Dragon Tree (20 page)

Marak’s eyes
narrowed. “You may be right about that, Roland. Aye, perhaps the
boy should go up to the keep. The foal is fine, the mare is looking
after it well enough. Rather than be alone in the stables, the lad
can make himself useful tending the fires and turning the spits,
where the smoke is thickest and will disguise the odor.”

Amie tipped
her head up to question the wisdom of Marak’s suggestion when
Roland gave her another clout for good measure. This time it landed
squarely over the tenderly healed wound. A cry broke from her lips
and she half-flinched, half spun away to protect the shoulder from
another blow, but the pain took hold of her breath and left her
doubled over.

Marak was
instantly by her side. The look on his face rivalled that on
Roland’s, who had caught sight of the severed rope of braided hair
that lay like a glossy snake coiled on the stone. He looked from
the braid, to Amie, back to the braid, and finally, with a
slack-jawed look of surprise, to Marak.

"Is that...
Amaranth?" Roland’s mouth gaped wider. “My lord, I... I had no
idea!”

Marak raised
an angry hand to silence him. His arm went around Amie’s waist to
support her until the waves of pain subsided and she could
straighten again.

“Amaranth, I
had no idea...!” Roland raked a hand through his hair, clearly
devastated. "My most heartfelt apologies. All I saw was a humblie
standing there, I had no idea..."

“You saw what
you were supposed to see,” she said, smiling to Marak to assure him
she was all right. “And if I were, indeed, an insolent boy you
would have had every right to clout me for speaking to you
thus.”

"But... why
the ruse?" Roland was staring at her hair, at the dirt on her face,
the dung streaking her jerkin. Even as Marak watched and counted
off the seconds that would bring Roland into a further dawning of
the light, the squire’s expression changed, his eyes grew rounder
and slowly flicked from one conspirator to the other.

“At the draw,"
he said slowly, "Odo de Langois said they had come in search of his
runaway wife. But the name he gave was Elizabeth. Lady Elizabeth de
Langois.”

“Amaranth is a
pet name,” she explained softly. “Given me by my father.”

Roland opened
and closed his mouth like a fish. “He claims his wife ran away with
a lover.”

“I had no
lover and my marriage was a prison. I was helped to escape by a
priest. A gentle, sweet man who, I fear, has paid dearly for his
folly."

“He showed a
wound on his head, where a murder was attempted while he
slept.”

"The wound in
Amaranth's shoulder was put there by one of her husband's
mercenaries," Marak said evenly.

Roland gasped.
"The attack on the village?"

"Ordered by
her husband."

Roland
clenched his fists. “Lord Tamberlane knows all of this?”

“He does,”
Marak said. “He has also seen the scars she bears on her back and
legs, proof of the treatment she bore at her husband's hands. If
you take a moment of cool thought, you would also realize that the
men who attacked the village were not sent there merely to find
Lady Amaranth, but to hunt her down and kill her. And to do it in a
most brutal, painful way."

Roland held
the seneschal's gaze for a long moment. His memory of the raid was
clear and vivid, as was the image of the Lord Tamberlane emerging
from the woods with the half-dead girl in his arms.

He expelled a
hot breath and put his hand to the hilt of his sword. "He will not
leave these walls alive."

Marak moved
quickly to block the squire's path to the stairs. "
No
! No,
that is not the way! He is the prince's man. What manner of hell do
you think would descend upon this castle, upon Lord Tamberlane if
he were murdered here?"

"But he
slaughtered an entire village!"

"
We
...
may be confident in the knowledge that it was his doing, but have
you the absolute, irrefutable proof to show the justiciar? And even
if you had it, think you Prince John would not retaliate against
the man who slew one of his most valuable allies?"

"We cannot
just let him ride away!"

"That is
exactly what we must do... for now. He must be seen to ride away
from here, pennons flying, all limbs and orifices intact, convinced
his wife is not within a hundred miles of Taniere. What happens
afterward... " Marak raised an eyebrow and made a conspiratory
gesture with his hands.

