Liora collapsed against him, trying very hard not to tear up. She was hormonal, and emotional, and tears were close to the surface these days.
“If you say it is important, then I believe you,” she said huskily. “You need not explain yourself because I know there are things you cannot speak of. I knew you were an elite knight when I married you. I simply did not know how important you were to a great many people and how often you would be called upon.”
He pulled back and looked at her. “I may be important to a great many people, but you are the most important person in the world to me,” he said. “There is no one in my life I love more than you. There is no one in my life who means more to me than you do. I am simply sorry that we have spent so much of our marriage apart. I hope that will change after this task because I do not like leaving you. I do not want to leave you ever again when this is finished.”
Liora forced a smile. “I will not let you,” she said, teasing him gently. “The next time you try to leave me, I shall throw myself upon you and cling to you like a great anchor. You will hardly be able to move as you drag me around.”
He grinned. “It would be pleasurable, I assure you,” he said. “But until that time… I am afraid I must leave you just once more.”
“Will you tell me one thing?”
“If I can.”
“Will you be in danger?”
He thought on how to reply but ended up looking at her regretfully. “Do you want me to tell you the truth?”
“Please.”
“It is very possible.”
She considered that, forcing herself to be brave because she had asked him, after all. She couldn’t become upset about it if he’d been honest with her.
“Thank you for being truthful,” she said. “I may not like the answer, but I appreciate the honesty.”
He leaned down and kissed her, his lips lingering on hers. It was enough to bring tears to his eyes.
“I love you,” he whispered. “More than my own life, I love you. You are the heart that beats within me.”
She kissed him in return, her hands on his face, feeling his warmth against her flesh. “Come home to me, my angel,” she murmured. “Come home safely. I will be waiting.”
He kissed her again but was forced to release her because the cooks were pulling out multiple loaves of bread and putting them on a table nearby. Steam and the smell of hot bread was filling up the kitchen. Liora wiped at her eyes and quickly moved around him, picking up a cloth that contained the apple cake and putting it in Peter’s hands.
“Take this to your father,” she said.
He looked at the cake. “Are you not coming with me?”
She shook her head, smiling bravely. “I have a feeling you and your guests would like to be alone,” she said. “But do not worry. I will be nearby if you need me.”
He smiled sadly. “I am sorry,” he said. “I will finish with them as quickly as I can and we can spend the rest of the day together, just us.”
She nodded, suspecting that might not be possible. “Go on,” she said. “Do what you must. I will see you later.”
His gaze, warm and loving, lingered on her. “Aye, you will,” he said. “You most certainly will.”
With that, he turned and headed back for the great hall, leaving his wife watching him walk away. Tall, broad, and powerful Peter. Her pride and joy, the breath in her lungs that sustained her. She watched him until he disappeared from sight and then, and only then, did she head out into the kitchen yard to collect herself.
But it didn’t work.
Leaning against the wall of the keep, Liora hung her head and wept.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
October 1216
Newark Castle
He was big, grizzled, and scarred these days.
A growth of beard covered his face and neck, and his hands were raw from where he’d had to beat down a warlord who had displeased the king. He’d stopped short of breaking the man’s neck, but his command had been to disable the man and he had.
He had sprays of blood on the front of his tunic and on his face as a result.
There were days when Peter wondered how Sean de Lara had dealt with it all for so many years. Even though John had been on a battle march for months, that hadn’t prevented him from behaving as only the king was so capable of behaving. There had been maidens, pretty daughters from local peasants that he’d caught a glimpse of, that Peter had been forced to abduct from their fathers and bring to the king like some kind of perverted offering. John would bed the girls, delighting in deflowering them, and then sometimes he might even let his guards have the leavings.
That left Peter to pick up the pieces.
The horrible, broken pieces.
There were girls he’d had to clean up, sew up, and return to their families. The first time it had happened had been outside of Oxford when he’d abducted the daughter of a merchant. She’d been of age and John had taken his time with her for three days, like a lion toying with his prey, and in the end, he’d seduced the girl and left a mere shell behind. Peter had taken care of the young woman, made sure she was tended to, and returned her to her father.
And then he’d wept.
In all of his years as an Executioner Knight, he’d never had to deal with the female factor. He’d killed men and done other things he wasn’t entirely proud of, but nothing had anything to do with women. He was tender hearted when it came to women, but he’d quickly had to toughen himself up because that was now part of what was expected of him as the king’s personal protector.
But the warlord he’d just beaten up?
That was nothing unusual…
However, this particular night was unusual, indeed. It was October and the sun was down early, the air with a hint of ice in it, as he traversed the dark, narrow corridors of Newark on his way to the king. He’d spent the last hour in the vault with the unfortunate warlord, but that had been an unexpected diversion to the main event this evening.
