Juliana Garnett (2 page)

“Grandmère and Grandpère would be pleased if you were to stay too, Papa.”

He doubted it; his late wife’s parents blamed him for their daughter’s death. But he said nothing of that, only bade her a sweet night’s sleep before she left in the custody of Madame Marie.

When she was gone, he turned to Guy, saw in his face that he had grim tidings. “What news?”

“Another village destroyed, stores burned and churls slaughtered.” Guy held out a cup of wine. “Welburn’s men were seen leaving, yet we have no way to prove it. A peasant swears he will strike again on the morrow.”

“Merde!”
Steel tinged a soft promise: “The faithless earl courts harsh reprisal. Should he come again with sword and death, he will rue it.”

His gaze shifted to the fire, where flames danced. Two years. A long time for a man to bear rancor for a mistake. His overlord, Pell Ewing, Earl of Welburn, had vowed vengeance upon his Norman vassal for the death of a favorite horse. No appeasement was accepted; a deadly feud was sparked by an accident.

It was time the feud ended; his villeins bore the brunt of his dispute with Ewing. Too many losses, too much time spent defending Brayeton land—too much time wasted in appeals to a king who cared only for his quarrel with the pope, nothing for the barons who supported him. Now he would levy his own justice.

“
Ad noctum
—Into the darkness.” Sir Guy indicated the Devaux shield hanging on the wall and the motto painted on wood. “It fits you well.”

Devaux regarded Sir Guy with a half-smile. “It was my great-grandfather’s motto.”

Guy grunted acknowledgment. “Ah. The first baron. He was like you, no doubt, dark as the night and just as grim.”

“I am not grim, just too busy to ply foolish maids with pretty words and wine.”

“It would do you good if you did.” Guy raked a hand through his fair hair until it stood up on end like a cock’s comb. He yawned, eyes thinned against the glare of the fire. “After the warning you sent him, Welburn is still fool enough to ravage Brayeton villages. Do you think him bold enough to strike again on the morrow, or is it only a false tale?”

“We will know soon enough.”

Sparse light glinted from a rising sun veiled by trees along the banks of the River Ouse. Traces of snow laced tufts of brown grass; blood turned white drifts to pink.

It was more brutal than he had anticipated. Two of his best men lay dead on the field, crumpled into shapeless forms. Welburn’s dead littered the field, as well, but there was no sign of the earl. Guy had pursued the men who fled.

Black smoke boiled into the sky; the stench of charred flesh permeated the air. Only the skeletal outline of a dwelling remained. It had been set afire with the peasants locked inside, their screams unheeded. Too late to save them but not too late to deal justice to men responsible for such horror—save for one.

Welburn:
Saxon by birth, old enmities of race ruled his judgment. It was not truly the loss of a horse Welburn begrudged, but the presence of Normans on land that had once belonged to Saxons. A hundred forty-four years since William the Conqueror had invaded England, yet hostility still raged against Norman rulers. Futile hatred.

Damp wind curled over him as he regarded Welburn’s dead. He should have been satisfied at the victory; he was not. There was nothing to indicate that the men had come at the earl’s mandate. No distinctive livery here, none alive to be questioned. It would require more than dead peasants and soldiers to levy proof of Welburn’s perfidy.

A drumming of hooves interrupted his preoccupation, and he glanced up. Guy approached, driving before him two men on foot. Bare headed and bloodied, they stumbled, fell, were jerked upright by ropes wound around their middles.

Dismounting, Devaux plunged his sword tip into the chewed earth at his feet, splayed his legs to stand at the edge of the small clearing and wait. Proof came to him with dread in their eyes.…

Foam flecked, Guy’s steed snorted, nostrils flared red and wide as it was reined to a halt in front of the baron.

“They claim to have knowledge should we spare them, my lord.” Hazel eyes gleamed behind the noseguard of Guy’s helm; satisfaction curled his lip. His huge courser danced sideways a step, tightening the rope enough to unbalance the prisoners. Pained oaths rent the air, and pleas for mercy betrayed cowardly natures.

Hired Flemish mercenaries—unscrupulous butchers. Tré regarded the bloodied men coldly. His fingers tightened on his sword hilt; blood still glistened red on the wicked blade.

“Stand up and speak. I would hear what Welburn pays men who slay the innocent.”

Awkward, they lurched to their feet; lips hung slackly, fear burned in their eyes. Paid assassins, the scourge of England.

“My lord Brayeton …” A croak, breathless and shaky, emerged, then trailed into quivering silence.

Tré’s sword flashed upward; mud sprayed in an arc. His eyes were hard, mouth taut. “If you have knowledge to impart, do it ere my blade severs your tongue.”

“Hold!” A hand came up swiftly; a thin ray of sunlight flashed from the suspended blade. In a panicked rush, the mercenary blurted, “The earl seeks only his just rents—”

“I levy my required fees. He has no cause for this. It is a choice he will rue as well as you.…”

The sword point lowered, pressed against the Fleming’s throat—a promise of his fate. The prisoner blanched.

“My lord—you look to avenge the wrong deed, when there are outlaws who even now destroy your treasure.”

“My treasure?” Amusement laced his words, held the sword at bay. “I do not think even the Earl of Welburn fool enough to besiege Brayeton Keep.”

“Nay, but Saxon outlaws would waylay a baggage train to York readily enough, if told it carries treasure.”

For an instant, it was beyond comprehension. Even when Guy swore foully, Tré did not dare let his mind absorb the implications. It was not until he was mounted and spurring his steed down the muddy track toward York that the enormity was inescapable.