Roland looked
from one taut face to the other. His fist relented its grip around
the sword hilt but his teeth remained set, his expression grim.
“What can I do to help?”

“Keep a close
eye on de Langois' men. He will likely send them sniffing into
every corner of the castle and they must be allowed to do so to
avert suspicion. Take Amie to the keep, as you intended, and make
no attempt to hide her behind a curtain or under a table for they
will be so busy looking in shadows and behind closed doors they
will not take notice of anyone standing in plain sight.

"Furthermore,
she is, according to the description he gave Lord Tamberlane, a
rare beauty with long, flowing hair the color of sunlight and eyes
like circles of the sky.”

Roland took a
further moment to digest everything before he pursed his lips.
“Long flowing hair the color of sunlight? I have not seen anyone
hereabout who would fit that description.”

Marak nodded.
“And I would hope that others, if asked the same question, would
respond with a similar answer."

"I will take
all necessary steps to ensure they do," Roland assured him.

"Well then,"
Marak turned, "I present you with young Jonathan, son of Harold the
miller." And to Amie he said, "Go with Roland and he will see you
safely to turning the spits by the fire, in plain view, yet
invisible. Odo's men can search under every clod of dung, through
every hidden mouse-hole and they will find nothing for their
trouble. Does this sit well with you? Can you do it?"

Amie could see
the logic in hiding in plain sight, but neither Marak nor Roland
were the ones doing the hiding. She would have preferred to lock
herself in a cupboard, or stow away in a dark corner somewhere in
the catacombs beneath the castle, but knew that was the coward's
way out and she was determined not to feel helpless any longer.

Roland misread
the reason for her hesitation. “In truth, my lady, I did not glance
at you twice and would not have suspected you were aught but what
you appear to be: a young urchin with a dirty face. What is more,
whilst in the great hall, Lord Tamberlane's men outnumber the
mercenaries ten to one and I, myself, will never be more than a
sword's length from your side.”

“Then you must
not err in addressing me as my lady,” she said, nodding with more
confidence than she felt. “Thenceforth I am simply Jonathan.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Despite a
fierce resolve—bolstered by two cups of strong ale—Amaranth
experienced several harrowing moments through the long, seemingly
endless, afternoon and evening. The first came the instant she set
foot inside the gloomy vault of the great hall. She was certain all
eyes in the room would turn to stare at her as she followed Roland
down the stairs and along the length of the room. A step, two at
the most, and she expected to hear the shout that would bring her
husband raging toward her, his hand on the hilt of his sword, the
promise of all black things in hell gleaming in his eyes.

Not one single
glance was squandered in her direction, however. At intervals as
they walked toward the rear screen, Roland pretended to cuff her,
as if she had been caught shirking her duties. But true to Marak’s
prediction, no one gave a thought to a scruffy, ill smelling stable
boy. Even the trio of rotund women who were skewering hens and
setting them to roast over the cooking fires did little more than
point at the nearest spit that wanted turning. A word from Roland,
whispered in their ears, had them placing Amie where the smoke was
thickest and the duties kept her head down.

From her
vantage point at the rear of the hall she had a clear view of the
dais. Odo’s bright red hair made him stand out on the brightly lit
platform. He was eating, drinking, talking, laughing with Lord
Tamberlane who, by contrast, sat quiet for the most part, his
smiles as scarce as snow in summer. Odo’s brother Rolf sat on his
right and picked at morsels of food with the point of his eating
knife, trying to make it appear casual as he studied the faces of
everyone in the hall.

Amaranth kept
her head bowed whenever Rolf’s dark eyes roved the room. Odo was a
brute with his contempt and his fists, but Rolf was sly, cunning,
and dangerous. He had followed her into the gardens one day at
Belmane and, with his men standing guard, had attempted to rape
her. Whether by design or happenstance, Odo had come searching for
her and found them twisted together on the ground, her skirts above
her waist, Rolf's cock poised to plunge between her thighs.

Rolf had
neatly twisted the story to make it sound as if she had instigated
the tryst and nothing Amie said or did could convince Odo
otherwise. It gave him free rein to treat her like a whore, to
justify his beatings, his rants, his disgusting demands.

