The Champion (67 page)

‘
Marshal, à moi!
’ someone yelled at the top of their lungs, the sound cut off in a sharp grunt as if whoever it was had been struck in the gut.

Monday stared into the mass of fighting men, and pressed Florian to her side. Others were galloping to join the fight, the Marshal rallying cry joined by those of Salisbury and de Warenne. She strained her eyes, seeking Alexander. A green and gold shield flashed. A dark horse reared, and its rider was thrown, the mêlée closing over him as he fell. She covered Florian’s eyes with the palm of her hand, her own silent scream ringing in her head. Dear God, Alexander, no!

‘Mama, stop it, I can’t see!’ Florian pushed at her hand.

While she was still staring at the mêlée in horror, the arm not holding her son was seized, and the tip of a dagger pressed against her spine above the line of her embroidered belt.

‘Quietly, or you die,’ a voice growled against her ear. She tried to twist and see her attacker, but the pain in her arm was too great, and her resistance was met by the pricking of the knife against skin. ‘You and the boy, both.’

An arm was thrown across hers, her assailant’s cloak concealing the coercion as he thrust her forward. ‘Move.’

‘What are you doing, where are you taking us?’

‘You’ll soon find out.’

Monday stamped on his foot with all the force in her body. She was wearing wooden pattens over her soft leather shoes, and she hurt him, because he swore; but he did not relinquish his grip and the dagger broke skin and entered flesh in retaliation. She felt the hot burn of the blade’s entry, and gasped.

‘I mean it, I will kill you.’ He shoved her forward again, towards a waiting covered litter, and bundled her into it, face down across the padded travelling cushions. Florian was flung in after her, kicking and shrieking. He bounced off his mother and sat up. Eyes wide with terror, he stared at the man rising from the cushions opposite.

The soldier with the knife darkened the rear entrance of the litter. Acting by pure instinct, the boy ducked under the man’s armpit and threw himself out. He landed on his knees, tearing his hose, but immediately scrambled to his feet and ran into the crowd, screaming for all that he was worth that someone was trying to kill him and his mama.

‘Leave him,’ Thomas of Stafford said sharply to the soldier, his eyes on Monday, lying face down before him. ‘We have my granddaughter, and that is enough. Quickly, before they raise the hue and cry.’

The soldier shouted to an accomplice at the front of the litter and pulled himself inside. Monday heard the sound of reins smacking down and the click of a tongue. The cart lurched into motion. With swift and brutal efficiency, her assailant bound her hands behind her back, and tied one of the ends through a stave in the litter’s side, so that she could not jump out after Florian.

She struggled up and glared across the cushions at her grandfather. After a single, futile tug at her bonds, she was still. ‘I despise you,’ she said with revulsion.

Stafford shrugged. ‘Do what you will; it makes no difference to me. Perhaps the feeling is mutual. I look at you and I cannot help but see Arnaud de Cerizay in the bones of your face and the cut of your wanton nature.’

‘Then why do you want me?’

‘You are strong and fecund. Your blood is mine beneath, and I can have the choosing of your husband.’

‘I already have a husband,’ Monday spat.

Stafford sighed. ‘Not any more. You are in mourning for one, and it is best if you are comforted in the bosom of your family.’

Monday thought of the scene she had witnessed in the moment she was grabbed. The pile of men, the flash of weapons, the screams. Eudo le Boucher. She began to shake. ‘You murdering, whoreson bastard,’ she hissed, and fought against her bonds in earnest, but they were securely tied. The soldier crouched at the rear of the litter, one eye cocked on her struggles, the other on the road behind to watch for pursuit.

‘Rail all you want,’ Stafford said impassively. ‘It makes no difference to me. I should have done this to your mother when she defied me, then there would have been none of this now. I blame myself for being too lenient a father.’

‘You are mad!’ Tears filled Monday’s eyes, half rage, half wild grief. ‘You think that William Marshal will let matters rest?’

‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law, and the other tenth is the King. I know for a fact that if I pay him a suitable sum to look the other way, he will do so. As to the child … he can always be reared in a monastery. I am a patron of Cranwell Priory, and they welcome oblates.’

Monday went wild, tugging at her bonds, kicking and screaming. In the end, Thomas leaned over and struck her a hard backhand blow across the cheek, and she slumped against the side of the litter, panting and crying.

