Eric’s throat closed and for a ghastly moment he could not speak. Tearing his gaze from Rowena, he stared up at the ceiling and cleared his throat. ‘So I thought. Oddly, of late I’ve come to understand the man’s objection. You know how it is for a landless knight. No security. Nothing save the hope of another commission and the chance of finding a fair man to call your master. There was no room in his life for another man’s child. He wasn’t rich enough to support me as well as Mother.’ He shrugged. ‘Mother made her choice. She told me she loved me and persuaded the knight to take us to Jutigny. The rest you know.’
Rowena buried her face in his chest and hugged him. ‘Well, finally I understand why land is so important to you.’ Her voice sounded muffled. ‘God willing, you will one day hold more land than the King of France.’
Frowning, he tipped up her chin. ‘Rowena? You must know that you are more important to me than the property.’
‘God help me, I hope so,’ she muttered. Easing away, she pushed back the bedcovers and reached for her shift. ‘Excuse me a moment, I need to find the privy.’
The privy was out in the corridor, to get there Rowena would have to go through the chamber where Alard and their guards were sleeping. Eric watched her wind her cloak about her shoulders. ‘I had better accompany you.’
She gave a shaky laugh. ‘No need. Sir Armand is in his house with his own guard, and I trust the king’s men.’ The latch clicked and she slipped into the next room.
* * *
The corridor was lit by a row of candles in wall sconces. It was cold after the warmth of the apartment and goosebumps shivered along Rowena’s arms. She hugged her cloak tightly to her and followed the fitful line of light.
A tear tracked down her cheek. With a grimace, she rubbed it away. She had told Eric she loved him and he hadn’t responded in kind. Telling him how she felt about him had been a definite leap in the dark. She had realised she loved him some time ago and she’d been reluctant to tell him for fear that he’d find a declaration of love a burden.
This evening she’d changed her mind, thinking that a declaration of love might be exactly what Eric needed. His reaction—a retreat into his usual flirtatious self—had been disappointing. However, she wasn’t surprised. Eric was living in the shadow of his mother’s desertion. He’d had little love in his life and he questioned the love that he had had. Rowena had to make him leave his past behind; she had to make him see that whilst he’d been lost on that long-ago Christmas Eve, he had also been found.
Eric needed unconditional love. He needed someone to stand at his side through thick and thin. He needed to know she wouldn’t let him down and that her love wasn’t going to go away. She would simply keep telling him until he believed her. And she would pray that one day he would be able to reciprocate.
Eric’s every action demonstrated that he held her in affection. And if affection was all that he could give? Then so be it. She would accept whatever he could offer. He was a good husband, he treated her as though what she wanted was important, as though she mattered. Her mouth twisted. It was more than she had expected from so strong a man.
Her father had never been perfect in that regard. His insistence on a betrothal to Lord Gawain when she hadn’t been ready had driven her to the abbey, and when she’d been a child he had tried to put an end to her blossoming friendship with Eric. Her father could be a tyrant.
Not so Eric. He was strong. He wasn’t a tyrant.
Coming to Paris had been worth it. Rowena had learned how much Eric wanted her to be his wife. She had learned that he valued her over her lands. He must do, for he had told the king—and everyone else in the conference chamber—that he loved her. This, from the man who professed not to believe in love. This, from the man who said he would give her adoration, but never love. His declaration before the council had been more than mere strategy, he had been telling the truth. It was up to her to make him see it. Eric loved her, he just didn’t know it quite yet.
She wiped away another tear, she was determined not to let him know she’d been upset. She was making progress. He hadn’t rejected her confession of love outright, weeks ago he would have done. She would keep faith and she would win.
As Rowena made her way back down the corridor, a small shadow leapt out of a darkened doorway. Her breath caught, but it was only a cat, shooting off in the direction of the stairwell. As she passed the doorway, she glanced sideways and almost stumbled.
A man was standing in the gloom, standing so still that if she hadn’t glanced that way likely she would have missed him.
The man moved and a shock ran through her. It was Sir Breon.
