Dragon Tree

by Canham, Marsha

  "We shall have to discover the answer to that together," he murmured, bowing his head to hers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The first growl went unnoticed.

  When Tamberlane had first entered the monk's cell, the two wolfhounds had retreated to a corner and curled up together. It was Maude whose head came off her paws now and turned toward the door. Her ears were pricked up sharply as she gave a second warning rumble in her throat. Beside her, Hugo curled his lips back over a snarl, staring at the door as he did so.

  Tamberlane, in the midst of discovering the difference between a whimper of delight and a ragged, clawing urge, heard it then too—the soft scrape of a stealthy boot outside the door. As if he needed confirmation, he saw the black iron latch move ever so slightly, testing for the hindrance of a lock.

  Too late, he remembered both knights were in the pilgrim's hall leaving no one outside the door on guard. He had no idea of the hour. He and Amie had spent the evening entwined in each other's arms, sleeping only long enough to restore strength between bouts of lovemaking.

  Pressing a finger to Amaranth’s lips to signal caution, he swiftly extricated himself from between her legs and rolled to his feet. Naked, he reached for his sword in the same smooth motion that carried him soundlessly to the door.

  Another silent signal sent Amie scrambling noiselessly to the far side of the cot. A tilt of his head dispatched the wolfhounds to stand guard over her while he took up a stance beside the door then reached out to grasp the iron latch.

  ~~

  Hugh de Bergerette had kept close watch on Tamberlane and his small party of misfits throughout the long, dreary day. With the weather so abysmal, there was little else to do and few brave souls ventured out of doors. Those who did were monks, their heads bowed under heavy woolen cowls and their sandaled feet carrying them about their duties as quickly as possible.

  The courtyard was deserted, the pathways awash under intermittent downpours. When it finally did stop raining, a fog shouded the grounds and buildings, so thick that Hugh watched with some amusement as one of the short-sighted monks conversed with a pillar for several minutes.

  The cell Tamberlane occupied was at the end of the long row. De Bergerette had crouched in a darkened niche on the opposite side of the courtyard marking who came and went throughout the day. He had identified the two knights who traveled with the Dragonslayer, as well as a pair of foresters and a young, muscular squire. On one occasion the squire had brought a basket of victuals to the cell—a very full basket containing more foodstuffs than one man would require for his evening meal. Hugh had waited in vain to catch a glimpse of who was inside the cell with Tamberlane, but thus far, had had no luck.

  Full night had fallen. Water was dripping from the lips of the roof and cisterns and frogs were chirruping back and forth through the fog. Over the years Hugh had acquired the patience required of a successful ferret, but it was beginning to wear thin. He could squander no more time inside the monastery walls; he had pressing matters to attend to elsewhere.

  Taking a bold chance, de Bergerette left his niche and stole silently across the courtyard to the archway outside Tamberlane's door.

  The breezeway was empty; nothing moved but the clouds of mist.

  Catching the Dragonslayer sound asleep would be too much to hope for, but so had the likelihood of seeing both knights dispatched to the pilgrim's hall for the night.

  Stealthy as a roach, the one-armed knight crept closer and put his ear against the wood to listen for sounds of movement within.

  At first he heard nothing. But then he jerked his head away and stared at the solid oak door as if he had been hearing things. He listened again and this time the muffled noises were familiar enough to set the nape of his neck tingling.

  There could be no mistake. The Dragonslayer had a woman with him! A woman who was whimpering and snuffling like a bitch in heat.

  How far the pious and mighty had fallen!

  Excommunicated, cast out of the Brotherhood, and now fornicating with a woman under God’s own roof!

  Fighting to repress the urge to roar with contemptuous laughter, de Bergerette had to take a step back in order to give himself time to think. It would be an exquisitely satisfying moment to burst into the room and catch the pair in the throes of ecstasy, for the only sword the Dragonslayer could handily reach would be imbedded deep in his whore. Tamberlane would have a dagger buried in his broad back or slashed across his throat before he even saw the danger coming.

  Hugh's missing right arm throbbed with a vengeance and he gripped the dagger tighter. If he was going to do anything, he had to do it now, and with memories of the agony he had suffered rising up to boil in his blood, de Bergerette approached the door again and tested the iron latch. It moved easily enough, but just as he was setting himself to shoulder his way into the cell, his foot slipped on something round and hard and he heard the crack of an acorn shell explode under his heel.

  The shock of his own carelessness sent his wits flying briefly in all directions, and by the time he recovered, he heard movement from inside the cell.

  ~~

  Tamberlane jerked the door open. His sword was raised, his teeth set to issue a challenge... but there was no one there to answer it.

  The breezeway was empty. Frogs were burping and water was dripping, but there were no other sounds, and apart from some faint swirls in the encroaching fog, there were no signs of movement anywhere nearby.

  He stuck his head out beyond the niche and looked both ways. Nothing. No one was lurking, no one was walking past.

  Lowering his sword, he was about to withdraw back into the cell when his gaze happened to turn down and he saw the crushed acorn shell. After another wary glance cast about the yard, he bent and retrieved it, turning it over in his fingertips. The outer shell was wet, soaked by the dampness, but the nut inside was clean and dry, indicating it was recently crushed.

