Sword of Justice (White Knight Series) (24 page)

Stephen said, “As you see, I’m not.”

Drake ruffled Stephen’s mangy dark locks. “What happened to your hair?”

“Henna.” His grin was self-conscious. “I’m told it will wash out in time.”

Drake pulled his brother into his arms. Something under the monk’s robes jabbed him at the waist. Stephen brought out an unstrung bow encased in leather wrapping. The length of yew more closely resembled a blind man’s cane than what it was: a lethal weapon in skilled hands. Stephen was beside himself with devilment, his broad smile infectious. “Someone has to protect Drake fitzAlan from Drake fitzAlan.”

“Then Aveline doesn’t have a secret penchant for bow and arrow?” 

“Only when it comes to Cupid.”

“I should have guessed. You always bested me at archery. Which were you? The leper? The beggar? The blind man?”

“And the monk.” He spread the voluminous habit to both sides. “Clever, am I not?”

“Not clever enough.” Drake flipped the dagger and caught it midair. “Aveline knew.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Do you really think she feeds all the beggars loitering outside her door with the best scraps available?”

Stephen raised his eyebrows and chuckled. Drake hugged his brother again, throwing him off-balance, which gave him the opportunity to drive a gloved fist under his chin. “That’s for not staying in Chinon.” He slammed the same fist, already smarting, at the juncture of jaw and skull. “And for letting Graham stab me.”

Stephen smiled a crooked smile just before collapsing into Drake’s arms. Plentiful river water soon revived him. Picking each other up, they left the quay and headed for the nearest tavern to celebrate their reunion.

Once seated, Drake raised his goblet and toasted, “To Richard.”

They clanked drinking vessels.

Raucous and overloud, the rest of the tavern had begun toasting the new king hours before and would go on toasting him until dawn and beyond.

“When did you return to Winchester?” Drake raised his voice over the din. “
How
did you return to Winchester?”

“Mallory delivered me to the
Esnecca
as promised, before high tide, and threw me into the cargo hold roped like a galley slave.” Stephen grinned and pumped his eyebrows. “I had a dagger. And you know what a good swimmer I am.”

“You’re the Devil in disguise, truly.”

“And other disguises,” he allowed. The inane grin hadn’t left Stephen’s face even while weals puffed up on chin and jaw. “How’s your back?”

“Sore.”

“You’ve been to see the Jew. Twice.” Stephen sat back. “And Tilda, also twice. So you know about the gambling debts.”

“William knew anyway,” Drake said.

“God save me, no.”

“The tribute was meant to cover the loans.”

Stephen ran a hand through his unkempt mane. “Truly? Father knew from the start?” His face filled with profound regret overlaid with unexpected gratitude. “I never could keep anything from him.”

“Your guilt has been lessened somewhat.”

As he brought the cup to his lips, Stephen asked, “How so?”

“I found out, don’t ask how, that William owns a share of taverns and bawdyhouses.”

Stephen choked on his ale. “You’re jesting.” Then, “You’re not jesting.”

“And gambling establishments all along the coast.”

“Surely not the righteous William fitzAlan.”

“And most likely broke the king’s laws in the bargain.” He leaned forward. “You know that places like Hogshead buy their gut-rotting drink through smuggling and piracy.”

“Oh, God.” Stephen tittered softly, holding his side. “Lord fitzAlan, the paragon of virtue.”

Drake joined his brother’s mirth, and still laughing, made the accusation that had been burning on his tongue for days. “Maynard didn’t bed Jenna, did he? ’Twas you.”

Stephen stopped laughing and gazed into the living mirror that reflected back his unspoken confession. He froze into a pillar of fire and ice, swallowing spittle and staring unblinkingly.

Drake laughed no more but fortified himself with drink, focusing into the dark depths of his goblet to keep from looking into his brother’s guilt-ridden eyes. After he had had his fill, he kept his eyes downcast and gazed into the equally dark hollow of his heart. “Did all of Winchester know you’ve been cuckolding your twin brother?”

On a hiss of breath, Stephen said, “Not even Jenna knew.”

Too late, too late …

Drake chose not to contradict him. Perhaps there had been a time when she didn’t know; certainly she knew now. “You took what was mine? By impersonating me?”

A schism divided brother from brother.

“Jenna didn’t know she was … that she and I … that we … she didn’t know she was betraying you, truly Drake, even when the talk was at its peak.”

“It was your idea to spread the rumor, then, about Jenna and Maynard?”

Stephen shook his head. “Jenna’s.”

Had I known a simple lie would lead to murder …

Attempting to hang onto something that wouldn’t break in his grasp, Drake curled stiffened fingers around his wine cup.

And Stephen, who so desperately wanted to replace the truth with a lie—a lie that he had talked himself into despite all logic—finally understood. “She knew. Dear God, she knew. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have ….”

“Aye, she knew.”

In the midst of a clangorous tavern, the silence between them was a clear pane of glass waiting to be broken.

“Jesus, Drake … how did I let it come to this?”

Drake wanted to strangle his brother with his bare hands. Crush his skull the way he was crushing the goblet. Watch him bleed as he had bled; hurt as he was hurting now; banish him from hearth and country as he had been banished.

“It started as a game, just a silly game,” Stephen said. “I never meant to … I never thought—”

“You never do.”

The schism widened.

Twin heads, one parti-colored with yellow and brown streaks, the other dark as the new moon, were bowed in what looked like prayer. What was going through their minds, though, was far from prayer.

“Tragedy knocked on the front gate,” Stephen said, “and I, like a fool, opened it. How was I to know where it would lead? Three good men murdered, you declared an outlaw, and me as good as. How can I ever forgive myself? I … I would sooner cut off my right arm than lose my brother.” His last words came on a sob.

