Sword of Justice (White Knight Series)

by Jude Chapman

  “He’s not in his right mind. I don’t think he meant to kill me.”

  “Even if not, he did a poor job of wounding you.”

  “Thanks be to God.”

  “Who’s the seamstress?”

  “Aveline Darcy,” he mumbled into the bed covers.

  He heard water being poured into a basin. Drake let his mind drift with the opiate. The tribute, the gambling debts, the murders … he was too tired to let any of it matter. He opened his eyes and felt as if he had slept for hours. The silk bandages were clean and stiff. He wore a dressing gown much like Tilda’s. A light meal waited. Making a pretty pair, they sat side by side against the bolsters and shared the food tray.

  “Now you know,” she said.

  “You own the lords of the manor … barbican, keep, and oubliette.”

  “I wouldn’t go spreading it about.”

  “Our little secret. Oh, and the lords named in your black book.”

  As it turned out, the kind of perverted man who invested in gambling establishments and bawdyhouses like Hogshead Tavern was a nobleman. Not just one, but dozens. Not solely in Hampshire but in counties as far-flung as Cornwall and Kent. Many had surnames as familiar to Drake as Drake’s own. Nearly all had free-spending sons who, over the past months, had diced away their inheritances.

  “Credit is easy to come by, I take it,” he said.

  “To select patrons.”

  “At fifty percent?” He whistled. “Some would call that highway robbery.”

  “When there’s no other game in town ….” She let the truth speak for her.

  “And when they signed away their fathers’ fortunes, perhaps a drop or two of wine spilled onto the pledges.”

  “Good Auxerre wine.”

  “Poor memories the morning after.”

  “And several morns thereafter.”

  “Until payment comes due.”

  “Surprise, surprise!” She had a wicked sense of humor.

  So did he. “And quicker than a fast whore on a slow night.”

  “Or a slow … knight.” He got the gist but failed to see the humor.

  “I take it the alliance does not share in the profits of these exorbitant interests.”

  She smiled coyly.

  He was sucking on a chicken wing covered in honey and saffron sauce. “One name isolated itself from the rest by its very absence.”

  “Oh?”

  “Gervase des Roches.”

  “Who?”

  “Clerk of the Royal Winchester Treasury.”

  Another of her coy smiles told him she already knew that.

  “And when payment is past due?” he asked.

  Tilda didn’t need to answer. She was a woman of small words but big deeds. In a few short months, several penniless lords and sons of lords were going to be walking the streets of towns near and far, holding out begging cups.

  Tilting his chin with the crook of her finger, she reached forward and kissed him on the lips.

  “Aye,” he said, “you’re a clever woman, more so than the rest of us poor beggars.”

  She cleared away the tray and left it outside the door. Resuming his spread-eagle position, he turned his head this way and that, admiring how the wooden beams had been painted with the constellations of the zodiac. She turned the key in the lock, sealing his doom. Blowing out all the lamps save for one, she shed the dressing gown on her way back to bed. It fell in a graceful heap on the floor. Delicate fingers tickled open his robe. Her head bent down.

  “God’s eyes!” he proclaimed.

  “And other parts of His anatomy,” she allowed.

  Chapter 16

  “WHAT YOU TOLD ME THE other day wasn’t the complete truth, was it?” Drake said. “You left something out.”

  “Not entirely,” the Jew answered as one who has much at stake. Yacob ben Yosel’s amicable manner did not sway. “You look worse for the wear, mon ami.” Nor was he troubled by Drake’s accusation or the tone of his voice. He brought out the ever-ready flask of wine. “To wash away bitterness between bon amis. Sit, I beg you.”

  Drake awakened in Tilda’s bed to bright sunshine. He was alone. Sexte was ringing. His back was sore but the throbbing had subsided. Food waited on the sideboard. He quickly ate, dressed, and made straight for ben Yosel’s dwelling. The wine did not wash away the bitterness between bon amis but did bring to mind Tilda’s talented tongue. Drake spoke slowly, thinking it out as he went along. “The only way a lender … of local and substantial resources … can get away with moneylending practices … that is, hide it from knowing eyes and skirt the Church’s edict against usury … is to use a Jew like yourself … perhaps many Jews like yourself … in other towns and villages … who have close business ties and mutual interests.”