  Someone had been standing outside the door. That same someone had tried the latch but thought better of coming inside the room.

  Roland or either of the two knights would not have approached with any attempt at stealth knowing the two dogs were inside. Moreover, it had been less than a minute since Maude had growled a warning. Any or all three would have to run like the blazes back down the breezeway to disappear so fast from view. Roland might have managed it, though for what purpose Tamberlane could not suppose. But not Geoffrey or Boethius. Both carried too much suet around the waist and too much belligerence in their nature to lift their heels and run.

  He debated sending the dogs out, but if it had been one of the mendicants, a chewed limb would not win favor with Father Michaelus.

  He sensed movement to his right and turned in time to see a pale glow seeping through the mist at the far end of the breezeway. Someone was emerging from the pilgrim's hall and carrying a light.

  Ciaran felt the mist on his bare skin and remembered that he was stark naked. He turned quickly to look for his clothes and found Amie standing behind him, holding out his tunic and long woolen mantel. He took both with a quick nod of thanks.

  Moments later a cowled, rotund figure emerged from the clouds of gold-tinged mist.

  "A foul night, by God's grace," Brother Ignatius mused, slowing as he approached. "Not even a fox would be fool enough to venture into a hen house on a night such as this."

  "And yet you are out and about, Friar."

  "I am come to deliver a message from Father Michaelus. He wishes you to know there has been a sighting of a red boar in the woods nearby, and further, that although that selfsame red boar had been intent upon a mission of personal importance, it has been cut short by way of a royal missive and he has been sent south with a host of some forty men. With the weather easing, they should pass this way on the morrow."

  Amie was hiding in the shadows inside the doorway and Ciaran sensed her sharp intake of breath as she heard the whispered words.

  Ignatius tipped his cowled head in Ciaran's direction
. "Father Michaelus does not wish to bring such trouble as rides with the boar inside the monastery walls."

  "There will be no trouble," Tamberlane assured him. "Convey my thanks to the good Father for his hospitality. We will be gone before the bell rings for Prime."

  Ignatius nodded and turned to resume his slow, even pace back to the pilgrim's hall. "The postern gate in the east wall is rarely attended even in good weather. You will find your horses waiting on the other side."

  The friar retraced his steps along the arched walkway where he and the blot of lantern light were soon swallowed back into the mist.

  After waiting and listening to the drips and drops for a few moments, Ciaran stepped back inside the monk's cell and closed the door.

  Amie was pressed up against the wall, the baggy woolen shirt hastily thrown over her nakedness. Something glittered in her hand and Ciaran caught sight of his own wickedly sharp poniard gripped in a white-knuckled fist.

  "A red boar!" she cried. "It could only be Odo. He is here! He has tracked us through the woods! He has found us!"

  But Tamberlane was not listening. He gently pried the poniard from her hand and turned it over and over, studying the blade as if he had never seen it before.

  "I do not think he is tracking us," he murmured. "Did you not say he was a trusted ally of Prince John?"

  "What does that have to do with—?"

  Tamberlane turned the blade again. "How high would he climb in favor if he helped secure the throne for John?"

  It took a moment for her to understand what he was saying, and when she did, her hand flew to cover her mouth. "Not even he... would dare to murder a king."

  "Only a wife, a priest, and a village full of innocent farmers?"

  The thought was too horrible to contemplate, but Amie felt a chill ripple down her spine... a chill that told her Ciaran was not wrong. Odo's retinue had always been comprised mainly of mercenaries and men who wore the black hood. They were men with no consciences, men who killed for a silver coin and suffered no pang of guilt or remorse afterward.

  "You said the prince had been to Belmane on several occasions? What was his business there?"

  She started to shake her head to plead ignorance, but stopped. Her face turned whiter than Marak's as the blood drained down to her toes.

  "What is it? What are you remembering?"

  Her fingers slid down her throat and curled around the cross she wore. "I think I know where Richard intends to land when he crosses the Channel. And I think I know how Odo will bait the trap to ambush the king."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The fog was thick as porridge as the horses and riders crossed the narrow bridge. Spickets of moisture clung to their clothes and faces. The horses had been left where Brother Ignatius had said, tethered to a sagging oak tree. Neither the beasts nor their riders looked comfortable crossing the river for it was swollen by the rain, rushing beneath the rickety bridge so fast and furious the peaks touched the underbelly of the planking.

  The wolfhounds proved their worth yet again by running silently into the mist-shrouded greensward to scout the way ahead and sniff out any potential threats.

  They rode hard through the morning and stopped midday when it became necessary to give the horses a chance to rest. The foresters had found a small mud and wattle cottage set in the middle of an overgrown glade not far off the road. The roof was gone and the walls were half crumbled. It had been abandoned for some time to judge by the number of birds nests built on the crux of every timber or stone.

