The blue-gray eyes did not miss the slight. Nor, after a hastily flickered second glance, did he miss the soft curve of her face, the full lips, the slight shaping of breasts where they pushed against the leather jerkin. His gaze went next to the foresters, Quill and Fletcher, both of whom were grinning like buffoons and shifting their weight from one foot to the next.
“You keep strange company, Dragonslayer. I vow I recognize these two rogues as well." He nodded at Quill and Fletcher. "When I saw them last they were throwing arrows at the king's deer in Lincolnshire and causing the sheriff there to soil his linens.” The Scourge’s pale eyes settled on the two knights, then Roland as he leaned indolently on the hilt of his new sword. “These brave nobles, I know not, however. Nor the young woman who tries so hard to jut her chin like a man.”
Tamberlane conducted the formalities, introducing Amaranth as the Lady Elizabeth, then the lords Boethius, Geoffrey, and Roland to Lord Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer, Champion to the dowager queen, Eleanor, and former outlaw known as the Black Wolf of Lincoln.
The name of La Seyne Sur Mer, was known well enough, for he was second only to William the Marshall for victories in the tournament lists in Europe. But to be standing in the presence of the Black Wolf, was tantamount to standing in the presence of...
“By the blood of St. George, what has happened here?”
The tenth member of the landing party, obviously grown weary of waiting below, mounted the top of the path, his hood swept back, his golden lions’ mane of hair ruffling in the wind.
Upon the instant, Tamberlane and his small group went down on one knee, their heads bowed, their eyes lowered.
“Randwulf? What in God’s name goes on here?” The Lionheart’s gaze scanned the surfeit of corpses and came to rest on one in particular. Rolf de Langois’ chiselled face was still turned toward the sea, the eyes glazed in death and staring off at a fixed point on the horizon.
“What has happened here today?” the king whispered again in horror. “Rise up, rise up damn you, and tell your liege why this field is red with the blood of... of men I would call friends and allies.”
"They were no friend to you, Your Majesty," Tamberlane declared. "They were sent here to wait in ambush and to prevent you from returning to London."
"They meant to kidnap me? By St. George, I have had enough of kidnappings to last a lifetime."
"No, Your Majesty." Ciaran raised his head and met the king's gaze full on. "They were not here to kidnap you. Their blades were well honed and their intent was to use them."
“By the look of it," La Seyne murmured, "I would say Hubert Walter’s words of caution were well advised.”
The king moved slowly to stand over the body of Rolf de Langois and the combination of anger and disbelief turned his face a mottled red. “My brother is greedy and ambitious, but I did not think he would stoop to this.”
“His spine has been stiffened these past four years with the gold wrung from your people,” Tamberlane said. “He has taxed them half to death, and those who cannot pay... he commands their loyalty through murder and torture."
Richard turned the Plantagenet blue eyes on Ciaran. There was a wealth of warnings delivered in that one glance, and it was with a further start that he recognized the man he had last seen standing before a tribunal of Templar knights.
“Well, well. Dragonslayer. I heard you were dead.”
“Not quite yet,” Tamberlane said grimly as he glanced around the carnage on the field. "Though not for lack of trying."
Richard smirked. "So I see. I almost failed to recognize you, for you have a deal more hair than the last time we met. The look of a rogue knight suits you."
"I live a peaceful life, Sire. For the most part."
The king directed a comment over his shoulder at the Black Wolf. “Do you hear that, Randwulf? The country has, indeed, gone to hell if the fearsome Dragonslayer is content to live in peace."
“'Tis an honorable aspiration,” La Seyne murmured dryly. “I savor it myself when I am not dragged away from my hearth.”
Richard snorted. “My two most formidable swords sheathed and cozened by a warm fire. You, Randwulf, I have seen your sheath and the Lady Servanne fits you well. It was—” he added in an aside to Ciaran— “ like drawing teeth with a twig for my mother to persuade this wolf to leave his cozy lair.” He paused and frowned as if another thought occurred to him. “Where is your holding? I must come and drink the water to see if it has been tainted by all of this domesticity.”
Tamberlane shook his head. “I live by an uncle’s good graces at Taniere Castle, a demesne of some little worth at the edge of Lincolnshire.”
“Taniere...?” Richard muttered the name aloud and a moment later another gray-cloaked moth approached to whisper in the royal ear. “Ahh, yes. I know it now. A meager place of stone and dampness, hardly worthy of a man who has saved his king this day.”
“I have grown accustomed to those stone walls,” Tamberlane said quietly. “And plan to drink a good deal more of the water therein."
Richard laughed. “Then it is yours. I shall speak to Glanville and grant him some other worthy holding in exchange. Belmane, perhaps. Aye. That should put a beetle up my brother's arse. Unless you would like Belmane for yourself? Its owner seems to have lost his head.”
While the king admired his own jest, Tamberlane graciously declined. “Taniere suits me well but if you wish to grant me a boon, there is one I would ask of you, Sire.”
Richard looked pleased. “Ask it! If it is within my power to grant it, it is yours.”
“A humble man—especially one with so many strikes against his shield as I bear—requires the permission of his liege to marry another of higher blood.”
“Higher blood?” Richard crossed his arms over his chest. “You Glanvilles were never ones to aim low. Well then, out with it. Who is she?”
Ciaran turned and after a moment’s hesitation, held his hand out to Amaranth. With halting steps she moved forward, placing only the chilled tips of her fingers into his palm. The king’s eyes raked over her hair, her face, her boyish garb... then up to her face again, whereupon his eyes widened with astonishment.
