Tamberlane lowered the tip of the blade. “I seek only to defend what is mine. I mean no insult to your peace or your prayers.”
“Defiant words," the old priest said, “and from one who has put his sword to such infamous good use defending that which belongs to God.”
The Dragonslayer’s green eyes narrowed warily and flicked to Brother Ignatius.
“Yes,” said the recipient of the crystalline glare. “It was I who informed Father Michaelus of your presence here. No doubt you would scarce remember one humble face out of the thousands who cheered your victories in Outremer, my lord Tamberlane, but I was in that cheering crowd and yours was a visage not so easily forgotten.”
The green eyes flicked again, this time to the night candle which guttered in the drafts blowing through the open door. “An unusual hour for reminiscing, good Friar.”
“The choice of hour was mine,” Father Michaelus said. “The choice to send you here was God’s.”
“No one sent me here,” Tamberlane said, frowning. “I am but a weary traveler seeking respite from the storm.”
Father Michaelus smiled and stepped across the threshold without waiting for an invitation to do so. “God’s ways are indeed a mystery to some.”
He cast around the room, his inspection touching first on the rumpled bed, then on the huddled figure of Amaranth where she sat flanked by both alert wolfhounds. The voices had wakened her and she sat rubbing her fists in her eyes to clear them.
“I confess I was somewhat unsettled to hear that the mighty Dragonslayer had come knocking upon our gates," Father Michaelus said. "I did not think he was an ally of the Prince Regent."
"Rest assured he is not, and never has been," Ciaran said. "What would prompt you to pluck such a notion from the air?"
"Couriers have been dispatched throughout the kingdom. All of the Regent's loyal henchmen have been summoned to attend upon him at once."
Ciaran exchanged a fleeting glance with Amaranth. "Aye, so I have heard."
"If there is truth to the rumors, he is attempting to raise an army, to surround himself with those who would make him king."
"I know nothing of such things," Ciaran said as he slid his blade back in its sheath, "and care even less. My errand concerns another matter and has nothing to do with the prince or any of his political schemings."
The Friar's eyes glittered. “You are aware, are you not, that the ransom for King Richard has been paid to Leopold of Austria? The gracious dowager queen, Eleanor of Brittany, saw to its safe delivery herself, sending her own champion, Lord Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer to meet the treasure train once it arrived in France.”
Tamberlane was not exactly sure where the revelation fit into the order of things, but he nodded. “I had heard the king was set free, thanks be. I also have a passing acquaintance with La Seyne Sur Mer—the Black Wolf of Mirebeau. A formidable opponent in and out of the lists.”
“One of the few men who can put Prince John's bowels in a twist, which is why, as I further understand it, La Seyne Sur Mer will also be acting as escort to Richard as far as the Channel, thereby insuring no further interference on the king's journey home.”
“I am pleased to hear it, Friar, but curious as to how you know all of this and further, how it should concern me?”
"You are still the king's man? You have not forsaken all of your vows, surely?"
Tamberlane's jaw stiffened and such a coldness came into his eyes that Brother Ignatius took a discreet step back toward the door. Sensing this, Hugo and Maude both stood to attention and growled low.
Ciaran raised a hand to calm the dogs.
"No one who enjoys drawing breath has ever questioned my loyalty to the king," he said tersely.
The monk made an appeasing gesture. “Nor do I question it now, my son. My only purpose in asking concerns, firstly, your inclination to remain locked behind the walls of Taniere Castle, and secondly, your unexpected presence here, so far from those walls."
"As I have already said, my errand concerns another matter and has nothing at all to do with the prince."
"Would that matter have anything to do with the errant wife of a certain fiery-haired lord?"
Amaranth, who had remained as quiet and unobtrusive as possible in her corner, was startled into looking up.
