Dragon Tree (31 page)

It was not
Roland, however. It was Brother Ignatius in the company of another,
much older, shorter monk.

The latter had
the squinted eyes of a man who had spent many an hour toiling over
illuminated manuscripts in poorly lit scriptoriums. His tonsured
head wore a fringe of gray hair and his skin bore such deep
wrinkles, he could have tucked his brushes and quills into the
folds.

The wizened
blue eyes of the older monk glanced down at the naked sword in
Tamberlane’s hand. “I see I shall have to instruct Brother Dominick
to have more care with regards to relieving our guests of their
weaponry at the gates. This is a house where peace and prayer rules
above all.”

Tamberlane
lowered the tip of the blade. “I seek only to defend what is mine.
I mean no insult to your peace or your prayers.”

“Defiant
words," the old priest said, “and from one who has put his sword to
such infamous good use defending that which belongs to God.”

The
Dragonslayer’s green eyes narrowed warily and flicked to Brother
Ignatius.

“Yes,” said
the recipient of the crystalline glare. “It was I who informed
Father Michaelus of your presence here. No doubt you would scarce
remember one humble face out of the thousands who cheered your
victories in Outremer, my lord Tamberlane, but I was in that
cheering crowd and yours was a visage not so easily forgotten.”

The green eyes
flicked again, this time to the night candle which guttered in the
drafts blowing through the open door. “An unusual hour for
reminiscing, good Friar.”

“The choice of
hour was mine,” Father Michaelus said. “The choice to send you here
was God’s.”

“No one sent
me here,” Tamberlane said, frowning. “I am but a weary traveler
seeking respite from the storm.”

Father
Michaelus smiled and stepped across the threshold without waiting
for an invitation to do so. “God’s ways are indeed a mystery to
some.”

He cast around
the room, his inspection touching first on the rumpled bed, then on
the huddled figure of Amaranth where she sat flanked by both alert
wolfhounds. The voices had wakened her and she sat rubbing her
fists in her eyes to clear them.

“I confess I
was somewhat unsettled to hear that the mighty Dragonslayer had
come knocking upon our gates," Father Michaelus said. "I did not
think he was an ally of the Prince Regent."

"Rest assured
he is not, and never has been," Ciaran said. "What would prompt you
to pluck such a notion from the air?"

"Couriers have
been dispatched throughout the kingdom. All of the Regent's loyal
henchmen have been summoned to attend upon him at once."

Ciaran
exchanged a fleeting glance with Amaranth. "Aye, so I have
heard."

"If there is
truth to the rumors, he is attempting to raise an army, to surround
himself with those who would make him king."

"I know
nothing of such things," Ciaran said as he slid his blade back in
its sheath, "and care even less. My errand concerns another matter
and has nothing to do with the prince or any of his political
schemings."

The Friar's
eyes glittered. “You are aware, are you not, that the ransom for
King Richard has been paid to Leopold of Austria? The gracious
dowager queen, Eleanor of Brittany, saw to its safe delivery
herself, sending her own champion, Lord Randwulf de la Seyne Sur
Mer to meet the treasure train once it arrived in France.”

Tamberlane was
not exactly sure where the revelation fit into the order of things,
but he nodded. “I had heard the king was set free, thanks be. I
also have a passing acquaintance with La Seyne Sur Mer—the Black
Wolf of Mirebeau. A formidable opponent in and out of the
lists.”

“One of the
few men who can put Prince John's bowels in a twist, which is why,
as I further understand it, La Seyne Sur Mer will also be acting as
escort to Richard as far as the Channel, thereby insuring no
further interference on the king's journey home.”

“I am pleased
to hear it, Friar, but curious as to how you know all of this and
further, how it should concern me?”

"You are still
the king's man? You have not forsaken all of your vows,
surely?"

Tamberlane's
jaw stiffened and such a coldness came into his eyes that Brother
Ignatius took a discreet step back toward the door. Sensing this,
Hugo and Maude both stood to attention and growled low.

Ciaran raised
a hand to calm the dogs.