Drake wondered how they could have been such different men, having come from the same seed, arrived on the same night, sucked milk from the same breasts, slept in the same crib, played the same games, took the same dares, chased the same lasses, made the same friends, and shared the same dreams. Come to think, they weren’t so different, after all. So why shouldn’t they have shared Jenna, too? “But I will,” he finally said.

“
You
can forgive me, and I’ll always love you for it. But
I
can’t.” Stephen gathered his things and made to go.

The schism closed to a stone’s throw.

Drake lowered his goblet. His eyes were still locked on its bottomless depth. His throat burned with grief. Shaking his head with regret and a profound sense of loss, he stood.

The tap on Stephen’s shoulder spun him around. Hope sprang from his heart. Tears formed in his eyes. They embraced until it hurt. The schism melted. They sat and signaled for more drink.

Stephen looked askance at Drake. “I saw Jenna go into the alehouse.”

“She wanted me … or rather, you … to deliver a note. To John.” Drake removed the parchment from his tunic and tossed it onto the table.

Stephen touched the missive but withdrew his fingers as if scorched. “John? Our cousin John? Do you think …?” He stopped himself.

Tucking the letter away, Drake finished for him. “Aye. The most beautiful woman in all of Hampshire, if not the kingdom, has been unfaithful to one identical twin by bedding the other, and betrayed both by bedding a pretender king.”

“
That’s
why Jenna spread the rumor.”

“Aye,” said Drake. “She wasn’t protecting you. Or me. She was protecting the brother of the king.”

Chapter 22
                
 

IN THE BENEDICTINE
ABBEY OF
Westminster, thirty of England’s ecclesiastic elite, chanting in plainsong and wearing purple-and-white robes, marched solemnly along the red woolen path toward the altar. England’s highest nobles followed.

Four barons carrying four golden candelabras.

Godfrey de Lucé—bishop-elect of Winchester—bearing the king’s cap of state.

William Marshal carrying the golden scepter.

His brother John Marshal, the sheriff of York, toting the golden spurs.

The king’s illegitimate brother William Longespée—earl of Sarum—holding aloft the golden staff.

The earls of Huntingdon, Leicester, and Gloucester—the last being Richard’s younger brother John—each conveying a golden sword of state.

Six barons transporting the king’s royal robes and insignia.

The earl of Essex holding the gem-studded crown.

Four barons of the Cinque Ports holding aloft a silken canopy.

The bishops of Durham and Bath flanking the canopy on either side.

And beneath the canopy, imperiously trailing the crown he would soon wear, the prince of the moment: Richard Cœur de Lion. Richard the Lionhearted.

Although the new king of England was born at King’s House in Oxford well-nigh thirty-two years before, he had spent nearly his entire life living and warring in the Norman lands of his parents. Neither his mother nor his father nor his grandparents were English, but since his great-great-grandfather—William the Bastard—took England by force over a hundred years ago, Richard’s birthright was time-honored. When his father died after engaging in battle one last time with his power-seeking sons, Richard inherited the crown. None disputed his right, though many harbored ill will.

Filling a hall, a cathedral, or a battlefield solely by his presence and voice, Richard the Lionhearted believed in his place, his position, and his right to be king before all others. Though he was the third son born to Henri of Anjou and Eleanor of Aquitaine, he fought for the crown of England from the first, letting nothing stand in his way. Had he not been born king or not been born of Henri and Eleanor, Richard still would have achieved exalted heights and absolute veneration. Richard Plantagenêt could be ruthless, cruel, and unforgiving. But he could also be tender, poetic, and generous. Men quelled before him and loved him; cursed his name and worshipped him; plotted against him and stood beside him; followed him to the ends of the earth and preceded him to Hell; and it would always be so.

Glancing neither left nor right, Drake fitzAlan, king’s knight and former squire, trailed the long procession. Under the queen’s tutelage, he wore splendid ceremonial vestments. Pleated and embroidered at the neck, the fustian chainse lay beneath a brocaded forest-green surcote with close-fitting sleeves and laced side openings. A malachite brooch secured a matching fur-lined pellice, the flounce edged with emeralds and pearls. A matching ribbon to tie back his hair, clean breech hose, and a white-plumed hat cut of the same green brocade completed the ensemble. Counting himself lucky if he did not swoon inside the constricting garments and the airless church, Drake bore up under his role.

Eleanor, the king’s progenitor and champion, sat in the choir stalls and gave witness to her personal triumph. Beside her, Alais Capét of France, though elegantly attired, paled in comparison to the queen’s scarlet majesty.

Awaiting the king at the altar, Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury presided over the installation of a king. At his side, another of Richard’s illegitimate brothers, Geoffrey Plantagenêt—archbishop-elect of York—assisted.

The ceremony was long and specific, each rite, prayer, oath, and song planned to the minutest detail by a committee of a hundred. A spiritual observance as much as a provincial sanction, the coronation of the king of England was a complicated bond joining Church and kingdom, and made enduring by ritual.

Upon reaching the altar, Richard took his seat on the
sedes in pulpito,
the stately chair placed before the throne. While the antiphon
Firmetur Manus Tua
was sung, Richard left the chair and made an offering to the altar of an ermine-lined cloak and a pound of gold. The Litany followed while the king knelt humbly before the altar. Afterwards, Richard approached the high altar and took the coronation oath while kneeling before the Holy Gospels and the relics of martyred saints.

“I swear to Almighty God,” Richard said, projecting his bass voice for all to hear, “that for all the days of my life, I will observe peace, honor, and reverence towards God and the Holy Church. I swear to exercise right justice over all the people committed to my charge. I swear that if any bad laws have been introduced into the kingdom, I will abolish them and enact good laws in their place.” He rose and stepped back.