Inwardly wincing, Jobert answered, “I know not, although I expect no further trouble from them. The man who was killed was the leader of the rebels. Without him, I vow they will not harass Oxbury further.”
William began to pace. “But they might well join some rebel forces elsewhere. I cannot say I am pleased with this news, Brevrienne. I charged you with subduing the rebels. All you have done is run them off your demesne. I ask you, why should I honor any of your requests, when I cannot depend on you to carry out your duty?”
I am caught in a trap, Jobert thought miserably. By trying to save Alnoth and Withan, he had lost further ground with William.
The king turned his back and approached the pile of work on the table, as if signaling Jobert’s dismissal.
“There is one other thing, my lord.” Jobert drew a deep breath before continuing on. He might be risking everything, but it was his only hope. “I don’t believe that all the troubles at Oxbury have been caused by Saxons. I believe that someone else has been aiding the rebels and causing me difficulties.”
William cocked his head. “And have you any idea who this ‘someone’ might be?”
“Robert de Valois, my lord. You know that he hates me, and blames me for his daughter’s decision to enter a convent. I think he has set men to spy on me and paid them to inflict damage in whatever way they can.”
“What proof do you have?”
“Strange things, my lord. A few weeks ago, the rebels’ attacks suddenly became more daring, their awareness of the palisade’s weaknesses much more acute. Someone had to be helping them.”
“What else?”
“I was injured while in Gloucestershire in the attempt to suppress the rebels there—shot in the shoulder by a crossbow bolt. No one else around me was hurt, and from what I can learn of it, the crossbow is not a Saxon weapon. I believe now that the bowman’s intent was to kill me.”
“Now you talk murder, a very serious charge.”
“Yea, my lord. But you well know that Valois hates me enough to plot my death.”
William paused and drummed his fingers on the table, then looked at Jobert. “I will not say I don’t believe you. My instinct tells me Valois is capable of such ruthlessness. But your proof is slim, indeed, near nonexistent. And...” He arched a brow meaningfully. “Valois is a powerful force in Normandy With the arduous task ahead of me here in England, I cannot afford to offend my allies there.”
“So, what do you advise, my lord? That I go back to Oxbury and wait for the next attempt on my life, the next threat to my property?”
“You must do what you see fit, Brevrienne. I have lived all my life with the shadow of the assassin’s blade hovering over me. All I can advise you is to surround yourself with men who have more to benefit from your remaining alive than from your death. In the end, your fate is in the hands of God anyway.”
Jobert could not be angered by William’s casual attitude. In truth, the king had survived numerous challenges to his power, beginning in his boyhood when he woke in a blood-soaked bed and found that his trusted seneschal and protector had been murdered next to him while he slept.
The king sat down at the table, and Jobert realized his audience was nearly at an end. “And what of the Saxon prisoners?” he asked. “What is your judgment for them?”
“It appears you need all the loyal soldiers you can find, Brevrienne. If you desire to accept their vow of allegiance, you may do so.”
“And the matter of my marriage to Oxbury’s heiress?”
William did not look up. “I have not yet decided.”
* * *
“What think you, lady?” Osbert came up beside Edeva on the gatetower, and his steady gaze met hers.
“I think they will try again.”
He nodded. “The archers struck a few, but ’tis scarce more than a burr in a bear’s paw to an army such as that. It puzzles me that they were so easily turned away.” Below the helmet, his mouth twisted into a frown. “’Tis almost as if they meant to harass us, but not overtake the palisade.”
“I know. Something is not right here. What is their plan?”
“To learn that, we must consider why they came here to begin with. If we had opened the gate to them, as Bourges requested, what would they have done?”
Edeva shrugged. “Seized control of the manor and murdered all inside?”
“And when Brevrienne returned?”
“I suppose they would kill him as well.”
“But their actions would eventually be reported to the king and Bourges would end up an outlaw. William will not tolerate private war among his barons. Bourges can conquer Oxbury, but he cannot claim it, not without writ from the king. And if he had that, why bother doing battle at all?”