  The rain had stopped but the skies were gray and overcast with thick scudding clouds. Having left the abbey without breaking their fast, they built a small fire and spitted a brace of hares Quill and Fletcher had caught. Roland supplemented it with a small pot of broth made from the wild onions and carrots he found growing near the edge of the glade. Boethius contributed a skin of wine... one of four he had brought away from St. Albans.

  It was a welcomed meal, devoured to the last scrap of meat scraped from the smallest knuckle of bone.

  Tamberlane, who had been quiet for the greater part of the morning began speaking without any manner of preamble.

  “The abbot came to me with information that King Richard is nearing Calais and is on his way home to England.”

  Boethius stared into the fire, poking it with a stick as he listened. Sir Geoffrey glanced up from picking a sliver out of his thumb. Both knights had sat in the pilgrim's hall long enough to have heard whispers and gossip concerning the king's return, so neither was startled by the news. Behind them, Roland stopped honing the blade of his knife on a whetstone and both foresters moved closer to hear what was being said.

  “It was put to me that Hubert Walter suspects treachery, that John does not intend to relinquish the throne or the crown. It was also suggested that I should leave the path we are on now and ride for the coast. My first thought was to refuse, for what good would one sword be?”

  “Two swords,” Boethius growled at once.

  “Three,” declared Sir Geoffrey.

  “Four,” cried Roland.

  "And our bows can cut down five for every one who falls under the weighty swing of a sword," Fletcher declared.

  "Although the exact words have never been spoken aloud, and unless the trunk of a tree has fallen on your heads," Tamberlane continued, "you must already know the identity of the lady who travels in our company."

  Amie sat quietly by the fire, her lashes lowered.

  "What you may not know is that her husband, Odo de Langois, has also been called away from the hunt he was on in order to seek a new quarry."

  Boethius bristled. "The king?"

  "He travels with a full host of armed men which may have increased above forty or more since leaving Taniere. Against six, those are poor odds at best."

  “One good knight on a fair horse can account for four guardsmen without breaking into a sweat,” Sir Geoffrey's voice came gruffly out of the silence. “Five if he unties his damn swordarm from behind his back.”

  “We would also have surprise on our side,” Roland chimed in. “Those attempting an ambush will be looking ahead, not behind.”

  “The coast is long and the abbot was uncertain as to where Richard might come ashore," Tamberlane said, raking a hand through his hair. “But the Lady Elizabeth—" he paused to acknowledge Amie by her proper name—"believes she knows where the king, and in turn, Odo de Langois, are bound."

  The men looked at her, and Amie met each gaze in turn. “Sandwich,” she said quietly. “The king will come ashore at Sandwich.”

  Boethius frowned. “Why say you that, lass?”

  “Because I know some of his habits from his youth.”

  “You’re naught but a youth yourself, how would you know the habits of a king?”

  She fingered the cross that hung around her neck, then looked at Tamberlane. His face was a blank slate and she moistened her lips first before carefully flicking the tiny metal clasp that opened the outer shell that Marak had made to conceal the ornate crucifix within.

  The two knights recognized the Plantagenet leopards at once.

  “I am related by blood, albeit born on the wrong side of the hedge,” she admitted softly. “My mother was the king’s half sister.”

  Boethius' only show of surprise was an arched eyebrow. “And these habits you speak of...?”

  “When I was a child of five or six, I remember my father engaging in a terrible argument with someone I did not know, had never seen before. To a child, he looked like a god and in truth, the blustering King Henry was a divinity of sorts... a man who had been ordained by God to rule. He and Father were arguing over his son, my half-cousin Richard, over whom I had a terrible crush and because of that I listened from behind a curtain.

  “It happened that Richard had been caught in the arms of his lover and King Henry was in a killing rage. The two had barely escaped his royal wrath alive and because my father had taken Richard as squire, training him for knighthood,
Henry assumed he had come to Father seeking a place to hide.

  "Richard had, indeed, come to Father. He appealed for help and against his better judgement, Father sent him to Hawk's Nest Castle, a small holding that overlooks the sea. That particular lover fell out of Richard’s favor in due time, but there were others, and once the Lionheart became king, it became even more important for him to have a private place to arrange his trysts."

  “Do others know of this castle?”

  Amie shook her head. "That, I do not know. I expect Prince John would have made it his business to know all of his brother’s habits—especially those habits that might be used against him at some future date. If so, it would be reasonable for him to assume now that Richard might land in Sandwich, a place where he has felt safe in the past."

  She paused to moisten her lips and Tamberlane’s gaze remained steadfastly locked to hers. He knew, where the others might not, of the king’s penchant for taking lovers that were most definitely unsuited for a prince, a king... even a man. Despite many rumors and much speculation, there were few who were ready to believe their golden lionheart had dissolute tastes and Ciaran wondered if Amie knew it to be the reason for old King Henry's killing rage.

  He suspected, by the color of her blush, that she knew more than what she was willing to discuss over an open fire.

  “Come,” he said. “Walk with me a moment.”

  Amie rose and unabashedly took the hand he extended toward her, slipping her cool fingers into his.

  They moved away from the glowing ring of firelight, his long legs scything through the deergrass. He led her to the far side of the glade where their voices would not carry back to the tiny camp.