Alaric had also suggested his own disguise, the vestments and trappings acquired from the real Bishop Gautier, who was at that moment a guest in a nearby village. It was a risky business, shared by the six companions who had assumed the roles of clerics. Balancing out the danger, however, was the fact that he would be able to get close to Lady Servanne, and to remain close in the event of some unforeseen trouble arising.
Unfortunately it also meant he would be pressed upon to preside over morning mass for the visiting nobles, and to remain prominently in attendance in the great hall until such time as the host chose to depart for the tournament grounds.
Thus, dressed in magnificent black and crimson robes, Alaric was accompanying the Dragon’s party to the outer bailey even as the wooden cell door was being slammed and bolted shut behind the semiconscious Servanne de Briscourt. He was not concerned. He was, in fact, relieved to see she had been able to follow Lucien’s instructions and persuade the Dragon to leave the main keep without her.
The rest of the Wolf’s men were not so assured by what they were seeing. They all paused in what they were doing to stare in amazement at the black and gold crested knights of Lord Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer’s guard who filed slowly out of the massive castle gates. In their midst was a child with bright blonde hair and regally uptilted chin, but nowhere in the heavily armoured troop of men was there a sighting of a black silk hood.
“What do you suppose it means?” Sparrow asked Gil.
Gil shook her head, her eyes worriedly searching the four-abreast riders for Friar’s face. She was still in her monk’s robes, her vision tunneled and restricted by the shape of the hood, but she was fairly certain she had seen all of the knights’ faces, and Alaric FitzAthelstan’s was not among them.
Sparrow, perched on a cart loaded with straw, looked enough like a pixie in his garishly coloured jongleur’s tunic to draw the eye of several of the grim-faced knights who rode past. His frowned question drew no answers; a great deal of smouldering anger and frustration, but no answers.
“Something has gone wrong,” he surmised sagely. “Have the tents been struck?”
“Nay,” said Robert the Welshman, bending to dislodge a pebble from the sole of his shoe. He was passing by the cart, not wanting to draw any more attention to the peculiar sight of a dwarfish imp and a monk standing together. “Nay. I were just by the green and the tents are still in place. Pennants an’ shields as well, an’ a squire scrubbin’ at a bit o’ armour. Summit’s amiss, though. Ye can smell it in the air.”
He moved on, his mantle furling out from his brawny shoulders like the wake after a broad-beamed ship. He strolled casually into one of the small cramped laneways and peered over the heads of others who were vying for grilled bits of rabbit, fish, and mutton.
“Trust Lumbergut to think only of his belly at a time like this,” Sparrow muttered.
“If things have gone wrong, we will need Robert’s strength,” Gil pointed out. “We will all need our full strength and wits about us.”
Sparrow gazed past Gil’s shoulder and winced at the rusted shriek of the chains beginning to lower the huge portcullis gates back into place behind the last of the departed knights. At a glance, there were at least a score of guards on the gates and towers, all of whom were visibly armed and prepared for trouble.
Sparrow squinted up at the sky, noting the sun was directly overhead. “Aye, well, one of us had best find out what is amiss. And soon. Gil, you should not tarry here any longer. Root out Friar and see if his nose has sniffed a change in the wind. I shall tumble my way over to the tourney grounds and see what is what.”
“What about us?” asked Mutter and Stutter in unison, poking their heads up from behind the cart.
“Gather as many of our men as you can lay a hand to and wean them on down to the common. Tell them to hold fast and watch for a signal.”
“We will be of little use without weapons,” Gil advised.
Sparrow nodded and patted the side of the cart. “Tell Robert to move this as close to the field as he dares and to leave a man on guard. And we had best be quick about our business, for unless my ears and eyes are turned inward, those trumpets I hear are heralding the arrival of Prince Gloom at the lists.”
As the echo of the blaring fanfare drifted away on the sea breeze, Prince John and the Baron de Gournay took their seats in the spectators’ bower. Noblemen and guests of honour—including the Bishop Gautier—filled the seats on either side of their host and the regent, their personal guards, squires, and servants crowded the limited space behind them. Nicolaa de la Haye, assuming her role as high sheriff, sat by the Dragon’s side, conspicuously taking the seat allocated for the absent Servanne de Briscourt.