“’Tis a puzzle.”
“Yea, and we must decipher it.”
Edeva sighed. She did not feel up to solving riddles at this time.
Beornflaed called to her from the bottom of the ladder. “My lady, is it safe for the children to leave the chapel? They are hungry and fussy,” the cook added apologetically. “If the danger is past, ’twould seem better to let them leave for now, in case they must seek shelter there again later.”
“Yea, feed them and let them have their rest. Where is the priest, by the by? Did he not stay with you?”
“I have not seen Father Reibald,” Beornflaed answered. `In fact, I believe he has left the palisade. Before the enemy soldiers even arrived, I saw him by the postern gate.”
The priest was missing, having conveniently disappeared before the palisade was attacked. Edeva thought it odd but then, Father Reibald was a strange man. The way he pretended to admire her, even though he did not. His suggestions that Jobert was unfit to control Oxbury, that King William would send another man to take his place...
Edeva stared blindly across the yard. Father Reibald had warned that another Norman would come to claim Oxbury. What if Bourges were that man?
“Lady, what do we do next?” Osbert prompted.
She turned to him. “If we could find the priest, we might find the answers we seek.”
“How is he entangled in this?”
“I know not. But he was seen leaving the palisade ere Bourges and his men even arrived.”
Osbert gave her a puzzled look. Edeva decided she did not have time to explain her suspicions. If Father Reibald was a spy, ’twas unlikely he would return to the palisade until the invaders had triumphed.
“Send your swiftest man down to the village,” she told Osbert. “Have him offer the women and children there sanctuary inside the palisade. I fear what Bourges and his men will do if they return.”
Osbert nodded and left.
Edeva remained on the tower, thinking furiously. What if she sent a man to London to find Jobert and alert him to what was happening? She gazed up at the overcast sky. A storm was brewing. If it snowed, ’twould be near impossible for a lone knight to get to London in time. Should she risk it?
Below, she heard the creak of the gate opening. A knight on horseback—probably Payne—started down the muddy trackway toward the village. Edeva fought the urge to call him back and send him to London instead. She must see to the safety of the villagers first, then she could decide what her next action would be.
The gate clanged shut, and Edeva climbed down the ladder. She paused to speak to a dozen different people in the yard, reassuring them, answering questions. The turmoil inside her deepened. Everyone depended on her and looked to her to make sound decisions regarding the safety of Oxbury. She wanted to scream that she didn’t know a thing about defending a fortress. She wanted to run away. Going to the chapel seemed the next best thing.
She went inside and closed the door behind her, breathing a sigh of relief. At least it was quiet and private here. The place smelled of incense and beeswax. She walked to the rail, her footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Kneeling, she made a silent petition for strength and courage. Some of the anxiety seemed to leave her. She bowed her head agai
n, this time praying for the souls of her mother and father. Her brothers. And Jobert.
A lump formed in her throat. What if she didn’t live to see him again, to look into his beautiful green eyes, to kiss his wide, grinning mouth?
Nay, she could not think like that. He had asked her to keep Oxbury safe, and somehow she would manage it.
She stood. A shout from the yard made her hasten to the chapel door.
Outside, she blinked at the sudden whiteness. Flakes of snow were falling, drifting down with a quiet deadly grace. The sky was a thick opaque gray.
She ran to the gate. The villagers filed in, clutching bundles of their possessions, carrying crying babies and wide-eyed frightened children. Edeva tried to reassure them. “You’ll be safer here,” she said. “We have twenty knights to defend us. Lord Brevrienne said the palisade could withstand a siege if necessary.”
Her words did not ease their apprehension. She wondered a little at their continued anxiety, until Osbert came up beside her and said, “We’ve found the priest. Lying at the side of the trackway with an arrow in his back.”
Hot anger rose in Edeva. “Fools! To kill a man of God, even if he was a worthless scheming wretch. I vow King William will not forgive this!”
