Behind came three other knights, their mail glinting in the early morning light, helms pushed low over their brows, their visages concealed by the wide iron nasals. Each wore swords and had their shields slung over their shoulders in a subtle show of strength. There were more knights beginning to line the parapets as well, and dispersed among them, several foresters who held their bows in plain sight.
“Leave the gates open behind us,” Tamberlane ordered. “But have men standing by the windlass, and if I give the signal, be ready to drop the teeth of the portcullis.”
“What are you going to do?” Marak asked.
Before answering, Tamberlane climbed the low wooden platform used to aid a knight, burdened under extra pounds of armor, in mounting a horse.
“I am going to go and see who stares so rudely at my walls.”
“Is that wise?”
“Likely not as wise as it would be for you take the girl into the shadows with you. Her wits may be shaken, but her head is clear enough to know that if she is seen, I will be obliged to admit her presence.”
He wheeled the piebald around. With the wolfhounds trotting on ahead and Roland and the three knights riding in his wake, he passed between the enormous barbican towers and rode across the draw.
Amie stood as still as stone listening to the horses hooves cross the wooden planks.
“I warrant any suggestion to return to the keep would be met with refusal?" Marak asked.
Amie said nothing as she looked up at the hooded face.
“I thought as much. Very well, come with me. But at the first sign of trouble, you will do exactly as I instruct... agreed?”
“Agreed.”
A soft, dubious grunt acknowledged her promise. Marak tipped his head to indicate that she should follow him through the small portal at the base of the closest barbican tower.
The square structure had been built for the main purpose of protecting the castle’s entrance from direct attack. With walls over four feet thick, the towers were comprised of three defensive landings connected by a narrow block staircase. Each landing had several arrow slits that gave defenders an excellent vantage and ample room to draw a bow, but presented nearly impossible targets for anyone firing from shore.
What little light these meurtriers admitted was washed gray by the depth of the wall and by the lacy veil of ivy that grew up the outer face of the stone. The uppermost landing was further shaded by the machicolations—murder holes—that jutted out from the roof above through which boiling water, pitch, or burning faggots could be thrown down upon the heads of attackers.
The light was muted enough it allowed Marak to slide the thick wool of his hood back, and to let Amie step up to one of the arrow slits and watch the proceedings without fear of being seen.
~~
Tamberlane crossed the draw and led his small group at a dignified clip-clop toward the waiting party of knights. Odo de Langois had wheeled his steed about and was watching their approach with undisguised interest. Glittering dark eyes showed on either side of his nasal as he noted their armor and weapons.
Tamberlane rode close enough for a hail then stopped.
“I would know who it is who comes bearing arms to threaten a peaceful village.”
“Threaten?” Odo’s chin came up. “I have made no threat, good my lord. I come in peace, I assure you.”
“What manner of peaceful business brings you to Taniere Castle with knights and bowmen standing at the ready?”
“These are dangerous woods," Odo said blithely. "We have heard of outlaws who build their nests in the trees and stop a traveller with arrows rather than questions.”
“These are dangerous times." Ciaran countered. "The tax men bleed the peasants dry and if there are outlaws in the trees, it is because they have no other place to live.”
“The taxes have gone toward the ransoming of our king, held like a common prisoner by the Holy Roman Emperor. You grudge the Prince Regent his right to save his brother, our liege and king?”
“I grudge him nothing, except when my land is attacked without provocation."
De Langois’ eyes narrowed. “Aye, we did pass a vill that looked charred from a recent encounter. But I am not come from Prince John. Nor do I have a taste for blood or burnings this fine day. Rather, I go about my own business and come only to appeal to your hospitality, Lord Tamberlane, and to perhaps beg a hot meal for myself and my men.”
“Your own business?”
“A personal matter of some delicacy, more easily discussed over a stoup of ale.” He saw Tamberlane's gaze slant across to the silent ring of crossbowmen again and he added with a faint smile, “My men will remain on shore, naturally. They would only beg your leave to build cooking fires and draw water from your lake.”
“The water is free and plentiful,” Tamberlane said. “They may draw their fill. As for you and your knightly companions, our fare is plain and our accommodations humble, but I offer them freely.”
“A crust and a jacket of ale will suffice,” de Langois said expansively. “Though I must say it surprises me to hear that the Dragonslayer of Hattin lives within such modest means.”
“I have modest needs, my l
ord...?”
