Sword of Justice (White Knight Series) (18 page)

Gleaming in the waning sunlight, an instantly unsheathed lion sword met a well-used mercenary’s sword with a singing clash of steel. Mallory fixed beady eyes on him before a smile consumed his face. They sheathed their weapons together.

D’Amboise hooked an arm around Drake’s neck and drew him against his chest. “The disciple teaching the master, is that how it goes?”

Drake slapped the captain’s cheek. “Get used to it.”

Mallory chortled and released Drake. “Who am I to quarrel with common sense.”

As she had once before, Aveline Darcy found herself entertaining two knights. While they shared two pitchers of ale, hushed conversations and cold stares isolated them like a pox.

“You heard Drogo’s been murdered?” Drake said. “And Mat’s goons.”

“Oh, aye. The story of how one sergeant and two brigands were sent back to the depths of Hell by a single knight bent on revenge has already circled Winchester three times over, growing on each circuit.”

“It wasn’t me who did them in.”

“So Drake claimed about the other three.” Mallory indicated their subdued audience. “They’re afeard of you. Only a man of special talents could get the better of a bastard the likes of Drogo Atwell.”

“I, for one, don’t fancy that kind of renown. Nor does Drake.”

Mallory eyed him, his eyes black with doubt. “Say what you will, but you’re becoming interchangeable, the two of you. Drake for Stephen. Stephen for Drake. Legends in your own time. A
chanson de geste
in the making.” He chortled into his cup. “Worry not. You’ll get respect from here on out. No one will come within the length of a dagger of either fitzAlan twin.”

Aveline toured the hall as was her habit. With each swing, she sent Drake a glare as if she wanted to run him through with one of her kitchen knives. He only wanted to toss her onto the nearest bed and make her curse the day she met him. Neither fantasy was likely to come true.

Two pitchers grew to three.

“Eleanor’s been busy,” said d’Amboise.

Drake heard the same tales. In her eagerness to free men unjustly imprisoned under her husband’s reign, Queen Eleanor released nearly the entire criminal population of England, resulting in a countryside riddled with cutthroats and highwaymen.

“Bless her,” said Mallory, “the queen is a lady of swift action if not royal pluck.”

Though Ranulf de Glanville was yet chief justice over England, Richard had made Eleanor his regent during the five weeks preceding his arrival. Energetically travelling from town to town, she drafted support from nobles and common folk alike, and lost no time in putting her singular brand upon the land in the name of her son.

“But let me be damned to Hell and back if I swear fealty to her son.” Mallory had mocked the oath that all who served Richard were required to take:
I do hereby swear fealty to the lord Richard, king of England, son of the lord King Henry and the lady Eleanor, in life and limb and earthly honor, as my liege lord, against all men and women living or dead, and answerable to him and help him to keep his peace and justice in all things.

“Treasonous words.”

The knight let out an explosive, “Pah!” and took a long swig of drink that streamed straight from cup to stomach without stopping by way of tongue. Satisfied, he wiped mouth with sleeve. “On his deathbed, Old King Henry vowed to take vengeance on Richard.”

“Tales, they say.”

“Matters not. Folk hereabout believe Richard’s not long for this world. That omens and portents abound wherever he goes. That the crusade he’s taxing the country to finance will come to naught. And that his younger brother John will soon be king, mayhap sooner.”

“You would have John, then, over Richard?”

“God forfend, not John. He’s no more friend to England than his brother. Yet I say, a king who bleeds the land dry, says
adieu
and
bon voyage
, and lets the De’il himself fend for Merrie England isn’t worth the salt of a single Saxon knight.” 

“Did you forget you’re Norman yourself?”

“Aye, until the day I die. Normandy may be my flesh, but my spirit is England, through and through.” Tankard gripped in one hand and jawbone leaning against the other, Mallory said, “Bless Queen Eleanor and damn the king who imprisoned her all those years.”

