Crown of the Realm (A White Knight Adventure Book 2) (4 page)

De
Fors slapped him on the shoulder. “A comely filly is Jacotte. Is that her name, Jacotte? Have you made a rendezvous with feisty Jacotte?”

The French knights finished their dashing show of bravery. Baldwin stood unsteadily and patted Drake on the back. “Enough of ribbing d’Évreux. He bores me, anyway.”

As Richard’s knights collected bows and arrows, Drake heard a grating voice say, “A half night a throw, or so they say!”

Another man shouted
, “You have it backwards. It’s a half
knight
a throw. If his cock can stand up to it!” The laughter was worse than the gibe.

Stephen steered Drake away
. “Ignore the turds.”

The yellow-haired
routier
chased them with more crude remarks. Drake spun around and threw out a fist. The
routier
dropped to his knees, blood sluicing his face. Drake wasn’t finished, but des Barres grabbed him from behind and dragged him away. Coming to Drake’s defense, d’Évreux clipped Barres on the jaw.

After that,
hell stormed the gate.

THE BRAWL SPED
out of control as waves of mercenaries and knights entered the fray, one piling on top of the other.

King Philipp
e’s chaplain attempted to intervene, but since the sides were not at all clear, made himself a target. “That’s enough, the lot of you!” As if he could contain the anger of a dozen French knights, a second dozen of Norman knights, and a third dozen of
routiers
, Andreas of Champagne thrust his arms out and turned from group to group. “I said enough! You’re in the presence of your kings, or have you forgotten?”

But it was Mercadier
along with Richard’s guard who quelled the riot with stamping hooves, drawn swords, and menacing expressions. The men scattered, laughing the distance while soothing bloodied knuckles and drowning damaged pride with drink.

Taking a hate-filled look at the
routier
, still groveling on the ground, Drake reclaimed bow and quiver, and joined his comrades. Grousing and swearing all manner of invectives, the Norman knights marched to their stations. Baldwin de Béthune carried the torch, André de Chauvigny the wineskin, and Tancrede d’Évreux a platter of food. The setting sun was to their left, the darkening indigo sky to their right, and the scowling faces of their kings before them.

The camp settled down.
Accompanied by lute and drum, troubadours began singing a song written by Bertran de Born who, laughing as he was with his comrades-in-arms, feigned boredom.

“
Maces and swords and painted helms, the useless shields cut through …”

Arms slung about each other,
and with the brawl forgotten, the six knights howled at the sky, Drake louder than the rest.

“
… we shall see as the fighting starts and many vassals together striking …
”

The wineskin was conveyed from hand to hand as the knights arranged themselves in a line, stringing bows and nocking arrows
, their rough voices carrying to the river and back.

“
… and wandering wildly, the unreined horses of the wounded and dead.
”

As the sun sank behind the firmament, the moon rose on the opposite horizon.

“
And once entered into battle, let every man proud of his birth …
”

The knights coated the points of their arrows in thick tallow, and one by one, passed the arrowheads through a blazing torch run past by Devon. The tips flared. The archers drew back the shafts as one and let them fly, a display of fire and
light. Whistling stridently, the arrows sailed over the heads of the kings of France and England. The womenfolk exclaimed. The menfolk craned their necks. Transfixed, everyone followed the dazzling flight until the flames became smothered in the rain-soaked meadowland beyond.

Another round of drinks. Another readying of arrows.
Additional archers increased their number, and soon, a dozen archers stood elbow to elbow, a rank of inebriated knights baying at the moon.

“
… think only of breaking arms and heads, for a man is worth more dead than alive and beaten.
”

In
rhythmic sequence, they released their fiery arrows into a starry sky. Like the tails of fiery comets, the oaken shafts were made visible only by the flames thrown back from their barbed heads. And like comets, in precision-timed sequence, the arrowheads traced graceful arcs across the dome of heaven and fell harmlessly to earth.

