‘You want the heretics out of Mirascon.’
‘I want a great many things, my dear. Ambition and vainglory are vices I struggle to correct in myself.’
Well, you cannot have struggled much, she thought.
‘Were you behind the … the … attack on …?’ The room was becoming unpleasantly hot.
‘Me?’ He laughed. ‘Won’t you give God any credit?’
‘You incub—’ As a bluish, transparent curtain, rent by bursts of light, began to fall across her vision, she grabbed the dagger.
‘Well done.’ He had her by the elbow, forcing her unsteadily to the door. ‘Let’s go down to see Herliva, shall we?’
Given a choice, he would have wrenched off his finery and drunk himself under someone’s table. Instead, he stood on the castle barbican. Presiding from here, he could fulfil his duty less observed. His anger was still great, but matters could be worse; if his uncle had realised Herliva had been speaking the truth, Adela would be mounting the scaffold.
He was not sure how he would deal with either woman yet—or his treacherous heir. Today had been a harsh lesson. Today he had gone against God’s law in abetting the girl’s dishonesty and he would have to cast away the affection he had begun to feel for her and remove her from his life. She was, after all, a liar, a fraudster and of base blood.
But there were more immediate matters. ‘Find the castellan,’ he ordered one of his esquires. ‘Request more haste! I would have this business over swiftly.’
Slavering for the hanging, the impatient crowd was yelling insults at the workmen erecting the makeshift gallows. No one, lawyer, priest or consul, had demanded a proper trial for the outsiders, only Père Arbert, waiting below to assist the condemned with their final prayers, was prepared to show forgiveness and compassion.
‘My lord. Sir Henri awaits your orders to begin.’
A curt, official nod sufficed. Then came the grind of metal as the portcullis was winched up and the jeers as the prisoners were hurdled across the cobblestones.
Nom de Dieu! He was expected to watch as the three ringleaders were nailed live onto cartwheels. Then his soldiers began the mob-enthralling process of breaking the wretches’ legs with cudgels. The punishment was inhuman yet customary. He presided, but his gaze was on the distant side of the square, waiting for the chariot that would bring Adela through the crowd. He hoped Tibaut had taken sufficient escort to keep her safe.
The wedding feast would be through to the second course by now and the gossip and questions would be rife along every table. How should he answer them? Anger curled his fists again.
Below the gatehouse, the remaining brigands were bound to posts and lashed until their backs bled. All except one. Richart intervened to pardon the youngest. Not even twelve years old, he would bear his lash marks inwardly after seeing his fellows suffer, but at least he would survive.
Across the square, Richart watched his half-brother’s company emerge from Rue Saint-Martin, no woman with them. The witness, Herliva, must still be at his uncle’s house. The horsemen skirted the crowd and rode past the scaffold. Jaufré looked up at the gatehouse, his salute perfunctory. You will be dealt with, Richart vowed. There would be no soldiers spare to arrest him until the crowd dispersed.
‘My lord, the gibbets are in place.’
The hammering had ceased. The crowd was shouting. Three men were dragged to each gibbet, naked except for their braies. At Richart’s signal, Henri ordered his men to place a noose around each felon’s neck.
Tibaut was visible now on the other side of the crowd but with only his escort. No doubt they were keeping the wagon out of sight and would bring Adela through afterwards. Impatient yet aware of his duty, Richart waited until the last of the ribauds’ bodies ceased writhing before he let the stony hauteur slide from his shoulders. The people were satiated. Even he felt some of his anger leeched by this public killing. The slaughter of Alys’s company had been punished and his own plans might be redeemed from this mess; the alliance with John could surely stand so long as he held Jeanne d’Athée prisoner. If he did not receive military support against the crusaders, he would have the cursed bitch executed in the common view.
Beckoning an attendant, he sent down orders that the ringleaders’ bodies were to be taken to the usual gibbet beyond the city walls, where they would be hung in chains for the birds to feed on. The remainder, whose bloody stripes were already buzzing with blowflies, were to be carted away to the felons’ cemetery outside the city. Meantime, he must join his guests, ensure the tournament tomorrow would go ahead and try once more to persuade his neighbours into unity.
‘My lord, the Comtesse de Toulouse attends you.’
