by Jude Chapman
At dusk, when the blindfold came off and he squinted into the unaccustomed brightness, Drake had no idea of their exact position. Except to say he found for his traveling companions a picturesque stream and a meadow dotted with poppies. Nor did he want to know more than that.
Even though Stephen weighed heavily on his mind, Drake allowed there were small pleasures to be had along the way. To rest supine on the leaf-thickened woodland floor with an arm slung beneath his head was enough for now. Reposing his eyes, strangely tired from lack of use, he let them see what they cared to see, languidly and without care.
Comfortable in her element, Aveline sauntered back and forth. Occasionally turning the spit holding the skewered pheasant Fors managed to shoot earlier in the day. Or washing out her tunic. Or hovering above, freeing her hair of burrs, leaves, and the accumulation of dust, her fine-toothed ivory comb running through fanning locks and her eyes swirling like sun dogs against the billowing darkness. Aveline Darcy, the daughter of an alewife, whom Drake never tired of admiring.
“Are you wearing braies, too?” he asked lazily, close to falling asleep in the balm of the evening.
She swung around, her eyelashes falsely demure. “In this relationship, someone had better.”
He laughed at that and stretched out tired legs. Feeling his eyes on her, she became self-conscious. Her movements, her gestures, her shy expressions, her cunning looks were all for him. She made an enchanting picture, did Aveline Darcy. The oval face, the swing of her silken hair, the grace of her shapely legs rarely seen out of skirts. Drake tilted his head, surveying her just so, perched above him like a peregrine falcon, exotic and lovely to gaze upon.
In a supple motion, she dropped beside him, only fractionally aware of the effect she had on him. The transit, as if on a breeze, revealed through the chainse the shapeliness of her figure. He reached out, but she stayed just out of reach, perhaps teasing him, perhaps testing his devotion. She twisted, bringing an arm up and curling it elegantly over her head. Leaning her cheekbone inside the bowed elbow, she let her eyes drift closed. On an impulse, she swung back around. On the same impulse, quick and fluid, he moved forward, his fingers tenderly exploring the roundness of her cheek while his lips found the silken skin beneath her ear.
She yanked herself out of his embrace, but Drake trapped her hand. “I ask again: marry me.”
She held his eyes but dragged free her hand. “You ask the wrong person.”
“Then who? Should I ask Stephen for your hand in marriage?” Drake remained where he was, on his knees before her, a supplicant to her stubbornness.
“Stephen,” she said, dismissing the notion. “Stephen has no hold on me, nor I on him.”
“William then?”
“Ask your king. Ask Richard. If you have the courage. But I know you don’t. For I know … and you know … what he will say.”
“He will …,” Drake began, but faltered.
“—Tell you to make me exactly what I am!” And the exalted peregrine falcon of Drake’s heart took flight.
* * *
The next day, Drake covered considerably more ground. The deferential stillness of the previous day gave on to light-hearted joviality, except for one individual of the gentler sex, who became mordantly close-lipped and distant. In the afternoon, the clouds thickened and a light drizzle whisked overhead. But his memories and perceptions were so keen, nothing short of the earth opening up threatened to daunt their travels.
The third day went just as well, and Aveline remained just as stubborn. Toward dusk of the fourth day, they reached their destination. Drake instructed, “We cross the river here. There ought to be shoals.”
Since the mudflats were submerged beneath affluent spring rains, a boatman ferried them across. Afterward they headed west for less than a mile. Passing unmolested through a sluggish village, they climbed ever upward, over winding paths rutted by wheels and through forestland buffeted by winds. When the party reached open ground, Drake pointed.
“The gatehouse is there.” When no one spoke, he removed the cloth binding his eyes and peered up at a windy cliff.
White and stalwart, the château stood like a monument of time. Surrounded by whispering woods and unkempt grounds, the castle’s strongest defense lay in its remoteness. At its back, the Loire flowed west and east, moss interlacing among rippling shallows. Bracketed by two turrets at the château’s southeastern flank, the gatehouse rose precisely where Drake had indicated. A curtain wall containing two more turrets at the southwest and northeast corners surrounded the palatial keep. The vast inner bailey contained the necessary timber-framed structures of a thriving château. Smoke swirled thick and pervasive from more than one chimneystack.