White teeth flashed in a grim smile, a blade flickered silver. ‘Good evening, my lady.’
Rowena flung her cloak at Sir Breon and ran.
* * *
Eric heard a heavy thud and lifted his head from the pillow. There it was again, a heavy thud, immediately followed by a muffled cry. It sounded like a woman.
Ice gripped his heart. Snatching up his sword, Eric dashed for the door to the antechamber. The other door, the one leading out in to the corridor was open. The guards were crowded round someone standing on the threshold.
‘Eric!’
Dimly, Eric registered that he was stark naked. Not important. He pushed through the guards and gathered her in his arms. ‘Rowena, Rowena,’ he heard himself mutter as he kissed her hair. She was trembling head to toe and had lost her cloak.
‘Sir Breon,’ she said, her voice as shaky as her body. She pointed into the corridor. ‘Out there.’
‘What happened?’ Eric’s mind raced. Not safe. Rowena had been in the king’s palace and she’d not been safe. He’d let her down, he should have accompanied her.
‘He had a knife, I thought he was going to kill me. I threw my cloak over him and ran.’
‘My brave girl.’ Eric gripped her fiercely and held her eyes. ‘We’ll find him. Guard?’
‘Sir?’
‘I take it the palace gates are closed for the night?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Good, he won’t get far. Just to be sure, alert the men at the gate, will you?’
‘Aye, sir.’
Eric looked at his squire. ‘Alard, take my lady back into our bedchamber. Stay with her. Bolt the door. Lady Rowena is not to leave that bedchamber until I return. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘Before you lock the door, you’d better toss me some clothes.’
Alard grinned. ‘Right away, sir.’
Eric peeled his arms from Rowena with some difficulty and gave her a gentle nudge towards the bedchamber.
She hung back, face strained and drawn. ‘Eric, be careful, won’t you?’
‘Of course. You mustn’t worry, there will be guards in this antechamber at all times. Sir Breon won’t reach you.’
Her hand touched his. She leaned towards him and whispered, ‘It’s you I worry about, you dolt.’
* * *
Rowena’s cloak lay on the corridor floor. Eric and the king’s guard quartered the other apartments as quietly as they could. None the less, irritable lords and ladies had to be roused from their beds. It was to no avail, no one had seen Sir Breon. They quartered a great hall where great swags of holly and ivy acted as a backdrop for the colours of the king’s knights. They roused servants and men-at-arms. No one in the hall had seen Sir Breon either, though he must have passed through it to get out.
Rowena worries about me.
They snatched up some torches and went outside in silence. The yard glittered with frost and starlight and compacted snow. Tracks criss-crossed the ground, they were so scuffed and mangled, Eric could read nothing from them. They scoured the stables, where Eric enlisted a groom with a pair of wolfhounds to help them in their hunt. They searched
the cookhouse, a barn and a chapel. Nothing. Eric went to the gatehouse.
Rowena worries about me in the same way that I worry about her. Lord, the way his heart had sunk when he’d heard her scream!
He caught a guard’s eye. ‘Seen anything?’
‘No, sir, not a thing.’
‘Where in hell is he?’
Eric ran his gaze round the perimeter walls. They were the height of at least three men and visible as a heavy dark line against the starry sky. Here and there a torch blazed through the night. Sentries tramped the length of the walkway, their bodies and spears silhouetted against the stars, their helmets gleaming softly in the torchlight.
A wolfhound whined and strained at its leash. It was looking up at the walkway. One of the sentries had no helmet. No spear.
‘There.’ Eric pointed. ‘Post a man at the bottom of each ladder.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Eric sprinted for the ladder. ‘It shouldn’t take long.’
Eric fixed his sights on Sir Breon, the only man on the walkway without a helmet, and moved slowly towards him. He drew his sword and held his peace until he was on a section of planking that blocked Sir Breon’s retreat to the nearest ladder. ‘Guard!’ Eric bawled. ‘Over here!’
The sentries moved like lightning. Sir Breon looked wildly to his left and his right, and for a moment Eric thought he was about to hurl himself over the palace wall.
