Juliana Garnett (28 page)

The cart groaned and rumbled, an occasional jolt from a rut in which the wheels sank almost to the hub. Efforts to free the cart were frustrating, delaying. It would take an eternity to reach the manor. Much better if they abandoned cart and baggage, put Dena on a mount—when Edwin reached them, he would know what to do.

The steady rhythm of hoofbeats and cart wheels filled her ears; her world narrowed to the road, urgency held at bay by grim determination. Her fingers tightened on the reins; the palfrey snorted nervously, sensing her tension. She shifted, slightly off-balance, both feet braced on the small protrusion from the saddle that allowed her to ride.

Another absurd piece of nonsense, to forbid a female to ride astride—unless it was to the hunt. If there were exceptions, why not ignore the dictum altogether?

A cool, damp wind blew from the forest; sunlight was only a thin glow above laced branches. Ahead, where young trees did not cover the road, a large patch of light devoured shadow. Despite her best intentions, she thought of Tré Devaux.

Vivid pain clutched her chest; squeezed breath and hope to nothing. Brief joy had vanished when he discarded her; dispassionate tone, cool words, each one a mortal blow to her heart.

Logic bade her admit the wisdom of his decision: It was dangerous for both of them. Just as dangerous for the castle guard to escort her home, for King John would not view it as justified should he arrive before Captain Oliver returned. A generous gesture from Tré, but one she dared not accept.

The palfrey stumbled, and she grabbed at the high pommel of the saddle to keep from falling.
Curse this cloak!
The hem, heavy with mud, restricted movement of her legs—she bent to free the wool trapped between foot and horse.

In the next instant, the palfrey shrilled loudly, hopped twice, and almost unseated her. She found herself sprawled forward over its neck. Her hands curled into the heavy mane to keep from tumbling to the ground, fingers clutching at leather and coarse hair.

She straightened, and glimpsed the hazy shadows of armed men afoot in the road. Her heart thumped warning just as a man reached for her palfrey’s bridle. She yanked it back fiercely. Rearing, front hooves pawed at air as she slid back to land hard and gracelessly in mud.

Enid’s scream cleaved the jumbled sounds of snorting horse, pounding blood in her ears, and gasps for breath.

Jésu—outlaws!

It was midafternoon before Sir Alfric and Guy faced each other on the field. Tré watched impassively, while impatience gnawed holes in his outward calm. Already the victor in three contests that day, which had earned him a ransom of destrier
and armor from the vanquished knights, Guy lifted a lance blunted by a three-pronged coronal to deflect deadly blows.

Restive, snorting, the massive destrier Guy rode was fresh; it pranced eagerly, huge hooves curiously graceful on the wet earth chewed by the day’s contests. Its velvety white hide gleamed in the sunlight; mane and tail brushed the ground with each capering step. Trappings of green and gold silk fluttered while light glinted from the silver and gilt etching of the shaffron and crinet protecting the, destrier’s head and neck. Single combat was more exciting than the chaos of the melee; it was a form of personal duel that thrilled spectators. That it was betwixt Saxon and Norman champions only whetted their anticipation.

Tré’s gaze shifted to Guy, saw him take up his lance, couch it in the shield recess, then fasten to his belt a mace given him by his squire. He positioned himself in the high pommel of the saddle, thrust mailed feet into covered stirrups, and nodded readiness.

At the opposite end of the field, Sir Alfric followed the same routine; they rode into the roar of the crowd and made the obligatory circle around the field, past the spectators’ galleries, while the herald announced their names. The destriers pawed the ground, nostrils flaring and muscles bunching with excitement.

Both challengers signaled the judges that they were ready to begin, then tightened grips on lances. The white scrap of linen dropped. Horses leaped forward in a thunder of lethal hooves and flying chunks of mud and grass, eager for the fray.

The first pass was exploratory of the other’s strengths and weaknesses; glancing blows of lance to shield were only loud cracks that caused no harm.

Wheeling his mount around at the far end of the field, Guy urged him forward again without pause, gaining a slight advantage on his rival. This time his lance caught Sir Alfric’s shield full-force in the middle, knocked him off-balance and nearly unseated him. Both horses staggered beneath the blow. By the time Guy slowed his mount and turned again, Sir Alfric had regained his seat, but Guy won the point.

