Guardians of Time (32 page)

“I still can’t believe King Philip would
attack his own emissary,” Bridget said.

“We have no evidence against anyone one way
or the other,” Peter said. “Just because these men are Scots
doesn’t make them villains.”

Typically English, Simon didn’t look
convinced.

Peter backed away. “There’s only one way to
find out.”

They loped back to the inn where they’d left
the horses. As they had come into Whittington from the west and
north earlier that morning, it was unreasonable to think that none
of the watchers on the walls had noticed. Thus, they abandoned any
notion of making it appear as if they’d just arrived and mounted
their horses in order to walk them the few dozen yards down the
road to the gatehouse of the castle.

This same road, if they stayed on it, could
take them all the way home to Shrewsbury. Despite her nervousness
about entering Whittington Castle, Bridget wasn’t ready to go home
just yet. She’d never been on this end of an investigation before,
and she was extremely curious about what would happen next.

The drawbridge remained down. Bridget didn’t
know if the sentries normally left it down all day, or if they were
leaving it down because so many people were coming and going, and
it would be silly to pull it up when they’d only have to put it
down again five minutes later.

Peter dismounted before the portcullis,
which was also up. Unlike the local visitors, it would be impolite
of him, especially as an officer of the law from Shrewsbury, to
walk right in. A guard stood just inside the gate, and Peter said,
“Greetings! We seek admittance.”

A second guard hurried towards them,
gesturing with one hand that they should cross the drawbridge and
approach the gate. Bridget was glad because she felt the first
drops of rain on her head and preferred not to get soaked again
when her clothes had barely dried from yesterday.

“I am Peter Cobb, liege man of Lord Callum,
the Earl of Shrewsbury. I would speak to your lord.”

The guardsman bobbed his head. “You are
welcome to enter. Please wait here beneath the tower while I send a
man to find the steward.”

“Thank you.” Peter gestured to Bridget. “I
would prefer my lady wife doesn’t become chilled.”

“Of course, my lord.” He smiled
ingratiatingly and pointed at another one of the guardsmen, who
took off at a run, his feet pounding on the slate walkway of the
courtyard towards the bridge that crossed the moat to the inner
gatehouse.

Bridget shifted on her feet, impatient with
the wait.

Peter caught her hand, and she stilled, his
message coming through loud and clear. It was important that they
didn’t do anything that would call attention to themselves or
arouse suspicion. Peter would talk briefly to Fitzwarin, they would
gather as much information as they could about the inhabitants of
the castle, and they would leave. That was all.

They had to wait only a few minutes, during
which time the rain began to fall in earnest, before the guardsman
reappeared with the steward, who, heedless of the rain, maintained
a steady, unhurried pace towards them. He came to a halt in front
of Peter and bowed.

“My lord, I’m sorry for the delay. How may I
be of service?”

“I am Peter Cobb, undersheriff in
Shrewsbury, traveling to Chirk with my lady wife. Is Lord Fitzwarin
in residence?”

“He is.” The steward frowned and lowered his
voice. “But he has visitors already, and they have been much in
conference. I do not know that he has a moment to receive you.”

“I am here with Christmas greetings from the
Earl of Shrewsbury,” Peter said, blithely dropping Callum’s title
again.

The steward’s face blanched. “Of course, my
lord. I will let Lord Fitzwarin know you are here.”

Bridget placed a hand on her belly. “I am
really feeling quite faint.”

The steward’s eyes widened, getting the
message Bridget intended to send—that she was in the early stages
of pregnancy. “My lady, this way.”

The steward jerked his head at the guard,
who directed Simon to lead the horses towards the adjacent stable.
Meanwhile, Peter and Bridget followed the steward towards the inner
gate. It was a hundred feet from the gatehouse to the bridge across
the moat, and then another hundred feet across the bridge in order
to reach the shelter of the inner gatehouse. The castle hadn’t
looked very large from inside the tavern, but it seemed much bigger
now that they were inside and, despite the rain, the bailey bustled
with people and animals.

Passing beneath the second gatehouse,
Bridget and Peter entered the inner ward, the heart of the castle.
With both hands, Bridget gripped Peter’s arm, which he’d bent at
the elbow to escort her. “This may have been a very bad idea.”