They lingered at the forest edge, Drake and the others, their horses impatiently stamping hoofs into the well-worn track. No one said much or moved to act. Until Béthune said lightheartedly, “Behold, we are in enemy territory. Or perhaps home, where the skylarks sing their intrepid songs, disguising their genius with unbeautiful plumage.”
Heads turned curiously.
“It is Chaumont, one of the many glittering châteaux belonging to the estimable Thibaud the fifth, comte of Blois, the gay husband of Alys Capét, second-born to our beautiful Queen Eleanor by her first husband, King Louis of France, but not to be confused with Alais, born of King Louis’ second wife.”
Chauvigny bore his eyes into Drake’s, still blinking in the brilliant daylight, and said wryly, “A family reunion seems to be in the offing.”
“Only on one side of the family. The other side would sooner hack off my head.”
“A disheartening prospect, but one I look forward to,” said Fors.
Before they were given the chance to urge their horses forward, the mouth of the gatehouse opened, and the Blois guard thundered across the lowered drawbridge. Poorly hidden in the hedge, King Richard’s emissaries were quickly surrounded and disarmed, for the most part willingly, since Marshal Clarendon carried on him the necessary authority.
“Did I mention,” said Fors, “that Thibaud and Richard are distant cousins?”
“Right about now,” Chauvigny said, “I don’t think anyone gives a good God damn.”
The captain of the Blois guard, a few years younger than Drake, displayed a guileless hauteur. The pale blue eyes under the shock of straw-colored hair held a certain semblance to a lady Drake well knew, and their challenging glare never took themselves from him. Directing his steed in a wide circle, the arrogant captain studied this man he never formally met as if he were a longtime enemy. He alone of the castle guard donned no armor but wore a suite of fancy clothes more suitable for feasting and entertaining than guard duty. Rand Clarendon presented Richard’s writ, which the Blois captain did not pretend to examine nor did he care to listen to anything the king’s marshal had to say.
Brandishing swords, the Blois guard, to a man more mature than their leader, led Drake and his party into the castle. Upon their boisterous arrival in a gatehouse stinking of sweat and hubris, Drake was summarily used as a human as well as moral shield. Stormed by half the guard’s number, he was dragged off his horse and efficiently subdued with rope and fists.
To no advantage, Aveline fought in the noble defense of her man. The shrewd captain, realizing soon enough that the plucky squire was a woman, personally took charge of her, securing his prize with an elbow cinched around her delicate throat. She mewled pitifully beneath the grip, which persuaded everyone to become entirely cooperative. He gazed full-circle, gratified with the peaceful outcome. “And now, you will allow yourselves to be bound. Unless you wish the lady to suffer an immediate and ignoble death. Prior to or after ravishment, as is your preference.”
Carrying chains and leather strapping, his men moved menacingly forward.
“You will stand off, Captain!”
Drake immediately recognized the voice.
“Mon seigneur?” came the spoiled response.
“You heard me!”
Th
e captain reluctantly released his victim. Aveline explored her throat, coughing her fright away.
Dressed in satin saffron, the speaker stepped into the torchlight and took her hand into his. “And now,” he said, sweeping an authoritative glare around the men of his guard, “you will release the others.”
“But …,” the captain began to protest.
“Idiot! They have not come to invade, not with six men and one woman.” His eyes slowly made the circuit of those six men and one woman. “Have you?” and received the assent he expected.
Gravely studying Aveline, the gentil-homme continued to hold her hand. “Are you all right, my dear? Because if there is any damage, I will eviscerate our dishonorable captain.”
“You’ll what?” the dishonorable captain yelped.
“You heard me.” He did not have to raise his voice to put the captain in his place.