‘It’s too high for that,’ Eric said, closing the distance between them.
Boots clattered along the walkway. Steel flashed and Sir Breon was surrounded. He threw his dagger aside and a guard bent to retrieve it. It was almost too easy, but it wasn’t over yet.
‘Where’s your squire and your sword, de Provins?’ Eric demanded, frowning as he studied Sir Breon’s clothes, he was dressed as a merchant.
Eric’s heart banged against his ribs, he was struggling with the most unchivalrous urge. By tossing down his dagger, Sir Breon had effectively surrendered and all Eric could think was that he wanted to run him through. This man had wanted Rowena dead. His sword quivered.
Sir Breon’s face twisted. ‘In lodgings. Didn’t think they’d admit the wine merchant if he came with a squire and was armed to the teeth.’
Eric gripped his sword to prevent himself from doing Sir Breon serious injury. It flashed in on him that Sir Breon was the man who had wielded the knife against de Lyon. According to Rowena, Cécile hadn’t named him as such, though that didn’t rule him out since the girl never put her nose in the inn proper. She wouldn’t necessarily know his name.
Step by step, Eric told himself. Rowena’s safety was his prime consideration. He needed proof Sir Breon had been in the employ of Sir Armand. He needed Sir Breon’s confession to that and he needed it before witnesses. Reliable witnesses. Somehow Eric had to trap Sir Breon into admitting his guilt over de Lyon’s death.
‘You will have to be questioned.’ He glanced across the dark, glittering courtyard towards the palace tower. ‘We’ll do it in the guardhouse.’
Chapter Fifteen
Sir Breon stood, feet planted slightly apart, next to a table cluttered with wine cups and scattered breadcrumbs. Hands bound behind his back, he glowered at Eric. ‘You can’t hold me, you filthy peasant, I didn’t touch her,’ he said. ‘She’s lying if she says otherwise.’
Determined to ignore all insults, Eric flexed his fingers. I will not hit him.
Fortune was with him, two knights had been in the guardhouse when Eric had brought Sir Breon in—Sir Kay de Tirel and Sir Guivret Fitz Alan had been playing dice. Glancing at Sir Kay and Sir Guivret, Eric was pleased to find no mockery in either man’s eyes, just a sharp attentiveness. Eric hadn’t met either knight before. Fortunately they knew of him and his summons to court. They understood what was at stake here and, thank the Lord, they were reputed to be honourable men. They would know the truth when they heard it. They’d make ideal witnesses.
Eric was certain that Sir Breon was Mathieu de Lyon’s murderer and he was determined to trap him into a confession. He would inform Sir Breon they had a witness to the boy’s death and take it from there. Sir Breon didn’t have to know their witness wasn’t reliable. In any case, if he squeezed a confession out of him, their witness wouldn’t have to be called.
‘Lady Rowena hasn’t said you tried to kill her,’ Eric said, mildly. ‘Merely that you were loitering in the palace corridor—uninvited, I might add. What were you doing?’
Sir Breon stared sullenly at a rack of shields. ‘Satisfying my curiosity. I’d never been inside the palace.’
Sir Kay shifted, scooping the dice from the table. He tossed them idly from hand to hand. ‘It’s unwise to arrive without an invitation, sir. The king will have to be told.’
Sir Breon shrugged. ‘It’s scarcely a treasonable offence, surely? I did nothing.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ Eric said, softly. ‘After you’ve told the king why you were hanging about near his goddaughter’s apartment disguised as a merchant, you may find he has other questions for you.’
‘Other questions?’
Eric crossed his arms. ‘Aye. Such as how much you were paid by Sir Armand to murder de Lyon.’
Sir Breon’s eyes flickered over the faces of the knights watching him and slowly shook his head. ‘De Monfort, you’re insane. An insane peasant whose promotion to the knightly estate is an insult to the rest of us.’
Eric made a swift negative gesture. ‘It’s not I who insult the knightly estate, de Provins, but you. A man who takes coin to kill an innocent squire—you’re a disgrace.’