“Apologies for my poor manners. Odo de Langois. My holding is Belmane, half a hundred miles to the north. On my right stands my brother Rolf, on the left, our cousin Sigurd.”
“You are welcome at Taniere, my lords,” Tamberlane said and touched the reins to his horse, wheeling the big piebald around.
The leather of de Langois’ saddle creaked as he turned to murmur a few words of instruction to one of his men. When he was done and the younger man had trotted away, he put a spur to his horse’s flank. His brother and cousin, along with three other knights and their squires followed at a casual pace, with Tamberlane’s guards falling into step behind them.
De Langois' slitted eyes moved constantly as they rode across the drawbridge, assessing the height of the barbicans, the looming shadow of the walls, the number of heads he counted peering through the embrasures. As they passed under the portcullis, he noted that the iron teeth gave less than a hands width of clearance to a mounted man, and that the cables were wound so tightly in the winch that the bars hummed with the tension.
He stared at the carvings on both sides of the massive wooden gates as they passed by. The doors were embossed front and back with dragons, their bodies wound together in a thick coil that spread open at the top like branches of a tree. The tree was split down the middle and where the gates joined, the black iron claws could be locked together. Aside from the defensive benefits, the carvings were so intricate and lifelike that the dragons seemed to be glaring a silent warning down at the visitors as they passed.
Once beneath the portcullis, the small party rode directly across the outer ward and through the arch to the inner bailey, where hostlers were waiting to take the reins of the horses.
“This castle is so far from the Roman road, I scarcely knew of its existence,” Odo said when he dismounted.
“The solitude suits my needs," Tamberlane said, casting a glance around the ward.
Odo de Langois removed his gauntlets, tugging one finger free at a time. He then loosened his camail and pushed the mail hood back off his head, revealing a shock of thick red hair stuck close to his head. A quick raking with his fingers eased the tightness on his scalp and left some of the greasy strands sticking straight up like spikes. His eyes, the color of oiled iron, looked to the defenses of the keep and the inner ward, while his nose, thin and hooked at the tip, sniffed the air like a bloodhound trying to catch scent of his prey.
“I confess I have not felt hot water on my skin in nearly a fortnight,” he said, slapping a glove across his thigh to dislodge some clinging mud. “If your hospitality might extend that far, my lord, my men and I would be most appreciative.”
Tamberlane signalled to a lackey. “We will have a stoup of ale first, my lord, by then the water in the bathhouse should be well heated."
“Excellent, excellent! My tongue is dry enough to sand a plank.”
Tamberlane, with Roland at his back, walked up the pentice and led the way into the keep. Word of visitors had reached the hall well ahead of the men and there were already flagons of ale and wine on the tables set beside loaves of coarse barley bread. All of the knights, with the exception of Odo and Rolf, took seats at one of the trestle tables. Tamberlane invited the brothers to join him on the dais, where there were varlets waiting with bowls of water that they might wash their hands before breaking into the loaves of bread.
Instead of dipping his hands, Odo pushed the young boy aside, causing him to stumble and slosh water down the front of his tunic. The knight then drew his knife and stabbed into a loaf of bread, tearing away a huge chunk which he proceeded to stuff into his mouth and wash down with a full jacket of ale.
“Our victuals over the past two weeks would make a mendicant weep,” he said, the crumbs spitting from his lips, the ale glistening on his chin. “By Saint George's grace, the softness of this bread is more welcome than a woman's cunny."
“This ‘business’ that brings you to Taniere Castle,” Tamberlane said after a moment. “You said it was of a personal nature?”
“Mmm.” Odo nodded even as he curled his lip and spat a kernel of unground barley onto the table. “It concerns the fickle nature of my wife, Elizabeth. Despite my bowing to her every whim and pleasure, despite my ability and desire to lavish her with wealth and comforts beyond anything she could imagine, the sulky ingrate has taken it upon herself to run away.”
Tamberlane’s face remained blank and he was able to say with complete honesty, “I am not familiar with any lady by that name, my lord, nor have any errant wives come knocking on my gates.”
“I only mention this as a matter of course, but you are aware, naturally, that by law you would be required to surrender her to me if she had.”
Tamberlane’s long fingers stroked the side of his pewter mug, gathering beads of condensation. “If I knew of the presence of Lady Elizabeth de Langois here at Taniere, I would most certainly surrender her forthwith.”
Odo continued to chew thoughtfully, trying to gauge the expression in the cool, steady green graze which struck him now as being remarkably similar to the gaze of the dragons that had watched them as they passed through the gates.
