Sword of Justice (White Knight Series)

by Jude Chapman

“Why?”

  “He was the sheriff’s reeve before taking over as acting sheriff. No one trusts a reeve. That’s why Winchester elected a mayor, the first ever hereabouts. The special tribute is for protection, so they say. As if the barony needs protecting.”

  “How do you know all this?” Drake was astonished with the depth of knowledge she claimed not to own.

  “As you say, I’m the daughter of an alewife. Men talk when soaked in liquor. And when paying by the half night.” She said the last as a jab.

  Drake likened Aveline to the lass he lost his virginity to. A certain demoiselle who gave her body freely to any lad with pustules on his face and an itch in his braies. Stephen and Drake lined up of a Saturday night, penny in hand, and took turns with the other lads for her special favors, which were quick and to the point. She left town a year after disposing of Drake’s virginity. But first loves die hard, and he often reflected on her fate. He reckoned Aveline was the same kind of lass, a few years older and wiser but no less free with her favors, and hopefully not so quick and to the point.

  As if reading his mind, she said. “A man can always dream.” She pushed herself up from the table.

  “Is that she-devil yours?”

  “Nay, I borrowed her from the lady down the street so she might torment you when I was busy.”

  “Where’s her father?”

  “Around.”

  “Do I know him?”

  She stared at him levelly. “Might.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Pippa. Short for Philippia.”

  His mother’s name. He changed the subject. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Naught.” Scrubbing a pot, she explained, “Your brother rents by the month. In advance. And since he’s been exiled to God knows where, when it ought to be you, you might as well have use of bed and board.” She wheeled around and propped a hand at her hip. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking the daughter of an alewife cannot possibly keep a secret and by now all of Winchester knows you’re not your brother.”

  “And doesn’t it?”

  “I may have an unmade bed but not a loose mouth.” She returned to her washing.

  “Why did Steph … that is, I … need to borrow money from Yacob the moneylender. Surely William …”

  “To pay off your gambling debts.” She swung around, her silken hair taking flight. “You know nothing about your brother, do you?”

  I lost it … misplaced it, Stephen had said about the missing cabochon ring. Gambled it away, most likely, the night he picked a fight with anyone but Drake. “I thought I did,” he said more to himself than Aveline.

  “You’re very different, you and your brother.”

  “Are we?” He regarded her with a sharp eye. Though a member of the merchant class, she was different than most women of her sort. She possessed an independent spirit, a keen mind, opinions of her own, a prideful spirit, and a sharp tongue. She could hold her own in a hall filled with drunken sops, and she could put down a knight with a sideways glance. “Why is it he never told me about you?”

  Her hazel eyes stared down at him without blinking. She lifted her shoulders and just as quickly, lowered them. “Maybe because there was nothing to tell.”

  Drake found out something else about Aveline Darcy. She was a good cook.

  Chapter 9

  DRAKE MET JENNA BY HAPPENSTANCE on High Street. Even though the street was crowded with shops, wagons, carts, tradesmen, and most of Winchester, it being market day, Geneviève de Berneval stood out no matter where she went.

  Carrying a basket filled with odds and ends, she wore a flowing gown the color of daisies. Amber earrings dangled from her petite earlobes, bobbing and sparkling in the sunlight. A diaphanous veil held in place with golden strands of silken twine topped her braided hair. She was a striking creature in every way except for the telltale signs of weeping and lack of sleep that stamped her usually gay face.

  Drake’s heart filled his throat, but he donned the mask of his brother and greeted her cheerfully, pretending the signs of grief and worry weren’t visible.

  Eager to ask after himself and his brother, who coincidentally were one in the same, Jenna latched onto his arm. Before she could muster a barrage of questions, the unspoken reproach of her mother, who gave up her place at the baker’s stall to march across the street, stopped the girl short.

  Ordinarily a gracious woman, the grand dame whom Drake had known for a good part of his life peered at him through the eyes of a stranger. In the guise of Stephen, he was the brother of a murderer. Worse, he was the spitting image of a notorious outlaw who had no barter with wellborn folk, and most especially with Rosaline de Berneval and her cherished daughter. She eyed his injuries with interest. “We heard tell of your quarrel with Sergeant Atwell.”