“And bless the one who set her free.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “And bless the one who set her free.” He held up his cup. “To Richard, may God curse him and love him.”

“To Richard.”

In unison, old knight and young knight slapped their goblets onto the table.

Drake excused himself and staggered giddily away. The smile he sent Aveline was met with a frown. He chuckled to cover the unsettling effect she had on his easily wounded pride and stepped out into the cool summer night. Feeling mellow, he faced the wall and prepared to take a piss. The fall of rushing footsteps heralded trouble. Before he had time to reach for Stephen’s sword, a powerful arm slammed him against the wall. His forehead took the brunt of the impact. His sword arm was twisted against his spine. A dagger appeared in his peripheral vision. The sharpness of the blade pricked both neck and alertness.

“He’ll be coming after you next,” said a familiar voice.

“Who?”

Swinging Drake around, Graham shoved him back. “Who else but Drake.” Seeming more ghost than man, he gripped a familiar damascened dagger and paced.

“That’s Drake’s dagger,” said Drake.

“Is it? He must’ve lost it.” A grin swept up on a face in dire need of rest. “In the Twyford Castle dungeon.”

Drake rubbed a sore arm. “You’ve heard about Drogo, then?”

“And Mat’s goons, aye.” His bloodshot eyes latched onto Drake. “And Seward, he … he’s finally at peace.” Along hollowed cheeks, vertical streaks of dirt mixed with colorless crust revealed what no man past eight owns to. “I came to warn you.” And repeated what he said before. “He’ll be coming after you next.”

“Drake is in Poitiers.”

“He never left, I’m telling you. He’s been following me.”

“You’ve seen him? Where?”

“Somewhere hereabouts … St Catherine’s Hill … I don’t know.” His eyes darted first left, then right. “Maynard, Seward, and Rufus … they weren’t buried whole. How can they rest in peace?” An intake of breath uncovered trembling. “I’m next. Then Baldric. Saving you for last.”

“Drake would never—”

“By God’s eyes he would!” He lifted a clutched fist heavenward. “For sending him to the gibbet.”

“Why Drogo, then? He had nothing to do with the hanging.”

“How should I know?” He ran a filthy hand through filthier hair. The dagger carelessly flirted with his own neck. “I haven’t slept for days.”

“Think, Graham. It has to do with the tribute. Drogo was part of it, wasn’t he? The murderer wants to stop you. Or you know something he doesn’t want revealed. Or he’s after the silver you’ve been collecting. Or your absolute silence.”

Momentarily putting a halt to his pacing, Drake slammed his hands on Graham’s shoulders. Graham smelled of fear, a tangible metallic odor akin to the smell left behind after a thunderstorm. “The castration was to scare you, throw you off, make you betray each other. Think, Graham, before it’s too late. What is it? What could it be?”

He backed away, frightened. “You!
You’re
Drake.”

“Drake is in Saumur. Like I told you.”

“You said Poitiers before.”

“I only know he’s not in England.”

Graham advanced, tossing the dagger from hand to hand. “Stephen knew all about Drogo. He knew about him because he came with us. When we paid William fitzAlan a visit. When Stephen helped us extort silver from his own father.”

Drake shook his head. “I would never betray William.”

“Stephen could. Stephen did.” The grin reappeared and washed across the spectral mask of what had once been the face of a benign youth. The dagger point pressed beneath Drake’s chin. “Stephen. It’s Stephen who wants it all. Stephen who spread the rumor about Maynard and Jenna. Stephen who killed.”

Drake raised his arms, palms out, a gesture of surrender. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” His laughter was the laughter of a madman.

The blade persuaded Drake to turn around. He flattened his ear to the daub-and-wattle and watched Graham from the corners of his eyes.

“Stephen or Drake, Drake or Stephen, what does it matter which whoreson you are?” Graham slapped his hand onto the wall, the sleeve of his tunic pulling back and revealing a garnet ring inlaid with a golden cross. Perhaps the ring stolen from Drake in the Twyford Castle dungeon. Or possibly Stephen’s ring, a duplicate to Drake’s in every way.

