Crown of the Realm (A White Knight Adventure Book 2) (20 page)

“We were going to ride for Angoulême, give over the message, and
bargain for your brother. But not to execute him. To liberate him. Since he is, God forbid, my cousin.” He struggled with the bindings. “That is …”

“You shan’t bother
Comte Ademar with our piddling troubles.”

“No?”

“I have another idea.”

Hope in his voice, along with a slight amount of desperation,
Louis said, “Does that mean you’re going to release me?”

“It’s a big bed. Devon and I can stretch out beneath your armpits. I trust you bathe monthly?” He
cast an apologetic look at Devon. “I suppose we’ll have to hold our noses.”

The squire
crept about the chamber and blew out all the candles save one. Cradling his arm, Drake painfully lowered himself beside his cousin. “Sleep well, Louis of Blois. And try not to snore.”

AS THE SUN
rose in the east,
the vicomte and vicomtesse of Ventadorn departed the Château d’Aixe via the eastern road. Drake watched from a far distance and bid a silent
adieu
.

An hour earlier, the
brothers d’Ussel, Alamanda d’Estancs, Guiraut Bornelh, Gaucelm Faidit, Grendel de Poitiers, and Roger de Maussac, making apologies for their hasty departure, rode out amidst a caravan of raillery.

R
eleased from his bindings long before dawn, indeed soon after Devon and Drake curled up beneath his armpits, Louis had already mustered his men. Poised on his lofty Arabian, Drake took in the succulent river valley rippling verdantly below, a sharp contrast to the erect hilltop fortress looming starkly above. Like Drake, Louis sat his horse with an effortless carriage, his steed’s broad muscles flexing restlessly beneath. Devon lingered close. Louis’ men awaited orders. The rest of their traveling caravan perched themselves near the juncture of the castle’s approaches, safely positioned well back from the forked roads but ideally situated to observe the events about to unfold.

At prime
, a single rider rode out from the gatehouse.

“And so, we outfox the fox. Are you still with me?”

Louis centered his eyes on Drake. “I am.”

Carefree and unobservant, the approaching horseman loped at an easy pace, his chainmail reflecting the luster of a nascent sun. Leaving Drake behind, Louis urged his palfrey forward and emerged from the
concealing woodland. He and the rider exchanged brief words. Their discussion centered on a familiar parchment ruffling in Louis’ hand. The debate escalated into a dispute, and the dispute into a shouting match. Wheeling their horses around each other, they quarreled. The rider was for Louis coming with him to the castle. Louis refused and galloped hell bent on the western road. The knight gave chase. When both reached a narrowing in the path, the Blois guard deftly surrounded the two.

Before the
rider was able to unsheathe his sword, the points of a dozen blades fanned about his throat. He had little choice but to yield his weapon. “What’s this all about, Blois?”

Drake and Devon
emerged into the open.

“
Poitiers? Tell this man to release me.”

Circling the biddable Arabian around Widomar de Limoges, Drake followed the dull brown eyes
that warily tracked him. “Your father promised me redress.”

Drake
could see it in his eyes, the affront. Fear followed. Just as quickly, defiance charged to the fore. And the bland youth who was destined to inherit the title vicomte, though not this day, dug spurs into his steed. With little ado, the Blois guard bridled the warhorse and unseated the knight. Drake watched impassively as the ensuing brawl ended with Wido lashed to a broad oak, his hands bound about the wide circumference and his wrists straining purple against the leather strapping. Stripped of hauberk and bared to the waist, Wido wore his martyrdom arrogantly: a swelling eye, a scraped arm, bruises everywhere, and grime ingrained in sweat. His cheek was pressed flat to the bark. His restive eyes rolled. His back shined brilliantly, a target waiting for the cutting lash.

Devon put the whip into Drake’s steady hand. He hefted the handle, gauged the weight, and laced the knotted thongs through the fingertips of his slung arm. Everyone—troubadours, knights, squires
, and sons of lords—held collective breaths for the carnage to come. All except Drake, who addressed the bound lordling with a honeyed voice. “When your men were beating me, you said, ‘Not his sword arm.’ Why would say that, I wonder?”