  A mother’s visible contempt was another slap of fortune’s hand, worse than any jab from vicious sergeant, paid goon, or errant knight. “Oh aye, the swine.”

  Piling on further indignities, Henri de Berneval tramped their way. Looking far from the stalwart knight who had loyally served Old King Henry for years, he came abreast his wife and stared with open disdain at the supposed brother of his daughter’s betrothed. “Come,” he said, guiding his family away. “This man is the brother of an outlaw and isn’t welcome in polite company.”

  The single stroke of a sword had erased years of welcome and warm regard. Rebuked by the very man and woman who had toasted his engagement to their beloved daughter only a sennight past, Drake didn’t know what to say. He turned into a witless man without tongue or conviction. Perhaps he was the pariah folks supposed him to be, or as good as, because a man without a sterling reputation was a man to be struck down with shame and shunned from decent society.

  Her face reddening with anger, Jenna rounded on her father. “How dare you treat Stephen like this. When you insult Stephen, you insult Drake. And me. I … I’ll never forgive you. Either of you.” Turning on a heel, Jenna grabbed Drake’s hand and tugged him away. People watched as they fled from a father’s wrath.

  “Where are you going?!”

  “Away from you!” she called back, her spine stiff and head thrust high. She guided Drake into a back alley. The high wall of an adjacent shop provided shade enough to cool her temper, but only up to a point. She paced and wrung her hands, making her more appealing than ever. She had defended his honor and the honor of his family. More, she had declared her love of him without knowing her love stood before him. He wanted to hold her close and whisper endearments into her ear but dared not. Gathering control of her temper, she asked, “How is Drake?”

  Drake couldn’t help but admire the scooped neckline of her bodice or the laced side openings of her kirtle. “Well enough.” He looked out toward High Street, where her parents yet stood, ever watchful.

  “Where is he?”

  Something frantic in the way she asked made him uneasy. Truthfully and to the point, he could have told her, Here before you. Discretion cautioned him from being forthcoming, even after she had nobly stepped up to his defense. “Away from Winchester.” Her breath rose to put another question, but he spared her the effort. “’Tis all I can tell you.”

  She looked both deflated and relieved. “Aye, I understand, I do. His life is in the gravest danger.” She paced to and fro, the wisps of her hair catching a breeze on each turn. “It’s dreadful not being with him when he needs me so.” She wheeled around. “How can people believe Drake had anything to do with those gruesome attacks?”

  “Men will believe the worst of others,” he said, “even when there’s no proof.”

  Becoming aware of his stare, a stare that must have revealed the depth of his feelings, she dug the toe of her doeskin boot into the ground. “Can you not tell me more than away from Winchester? Hmm, Stephen?”

  He opened his mouth, hesitated, and shut it, shrugging impotently.

  She swung her face back toward the street and the prying eyes of her parents. They doted on
her, and why shouldn’t they? Jenna was their only child, the light of their lives, and their sole offering to the future. She licked her lips, struggling between being a dutiful daughter or a rebellious child. She made up her mind. Taking his hand once more, she guided him around a corner, backed him against a darkened doorway, and leaned close. The basket dropped to her feet. Spice jars, ribbons, and an ell of green silk spilled out. “Are you sure you have naught to tell me? Hmm … Stephen?”

  The way she stressed his brother’s name revealed everything. Drake said, “You know, then.”

  Her hand stroked his arm; her eyes sought explanation; her expression begged for news. She gazed modestly down. Sunlight played across the soft plains of her face, making her lovely to gaze upon. She glanced up, her eyes swimming with unwashed tears. “I know I would die if … should something happen to … if Drake … if we could not marry.” She swallowed back sobs. Closing her fingers around his arm, she lowered her grasp and interlaced her fingers with his. “He would never leave England, even if his life depended on it. Too stubborn. Bullheaded.” She tittered, remembering what it was like to be with him: freely, unabashedly, and out in the open for everyone to see her love of him. “But he cannot show his face in Winchester. Isn’t that so?” A breeze whipped a wayward strand of hair over her brow. She half-closed her eyes as if remembering what it had been like before, when their love was fresh and untainted.