I lost it … misplaced it.

When Drake reached out to touch the sparkling gem, Graham stabbed him in the back. Realizing with a jolt what the sharpness meant, Drake gasped. He slid weakly down the wall, unable to stop his fall. Graham tried to remove the dagger, but the point twisted deeper, sending paroxysms of white-hot agony up and down Drake’s right flank. He could only think of how he would be entombed alongside his long-dead sister. How his name would forever taint his mother’s unrequited sacrifice, his father’s stainless reputation, and his brother’s future prospects. And how Mallory would have a good laugh at his Requiem Mass.

“Who goes there?!” A brown-haired, hazel-eyed champion held aloft an upended broom.

By the time Mallory arrived, sword drawn, Graham was long gone. And Drake, feeling his life’s blood eke away drop by drop, latched onto Aveline’s fearful eyes. The last he remembered before arriving at the gates of Hell was Mallory reaching down for him, slinging him across his broad back, and saying, “First rule, always watch your backside.” After that, the fires burned him alive.

* * *

Shadows playing across the ceiling melded, fused, and separated again in a swirling nausea. It was yet dark outside. Drake turned his head. Everything spun anew. He swallowed acid. The chamber came into focus.

Starkly lit by candlelight, Aveline was sitting in a chair beside Stephen’s bed, reading.

“Can you make sense of it?”

Gazing up from the sheaves of parchment, she leaned forward, her face filled with concern. “There you are. I feared you would never wake up.”

“So did I.” The first thing he reached for was his forehead, where a damp cloth lay.

“Don’t try to sit up.” Dizziness sent him crashing back to the mattress. The stabbing pain in his back reached into his bowels. Wide swathing had replaced his chainse and tunic. He reached around. “And don’t touch.” Another warning come too late. He removed his hand. The throbbing pain descended into a bearable ache. “I stitched the wound close.”

“Is it bad?” he asked.

“Very bad.”

“Is this the end?”

“Only a matter of time.” She held Tilda’s book aloft and fanned the pages. They were pierced through from front to back. Around the slash, blood—his blood—soaked every sheet. The damascened dagger lay on the bedside table. She aligned the blade through the manuscript as far as it would go, which fell considerably short of the blade’s full length. At the back flap, the point protruded less than the first joint of a finger. A little finger at that.

“Can I kiss you?” Drake asked. She harrumphed. “A hug will do.”

“In your dreams, mayhap.”

He reached out and took her hand. She let him have it. The taper lit hazel eyes shiny with wetness. “I thought you were dead for sure.” Her voice quivered and halted. Taking back her hand, she said, “When your knight friend saw the wound wasn’t mortal, he left.”

“So much for sympathy.”

Supporting his head, she put a goblet of mulled wine to his lips. “You needn’t be hard on him. He tried to catch Graham.”

“I can’t drink more.”

“Sheriff Clarendon came sniffing around, saw you were still breathing, and told me to be good to you.”

“At least someone in this town cares.”

“Knights are such babes in arms.” She remoistened the compress and laid it across his forehead.

Soothed, he sank back and closed his eyes. “When they’re bleeding.”

“Even when they’re not bleeding.”

Looking at her askance, he mocked himself. “
Your bedchamber or my brother’s?
You’ll never let me forget what an ungallant boor I was, will you?” 

Mirth rose on her lips, turning them cherry red and very kissable. “Do you want poppy juice?”

“No.”

“Martyrs usually go to their graves.”

“Aye.”

She had it at the ready on a nearby table and again supported his head. Her hand was warm yet her fingers, threading through his hair, cooled his scalp. He could have drifted forever in her gentle handhold. When she eased his head back, he motioned toward the volume.

“You can read, Aveline Darcy?”

“You think the daughter of an alewife cannot be as learned as the son of a lord?”

“Truth be known, just the reverse.”