He looked round in astonishment. Leonor had come to find him. Why was Tibaut at her back like a standard-bearer? Fear was clawing an icy talon of foreboding down his spine. Where was Adela?
Leonor’s breathing was audible, dishevelled by the stairs, and she paused, a hand against the wall. ‘Too much fine eating,’ she said, waving back her concerned tiring woman. Her swift glance towards the square was squeamish. ‘We missed you, dear friend. Is it all over?’
His attendants stepped aside and, reassured, she came forward. Kind fingers touched his sleeve; dark eyes offered commiseration. He swallowed painfully and stared down at his soldiers sluicing the blood and piss from the cobbles. The crowd was thinning now, trickling off into the side lanes and streets like filthy water draining into sewers.
‘What is there in mankind that rejoices in another’s pain, Leonor? Is it a fear we dare not utter, some hideous glee that consumes us, or is it the pagan within us still that requires sacrifice? See, my lady, they go home laughing.’
‘Richart!’
Weary, despairing, he looked down at her. If a few hours might chisel tired lines upon her countenance, what did she observe in his—jagged fractures whitewashed with cold authority?
‘Wait below!’ She gestured imperiously for all their servants to obey and spoke no more until the three of them stood in a lonely trinity.
‘Have our guests dined well?’ Richart asked out of correctness. ‘It was a waste of good beasts slaughtered otherwise.’
‘Richart, most of us will be leaving tomorrow.’
‘But the tournament is—’
Tibaut’s temper was short. ‘Cousin, forget the tournament!’
‘No! You know very well there is another purpose—’
Leonor shook his arm. ‘Richart, dear friend, your uncle has sent word that dear Alys has been slain.’
‘Slain!’ He recoiled as though the fist of God had punched him. Slain? Alys? ‘I’ll not believe it.’ He started towards the stairs, but Tibaut barred him.
‘It’s true, Richart.’ His cousin’s hand slapped against his shoulder. ‘No, wait! Listen to me! When the chariot arrived there, as you commanded, it was too late. Alys had insisted on confronting her serving woman, but the instant she entered the cellar, the woman attacked her and there was a struggle. Herliva slew her before anyone could intervene. Both women are now dead.’
Dead! But I … I love her.
‘Seguinus must be lying.’ he yelled. ‘Alys can’t be dead. I don’t believe this.’
‘No!’ Tibaut grabbed his shoulders. ‘I saw her body! You hear me? I saw her.’
Utter fury was consuming his soul. ‘Per Crist! If you had not delayed,’ he snarled, stabbing his finger at his cousin. ‘Out of my way! I-have-to-see-her!’
‘For God’s sake! Will you listen! Herliva slashed Alys’s face before she stabbed her.’
The sob from Leonor pierced the terrible anger. Richart clapped his hands to his temples, the wild fury ebbing to emptiness, as though he stood outside himself watching all joy draining from his veins like blood.
‘Heed him, Richart,’ pleaded Leonor. ‘With the heat so great, your uncle has had my lady coffined and taken into St Martin’s. Remember her as beautiful in her finery!’
‘Holy Mary! But I … I need to—’
>
‘No!’ Tibaut said fiercely, blocking his way. ‘All is in hand, you hear me!’
‘Then leave me!’ He wanted to drive his fist against the wall and howl his anguish. Leonor obeyed his wishes; Tibaut lingered like an unwelcome stench.
‘Whether she was Alys or not, Richart, it’s over now. Your uncle has said offices over her and he wants you to know that Holy Church will treat her body as though she was already your wife—give her a funeral mass at the cathedral before bestowing her in the family crypt. Does he have your assent for that? Richart?’
Swallowing, Richart looked away. A common trickster sharing eternity with the dead lords of Mirascon! Alys … no, Adela … would have been amused. O God, but he could not share that jest with her.
‘Seguinus seems to have thought of everything.’ His voice was bitter. ‘Perhaps, even murder.’
‘Murder! I heard he supported your lady against that creature’s lies. How about some gratitude? At least, Alys FitzPoyntz, God rest her soul, will be buried with honour.’