  Yacob took a thoughtful sip. “You are a surprising man. Not boy. Man.”

  “You’re the first to make the distinction.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Only because you have recently stepped over the line. You’ve matured in a matter of days.”

  “And Gervase des Roches? What are your dealings with him?”

  “Ah, you’ve made further inquiries.” He took another sip and set the tumbler down.

  “The Jews,” Drake continued, “act as beards, do they not? Buffers who stand between the church and the king, and hide what is really going on. The money passes through you, and your backing is …?” He wanted ben Yosel to finish the conjecture.

  “The Royal Winchester Treasury. There. It is said.” He got up and returned the flask to its perch. “When King Richard visited the treasury less than a fortnight ago, he found it woefully depleted and took with him a paltry sum: less than forty-thousand marks in silver.”

  “Forty-thousand marks is by no means paltry,” Drake said.

  “But is to a king sparing no expense on a lavish coronation while mounting an ambitious crusade. Unfortunately, Richard took away with him the major portion of said backing. Gervase des Roches owes this particular beard, as you say, rather a lot.”

  His concussed head spinning and his back aching, Drake contemplated the wine at the bottom of his cup. When he glanced up, the Jew’s mellow eyes met his. “Then you’re in danger of your life.”

  “I rather think murder the best expedient to wipe out a considerable obligation. That … or expulsion … or imprisonment.” His voice said the statement impersonally, but his expression said otherwise.

  Drake’s eyes took in the sparse furnishings of the front office while his mind’s eye recalled the comfortable compartments above, where a young family prospered.

  Ben Yosel’s thoughts visited the same images, his eyes filling with unshed tears. He lifted the palms of his hands in a helpless shrug. “Ours is a precarious position. When a man finds himself short of funds, we Jews are the only ones with a compassionate ear and an open purse. Yet, in time, that same man comes to hate us for answering his call. Moreover, the king believes us to be repositories of unlimited wealth that can be tapped at will. Only last year, King Henry took a fourth of our chattels to finance the Crusade while taking only a tenth from our fellow Christians. When we reach the end of our short lives … ah then … then our belongings are wholly forfeited to the Crown, leaving nothing for our wives or children. But what can we do? We rely on the favor of the king for our safety and our livelihood. And we rely on our Christian neighbors for understanding and tolerance.”

  Drake studied the goblet in his hand, now empty.

  “Have you never met Monsieur des Roches?” ben Yosel asked. Drake shook his head. “You must. You must always know your enemy. Before he sends you to your Maker.”

  * * *

  To reach the inner sanctum of the Royal Winchester Treasury—housed within the walls of Winchester Castle—meant passing several sets of sentries, climbing up and down two sets of spiral stairways, entering and quitting two guard turrets, and crossing a windy rampart.

  Shown through a massive wooden door, the kind used to imprison enemies o
f the king, Drake was ushered up one last wheel staircase to finally arrive inside the remote tower that housed the office of the treasury.

  “The sheriff cautioned me I would soon have a visit from your illustrious self,” were the first words Gervase des Roches said to Drake.

  After courteous introductions and the discreet withdrawal of Drake’s escort, Gervase offered him an uncomfortable stool. His words were more than courteous, but the concentrated gaze of his sulfurous eyes unsettled Drake.

  “Which sheriff would that be?” Drake asked.

  “Why, Randall of Clarendon, of course,” he answered evenly.

  A collection of antiquities—a veritable treasure trove of armor, weapons, and devices of torture—covered the wall in a pleasing array meant to startle and impress.

  “Ah, the acting sheriff,” said Drake, gawking at a hangman’s noose. “Does that mean our former sheriff, Bishop of Ilchester, was dipping into the till as well?”

  The saffron eyes proved difficult to read. “Bishop of Ilchester died April last.”

  “And the new one will continue the tradition?”

  A bead of sweat, just one, popped up on the clerk’s upper lip. “You have lost me, I fear.”