“Breathe,” he said. “It’s going to be
fine.”

She had no choice but to believe him, and
she worked to steady her breathing and ignore the fact that the
hairs on the back of her neck were standing straight up. The great
hall crouched at the eastern end of the castle, having been built
into the curtain wall, and was accessible by a set of wooden
stairs.

Bridget and Peter followed the steward up
them and entered through the narrow doorway. Like many Norman
castles, where security was the primary focus, the door was meant
to be the last defense in case an enemy breached the inner and
outer walls.

Only seventy feet by twenty-five feet, the
hall wasn’t even as large as the one at Dinas Bran, but it was warm
and well-appointed, with tapestries on all the walls and a raised
dais at one end upon which the high table sat. The hall was full
too, with at least sixty people in it, mostly armed men. A fire
burned hot in the fireplace. Bridget half-expected to see Christmas
stockings hanging from the mantle but, of course, that custom
wouldn’t arise for hundreds of years.

As they entered, the people closest to the
door looked over but returned their attentions to their meals when
they didn’t recognize either Peter or Bridget. At the far end of
the hall, a dozen men ranged around the high table, eating and
talking jovially. It was Christmas Day, mass had probably already
been said, and the rest of the day would be spent in revelry. A few
men stood in a circle on the near side of the table, opposite the
lord’s seat, but Bridget could see through the moving figures to
the central trio.

Peter bent to Bridget’s ear. “That’s Fulk
Fitzwarin, there, in the center.”

Fulk was a middle-aged baron with a full
head of salt and pepper hair and a dark brown beard also shot with
gray. She couldn’t make out his expression well from the distance,
but his head was turned to the man beside him, who was hidden from
her view by someone standing across from him.

“Who does Lord Fitzwarin entertain?” Bridget
asked the steward.

She would have liked to have asked that
question earlier, but she hadn’t wanted to appear nosy and blow
their cover.

“Foreign relatives,” the steward said, and
Bridget didn’t think she mistook the disapproving
sniff
that
accompanied the words.

“Who might they be?” Peter said.

Even as the steward answered, Bridget cursed
herself for not thinking more deeply about Fulk Fitzwarin’s
Scottish ties a bit sooner and realizing that this branch of the
Warenne family might have other ties to Scotland beyond King John
Balliol. She hit upon the name of one of the men only a half-second
before the steward said it.

“That would be Red Comyn, nephew to the King
of Scotland. And on the other side of Lord Fulk is Comyn’s
brother-in-law, Aymer de Valence.”

Peter

B
ridget stood
frozen next to Peter, her hand clutched around his arm in a tight
grip. She needn’t have worried that Peter would give away her
shock. The message she was sending was getting through loud and
clear, and Peter already regretted walking into this castle without
a plan for getting out. Fortunately, the steward seemed oblivious
to the tension emanating from his guests, though if Bridget gripped
Peter’s arm any tighter, he might lose all feeling in his hand.

Peter cleared his throat. “I didn’t realize
Fitzwarin was related to the Comyns.”

“Lady Isabella de Warenne is John Balliol’s
wife, of course. It’s through her connection that my lord Fulk is
related to Comyn and Valence. If you give me a moment, I will tell
Lord Fulk you are here.”

Peter was trying hard not to choke on his
own breath. “Thank you.”

The steward gestured to a vacant spot at the
end of one of the long tables, and then he glided, head held high,
towards the dais.

“You’d better tell me everything that you
can remember about these family ties before the steward gets back,”
Peter said.

“Okay. So William de Valence had several
children who—”

Peter grasped her hand as it lay on the
table. “William de Valence? I never met him, but I heard about him.
You’re telling me that this is his hand reaching out to us from
beyond the grave?”

“I don’t like it either. But Aymer is his
only surviving son and heir and, given what happened to his father,
he bears no love for England or David. He would stab David in the
back and never blink an eye.”

“Does David know?” Peter said.

