by Jude Chapman
Sensing the truth though unaware of the particulars, Jenna did not want him to be gentle. They took what comfort they could, little enough as it was. “Oh, Drake, Drake,” she whispered. “How can I bear being parted from you?” She ran her fingers through his hair. Wrapped her hands around his neck. Pulled his head against her rosy breasts. Moaned with pleasure as he drank of her flesh. And with the guile of a maiden who was a maiden no more, guided his hand into golden reaches and let him take her once more.
Later, when they collapsed in a fever and lay facing each other, moonlight stroking their naked bodies, they spoke without words. Drake wanted to lie in her arms from sunrise to sunrise until they grew old together, but it would have to wait for another night.
He stirred. She protested. “I must go,” he said.
She clutched him closer. They made love again while the moon sank and the first light of day appeared on the eastern horizon.
At first light he rode Jenna home on Stephen’s dappled gray, a twin to the one Drake had stabled back at Itchendel. His hands encircling her waist, a waist more slender than it had been mere days before, he helped her dismount. Holding onto her hands, he leaned close and kissed her. Ribbons of grief streamed down her face. His mouth tasted the salt. She gave him a final embrace and sprinted toward the manor house where she and her family had moved July last.
He soon lost sight of her slender figure as it disappeared into the muted brown landscape. She did not look back.
Chapter 6
OTHER THAN A FIGHT WITH a notable town bully, all that was needed to complete the transformation from Drake to Stephen was a change of clothes and a new sword.
He wore the sword already, having strapped it on immediately after climbing down from Nelda’s window. As for clothes, the bundle Stephen brought back with him contained garments from his personal wardrobe, recognizable as uniquely his by their cleanliness and fine cut, a sharp contrast to Drake’s usual slovenly dress.
After riding Jenna home, he changed quickly, mounted the gray, and rode for the castle of his recent captivity. When he was shown into the great hall of Twyford Castle, the kind of hush that welcomes Death itself palled the gathering of grieving kinsmen. Those who knew one or the other fitzAlan brother stared with contempt. More than one man put hand to sword. Those who didn’t were soon enlightened.
“Stephen, dear, how thoughtful of you to come. I know you and Seward were boon companions.” Everyone had presumed the young man standing before them was Drake fitzAlan—murderer and mutilator—until Elberta Twyford, Seward’s gracious mother, shattered the illusion.
Drake hitched a shoulder inside Stephen’s stiff but elegant tunic. Though Lady Twyford cleared up any misinterpretation concerning his assumed identity, the rest of Seward’s kin threw off the palpable opinion that the identical twin brother of a murderer and mutilator was little improvement. Leaving hushed whispering behind, Elberta ushered Drake into the chamber where Seward lay just outside Death’s door.
Sitting vigil beside the frail heap that was his only son, Corwin of Twyford stared blankly at the knight come to offer his respects. “Look. Look what your brother did to him!” His leathery face, marred with scars and grief, reddened with wrath. Elberta hurried to her husband’s side and calmed the man whose son was his spitting image. Lord Twyford looked again at Drake as if he were the brother of the Devil himself. Then he broke down. “I know, I know,” he said, and covered his face with a broad, shaking hand.
Taking a respectful course to the other side of the bed, Drake climbed the steps and gazed down at Seward Twyford, waxen as any man on his funeral bier and gasping shallow breaths through a slack-jawed mouth.
“My baby, my darling.” Elberta’s eyes overflowed.
Seward would not live, not because he looked like death itself but because his shattered skull had penetrated brain matter, evident through the swath of seeping bandages.
“You know that Seward … that he has been …?”
Drake nodded and gulped.
Elberta urged her lord away from the sickbed. “I’ll stay with Seward. You take Stephen to the stables. Go.” Casting Drake a sharp look of hostility, the lord of Twyford reluctantly obeyed his bride.
What Twyford had to show Drake was a white destrier standing forlornly without its master. “In his hurry to leave my humble abode, after he attacked my son, your brother left this behind.” The destrier nickered a friendly welcome. Since the steed was worth a year’s income to a common lord, Twyford probably would have kept the animal had it not been immediately recognizable, and further, had it not been associated with the supposed murderer of his son. “He does belong to your brother?”