The morning’s activities, which had included wrestling matches, archery contests, and demonstrations of skill with swords and quarterstaffs, had attracted only a smattering of interest from the ranking nobles. These events were staged mainly for the entertainment of the castle inhabitants, whose fingers had snapped enthusiastically for each victor, and whose groans and hisses had followed the defeated off the field. As the morning progressed, the excitement and tension swelled proportionately, and as noon approached, the litters and carts began arriving with more and more jewelled and ornamented spectators. The Bower of Beauty teemed with a riot of multicoloured silks and wafting wimples. Targets and quintains were moved to the sides of the field and the wooden palisades brought forward to replace them front and centre.
The jousting matches were by far the most dangerous and titilating events and those who had deigned to forgo the morning activities in favour of extra sleep or extravagant preening, now eagerly craned their necks this way and that to catch glimpses of the preparations taking place at each end of the enclosure. Tables laden with food and ale for the guests were all but deserted as everyone hastened to find seats and points of vantage. The trumpets flared again, bringing a hush over the crowds as the first two challengers appeared in front of their pavilions.
“How many impartial eyes do you estimate?” the Wolf asked, adjusting the metal chausses on his thighs.
“Two hundred guests and nobles at the least,” Sparrow replied. “Perhaps twice as many retainers, servants, and folk from the castle village, although most of those have been herded higher on the bailey grounds, away from the field. It is the number of guards that worries me. Like bluebirds they are, perched everywhere. On the walls, roaming the crowds, stalking the pavilions. Robert says he smells trouble and I believe him.”
“Robert has a keen nose,” the Wolf remarked.
Sparrow plumped his hands on his hips and scowled his disapproval over ill-placed humour. He had found their leader in the least likely place he had anticipated finding him: in his pavilion by the jousting fields. More alarming, he was alone, save for a handful of squires and groomsmen, none of whom Sparrow recognized.
“I expected someone to tell me you were dead,” he stated bluntly.
“My apologies for disobliging you.”
Sparrow’s glittering black eyes narrowed. “We watched the men leaving the castle. You could have told us you had changed plans.”
“The change was not at my request,” said the Wolf, meeting Sparrow’s gaze for the first time. A shocking, indescribable fury flashed in the depths of the normally cool and steely gray orbs, and the sight of it made the breath catch in Sparrow’s throat.
“What happened? What has gone wrong?”
The Wolf needed a moment to compose himself. In a half-snarl he related the morning’s confrontations, first with Prince John, then with the Dragon Wardieu. “I could not very well refuse his offer to release the Princess Eleanor,” he concluded harshly. “Nor could I consider leaving myself until this matter is resolved between us.”
“Which he counted upon, of course.”
“Of course.”
“How did he discover your secret?” Sparrow asked darkly.
“Not the way you think,” the Wolf snapped. “And not the way he wo
uld have me believe.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but are you so convinced of the chick-pea’s loyalty?”
In lieu of answering, the Wolf crossed over to the door of the pavilion and snatched the silk flap aside enough for a clear view of the sprawling tilting grounds. He scanned the seats in the main bower, easily identifying the Dragon and his maleficent consort, Nicolaa de la Haye. Seated on the other side of De Gournay was an inordinately subdued John Lackland, and to his left, the Bishop Gautier.
Friar’s expression was placid enough, yet it was obvious to a familiar eye that he was beginning to notice oddities and incongruities around him. There were distinctly more guards present in the crowds and on the sides of the field than was usual. And where there should have been discreet placements of black and gold blazons, there were none.
“Our men?” the Wolf asked.
“What few we have are well placed,” Sparrow assured him. “They will do nothing without your signal.”
“They will do nothing at all. The Lady Servanne’s life depends upon it.”
Sparrow flinched at the wrath in the Wolf’s voice. His own words came back to haunt him: Who fights the hardest also falls the farthest. He had been referring to the Lady Servanne’s probability of succumbing to the Wolf’s powers of persuasion. Never, in his wildest imaginings had he considered the opposite happening.