“He knows,” Bridget said. “Since David
confiscated Valence’s lands in England, the only estate Aymer de
Valence inherited from his father is a small tract of land in
Angoulême, which has been taken over by King Philip. Although
Aymer’s grandmother was once Queen of England, after King John’s
death, she married the Count of Angoulême and had William, Aymer’s
father. Thus, they aren’t royal, but they have always felt they
should be, and have deeply resented being continually snubbed by
the French court. In fact, it might be a contest between David and
Philip as to who Aymer hates more.”

“How is Aymer related to Red Comyn?”

“One of Aymer’s sisters is married to Red,
so they’re brothers-in-law as the steward said. In addition,
another one of Aymer’s sisters married John Balliol’s older
brother, Hugh, who died twenty years ago—and, for added flavor, Red
Comyn’s mother is King John Balliol of Scotland’s sister.”

“Christ.” Peter’s stomach sank into his
boots.

“That’s how we get the connection to James
Stewart,” Bridget said. “The Stewarts supported the Bruces during
the conflict over the throne three years ago, to the point that
when Callum met James Stewart, Robbie Bruce was his squire. As you
may recall, that was during the time when Black Comyn colluded with
William de Valence in an attempt to wrest the throne from his own
brother-in-law, John Balliol. While one of Balliol’s first acts as
King of Scotland was to release both Comyns, father and son, after
they paid a sizable ransom to the Scottish crown, bad blood remains
between the Comyns and the Bruces.”

Peter gave a low laugh. “You’re telling me
we should be glad Robbie Bruce wasn’t among the emissary’s party,
because Comyn wouldn’t have hesitated to murder him?”

Bridget smiled. “So you do know something of
what I’m talking about.”

“I listen,” Peter said lightly, “and I find
it hard to believe that Balliol would approve such a move.”

“Balliol might not be involved at all,”
Bridget said. “Red Comyn and Aymer de Valence could be making their
own plans without consulting him.”

“That, of everything you’ve said so far,
would surprise me the least. Any more bad news, Bridget?” Peter
said.

“It’s also possible that Red and Aymer hope
for the chance to bolster Aymer’s lands in Angouleme while Philip
is distracted by war with England.”

Peter’s eyes crossed. “That’s mad.”

“You’re not a Valence. David did see to the
death of Aymer’s father. Anyway,” she waved a hand, “the only thing
you have to know is that Aymer de Valence, Red Comyn, and John
Balliol are allies, and that it is perfectly credible that these
two here are seeking to expand their lands, destroy the Bruces, and
cause trouble for David and Philip.”

“I can see why they viewed James Stewart’s
journey with the ambassador from the French court with dismay,”
Peter said.

Bridget laughed under her breath. “And now,
if he isn’t dead, they may have no idea what to do with him.” She
glanced towards the high table. The steward was turning away from
Fulk and coming towards them. “Do you think he knows what Fulk’s
guests have done?”

“You heard him talk about the Scots,” Peter
said. “I find it likely he doesn’t.”

Peter watched the steward’s approach with
some trepidation. He wasn’t comfortable speaking to Fulk on
Callum’s behalf, though it had seemed like a good excuse to be here
when they were at the entrance to the castle. He kept his eyes
fixed on the high table, trying to imprint the faces of the various
Scots and Normans on his memory. He wasn’t any more of an artist
than he was a conversationalist, but he was pretty good at
remembering faces. Mostly, he just wanted to get Bridget out of
there as quickly as possible without having it seem hasty and
rude.

“Sir.” The steward had arrived at their
table again. “My lord Fulk would be happy to greet you now.”

“Thank you.” Peter stood and held out his
arm to Bridget, who took it, and they processed towards the high
table behind the steward. This time Bridget’s hand rested gently in
his elbow. She was doing a better job about faking a calmness she
didn’t feel. Peter’s breakfast, which he’d eaten back in Chirk, was
doing a dance inside his stomach.

“My lord.” The steward bent his head to
Fulk. “May I present Sir Peter Cobb and his lady wife.”

“Cobb.” Fulk canted his head. “My lady.”

“Bridget,” Bridget said, with a dipping
curtsey. “I am honored to meet you, sir.”

Fulk fixed his eyes on Peter’s face. “You
have news for me from Earl Callum?”