The Edge of the Blade

by The Edge of the Blade (retail) (epub)

  Very well. So he’d miss what was left of the food. But at least he’d deliver Ardelet’s letter to Sir Geoffrey. And meet the foreigners. And see the woman Guthric had slyly recommended. Not that some daughter of Palestine would be a match for the girls he’d – only just – resisted on that rocky offshore island. Most likely her skin would be burned to a crust by the sun, the whites of her eyes tinged grey.

  Her teeth would be good, he’d heard that the women of the East had excellent teeth, but the last thing he needed tonight was a dazzling reminder that his own hurt like the devil.

  Yet curiosity drove him and, pinching the candle, he made his way along the passage that skirted his father’s quarters, emerging in the high, arched entranceway that led through to the Great Hall of Tremellion.

  Chapter Two

  It was sheer bad luck that Ranulf saw him first. Seated at the far side of a long refectory table, Baynard’s brother was slumped in his chair, his impassive features gelid with boredom. His gaze was turned upward to, what? A cluster of bats in the rafters? The drifting patterns of smoke that rose from the fire-pit? Unfortunately, the object of his indifferent gaze was directly above the archway, so Baynard’s arrival caught his attention.

  Ranulf rocked forward in his chair, right arm extended, spatulate fingers curled to a pointing fist. ‘Surprise guest at the banquet! D’you see him? Come to liven the proceedings, brother? You see him, my lord? The messenger back from Marathon!’

  Baynard counted seven of them at the table; grouped at one end of it of course, for the massive oak planks ran for more than twenty feet along the centre of the Hall. Sir Geoffrey was at the head of the table, Ranulf to his right, a skinny, bald-pated cleric farther along from Ranulf. The cleric had pulled himself close to the table, a scrawny bird surrounded by a nest of quills, inkwells, a jar of sand, sheets of parchment, some of them stitched together, others yet to bear his painstaking scrawl.

  At the other side of the table, and for the moment with their backs to Baynard Falkan, sat a finely dressed man, a woman beside him, a second woman, then a scribe who, at first glance, Baynard took for an Arab. It was hard to tell from the vantage point of the archway, but the Moorish scribe seemed content with a single inkwell, a single quill, a single sheet of paper.

  But by now heads were turning, Baynard advancing to greet the assembly. He bowed courteously to Sir Geoffrey and stood there as the warlord rose from his chair. The man was fifty years of age, old for his time. His body was scarred by wounds he’d received in the East, his left eye clouded, less alert than his right. His movements were slow now, yet his grasp was still firm and he caught his son in a heavy, bearlike embrace. As for the brothers, their greeting was achieved with the murmur of Ranulf’s name and, on Ranulf’s part, something less than a nod.

  ‘It went well?’ Sir Geoffrey growled. ‘No rats to nip you on the way?’

  ‘Felons in ambush, and the like? No, my lord, though we started a boar and its sow up near Marnham. Gave them a chase—’

  ‘And missed them both?’

  ‘And missed them both,’ Baynard admitted. ‘And went hungry that night, by result.’

  Pleased to have Baynard back with him, Sir Geoffrey said, ‘They’ve a damned quick speed to ’em, those tusky pigs.’ The man on his left nodded polite accord. Ranulf Falkan shrugged.

  Aware that protracted delay would be impolite to the visitors, Baynard said quickly, ‘I’ve a letter from the master of Ardelet, my lord. He did not discuss its contents with me, though I’m to tell you his response is favourable. He instructs me to tell you “Yes”.’

  ‘Well, now,’ Sir Geoffrey acknowledged, turning to address the others. ‘Is that not what I told you before? Worth your time to go up there. I’ll read his reply later, and you shall have whatever details he mentions before you leave. But first, I’d present to you my younger son, visibly wearied by his travels.’ The implied criticism jerked Baynard to attention. It was true; he was bone-tired and his tooth ached and he wished himself in bed and in dreamless sleep. But Guthric, blast him, had sparked his curiosity, and now that he was here he’d best do what the constable suggested – look half alive, rather than demi-dead.