Rolf, free of
all blame, continued to watch her like a big lethal cat, his gaze
promising to finish what he started.

Like his
brother, Rolf had the instincts of a fox and would not hesitate to
act upon them if he felt something was amiss.

The rest of
the men who had accompanied Odo de Langois into the keep, including
Sigurd the Oaf, sat above the salt but still much closer to where
Amaranth worked over the spit than was comfortable. Once, when she
looked up, two of their squires had left their seats and were
walking casually around the great hall, pausing here and there to
exchange a seemingly friendly word with a resident.

Amaranth’s
blood turned as cold as ice. One of the squires was working his way
down one side of the hall, the other was coming down the opposite
side and eventually they would have to meet in the middle, right
beside the cooking fire. Every step that brought them closer sent
another rush of chills down her spine and she while kept one hand
turning the spit, the other did not stray far from the dagger
concealed under her jerkin.

Eventually a
pair of heavy, wooden-soled bootsteps stopped not two feet from
where Amie stood. The squire—a man she had seen at Belmane
countless times—reached out and plucked a crispy curl of chicken
skin off the nearest hen being turned on the spit. He was so close
she could hear the crunch between his teeth.

"Delicious,"
he said, complimenting the red-faced woman who was standing next to
the fire. "A meal well fit for a lord and his lady."

The woman
dipped a sprig of thyme into some melted lard and slathered it over
the roasting chicken. "Aye, an' if my lord had a lady, she would
thank ye fer sayin' so."

The squire
turned and seemed to study the vast hall. "There does appear to be
a dearth of ladies present."

"No need," the
woman said, splashing more fat over the carcass. She looked side to
side to see if anyone was paying any heed, then beckoned the squire
forward with a conspiratory whisper. "My lord keeps to his monkish
ways. We 'aven't seen a proper lady 'ere in... oy... longer than I
can recall offhand. Like as not he wouldn't know what to say or do
with one even if she was sat right there beside 'im. Probably turn
red as raw meat and melt into the boards."

She cackled as
she leaned away and splattered the chicken with more fat. It
dripped and sizzled on the hot coals, sending a fresh cloud of
smoke up into the squire's face. He backed up a pace, scowling at
some oily drops of fat that had splashed on his tunic. But he did
reach out and steal another crispy layer of skin before he moved
along.

Amie, who had
been holding her breath the entire time, peeked from the corner of
her eye and watched his boots moving away. When he was gone, she
raised her chin a notch and caught the eye of the cook, who only
winked and continued basting the hens with oil.

When both
squires had completed their circuit of the great hall, Amaranth saw
one of them give a barely perceptible shake of his head in Rolf’s
direction. She was not the only one who caught the exchange. Seated
beside Tamberlane on the dais, Marak’s face was completely
enveloped in shadow, but she sensed movement beneath the hood as he
followed the two squires, who were now discreetly slipping out of
the hall.

Amie should
have felt relieved, but there were still knots in her belly. If
they searched the tower rooms, would they find anything that might
give her away?

Her hand flew
to her throat on a sudden thought. She had meant to ask Marak about
the crucifix. It had belonged to her mother, a gift presented by a
royal lover. Amie vaguely recalled that the knight who had pursued
her into the forest had parted her bodice with the tip of his sword
and for a moment had smiled at the glint of silver resting over her
breasts, as if he had used it to confirm her identity. But then the
pain had blurred what happened next; she knew only that the sword
had moved lower and she had felt the edge of the blade cutting
slivers in her flesh. Had he taken the cross as a trophy? Or had
she lost it somewhere between the village and Taniere Castle?

She had no
time to ponder the loss further as the roasted chickens along with
an enormous haunch of beef were removed from the spit and slid onto
large wooden platters. Bowls of venison stew were ladled out of the
big black caldron and carried to the tables along with plates of
turnips and cabbage and fresh baked bread.

When Amie’s
turn at the spit ended, she was given a shovel and told to haul
away ashes, then to bring more wood to keep the fires stoked.