"No one who
enjoys drawing breath has ever questioned my loyalty to the king,"
he said tersely.

The monk made
an appeasing gesture. “Nor do I question it now, my son. My only
purpose in asking concerns, firstly, your inclination to remain
locked behind the walls of Taniere Castle, and secondly, your
unexpected presence here, so far from those walls."

"As I have
already said, my errand concerns another matter and has nothing at
all to do with the prince."

"Would that
matter have anything to do with the errant wife of a certain
fiery-haired lord?"

Amaranth, who
had remained as quiet and unobtrusive as possible in her corner,
was startled into looking up.

"If so, it
might interest you to know," Friar Michaelus continued, "that some
of his two-legged bloodhounds rode by here a fortnight or so ago,
banging their shields on the gate, demanding to search the
buildings and grounds. They gave a fair description of the runaway,
citing the most unusual shade of violet-blue for her eyes." He
paused and looked directly at Amaranth for the first time. "I
imagine one can shorten hair and alter clothing enough to deceive a
casual inspection. But the eyes are the windows to the soul, and
yours, my dear, would deceive no one."

He turned back
to Ciaran. "Thus, for such a reclusive knight to be seen outside
the walls of Taniere, and in the company of a... rather fair haired
squire..." he paused and spread his hands apart. "You can see how
that might draw attention.”

Ciaran
clenched his jaw tighter. "I thank you for the warning, Friar, and
as soon as this foul weather allows, we will be on the road again
so that none of that attention is drawn your way."

“My true
concern lies in another direction, my son. And for it, you may
credit Hubert Walter’s vast web of spies and couriers. His sources
of information outreach even those of the prince himself. He knew
the instant the ransom was delivered, knew when Leopold held up the
first silver coin to test its weight, and knew the moment the gates
to the castle at Durnstein were thrown open and the Lionheart was
set free. John has grown fat and comfortable on the throne and will
not be pleased to remove his arse too quickly. Hubert is convinced
the prince regent has no intention of letting his brother set foot
on English soil again, and I fear raising an army to surround
himself will not be enough."

“Is he
suggesting Lackland is planning to do something to prevent his
brother from returning to England?”

“It would not
be the first time John has worked himself into a frenzy plotting
how to take the throne by less than honorable means. He had fervent
hopes that two years in prison would accomplish what a crusade
against the Saracens could not, but alas the Lionheart survived
both. John even tried to ally himself with Phillip of France, but
that too failed. He was quite vexed to discover that Europe's kings
had no trouble holding a royal peer for ransom but drew the line at
slitting his throat.”

"Surely his
plotting would not extend to murder?"

"The calibre
of men he gathers about him and calls allies would not hesitate to
slit their own mother's throats if it meant gaining another estate,
another title. To ensure their loyalty, John has extended promises
of wealth and power to those who would support him, men who were
already Richard's enemies."

“I would ask
again, why do you tell me this?"

"I tell you
this because... if, indeed, a bloody reception has been planned for
Richard when he lands, you might well be in a position to prevent
it."

“Me?”
Tamberlane was genuinely taken aback. "What of La Seyne Sur Mer?
His sword should be enough protection for ten kings.”

“La Seyne Sur
Mer is only one man, and his lack of love for John is well known.
The weakness lies with Richard himself. He will not believe his
brother capable of such treachery and thus far has ignored the
Bishop's warnings to have his own army waiting to meet him when he
arrives home."

"Do you know
where or when he intends to make the crossing?"

"The last news
we received, he was bound for Calais."

"And?"

"And... that
is all we know."

"Ships sail
from Calais every day bound for a dozen ports and harbors along the
English coast. You would need as many armies to cover each
potential landing."

"Yes," Father
Michaelus admitted with a sigh. "A daunting task. I had hoped you
might have some insight as to whether he favored one port over
another."

Tamberlane
shook his head. "I have not been privy to the king's intentions for
the past three years. Nor have I cared overmuch to know, truth be
told."

