by Jude Chapman
“Shall remain nameless.”
“But of course. Regicide cannot support witnesses.” Finding a stool, she swept her azure skirts off the floor and installed herself with royal bearing.
“Whoever he is,” Thibaud said, “he acted on behalf of his king, in the name of his king, and on the authority of his king. As did I. And probably knows as much as I. That is to say, nothing.” He wiped hand against hand as if to clean them. “Rien de rien.”
Drake was having a private conversation with the popinjay, feeding it bread crumbs and whistling in mimicry. Observing, Alys remarked, “Ah, so that is what happened to my favorite vase. And my chair. And my table. While I was in Paris, mourning the loss of our dear queen.”
Drake swung his head around and found the comte, who crossed a leg.
“Well, dearest Drake,” she continued, “I only wish you and Stephen had broken more than a few worthless objects, such as the heads of those nearest and dearest to my heart.”
She hiccupped. Her husband coughed. The popinjay squawked.
“Where is he now, hmm, my beleaguered cousin? Where is Stephen fitzAlan?”
The popinjay squawked again. The comte coughed again. The comtesse hiccupped twice more. “I take it you don’t know.”
It was the comte’s turn to refill his cup.
“You realize,” said the comte’s wife, “his health, his safety, his well-being, his very life … and my good graces … are now dependent upon you.”
His eyes narrowed. “You drive a hard bargain, ma dame.”
“That is because I know you best. I know where your weaknesses lie. And they won’t lie in our, or should I say, my bed. Continue on this course, my handsome bedfellow, and as they say, Ce n’est pas une partie de plaisir.”
Louis spoke up. “Isn’t it enough that it was the will of the king your brother?”
A mother’s eyes moved sharply on her son. Walking lamely, he cowered back to his former place. Here and there, he was leaking blood from one of the many scratches delivered by Drake’s sword, and spoiling yet another fine suite of clothing. “You’re not having a good day, are you Louis?”
“Non, maman.”
“If I were you, I should remain invisible until it is my wish that you be made visible. Next year, perhaps.” Her gaze returned to her husband. One dark eyebrow lifted expectantly.
“I only know this,” he said to Drake. “Three routiers abducted your brother, escorted him here, and took him away when we were done with you. To where, I was and remain uninformed.”
“South,” Louis said.
“South,” his father agreed.
Drake turned away from the birdcage. “Under whose command were they?”
“Their own.”
“And their names?”
“Formal introductions were not in the offing.”
“Descriptions?”
“I didn’t take particular notice. Louis?”
Drake shifted his eyes toward his sulking cousin. “I only dealt with the leader. Botolphe was his name. Common ladies would find him … worthy.”
“Oui, he was a pretty fellow, to be sure,” Drake said. “Yellow of hair. A wrestler’s hands. Hence, the second man was tall and simple-minded, and the third owned a surplus of teeth.”
“Alors, you know them.”
“They served Richard’s mercenary leader.”
“Mercadier would never condone such,” said André.
“I agree.”
Louis said, “They must hold a grudge against you, then, these routiers.”
“Not that I’m aware, but wherever they took Stephen, they hied themselves back to Chinon in time to hang a would-be assassin … yours truly.”
The comtesse crossed herself. “Mon Dieu au paradis.”
“Except that Geoffrey intervened,” Rand pointed out.
“—Looking regal. Whence John showed up, also looking regal.”
“Clearly, there is a mastermind at work,” Alys said.
“Whether it is Philippe or another, I will not guess,” said her husband. “This I do know: if pressed, your loving brother, ma dame, would deny every connection.”
The comtesse stood. “As usual, my brother has played the game in fine form.” To Drake, she said, “You will rest here for the night. In the morning, you must decide what to do. Unfortunately, mon cher, I can offer no advice but a wealth of prayers. Whatever you decide, my dear son Louis shall accompany you …” Louis sputtered disapproval, which she firmly overrode. “… to protect your interests and mine. And you,” she addressed her husband, “your reparation is to come. I shall devise something wholly delicious, which you may anticipate with dread.”
