Sword of Justice (White Knight Series) (9 page)

After those first words, Drake was unable to utter a peep. Fat fingers fumbled at the buckle of his girdle. A beefy hand seized the scabbard on the descent and tossed the lion sword aside. A cat shrieked and scuttled off. Baldric winched his elbow tighter. Someone overhead tossed out the contents of a chamber pot. Drake shot a foot back, but his leg wrenched into empty space. Baldric chortled. With the laugh, his grip loosened just enough. Drake stomped the heel of his boot on his captor’s foot. Baldric yowled and let go, hopping on his good foot and squeezing the other. Wheezing and rubbing his throat, Drake watched the clumsy antics of the big man.

“That hurt,” Baldric whined.

“Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

“Heaven forfend.”

With unexpected grace, Baldric swung around and jabbed his untrammeled foot into the pit of Drake’s gut. Drake doubled over. Baldric clubbed his mallet fist down onto the crook of his neck. Drake landed flat on his belly, arms and legs splayed out, stunned beyond sensation. Lumbering on unsteady legs, the giant leaned over his victim. Drake found a last measure of strength. He flipped over, threw out a leg, and clipped Baldric behind the knees. His legs buckled. Drake twisted away and used an identical kick to whack him across the kidneys. The giant toppled. The earth trembled and pitched. Both men wallowed in collective misery, spitting out rushes and nursing mammoth bruises.

“You’re not Stephen,” Baldric rasped. “You’re Drake.”

“If it soothes your pride any,” said Drake, rasping likewise, “so be it.” He sat upright. The Winchester night spun sickeningly. The giant laughed jovially and slapped him on the back. Though the buffet was a friendly one, Drake struggled to catch his breath.

Still laughing, Baldric reached down and hoisted him off the ground. “Come.” He took Drake to a dilapidated shack down by the river. Outside, a tall roan of fine breeding and good legs was tethered to a tree. Inside, the air was damp, musty, and stank with the foul odor of river water. Shuffling over an earthen floor, Baldric lit tapers and gestured toward a stool for Drake to sit. “Since no one wanted the use of it except the vermin, I moved in, so I did.”

“Cozy.” Drake took in the squalor.

“Aye, a touch of home, it is.”

“Which is where?”

“Here, there, and everywhere.” He slapped a ewer along with two earthenware goblets onto a rough-hewn board balanced over tree stumps. “I’m an itinerant knight who’s seen more bad times than good. I follow the tourneys and hire out my services when there’s pay to be had.”

“And a man to be hanged?”

“That,” he said, claiming the remaining stool, “comes without charge.” Baldric braced his back against the daub-and-wattle wall and spread his enormous legs outward like a wishbone. “Like old times,” he said, holding a goblet aloft. “Except for you being hog-tied like a sacrificial lamb.”

“It gladdens my heart to know someone was passing a pleasant evening.”

The giant drank deeply and let out a belch. “Aye, the Twyfords are exemplary hosts, particularly when leaving castle and hearth in the hands of their spoilt son.”

“Was the wine good?”

“Plentiful might be a better word.”

“The Twyfords are known for getting by on show instead of substance.”

“So I noticed.”

Drake brought the goblet to his mouth, sniffed, and drank. Instantly repentant, he wheezed, “What’s this brewed from? Cow dung?”

A broad smile rose on the giant’s fat lips. “You like?”

“It has a certain … punch.”

“Brewed it myself, I did.” Baldric sucked and slurped, then sighed with a gust of wind.

“Why am I not surprised?” Drake took another taste. The brew clearly had curative value. “You needn’t have tied the ropes so tight.”

“’Tis true, Drake, I will not deny my part in your near demise. Acted upon my code as a righteous knight, I did, against what I believed to be a depraved killer, serving justice where justice cried out for revenge.”

“God save me from righteous mercenaries.”

“But when I ascertained you were a victim, likely as much as our dear departed Maynard, I did what was within my power.”

“Tied the knots tighter?”

“After Graham lit out with Satan on his shoulder, for certes I knew we had been betrayed.”