Michaelus’
white eyebrows bristled upward. “What of the debt you owe him for
speaking on your behalf when a charge of treason hung over your
head?"

Tamberlane's
lips pressed flat and a harsh gleam came into his eyes. "I warrant
the king was not intent upon defending my honor so much as he was
protecting his right to keep killing in the name of God, for I had
been one of his finest murderers and to have the court condemn me,
would have cast a poor light on his own actions. I give thanks to
God that he is free and I am pleased to hear he is coming home. But
I am bound for Exeter and have no intention of altering my plans to
search for a single grain of sand along a hundred miles of
beach.”

Father
Michaelus accepted the cold decision with another sigh, then turned
and walked to the door. He paused there a moment and glanced back
over his shoulder.

“A man can
lose his way in this world so easily,” he said softly. “He can have
all that he holds dear taken away in the blink of an eye... his
family, his home, even his life. But the one thing, the only thing
a man cannot have taken from him is his honor. That, alas, he has
to give away.”

He
contemplated saying more, but one look at the Dragonslayer’s wooden
features and he reconsidered.

“
Pax
domini
. Peace be with you my son, and I bid you a safe
journey.”

When he was
gone, Amaranth stood and wiped her hands nervously on the hem of
her shirt.

“My lord...? I
have no right to place my safety above that of the king and would,
of course, release you from any vow of protection you may have made
in haste.”

He looked at
her, his face a mask of planes and angles in the flickering
candlelight. “We leave for Exeter at first light. Be ready.”

~~

Tamberlane
strode along the darkened, vaulted corridor, his boots ringing off
the stone floor as he made his way to the pilgrim's hall. The mist
was as thick as a rain cloud, swirling around his legs as he
walked, and by the time he reached the hall, his face was gleaming
wet. Inside the fires were blazing at each end and in between were
sprawled the forms of men sleeping, rolled in blankets. Geoffrey de
Ville was seated in front of the blaze, his arms folded over his
chest and his chin resting comfortably low.

He looked to
be fast asleep, but at Tamberlane’s approach, his chin came up off
his chest and his hand edged briefly toward the hilt of the dagger
lying not very well hidden beneath his surcoat. It fell away again
as he recognized the knight.

The fireplace
was enormous, easily accommodating the ten foot tree trunk that
burned hotly within. Tamberlane stood before it, his thoughts in
too fearsome a tangle to try to sort one from the other.

He wished he
had never set foot outside Taniere Castle, for no one would have
come seeking his aid there. He wished he had never gone hunting in
the woods that day, never interfered with the attack on the
village, never taken Amaranth back to the castle for Marak to bring
back to life.

He wished he
had never looked into those violet-blue eyes, never touched her,
never kissed her. Most emphatically he wished he had never kissed
her, for the remembered touch and taste of her tormented him each
time he glanced her way. She made him forget he was ever a monk and
reminded him with each breath he took that he was a man. A flawed
man. A lost man as Father Michaelus had said.

For that
reason, Amaranth terrified him. His feelings for her terrified him.
Desires and hungers that had lain dormant for so many years were
taking nearly every scrap of his considerable willpower to crush
into submission and if his behavior earlier in the evening was any
indication, it was a battle he was not confident of winning. He
could still taste her lips, still feel the warmth of her body
pressed against him and the way his own flesh had responded.

The old monk
was right, he owed the king his allegiance and his sword, and he
resented the mendicant for putting him in a position where he had
to choose, for if he rode to the coast to warn the king, he would
have to abandon Amaranth to her fate.

And yet,
perhaps that was exactly what he needed to do. Leave her. Walk away
from her. Forget her eyes and the way she looked at him. Forget
that ridiculous cloud of yellow curls and the way the candlelight
shone through every strand. Forget the softness of her cheek, the
slight tilt to her smile, the small catch in her voice when she
spoke to him in a way that suggested she, too, was having
difficulty reconciling her feelings. Oh yes, he was not that much
of a monk that he did not feel the response in her slender body,
the shivers when he touched her, the breathy sigh when he kissed
her.