"If so, it might interest you to know," Friar Michaelus continued, "that some of his two-legged bloodhounds rode by here a fortnight or so ago, banging their shields on the gate, demanding to search the buildings and grounds. They gave a fair description of the runaway, citing the most unusual shade of violet-blue for her eyes." He paused and looked directly at Amaranth for the first time. "I imagine one can shorten hair and alter clothing enough to deceive a casual inspection. But the eyes are the windows to the soul, and yours, my dear, would deceive no one."
He turned back to Ciaran. "Thus, for such a reclusive knight to be seen outside the walls of Taniere, and in the company of a... rather fair haired squire..." he paused and spread his hands apart. "You can see how that might draw attention.”
Ciaran clenched his jaw tighter. "I thank you for the warning, Friar, and as soon as this foul weather allows, we will be on the road again so that none of that attention is drawn your way."
“My true concern lies in another direction, my son. And for it, you may credit Hubert Walter’s vast web of spies and couriers. His sources of information outreach even those of the prince himself. He knew the instant the ransom was delivered, knew when Leopold held up the first silver coin to test its weight, and knew the moment the gates to the castle at Durnstein were thrown open and the Lionheart was set free. John has grown fat and comfortable on the throne and will not be pleased to remove his arse too quickly. Hubert is convinced the prince regent has no intention of letting his brother set foot on English soil again, and I fear raising an army to surround himself will not be enough."
“Is he suggesting Lackland is planning to do something to prevent his brother from returning to England?”
“It would not be the first time John has worked himself into a frenzy plotting how to take the throne by less than honorable means. He had fervent hopes that two years in prison would accomplish what a crusade against the Saracens could not, but alas the Lionheart survived both. John even tried to ally himself with Phillip of France, but that too failed. He was quite vexed to discover that Europe's kings had no trouble holding a royal peer for ransom but drew the line at slitting his throat.”
"Surely his plotting would not extend to murder?"
"The calibre of men he gathers about him and calls allies would not hesitate to slit their own mother's throats if it meant gaining another estate, another title. To ensure their loyalty, John has extended promises of wealth and power to those who would support him, men who were already Richard's enemies."
“I would ask again, why do you tell me this?"
"I tell you this because... if, indeed, a bloody reception has been planned for Richard when he lands, you might well be in a position to prevent it."
“Me?” Tamberlane was genuinely taken aback. "What of La Seyne Sur Mer? His sword should be enough protection for ten kings.”
“La Seyne Sur Mer is only one man, and his lack of love for John is well known. The weakness lies with Richard himself. He will not believe his brother capable of such treachery and thus far has ignored the Bishop's warnings to have his own army waiting to meet him when he arrives home."
"Do you know where or when he intends to make the crossing?"
"The last news we received, he was bound for Calais."
"And?"
"And... that is all we know."
"Ships sail from Calais every day bound for a dozen ports and harbors along the English coast. You would need as many armies to cover each potential landing."
"Yes," Father Michaelus admitted with a sigh. "A daunting task. I had hoped you might have some insight as to whether he favored one port over another."
Tamberlane shook his head. "I have not be
en privy to the king's intentions for the past three years. Nor have I cared overmuch to know, truth be told."
Michaelus’ white eyebrows bristled upward. “What of the debt you owe him for speaking on your behalf when a charge of treason hung over your head?"
Tamberlane's lips pressed flat and a harsh gleam came into his eyes. "I warrant the king was not intent upon defending my honor so much as he was protecting his right to keep killing in the name of God, for I had been one of his finest murderers and to have the court condemn me, would have cast a poor light on his own actions. I give thanks to God that he is free and I am pleased to hear he is coming home. But I am bound for Exeter and have no intention of altering my plans to search for a single grain of sand along a hundred miles of beach.”
Father Michaelus accepted the cold decision with another sigh, then turned and walked to the door. He paused there a moment and glanced back over his shoulder.
“A man can lose his way in this world so easily,” he said softly. “He can have all that he holds dear taken away in the blink of an eye... his family, his home, even his life. But the one thing, the only thing a man cannot have taken from him is his honor. That, alas, he has to give away.”