Already the color of parchment, Widomar became moon-faced but
stubborn. His eyes blackened. His throat huffed. His nostrils flared. His lips snarled. His jaw clenched. With defiance bred of hatred, he moved his head back and forth.

The air whistled.
The lash descended. The leather cords struck. The bound man groaned but refused to cry out. The muscles of his back undulated with agony. Blood seeped from ripped flesh.

With the same syrupy voice,
Drake answered for him. “To better wield a sword against the duke of Aquitaine perhaps?”

The whip struck again.
Wido bucked. Strained against the ropes. Shuddered at the violation of flesh. Whimpered. Swallowed hard. And grew still.

“The
routiers
,” Drake went on calmly, “transferred my brother into the custody of a man named Gui, described as a rather dull fellow with dull features and duller mind.”

The lash
es leapt out and struck once more. Reverberations traveled far and wide. Welts thickened and oozed. The victim weakened and would have crumpled into a heap save for the ropes that held him in place.

“Is it only your mother who calls you Gui?”

The whip lashed out yet again, the report echoing in the stillness of the morn. Widomar groaned. Blood flowed in rivulets down his back and seeped into the dew-covered ground at his feet. Sealed against agony, his eyes slowly opened.

Sweeping overhead, its rounded wings outlined against the sky,
a goshawk ululated stridently. Drake allowed his vision to drift upward in salute. He smiled brutally before lowering his eyes to the whip clutched in his trembling hand. As if each represented a whip mark across a ruined back, Drake counted out his even breaths, timed with the rhythm of a steady pulse. “You and your father didn’t recognize me.”

Wido reacted, his sweat-soaked head moving
almost unperceptively against the tree trunk.

“
I suppose that when a man is mistreated like a dog, as the
routiers
must have mistreated my brother, he often looks like a dog. Ever since, he has been entombed in a dungeon from which no light escapes. Thus, you don’t know the first thing about a man you condemned to the dark, not even the color of his eyes.”

The whip reported. Wido still
refused to cry out, but tears stained his bloodless face.

“For your sake, I hope he
will recover from his mistreatment. The
routiers
, by the bye, have already paid with their lives. And as much as I enjoyed seeing them delivered safely to Hell, I don’t wish to repeat the carnage.”

Wido opened his eyes to slits. The
cat-o’-nine-tails caught him unawares. His arms quivered. His hair rained sweat.

“You found me out when Gui invited me to dance and called
out my name.”

“
Mon Dieu
, I didn’t,” said Gui d’Ussel.

Drake looked at the lad. “It was bound to happen sometime. I don’t blame you.”

“But I do.”

The lash bit again. Widomar’s legs were giving out
, and his hands, bloated and useless. His head lulled back. Though nearly insensate from pain and loss of blood, the lordling of Limoges heard every spoken word.

“And then you came for me, using the
vicomte of Ventadorn to keep your hands spotless.”

The whip reported and the goshawk shrieked.

“Where can I find him? Where is my brother?”

When Widomar didn’t answer, the whip
drew more blood. The repeated reports of the lashes meeting raw flesh scattered the last of the sparrows. Widomar’s breath came in scattered huffs. He twisted his head around and gasped, “Locked … in a forgotten … dungeon … which you … will never … find.”

Drake made a brusque motion. Widomar was cut down
. Needing help to stand, he stumbled around to face Drake. His eyes were enflamed with wretchedness and utter defeat.

“Then he’s still alive. I feared …” Drake straightened his back and glared into the
sallow face of the heir of Limoges. “I trust your father values your life as much as I value my brother’s. And I hope he is never called upon to weigh your life against someone he loves as much.”

With a gesture, Widomar de Limoges was hoisted onto horseback
and taken away by three Blois knights.

Drake threw down the whip
and walked away. Near the oak of Wido’s castigation, he braced a hand and tried to stop shaking. The others moved supportively behind him. Leaning over, he emptied his gut. When he was done, he wheeled around and launched a grim smile. “Louis,” he said, “if you would.”

