This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or
events are entirely coincidental.
THE KING'S MAN
First edition. June 20, 2015.
Copyright © 2015 Elizabeth Kingston.
All rights reserved.
For Snezana*
(Like, literally: I actually wrote this for you.
Thank you for being my friend.)
*the original Snookie, accept no imitations
Historical Note
Before turning his attention to his famously brutal campaign for Scotland, Edward I (known as “Longshanks” and “Hammer of the Scots”) was determined to ensure the conquest of Wales. Faced with this ambitious leader, the Welsh princes faltered. Consumed by their own ambitions, they fought among themselves as they had done for centuries, until the time came when they must unite as one in rebellion, or bow in defeat to the ruthless English King.
CHAPTER 1
Wales, 1280
When first he woke, he thought he must be roasting in the fires of Hell. Later he would know that it was a raging fever that burned him, and she would tell him it was a delirium that caused insensate visions. These were practical and unromantic explanations that were true enough. But earthly truths would never be as real as hellfire, and angels, and the moment he put the tattered remains of his soul into her hands.
No, to him it would always be a memory of waking in the fires of the damned, and feeling the pain sharp across his chest and down his arm, his head in an agony of hurt. The pain made him wish for death, and that wish made him realize that he was still alive. Not dead, and the bitter disappointment of it grasped at his heart until he thought he might actually weep.
But then he inhaled. The smell was not that of rotting flesh on the battlefield, but rather the familiar putrefying of a wound, a prelude to long suffering. When death did come, it would come slow, and he would not be like to meet it with eyes open. But it would come.
That was when he sent up a prayer, a simple request, knowing he was not like to have it granted. But he thought it might not be overmuch to ask that the angel of death would greet him with a mug of ale stout enough to silence the accursed pounding in his head. While he was at it, he saw fit to add a request for a lemon tree. Why not? It was God, after all, and fruit would improve the smell of the sickbed. He imagined its roots dug in the ground near him, yellow globes overhead as he drew his last. A pretty picture.
No doubt the Almighty could manage such a thing, if He could be bothered. Would it be pressing his luck to ask that the death-angel not know his name? That it come soon, and while away some time in talk and pleasantries beneath his lemon tree, before delivering the prisoner to Hell? Surely he deserved at least that. He’d like to think so.
A cup was pressed to his lips insistently. He ignored it until a suspicion began to gather in him. Perhaps this was his cup of ale. Perhaps this was the angel of death he had requested.
He managed to croak out some words, asking about God and deliverance and angels. There was no answer, but the cup had worked its way between his lips. He refused it, clamping his lips tight around the rim, stopping the liquid from entering his mouth. The tension only added to the ache in his head. Dimly, through the pain, he thought he heard his name.
Sir Ranulf, he heard, and that was when he slowly forced his eyes to open. It was smoky and dim, but the firelight illuminated a face above his. He struggled to focus, to see God’s emissary clearly. It must be sent from God, this face, this woman, called there by his impious prayer. Though why an angel should want to drape her head with a veil like any ordinary woman failed him. He’d thought an angel would have a terrible beauty, but her features were common enough: a square, blunt chin and thin, aquiline nose. Her dark brows were set straight above her downcast eyes, and her mouth was overly wide. Not beautiful like the paintings, but harsh. Not glowing with otherworldly righteousness.
It couldn’t be the angel he’d asked for. She’d said his name, which was expressly against his wishes. He thought she’d said it. She was pressing the cup to his lips again, but he resisted it and forced himself to look at her, withstanding the pain of the light in his eyes to see what manner of creature cradled his head – death, or life? There was no indication in her face of what she was. Death would surely not look this patient and almost gentle, nor possess a mouth as lush and full as a pomegranate. Such an earthly, human mouth. Made for earthly, human things.
As if she knew the lustful turn of his thoughts, her heavy lashes lifted to reveal eyes of a startling clear gray, and whether she was mortal or not no longer mattered. Whatever she was, she was something holy, something sent to seek out the tattered bits of soul left in him. With a single look he knew it, and the recognition of it burned him like hot coals set on his skin. Her eyes saw through him, her hand held the cup, and he dared not disobey.
He drank the bitter draught, his eyes never leaving hers. And with that act, he knew he bound himself to her without a word spoken between them. He finished it and would have swallowed even more had she commanded him. She eased his head back silently and took the cup away, still never taking her eyes from his. There was no judgment there. The gray of them went on forever, a wide mirror that held his entire life spread out before him like a landscape he could walk into.
Fever dreams. It was only the fever, and he prayed it would take him away, some place she could not look at him again.
Lemons and pomegranates and death, he wanted to laugh as his eyelids drifted closed. Prayers and angels and fear of an absent God. Better to hurry up and die now, before this sudden attack of religion made a monk of him. Almost he could laugh at the thought, of what all England would say if Ranulf of Morency should ever even attend the Mass. Come to pilfer the chalice, is what they’d say. The corners of his mouth lifted in a smile at that, until his eyes opened and found hers again – her eyes and everything in them. She watched him, unmoving. He could not ever remember being watched so closely, ever in his life.