He contemplated saying more, but one look at the Dragonslayer’s wooden features and he reconsidered.
“Pax domini. Peace be with you my son, and I bid you a safe journey.”
When he was gone, Amaranth stood and wiped her hands nervously on the hem of her shirt.
“My lord...? I have no right to place my safety above that of the king and would, of course, release you from any vow of protection you may have made in haste.”
He looked at her, his face a mask of planes and angles in the flickering candlelight. “We leave for Exeter at first light. Be ready.”
~~
Tamberlane strode along the darkened, vaulted corridor, his boots ringing off the stone floor as he made his way to the pilgrim's hall. The mist was as thick as a rain cloud, swirling around his legs as he walked, and by the time he reached the hall, his face was gleaming wet. Inside the fires were blazing at each end and in between were sprawled the forms of men sleeping, rolled in blankets. Geoffrey de Ville was seated in front of the blaze, his arms folded over his chest and his chin resting comfortably low.
He looked to be fast asleep, but at Tamberlane’s approach, his chin came up off his chest and his hand edged briefly toward the hilt of the dagger lying not very well hidden beneath his surcoat. It fell away again as he recognized the knight.
The fireplace was enormous, easily accommodating the ten foot tree trunk that burned hotly within. Tamberlane stood before it, his thoughts in too fearsome a tangle to try to sort one from the other.
He wished he had never set foot outside Taniere Castle, for no one would have come seeking his aid there. He wished he had never gone hunting in the woods that day, never interfered with the attack on the village, never taken Amaranth back to the castle for Marak to bring back to life.
He wished he had never looked into those violet-blue eyes, never touched her, never kissed her. Most emphatically he wished he had never kissed her, for the remembered touch and taste of her tormented him each time he glanced her way. She made him forget he was ever a monk and reminded him with each breath he took that he was a man. A flawed man. A lost man as Father Michaelus had said.
For that reason, Amaranth terrified him. His feelings for her terrified him. Desires and hungers that had lain dormant for so many years were taking nearly every scrap of his considerable willpower to crush into submission and if his behavior earlier in the evening was any indication, it was a battle he was not confident of winning. He could still taste her lips, still feel the warmth of her body pressed against him and the way his own flesh had responded.
The old monk was right, he owed the king his allegiance and his sword, and he resented the mendicant for putting him in a position where he had to choose, for if he rode to the coast to warn the king, he would have to abandon Amaranth to her fate.
And yet, perhaps that was exactly what he needed to do. Leave her. Walk away from her. Forget her eyes and the way she looked at him. Forget that ridiculous cloud of yellow curls and the way the candlelight shone through every strand. Forget the softness of her cheek, the slight tilt to her smile, the small catch in her voice when she spoke to him in a way that suggested she, too, was having difficulty reconciling her feelings. Oh yes, he was not that much of a monk that he did not feel the response in her slender body, the shivers when he touched her, the breathy sigh when he kissed her.
It would appear they were both damned.
It could never be, however. She was a married woman, bound for a convent. He was an excommunicated priest, bound for hell.
He slammed the flat of his hand on the stone and offered up a vile epithet before he turned and strode out of the hall again.
~~
The violence of the oath drew someone else's attention, someone seated a distance from the fire who preferred the shadows to the brighter light cast by the blazing logs. His face was long and pointed, his eyes narrowed and crusted by sleep but as he stared at the figure outlined so boldly by the fire, his mouth went slack and his eyes widened. He pushed himself upright but by then the cursing knight had walked away from the fire and was through the arched doorway of the pilgrim's hall.
There could be no mistaking that face, no mistaking the angular profile, the dragon-like green eyes.