F
ollowing his brother’s draw and release, Drake sent aloft his arrow. The bolt, trailing Stephen’s by a single moment, conformed to an identical path. But then, without warning, something went terribly wrong. The shaft seemed to split in two. Each half took a different trajectory, one heading for the safe grasslands beyond the palisade and the other following an irregular path.

Drake shouted a warning and ran. Stephen
trailed a half step behind.

Hearing
the frantic bellows of the fitzAlan brothers, the king of France glanced up. One of the ladies-in-waiting exclaimed and pointed heavenward. Philippe followed her wagging finger. His eyes alighted on the flaming arrow. He became riveted, frozen, a statue of fear. He reached out a timid hand that glazed Richard’s arm. Richard regarded him with an unspoken question.

Taking a singular track, the flaming arrow started its lethal descent.

Responding to Philippe’s importuning, Richard threw his eyes skyward and watched the bolt drive straight toward his chest. He didn’t move. He didn’t say a word. The ladies screamed. And the king of France went into action, throwing himself bodily at the king of England. The railing broke loose. Embraced as loving brothers, the monarchs toppled to the ground, and tumbled uncontrollably down the hill, reeling one over the other until their fall from grace was halted by the tackling arms of two knights, mirror images of each other.

Limbs and torsos painfully unfolded into two winded knights and two dazed kings. Stephen and Drake scrambled to their feet. Torches formed a circle.
Faces smudged and ashen, the kings looked blearily up.

“Are you hale?” Drake cried out. “Milords! Are you hale?”

Waving away Stephen’s entreaties of help, the king of France climbed clumsily to his feet. “
Aide-toi le ciel t’aidera
.”

And the king of England, using Drake’s bracing arm, chimed in, “
Le travail du corps delivre des peines de l’esprit
.” With a gesture, Richard indicated all was well but took a moment to clamp hands to knees and catch his breath.

Speaking directly to Philippe Capét, Drake
said again, “Are you hale, milord?”

Upon a gesture from his
king, Guillaume des Barres darted forward and restrained Drake for the second instance that evening, grasping his elbows, yanking him back, and throwing a chokehold around his neck.

“What!
” Drake squawked. “You think I am the assassin?”

There was no answer. For what answer could there be but a false indictment? And what defense could he mount but an unproven accusation?
And where would justice come down when everyone had already adjudged him guilty? And so, after beholding a sea of hateful countenances, each contemplating immediate execution as the quickest expedient to attempted regicide, Drake retreated into absolute silence and subdued obedience, little choice did he have given des Barres’ unforgiving hold.

King Philippe turned calmly to Richard and bowed. “As difficult as you may find it to believe,
mon ami
, your cousin and mine has just tried to kill you.”

“He’s lying through his teeth!”
Drake said, laughing off the accusation. “What’s more he knows it!”

“
What King Philippe says is true,” des Barres said. “I would not say so did I not myself witness fitzAlan release the arrow.”

“Regretfully,” Béthune
added, addressing Richard, “it was fitzAlan’s arrow. Truly, milord.”

A woman screamed. Other
ladies took up the chorus, moaning and bewailing.

“Milord,” cried out Alais, “Martine is dead! She is dead!”

Her face a crescent moon, the lady-in-waiting lay supine on the viewing platform. The grisly arrow protruded from her chest. Blood gushed from a heart wound. The shot could not have been better aimed since she had been standing directly behind Richard.

Alais knelt over the motionless body, the wind-flutter of her skirts the lone movement, and closed the dead woman’s eyes. Stooping beside the princess, the French king’s chaplain braced her swaying shoulders. Geoffrey drew the sign of the cross and began to administer religious rites.

And all eyes turned toward Drake.

Stephen yelled out his brother’s name and threw a flame of steel. In a fierce wrench, Drake tore himself loose from the French knight’s grip and caught the dragon sword.
The fitzAlan brothers held off the chevaliers of both France and England at the points of their united swords.

“Drake!” Richard roared. “Stephen! Disarm yourselves! I saw what happened. It was an accident only.”

“It was no accident!” Chauvigny shouted.

The
brothers spaced themselves apart, forming a rampart against attack. “I agree with Chauvigny,” said Drake. “It was no accident. There was a second arrow.”