If she was an angel, it was not deliverance she offered, but the hard and unbending truth of what he was. It was not a new truth to him, nor anything he had hidden from himself. But he did not care to look long at the truth of his life.
He let his eyelids fall and closed off the sight of it all reflected in her eyes. He gave himself to the fever and shut out this thing he had bound himself to, trying not to wonder what angel she was – salvation or vengeance or reckoning, or all of them.
There was no way to tell how long he slept in fevered dreams. Images came to him and wove past and present together. One minute he was bumping along a dirt track, carried by unseen hands as he stared at the trees and sky above. In his more lucid moments, he recognized that he’d arrived at this unknown destination, in a bed of some sort. But then the dreams would take him, and the journey became his race to take sail for the Holy Land. Sometimes this dark and smoky place where hellfire licked at him became also that darkened bed chamber. He was an old man curled in sleep, and he was the sword that hovered over the man in the bed, and he waited – then and now – to die.
When he woke, exhausted and sweating, he discovered a figure crouching in the shadows. Thinking it was his angel, he allowed himself a measure of relief. But when she did not at once come closer, the dread slowly gathered in his belly. This was it. The moment had come for her to deliver him into the hands of the Devil.
The panic suffocated him all at once, frantic questions revolving in his mind. He did not know if he had been anointed, he must confess his sins – had there been a priest? Even as he thought it, he dismissed it. The desire for absolution was a useless reflex that he had never unlearnt. He had long known that his soul could not be cleansed, that Hell would welcome him. In fact, i
t was surely the Devil himself who waited in the corner of this stinking hut. He merited no intermediary from the Almighty. He was a fool to ever have thought it. Why waste time with an angel? God was more expedient than that.
He coughed, found his voice. “I always belonged to you,” he admitted to the devil in the shadows, with a laugh that sounded barely alive. As he had done a thousand times, he imagined his heart encased in ice. Now he imagined what hellfire would do to it. “Come take me now, if even you will have me.”
The figure moved, and a blade shimmered in the dim firelight. He squinted, watching the shadow rise up to full height, dagger in hand. It was a devil from Hell. It was Aymer, come to take him. Merciful God, he prayed fervently, panic flaring in his breast, though I be not worthy, though I waited too long, I have tried, oh my Lord. Grant me this, that it is not him who takes me to the fiery pit. Anyone, anything, but not him. A thousand demons over that one.
He stared at the unmoving shadow, feeling the fear move like a serpent in him, curling about his bones. He peered through the dimness and saw Aymer’s face. Love and loathing, repentance and fury, all tangled together in his gut at the sight. “Father, my father, not mine,” he whispered, hardly knowing what he would say. Then the light changed, the face changed. It was his own face. Younger, when I was young, he thought. Not Aymer. It was his younger self. Standing with a dagger in the shadows over the bed of a helpless man – yes, that was himself and no other. A perfect justice.
But then she was there, the veil glowing white around her face.
The sight of her instantly stopped the panicked haze of thoughts. Her stern-featured face stopped time and pain and thoughts of God and the Devil. There was only her, his angel, entirely mortal as she put a cool hand to his head, her gray eyes assessing him in the firelight. She was a woman. Just a woman, now. But he had come searching for judgment, and here she was.
His mouth was dry, lips cracked, but he found his voice again. “My lady. Who are you?” She didn’t answer, looking down at his bare chest, examining him. Her hands left his brow and reached for a cup beside him on the floor. That was a discovery – he lay on a pallet, a fire at his left side. “Who?” he rasped, as she lifted the cup to his lips.
She never answered, holding the cup steady as he drank. It was not bitter this time, but sweet. It tasted of apples and honey, a fitting taste to have on his lips at the hour of death. He knew it would be death, swift and welcome, when he saw what lay gleaming on the floor where she knelt: the dagger, sharp and slim, with a fine edge and a wicked point.
She lay the cup down and picked up the dagger, using the point to pry gently at the bandage on his chest. As exhaustion swamped his mind, he called up the last of his strength and lifted his hand to hers.
There was no surprise in her, no emotion at all in the eyes that met his. He pulled their hands and the knife across his chest. He held it there, over his heart, looking steadily into her clear eyes for a long moment before letting his fingers fall away from hers. She kept the blade there, plainly catching his intention.
“Mercy.”
He said no more, thinking it a fine word to end this world. He was too tired to say anything more. It took all the strength he had left to hold her stare for an endless time, until something in her face changed at last, a ripple in the still pool. In a blink, she was not so mortal after all. She became an angel tempted to deliver judgment, her fingers tightening round the knife at his breast.
He waited for the thrust, looking at her suddenly changed face, the strange light in her eyes making the moment more real. It took but a moment for his patience to break. Do it now, he prayed to her. Now, before the strength left him.
But she didn’t. She blinked, black lashes lowering, hiding the fierce light in her eyes. Her face became a placid pool once more as her hand began to pull away from his heart. He made a sound of protest, raising his head, willing her to do as she had been tempted. As she turned away, he wanted to demand that she say something, anything. His lips would not move to form the words. Whether she was an agent of Heaven or Hell, or merely a mortal woman, he had caught in her a glimmer of himself in that moment when her eyes showed a hunger to kill.