He bowed, smiling slightly. “As you wish, ma belle comtesse.”
Chapter 19
WHILE ALYS CAPÉT demonstrated that she was more than a match for either of her brothers, day had segued into evening.
Accommodations were briskly provided, more food put out, a becoming gown found for Aveline, and a conduct of safe passage written. As the night was young, the comtesse’s seven uninvited but most welcome guests were squired into the great hall, there to pass a pleasant evening and another more lavish meal.
The hall was already being warmed by a gathering of highborn gentlemen and ladies, gaily attired and conversing congenially. Wall sconces and candelabra left no dark corners as the guests of Château de Chaumont wandered from pillar to pillar.
Alys apologized for the absence of her older sister, Marie, the comtesse of Champagne. “Since her husband the comte died, Marie stays in virtual seclusion at her palace in Troyes and spends most of her waking hours on her knees. Strange indeed, since in her youth, Marie claimed a few wicked graces. That is to say, in a most courtly manner befitting her station.”
The high table had been arranged at the far end of the hall. The sideboards and padded benches extended alongside adjacent walls. The white overcloths, ready laid with salt cellars of gold, pitchers of pewter, goblets of rock crystal, mazers of silver, an abundance of spoons, and a few sharp knives and serving forks, presaged the feast to come.
“You know of course, my sister and I married brothers. The decision was made by our father when Marie and I were left motherless and I was but an infant. It was our fate and our duty. We accepted the arrangement throughout our formative years. Love did not enter into the contracts. Still, each in our own way, we grew to have regard for Henry and Thibaud, Marie and I, if not true affection.” She cleared her throat. “Most days and a few scattered nights.”
Alys snapped her finger at one of the servers, who closely resembled the captain though a younger version and more obedient to his mother’s will. “My younger son Thibaud. I would introduce you, but as you can see, he is inconsequential as well as occupied.” Indeed he was, delivering an oversized platter laden with roast pheasant. She smiled the smile of the wise and patted Aveline’s hand. “And how is my other dear sister, Alais? Still trying to consummate her marriage to my dear brother? It becomes tiresome keeping track of whose side one ought to take, if any, especially when we are one big happy family.”
A gracious hostess possessing a skill for assembling diverse personalities, the comtesse of Blois made herself felt everywhere and constantly. Drake had the occasion, as he had at Nonancourt, to make the acquaintance of André of Champagne.
Having served as chaplain in her sister Marie’s household, Alys was explaining, Andreas Capellanus, “as he likes to call himself though no one else does,” had since moved on to serve King Philippe in the royal chapel. “Andreas should have been the last person to write a tract on the art of courtly love. But write it, he did,” Alys said of the drably dressed man, “at the insistence of my sister and to the amazement of all who know and love him. Some think the entire exercise was one to meet a whimsical challenge with well-met sarcasm, isn’t that so Andreas?”
He nodded politely.
“Others claim him to be wholly serious. Still others insist he practiced all that he preached, w
hich amuses the women but insults the men. Wherever lay the truth, his work has been copied and passed around and ceaselessly quoted, elevating the status of this otherwise unremarkable priest more than devoutness has ever done. Tell me, Andreas, is it true you wear the king’s seal to bed?”
“I never remove it from my person.”
“How it must get in the way of lovemaking.”
“If it pleases you to say so, ma chère comtesse.” He turned to Drake. “And may I say, I am most surprised to see you here, Sieur fitzAlan. The last we met, you had just attempted to assassinate your king.”
Drake glanced askance at Alys, who smiled placidly and said, “An unfortunate confusion.”
“Indeed. I shall have to explain that to the lady who caught the arrow bolt … when next I see her in Purgatory.”
“Then you will have to inform her it was not my arrow,” Drake said.
“Whose then?”
“Tancrede d’Évreux.”
“The one with hair like rusty nails?”