Tré frowned. He watched as Sir Alfric turned his mount
and leveled his lance; there was an air of wariness in the way Guy held himself. Fingers that had drummed impatience on chair arms now fisted around the wood.

“My lord sheriff.…”

Giles again, voice a low murmur at his elbow, tactful proficiency behind his chair. He turned, recognized the glint in his steward’s eyes, rose to join him at the rear of the gallery. Giles put his fingertips together, pursed his mouth.

“The king approaches Nottingham, my lord.”

“Now?” Alarm flickered, quickly stifled. “He is early.”

Giles nodded, spread his arms. “All is in readiness for him—save Captain Oliver.”

“What word from that quarter?”

Giles did not reply but withdrew a pouch from beneath his tunic. A slight shake, and a single coin fell into his palm. He held it out, a five-sided piece of silver. Tré did not need to take it.

It was the signal for failure. Disaster. A piece of Judas silver.
Gold for success, silver for betrayal
.…

There was a thundering crash behind him; he turned, saw in that instant the two destriers collide. Screams rent the air, men and animals registering pain and anger; spectators groaned as if one, a collective expression of horror.

Tangled silks, struggling horses, chaos reigned on the field; another cry went up, this one drawing him to the front of the gallery with Giles at his heels.

Guy de Beaufort lurched to his feet; blood streamed onto green and gold silk. Sir Alfric of Kelham faced him as the destriers were snared by scrambling squires. Sunlight glinted on their drawn swords, murder marked two faces. Steel clanged harshly. Blow for blow, fierce combat was waged in mud that sucked at feet and endurance. Harsh grunts filled the air.

The tournament marshal tossed a flag to indicate that the match was over; a useless gesture ignored, linen trampled by the two men on the field. A deafening roar rose from the crowd to drown out the marshal’s protest with savage approval.

Saxon against Norman, vicious fighting raged unchecked by rule or rote. Giles stepped closer to Tré, words a low murmur: “Beaufort’s lance snapped cleanly, my lord sheriff.”

A pause as the import of the comment registered, then Giles added softly, “As clean as if cut in twain.…”

Provocation. Shattered peace a certainty … and the result quickly became clear.

Blades clashed, slid, parted, swung to collide again. A brittle crack split the air as Guy’s sword snapped in two, the end of his blade spinning away to land in the mud. Sir Alfric instantly took the advantage; his sword hissed in a wide arc, caught Guy on the edge of his swiftly raised shield, slid along the outer curve to bite deeply into mail and flesh. Another collective groan went up from the crowd, punctuated by a sickening grunt as Guy folded over the pointed blade.

Tré felt it keenly—as if the blade had pierced his own flesh. His knuckles went white on the wooden edge of the gallery as he leaned out, saw the tournament marshal race onto the field and Sir Alfric step back. Rage built, flared higher when Gervaise Gaudet signaled approval to his champion.

He swung around, saw Gaudet glance at him. A triumphant smile fell away; Gaudet took a backward step that brought him up hard against the gallery rail. Men moved away, opening a space between them. Wind flapped the silk edges of the canopy with a loud popping sound. His hand ached, fingers numb where he gripped the hilt of his drawn sword. He did not remember drawing it, but held it up; light skittered along the wicked blade.

“The decree was for blunted swords, Gaudet.” Soft, with no inflection to betray the murderous rage fraying both temper and restraint, he swept his glance to Giles. “Have Alfric of Kelham arrested. If Beaufort dies, Sir Alfric will not see another dawn.”

Beyond the gallery, chaos held sway; here, silence was thick, heavy.

“It was a fair contest, Devaux.” Gaudet’s eyes spit fury, but his tone was equally calm. “Your man challenged him first.”

“The judges will make that decision when they inspect his broken lance and sword for evidence of foul play.”

Now Gaudet’s voice rose, words meant to incite anger: “Do Saxons triumph only by foul means in Nottingham, my lord
sheriff? Or is it that Normans will not be bested by fair means without crying foul?”

