Juliana Garnett (36 page)

Tré had no answer for that, no explanation that he would
voice, and stood in silence after Oxton took his leave. He saw Guy move to Lady Dunham, speak to her earnestly. A hum of talk swirled around him as the council broke up.

It was over. A bloodless coup.
Too easy
.…

Restive, a strange apprehension seized him. It must be the anticipation of a fight, the residue of expected battle still lingering. His blood was high, urgency churning his belly.

Against his left thigh, his sword hung ready; a leather hauberk was beneath the simple garb of a woodsman. He needed none of it.

Turning on his heel, he walked toward the double doors at the far end of the hall. Captain Oliver briefly appeared in the open doorway, silhouetted against the bright light behind him, a sturdy reminder of the debt he was owed. It was Gaudet’s men who had waylaid Oliver on the King’s Great Way, nearly killing him and slaughtering most of his troop. Yet he had managed to send the messenger with a warning.

Brayeton would benefit from such good men, as would his other holdings. Castles needed castellans, dependable men to hold them in the lord’s absence. Once his lands were restored to him, he would set about fortifying them. Battle with the king was not over. John would not stop pursuing wars and conflict; it was his nature. Ever malicious, ever greedy, there was little hope that the king would be held at bay by edicts from church or law.

Safety lay in the ability to protect his own lands. He would not make that mistake again. There was no honor to be found in a dishonorable man, whether king or baron.

He reached the door, but Oliver was gone. Sunlight was harsh in his eyes as he paused on the top step and squinted against it. August had given way to early September but the days were still warm, drawing from the moat a palpable stench he had not noticed before in his preoccupation.

Relief began to ease his tension; he thought of Jane. While he waited for the justiciar’s council to convene, he would send word to her so she would not worry. It was three days since he had left her; now that the pressing concern was lifted, he could admit to himself what he had not dwelled on before—he loved her well.

An elusive emotion found, acknowledged, embraced. A new life, with a woman of great courage at his side.…

“My lord!”

His head snapped up, eyes blinked against light, caught a glimpse of metallic reflection, and flung himself to one side. The hiss of a sword cleaving air summoned instant reaction; without thought, he drew his weapon, hilt firm and familiar in his fist as he blindly turned to meet the threat.

Shadows danced in front of his eyes; instinct guided his sword to meet the next downward swing. Metal clashed loudly. Men shouted. He turned, barely kept his balance on the steep stairs that descended from the great hall to the stones of the bailey.

Savage thrusts, parried and turned, concentration bent to keep his footing; he identified his adversary now, the blur of scarlet and yellow. No binding chain of office hung around Gaudet’s neck to impede him now, no rings that might catch on hilt or blade; he was there to fight.

Gaudy he might be, but Gervaise Gaudet was a formidable opponent. He fought viciously. The element of surprise was gone with the shouted warning—Oliver?—and now he pursued Tré with fierce intent, relentless blows to force him to the edge of the steep stairs, a crippling fall.

Renewed tension, welcomed; an exultation of released energy and an end to the nagging feeling of danger unmet. It was there, in the form of a man who had declared himself enemy.

Gaudet stepped forward and swung his sword two handed, a mighty blow that would have severed head from neck if Tré had not seen it coming. Sharp blade, slicing through the loose sleeves of his linen shirt, leaving a crimson line of blood to blossom on dull white. The stinging pain was an alert instead of a distraction.

Savagely, he swung in reaction before Gaudet recovered, managed to catch him on one side, heard the clink of mail beneath scarlet tunic, felt the slight drag of the blade that caught on metal and not flesh. Wordless, intent, he jerked his sword free of clinging cloth and links and swung it again, taking the initiative to lunge forward.

It caught Gaudet by surprise and he stepped back. His heel
caught on the step above; he fumbled, wobbled, dropped his guard for just the moment Tré needed … a mighty swing of sword, sunlight splintering on wicked blade, the expected shock of connection when it bit through tunic, mail, and flesh to shatter a rib.

