The Warrior's Game (6 page)

Ami sat in her usual position at a feast table, a goodly distance from the fire but at least not below the salt. Although the outside world slumbered deep in night’s hold, this hall was as bright as day. Ensconced torches clung to the walls, each one sending up black tendrils of stinking oily smoke to stain the painted ceiling.

Ami's better headdress, a silken wimple so thin that it was nearly transparent, fluttered as a gust of wind blasted past the baffling screen at the doorway. The turbulent air raced up the hall's length, pulling at trailing sleeves and pleated mantles, and lifting the embroidered wall hangings to reveal the plastered surfaces, every inch of wall painted with designs done in gaudy reds, forest greens and brilliant yellows. At the hearthstone the wily blast teased up great crackling swords of flames and sent spirals of smoke soaring up and out through the hole in the roof above the fire.

As the flames retreated to a more civilized level Ami could again see her king. Dressed in vivid blue, John chatted with Countess Eleanor, his hostess for the night. The king wore but a simple golden circlet decorated with jewels and pearls to mark his royalty. It flashed as he tossed back his head to laugh at something his niece said.

Ami gave an impatient huff. John should pay more attention to his subjects. He lingered in conversation when the meal was long over and it was time to move on to dancing.

With nothing else to occupy her, Ami's gaze found its way to where the mercenary sat. Sir Michel and the rest of John’s favorites occupied benches near the head of the opposing line of tables, the de Martignys taking the seats that should have been occupied by nobles like Roheise's kin. On this night the whole of that vicious family wore the deep red color that identified their house and family, all save for Sir Michel. His tunic was so dark a gray it was almost the hue of his armor. Silver embroidery glistened at its neckline, the trim modest considering what festooned the garments of his relatives.

She studied him, watching how the chamber’s uncertain light cast shadows along the bold line of his nose and the sharp lift of his cheekbones. He sat so still among his more animated kinsmen--his elbows braced upon the table, his hands clenched about his untouched cup--that if not for the occasional gleam from his shadowed eyes Ami might have thought him asleep.

Unwelcome recognition woke in her. He looked as out of place among his family as Ami felt among the bejeweled wards in the king’s custody. Annoyed that she might feel any connection at all to him Ami reached for Millicent's cup; as Ami's seatmate for the night the old woman had happily provided her finer silver goblet for them to share during the meal.

Millicent leaned a little closer. “That’s a beautiful fire we have tonight, isn’t it?” she said.

Ami paused, the cup halfway to her mouth, her brows raised in question as she looked at her benchmate.

Millicent’s lips took a sly twist. “But I think there couldn’t be anything more beautiful than yon man,” she added at a whisper, the jerk of her head aimed in Sir Michel’s direction. “You keep looking at him.”

“If only I could stop,” Ami replied, not realizing she'd been that obvious. She sipped, then set Millicent's cup back on the table and turned to face her elder. “Handsome he may be, but the cut of a man's jaw or span of his shoulders says nothing of his character. Tell me, what would you do if one such as he where given control of all you hold precious?”

Millicent’s dry laugh sounded like a hen’s cackle. Her crooked grin showed gaps, each missing tooth a mark of what she’d sacrificed to bring forth five living and six stillborn children from her womb. “Were I you, I'd spend every ounce of my wiles to convince yon man that caring for me and my property was more profitable than carrying it away. I'd even put myself in his bed if I thought it might serve my purpose.”

Ami stared at her, stunned. “Mistress Millicent, I cannot believe my ears! What are you suggesting?”

The old woman sent her a one-eyed squint, not quite a wink. “If you tell anyone I said as much I'll deny it.” Then her expression sobered. “In all truth, I pray I never know the fate you now face.”

Ami shot another quick glance at the mercenary. She had played the game of courtly love with great success these past years, making men long for her affections while satisfying none of their lewd and lustful longings. Was it possible she could use that game to turn the baseborn knight to her own purpose? Burgeoning hope instantly flagged. If that were the case, he wouldn't have left her alone in that alcove.

“And if he proved impervious to all wiles? What would you do then?” Ami asked.

“Then I'd find me another man on whom to work my wiles, one more powerful than the first, and convince him to end the threat to me and mine."

Millicent reached out to lay her gnarled hand over Ami's. "I, my lady, would do what I had to do, king and court be damned. And now I will bid you do what you must, promising you'll hear no judgment from me over what path you choose.”

