Rowena’s wholehearted acceptance of him made no sense. It puzzled him. Eric told himself not to dwell on it. It shouldn’t matter. What did matter was that he was delighted with his bride and whilst he could never love her, she would always have his affection. He would do his best to make certain she never regretted their marriage, the blue samite was hers.
As for his second mission, Lord Faramus had mentioned that Mathieu de Lyon had died near The Sun. The Sun wasn’t an inn Eric was familiar with, but it wouldn’t hurt to make enquiries, someone might remember what had happened that night.
‘Alard?’
‘Sir?’
‘Have you ever been into The Sun? It’s by the market in the Lower Town, near St Ayoul.’
‘I know the place, sir, but I’ve never been inside.’
‘Dommage.’ Pity.
Alard was looking at him, eyes wide with curiosity. ‘I understand it’s a rough place—a while back one of the Jutigny squires was attacked in the alley nearby. He was found dead later.’
Eric grunted. ‘So I heard.’ He wasn’t about to confess—even to Alard—that the squire’s death was haunting him, drawing him to The Sun. Clearly, Rowena had loved the boy. Bon sang, in mourning the loss of him, she had turned down Lord Gawain de Meaux.
The idea that Mathieu de Lyon had meant so much to Rowena didn’t sit well with him. However, worse than that was the suspicion that the boy’s death might have had something to do with his relationship with Rowena. The suspicion that someone had wanted de Lyon out of the way because of his closeness to Rowena was becoming stronger by the day. As was Eric’s fear that Rowena wasn’t safe even in her father’s castle.
It was imperative that Eric learn how—and why—Mathieu de Lyon had died.
Of course, there might not be a connection between Mathieu’s death and Rowena. Unfortunately, Eric’s instincts were screaming otherwise and he couldn’t rest until he had answers.
And if he was wrong? If he discovered that Mathieu’s death had indeed been an unfortunate coincidence as Lord Faramus believed? Then there would be no harm done. In any case, it might help Rowena if Mathieu’s killer was found and brought to trial. Eric couldn’t shake the thought that her love for the boy remained strong.
If Eric got justice for de Lyon, if he brought his killer to trial, it might give her ease. Whatever the cause of Mathieu de Lyon’s death, the boy deserved justice. And for Rowena’s sake, the least Eric could do was try and discover who had killed him.
* * *
It wasn’t long before Eric was standing at the cloth merchant’s stall as the merchant unclipped his shears from his belt. ‘How much did you say you would like, sir?’
‘Lord, I don’t know in yards and inches, just make sure there’s plenty to make a gown for a lady.’
With great reverence, the merchant rolled out the silk so it lay like a river of blue across the cutting board. ‘I assume it is for the lady who accompanied you the other day—the petite lady with fair hair?’
‘Yes, she’s my wife. Don’t stint on the length, I must be sure there’s enough.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The shears crunched through the cloth and the merchant looked up, eyes bright and expectant. ‘You’d like ribbons to match—to adorn your lady’s hair?’ He waved at a tray of ribbons in every colour of the rainbow.
Eric looked helplessly at the tray. He was out of his depth buying cloth, never mind ribbons. Recalling that Rowena’s hair was, often as not, bound in ribbons made from the same stuff as her gowns, he decided that a different ribbon or two wasn’t a bad idea.
‘I’ll take a couple of the blue ones, thank you. And the cream with the silver threads. And that black and gold.’ A rose-coloured ribbon caught his eye, he knew she liked rose. ‘And that rose.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Wrapping the blue samite and ribbons in a scrap of plain sheeting, the merchant handed the bundle over and Eric gave him his coins.
Alard was waiting with the horses a few paces away. Whilst Eric had been at the stall, dozens more people had poured into the market square, it was now so crowded they were having to squeeze past each other. Over everyone’s heads, Eric caught sight of a flash of yellow—a signboard emblazoned with a bright yellow sun.
Stowing the cloth and ribbons in his saddlebag, Eric led Captain through the press towards the tavern. Alard followed. They were almost across the square when Eric saw a chestnut gelding tethered under the makeshift awning that must pass as a stable here. Eric stopped mid-stride and a prickle of unease tickled the back of his neck.