“My lady.” Osbert’s voice was mournful. “’Twas a Saxon arrow we found in his back.”
Edeva knew that her mouth was hanging open in a very unladylike fashion, but she simply could not believe what she was hearing. The people of Oxbury would never have done such a thing. ’Twas unthinkable that such simple, stolid folk would kill a priest.
She started to make her thoughts known to Osbert. The words froze in her throat as she beheld Alan of Fornay walking toward her across the yard. On the side of his face shone a livid purple bruise. He was limping and fat flakes of snow gleamed in his dark hair.
* * *
“You’re not coming back with us?” Hamo asked as Jobert and his escort left Westminster.
Jobert shook his head. “I’m going into the city. There is someone I must speak with.”
“God’s blood, I don’t like this,” Hamo grumbled. “You ask us to leave you on your own in a place crawling with Saxons.”
“The Londoners are not such fools as to attack a well-armed Norman knight.”
“I hope you are right. But if you are not back by dawn where shall I see you?”
“I’m going to a tavern near the inn we stayed at. The Black Horse, it is called.”
“Yea, I remember.” Hamo grinned. “Give my greeting to the curly-haired wench.”
“You think she will remember you?” Jobert gibed.
Hamo stuck his chest out. “Of course she’ll remember me. How many men has she had who are hung like a lion?”
Jobert shook his head at Hamo’s conceit and turned his horse down the roadway toward the city. His errand was probably a foolish one. There was really no reason to suppose that Girard would be at the same tavern he had frequented a fortnight before.
But the conversation with the king had left Jobert unsettled. He needed to find proof that Valois was behind his difficulties at Oxbury. Otherwise, William would continue to think him weak and incompetent. His claim to the manor, and to Edeva, would not be resolved.
It was almost twilight and the traffic on the roadway had begun to thin. Jobert saw only a few knights and some farmers with their empty wain heading back to their steadings after selling their produce to merchants in the city. When he reached the city itself, the streets were more crowded, although not as bad as during the day. He could take in the sights without being constantly distracted by the bustling stream of humanity jostling him and making his horse shy.
Here and there among the clutter of wooden houses, he spied fantastic archways, ancient pillars and other elaborate stonework, made almost invisible now by years of soot and dirt, but still impressive if a man looked closely and imagined the effort and creativity it took to fashion them. So many centuries ago the Romans had built these wonders, their engineering brilliance surviving all who came after. Mayhaps that was why the Londoners accepted their new conquerors so easily, Jobert mused. They expected to prosper under the Normans as they had under all the other invaders.
King William was in the process of leaving his own mark on London, with a tower built close to the river on the east edge of the city. Constructed first in wood, it would eventually be rebuilt in stone, and would form the first line of defense in maintaining Norman control of the Thames. Jobert could not help wondering if William’s tower would last half as long as the Roman structures had.
The streets grew narrower, and he was forced to leave his horse at a stable and proceed on foot. It seemed farther to The Black Horse than he remembered.
Once he arrived at the tavern, he futilely searched the crowd for Girard’s bright mane. Should he wait? Might not his friend appear here later, after one of his amorous assignations?
He purchased a pot of greasy soup and a skin of wine, and drank the soup standing up as there was no place to sit. Finding a spot where he could lean against one of the inn’s dirty smoke-stained walls, he settled in to watch, taking occasional sips of his wine.
Hours passed, and no one paid him much mind, despite the usual awareness people had of him because of his size. It appeared he had been there long enough that the drunken louts surrounding him had forgotten his presence.
He finally stretched to loosen up his stiff joints and went out to relieve himself. The night seemed even darker. Jobert wondered if he would be able to find his way back to the stables without a lantern. But he had no way of obtaining one, and he was weary of his mission.
He fell in step behind a group of raucous knights who had a squire carrying a torch for them. They progressed some ways in the direction Jobert needed to go, laughing and singing, stopping now and then for one of them to piss or be sick. At last he had to quit them and turn south.