  The man who was seated at Sir Geoffrey’s left came easily to his feet. He was taller than the warlord, taller than either Ranulf or Baynard, though he matched the younger Falkan in the leanness of his build. Aristocratic in his bearing, he wore a long, pale linen tunic, its hem embroidered with gold and crimson thread. The tunic was loosely gathered at the waist, the supple leather belt knotted in place of a buckle. His surcoat was shorter – part gown, part mantle – the silk-trimmed garment lined with fur. It was held at the left shoulder by an ornate silver brooch and turned back to give freedom to his sword arm. He inclined his head in a bow to Baynard, then identified himself in a calm, clear voice.

  ‘Gilles de Magnat-Vaulmier, Duc de Querinard, Comte d’Almé, on commission from the Christian Lords of Outremer and, hélas, the sadly lost Jerusalem. You may or may not have heard it from the guards, Sir Baynard, but I lead what might be termed a mendicant expedition. My lords of the Christian Kingdom have sent me to beg for funds.’ He said it without apology, his tone devoid of arrogance. That was the way it was and Baynard now knew it, take it or leave it be.

  Young Falkan thought Magnat-Vaulmier just about perfect for the task he’d been empowered to undertake. His presence commanded respect – by God, he was tall enough for it – and the nobleman was a world away from the stuffed-bellied bishops and weasely officials who traipsed the length and breadth of England, soliciting coin.

  Another thing; he had a wry sense of humour, this Magnat-Vaulmier, guessing correctly that word was already around. What was it Guthric had said? ‘They’re acting so polite with Sir Geoffrey, there’s bound to be a begging bowl brought out.’ The constable was right, and Magnat-Vaulmier had recognized it, and now he’d pitched his approach correctly. We are beggars, yes, but beggars for the Cause. The Christian Cause in Palestine. The greatest Cause the West has ever known.

  ‘With your permission, Sir Baynard, I’d present these other self-invited guests at your father’s table.’ He caught Sir Geoffrey’s eye, smiled as the warlord said, ‘Invited and welcome, my Lord Vaulmier.’ Then, with a fine match of courtesy and dismissal, murmured something about the scribe, something about the chaperone, his comments seeming to please them, yet leaving them seated where they were.

  After which, there only remained the young woman. The one Guthric had recommended. The one Magnat-Vaulmier now introduced as his daughter. ‘As travel-weary as yourself, I daresay, Sir Baynard, though embarked on a somewhat longer journey. Her name is Christiane.’

  So much for the stupid mental sketch he’d drawn in his room. So much for the sun-crusted skin, the dull opaqueness of her eyes. So much for all his jaundiced expectations of the foreigner.

  This one – this travel-weary daughter of the well-tempered Vaulmier – well, now that he could see her clearly, he felt a surge of pity for the girls on Ardelet’s island.

  She extended her hand, palm downwards, and he bowed to take it, though not daring to touch her fingers with his lips. He stared at her, heard his inner voice soundlessly query: Is that how it’s done? Seemingly no twitch of the line, yet the fish is hauled in silent shock to the bank?

  His mind attempted to register the myriad aspects of her beauty. But the candlelit colours of the mosaic refused to form. The fineness of her features… the unflecked blue of her eyes… her fingers, long and elegant… pale hair tressed… the yellow and silver thread of her bodice fused by the breath beneath it into gold…

  He managed, ‘My Lady Christiane.’

  Listened to the low pitch of her voice as she murmured, ‘My Lord Falkan.’

  Then watched as she turned away, the woman making no attempt at all to conceal her absolute lack of interest in Tremellion, the proceedings, or the wiry young man who’d been hooked ashore, struck by a coup de foudre, the thunderbolt that signifies love at fir
st sight.

  * * *

  He forced himself to sit shoulder to shoulder with Ranulf, dragging his chair alongside the brother he despised. He was deeply fatigued, his sense of balance tilted, but when Christiane yawned, her fingers fluttering as a fan toward her mouth, Baynard wanted to bring it to Vaulmier’s notice. ‘Your daughter is weary, sire! A paragon of beauty and you’d let the clouds of lassitude shadow her brow?’

  Thank God the young Falkan didn’t give voice to his thoughts, but contented himself with gazing at Christiane. There were more important things to be discussed than the idiotic feelings of a lovelorn knight…

  * * *

  With Sir Geoffrey’s willing agreement, Magnat-Vaulmier offered to give a brief resumé of his business in England – this for the latecomer’s benefit.