A messenger was sent. Less than an hour later the
vicomte of Limoges, unarmed and alone, urged his black steed down castle hill. Reining his horse abreast the dappled gray, he acknowledged the mounted knight with a curt nod and said, “Where is my son?”

“On his way to Blois, where he will be welcomed into a dark dungeon for time indefinite.”

The comte bent his head and studied the reins working through his gloves. “For a broken arm?”

“For a lost brother.”

“Ah. Then you know.” His eyes, so like his son’s, glanced up. “It is just. But I don’t have to like it.”

“Neither did my brother
.”

The sun burned off the morning haze to unveil a pure azure sky, devoid of cloud or breeze to cool the blistering heat.

Immediately striking out, the party traveled over rugged ground, across shallow creeks, through tall grasslands, and up and down hillocks. Graceful, shiny, and sleek, the black and gray steeds rode at the head of the column. Like their proud and headstrong mounts, the men had little to say to one another for the first few miles.

Drake held the reins steadily in his one hand. The other arm, despite being strapped snugly against his chest, jostled with discomfort. He said, “Surely you realize
that you were but one of many caught up in an intricate plot.”

“Do I?”

“The comte of Blois did not know the whereabouts of my brother. Until he received this.”

After throwing his sight over the single line and remarking the affixed seal, Aimery handed the parchment back without comment.

“The
routier
Botolphe,” Drake said. “Did he have two masters? Three? More?”

“Myself.
My brother. Mercadier. And one other to whom I have not put a name.”

“The king of France?”

“The parchment would indicate so, but I have no proof.”

“Hence, the mastermind is a genius at keeping his identity secret while others are condemned.”

“Yet you were right to suspect us,” said the vicomte of Limoges. “We have much at stake.”

“Except, perhaps you did not know, I refused
the hand of your niece and thus her marriage portion.”

“Many men have refused similar offers
. And afterwards, succumbed.”

“I would not have.”

Aimery’s fox-brown eyes hardened into pebbles. “Then others would have happily taken your place. Your brother, for one. If not him, another. Make no mistake, your king was the target; you and your brother, the pawns. But we did not need a witty missive with France’s seal to tell us the vultures were gathering. Had it not been for your well-timed rendezvous with the vicomtesse of Ventadorn, you would have been in Purgatory already, you and your brother, and the evidence of our guilt long since buried. As it was, my son was an idiot, the vicomte of Ventadorn vindictive, and your friends devoted.” He hitched a shoulder. “It was a matter of bad timing. Remember that when next you make your confession.”

“And the sins I have committed?”

“Only one that I care about. Of allying yourself with the duke of Aquitaine, which in your youth and ignorance, you cannot help.” The smile was real even if tinged with derision.

“You forget
. He is also my liege lord. As he is yours.”

“A
n unfortunate detail that I am now obliged to honor, despite all I live by, and whether or not you hold my son hostage.”

“And the reason for the abrupt
volte-face
?” Drake said.

“
The reports we have received. That Richard meets with King Sancho of Navarre and King Alfonso of Aragón. Both are natural enemies of Toulouse, which buffer our land to the south, and thereby our enemies as well. If Richard calls on their Spanish swords, and it is certain he has, we are sworn, whether we wish it or not, to desist from treachery, both now and while Richard is on crusade.”

“Else?”

“Invasion. And destruction. An alliance with Aragón worked twice before. Now with a fortified union that includes Navarre … well …. the winds tell me Richard has promised King Sancho something wholly clever and irresistible.”

“And King Philippe?” Drake said. “Will he honor this undeclared truce?”

“I do not serve the king of France.”

“But the missive …”

“—Would mean nothing to me if it did not also support my own interests.”

“John will be disappointed.”

The vicomte slanted his head. “John?”

“Or is it Geoffrey?”

The comte used a shoulder to swipe sweat from his face. “They say Richard will name his nephew as successor.”

“Arthur is but two or three.” When Aimery did not expand on the
observation, Drake surmised, “Which means … Eleanor?”