“Where is she now?”
“I do not know. My guess is the Dragon has her hidden away somewhere within the castle.” The Wolf turned from the door and Sparrow’s belly plummeted to his feet. “I never should have taken the chance with her life. I never should have let her leave the abbey, never should have met her last night, never should have touched her!”
God’s rood, he was rambling! Rambling and lovesick, drowning in emotions Sparrow suspected he had blocked from his senses for so many years, he was unable to deal with them. Revenge and hatred had been the cornerstones of the impenetrable wall the reborn La Seyne Sur Mer had erected around his heart. Guilt, love, even feelings of jealousy were as foreign to him as hands on a fish and he was just as helpless to know what to do with them.
Moreover, it was beyond conceivable thought to imagine what his reaction might be if these newfound emotions were found to have no basis in truth. If his love was betrayed or deceived, if his trust was spurned and his loyalty mocked, it would surely destroy him. It would destroy every other living thing around him as well, for his rage, if unleashed, would know no bounds.
Sparrow took a deep breath and forced a calmness in his voice he was far from feeling. “Hidden her away, you say? Even in a castle this size, the walls have ears and the windows have eyes. Someone will have seen where he put her. It is a challenge, make no mistake, but one I will embark upon willingly, if only to save myself the misery of listening to you bay at the moon each night … unless, of course, you plan to spare us all the trouble of planning our futures by ignoring the task before you?”
The Wolf flexed and unflexed his fists. His gaze remained clouded and unresponsive, his pain seeking the only outlet it knew: violence.
“Your brother is strong and dangerous,” the little man continued, blithely ignoring the bloodlust etched into the Wolf’s face. “He did not come by his reputation by chance or by underestimating his enemies. Proof thereof lies in the fact his spies were able to ferret out the identity of Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer.”
Keep talking, Sparrow told himself. Do not think of the size of his fists.
“You have prepared well for this day, but there are always the tinkerings of Luck, Fate, and Destiny to contend with. We shall have to put them out of the way at once by offering them no opportunities to interfere. Smite the Dragon square on the visor, the heart, or the gut. Unhorse him on the first pass and waste no breath on the niceties of honour or chivalry. He will be out to skewer you as clean and sure, make no mistake. Have you recalled all of his weaknesses? Do you remember if he favours aiming for the left or the right side? The shoulder or the chest? The arm or the thigh? One thing to our advantage: Unless he has found himself another left-handed opponent to tilt with him throughout the years, he will be out of practice, whereas you, my lord, will face nothing new or awkward in the list. Is Triton groomed and ready, or has he managed to frighten these blundernoses into adding their own dung to the stable heaps?”
“He is behaving,” the Wolf said slowly.
“Good. I shall whisper a word or two in his ear anyway, to be sure he knows his business.”
Sparrow’s chatter had had its desired effect. The killing rage had not completely faded from the Wolf’s eyes, but at least it was now being channeled in a healthier direction. He thrust aside the flap of the tent once again and fixed his gaze on the Dragon of Bloodmoor Keep, his thoughts focused solely on their pending confrontation.
The bells on Sparrow’s collar tinkled as he moved forward and stalked a loose thong he had noticed on the Wolf’s hauberk.
“There are twenty matches scheduled for the afternoon,” he said, frowning as he checked the laces, buckles, and belts of the Black Wolf’s armour. “Three of the early ones are with some lout from Nottinghamshire—Guy de Gisbourne. He will be fighting in place of Sir Aubrey de Vere, who, as we well know, met with an unfortunate accident in the woods. Gisbourne is another dog who strives to lick Jack Lack’s backside with admirable energy. He is also skilled and dangerous in the saddle, but I am told he finds the act of thinking too strenuous and prefers not to do it too often. Mark him well anyway if there is trouble.”
“If there is trouble?” The Wolf dropped the flap back in place. “I admire your gift for understatement.”
“Bah! You act as if you hold some doubt as to whether or not you can oust the Dragon from his lair.”