  Meanwhile, Christiane’s chaperone divided her attentions between Baynard and her charge. He wasn’t the first to be smitten, this lean young Cornishman, and he wouldn’t be the last. Even so, he’d bear watching, for what was it the poet said? ‘Lust and love stand hand in glove; yet the sinful serpent far below the dove.’ It would mean another sleepless night, this one in damp Tremellion, but the chaperone would see to it that the Lady Christiane slept undisturbed.

  The cleric and the scribe stopped writing.

  Already bored by what the aristocratic beggar had to say, Ranulf went back to his abstracted study of the smoke that wreathed the rafters.

  But Baynard leaned forward, nodding his thanks at Magnat-Vaulmier. It was good of the man to repeat what he’d told the others, though Falkan was forced to conceal a smile of admiration. A true salesman, the Duc de Querinard, Comte d’Almé, on commission from the Lords of Outremer. Tell the story twice, why not, and hammer the message home…

  ‘You will know, my lords, of the situation here. King Henry dead, his son Richard crowned seven months ago in London. You will also know the new king has sworn to lead a crusade in God’s Holy Land. Less well bruited is the fact that we’ve lost Jerusalem, that most sacred city, to the brilliant strategist Salah ed-Din Yusuf, al-Malik un-Nasir – the name that sits better on our tongue as Saladin. His religion is that of the Devil, but – it has to be admitted – he is himself the devil of a commander. Two years gone, and the Crusader force is pinned to the hem of the coast. He massacred our armies at Hattin, drove us from every frontier castle, and is now set fair to make us swim from the beaches. Germany drives against him, as does France under their king, Philip Augustus. Richard vows to lead the English in the mightiest effort yet. But to do so he needs the ships, the matériel, everything in short from tents to trebuchets. There are leaders enough – I’m inclined to think too many jarring leaders. And, now the Church has eased its rules, opening the gates of heaven to all who take part in the Crusade, we are not short of able-bodied men.

  ‘But money – yes, that is in short supply.’ Then he broke off, smiled briefly and shook his head. He asked the assembly if word had reached Cornwall of King Richard’s recent cry. ‘It may not be true,’ Lord Vaulmier told them, ‘though it sounds like Richard, like him to the life. Supposed to have been counting up the money with his chancellors, aumoniers and the rest, when he fisted the table and yelled to the heavens, “All the things a monarch might sell! By God, I’d sell the city of London itself if I could find a buyer!” Who can say if he meant it? But knowing the man England’s taken for its king, I’d hazard this bullish giant would trade your great island itself, if it gained him Jerusalem. Mark me as a critic if you will, my lords, but Richard of England is an oddity among men.’

  Magnat-Vaulmier reached for his goblet of dark, Cahors wine, brought it to his lips, eyed the Falkans of Tremellion. He decided he was speaking to one of them, maybe two. Certainly to Sir Geoffrey, who had already seen service overseas. And in part he was speaking to Baynard, though he could sense where the young Falkan’s interests truly lay; more with Christiane than Christendom. As for Lord Ranulf, one wouldn’t expect so much as a tarnished groat from the man. If money was to be forthcoming from Tremellion it would not be thanks to Sir Geoffrey’s elder son.

  Hair grey, face lined by life, the Cornish warlord thanked his guest for his reprise of the situation.

  ‘What you tell us is clear enough, Lord Vaulmier. Our armies are in desperate plight. For myself, I’d rather be barred from Heaven than see the Holy Land go to the devil. Mayhap you’ll think my views simple, but I’ve held staunch to them through all the years of my life. The True God belongs to the Christian faith. And that resides in the West. It was, as we know from our teachings, born in Palestine, spread across the Mediterranean, found favour in all of Europe. Well, perhaps not in every corner, but as far as the broom can reach.

  ‘It is we who weep for the blood of Christ, treasure the bones of His saints, kneel at His command. Without our firm belief in salvation we are no more than animals – the tusky pigs my son failed to catch near Marnham; fish down there in the Hexel. We are no more than vermin. No more than industrious spiders, knitting for mindless flies.’

  Baynard listened, his gaze directed at his father. He could not remember a time when Sir Geoffrey’s voice had been so resonant, each word stamped with clarity, measured to a rhythm. It would have suited the younger Falkan if the warlord had spoken till dawn.