“If that is so,” said d’Évreux, “it came from your bow.”

“You have nothing to say, Guillaume de Fors?” Drake challenged.

“Me? I saw nothing. Except your arrow go astray.”

Richard’s gray eyes shone in the waning twilight. His imperceptible nod was meant for Drake, and Drake alone. He relayed the message to Stephen. As one, they cast stunned knights out of the way, leapt onto powerful destriers abandoned in the confusion, and with swinging swords holding their fellows at bay, fled into the encroaching dark.

Béthune, Chauvigny, d’Évreux, Fors, Barres
, and every other man—French or Norman, sober or not, convinced of Drake’s guilt or otherwise—followed in heady pursuit.

WHEN
HE
APPEARED
in the portal of her bedchamber, the girl backed away, hands groping behind her for support. She bumped into the bed. Sidestepped around. And backed into the wall. There she stopped, awaiting her fate, be it fair or foul.

He smiled wickedly, letting his eyes admire the condition of her attire
, or lack thereof. She warily followed his gaze to her bare feet, toenails painted scarlet. She had just finished bathing. Even from here, he could sniff the fragrance of lavender wafting from her moist skin. The flimsy chemise she wore, the kind that has no useful purpose except to drive knights mad with desire, was made of the finest Levant silk. The material clung seductively to engaging parts of her figure, leaving little to the imagination. Her dark tresses fell like a waterfall over the cliffs of her shoulders. Her face flushed with color. Her breasts heaved with excited breaths. She was a handsome woman. And though some said beauty was in the eye of the beholder, most men would agree that she was an object of desire. At first, her eyes had been filled with fear. Now they were filled with lust. His look of unabashed admiration put her to the blush.

“
Sieur. Do you not know the meaning of knocking on a lady’s door before entering?”

“I fear not.” To make the point, he swung the door closed with a flourish of his hand.
It shut on a whisper.

“Then you are no
gentil-homme
.”

“
For your sake, I trust not.” Just one corner of his mouth rose. “As you will not need it, do remove your robe.”

“Here? Now? Without
as much as a ‘how do you do’?”

“I’m in a hurry.”

“That may be so, but this is a private chamber in a respectable inn.”

He skulked about the chamber
and gathered together her things. “Aye, so I’ve been informed, with a tavern residing below. But since my sword needs honing, and none but a lady can properly hone it, I fear your fate is etched in stone.”

“Not with a hall filled with strong and honorable men,
monsieur,
men quite unlike yourself.”

He flung
a gown across the bed. “Alas, for all your trust in strong and honorable men, I fear none will hear your screams,
ma demoiselle
, what with drink drowning them to the gills. Even they did, and you must trust me on this since I understand the needs of men more than those of women, none will come to your rescue but rather join in the merriment.”

Quickly she slithered into the
bliaut
. “To hone your sword, you must remove it from its scabbard.”

He hurrahed, wholly pleased with himself, and
also with her. “I hear tell you rent your bedchamber by the half night. Otherwise I would not have imposed. I will pay any price you name. Shall we seal the bargain with a kiss?”

Her
smile disappeared. Her hazel eyes narrowed. “You think highly of yourself,
monsieur
.” Nevertheless, she stepped forward and pressed her lips against his. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re mouthwatering.”
One by one, he dropped woolen hose, dainty shoes, and an entwined girdle onto the bed.

She quickly donned the rest of her habiliment
. “I suppose I ought to be flattered that you resisted the allures of other ladies before coming to me.”

“You were my first choice.”

“Then you intend to take me?”

“And afterwards boast of it.”

“Surely a man of your rank does not go from inn to inn taking every
demoiselle
to bed as his appetite dictates.”

“
As to that,” he said, tossing a cloak around her slim shoulders and tying the cords at her throat, “I am the son of a lord, and as such, have been counseled to take a peasant girl by force. Indeed, she welcomes crude advances such as these. The cruder, the better.”

“But I am the daughter of an alewife.”
She rubbed herself as if chilled.