‘Do not force me to beat you,’ he said. ‘A woman with a marked body is a shame unto herself and her household, for it shows that she has transgressed the tolerance of her menfolk.’

‘You bastard,’ Monday wept again, more softly, and turned her head to the wooden side of the litter so that she would not have to look at him.

He grunted, and watched her for a moment with narrowed eyes. ‘You’ll learn,’ he said, and went to look out of the front of the wain at the countryside opening out before them.

Monday bit her lip and stifled her tears, concentrating instead on the strength of her rage. Her grandfather might have control of her physical body, but not of her mind. And he could not keep her tied up all of the time. Just one moment was all she needed. Her breathing calmed. The ropes hurt her wrists. At least Florian had escaped. The image of her child running in panic through the tourney crowd brought an involuntary twitch to her bound wrists. She balanced her maternal outrage by telling herself that he would find the Marshals, and that pursuit of her grandfather would be organised in very short order.

‘Please, oh God, please,’ she whispered.

Over and over again, she saw flashes of the mêlée behind her eyes; the plunging horses, the glitter of steel, a morning star horizontal to the sky and Alexander falling. He couldn’t be dead. She would have known. Or perhaps the visions were haunting her mind because she did know.

Bowing her head, Monday fought off a fresh wave of hysteria. It would exhaust her to no good purpose. She felt drained already, and she needed all her strength for further fights to come. Again she prayed, her lips scarcely moving, but her plea to God more vehement than a full-fledged scream.

Through the eye slits in his helm, Alexander saw the flash of iron-shod hooves as Osgar’s horse strove valiantly to rise, and failed. There was a weight across his body that was making breathing almost impossible. His lungs burned, stars burst before his eyes. Pressing his palms fiat on the damp soil, he pushed upward. The weight did not ease, but it groaned loudly and he realised that Osgar was lying on top of him. His ears buzzed; he drew a morsel of air, not nearly enough for his starving lungs.

‘
Marshal!
’ The cry echoed round his head, hollow and distorted. ‘
Marshal! Braose!
’

Then, blessedly, the weight was lifted from him, and he gulped air frantically into his lungs. There could never be enough.

‘Easy now, lad, steady,’ said the voice of William Marshal. ‘Can you move?’

For answer, Alexander sat up, his movements ginger as pain coursed through his ribs. ‘From what I can tell, nothing’s broken, but everything hurts,’ he wheezed.

William Marshal had dismounted and was bending over him with concern. ‘The wonder is neither of you are dead, the fall you both took.’

‘Dead.’ Alexander repeated the word and choked back a laugh. The Marshal looked at him askance. ‘Look at my shield,’ Alexander panted.

Marshal glanced around, then picked one up from the ground close by. There was an enormous hole punched through its centre, totally obliterating the scarlet lion.

‘Eudo le Boucher wanted me dead.’

‘Who?’

‘Braose’s knight, on the bay.’ Alexander eased very carefully to his feet. ‘He supposedly came to my aid, bellowing “
Marshal!
” at the top of his voice, and then set about me with his flail. But it was no less than I was expecting.’

‘Are you saying it was deliberate treachery?’ Marshal’s look of incredulity began to turn to one of anger. He jerked his head up and sought around the field, with obvious intent.

Alexander nodded. ‘Not that my lord de Braose would know,’ he said hastily, aware of how quickly the tourney might escalate into a full-blown feud. ‘I had been warned by other people on the circuit to watch my back. Le Boucher and I have long been enemies. There’s nothing I can prove.’ He gave a shrug, and stooped to Osgar, who was sitting on the ground, groaning and clutching his side. ‘Mind you, if I had known you were going to crush me to death, I’d have kept away from you also.’

‘You have me to thank for your life,’ Osgar growled. ‘I was your shield for a couple of his blows while you were down. ‘God, I think he’s broken every rib in my body.’

‘I’ll see you reimbursed, I promise.’ Alexander squeezed Osgar’s shoulder, and received a howl in reply.

‘There is no sign of this le Boucher now,’ Marshal said, returning his gaze to Alexander.

‘I would expect no less, sir.’ Alexander went to Samson, who was being held by one of Marshal’s squires. He ran his hands swiftly over the horse to check that he had sustained no injury from the fall. ‘A murderer does not linger beside the corpse of his victim.’