Sir Breon’s lip curled. ‘Your marriage to Count Faramus’s whelp has turned your head. You can prove nothing.’
Eric braced himself to stretch the truth. He wasn’t sure Cécile would be able to identify Sir Breon as the killer, certainly she couldn’t name him. It was possible that she might recognise him though. He kept his gaze steady. ‘Before you dig yourself deeper into the muck, there’s something you need to bear in mind. We have a witness. You were seen outside The Sun the night de Lyons died.’
Sir Breon let out a bark of laughter and looked to Sir Kay. ‘God’s teeth, can’t you see the man’s lying? There is no witness.’ He wrenched at his bonds. ‘Set me free, de Tirel, for pity’s sake. Surely we can discuss this in a civilised manner?’
‘Our witness is prepared to testify that she saw you that night.’ Eric pressed on. ‘She also saw de Velay. Further, she heard de Velay order you to kill that squire. She is quite clear on all points. She saw you kill that boy.’
‘She? Who is this she? A tavern wench? You would take the word of a tavern wench over that of a knight?’
Eric lifted an eyebrow and the bluff began. ‘She’s very convincing. Sir, the time for evasion is over, you know she is speaking the truth. Both you and Sir Armand were seen outside The Sun and Sir Armand was heard ordering you to dispatch that boy. For pity’s sake, de Provins, you were seen.’ He paused. ‘Face it, you are our prisoner and you will be taken before the king. It will go better for you if you made a clean breast of things. Think about it. And ask yourself this question—are you prepared for the consequences of lying to the king?’
Sir Breon’s skin paled. His jaw worked. The only sound was the clack of dice as Sir Kay rolled them in his palm.
Eric kept his face impassive, though he could scarcely breathe. He was sure Sir Breon was on the point of surrender.
Sir Breon sniffed. ‘He’d be more lenient?’
Eric let the silence draw out. Eventually, he spoke. ‘It’s possible. He’d certainly be mightily relieved.’ Eric wasn’t going to add that a confession of this sort would mean that at the least Sir Breon would be stripped of his knighthood. ‘The king wants this resolved quickly and a full confession from you would speed things along. Admit that Sir Armand gave yo
u your orders to kill de Lyon. As I said, the king will be glad to see the back of this business.’
Sir Breon stared at the toe of his boot and, following his gaze, Eric found himself looking at some tell marks on the leather. Marks which betrayed the position where the straps for Sir Breon’s spurs usually sat. There were no spurs tonight—clearly Sir Breon had thought to remove them before breaking into the palace. After this, he’d be unlikely to wear them again.
Sir Breon lifted his gaze, his shoulders sagged. ‘De Monfort, it would seem the game is yours. Since there’s a witness, I see the sense in your suggestion.’
Eric drew in a slow breath. ‘You confess that Sir Armand ordered the boy’s death?’
‘Aye, damn you.’
‘And that he charged you with carrying it out?’
‘Aye to it all. Sir Armand paid well.’ Face twisting, Sir Breon spat on the floor by Eric’s feet. ‘You should understand, you were a landless knight yourself not so long ago.’
Eric turned to Sir Kay and Sir Guivret. ‘You heard his confession, sirs?’
‘Aye,’ Sir Guivret said. ‘We’ll speak up for you before the king.’
‘Thank you.’ Eric strode to the door. ‘Sergeant!’
‘Sir?’
‘Sir Breon needs putting under lock and key well away from the king until such time as the king is ready to see him.’ He thought quickly. ‘I am not familiar with Paris and the name escapes me, but I seem to recall there’s a stronghold just across the grand pont.’
‘That would be the Grand Châtelet, sir.’
‘That’s the one, take him there.’
The sergeant saluted. ‘Very good, sir.’
‘Oh, and, Sergeant?’
‘Sir?’
‘When you’ve done that, I believe everyone in the palace will sleep more soundly if you rouse Sir Armand and install him in the Grand Châtelet too. Securely, mind.’
‘Understood, sir.’
* * *
In the guest apartment, Rowena and Eric sat on the edge of their bed, facing the fire, a goblet of warm spiced wine in hand.
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