Aimée … my greatest treasure.…

II
 
 WINDSOR CASTLE
FEBRUARY 10, 1213

1
 

Dark eyes regarded Tré steadily; rings flashed in torch- and candlelight as the king waved him forward. The chamber was near empty, save for a scribe and the king’s steward.

Tré approached the dais where John sat in an unkingly sprawl; he did not bow his head or bend the knee, but stood silent and still while the king spoke to his steward. Heavy tapestries covered the chamber’s walls, richly embroidered, a blur of red and gold behind the dais.

It was cold; Tré’s boots were muddy, but he had taken no time to don clean garments when summoned by King John. In truth, he had been given no time to do more than accompany the guard sent to escort him to Windsor, a dire omen that set his jaw and his temper.

King John, Pell Ewing—two men of the same ilk. Greedy, ruthless warlords. Nothing mattered to them but their own goals. Not even the life of a small child—whose loss he blamed on king and earl as well as Saxon outlaws.

Over two years since Aimée died—not so long ago. Yet a lifetime
.…

“Lord Devaux, Baron of Brayeton.”

The scribes gruff announcement jerked him from harsh memory to the present. Tré looked up, met the king’s gaze with
a steady stare. John’s eyes narrowed slightly; thin lips twisted at the blatant refusal to bend knee or head.

“You took overlong to answer our summons, Brayeton.”

Petulance marked the royal face and tone; one hand came to rest languidly upon the carved chair arm. Tré stood silent. Tension thumped in his belly.

John’s expression eased into a mocking smile. Jewels winked as he chewed a fingernail, halted to say abruptly, “The Earl of Welburn has been deseisened of his lands and title.”

Savage exultation flared, but Tré did not allow it to show in his face or words. “Indeed, sire.”

“Yea, indeed, my lord of Brayeton!” The king leaned forward in his bolstered chair. “What say you to that?”

“It is a grave misfortune, sire.”

“A misfortune?” John gave a bark of laughter that held no humor. “Misfortune for Ewing, or for yourself?”

“I am not allied with Pell Ewing, sire.”

“No, you are not. Yet it has come to our attention of late that you have withdrawn from our service. You paid knights’ fees and shield tax, but did not answer our summons to Nottingham. Explain your reasons to our satisfaction.”

“My lands require much of my time, sire.” Salvation lay in half-truths; survival prompted him to remind the king, “I have just returned from your campaign against the Welsh.”

It was waved away as inconsequential. “We need more assurance of your loyalty. You have no family, no hostages to offer us, only an oath of fealty that you have not yet sworn.”

Tré held his tongue; not even to avoid censure would he swear an oath he was not certain he could keep. It would be treason should he break it. More danger lay in perjury than in refusal.

The king’s steward stepped forward, murmured in John’s ear, then stepped away. Tension prickled down Tré’s spine; the new wound in his side throbbed, raw and unhealed, a constant ache, compliments of a Welsh sword.

John turned back, mouth curled in a nasty smile. “We have seized Welburn lands for the crown. Ewing is your overlord, a proven traitor, alive only because he has fled to Ireland. He
named you as conspirator. Show me good cause to allow you to remain free, my lord Brayeton.”

Anger sparked, was swiftly tamped. “Sire, you are aware of my long feud with the Earl of Welburn. Would you accuse me of treachery on his word alone?”

“Can you prove your innocence?”

“I have not heard specific charges, sire. If I am to be accused, I demand my rights as baron to a trial before the Council of Barons.”

John regarded him through hooded eyes; mockery tucked the corners of his mouth. “The council meets at Nottingham Castle. As we just met in September, you will remain in our custody until the next council meeting.”

A clank of weapons and armor from the guards entering bespoke the king’s intent; Tré tensed. Few men left Windsor’s dungeons alive.

Coolly, he said, “Sire, the Barons of Brayeton have served England’s kings since the time of the Conqueror. Imprison me without trial and you will earn the enmity of even your allies. Do you court more enemies when you are beset on all sides?”

King John frowned, glanced toward his steward again, and chewed his fingernail for a moment. Then he sat back, narrow shoulders pressed against wood and gilt.

“Your lands are forfeit until charges against you are put before the Council of Barons. Unless you prefer prison, you may be of some use, my lord Brayeton. We are in need of a High Sheriff of Nottingham.”

Surprise and outrage rendered Tré silent for a moment. Wily John—if he could not extract one oath, he would secure another. An appointment to sheriff would bind him to uphold the very laws he hated. A refusal would result in his imprisonment. He sucked in a deep breath.

“I thought the position occupied, sire.”

“Not,” the king said harshly, “for long. Eustace de Lowdham has misjudged me. His greedy hand plunders my taxes. He fails to catch the outlaws who poach Sherwood preserves and steal from royal coffers. You have proven your worth in
pursuit of the Welsh—prove your worth as sheriff, and lands and title will be returned to you in time.”

Tré’s eyes narrowed; dust motes danced in gray bars of light filtering through the open window. It was a subtle trap. Far easier for John to be rid of an appointed official than to risk alienating all his barons by eliminating one of their own without proven cause.

Disaster loomed. Until this moment he had not known how complete was Welburn’s hatred of him. Cunning earl, to destroy an enemy with a simple accusation—tempting a king who coveted rich lands for his war against Philip of France and the pope.

Far better to compromise than lose all
.…

Silence stretched, grew heavy and dense. Impatient, John snapped, “Decide, my lord Brayeton.”

Bitter words burned his tongue: “If I am not trusted to be baron, am I trusted to be sheriff?”