It had been in the works for several months, the careful and methodical planning by Alexander, who had infiltrated the royal quartermasters. He’d done it so brilliantly, so unlike anything he’d ever done before. He’d shaved his head and let his beard grow, rolled around in horse shite every day for three weeks without bathing, and then had shown up in the city of Lynn in Norfolk, asking for a job from the king’s quartermasters. Because he was strong and good with horses, they’d permitted him to tend the animals. He also pretended to be deaf and dumb, which meant they said things around him that they wouldn’t normally say, and he heard every word.
It had been undeniably valuable.
Maxton, Kress, Achilles, Bric, and Cullen found themselves in the king’s guard, more on the outskirts of the action than involved in it. The one thing they did do was shield Alexander’s movements if they could and keep an eye on Peter in case he needed them. They’d traveled with the king’s mercenary army around the south of England, including Lynn and Oxford, finally stopping at Newark Castle because the king’s military campaigns were failing and so was his health.
That had been key.
In fact, John had been sick since Alexander joined the royal army at Lynn because the slow poison he was able to introduce went to work on the man little by little. In the beginning, he couldn’t get close to the king, so he provided the poison to Peter and to Maxton, who were able to place it in the wine without any suspicion. Meanwhile, Alexander worked his way from the stable hand to a kitchen servant by helping out a dowdy serving maid who tried to get frisky with him. He grinned at her, and avoided her, but he started helping out in the kitchens because of her and that was exactly where he needed to be.
It gave him access to the wine meant for the king.
Since before their arrival at Newark, Peter insisted on personally bringing the king his drink under the guise of keeping it protected from those who might foul it. He meant to protect the king from someone just like him, someone intent to poison the man’s
wine, so it was a perfect position to be in. Alexander had managed to become in charge of the ale and the wine simply because he was strong enough to lift the barrels, so it was up to him to tap them and provide drink to the king and his men, and it was Alexander who would pour wine into two special pitchers meant for the king.
One was poisoned, one wasn’t.
John always drank both.
It took some time for the lead-based poison to leech into John’s digestive track, mimicking the symptoms of dysentery. Everyone said it was the dreaded disease of dysentery, including the king’s physic, who suggested that John switch to a bland diet that didn’t include the heavy foods he was so fond of. John tried, including switching to watered ale delivered personally by Peter, but the ale was poisoned, too, so it didn’t help him much. He had good days and he had bad days.
Today was an especially bad day.
The king had been unable to keep any food or drink down for three days. Three long days of vomiting and purging everything in his intestines and then some. He had three physics with him at this point, two priests, and a host of advisors including William Marshal, because the physics had made it clear that the king was dying. The dysentery had badly dehydrated him, so the physics had ordered wine that had been boiled, which was what Peter had in his hands as he entered the great chamber.
It smelled of peppermint and cloves, thought to ward off the bad humors that caused illness, but it also smelled of vomit and feces, a nasty combination. John lay upon a bed of silks and fine fabrics, all of it stained because he could no longer control his bowels. Everything came leaking out as the Groom of the Stool tried to keep him clean. He had sores on his buttocks and legs from so much seepage, something else the physics had to tend to. In truth, the man was a mess, pale and gaunt.
He was dying the slow, painful death that had been planned for him.
“Is that the wine?”
The question came from The Marshal. Peter nodded, handing him the one that was laced with poison. It was nice and hot, with a slightly metallic taste that went ignored because all of the wine that king drank had that slight flavor, which could be leeched from the pewter pitchers he favored. The Marshal handed the pitcher to one of the physics, who poured it into a cup and helped the king drink some of it.
Peter stood back and watched.
The more the man drank, the more poison entered his system.
“William,” John spoke listlessly. “William, are you listening to me?”
The Marshal stood next to the bed, gazing upon the dying king impassively. “I am here, your grace.”
The king’s sunken eyes fixed on him. “You were not with my father when he died.”
It was a statement, not a question. William shook his head. “I was not, your grace.”
“Nor Richard?”
“Nay, your grace.”
“You were with my brother, Henry, however.”
William nodded faintly. “I was, your grace,” he said. “He was my friend. He also had the same affliction you have.”
John closed his eyes, drawing in a breath, but it was greatly labored. The priests in the corner were praying a soft singsong melody, so quiet that they could barely be heard, and the physics were pretending to busy themselves around John even though there was nothing for them to do. Their purpose had been over days ago. The Marshal watched, and Peter watched, as they gave more of the poison-laced wine to the king.
John eventually drained the entire cup.
He lay back and closed his eyes as the afternoon became evening. Candles were lit and the priests continued to pray as John eventually lost consciousness. His breathing was slow and unsteady, his mouth open as he fought for every breath. The physics packed blankets around his body, keeping him warm against the October chill as a fire blazed in the hearth. It was almost too warm in the chamber for those who weren’t ill, but they stood by silently, sweat on their brows, as John’s breathing grew slower and slower.
Close to midnight, the death rattle began and shortly thereafter, it stopped altogether.