  “Godfrey de Lucé will soon be elected bishop of Winchester, or so the whispers say, and shortly thereafter, named our new sheriff. For that he will need ready resources to pave the way.”

  “I still do not follow.”

  “Do you not?”

  Unable to dismiss out of hand Drake’s pointed insinuations, Gervase des Roches broached the subject. “But if, perchance, you are obliquely referring to our outside interests …?”

  Drake smiled affably. “You have found your way.”

  “It’s the usual practice of this office. The Bishop of Ilchester personally informed me of each arrangement, but only after receiving approval from the Upper Exchequer in Westminster. And of course, the treasury provides funds only to those of impeccable backgrounds and sound qualifications, where return is assured.”

  Surprised at the clerk’s frankness, Drake conjectured that the old bishop had given his sanction after all. Perhaps trafficking in the coin of the realm was legal and justifiable. Then again, perhaps Yacob was mistaken and Drake was not yet a man. “The Church forbids usury.”

  Gervase took umbrage. “My dear boy, when the archbishop of Canterbury requires funds to rebuild the grandest cathedral in all of Christendom, where the martyrdom of St. Thomas is celebrated by thousands upon thousands of devoted pilgrims every year, and when, in return for the temporary disposition of such spiritual largess, Archbishop Baldwin returns those funds with a modestly inflated value … well … one does not scorn a gesture as grand and noble as that.”

  Realizing he had been soundly trounced by an apt master of deception, Drake smiled feebly. “Then you do not finance women of sound qualifications. Or moneylenders of impeccable backgrounds?”

  “I should say not.”

  Drawn back to the wall of terror, Drake became fascinated with an iron mask welded in a fashion as to completely encase a skull. He blinked and gazed at Gervase, whose yellow eyes moved from the mask to Drake. “I take it Sheriff Clarendon is aware of these arrangements?”

  “Naturally. As I said, he told me to expect you and to be forthcoming in all particulars.”

  “He didn’t really, did he?”

  The clerk blinked just the once. “Why ever not?”

  “Because if he did, you would not have told me he had.”

  His laughter was forced and fraught with nervousness. A second bead of sweat appeared on his lip. “As it is, I have said more than is prudent, but you have forced my hand. I cannot have Lord fitzAlan’s offspring spreading about a false and malicious tale that the Winchester Royal Treasury engages in usury.”

  Suspecting he had outlasted his welcome, Drake stood. “Tell me, when King Richard made his withdrawal a sennight past, was an inquiry made into the treasury’s deficit?”

  “I am not aware of a deficit.”

  Drake’s wound emitted a sharp pang. Grimacing from the pain, he looked again at the wall of terror. “Quite a grim collection you have there.”

  Gervase beamed broadly. “Aye, I take a great deal of pleasure from it. A favorite pastime of mine.”

  Drake thanked him for his time and left, again under escort, and felt lucky to have escaped the torture chamber alive.

  * * *

  “You’re in no shape to ride out to Itchendel.”

  Making a poor effort of saddling up Stephen’s gray, Drake became aware of the soft rustle of Aveline’s skirts and whiffed her ever-present lavender long before she spoke. She stood in the doorway of the livery wearing the stained apron she reserved for brewing ale. The yellow bitch sat obediently at her side, washed, scrubbed, and brushed much like Drake himself. The fairer sex was teaming up against him.

  “Do you read minds, too?” he asked.

  “I do.”

  He secured the straps beneath the palfrey’s girth. “I have to see William.”

  “It can bide,” she said, folding her arms over the apron. “You won’t make it. You’ll fall off your horse. You’ll die of exposure. You’ll get eaten by a pack of rabid wolves.”

  “You can’t die of exposure in the middle of summer.”

  She perched both hands on her hips. “Aye, you can. I’ve heard tales.”

  Drake was trying to hoist himself up, but the saddle seemed uncommonly high. He started to laugh. What struck him as humorous he wasn’t sure, but it had something to do with giddiness, a foot tangled in the stirrup, and the image of a pack of wolves making a feast of his bones. He stopped laughing because it hurt too much and glanced back at her.