He hefted
her baggage. “All the better, since a peasant girl is not inclined to fight untoward advances, but the daughter of an alewife, by virtue of her esteemed position, must, making the struggle ever more enjoyable.” He took her elbow.

“It seems I have little choice, then.”

“None whatsoever.”

“Now you will think me a bawdy wench.”

“Never that,” he said, and guided her to the door.

“Ravish me gently or ravish me cruelly. But be quick about it.”

“Aveline Darcy,” he spoke gently in her ear, “for all your fine talk, you are anything but a chaste virgin.”

“I am,” she said, her breath hot on his face, “your whore.” And covered his mouth with the warm press of her lips. “What
has happened?”

“We ride for Calais. Stephen will see you safely to Winchester.” Drake slipped his garnet ring onto her thumb. “If we
become separated ….”

Her eyes wide
ned with fear. Again she asked, “What has happened?”

“A king’s assassin is on the loose.”

She steadied herself with a breath. “And naturally, everyone thinks it’s you.”

“You have a very low opinion of me,
ma demoiselle
.”

“It comes with practice.”

He put a finger to his lips and cracked open the door. They weren’t far behind, Chauvigny and the others. Drake and Stephen had steered them on a fool’s errand, splitting up and deliberately misleading the sword-wielding hounds south, east, and west, anywhere but north toward Calais, the logical escape route for knights on the run. In the midst of it all, right out from under the inebriated noses of the royal night watch, they exchanged the stolen destriers for their own dappled-gray steeds, palfreys swifter than the wind and smarter than most men.

When midnight approached, the brothers
had circled around and headed toward Dreux. But Drake wasn’t half-witted, and neither was Stephen. When at last the knights exhausted themselves and their horses without finding either brother, Chauvigny, d’Évreux, Béthune, or Fors would undoubtedly recall that Drake fitzAlan had squired away in a Dreux inn the daughter of an alewife.

He poked his head into the corridor and signaled Aveline. They crept through the portal and stealthily descended the back staircase. There was noise enough below to
cover their movements as round and round they descended the spiral conch.

Slinking across the kitchen where the hearthfire smoldered, Drake led Aveline
by her quivering hand. After releasing the door latch and peering at the terrain, he guided her outside. The air was ripe with the stink of human ordure tossed into the drainage ditches. A dog barked in the distance, nothing to worry over. But the flap of a bird’s wings augured something different.

Stephen waited with the horses, holding the reins close to the bits and muzzling the animals’ snouts. They heard it then … the nicker of a horse.

Everything happened at once. Four knights exploded from two sides, the hoofs of their steeds percussing from out of the alleyways. In the commotion, Drake circled his arm around Aveline’s waist, and in a swirl of skirts, hoisted her into the saddle of his gray. Grabbing up the baggage, Stephen swung onto his matching palfrey. The reins of Aveline’s horse wound tightly around his fist, he shouted, “Drake! What about you?”

“
I’ll catch up!” said Drake. “And Stephen! Watch your back!”

Aveline screamed, “No!”

He slapped the rump of her horse. Gripping the pommel of her saddle two-fisted, she twisted this way and that, seeking only Drake. As the Arabians galloped off, he watched the night swallow her face.

* * *

The knights closed in. Carrying torches and bringing Hell in their wakes, they weren’t interested in either Drake’s brother or his woman. Their only object was this vile assassin: to capture him and take him back for judgment.

Let them try.

The Dreux tavern and inn came alive with mad men and fury. A nefarious brownie banged on doors, tramped up and down wheel staircases, and shouted loud enough to wake the damned and the repentant. Most of the elf’s patter had no meaning, except for a single word interspersed like a hammer: “Fire!”

Soon the stairways and passageways and common areas swallowed sotted patrons and rudely
awoken sleepers. Men and women ran to and fro in reckless torrents. Frantically hunted for where the danger lay and where the safety. Hopped into boots and threw clothing over sleep-mussed heads. Gathered meager or priceless possessions. Swore all manner of invectives. And took their bad tempers out on men who had invaded the inn with the clanging of weapons and a stamping of mud-caked boots: Chauvigny, Béthune, Fors, and d’Évreux.