He didn’t speak, fearing the explanation he’d wanted would cut open his soul and loose the demon of choice they shared. Life or death. She held it as firmly as he once had held it. But she had put the dagger aside, leaving him to live another day.
CHAPTER 2
She trod lightly along the slope, pausing to balance herself against a tree. High summer, and the sweet violets were not in bloom. But she could find the plants, here in the good soil among the trees. She must find the proper leaves in goodly amount to dress his wounds and have more on hand for the journey.
“Gwenllian?” Madog was following, calling to her. It was more usual to hear him calling out Pennaeth Du when he wanted to speak to her. Instead, he used her name now, and it rankled her. No doubt he was thinking of her woman’s soft heart, so easily seen this week past as she tended to a man she’d thought was sure to die. To any name or title, though, she would not answer until Madog reached her. She knew what he had come to say, and she did not welcome it.
She gathered her skirt in her hand in the hopes of preserving her only dress from becoming soiled, bending to a patch of the small heart-shaped leaves. It made her feel ungainly, the dress, how it stretched too tight across her shoulders, how the skirt interfered with her stride. Her hands still trembled as she pulled out her dagger, reaction from her encounter with the wounded man. He would live, she was certain now. His fever had broken, after days of raving.
Ranulf Ombrier. It had been easy enough to identify him, once they had pulled his unconscious form into the firelight and examined his bloodied clothing. He did little enough to announce his identity in his dress, but the heraldry was there. The black field and repeated cross-and-starburst design on his scabbard proclaimed him the lord of Morency. She may well have guessed at who he was by appearance alone. Too finely dressed to be anything but noble, he was as handsome as any man she’d seen. More handsome, perhaps, and the jagged scar that interrupted the thick line of his left eyebrow marked him beyond doubt as the notorious lord of Morency, the English king’s favorite murderer.
She’d had whole days of watching him as he thrashed on the pallet, or slept sweetly as a child, or stared at her as though she were a vision out of Hell. By now she had memorized the eyes so blue as to be almost black, the lines of his face slowly obscured over the days by the rough growth of beard, hair dark as sable where it curled at his temple. His looks bespoke his courtly life and his dark past at once.
No, there could be no mistaking who he was.
Even had he been no one of importance, she would have done all in her power to help him. It was the fault of her own guard, rash and clumsy in the dusk when they came upon him unexpectedly, that the earl now lay wounded. Morency had no business being there, on Welsh soil, that was true. Still, it was no reason to draw arms against him. Her Welsh cousins seemed to find any excuse to bring down a Norman, seeing them all as the enemy these days. She wondered, sometimes, if they ever remembered that she too had Norman blood.
Madog came down the slope behind her. “Gwenllian, Pennaeth Du,” he began, crashing through the brush. Pennaeth Du, black chief – the title they saw fit to bestow upon her, even when her dark hair was concealed by veil and makeshift wimple.
“Madog.” She didn’t turn to him, only gripped the small knife more firmly and cut the leaves from the plant. “I gather sweet violet leaves. Have you come to help me search? We’ll need much.”
She heard his impatience before he spoke. “My lady, why do you heal him? Is no duty of yours.”
She willed her fingers not to crush the leaves she held. He was permitted to question her, she reminded herself. As her counselor and kinsman, he was wont to speak to her familiarly.
“Nor is it my duty to watch him die, Madog. Just as it was not your duty to slice open his breast.” She st
raightened and moved on, finding another of the plants, determined not to be drawn into debate over a decision made days ago.
They had come upon him in the strange twilight that plays with men’s eyes, and though she did not blame Madog for his clumsy attack on Morency, she could well live without the coldness to which the men had treated her since she said they would not abandon him. Killing they understood. Even hospitality and simple kindness were virtues they cherished. But they could not seem to understand why she would want to save the lord of Morency from death when it would be so easy to let him die in the forest, and none the wiser.
“My duty is with you, Pennaeth Du. Nor would I have stricken him, had I the wit and time to use it, but strike him I did. And now we needs must carry him with us and gather herbs to heal him?” The anger came through in his voice now, but still she did not turn. “I say as I ever did, my lady, that you leave the dog to his fate and let his Redeemer choose if he lives or no. Let him die, now the deed is done, and your house be the better for it.”
She looked down at the knife she held. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees and found metal, as the firelight had done in the hut – a gleaming blade against his muscled flesh, suspended above his heart. He asked for death, the deep-set blue of his eyes demanding mercy. And she had not given it.
“In the shaded places, you’ll find more leaves,” she told Madog, pointing ahead of her. She held up her handful, green and fuzzy, the scent pungent and fresh. “As much as you can gather, if you’ll join me. And betony, if you spy it. A pleasant day for herb-gathering.”
“Why do you do this?” he pressed. “Will you not explain your reasoning to me? He is an enemy to your house, and his soul as damned as –”
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