“A man without doubts is a fool and could find himself making mistakes.”
“Then let us hope the Dragon is as fine a fool as he has proven to be so far.”
Sparrow’s attempt to bluster his way through a smile faltered noticeably as the Wolf reached down and gripped his slender shoulders.
“She must be found, my little friend. Regardless of what happens here this afternoon, she must be found and removed from this place, for she would not survive a month in his keeping.”
Sparrow laid his hand overtop the Wolf’s. “We will save your lady, my lord, or we will all perish in the trying; you have my word on it. Let that be one less worry you take with you onto the field.” He paused and gave the matter an extra moment of debate before peering up through his long black lashes. “Does that mean we are bound to rescue Old Blister as well? Twould cause a man or two to balk at the notion, I warrant, for she’d be as sour being saved as sullied.”
The Wolf almost grinned. “Admit it: You have missed having her around to box your ears and order you about.”
“Bah! Poxy trull! I should have drowned her in the pool when I had the chance and saved us all a deal of aggravation.”
The Wolf smiled. “Aggravate yourself some more, Puck, and lend a hand with the rest of my armour. I would dress early and enjoy the show a while.”
26
The first pair of challengers were announced by the herald and called to horse. Sir Guy de Gisbourne, fighting on behalf of the host, appeared at one end of the lists, his rampager draped in blue and armoured almost as heavily as his rider. The knight wore De Gournay’s colours, a sky-blue gypon overtopping oiled chain mail and a breastplate of polished steel. His shoulders, arms, thighs, calves, and knees were armoured by protective steel plates as well, and he carried a kite-shaped shield emblazoned with his own family crest and colours. The helm he wore covered all but a narrow strip across the eyes, which would be subsequently protected when the slitted visor was lowered into place. A towering blue plume danced above the peak of the helm, matching the flamboyant plumes woven into his steed’s mane and tail.
Gisbourne’s opponent was a visiting knight who had issued the challenge in the hopes of settling a claim over a disputed parcel of land. Mixing bu
siness with entertainment was an acceptable way of resolving such matters. The winner would take clear title of the land; the loser would forfeit all future claims along with the customary surrender of his armour and weapons.
After their formal progress around the field, the challengers took up their positions at opposite ends of the list and waited for the signal from the dais. There was a flourish of trumpets while Prince John raised the ceremonial gold arrow above his head; his hand flashed downward and the destriers were spurred into action, charging down the narrow lane, converging at a point midway along the field in a clash of steel and rampaging horseflesh.
Gisbourne’s lance struck the challenger’s breastplate and unseated the valiant knight on the first pass.
A groan of disappointment rippled through the crowds of spectators at so ignoble a beginning to the afternoon’s activities. Wagers grudgingly changed hands and a fresh flurry of excitement began to rise as the defeated knight was helped from the field. The next pair of challengers survived two passes before a victor was declared, the third went the limit of three charges and had to be decided by the panel of impartial judges.
Gisbourne settled his second dispute as effortlessly as the first, and his opponent not only had to forfeit his gear and destrier in the loss, but broke both his legs in the tumble from the saddle. The eighth and ninth pair were unexceptional, prompting the crowd to hiss and jeer at their lack of nerve. Gisbourne took to the palisades for his third and final victory of the day, leaving the field with narry a scratch to armour or flesh.
By this time, the noise and frenzy was reaching a fevered pitch. A cheer swelled and burst as the Dragon de Gournay stood and bowed, his smile promising a good show as he took his leave of the dais. Scarcely an eye was not on his broad back as he made his way to the pavilion to prepare. Those same eyes, alerted by a pointed finger and a gasp of recognition, swept to the black silk tent that stood a little apart from the others. A huge, jet-black beast was being led toward the pavilion, his hooves prancing and pawing his impatience. Caparisoned all in black, it could have been the Devil’s rampager save for the startling contrast of the snow-white mane and tail. These were left unbraided and unfettered by bows and feathers, the hair brushed sleek and shiny so that on each toss of the tapered head, it lashed the air like white wind.
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