Ami gave the woman a quick smile, almost undone by the gratitude that rushed through her. “Thank you for that. You cannot know the comfort this gives me.”

At that moment a servant appeared across the table from them with an alms basket as he collected their sodden bread trenchers for later distribution to Winchester’s poor. It was the sign the diners had been awaiting, that they were at last being released from the table. Folk began to rise from all around them and make their way toward the darkened screen at the hall’s door.

Millicent groaned a little and started to her feet, signaling to her maid, who sat far down the table near Maud; the maid, who knew her mistress well, appeared to have been waiting for the sign for she rose immediately and started toward her betters. Millicent smiled. “If you'll excuse me, my lady. I think I’ll take a bit of air before the dancing begins.”

The corner of Ami’s mouth lifted. Ah, the pretense of manners. Take the air, Millicent said, when in reality she and all the others would be holding their breaths. It was the latrines that called to them.

She watched Millicent as she walked away then once again shot a glance toward the man Millicent had given her permission to misuse any way she could. Sir Michel had left his table. Startled, Ami scanned the hall for him, only to locate him working his way slowly toward the door, through mingling folk who invariably stepped aside to let him pass. Unlike Millicent, who'd left her cup as a sign of her intention to return, Sir Michel carried his golden chalice with him.

He was leaving for the night! He couldn't, not when this night's event offered the perfect opportunity to approach him without generating censure. No matter how improbable her chance of success, it was far better to plot leashing him with affection than to follow Roheise's plan, which would result in destruction for both of them.

Giving herself no chance to reconsider Ami leapt from her bench and trotted down the hall’s length, meaning to meet him at the door. For once her low rank served her; she was closer to the exit than Sir Michel. She stopped near the doorway. Night had stretched its chary hand through the opening, curling its inky fingers around the tall wooden screen.

Praying the gloom was deep enough to encourage the knight but not so thick that it disguised them, Ami melted into the shadows to await her prey. If she had no idea how she intended to achieve her aim, one thing was certain. After what she'd said to him this afternoon nothing she attempted was going to be easy.

The discordant sounds of musicians tuning their instruments pierced the roar of conversation. That brought a good number of folk hurrying to the hall's center, waiting on the first dance. Michel made his way down the room’s length, unaffected by the way the English gentry backed away from him as he passed. A flash of bright blue and scarlet from across the hall caught his eye, just as it had all evening. It was Lady de la Beres making her way toward the hall’s exit so swiftly that her mantle fairly flew back from her heels.

The way she'd tossed glances at him throughout the meal hadn't been particularly subtle. Michel took but one meaning from her interest: Lady de la Beres had devised some punishment by which to repay his affront in the alcove. If she ran now, then she must be in quite the hurry to implement whatever torment she'd concocted for him.

He watched her disappear into the pool of darkness at one end of the door’s screen and freed a bitter breath of a laugh. Little fool. That was no way to lay a trap. All he need do to avoid her was to leave around the other side of the screen.

That was what a wise man would do, picking the time for his battle rather than be driven into unexpected conflict. Then, Michel was no wise man. His feet turned toward her end of the screen. However perverse the need, he wanted to see how she would try to hurt him.

Lady de la Beres waited for him against the door wall, facing the screen. It was a spot where she wouldn't be easily seen yet not so hidden that those going to and from the hall might completely miss that she stood there. Sucked into the hall by the greedy fire at the room’s center, the steady flow of autumn’s breath moved past the lady with enough strength to tug at that farce of a wimple she wore.

Two of John’s body soldiers strode through the passage, walking by the lady without a glance. As they passed she lifted her head to look boldly at him. What little firelight pierced the dimness gilded her skin and found auburn lights in her dark hair. Her expression was soft, her eyes luminous. Although there was nothing of passion in the natural sultry curve of her lips nor in the way she looked at him, he felt the invitation nonetheless.

Michel hesitated. His purpose was to disguise his interest in her. Engaging her was not just a fool's errand, but dangerous.

Then he was a fool, indeed. He crossed to stand before her, waiting in silence for some sign of what she planned.

“Pardon, Sir Michel. I hope I’m not intruding on your privacy,” she said, her voice held low.

Michel but waited.

Taking his silence as leave to continue, she said, “If you have a moment, I'd speak to you regarding my properties.”