“As in you and me?”

“I was prepared to save your skinny neck from the rope. But … as it came about … you rescued yourself.” Drake’s eyes leapt up. “Aye, I watched from a distance. Wouldn’t have believed you had the cunning did I not see it with my own eyes.”

“And let me run around in circles.”

“Who was I to intrude on a family reunion?”

“We could have gone for ale and celebrated properly.”

“The way you rearranged Rufus and Seward was a mark of courage, not to mention skill. I hold a great deal of respect for you, Drake, make no mistake.”

Drake took another swallow, each one bringing him nearer the Elysian Fields.

“Tell me, your father received no ransom note?”

“As well you know.”

“I know nothing until I am told. I am but a knight who heeded the hue and cry of my fellow knights.”

“Only too eager to hang an innocent man, not knowing the live man or the dead man or the members of the
posse
comitatús
?”

“If that’s the way you see it, as you say, so be it.”

“You haven’t mentioned my brother’s part.”

His mouth formed a crooked smile. “Why ruin your voyage of discovery?” Baldric reached over and refilled his goblet. “Brothers can be treacherous partners in Hell, don’t you know. Being so far as that goes, I well remember some inconsistencies that point to your innocence though I saw with my own eyes your hand gripping the killing sword.” Baldric’s thirst hid an uncommon mind.

“Someone else murdered Maynard. Someone with a vicious kick.”

“Tell me more.”

“The sword that did in Maynard was not my sword. You saw it.”

“Not much to see. Most of it was inside Maynard.”

“Not the haft.”

“That I saw, aye,” said Baldric. “Not much different from most.”

“I was carrying the sword King Richard gave me. There’s not another like it in the land, the haft gilt of pure silver and gold.” He touched Stephen’s sword, damascened with a rampant lion. “Identical to this, but with a dragon.”

Baldric turned the evidence over in his mind. “‘Twas the only unclaimed sword about.”

“Think about it,” Drake coaxed him.

“The killer. Aye. Has a shiny new sword, so he has. Bound to show it off sometime or other.”

By now, Drake had made a fifth sweep of the four walls and espied neither a valuable sword nor a suitable place to hide one. “Now that you know, you had better keep a sharp lookout.” He replenished his goblet. Fermented cow dung was growing on him.

“From the likes of you, pleasingly woven tale or no.”

Not appreciating the imputation, Drake raised an eyebrow. “You saw for yourself. I left Rufus and Seward alive when making my escape. Not to mention intact.”

“True enough. But who’s to say you didn’t go back later?” His muddy eyes took hold of Drake’s. “Or Stephen?”

“Or you?” Drake watched the knight’s face for any change, any glimmer that would give him away, but the hard-chiseled features remained unbroken.

Baldric opined, “De Lacy then?”

“Graham de Lacy lacks sufficient courage for a hanging much less getting his hands dirty with blades, blood, and body parts.”

“At a stalemate, we are.”

“Seems so.” Drake pondered his goblet. “Who took my ring?”

“That bauble, that trinket, that blinding article of nobility?” His eyelids drooped to near closing. “Ask Graham.”

He was no more asleep than Drake, but the subsequent snore roared like a gale, his way of bidding goodnight.

* * *

The sky was gray with the coming light of dawn. The palfrey, waiting patiently for his master’s twin to return, whinnied, the kind of whinny that warned of danger.

Drake swung around and instinctively reached for Stephen’s sword. Two goons swiftly closed in on him and twisted his arms back. His bellow of pain was cut off with a wallop to the midsection deftly delivered by a third goon. A black patch covering his left eye, he cranked Drake’s head to his seeing eye and said, “Pay up what you owe Yacob the moneylender, Stephen fitzAlan, or you’ll soon find yourself in a dark underground hole.”

To send home the threat, the Devil’s guardians tightened their grip while the pirate punched him with a methodical set of leather-padded fists. Drake grunted with each punishing blow, saw blood soak into the straw at his feet, and felt parts of himself break apart and slide around. Black-patch could have drawn out the punishment indefinitely. Drake had limitations, even with the kind assistance of the Devil’s own.