Bloodied fingers gripped the blade; an instant’s realization lit Gaudet’s eyes as Tré stared into his face. A bubble of red frothed his lips, dribbled to the golden tuft of beard on his chin.

“Curse you, Devaux.”

Tré freed his blade with a jerk; Gaudet toppled over the edge of the stairs to plummet to cobbled stones in the bailey below.

Breathing raggedly, the pounding of blood hot and loud in his ears, he stood with sword still lifted, slowly aware of growing tumult around him. He looked up, saw Oliver above him, Guy in the doorway. Behind him, he heard the familiar winding of a horn. He turned, saw banners glint beneath bright sunlight, a breeze curling pennons with gold and scarlet colors.

They heralded the arrival of the king.

28
 

“This pertains to royal jurisdiction, abbot. It is not an ecclesiastical matter.” John’s lofty pronouncement did not mollify the abbot.

“Sire, this is a matter given over to the Council of Barons. That was done. It should now be heard by the chief justiciar.”

It was a nightmare; Guy stood tensely, reeling from the day’s events and the untimely arrival of the king. Taken by the king’s men, Tré was once more under arrest.

“I have not time for this!” John raged. “I am beset on all sides, with rebellious barons and galling clergy!” As the abbot recoiled in offense, the king paced the rush-strewn floor of the hall. His seneschal hovered nearby, a constant presence. “Gilbert,” John snapped, “are the gates locked?”

“Yea, sire. As you ordered.”

Tension hung over the hall. The king’s mood was dangerous; his temper wavered between satisfaction and frustrated fury.

Rounding on Tré, the king surveyed him with a glitter of gratification. “What say you now, Devaux? You are charged with murder of an appointed official of the king.”

Weighted down with chains, bloody, he returned John’s stare coolly. “I was attacked from behind, sire. Any man here will tell you that.”

A wave of his hand dismissed the claim as trivial. John flung himself toward the dais, snatched up a cup of wine. “It matters not. For that crime,
I
have jurisdiction.”

The abbot cleared his throat. “Sire, Devaux is a baron. He is to be tried before a council for even this charge.”

The king’s glare pinned the abbot, silenced him. Guy’s hand tightened on his sword hilt; they had been so close to victory … so close. Lissa’s evidence against her husband had swayed any baron still unconvinced to their favor. It was done—and now this cursed Angevin spawn arrived to undo it all.

Heartsick, he stepped to the rear of the hall, away from king and chaos. He had to breathe fresh air or he would unman himself there, in front of gathered barons and the king’s guard.

A hand reached out to snatch at his sleeve and he paused, peered into gloom with tensed muscles until he recognized Lissa. Pale of face, with hair a golden haze beneath blue wimple, she whispered, “Is the abbot able to stay the king?”

“No. I fear the worst.”

“Come with me.” She tugged urgently on his sleeve to draw him with her.

He pulled away. “Lady, you have forsworn the secular life for the spiritual. I will not—”

“Fool!” Anger vibrated in the single word, earning anger in return.

“Faithless female, full of tricks—you name me fool when you have played me false?”

“How did I do that? I told you earlier, Walter left me no choice.” She glanced around, eyes a faint gleam in shadow. “Come with me. I refuse to discuss this here with you.”

Reluctant, angry, he followed her. The bailey was crowded with king’s men and barons’ men, dissension subdued but tangible.

They paused by the Royal Mews; feathers and falcons fluttered restively. Shadows crept close.

“Tell me what you want of me,” Guy said bluntly. “I must return ere the king draws his own sword.”

“Softsword? You jest. Listen to me, righteous monk, for I have a message.”

“I do not trust any message you may tell.”

“Do you not?” She paused; her voice wobbled slightly: “If you do not love your lord, at least love your lady. It comes from her.”

“I have no lady.”