His footsteps sounded loud on the hard packed street. He was alone and around him the city slept, although the endless sound of church bells echoed in the night, calling the office of matins. The icy air penetrated his cloak and hauberk and settled numbingly against his skin.
Weariness and cold dulled his senses, and when he caught a glimpse of a movement behind him, he reacted sluggishly. By the time he turned, the assailant’s dagger had slashed the side of his neck. Jobert jerked out his sword, but the man disappeared into the shadows.
Jobert stood there, breathing hard, afraid to move. Someone had intended to sneak up on him and cut his throat from behind, and they had almost succeeded. Instinct told him to run, but reason overruled it. Mayhaps he could lure the man into trying again. If he could capture the assassin and make him confess who hired him, he would have proof to take to the king.
He began to walk again, thinking what a deadly game of cat and mouse he played. The man with the dagger, he could handle, but what if there was a crossbow directed at his back?
Nay, ’twas too dark for an archer to aim and shoot accurately, he told himself, hoping it was true.
His every muscle felt rigid, although he tried to walk casually, feigning unawareness. He swung his arms easily at his sides, though his fingers itched to draw his sword and face his attacker.
Two streets he passed. Three, and still nothing. He began to think that the man had given up. He passed an open alleyway and the hair on the back of his neck prickled.
The attack came from above, the man landing on him hard, knocking the wind out of him, then grabbing his hair and pulling up his head to reach his throat. Jobert rolled sideways, but the bastard hung on, clinging to his shoulders, yet keeping his body away from Jobert’s crushing weight. It was like having some sort of pincer bug stuck on him. Though he flayed and rolled, he could not dislodge his assailant.
He reached back to grasp the attacker’s face and the man bit him. Sudden rage swelled through Jobert. He lurched to his feet and crashed backward against a wall. The man gave a grunt of pain and let go. Jobert grabbed for him,
but captured naught but thin air as the nimble devil danced away.
Jobert, hampered by his heavy armor, went after him.
They were in an alleyway, as dark and evil-smelling as sin. Jobert pursued by instinct, seeing nothing. His labored breathing echoed harsh in his ears as he paused to listen. A sense of despair enveloped him. If the man escaped, then all his wretched struggle would be for naught.
A ways ahead, there was a clatter, the sound of something falling. Jobert waited, reluctant to go further until he could get his bearings. The yowl of a cat rewarded his patience. Nay, the man had not gone that way. He was nearby, hiding.
Jobert jabbed the darkness with his sword, then swept the weapon in a wide arc around him. He took another step and repeated the motion, reaching as low as he thought the man could crouch, slicing the air with the deadly blade.
His sword struck something solid, hard. Not a man, a cask or something else made of wood. He poked the sword behind it and was rewarded with the feel of the blade cutting into something soft and yielding. The man shrieked and upended the barrel as he tried to get past him. Once more Jobert swung his sword. It hit its target with a wicked sound, cutting into flesh, crunching into bone. There was a sickening thud of a body hitting the ground.
Jobert was there in a second. He knelt down and lifted the man’s head, praying he wasn’t dead already. “Who sent you?” he demanded. “Who?”
The man made a gurgling sound. Jobert shook him. “Tell me, you bastard.”
He coughed and sputtered, then mumbled something in Saxon. Realization dawned and Jobert switched to the English tongue to repeat his question.
“Valois,” the man finally groaned.
Exultation swept through Jobert, but it was short-lived. Would the king believe him? He needed to take this man to William and have him speak the name to the king.
There was no hope of that. He could feel the life seeping from the Saxon even as he held him The man would not live a breath beyond the alleyway even if Jobert managed to carry him that far.
He laid the man down and reached for the dagger at his waist. Before he had time to perform the act of mercy, the Saxon gave a shuddering moan and went still.
The Conqueror (Hot Knights) Page 31