A low murmur ran through Saxon ranks, old resentments rising to the fore. Tré ignored them, focused his attention only on Gervaise Gaudet. He lifted his sword, blade flat and horizontal so that the sharp tip pointed to his scarlet tunic.

Softly, meant just for Gaudet, he promised, “If it is found that the lance was weakened, I will come to you for satisfaction, Sir Gervaise. Mark me—you will not substitute another champion but will meet me in single combat.”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Devaux. You have been a thorn in my side too long.”

“Be ware a hasty tongue. This could be settled now.”

Enmity vibrated. Gaudet’s hand fell to his sword hilt, tightened into a fist; deliberation in the set of his jaw, hatred in his eyes.…

Lord Creighton offered a warning: “My lord, should this not be settled by the justiciar? It is unseemly to quarrel when half of Nottingham watches with eager eyes.”

A dash of cold logic on heated temper; Tré inhaled sharply as savage rage abated.

The tumult had escalated beyond the gallery; indistinguishable shouts rose, armor clinked, horses voiced agitation. Guy was carried from the lists on a shield, bloodied hand dangling off one side to drag on the ground.

“My lord.…” Unobtrusive Giles stepped forward, a slight incline of his head drawing Tré’s attention to the periphery of the castle grounds.

A horn heralded the king’s arrival, the royal banner a gold and scarlet beacon fluttering in wind and sunlight. The king arrived with his retinue winding behind him, a line snaking from the castle through Nottingham.

The timing could not have been worse.

22
 

“You took overlong to attend me, Devaux.” King John eyed him with irritation; eyes deep-set in sockets beneath a straight slash of furrowed brow were narrowed. Blunt fingers drummed on chair arms, nails bitten to the quick, bleeding in spots. A circlet of wrought gold sat askew on brown hair, reflecting light from torches in a thousand tiny glitters.

“My pardon, sire. I lingered at the bed of Guy de Beaufort.”

“So Gilbert told me.” The steady, rhythmic drum of fingers on wood paused. “Is he dead?”

“No, sire. A grievous wound, not mortal.”

“Ah.” The fingers began again, a march of impatience on innocent oak. “We have serious concerns, Devaux.”

The royal
we
, invoked to remind a miscreant or errant baron of his place. Tré chose deliberately to misunderstand, a ploy to gain time and assess the king’s mood.

“Sir Guy will be apprised of your concern for his fate, sire.”

The drumming stopped abruptly, an exclamation: “We do not speak of a landless knight!”

He held his tongue, waited, and John leaned forward. “I speak of the chaos I found when I arrived today. Bickering barons. A match of vengeance despite the church’s prohibition.
I am newly returned to the holy fold—would you have me set upon by the pope again?”

It was a rhetorical question; Tré addressed the real heart of the king’s ire: “Saxon barons fill Nottingham to pay you homage, sire. So do Norman.”

“Barons oft meet for treason as well. These do not come to honor a king but to see their favored champions in the lists.” John’s eyes glittered. “We do not require tributes other than coin.
That
we will have as our just due.”

“As you will it, sire.”

“Yea, as we will it, Devaux.” A slight curl of his mouth was scant comfort. “A timely reminder of your duty to us.”

“I have fulfilled my duty as lord high sheriff, sire.”

“Have you? Some would say otherwise. Do not reply to that. I know what is said of baseless rumors.” He rubbed a thumb across his chin; light glinted from jeweled rings, shone dully on the heavy gold links around his neck. “We are told that you have taken outlaws, killed some, imprisoned others. Taxes have been gathered, men and arms summoned as demanded. Yet there is much still left undone.”

Tré waited out the litany. Petty complaints from a profane king.

The king’s thumb found its way to his mouth; teeth discolored by age and neglect nibbled at the torn nail. A monarch full of contradictions: known to bathe every three weeks in winter and summer, yet heedless of teeth and nails. Costly jewels worn over stained garments of expensive gilt and embroidered material; intelligent enough to devise the most intricate of intrigues, yet reckless of the mood of his own barons to the point of endangering the entire country.