  But Sir Geoffrey was tiring fast, his clouded eye blinking. He lost his train of thought, repeated what he’d said about the spiders, then rallied to look directly at his visitor.

  ‘So I’ll tell you – repeat what my old friend Ardelet’s told me. Yes, my Lord Vaulmier. Glancing at the letter he sent me, yes, we are both agreed. You shall have what you came for.’

  Tremellion’s visitor was no fool. He had made his plea, won his case, heard Sir Geoffrey Falkan mould his final strength of the night into a vow. You shall have what you came for. There was no need to push for details. Tomorrow would do as well.

  Magnat-Vaulmier stood up, assisted his daughter, waited for the chaperone and scribe to leave the table. Then he nodded at Ranulf and Baynard, deepened his nod to a bow at Sir Geoffrey and murmured to the warlord, ‘Tremellion was ever high on the Christian list, my Lord Falkan. It might please you to know you were noted down before I even set sail from Tyre. Oh, yes, and Ardelet too.’

  It did please the warlord to learn it, for it meant he was still remembered out there; a long-ago Crusader who’d had nothing to offer in those distant days but his faith and honour and courage; universal currency, though it lacked the chink of coin.

  Baynard started to his feet, eager to bid Christiane goodnight. No, not that at all, but to catch her eye, hear her speak to him, earn himself a smile he could stitch into sleep.

  But her chaperone was already guiding the woman away, the two of them ignoring Baynard, yet, oh yes, smiling at the warlord.

  The youngest of the Falkans called after them, ‘Sleep well, my Lord Vaulmier, my Lady Christiane.’ Then watched in despair, seeing the words fall short of their target, his call so uncertain it dipped the flight of his voice.

  He waited as Tremellion’s cleric gathered the nest of his tools. It seemed to take an age before the wizened bird scuttled from the Hall. Then Baynard walked slowly around the head of the table, passed behind his father, settled himself in the chair Lord Vaulmier had vacated. Ranulf sat across from him, his ponderous features hammered to a scowl. Unwilling to look at each other, the sons of Tremellion turned their attention to Sir Geoffrey, the man who must now explain what he’d meant by his promise to the beggars from abroad.

  * * *

  Ranulf jerked a thumb in the direction of the spiral stairs that led to the topmost floor of the keep. ‘I can bear it that we house them tonight, and even accept they’ve been fed three kinds of meat. But I’d hear somewhat more from you, sire – a damn sight more, may it please you – about this money you say you’ll drop in Palestine’s purse.’

  He glared with open animosity at his father. ‘Call it Tremellion’s money if you will, but let’s not leave it at that. It’s mine to
o, remember. Mine by interest and inheritance! So let’s hear an explanation, my lord. Let’s hear what you mean when you say they’ll have what they came for. Have what, beyond their food and lodging, and a swollen purse of coins?’

  Baynard said, ‘Be calm, brother Ranulf. These things are best discussed, not disputed.’ Then he flinched and stared hard as Ranulf swung toward him, telling the younger Falkan to hold his tongue, bite off the end of it, shut his ears and nail his blasted lips. It was nothing to Baynard where the money went. He was low on the list, and might as well be abed as sitting this out. ‘Why not crawl under the coverlet, brother, and work at yourself as you dream of Christiane? You made a sufficient fool of yourself, gawping at her, so why not go and seek your own release?’

  Ranulf’s evident anger served to infuriate his father, incense the lovelorn Baynard. The Lord of Tremellion drove himself from his chair, Baynard likewise coming erect. There was a moment of confusion, the nobility of Tremellion trading insults and warnings, the brothers drawn close to physical violence, their father growling at them.

  ‘Get you apart, and be seated! God’s eyes, but don’t you know how sound can travel? You, sir, have a regard for your language! As for you, my jumpy Baynard, reclaim your chair and keep it!’ He glared at his sons as they glared at each other, Ranulf by far the stronger in physique, Baynard convinced his brother was nothing but shout.

  The fifty-year-old Sir Geoffrey Falkan remained on his feet, wagged a warning hand at Baynard, then turned to deal with Ranulf.

  ‘You say your brother is low on the list – a cruel observation, but true. He stands to gain nothing from Tremellion, a second son, but don’t you suppose he knows it?’

  With a glance at Baynard, Ranulf said, ‘I’m sure he can bear reminding.’