  “I refuse to send you to your death!” She was immovable, adamant, stubborn, all the qualities that made Aveline Darcy so damnably attractive.

  “Then come with me and be my nursemaid.”

  She glared at him, disinclined to give in.

  “Yea or nay. The sun will set soon.”

  She pivoted on her heel and marched off. It was yea.

  Three mismatched wayfarers rode out of town together: worthy cur, unbending daughter of an alewife, and injured knight. Aveline delayed the start of their journey, something to do with the right combination of dress, hose, and boots. Then it was a laggardly ride to Itchendel. Drake barely kept seat in saddle and more than once caught himself from pitching sideways. They beat the setting sun.

  In the great hall, the barony villeins were feasting along with the Itchendel guard. Snot-nosed urchins, loud and underfoot, were a menace. Aveline’s regal canine was soon partaking of a magnificent feast provided by spoiled imps flinging scraps down on the floor. The women occupied a circle of chairs, sewing in their laps and gossip on their tongues. The knights segregated themselves near the hearth, and drinking goblet after goblet of good wine, exchanged ribald stories and tales of bravado.

  Sitting at the trestle, William fitzAlan was laughing in response to a yarn one of the menfolk had just spun about a pig and a virgin. Without glancing up, he said, “You look like Hell.”

  “I have an abiding affection for you as well, Father.”

  Wincing, Drake bent down and dutifully delivered a kiss to his sire. Sensing something amiss, William gazed up but made no comment.

  “You know Aveline Darcy.”

  Rising to his feet, William shifted his eyes inquisitively at Drake before focusing them on Aveline. “Demoiselle Darcy and I are well acquainted.” He kissed her hand. Aveline received the greeting impassively. The lord of Itchendel bade Drake and Aveline to sit. Then he snapped for the page, who hurried off to the kitchen.

  A sumptuous feast was brought out. Guinea fowl. Asparagus with cream sauce. Honeyed lamb. Flaky buns. Sweet creamery butter ladled over peas with saffron and sage. The meal revived Drake like a fisyk. Uncharacteristically subdued, Aveline hadn’t spoken a word since their arrival, picking at her food and leaning against a fist.

  The knights disp
ersed to their duties. Mallory dropped by to give Drake a concerned look followed by a well-aimed pat on his backside. Drake swallowed a painful snort. The chevalier guffawed and staggered off.

  William stood up and stretched, signaling the close to an overlong evening. Standing at the postern gate, he saw his guests out, the grown-ups more than satisfied and the little ones cranky but reluctant to go. Rush lights illumined footpaths leading to cottage and hearth. Staring into the balmy night, Drake stood beside his father and watched the cottagers blend into the dark. He said, “Why didn’t you tell me about your part in the merchant’s alliance?”

  William’s head twisted around. His angry glare transferred to Aveline and then returned to Drake. “How the devil did you find out?”

  “I came across a certain black book kept by a certain madam of a certain bawdyhouse.”

  “I’ll wager all of Itchendel as to which uncouth method you used.”

  “You’d win.” Aveline’s face turned a deep cherry. “I take it the amount you put in was a small percentage of your worth.”

  “A trifling sum.”

  “One-thousand pounds is not a trifling sum.”

  William swore and glanced once more at Aveline. “If you must know, it represents a third of Itchendel’s value.”

  “Oh, is that all.” Aveline saw it in his face and moved protectively closer. “You must be mad.” Drake turned halfway around. He wasn’t going any farther. Before he pitched headlong to the floor, the daughter of an alewife grabbed his waist, softening the blow of hard head meeting harder stone.

  A groan brought him around. Awakening in the turret bedchamber he had shared with his brother since childhood, he found himself stripped of half his clothing and propped onto his side. Aveline was redressing the wound while William’s troubled face swam above.

  “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “We’ll talk now.” His voice sounded far away, but he managed to keep his eyes open.

  “You’re as stubborn as your brother. He didn’t want to go. D’Amboise had to rope him to his horse to get him out of the country.”