“You’re thinking of André de Chauvigny, not to be mistaken for my squire standing beside him.” The chaplain vaguely followed Drake’s gesture. “Tancrede was the tall, gangly one.”
“Perhaps I do recall. And he is dead? How fortunate for you, though very unfortunate for him.” He tilted his head in deep thought. “But if he is dead, who was the assassin at Chinon?” He focused on Drake, who merely shrugged a shoulder. “We have all heard the regrettable news about Richard, have we not, Comtesse?”
Alys smiled pleasantly. “A rumor only, and mean-spirited at that. Ah, here are my daughters—Isabelle, Alys, and Marguerite—as lovely as spring flowers, and recently returned from serving Queen Isabelle, so cruelly taken from us.”
“That is not what I heard,” Andreas said.
“That the queen did not die in childbirth? Then we must inform the king, and quickly.”
“That it was a mean-spirited rumor.”
Distracted with sniffing and preening her pretty spring flowers, she finally brought herself to say, “All the same, that is the case. So says Richard’s marshal there—Randall de Clarendon—who accompanied my cousin here.”
Andreas squinted into the distance. “I have been too long at my writing. I do not recognize the gentil-homme.”
“Newly installed. You must stay with times, my dear Andreas. Moreover, I don’t believe an assassin or group of assassins would be wandering around the countryside seeking the attention of a dead king’s sister, do you?”
“You have put me in my place, ma douce comtesse,” he said, and bowed.
Standing nearby, a man who could only have the occupation of a chevalier—being sandy-haired, bearded, and massively built—had been tuning his ear to the conversation. “Whether of good heart or bad, kings should not be made targets by anyone other than their brothers.”
“Ah, Guillaume,” Alys said. “How very astute of you. And have you met my cousin?”
“Your cousin! Now that does come as a surprise.” He broke away from his companions and bowed. A scar ran through his beard from outer eye to upper lip. “We met at Nonancourt, if you remember. But not your beautiful bride, if she is indeed your bride and not your—?”
“That will do, Guillaume. Aveline Darcy has the fragile sensibilities of all women, but if you cross her, she will assuredly take you to task.”
“So I’ve heard. You daren’t pat poor Louis on the stomach without his entrails seeping through the cracks.” The knight took Aveline’s hand and bent to deliver a kiss.
Alys said to Drake, “You may or may not know that my brother Richard holds a personal grudge against Guillaume, above all because he had the temerity of capturing the fortress of Châteauroux for my brother Philippe. And had the double temerity of thwarting Richard from recapturing it. But also because Des Barres ungallantly broke a promise of parole.”
“Only on account of Richard plunging his sword into my destrier when he was unable to win fairly.”
“As to who should hold the grudge longer, I am unsure, but I am certain it will endure beyond my patience.”
“The point,” Barres said, smiling affably, “is taken. And since the custody of Châteauroux has been decided in favor of André de Chauvigny there, him taking to wife its fair and rightful owner, Richard and I have declared a truce.”
He released Aveline’s hand and took Alys’s, kissing it in turn. “Until the next time,” the comtesse said, her countenance remarkably placid.
Chapter 20
AFTER A LATE SUPPER and light entertainment to close the day, Alys invited Aveline to share her bed. “Two rewards for the price of one,” the comtesse said. “The comte won’t dare disturb our slumber and your reputation will remain intact.” Drake bowed to her wisdom, delivering chaste kisses, two for the comtesse and two for the daughter of an alewife.
Settling near the hearthfire, Drake raised a goblet to his lips at regular intervals. The sable rug spread beneath him somewhat softened the hardness of the oaken floor and the sourness of his mood. Others like him, lacking private chambers and comfortable beds, or preferring to tarry until the wee hours, lazed about in similar fashion, sharing conviviality and drink. Chauvigny, Béthune, and Fors repaired to a corner and took up a game of dice. Rand curled up on a pallet, a woolen blanket gathered about his shoulders. Balanced over his heels, Devon hovered not far from his master.
“You survived incarceration, Devon of Wheeling. And with three such seasoned knights. I hope they didn’t take advantage of your inexperience.”