‘Alard?’ he said softly.
‘Sir?’
Eric stepped out of the flow of traffic and motioned his squire to the side so they stood a little way off from the inn. It could be a coincidence, though he doubted it. He jerked his head towards the chestnut gelding tethered with the other horses. ‘Do you know that animal?’
‘The chestnut gelding? That’s Sir Breon’s horse.’
Eric studied it. Logically, there was no reason on earth why Sir Breon shouldn’t choose to take refreshment at The Sun. It could be mere chance that had brought the man here. Unfortunately, Eric didn’t think it was any such thing. He was debating whether to go in or not when a couple of yards from the stable area a side door opened and Sir Breon himself emerged.
With a grimace, Eric ducked his head behind Captain and prayed Alard would follow his lead. Luckily Alard was a bright lad and Sir Breon didn’t see either of them. He was listening intently to his companion—a tall, swarthy man with a sharp face and a nose as thin as a blade. Eric hadn’t seen him before.
‘My thanks, Breon, I won’t forget this,’ the man said.
Sir Breon muttered something Eric couldn’t catch. His companion clapped him on the shoulder and clicked his fingers at a gap-toothed urchin. ‘Our horses, boy.’
‘At once, sir.’
When the two men had mounted and spurred up the hill, Eric straightened. Digging into his purse for a penny, he urged Captain under the awning, caught the urchin’s eye and held the penny aloft. ‘This is yours, my lad, if you can tell me the names of those men who headed towards the Upper Town.’
Of course Eric knew Sir Breon, but it might be useful to know whether he was going by his real name when he came to The Sun.
The boy’s eyes lit up and he looked hungrily at the penny. ‘That’s easy, sir. The man on the chestnut was born in Provins, his name is Sir Breon.’
‘And his companion?’
‘Sergeant Gildas, sir.’
‘The sergeant works for the Provins guard?’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
One of Count Henry of Champagne’s castles stood in the Upper Town. This sergeant could well work for Count Henry. ‘Perhaps he rides for Count Henry?’
‘I don’t think so.’ The boy’s gaze never shifted from the silver coin. ‘I don’t think he comes from hereabouts.’
Interesting. Eric took a step closer. ‘But you would swear he’s a sergeant and that his name is Gildas?’
‘So I heard, I’m sorry I don’t know anything more.’ The boy’s face brightened. ‘One of the girls inside might be able to help you, sir.’
‘My thanks, you’ve been most helpful.’ Silver gleamed as it spun through the air.
‘Thank you, sir!’
‘Come, Alard.’ Eric waved at the side door. ‘I could use some ale, how about you?’
Alard grinned. Leaving the horses with the urchin, they went inside.
Despite its poor reputation, The Sun’s proximity to the market guaranteed that most of the scarred benches were full. Spotting a space at a small table under a smoke-blackened beam, Eric secured a place and ordered ale.
The man next to him—a merchant by the look of him—was eating, spooning up g
rey broth as though he hadn’t eaten in a month. Judging by the smell it was mutton-and-barley stew, though it was hard to see any meat in there. The merchant was sweating profusely and a sour odour wrinkled Eric’s nostrils. Eric’s stomach turned. Mon Dieu, the man smelt worse than the stew.
The girl who arrived with the ale was a welcome distraction, she was young with brown eyes and hair. A certain innocence in her expression told him that she hadn’t been working at The Sun for long.
Eric smiled at her. ‘Was that Sergeant Gildas I saw leaving?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Dommage. Pity. I was hoping to speak to him. Do you know where I might find him? Does he live nearby?’
‘Not that I know of, sir. He’s a regular customer though, so he must come to Provins often.’
Eric smiled encouragingly. ‘Oh?’
‘I’ve seen him here a number of times, he and Sir Breon are firm friends.’ She focused thoughtfully on Eric’s ale cup. ‘Last time Sergeant Gildas was here, someone else was with him. I believe he was a knight like Sir Breon. Certainly the sergeant deferred to him.’
Eric held his breath. ‘I don’t suppose you caught the other knight’s name?’
Slowly, the girl shook her head. ‘I am sorry, sir, I can’t remember.’