The ropes having been dispatched, Drake wiped blood from his chin. Aveline retracted her hand from the nobleman’s gentle grasp. “If you please, kind sir,” she said, tipping her head.
He gave her leave.
Her spine straight and proud, she turned on the captain. “If you please,” she said to the boy, reaching out for his sword.
The captain balked.
“Consider the lady’s wish your command.”
Glaring at the nobleman, the captain reluctantly handed over the sword. Heavy and clumsy in her grasp, she brought the weapon to Drake, who took it, one eyebrow lifting. “I have been insulted. Will you let the insult stand without reply?”
Drake bowed his answer. The captain squawked in protest. “The lady is within her rights,” said the white-haired lord in saffron. “She has been insulted. Worse, she has been violated.” To Drake he said, “Not only do you have my permission, but you have my blessing.”
Drake approached with deliberation, his eyes making a study of the captain’s pretty costume. The captain, rightly scared, backed away from the knight he had ordered manhandled once too often. Drake raised the sword expertly before him. Torchlight gleamed off the steel. Each turn of the blade was another agony for the overdressed lout of a captain. He backed up all the way to the stone wall upon which he might easily be eviscerated and then judiciously impaled. With a skilled arm, Drake executed several deliberate strokes. With each swipe, the captain shrieked like a girl. When he was done, Aveline’s champion flung the sword away.
Calmly, Drake strolled back to his ladylove. Together they surveyed his handiwork. Stripped of every item of clothing save for braies and hose, the captain exhibited several superficial sword marks across his torso: livid, crisscrossing, and dripping red against the white of his sun-shy skin. His garments, once so lovely, lay like mowed weeds at his feet.
“You are chilly, are you not?” the lord asked the captain.
The captain nodded dutifully.
“It is so. You have been properly admonished, Captain. You may beat a hasty retreat and cry to your mother, if you will.”
The captain bent, gathered together his ruined outfit, and fled into the château.
Thibaud, comte of Blois, turned apologetically toward Drake and Aveline. “My son Louis, who has yet to learn his manners.” Smelling unmistakably of ambergris, he reached out a hand. “We meet again.”
“I should have recognized your voice,” Drake said, “from Nonancourt.”
“Indeed, you should have. But we did not have a chance to speak.” And added, “Then.” He strolled through the same portal his grown son had fled like a brat of eleven or twelve instead of a man of eighteen or nineteen. “Come. I’m sure you have a thirst after your long journey.”
Fors led the way, soberly wiping a bloody nose. Chauvigny followed, rubbing a sore arm. Hand and cheek smeared with blood, Béthune lagged behind. Relinquishing his place, Rand gestured Drake and Aveline through, though with a bleeding hand. Finally, Devon brought up the rear, matching his master’s halting gait.
~ Part III ~
A Man of Middle Class Speaks with a Woman of Higher Nobility
A man of the middle class must therefore greatly excel in character all the men of the two noble classes in order to deserve the love of a woman of the higher nobility, for no matter how worthy any commoner may be, it seems very much out of place if a countess or a marchioness or any woman of the same or a higher rank gives her love to a man of the middle class.
Saturday, the 21st of April, in the Year of Grace 1190
Chapter 18
THE RIB OF THIBAUD, clearly several years his junior, was taken aback by the unannounced invasion of Drake’s irregular army. To her credit, she took it in stride.
Alys Capét was as charming as her mother. Her dark tresses, lightly peppered with silver, were hidden tidily beneath a gold-threaded veil. The sharp features, tight jaw, and dark brows more closely resembled her brother King Philippe of France than her brother King Richard of England. But she exhibited the strength of both brothers through her forthright manner and a composure bred as much by heredity as position. Her eyes were another matter. Startling in their familiarity, they held the vivid coloring and piercing quality of her mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine.
“They are my cousins,” she said smartly and more than a trifle put out.