Michel shook his head. Although she didn't yet know of their upcoming union, no wife of his would manage what was his to rule, and the sooner she came to accept that the better for them both. “My lady, there is nothing for us to discuss. Your king has made me your administrator and as such I will care for your lands as if they were my own. Upon that you have my word.” His promise was brusque and hard, made so by his certainty she would never accept either his oath or that he spoke the truth, but would soon be making accusations of theft and mismanagement.

Instead, she sighed. “I see you remain upset with me after our conversation this afternoon. As you should be. I was overwrought. My behavior toward you in the king's chamber and my words in the alcove were untoward and rude. I hope you will accept my apology.”

Michel blinked in surprise. Never before had a woman of her class begged his pardon, not even for so much as treading on his foot. “My lady, I am not your confessor. If you want absolution for your misbehavior I suggest you confide in your priest. Good evening.”

He turned and strode through the doorway, starting down the steps to the courtyard below. As he went the corner of his mouth lifted. An apology. Of all things.

No matter how novel her move in this game she played, he would prove her master. He took not that her first move had been to entice him closer. Thus his responding move must be to keep himself at arm's length from her. To his surprise, he found himself eager to see how she might respond to that.

“My lady,” Maud whispered.

Ami started from her dreams, her eyes flying open. Nothing but blackness surrounded her, the only sounds she heard were those of a hall at its rest: the occasional snore punctuating the rhythmic roll of breathing. So many bodies all packed cheek to jowl in this chamber made the air close and thankfully warmer than it would have been, what with the fire banked for safety's sake.

In the next instant the queen’s hall at Winchester resolved itself around Ami. Sighing, she swept a hand across the floor next to her pallet in rote habit, searching for her nightcap. Although she donned that cap every night before retiring, tying its strings beneath her chin as did every man, woman and child in the world, that bit of white linen never failed to find its way to the floor beside her pallet before dawn's coming. Once she'd found it, she rolled onto her side.

Clad only in a blanket, her eyes glimmering circles in the darkness, Maud leaned over her.

“What is it?” Ami asked, her voice hoarse from sleep.

“I went to open our chest and get my clothes,” Maud said. Save for when they were in the hands of the laundresses, each night she and Ami removed their precious garments, shook them clean and folded them for storage in Ami’s single chest. “I saw this tucked beneath the edge of your pallet. I thought it might be important.” The lass held out a fold of parchment. The wax that sealed it was a dark blotch on its lighter surface.

That drove the cobwebs from Ami's thoughts. She sat up, her unbound hair tumbling around her, and took the wee packet from Maud, knowing it could only have come from Lady Roheise. No doubt the noblewoman, who had departed the hall yesterday morn, had paid some servant to tuck the note under the mattress. Ami didn't need to read what was scribed on it to know that Roheise wrote to chide Ami over her lack of success.

This morning marked the third dawn since John's departure for Windsor and Michel de Martigny's temporary elevation to guardian of the royal wards. The appointment had raised quite the stir among the women in this hall. Most of the higher born ladies refused to attend any meal presided over by the commoner. That should have worked to Ami's favor. With so few in the hall the midday meal should have been as casual as some family affair. At each meal Ami had waited for the mercenary at the door but unlike the night of the feast he hadn't so much as paused when she called to him.

“Is it important?” Maud asked in breathless excitement, her voice yet held at a whisper so as not to disturb any of her still-sleeping betters. The arts of writing and reading were conundrums enough to Maud. To find a note, a secret message, this way was almost as great a mystery as the transformation of mundane wine into Christ’s blood at communion.

“How am I to know when it's still too dark to read what it says?” Ami replied at the same low volume.

Maud looked toward the hearth and the child whose job it was to awaken last night's embers. “There’ll be a fire in a moment. Here,” the maid grabbed up Ami’s chemise, “let's get you decent so you can go see what it is.”

A moment later, wearing her chemise and her blankets, Ami started toward the hearth. A few of the rising serving maids glanced her way but there was no one of consequence to notice her as she stepped over a snoring Millicent then around Lady Adelberta.

The child at the hearth smiled at Ami without pausing as she placed twigs on what remained of last night’s coals. One by one, fiery tongues took life, lapping eagerly at the scraps of wood. When the light was bright enough Ami broke the unmarked wax, unfolded the note and read, giving thanks to the nuns who had tutored her.

To our ears it has come that Sir Michel de Martigny absent from his duty royal be. To your properties is he bound this day or the morrow. At the goldsmith does he reside. There you must visit him this very day.