Outside the open doorway, a blind man tapped by, cloak concealing his face and a dirty rag, his eyes. A dark strand of hair strayed out from under the hood. Nighttime or daytime held no meaning for him, nor did the sounds of a faceless stranger receiving a thrashing inside an abandoned livery.

Somewhere in a world outside knuckles and fists, a dog barked.

A whoosh and a suck changed the dynamics. The pirate grunted and did a hopping dance. An arrow stuck out from his hind quarters. Trying to grab hold of the shaft, he pivoted gracefully but to no useful purpose. The Devil’s own released Drake, and the three started yelling all at once. The pirate screamed for the Devil’s guardians to draw out the arrow, but the way they were pulling and tugging wasn’t sitting well with the pirate. The shank cracked. The yelling stopped. Feet scrambled. Two horses rode off at a gallop. A third followed well behind.

Drake was staring at a pile of horse dung while his feet and arms shifted in a pathetic attempt to get up. The dung inched ever closer to his nose. He felt something wet on his ear. A yellow-furred cur was licking him, whining and barking.

One of the goons returned. Feet tiptoed into the livery and stopped short of Drake’s blinking eyes. The goon’s delicate feet were bare though well-manicured. The toenails were painted vivid scarlet. Lavender drifting in the goon’s wake informed Drake the bastard was not everything his coarse appearance told. A gentle hand levered Drake into a sitting position. Washed in blood-red hues, the livery spun at a fast clip. A murderous goon did not lurk on the other side of the crimson blur but a brunette with a handsome face and a worried smile.

Aveline Darcy helped him to his feet. Offering a steadying arm around his waist, she urged him along with melodious words of encouragement, the lavender acting like a narcotic. He hadn’t noticed before, but she was nearly as tall as Drake yet owned a natural gracefulness not unlike a skilled swordsman. It had to do with the set of her shoulders, the transit of her limbs, and the carriage of her posture.

The dog led the way, guiding them out of the livery, into the street, and toward the alehouse, its long snout smiling cheerfully back. Blood droplets splashed along the path. Aveline was kind enough to wait for Drake to be sick.

“Can I swoon?” Drake asked her.

“Not yet.”

Her stabilizing influence kept him on track. Not wanting to make a fool of himself by falling flat on his face before an attractive woman who granted favors a half night a throw, he ascertained each step was secure before taking the next. Concentrating on the swirl of her sorrel-dyed skirt, which nicely set off the pale ivory of her slender feet, gave him enough incentive to keep going.

The blind man tapped his way around the corner of Staple Gardens and High Street.

“You have a wicked way with bow and arrow,” Drake said to Aveline. “Where did you receive your training?” She regarded him strangely. He didn’t press for an answer but concluded the blind man couldn’t have been his savior. Even the dog was a more likely candidate.

After shooing away the two brawny lads of last night, intent as before on protecting their older sister with fists if necessary, she led Drake upstairs. “My brothers, Arlo and Jehannes,” she explained.

“Do you always walk around barefoot?”

“Only after bathing.”

“Oh, lady!”

In one of the infamous upper chambers, she sat him down on a featherbed and began to undress him.

“This might not be the best time for you to have your way with me.”

She frowned. After stripping him to braiel and breeches, a man’s modesty not in the least inhibiting her, she took note of the green and yellow bruises fading like last year’s rosebuds and the new bruises blooming afresh. She also noticed the birthmark on his hipbone. It had the look of splashed wine, one of the few distinguishing marks separating Drake from his brother. Her head cocked curiously. Then one side of her mouth quirked.

A rush of comprehension enlightened Drake. Not only did Aveline Darcy have intimate knowledge of his brother’s anatomy, but she and Stephen must have had intimate relations. No doubt she invited him into her bedchamber for one or more of her half-night sessions. No doubt she knew the features of his brother’s body more intimately than any, excepting Drake and their nursemaid. He was supposed to be Stephen, but all the signs told her he was an imposter.