Drake wanted to apologize to Lord Twyford for the harsh fate that befell his son, but there was nothing to apologize for. He wanted to offer his condolences, but it was premature for such. Instead he said, “May I ask a courtesy? May I take a look at your dungeon?” Though the lord of Twyford did not ask why the request had been made, Drake told him the truth as far as he was able. “My brother Drake was held there against his will.”
“I know of no such prisoner.”
“Several men were involved, one of them a stranger to these parts. A big man with a deep voice, possibly from Cornwall.”
“The countryside was filled with strangers that day.” After regarding the fitzAlan lad with skepticism and a bit of curiosity, Twyford relented and wordlessly escorted Drake below. Upon arrival, both men recoiled. The stink of vomit, ordure, piss, blood, and fear was yet rank. The bloodshot eyes of a grieving father looked toward Drake with more than one question, but he didn’t have to ask anything. He understood what had happened here. “Could be Seward was not wholly blameless.”
“Still, he didn’t deserve his fate.”
“No man does.” A tentative truce had been struck, but it was short-lived. As Drake made to go, Twyford’s voice checked him. “If Seward was involved in punishing Drake for his depraved deed, then glory to his accomplishment and lamentation for his failure. For I warn you, Stephen fitzAlan, and I warn your father. Drake will be a man without castle or country for the rest of his born days. If ever he has the boldness to show his face in Winchester again, I intend to finish what my son started.”
Drake departed with the destrier on lead and rode to another unwelcome destination. The greeting he received from Swithun fitzHugh was no more civil than Corwin Twyford’s parting.
True as blood runs dry, Lord fitzHugh did not know the first thing about his son’s misspent youth, his profitless days, his wayward nights, his feckless friends, or his newly made acquaintances, nor did he care. He only knew his youngest had been cut down at the prime of his life in an unspeakable manner. Drake wisely thought it best not to speak ill of the dead, especially since fitzHugh had in mind for Drake fitzAlan the same fate as did Corwin Twyford, except for a barbarous addition that made Drake lock his legs, not to open them until he remounted the palfrey and galloped safely away.
At the de Lacy manor, Graham’s father was too preoccupied with overseeing his fields to care about his son’s whereabouts. No, Lord de Lacy had not seen Graham since the day of that damnable tournament. No, he had no idea where that bastard of a lad was off to or what trouble he was getting himself into now. No, he didn’t give a good goddamn whether the youngest of his five worthless sons was alive or dead. Further, it was no concern of his who got hanged or gutted, nor was it ever likely to be. “Good day to you, sieur, if I may rightly call you so. But being most keenly aware of the character of your brother, or the lack thereof, I’m not in mind to call any fitzAlan ‘sieur’.” He tipped his hat most gallantly and urged his roan forward.
“I’ll say one thing for you, sieur,” Drake said to de Lacy’s back. “Unlike Lords fitzHugh and Twyford, you don’t wish to see my brother dead.” He smiled agreeably.
De Lacy brandished a knife. “Indeed so? I say this advisedly to you, fitzAlan. Don’t rush to the precipice of judgment. You and your brother may be forced to jump.�
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* * *
In the London Way Alehouse and Inn, Drake appropriated a table for himself, due in no small part to being unwelcome at any other table. Certainly every man present knew who he was and gave off unmistakable signals that the twin brother of a notorious felon was little better than the notorious felon himself.
The chamber was plastered with wall paintings depicting town scenes, pastoral landscapes, and hall settings inhabited by rotund women, stout men, and well-fed babes. Candles burned smoky amidst the din of subdued talk and immodest laughter. Most of the faces were familiar, but the names escaped Drake. By serving Richard as squires lo these many years, he and Stephen had been away from Winchester more days than not, and as a consequence, neither had much in common with these men who subsisted from day to dreary day with nothing to look forward to but a Saturday night and no grander purpose than to stagger home to nagging wives and monotonous toil. Two tables away, knights from the Itchendel guard exchanged hearty laughter and heartier backslaps but nary a civil word with the son of their lord.