The uninvited invasion of big and bulky men, armed to the teeth and on the king’s business, was unwelcome. Since the knights were suffering from too much wine envenomed by riding hither and thither in a maddening series of intersecting and diverging loops, they weren’t on their best behavior. Chivalry was something to be revered. But
since these knights were not acting according to the descried code of knightly honor, the frequenters of the Dreux tavern and inn were not obliged to treat them with the respect due their standing. Besides, who was to believe they were who they claimed to be? And anyway, this was the wrong side of the border. Therefore, an assassination attempt on the English king was no concern of theirs. Further, what did they care about one traitor or two or twenty, even if King Philippe, the righteous king mentioned this time, granted them a hefty reward? Finally, where in God’s name was this elusive fire?

Considering everything, the inn’s customers had a right to build themselves into a doubly heated frenzy.
And lo to the man or men who interrupted a good night’s sleep or a drunken stupor for no good cause.

The shouting escalated. Footfalls scrambled. Buckets—
with vessel, handle and odious contents—soared and slopped. Brooms batted viciously. Caldron contents sluiced underfoot. Depending on how they were used, faggots inflicted concussions and blisters. Candles became fire-eating projectiles and wax-dripped swords. And chairs were efficiently rendered into kindling by unsuspecting skulls.

Rarely seen by either tenant or invader, Drake led every last man and woman on a whirligig of confusion. He slithered in and out of bedchambers. Tossed clothes, mattresses
, and pillows down staircases. Swung from rafters amidst a shower of goose down. Floated in and out of windows. Banged shutters, pounded walls, and shouted like one of the Celtic banshees of old as he tripped across tables and chairs, thumping his chest and deftly tipping every last piece of furniture before riding the next.

One by one
, knights went down.

A foot took Fors unawares. He
flew like a blubbery whale and landed on a collection of tumbled tables and chairs, there to stay until the room stopped spinning.

A clanging pot from behind
pounded Béthune on the crown of his unkempt head. He crumpled into a dazed heap, gazed dizzily about, and then, when someone kicked him in the throat, swooned.

Two rotund women assaulted Chauvigny. Terrified at the prospect of imminent rape, which they assumed these menacing incubi were about despite claims to the contrary, they took turns jumping onto his back. Shouting “G
iddap!” they rode him like a horse, slapped him on the rump, and raked his girth. When he had more than enough, a swift kick in the crotch executed by neither woman turned him into a squealing troubadour. He was only too glad to crawl under a chair and seek sanctuary, however brief. The women harrumphed, conferred mushy kisses on their valiant defender, and quickly realigned themselves in search of another wrongdoer.

Tancrede d’Évreux was smart enough to beat a hasty retreat into the alley. There he waited with the horses for his comrades to re
-gather themselves. When they did—limping and bleeding from various orifices—Tancrede folded his arms and glared blithely down at these men who called themselves chevaliers of the highest order. The chevaliers only managed weak shakes of their heads and dolorous groans.

“There!” Tancrede d’Évreux said, pointing.

Three knights—two from wallowing level and one standing upright—craned their heads upward and beheld a lone figure crouched on the second-storey rooftop. The phantom was crazed with laughter. With a salute, Drake waved, then raced over the eaves and disappeared from view.

Chauvigny gazed sickly around. “Where’s Baldwin?”

They scrambled to beat each other back into the inn. While the commotion resumed inside, Drake climbed down from the roof, chortling to himself. It would take a long while before Chauvigny and the rest found Béthune, handily stripped of hauberk, tunic, blouse, hose, and sword, and longer still before they released him from his own leather belt, which bound his hands to the bedpost of Aveline’s deserted room.

Pushing himself away from the daub and wattle of the half-frame building, Drake landed squarely on the saddle of a fine bay palfrey belonging to the same Béthune. Little effort was required to scatter wide the remaining steeds. The knights, taking heed of the
roaring beat of shod hoofs, raced each other outside. Enraged and cold, Baldwin trailed the rest.