“No? What of Lord Devaux’s lady? Are you not sworn to him as knight?”

He frowned. “You have a message from the lady Jane?”

“Yea. She trusts me, whether you do or not. Oh, Guy—” A pause, fraught with pain and uncertainty, then: “Forgive me just a little. Do it for your lord’s sake, if not your own.”

The faint scent of roses surrounded her; he thought of her soft skin, the way she felt in his arms … the memory of her stricken words and whispered fear, the denials when he asked if she wanted him to rescue her.

“Tell me the message,” he said, and she put her hand on his arm and leaned close.

Tré stood stiffly; each movement brought a clank of chains. The king still raged; the abbot and barons offered restrained argument. It was deadly to defy John when this mood was upon him.

Even more deadly to allow him free rein.

His eyes itched; smoke from torches and the main fire wreathed gauzily over heads and guards’ pikes. It was likely that this time the king would achieve his aim. A struggle was ended; fickle fate had delivered him into the hands of John. A man’s destiny could be delayed but not denied; his father had been fond of saying that. He had never thought it true until now.

Emotionless, he stood flanked by guards; listened to the ongoing argument dispassionately, as if he were not involved. He thought instead of his lady. She would be grieved when word reached her.

Jane, for all my blind folly, I loved you well
.…

A noise at the end of the hall cut through the babble of barons and king, a sharp voice raised. It quieted again, a ripple as of a rock thrown into water, surface smooth once more. Tré
stared ahead of him, thought now of nothing more than the moment. Regret was senseless, futile.

The silence grew tense. Around him, there was a collective sigh, as if something of import had occurred.

He looked up, saw in the king’s face resigned fury, heard his mocking: “Another miracle of record, it is plain. Do you walk through walls, your eminence?”

Turning his head, Tré recognized the robes if not the face of the man approaching the dais where John waited with a blasphemous lip curled in defeat.

“I walk through open gates, sire, like most men.”

Stephen Langton, the Archbishop of Canterbury. John’s nemesis.

At the end of the hall, he saw Oliver and his men, swords and pikes holding the king’s guard at bay. Guy looked up, met his gaze, and nodded grimly. Fortuitous arrival—had Guy opened the gates for Langton?

The archbishop’s eyes moved to Tré, lingered, then returned to the king. “This man is a baron, sire, is he not?”

“He was.” John’s eyes narrowed. “Do you
dare
admonish us on a secular matter?”

“It is not a secular matter.” He ignored the sharp exclamation, continued, “Lord Devaux is a baron. I have warned you of vengeance against your barons, sire.”

“Yea, so you have, all the way to Northampton and now here. Could you not stay in London? The council needs you more than do we.”

“If I deemed that true, sire, I would have remained at Saint Paul’s instead of given chase to a feckless king who may yet earn more censure.”

“You rank a worthy alaunt, your eminence. But you do not chase stags or boar. You hound the
king
. We are not run to ground like prey.”

“Do you give up your decision to force your barons to obedience?”

“We do not. Curse them, they defy us with their refusal to pay homage and scutage.” Rancor marked his words, taut and heavy.

Langton stepped forward; a glance swept Nottingham’s
great hall, the chamber so crowded with barons that not a broom straw could have been inserted between them. His voice lifted, the voice of a man used to command, tempered with compassion yet still imperative:

“Sire, I say to you now that unless this project is at once given up, I will excommunicate every man—save you as the king—should he take part in any military expedition so long as the interdict continues in force. If you have levied accusations against any baron, appoint the day for a trial and it will be done. I do not cease to
hound
you until you grant me your word.”

Furious, the king at last yielded. “We set the day as All Saints’ Day for barons to appear in court to answer charges of rebellion.”

“And this man?” Langton indicated Tré. “He is to be set free at once.”

“The charge for Devaux is murder, not rebellion. Not even the church sanctions the unwarranted death of the king’s appointed man, we trust.”