All in all, the alehouse was a man’s province, except for one notable exception. “You look fair recovered.” A woman of uncommon beauty but common origins, Aveline Darcy filled his tankard to the brim, her hazel eyes studying every landmark of his face.
“Far from recovered.”
A year or two older than Drake and, as far as anyone knew, unattached to man or beast, she ran the London Way Alehouse and Inn with an iron fist along with two younger brothers, a mother who saw to the brewery, and a father who drank as much ale as any ten men combined. “Recovered or not, you and Drogo owe me reparation for damages to my finely hewn tables and chairs.” Her stare was unflinching. The dusky purplish-gray of her finely spun linen complemented a complexion the color of ripe peaches.
Drake put a finger to his brow. “I’m confused.”
“I don’t see why.”
“Aren’t your finely hewn tables and chairs made for breaking over the heads of your patrons?”
The penetrating glare pierced as sharp as a honed sword. “’Twould seem, Stephen fitzAlan, you’re far too keen for the likes of me.” Trailing whiffs of midsummer lavender, she sidled away with appealing swings to her hips.
Just then, the point of a sword pressed sharp between Drake’s shoulder blades. “First rule,” spoke a sonorous voice. “Always watch your backside.”
Drake bolted from his chair and swung around. Possessed of a single malevolent eye black as a jet bead, the other eye half-shut from an old sword wound, a seasoned chevalier stood before him. Drake acknowledged him by name. “Mallory d’Amboise.”
“Captain of the Itchendel Castle guard to you, my fine knave.” The sword was yet leveled at breastbone. Mallory’s fingers were taut on the grip. The message was clear: he might easily kill Drake where he stood. “You can use that, can you?” he said, nodding toward the lion sword girded at his waist.
“Fair.”
“You trained under William Marshal, captain of Old King Henry’s guard.” D’Amboise circled round the lad he had watched grow to manhood, his sword balanced and his free fist curled against a thick waist. “Think you’re knight material, do you? Think a tap on the shoulder can make you one?”
Drake followed his movements warily, the two like bulls. The first, master of his domain for as long as memory served. The other, fresh and immature, and uncertain about his mastery of a blessed thing.
D’Amboise nodded toward the sword again. “Think again.”
Forged steel sung out in harmony and pointed skyward at opposing angles. Tables and chairs scraped out of the way as alehouse patrons, cheering gamely, gave the knights ample room.
Aveline Darcy positioned herself at the hall’s periphery, hand braced on a curvaceous hip and censure marking her stern face and sterner eyes. Since there was nothing she could do to stop the duel, Drake decided she may as well get a lesson in knighthood, though it seemed unlikely Aveline Darcy would be impressed by any demonstration of male prowess, no matter how well-executed.
“Let’s see what you’re made of,” Mallory chided.
“You old fart,” Drake taunted. “You’re too old to be a knight. Might as well hang up your spurs and surrender your sword.”
Signs of a once-handsome physique—ruddy of complexion, square of jaw, and russet of mane—remained, though no one dare call Mallory d’Amboise pretty and live to tell of it. A wide grin spread across his face. “I’m going to take a great deal of joy turning you into mincemeat.” Mallory beat his blade against the lion sword.
They took their time circling one another, each assessing the moves, gaits, and capabilities of the other. D’Amboise lunged forward. Drake parried with a semicircular flash of steel and drove Mallory’s sword aside, then countered with a lateral cut, which d’Amboise neatly defended. Both men backed off, one smiling at the other with an incomplete set of teeth, the other reciprocating with a dazzling collection.
The old knight’s repertoire consisted of three basic moves: stepping from side to side, throwing sword from hand to hand, and goading with taunts and sneers. Drake anticipated him making an identical lunge to the first. The chevalier did not disappoint. Drake darted inside the sword’s circle and backed out fleet-footed. Swords clanged and twirled. The lion sword ensnared the reverse edge of Mallory’s blade. On a pirouetting foot, Drake spun around and defended with a cut toward his opponent’s left cheek. Mallory saw the stroke coming, dodged it, and straightaway pressed his attack, driving Drake through a ring of instantly parted patrons and flattening him against the wall. Plastered lumber rattled with the force, dust dislodged from the rafters, and Drake thwarted a downward cut with an upward parry that came nearly full circle and forced the tip of Mallory’s sword into the rushes.