Hugh de Bergerette felt a sudden, violent flare of pain where his right arm should have been. He reached across and rubbed the stump that hung below his shoulder and in his mind’s eye he saw the flash of a blade biting into his flesh, tearing through bone and sinew and leaving his forearm lying in a spatter of blood on the hot desert sand, the hand still gripped around the hilt of his sword.
Ciaran Tamberlane, the vaunted Dragonslayer had crippled him in defense of a Saracen slut. Adding insult to infamy, the hero of the Battle of Hattin had turned and walked away from the battlefield like a coward, his face streaked with tears, his shield and weapons flung aside in an act of heresy that had resulted in him being exiled from the Order, from the church itself. Hugh had heard the knight had become a recluse, had locked himself away in some godforsaken, decrepit castle in the middle of nowhere and surrounded himself with outcasts and misfits.
It was evident by the cut of his tunic, the healthy vigor in his stride, that the defrocked Templar had barely suffered for his disgrace while he, Hugh de Bergerette, a man loyal to his duty and his God had lain in agony for weeks, watching the spidery red threads of gangrene spread up from the badly cauterized stump until the arm itself had to be sawed from his body.
De Bergerette's lips curled back in a serpentine hiss and he rose quickly to follow the former Templar out of the hall. Revenge had always been a tempting thought, but he had needed all of the past three years to rebuild his strength and learn to compensate for the missing limb. It had taken half that time just to retrain himself to wield a sword or dagger in his left hand.
Among the other new skills he had acquired was the knowledge that few paid heed to a one-armed man dressed in beggars rags. He was able to walk through gates where normal passage would have been barred. He became adept at disguises and at dwelling in shadows and niches where he overheard conversations and gathered information that paid well if whispered in the right ears. Because of this, he was always alert for oddities, and most especially for seeing people in places where they should not have been seen.
Thus, when the first flush of rage had passed, he had to ask himself: What was the reclusive Dragonslayer doing at St. Albans? What could have lured him away from his lair?
He tracked the sound of the knight's boots splashing through puddles along the breezeway. His curiosity roused, Hugh de Bergerette followed, darting silently from pillar to post.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
As much as Tamberlane wanted to leave the monastery, the weather did not favor it. The rain, which had fallen all nig
ht, obscured the dawn under waves of heavy, slanting sheets that flooded the meadows and ran down the slopes, swelling the little stream until it overflowed its banks and threatened to wash the bridge away.
Tamberlane spent the morning in the pilgrim's hall and by late afternoon, with no relief in sight, was resigned to spend another night at the monastery. The decision made, he found Boethius who was standing guard outside the monk's cell and watching the driving torrents.
“Stupid creatures,” the knight said, tipping an unshaven chin to indicate the corpses of several dead chickens in the courtyard. “They turn their heads up to watch the rain and drown themselves.”
Tamberlane cursed as a gust of wind blew rain through the archway and spattered his face.
Boethius read the knight's thoughts and grunted. “We would not have managed a mile in this muck and downpour.”
“No, I warrant we would not. Go, then, and dry yourself by the fire. Put a toe in Roland’s ribs and remind him to see to the horses.”
Boethius nodded, glad of the chance to get out of the wet spray. He set off down the passage leaving Tamberlane to contemplate the closed door to the cell. He had not seen Amaranth since the visit from Father Michaelus.
He drew a deep breath and reached out a hand, letting it rest on the iron latch for a long moment before carefully raising it and pushing the door quietly open.
Hugo padded past him as he ducked below the lintel. Amaranth was hunched over and cursing, a scattering of leather points flung to the floor around her. The wolfhound brushed up against her bare leg, nearly toppling her over.
She whirled with a startled look and sent another point flying out of her fingers.
"Oh! I did not hear you knock."
Ciaran frowned. "Because I did not knock."
"Oh," she said again. “Well, if you are come to fetch me to resume our journey, my lord, I am more than ready to leave this place. I have counted every block and board a dozen times, even fixed the shutter so the rain stays on the outside. Now, if only I can learn the proper way of binding these wretched things!”
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