Chauvigny called out from across the hall. “Of course we did!”
“They taught me many things,” Devon said, his trusting eyes flying between André and Drake. “Such as how to find my way under a lass’s skirts, how to cheat at dice, and how to get drunk without swooning.”
“The basics,” Béthune threw back.
Devon chuckled into his cup while Louis de Blois painfully lowered himself onto a nearby stool. His face awash with the flames of the hearth, he leaned into the heat, occasionally looking asquint at Drake. For a long while the three lads sat in respectful silence. A wordless truce evolved.
Intruding on their growing torpor, Guillaume des Barres kicked away a sleeping dog and sat among them on the rush-strewn floor. As he lifted a goblet to his lips, his eyes stared into the soporific flames. When he finally used it, his voice was lethargic with wine and fatigue. “What do you propose to do now?”
Rousing himself from near-sleep, Drake shifted onto his side.
“Now that you’ve been absolved of shooting a stray arrow or two, it behooves you to point a finger, which seems to be twisting in an easterly direction.” His eyebrows raised on a slant. “If you did not know already, I will inform you. The king of France does not encourage regicide. Even if he did, what would he have to gain?”
“An English king he can more easily kick out of Normandy. Like you just did that hound.”
The knight’s disfiguring scar puckered. “Oui, but if anything happened to your king, my king would lose his most interesting chess partner.”
“John is nearly as much fun to play with as Richard.”
The knight’s brown gaze was direct. “You’ve had occasion to play?”
Drake peered over the rim of his chalice. “Since childhood days. Come to think, John is too easy to beat. Any victory would hold little meaning.”
“Everyone knows him to be hot-headed and unpredictable.”
“He also cheats. And lies.”
The knight speculatively cocked his head. “Geoffrey then?”
“Ah, now Geoffrey ….” Drake sipped his wine and savored the taste before swallowing. “Geoffrey is even more graceless than John.”
“Therefore more dangerous. By my count, one candidate remains.”
“If I’m not mistaken, we have exhausted the field.”
“One,” Barres reiterated.
“And if I were to put a name to the man?”
Barres split wide his wheat
en beard. “Ah. Seems you and I think alike.”
Drake emptied his goblet.
“If you know,” Barres challenged Drake, “why not go after him?”
“Only one reason,” Drake said. “Perhaps two.”
“That you have no proof?”
“That is one.”
“And your brother will be killed before you can liberate him. Oui. I know. He has been taken hostage.” His eyes traveled to Louis and held. “Stephen fitzAlan may already be dead.”
“I have thought of that,” Drake said.
“In that case, it may be wise to go after your man in any event.”
“And if he is your king?”
The knight shrugged. “The game begins anew.” Clambering to his feet, Barres saluted and went to find a pallet.
Drake let his sight wander to his cousin. “You have nothing to say, Louis of Blois?”
“Such as offering an apology?” he said, without looking directly at Drake.
“I will die an old man waiting for one.” Drake had a cure for aloofness. In prelude, a grin rose on lips licked moist. “Ah,” he said languorously, “to take the hillocks of desire into two hands and squeeze them as one squeezes ripe oranges, tasting of the fruit and swallowing the sour with the sweet until the sun rises on the opposite horizon from the moon, between which the sword, honed sharp, stands straight, true, invincible … and afterwards … satisfied.”
The heir of Blois turned the cryptic phrases over in his mind. Shaking his head, he remitted himself to the sable rug and sprawled onto his side, becoming at once a mirror image of his cousin. His goblet, only half-empty, lay at his slack hand. The gleam in his heavy-lidded eyes was a direct challenge.
Drake took it. “It would seem you have never before come face to face with your divided birthright.”
His eyes shifted.
“You have already paid homage to your uncle, the king of France?”
“I have.”
“And your other uncle?”
“—Is a stranger.” Louis skimmed his eyes toward the hearthfire just as a log snapped and disintegrated into burning cinders. “They are sworn enemies.”