  “Jenna!”

  She swung her head to the call of her mother.

  “No,” he said, tugging her back.

  Yearning toward his touch, she received his many kisses. Her voice was breathy as she said, “Don’t mind mama. It’s the talk. People can be cruel. Worse than cruel. Vicious. Now my reputation’s been tainted, through no fault of my own … or of Drake’s … the future is uncertain. They fear what I fear. That Drake may never be able to come home. Never be restored to his proper place. Never be able to marry me.” Her voice hitched on a sob.

  Drake clutched her to him. Their lips joined in an impassioned kiss. This was the girl of his heart. The nymph of his dreams. The woman he meant to wed, God help him.

  Her mother called her name again, and after gathering up her basket, Jenna was gone.

  Chapter 10

  A LIGHT TAP OF THE close-ring brought Yacob ben Yosel to the door. The probing sparkle of his warm brown eyes lit up before the Jew gestured Drake inside. Furnished with a modest array of tables and chairs, the front chamber where the moneylender conducted his trade was as unpretentious as the man.

  Drake said, “Do you remember me?”

  “I do, I do,” the Hebrew said, stroking his chin.

  “I have come to settle my debts. Can you tell me how much I owe?”

  Instead of answering directly, the Hebrew closed the door and invited Drake to sit. He poured each a drink: an excellent vin pour la mer from Anjou. While they sat over tumblers, the Jew continued to study Drake while asking after his father’s health and then his brother’s but without naming names. The focus of his vision wandered repeatedly back to Drake’s battered face while the owner of the battered face pretended the black-and-blue mushroom with two bloodshot eyes, scarlet stitches, and an unbroken nose was inconspicuous.

  At last Yacob returned to his question. “How much do you owe? Rien,” he said. “Since you never borrowed a single penny from me.”

  “Et,” Drake asked casually, reverting to the language he was as fluent in as English, “mon frère?”

  “Alors. Votre frère.” And after a pause, “Again I say nothing.”

  “Then you did not send three goons to persuade me … or my brother … to settle our debts?”

  Ben Yosel looked vexed. “Do I appear to be a man who employs goons? Particularly when your brother’s debt has already been settled?”

  Stephen’s twin took a quick breath. “Does all of Winchester know I’m not Stephen?”

  “Non, non, solely you and me, and whomever else you have been, shall we say, less than prudent. I beg of you, do not overly concern yourself. It is not the face that belies the fact. It is the question and the way you put it. Stephen would well know how many of the king’s short-crosses he owed without having to ask.”

  “Oui, bien sur,” Drake said and settled back in the chair. “And Lord fitzAlan? How did he become aware of my brother’s debt? It was my father who settled the loan, was it not?”

  The hint of a smile appeared on the Hebrew’s face. “You must dine with us,” he said, standing.

  Drake begged off the kind offer, making his excuse the recent repast at the alehouse.

  “It matters not. While it is the end of our Sabbath, it is the beginning of yours, and Rachel will want to meet you. You are the talk of the town. And she has been patient, keeping the meal warm on my behalf.”

  Wife Rachel, four children, and Yacob’s dowager mother took an immediate fancy to the tall knight who stepped unexpectedly into the upper reaches of their modest household. Ranging in age from five to twelve, the two boys and two girls made Drake dizzy with nonstop jabbering and energetic play. Meanwhile, their mother brought out heaping bowls and platters, and filled cups with watered-down wine.

  Yacob introduced Drake as “… the brother of the infamous Drake fitzAlan.” Having no yearning for the kind of notoriety attached to unspeakable crimes, the said Drake fitzAlan cleared his throat with embarrassment. His exploits, though, didn’t seem to worry the curious family, who welcomed him as a more than an interesting guest and urged him to take a seat nearest the hearth.