Another customer waved for service. ‘Over here, wench.’
As the girl moved off, she glanced back at Eric. ‘I’ll let you know if it comes to me before you leave.’
‘My thanks.’
Later, as they made their way to the door, the girl ran up. ‘Sir, I’ve found out the name of the knight who met with Sergeant Gildas and Sir Breon. He was called Sir Armand.’
A chill swept Eric head to toe. ‘Sir Armand de Velay?’
‘That’s it.’ She pointed at another serving girl. ‘Marguerite has worked here longer than me, she knew his name.’
‘Bless you.’ Eric slipped a pourboire into her hand. ‘Here, share this with Marguerite.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Smiling, the girl dipped into a curtsy.
* * *
Eric spurred towards the Provins gate and the Jutigny road with his heart in his mouth and a squire who had as many questions as he did.
‘Sir Armand de Velay is a relation of Lord Faramus, is he not?’ Alard asked.
‘A distant cousin.’ Eric’s understanding was that Sir Armand hadn’t exactly been on visiting terms with the family. ‘They are not close, in all my years at Jutigny, I’ve never so much as glimpsed the man.’
‘I wonder how Sir Breon knows him.’
Eric shot his squire a grim look. That was the question that was uppermost in his mind too. However, Sir Armand could have met Sir Breon anywhere. At a tournament, in Paris, anywhere. Who was to say that Sir Armand hadn’t visited Jutigny after Eric had won his manor and left the count’s service? To an onlooker, it would seem perfectly natural. Rowena was the count’s heiress and should Rowena die childless, Sir Armand would inherit the County of Sainte-Colombe.
Gripped by anxiety, Eric urged Captain into a trot. Why the devil had Sir Breon taken to meeting de Velay’s sergeant at regular intervals? He had a bad feeling about this, a very bad feeling. When he had woken that morning, Eric had intended to go straight to Lord Faramus. He wanted the count’s opinion on Sir Armand’s character. Was de Velay the type of man who would resort to murder to achieve his ambitions?
Lord, what a fool he was. Rowena’s gift of the shirt had distracted him. The blue samite had leapt into his mind and all he could think was that he must get it for her. In his eagerness, he’d decided to speak to her father later.
Eric clenched his fist. With the guard he had set about her, he was reasonably confident that she was safe. None the less, his mouth was dry and his heart was thumping. He had to get back to Jutigny. He must see her. At once.
‘Alard, what do you know of Sir Armand?’
‘Other than that his life is said to be an endless round of pilgrimages and penances, not much. He’s said to be God-fearing, high-minded and full of piety.’
Which was about as much and as little as Eric himself knew. They cleared the outskirts and gave the spur to the horses. Eric would relax when he had seen for himself that Rowena was safe. He’d been deluding himself, he realised. He’d told himself that a knight like Sir Armand, one with a reputation for being pious and high-minded, wouldn’t stoop to murder. He’d been careless. Worse than careless.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Mathieu de Lyon’s death so close to The Sun—a tavern frequented by Sir Armand’s sergeant. A sergeant who often met with Sir Breon there. Why, Sergeant Gildas was probably one of the horsemen who had trailed after Eric when he and Rowena had made their way from St Mary’s to Monfort. He might even be that archer.
As the fields of Champagne flowed past, Eric’s suspicions multiplied. Why the devil had Sir Breon been meeting with Armand’s sergeant? Had they been talking about Rowena? Was Sir Breon responsible for the rope on that hoist snapping the day Rowena crossed the drawbridge? Sir Breon had known when Rowena was due to arrive.
Sir Breon was in on this, he had to be. Had the man lost all honour? As one of Count Faramus’s most long-serving knights, Sir Breon had sworn the knightly oath to protect the weak and uphold the law. He ought to have his lord’s best interests at heart and that must include Rowena’s welfare.
Eric had never warmed to Sir Breon, all he seemed to care about was money. Even so, he had never dreamed that Sir Breon might make an attempt on Rowena’s life. Doubtless he was being well paid for his perfidy.
And who would have thought that a man as pious as Sir Armand would sully his hands with anything so grim?