‘Honour, Alys FitzPoyntz!’ Richart swung round to face him. ‘The real Alys was a whore.’ Then he cursed, realising he had just damned himself. ‘You will forget I said that!’
Tibaut’s face contorted to angry astonishment. For an instant, he was speechless. ‘By Heaven, so Jaufré was right and that tiring woman did not lie. And you were going to wed a hairbraider? You must be mad.’
Very well, condemn me, but what would you have done in my place. You’re as much to blame for this midden of shit, mistaking Adela for Alys.
‘Was she Alys’s bastard sister? Is that it?’
Richart shrugged. He needed to end this. ‘Present some wording of gratitude to my uncle and inform him I am agreeable to a funeral mass tomorrow morning.’
Tibaut bowed with equal frostiness. ‘And would my lord like the casket of bones Jaufré brought back to be placed in the coffin to ensure that “Alys” is in there somewhere when her name is carved upon the casket?’
‘Thank you, yes.’
‘Oh, stay on your high horse! I wasn’t the one slavering at her skirts like a besotted cur in heat and—oof.’ Richart grabbed him by his tunic, but Tibaut was staring across his shoulder. ‘Cousin, look!’
As if all vigour had been sucked from his body, Sir Henri stood at the tower door with his surcote loose and unbelted. His shoulders were slumped like an ancient grandfather’s and beneath the weathering, his skin looked grey. Behind him stood Jaufré, all youth and teeth, like a gloating captor.
‘Henri, what in the name of—’
Before he could finish, the older man stumbled forward and fell to his knee, yielding his sword. ‘My lord, I am no longer worthy to be your castellan. The lunatic has escaped on my watch. Some enemy drugged the tower guards, every jack man of ’em.’
Richart cursed. Alliance, hostage, bride, all betrayed … his hyena kinsmen ravenous to gnaw his corpse. What more did God have up his sleeve like a malevolent conjuror?
‘What’s the pother over some witless captive, anyway?’ demanded Jaufré, striding forward. ‘If you and old clay-brain here had poxy well handed over his keeping to me, this would not have happened.’
Richart’s mind was still taking in the enormity of it all. ‘But, Henri, we agreed there should be sufficient men left here to secure the keep?’
‘Yes, my lord, and so there were, but it was while the brigands were being hanged and your guests were feasting. My fault, I should have made sure that all was in order. Forgive me, my lord.’
‘Enough! God’s name, old friend, take back your sword! Go! Divide the garrison into search parties and send for the leader of the watch. They can search the city!’ The need for action had become a balm on the pain of his grief. ‘Attend me, Jaufré!’
‘Oh, I am included, am I?’ His half-brother followed him to the stairs. ‘I might have your thanks for all I’ve done for you today, you ingrate, saving you from wedding a common trollop.’
Richart halted, sheathing his hatred, though it was tempting to plant a foot on his brother’s backside and kick him down the spiral. ‘Jaufré, I shall crown you with laurels and dip you in gold if we recover the lunatic.’ I want you where I can see you, you bastard!
Hurtling down the newel stairs, his mind was full of questions. Who had rescued L’Aiguille?
‘Damn you, brother!’ snarled Jaufré, hastening after him. ‘Maybe the idiot will axe a few innocents, but what of it?’
If Jaufré was truly ignorant, there was scant time for an explanation; Henri was already ordering his knights to mount up and be ready at the gate; the hornblower was summoning back the soldiers still on duty in the square.
‘You have heard of the mercenary Girard d’Athée?’ Richart asked over his shoulder.
‘Of course, I cursed well have,’ muttered Jaufré, falling into step. ‘Upstart peasant in King John’s service. Lost the castle of Loches to King Philippe-Augustus and had to be ransomed.’
‘Yes, for a very high sum, but he is now John’s right-hand man and holds high office.’
‘What’s that to us?’
Richart halted. ‘Only that the “lunatic” is Girard’s sister, Jeanne d’Athée—my hostage to ensure the alliance with England and Gascony would not fail.’
Jaufré looked fit to implode. ‘You don’t mean L’Aiguille? What? Grandfather was ruddy well holding L’Aiguille and you never told me? She must be worth a fortune. Why didn’t you demand a ransom?’