The chevalier straightened and smiled. He reached out, grabbed Drake’s forearm and pitched him back to the center of the room. Drake rebalanced on his toes and oscillated the steel blade with the flick of his wrist. Mallory repositioned his defensive posture and swaggered. Drake smiled. Intending to take the chevalier with a decisive thrust, he sped toward him with an extended arm. From out of nowhere, the old knight’s sword split the air, sliced upward, and handily disarmed Drake. His hand rendered numb, Drake watched helplessly as the lion sword skittered across the floor.
Leaning nonchalantly against a far wall with arms crossed, Aveline Darcy remained unimpressed by the display of male gallantry. Her attitude irked Drake more than Mallory’s luck.
A smile spread across old knight’s face, his thick tongue wagging in gleeful victory. He closed in on the young knight. Drake backed up, his eyes darting in the direction of the loose sword. He would have to go around d’Amboise to retrieve it. Mallory let out a chilling war cry as his sword hurtled on a downward drive. Diving under the blade and thence under a table, Drake flipped laterally and came up on the knight’s right. Mallory spun around, on the defensive. Huddled close to the ground, Drake whacked his boot into Mallory’s kneecap and sprang to his feet.
The chevalier yowled, buckled, and sank. Growling displeasure and groveling on all fours, he wasn’t so much hurt as stalling. Thwarting Drake with a pendulant sword, he angled for an opening. Drake wagged his hands for Mallory to rise. The knight balanced a foot to the ground. As he did, Drake took a rolling dive and reached for Stephen’s sword. Just as he put hand on haft, Mallory kicked him from below. Drake tumbled backwards, the wind knocked out of him and the sword flying free. Mallory rose agilely to both feet and nudged the tip of his blade against Drake’s breastbone, signaling defeat.
A hearty roar accompanied the sheathing of his sword. The chevalier reached down, grabbed the young knight’s elbow, and hauled him to his feet. “You’ll do. Though you have much to learn, pompous twit I know you to be.”
Drake bent over, hands to knees, and caught his breath. “And the second rule?”
“Never trust anyone,” said the chevalier. “Not even me.”
Drake retrieved the lion sword and
sheathed it. He found a few more bruises to nurse on top of the many he already had. Settling on the chair opposite Drake, Mallory dipped a sleeve into his tankard and wiped blood from a split lip. All around them, tables and chairs were righted and set back into position. Aveline Darcy dispensed ale and lewd jokes about knights and their small assets, putting everyone in a gay mood, though when she reached Mallory and Drake, she had nothing to say. Her piercing eyes said everything for her and more eloquently than any words could voice.
Mallory swept his head in the direction of her departing back and said for Drake’s ears only, “Aveline Darcy is known to dispense favors in the upper chambers a half night a throw.”
Drake eyed her shapely legs, subtly revealed with every kick of her skirts. “I’ll have to curry those favors. Soon.”
“She’s choosy, is this daughter of an alewife, and she’s been known to leave permanent scars on her victims.”
“I’ll have to take my chances, won’t I?”
The chevalier grinned. “My, my. Seems your service with Richard has grown more than a beard on your face.” Mallory settled back, his eyes lowering to the tankard clutched in his hands. “Your brother, by the bye, delivered safe. Quiet as a lamb he was, boarding the king’s galley, and hardly a backward glance, seeing that he was hog-tied hand and foot.”
Mallory chuckled into his ale and Drake joined in, each laughing at a different joke.
“As for myself,” d’Amboise said, “I don’t believe Drake could have committed such a deed as to kill and mutilate a man. Any man, no matter the offense. Do you, Stephen?”
Drake met Mallory’s stare. “Testing my loyalty?”
“Not all brothers get on. Could be you two don’t. Though from what I’ve seen over the years, I’d say you were protective of your big brother, mayhap overprotective.”