Frowning, Ami read the odd message a second time. That it was written in French, the tongue spoken by England's ruling class, was strange enough. Most folk who wrote did so in Latin and that was the tongue the cadence of these words reflected, rather than French. But still Ami would have expected Roheise to be as fluent writing her words as she was speaking them.

She read the note a third time and made a face. Roheise expected her to go the goldsmith and arrange the confrontation with Sir Michel that they'd discussed. But why would Sir Michel be residing with the goldsmith? He was a bachelor knight and a mercenary. As such, it was up to his employer to provide him with room and board.

As Ami understood she dropped the parchment into the newborn fire with an irritated sound. No wondering Sir Michel needed her properties. He was a wastrel who lived beyond his means. Only the wealthiest of John's barons rented private homes while attending their king.

Ami watched the parchment writhe, browning and curling as it burned. Her own fate wouldn't be much different if she failed the noblewoman. Now that it was proving harder than she expected to connect with Sir Michel, Ami found herself wishing she could be quit of Roheise's plot as easily as she was shed of the note. She shot a glance to where Roheise kept her bed.

Unlike the poorer of the wards Roheise didn't use a pallet. She had her own bed, albeit one small enough to be easily disassembled for travel, complete with down-filled mattresses and thick brocade curtains to safeguard its owner's privacy. With a sigh Ami turned her gaze back to the fire. She had a bed, too. It had been part of her dowry, and that, not a threat made by some high-born bitch, was why she couldn't fail.

If the note told the truth Ami had very little time before Sir Michel began his plundering. Although she'd already written her bailiff, telling him what had happened and bidding him to hide all he could, that wouldn't spare the larger items. Closing her eyes, Ami conjured up the image of her precious bed. With it came the recall of Richard's arms around her after they had loved, and how she'd basked in the heat they'd made between them. She wouldn't let another man steal that memory, or the bed, from her. Ami retreated to where Maud waited for her.

“Was it good news?” the maid asked, having spent her time laying out Ami's attire as well as the items her lady needed to make herself ready for the day. The small wooden coffer that contained Ami's grooming kit sat on the stool. Inside the kit was a small knife to clean and pare her nails, her comb, the pins Ami and Maud used when they wore rags to absorb their monthly flow and a small bundle of witch hazel twigs, each one waiting its turn to be properly peeled so Ami might clean her teeth.

“Good enough,” Ami replied, knowing her maid wouldn't pry.

It took but a few moments for Maud to lace Ami into what had years ago been her wedding attire. Made of fine wool, the weave of the fabric yet retained its tautness even after all these years. The colors suited her, the undergown being a pale blue, the overgown a few shades darker and decorated with a woven trim of pink and green at its neckline and sleeve hems. Although Ami still liked the garments she seldom wore them here save when court was at its most relaxed. This was attire better suited to country life. More to the point, there were servants in John's court who sported far finer attire.

Once she'd dressed her lady, Maud retrieved Ami's comb. “I'll do that,” Ami said, taking it from her maid. “Go you to the laundresses and see if they've finished my gowns.”

Maud shot her mistress an astonished look. “They won't have. I only took your clothes to them last night.”

So she had, doing so at Ami's behest. With the king and most of his male household gone, not only did many of the women put away their silks in favor of simpler wools, but the laundresses were less burdened. Last night, Ami had thought sending her better gowns out to be refreshed a good plan. Not so this morning with a visit to a goldsmith looming.

“Go anyway,” Ami said, “urging them to hurry. Come right back to let me know what they say.”

And while Maud was gone and most of the ladies were still abed, Ami would have the privacy she needed to speak with Walter.

Startled at this unreasonable request from her usually reasonable mistress, Maud gave Ami another look, handed Ami her comb and hurried out of the hall. Ami swiftly braided her hair, then tied on the one simple headcloth she had left from her previous life. In it she looked no better than one of Roheise's maids. All that mattered was that she was dressed and just in time. With sunlight now scratching at the shutters like a polite dog women were beginning to stir all across the hall. She didn't want their attention as she took her purse in hand and hurried to the doorway.

A yawning Walter was already at his post. Then again, he didn’t have far to go to begin his day. Walter slept between the screen and the door.

Running his fingers through his disordered hair, the porter offered Ami a quick smile. “It’s a lovely morning, my lady.”

“So it is,” Ami agreed, her breath clouding in the chill air as she looked out across the castle’s yard.