The silence was deafening as everyone in the chamber waited for the king to resume breathing again, but he didn’t. Minutes passed and there was no further movement. The physics lifted his eyelids, listened to his heart, before turning to The Marshal and shaking their heads.
“It is over, my lord,” one of them said softly.
The Marshal gazed down at the ashen body. “Are you certain?”
“I am, my lord.”
The Marshal’s head tipped back as if he’d been physically struck. His gaze lingered on the body on the bed, drinking it in, digesting it.
The moment had finally come.
John, King of England, was dead.
The priests came to stand over him, offering a prayer for the dead, as the advisors ushered out of the chamber with shuffling feet and hushed whispers. They were a confused bunch and a useless bunch as far as William was concerned because most of them were mercenary commanders. There were only a handful that were actually English warlords.
The rest were scum.
Now, the scum was out of the chamber.
The priests, with their prayers finished, finally departed but the physics remained, poking and prodding the king, making sure he was truly dead before wrapping the body up tightly and laying his head upon a silken pillow. He didn’t look quite so miserable that way.
All the while, William stood at the base of the bed, watching. When the physics looked up at him, he motioned them out of the chamber and they silently complied.
There was nothing left for them to do, anyway.
William shut the door behind them, looking over at the king now that they were alone. As he gazed at the man, he was filled with a myriad of emotions, not the least of which was relief. Complete, utter relief. Slowly, he made his way over to the bed, gazing down at the man he’d known since birth.
A tragic, useless, privileged man.
“And so, it comes,” he murmured. “You do not know how many times I have protected your life, saving you to rule another day. It was my duty. Nay, it was more than that. England needed a king and I had hoped you would be different from your brother and father, but alas, you were not. I have watched you since you were a small child, the way you allowed yourself to be swayed by your brothers, the way you railed against your mother and begged for your father’s love. I know that was all you ever wanted, John, but Henry was incapable of loving his sons. To him, you were either potential allies or potential enemies.”
The chamber remained silent but for the popping and snapping in the hearth. William noticed the pitchers of wine on a nearby table and went to them, picking them both up and heading over to one of three large windows in the chamber that faced south. He dumped out the first one, pouring the liquid into the moat below.
“For years, those sworn to me made sure all threats against you were removed,” he said. “We swore to protect you but not serve you. You were necessary. At least, you were until we had a better candidate. Your son may only be nine years of age, but with my guidance and the guidance of others, he will learn what you could never learn – and that is how to be a king his people will love.”
Finished dumping the second pitcher, he came back over to the table and set them down again, prepared to tell anyone who asked that he drank the remainder of the wine in honor of the king. No one would question William Marshal. No one ever did. He was just turning for the bed again when there was a knock on the chamber door.
“Who comes?” he asked.
“Peter.”
William went to the door and opened it, admitting Peter, who didn’t look like the Peter he had known all of these years. Serving the king for the six short months he had served him had done something to the eldest de Lohr son. He was short-tempered, burly, and unafraid to throw a punch that could knock a grown man out in one swipe. Sean de Lara had also gone through that sort of change, but poor Sean had been saddled with it for nine years, far longer than Peter. Willi
am could see, looking at Peter, just what this particular mission could do to a decent man.
It could change him.
“He’s gone?” Peter muttered.
William nodded. “He is.”
“It is over?”
“Aye, Peter. It is over.”
Peter’s eyes glittered as he looked over at the bed, at the man lying there who seemed strangely small. As William stood by the door, Peter summoned the courage to walk over to the bed, gazing down at the man who had been vile beyond any expectations he’d ever had. Vile beyond words. He’d always known it; his father had told him, his uncle had told him, and Marcus had told him. Aye, he’d known how vile the king was.
But now he’d experienced it first-hand. Seeing him dead was more gratifying than he had expected. What kings and knights and armies had failed to do in fifty-nine years, a group of eight men had managed in six months.
They’d changed the course of history.
Peter leaned over, looking at John’s ashen face.
“For all of those you have sinned against,” he whispered. “For a country you tried to destroy, and for the loyalty of men you were not worthy of, you have met a just and righteous end. If you can still hear, if your spirit still lingers nearby, know that I rejoice in your death, you despicable bastard. And I shall tell my father that for Jax de Velt, his old and dear friend, justice has finally been served.”
With that, he stood up and headed out of the chamber, followed by William, who would now enter an entirely new world as the guardian of a nine-year-old king. The priests who had been praying for the king had come from the nearby church and he could hear the bells ringing, announcing the death of the king. Soon enough, word would travel fast, and everyone would know that the King of England was dead.
A new era was upon them.
A new future was at hand.
As William and Peter headed out into the bailey of Newark, they happened to see a collection of soldiers waiting for them – Maxton, Kress, Achilles, Bric, and Cullen, all of them dressed in the colors of the royal house. They also saw Alexander, clad in his servant’s clothing. William and Peter went to stand with them, gazing back at anxious faces, until William broke the silence.
The Splendid Hour: The Executioner Knights Book 7 Page 35