  Wearing a couvre-chef, the grande-mère pinched his cheek and ran gnarled fingers through his hair, tut-tutting about “those culprits jealous of your beatific countenance.”

  “May I take you home?” he asked her. “I have no grandsires to fuss over me.”

  The same sparkle as Yacob’s lit her eyes. “You may when I grow tired of these erichons.” The urchins giggled and settled down on the benches, each eager to sit as close to Drake as possible.

  Rachel ben Yosel set a bountiful table to satisfy ten hungry men. Drake was not one of them. He ate small portions to be polite while the young ones talked all at once. They wanted to know who gave him a beating and why. With an amused grin, he told them, “Goblins.”

  “Gobelins!” they squealed, familiar with the ghost who haunted Évreux not many years ago.

  Drake wove an elaborate tale about a moonless night and a dark forest. “My horse threw me and galloped off. Upon waking, I beheld a dozen or more of the grotesque creatures, each as small as the children of Yacob and Rachel ben Yosel.”

  They howled with delight.

  He went on, spinning the tail with hand gestures and dramatic delivery. “The goblins wanted to turn me into one of them and entreated me to join them in their secret caves, but I refused. They were insulted, and so they cast a spell and mottled my face like theirs as a lesson to other folk who traveled their way.”

  “Then they did not hit you to make you look so?” said the smallest girl, whose curls bounced when she spoke.

  “Non, ma petite. This face changes daily. One day, the green is over here. Next day, it is over there. And the purple appears wherever it pleases.”

  The child began to cry.

  Arms folded over his chest, Yacob ben Yosel was beside himself with mirth.

  Drake raised a helpless brow, then knelt beside the girl and encircled his arms around her birdlike shoulders. “Do not cry, little one. I am happy with my fate. Besides, the coloring fades a little every day. Soon I will be my old ugly self.”

  The little girl lifted a tentative finger and stroked his jaw. The tiniest smile came to her cherubic lips.

  “Let that be a lesson to you all,” said their mother, “to accept who and what you are, no matter how others may jeer and taunt.”

  “Amen,” intoned the father.

  The meal ended. The old woman and the children took up other pastimes while Rachel cleared the table. Another tumbler of wine was put into Drake’s hand. He than
ked the mistress kindly, and she went off to her kitchen.

  “May I ask,” he said to his host when at last they were alone, “how a moneylender gets by?”

  ”Alors, perhaps you believe we Jews hoard rubies as others hoard bread.”

  “I see no evidence of boundless riches.” While the ben Yosel abode was clearly crammed with sundry furniture, precious heirlooms, and numerous leather-bound books, it was also clear those treasured belongings had seen many years of use, traveled over countless miles, and been packed and unpacked countless times.

  “It seems, mon ami, you are brighter than first impressions inform.”

  “Others,” Drake said, thinking of a surly brunette, “think me duller.”

  “Intelligence is relative according to the viewpoint, c’est vrai?” He took a sip of his wine. “It is true. Independently I do not have the means to conduct a trade such as mine without backing from several sources.”

  “Others lend to you?”

  “I would not use that term, as it is forbidden by your religion whereas it is not forbidden by mine. But your churchmen often come to us. And the richest of your merchants can sometimes circumvent the prohibition against lending at interest for important concerns and large transactions.” The mischievous twinkle of his eyes appeared once more.

  “Let me put it another way. Others … invest … in your enterprise … for a profit.”

  “Shall I put it another way. Let us say I receive support from my fellows. Barter is a common enough method for sidestepping currency along with pawning personal property as security. And, when the need is great and immediate, a lender of local and substantial resources steps forward.”

  Because Yacob let the last statement stand without elaboration, a tangible ghost stepped in like an unwelcome guest.

  “Local and substantial?” Drake contained his surprise. “You’re trying to tell me something.”

  The Jew did not respond.

  “Surely …” To go on was to tempt fate. “But surely …?” Drake could think of only one lender of local and substantial resources.