The comte had brought Drake and his compères into the great hall, where his wife was entertaining a multitude of guests, one or two of whom Drake recognized from King Philippe’s entourage at Nonancourt. Finding privacy in a castle where there is a dearth of doors and locks is not the easiest task. Excusing oneself on a matter of family concern that has instantly become a focal point of whispered gossip is even harder. But excuse themselves the comte and comtesse of Blois did, and retired to the solar, where the comforts of their position were manifestly abundant: chaise longue, coal-burning, brazier, padded chairs, coffers, a collection of books, embroidered wall hangings, silver candelabra, priceless statuary, and a popinjay occupying a gold-gilt cage.
No one had bothered to teach the feathered creature to speak, though he squawked a great deal, not unlike Louis de Blois, and whistled a friendly greeting to Drake.
Alys Capét, having taken in evidence of the recent strife of her guests, marshaled basins, rags, and bandages. Further, she had drink and platters of food brought in, all devoured instantly and ravenously, and immediately replenished. Nor did she neglect berating her son the captain, who was called into the solar, dressed in fresh garments but wearing the scowl of old and moving stiffly. Or leave off rebuking her husband with scathing looks that dressed him down as handily as Drake had done their son. And still had opportunity to drape a coverlet round Aveline’s shoulders and thrust into her hand a large goblet of fine wine filled to the brim.
Everyone settled and comfortable, their bruises and pride ministered, their thirsts quenched, bellies filled, and ruffled feelings soothed, the second eldest child of Eleanor of Aquitaine set to work. With keen astuteness, Alys Capét, comtesse of Blois, drew out the tale that had brought Drake and his comrades to this place, at this time, and under these circumstances. And with unflinching defiance, she subsequently shed light on the treachery of her husband and the complicity of her son, and became suitably and most splendidly outraged.
Her husband the comte, a man of inestimable presence, particularly when dressed in saffron, seemed a fool, and a stubborn fool at that. “Cousins, you say! From which side of the family? I can hardly keep track.”
“And you dare use them as pawns? Against my brother!”
“A brother you hardly know, of a mother who abandoned you years ago.”
“Still, my brother. And if, if my mother did as you say, it was at the insistence of my father, who obtained the pope’s sanction for his own selfish ends.”
“To rid himself of an adulterous wife, you mean?”
“To absolve himself of having taken for his queen his fourth cousin, the fact of which he was well aware, even as he willingly guided her to their marriage bed. And for the most unforgiveable sin of all, that of not be
aring him a son and heir.”
“Due in no large part of keeping him out of her bed.”
“As I can do you, given one more insult.”
“If that is how you see it, let it be so.”
She smiled complacently. “As I recall, or perhaps it was only malicious talk since I was but an infant at the time, you tried to rape my mother when she left my father, and force her to marry you against her will. But …”—she paused while Thibaud flushed nearly as dark as the Sancerrois wine his guests were imbibing—“you’ve had to make do with her daughter these many years.”
“Have you forgotten that you have another brother?”
“Do not tell me he is the instigator.”
“Very well, I will not tell you.”
At which point Alys was ready for imbibing a rather substantial quantity of Sancerrois wine herself. Aveline offered the comtesse her half-emptied cup, which Alys seized and drained like a man and then refilled. When the goblet was again half-empty, she turned expectantly on her husband and waited for an explanation.
“I saw the order.”
“You’re sure it was Philippe?”
“I’ve seen the king’s seal often enough to know when it’s genuine. He is my nephew, for God’s sake!”
“Please, I beg of you, refrain from reminding me. It is enough that I am related to him. That you should also be is more than I can bear.” Alys Capét turned to her guests, sending them an apologetic grin that must have hurt the taut plains of her face. “You see the perils of my complicated life. I am not normally driven to drink, but I shall make this a special occasion.” And did. Afterwards, her voice quavering slightly, said to her husband, “And this order? It said …?”
“If you are looking for an indictment, you will not find one. Nor will anyone. The instructions were relayed orally. The writ gave the spoken word credence.”
“Where is this writ? I mean to see it.” And when the comte postured, she said, “How foolish of me. Reduced to ashes. And the messenger of this dark conspiracy?”