The Marshal shook his head and looked perplexed. ‘He must have a deep grudge against you indeed.’

‘Fuelled by coin from Stafford.’ Alexander swung stiffly into the saddle and gathered the reins. ‘He would rather I was not his grandson-by-marriage.’

‘You are saying that Thomas of Stafford hired that knight to kill you?’ The Marshal was horrified, but not incredulous.

‘I have no proof,’ Alexander said. ‘I would like to think not, but it is hard not to draw damning conclusions. The only qualm Eudo le Boucher has about taking life is how much he is going to be paid for doing it. This time, of course, it is spiced by a personal grudge.’

Marshal’s jaw tightened. ‘You should have come to me,’ he said. ‘If I had known any of this, you would never have taken part in the joust. I would have sent you to Abermon a full month early.’

‘There are still long knives in dark corners. I wanted to bring the crisis out into the open.’

‘You mean you wanted to die before a crowd, the King and Queen included?’ William Marshal folded his hands around his sword belt and stared at Alexander as if he thought him mad.

‘I knew this way I had a chance.’

‘And you think it will prevent the long knives in dark corners?’

‘I think it will lessen the number of opportunities. Do I have your permission to leave the field?’ Alexander did not want to dwell on the matter, and his tone was slightly brusque. What he did want was a drink of the strongest wine he could lay hands upon and a fresh shield so that he could rejoin the fighting. It would return a modicum of normality to the day, and if he did retire, it would only be to brood.

Marshal rubbed his beard and made a gesture of assent. ‘I’ll escort you, and your companion,’ he said, and remounted his grey.

Osgar’s horse hobbled on three legs. Osgar shuffled like a troll, and clutched his abused ribs. The Marshal saw them to the refuge, although no one rode up to challenge them in the short distance they travelled.

Huw was waiting at the refuge, a cup of wine already held out to Alexander. ‘I should have stayed, my lord,’ he said, full of self-recrimination.

‘It would have made no difference.’ Alexander took the wine, drank half, and gave the remainder to Osgar. ‘You would have been able to do nothing.’

‘Aye, look what happened to me, and I’m twice your meat,’ Osgar said, and sat down on a vacant stool to nurse his ribs.

Alexander took Huw’s shield and threaded the straps round his left arm. ‘Did you see where le Boucher went?’

‘He left the field the moment that Lord William came to your aid – rode back towards the town, I think … Are you going back to fight, sir?’ The squire looked at his lord wide-eyed.

‘Why not? It’s safe enough now, and I’ve sustained no lasting damage. Do you get the spare shield and join me. Another cup of wine first, though.’ He grabbed the now empty goblet from Osgar and handed it to the squire.

‘Papa, Papa!’ Like a bolt from a crossbow, his son struck him foursquare, almost knocking him to the ground. Small arms gripped around his thighs and clung grimly.

Alexander shook off the shield, disengaged the desperate clutch and lifted Florian in his arms.

‘What are you doing here alone, sprogling? Shouldn’t you be with a nurse or your mother?’ He gazed round for evidence of either while Florian burrowed against his neck, shudders rippling through his small frame.

‘He says that someone has taken her away.’ Edmund One-eye pushed past Huw and stood before Alexander. ‘I found him not five minutes ago, running through the crowds in a high old state. I brought him straight to you.’

‘What do you mean, taken her away?’ Alexander flashed a look at the stands. He could see the Countess Isabelle, but the place beside her was empty. His blood ran cold.

‘I couldn’t get much out of the lad,’ said One-eye. ‘But from what I gather, they were coming to see you, here, and they were snatched at dagger-point. He managed to escape, but his mother was forced into a travelling litter. Jankin the hafter was with me when we found him. He’s taken his mule and gone to see if he can pick up a trail, or make any sense of it.’

‘I know the sense,’ Alexander said grimly, and kissing his son, smoothing his hair, said, ‘Did you see any of them who tried to take you away?’

Hiccuping, sobbing, Florian lifted a tear-streaked face from the security of his father’s neck. ‘An old man. He came to see Mama before, when we were … when we were …’ He struggled for words.

‘At Pembroke?’

Florian nodded and buried his head again. ‘There was a man with a knife too … He said he would kill Mama.’

‘You know who it is?’ asked One-eye.