‘Blast it, there’s no proof,’ Eric muttered, gritting his teeth. Despite the lack of evidence, he was certain Sir Armand wanted Rowena dead. At the least, Sir Breon had to be feeding information to Sir Armand. Sir Breon must be in de Velay’s pay.
They pounded past a stand of oak trees with Eric ignoring the curious looks Alard was giving him. It wasn’t going to be easy to persuade Lord Faramus that his longest-serving knight had to go. All he had was a bucketload of suspicion. Furthermore, de Velay’s reputation for piety would make Eric’s convictions appear even more outlandish.
Perhaps a religious man like Sir Armand thought nothing of paying others to do his dirty work. Aye, that fitted. In working hand-in-glove with Sir Breon, de Velay was relying on a man whose piety extended not to the worship of God, but to the worship of money.
Sir Breon must go.
* * *
Eric strode into Jutigny great hall. No Rowena. Her father was there though, sharing a cup of ale with Sir Macaire. Both men were smiling.
Telling himself that they wouldn’t be smiling if something had happened to Rowena, Eric strode over. ‘Mon seigneur, do you know where I might find Rowena?’
‘She rode out to the abbey.’
Eric hoped he looked calmer than he felt. He needed to see with his own eyes that she was safe. ‘She took a full escort, I hope?’
‘Indeed she did. De Monfort, I don’t know what you told Sergeant Yder, but he insisted she took four men-at-arms as well as a couple of grooms.’
‘That’s good to hear.’ Nodding briefly at Sir Macaire, Eric looked earnestly at Rowena’s father. ‘My lord, I need to speak to you most urgently.’
Lord Faramus gave him a searching glance and gestured to a side door. ‘The chapel?’
‘If you please.’
In the chapel Eric closed the door and joined Lord Faramus on the cushioned wall bench. He told him everything he had seen and heard at The Sun—making mention of Sir Breon, Sergeant Gildas and Sir Armand.
The count’s face grew hard.
Eric also mentioned his suspicions concerning Mathieu de Lyon’s murder, but he was careful to skate over the nature of
Rowena’s relationship with the boy, saying merely that they had felt some affection for each other and perhaps that was why the boy had been attacked.
For once, Count Faramus seemed speechless. He looked utterly dazed, shaking his head and pulling at his whiskers, as though he couldn’t believe his ears.
‘In short, my lord,’ Eric said, in conclusion, ‘it is my belief that Sir Breon is in the pay of your cousin. Furthermore, I believe he will know who murdered that squire.’
‘Sir Breon’s been with me for years.’
Eric braced himself for a hard fight. ‘You think I have misjudged matters?’
Lord Faramus swore under his breath and then, abruptly, his shoulders sagged. He seemed to have aged a decade in a moment. ‘Sadly, I don’t. Although it seems incredible that a feeble-minded man like my cousin, a man who is practically a monk, would stoop to try and kill Rowena.’
‘My lord, we can’t take any chances, Sir Breon has to go. If he doesn’t, Rowena and I shall leave.’
‘Lord, I don’t want that.’ The count scrubbed his face and stared at a wooden statue of the Madonna and child. ‘We’ll have to be careful with what we say.’
‘Agreed. I doubt we’ll get a confession out of Sir Breon until we confront him with firm proof. We need evidence as to what happened to de Lyon and until we find it, it would be best if Sir Breon wasn’t alerted to the fact that we are looking into the boy’s death. Once we have our evidence, it should be easier to point the finger at your cousin regarding the other incidents at Monfort and the gatehouse.’
Count Faramus stroked his moustache and gave a thin smile. ‘De Monfort, I think we’ve just received word that a steward in one of my minor manors—let us say Sir Gareth—yes, Sir Gareth Dubois has fallen gravely ill. Sir Breon has long had an eye on the office of steward, he will be honoured to step into his shoes. Be so good as to fetch me a scribe. I need to send word to Sir Gareth.’
Eric raised an eyebrow. ‘A scribe, my lord? Is that wise?’
His father-in-law blinked. ‘Devil take it, you’re right, we must be discreet. Forget the scribe. Fetch a quill and parchment. I’ll dictate and you can write—your hand is neater than mine. We shall send the letter immediately so it’s well on its way before Sir Breon leaves.’
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