The newborn sun pierced the veil of hazy clouds to cast rosy light upon the castle's enclosing walls. Dew glistened on the roofs and clung to the tufts of yet green grass that lined the paths. For the moment the only scent was rain-washed air and woodsmoke, the only sounds the low of cattle and bleat of sheep waiting to be milked in the barns that lay to the west of the compound. That sound tore through Ami, a poignant reminder of a time and place she had once cherished and doubted she would ever own again. What she wouldn’t give to again greet the morning from the porch on her own home.

Or at least own a home from whence someone could greet the morning.

Turning to Walter, Ami gave her purse a shake so the coins within it clinked. His expression sharpened with the sound. “So, what have you learned of Sir Michel de Martigny? What sort of man is the mercenary?”

“I fear I haven't much, my lady,” he replied with a shake of his head. “He’s a merchant’s son and a soldier of great skill. Although he is a knighted commoner, I think he’s not a common knight. Of all the king’s mercenaries he endures the most challenges. To date those who have invited him to duel have lived to regret it, but live they do albeit with wounds that heal into fearsome scars. So frequent are these challenges that the knight does not travel alone, keeping instead his own troops at his back. Some say he pays these men out of his profits from wars and tournaments. Others insist that his merchant sire is so wealthy he buys his son this protection. Myself, I think it’s more likely our king gives these men to one of his favorites, not wanting a man he cherishes to suffer undue injury.”

So, not a wastrel then. Sir Michel rented space in town because, like his betters, he was honor-bound to provide bed and board for those who served him.

“And where does he house this army of his?” Ami asked, wanting confirmation of her note's information.

The jerk of Walter’s thumb indicated the town that lay to the south of the castle. “He and his sleep with Robert Atte Cross, my lady, the goldsmith. There's talk that Robert is related to de Martigny’s father in a business way.” Walter shrugged to indicate that he didn’t know if this was true.

Ami shifted a little, peering toward the castle walls as if she could see any of the vast stretch of thatched-roofed homes and shops that filled the space between castle and the cathedral at the town's far edge. It was only the gray stone tower of God's house that showed from this vantage point.

That there was so much wealth and commerce at Winchester was because this place had been the home of English kings from time immemorial. Where royalty stayed, so did the treasury, along with a court full of noblemen with coins in their purses.

“What of the mercenary's schedule?” Ami asked. There was no point in visiting the goldsmith if he wasn't in when she arrived.

“He is a man of firm habit,” Walter replied. “He and those he employs spend the morn at weapons practice, using the same yard as the town guard. Come Sext, they retire to the smith's house not to leave again until the bells for None service ring when they make their way here so the knight might sit at the head of your table, my lady. After that, they sometimes remain here to exercise their horses or return once more to the smith's house. And that is all I know of him thus far,” Walter concluded, his now greedy gaze fixed on Ami's purse.

Ami's smile was slow and pleased. Punctual, John had called him. “Walter, I do believe I shall be away from the hall between Sext and None. I have an errand to run. Will you arrange for an escort?”

As she spoke she opened her purse and fished out Walter's usual fee for turning his head when a woman he was supposed to hold tight walked past him. When she dropped this in his palm, Walter grinned.

“I shall be pleased to do so, my lady,” he assured her. “Now as to the rest?”

Again Ami looked into her purse, this time pretending to study its none-too-cluttered interior. “I want more. Who does he keep in his bed? Who dines with him when he doesn't dine here? Have you heard anything about him leaving Winchester?”

Only her final question startled Walter. “Leave? He cannot leave Winchester, my lady. He is guardian of the wards.”

Interesting. Was Roheise wrong? Even more importantly, if Roheise was right and Sir Michel did intend to leave, how did she know this when Walter had no word of it?

This time, it was a single pence Ami fished out and dropped into his outstretched palm. “My thanks, Walter, for the information.”

The porter blinked, disappointed astonishment flattening his expression. “My lady,” he started to protest.

Ami raised a finger. “You aren't the only one who hears things. It came to my ears yesterday just how much you earned on those wagers of yours. Walter, if not for me and my firm grip on virtue, you’d be a much poorer man. Dare I say I think you owe me this? It was a great liberty you took with my repute. But I'm a fair woman. When you have more for me, I shall have more for you.”

Chagrin twisted the man’s lips. “Forgive me, my lady.”

“I already have,” Ami assured him.

Walter knew his craft well. There was no one better to sniggle out Sir Michel’s secrets.