“Perhaps she was seen in the village? She would be a difficult trick to overlook. Slender as a wisp, with long flaxen hair, impertinent eyes, and an over-bold mouth?”
Tamberlane pursed his lips. “On my honor, I have not seen any woman hereabouts who fulfills that description. The villagers hereabout are mostly Saxon, with dark hair and darker eyes. A noblewoman, especially one so fair as you describe would surely draw attention in a village of barley growers and cabbage farmers. Roland—?”
The squire stepped forward at once.
“Has anyone remarked on the presence of a fair-haired noblewoman in the village? Traveling...” he consulted with Odo by way of a glance. “...surely not on her own, but with a companion?"
“She had an accomplice. A foolhardy priest. But he left her off somewhere down the road.”
"Alone? In these woods? And you say she has been gone from your castle for how long?"
Odo's eyes narrowed. "Nigh on five weeks."
Tamberlane leaned back in his chair and spread his hands. "Surely you can see how unreasonable it would be to suppose a genteel noblewoman could survive four weeks in these woods. Woods that you yourself remarked as being full of outlaws."
"That was why I thought to approach your gates," Odo said evenly. "In the hope she might have sought protection."
Tamberlane laughed outright. "Taniere is hardly a sanctuary for wayward wives.”
“I have been following the trail of whispers, some faint, some carrying a ring of truth.” Odo's eyes glittered at the laughter and his hand tightened around the hilt of his eating knife. “I was told she sought comfort at the village that was so recently attacked and burned."
Tamberlane drew a deep breath. "Indeed, a sorry affair. The monks at the nearby priory took upon themselves the burden of burying every soul who dwelled there. I do not recall them making any mention of a stranger amongst the tenants, nor any woman fitting the description you gave."
Odo tapped his fingers on the board, his eyes still glittering as he watched Ciaran's face for any sign of evasion. "It would appear, then, that she may have wriggled through the net again, slippery little eel that she is.”
“It would appear so. For rest assured, I have no use for rebellious wives here and would happily be relieved of so troublesome a burden whither it were a dictate of the law or not. In the meantime, rest and eat your fill." He signaled for more ale. "And while you do, pray catch me up on all the news from the outside world. We have so few visitors, a stray pigeon that alights in the ward is cause for rejoicing. What news of the king? The last we heard was that the ransom had fallen well short of the mark despite the prince’s best efforts, and the dowager queen was being pressed to sell the Aquitaine to Leopold to win the king’s release.”
Odo de Langois hesitated a moment longer, obviously reluctant to leave the s
ubject of his missing wife. “Your news is weeks old, friend, and sprinkled with faery dust. The dowager would see all her sons dead before bartering away her precious Aquitaine. As for the ransom, five tons of silver has been collected and already delivered to the Austrian knave.”
“It departed England safely?”
“And why should it not? The prince has been just as eager as his mother to see the release of the king.”
The words sounded ludicrous, even to a man who was loyal to Prince John. It had taken nearly two years to raise the sum demanded for King Richard’s release. During those two years John Lackland had done nothing to aid the efforts of either his mother Eleanor or the Bishop of Salisbury, Hubert Walter, in collecting the ransom. Indeed, he had done everything he could, including theft and murder, to prevent the silver ever reaching Austria.
His actions had plunged all of England into a period of treachery and violence, where greed outweighed loyalty and neighboring barons turned against each other to the point of open rebellion. Those who sided with John were promised great wealth, land, and power in return for their support. Those who upheld their allegiance to Richard found themselves arrested on imagined charges, their property seized, their sons outlawed, their families cast from the gates like peasants. Even the Archbishop of York, Richard’s bastard brother, had been thrown into prison. William Longchamps, the king's Chancellor, had fled to Europe days before an assassin’s knife could silence his vocal dissent.
Prince John had assumed the throne in all but name and had grown so fat and comfortable in the position, he would have done anything in his power to keep his brother prisoner at Durnstein. Nobles were kidnapped and murdered, their deaths blamed on the roving bands of outlaws who filled the forests—outlaws who were, for the most part, men who had spoken out against Prince John and chose the forest over being drawn and quartered. One such band was led by the nephew of William the Marshal—Henry de Clare—and it was he, working in concert with Salisbury and the dowager queen, who had turned the tables on the prince’s thieves and taxmen, robbing them to raise the bulk of the ransom.
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