Richart felt like punching Jaufré’s teeth to the back of his skull, but not with the entire garrison as witnesses. ‘Have you forgotten her men raped my sister?’
‘Yes, it was alleged, though—’
‘Alleged? God forgive you for your marvellous compassion! What’s more, John would have taken Tib and me hostage in England if he had known Grandfather held her, and you would have been so glad. Now, get onto your poxy saddle and find the bitch!’
A newly kindled respect flamed in Jaufré’s eyes. No doubt it would not burn long.
And I will deal with you for what happened this day, you bastard! By my father’s soul, I will!
Chapter Twenty
In order to pay for a crime we commit, it is not enough to bear the punishment; whatever we suffer is of no use if the feelings continue and the heart is full of the same desire.
Héloïse to Abelard
If this was Hell, why did it smell of last year’s harvest, Adela wondered (unless she was in the Devil’s stable and faced an eternity of horses)? As her senses grew sharper and the fetters fell away from her mind, she was aware of intense discomfort: a gag bound tight across her mouth, and her throat as dry as pumice. Some sort of sacking had been drawn up over her entire body and secured above her head, and judging by her incredible soreness all over, she must have been bumped along for miles across a packhorse.
Her head ached. She could remember being in the vestment chamber of the cathedral and Seguinus interrogating Herliva; the rest was hazy. Now there was straw prickling into her back and she was lying on her side in some kind of barn or byre. Heavy rain was pounding the roof, then as it slackened a little, she could hear men’s voices outside and then the thud of horses galloping away. Had she been left here to die? The thought of being gnawed by rats shook her further awake. She would crawl to the nearest village if she had to. Despite her ankles and wrists being bound, her blood was flowing and she was able to flex her fingers. Stiffly, she shifted her legs into a sitting position, but the rustling drew unexpected attention. She froze, realising in terror that someone had been watching.
Heavy footsteps approached with a glimmer of lantern. A painful kick in the thigh made her whimper.
‘Tell the others the slut’s awake.’ The owner of the boot spoke a gruff French, more gutter than garrison.
‘Let’s see, first.’ She heard the wheeze of the second man’s breath as he stooped, hands fumbling to untie the sack. As it fell around her neck, a damp, black nose invaded her breathing and a dog’s to
ngue began to lather her face, until a hand slapped the large beast away.
Two men stood looking down at her. Judging by the butcher’s shop of knives in the bearded ruffian’s belt, violence was his creed. He was the one with the boots. His leery grin and the meaningful fidget of toecap had panic pummelling her insides. The other? She recognised him at once: Ponç, the large beefy troubadour. The broad brim of his hat was dark and rain-soaked.
‘Going out for a piss,’ he panted as he straightened. ‘I’ll fetch the captain. Stay!’
Adela had no choice; the dog did. It obeyed with tail-thumping enthusiasm as its attention alternated between the strange, bagged human and its disappearing master. Dowdy daylight briefly streaked the floor as the singer left by the only door.
She was terrified now. The brigand was not just picking her over like a used slop on a market stall; she could see the bulge growing beneath his clothing. He selected a spike of straw, extracted an offending gobbet from between his teeth and spat. ‘Don’t know what yer did, cunny,’ he exclaimed, wiping a shiny cuff across his mouth, ‘but yer sure as damnation put a prickle up a great man’s arse. Let’s have a better look at yer, eh?’
She glared and squirmed as he tugged the sack down to puddle at her waist. Half her bodice went with it, baring her right shoulder. Adela squinted down. Dark spatters marred the left side of a loose, russet kirtle that seemed familiar. She made an angry sound, trying to remember.
‘Been having a tussle, have we?’ Callused fingers slid up beneath her right breast, clenched and jiggled. She pivoted sideways and kicked. ‘Ha, feeling more lively, are yer? Well, you can service me now.’ He stepped astride her, put a hand to the rolled waistband of his braies and then realised she was still gagged. As he leaned down to free her, Adela managed a furious muffled squeal.
All praise to the patron saint of dogs! It plunged in, treading all over her with its great muddy paws and proving the perfect stifler. The thick-headed beast might have received another vicious cuff on its snout, but as the barn door rattled open, it bounded across to sniff and wag at the newcomers.
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