“Lil'bet? My little cousin... is it you?”
Amie let her hand fall away from Ciaran’s but only long enough to drop down into a curtsey before the wide-eyed Lionheart.
“It is I, and I bid you welcome home, Sire,” she said softly. “Your presence here in England has been sorely missed.”
Richard started to nod, but then frowned. “But did I not hear that you were married already?"
Instead of answering, Amie looked pointedly at the body of Odo de Langois.
"God's truth." Richard planted his hands on his hips and looked from the corpse to Amie to Tamberland. "I can see I have, indeed, missed much. Is this your wish then as well Lilb'et? To be bound for all eternity to a man such as this?”
“For a man such as this,” Amie said, smiling at Ciaran, “I fear eternity will not be long enough.”
EPILOGUE
The journey back to Taniere was a far more comfortable affair than the journey away. For one, they traveled with the king and his guardsmen first to London. News of Richard's arrival spread like ripples on a pond and each day, each mile saw barons and nobles loyal to Richard stream up the road to join him, their pennons snapping in the wind, their faces grim with determination to support their king should a show of force be needed to oust Prince John and his army of jackals.
By the time the king's host reached London, the Great North Road was congested with a solid column of men numbering in the tens of thousands. Word reached them long before they saw the gleaming spires and rooftops of the city that John had hastily boarded a ship and fled to France.
Richard reclaimed his city and his throne with much fanfare. The crusader king promised to restore peace and prosperity to the land, and to remain for however long it took to heal the wounds caused by his absence.
At his insistence, T
amberlane and Amaranth stayed in London for a month, during which time they were married with Richard himself placing the bride's hand into that of the groom. After a week of celebration, the knight and his lady returned to the dark mists of the greenwood and the still waters of the lake that surrounded Taniere Castle.
They arrived just as the sun was setting. The castle battlements were outlined in a blaze of orange and gold and as they rode across the draw, the six twisting heads of the carved dragons seemed to gaze down on them in welcome.
Seeing something new, Tamberlane smiled and called a halt, for in each iron jaw there now hung an ornate iron bell. Marak's work, he suspected. The wily healer must have somehow known Ciaran would not be returning home alone.
“Do you know the legend of the Dragon Tree?” he asked.
“Marak told me,” Amie said, following her husband's gaze. “He said it was made long ago in an enchanted forge, and according to legend, when a pure heart rings their magical bells the dragons will awaken to fly in six directions. The dragon of the nether region will flee from despair and bring hope. The dragon of heaven will return with the gift of true love. And from the four who fly to the corners of the earth will come peace, health, wisdom, and happiness.”
Tamberlane smiled. “Then ring the bells, my love. For these lazy dragons have slept long enough.”
THE END
AUTHORS NOTES
I hope you have enjoyed The Dragon Tree. If you would like more medieval adventures, the story of the Black Wolf, Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer and his family can be found in the Robin Hood Trilogy, three books which include Through A Dark Mist, In the Shadow of Midnight, and The Last Arrow.
Much research went into the writing of the trilogy as I searched for the origins of the outlaw known as Robin Hood. The plain truth was, he never existed. There was a Robert Hode, who came closest to the time and place, but he was a peasant farmer. Guy de Gisbourne existed, but he was not the sheriff of Lincoln at the time. That position was held by a woman, Nicolaa de la Haye. There was a Robert, Earl of Huntington, who most stories seem to focus around as being the man the legend was based upon, but there was nothing to suggest or confirm he turned outlaw.
What piqued my greatest interest was the mention of the Lost Princess, Eleanor of Brittany. King Henry had three sons: Richard, Geoffrey, and John. Richard was the eldest and became king after Henry, but he died without heirs. His brother Geoffrey would have been next in line, but he died before Richard, leaving his two children, Arthur and Eleanor next in line for the throne. Arthur was raised in France, and was a mere teenage boy when the Lionheart died. Much has been written about his misguided attempts to raise an army to fight his uncle John for the throne, which was legally and rightfully his. His grandmother, the dowager Queen Eleanor even supported his bid to become king, but his attempt to defeat John at Mirebeau failed and he was taken prisoner along with his sister. At some time during his captivity, Arthur died. It was widely believed that John had him killed, though nothing in the history books exists to prove it. Arthur's sister, Princess Eleanor, subsequently vanished and there were only very obscure references made to her over the next two decades, none of which suggested she made any attempt to claim the throne. Why? No one knows, or if they did, it was never recorded. Some say she entered a convent. Some say John kept her a prisoner for seventeen years until her death. In the history books, she is simply referred to as the Lost Princess of Brittany.
Finding little gems like that is what stirs an author's muse, and mine was stirred enough to write three books around the legend of the Lost Princess, introducing a variety of characters and heroes whose feats could well have all been attributed to the mysterious character of another legend, Robin Hood. These were the dark ages when written records were kept by monks and churches who wrote mostly in Latin. England had been conquered a century before by the French and most nobles spoke that language; Saxon English was common only amongst the lower classes. Adding to the confusion of three languages, bards and poets exaggerated stories that were only passed from mouth to mouth and by the time they were written down...if ever they were...the original tale was altered to suit whoever was singing it at the time. History has never been written by the vanquished, only the victors. Legends, on the other hand, are passed down by those who want to make the past deeds seem favorable to the downtrodden.
My Robin Hood trilogy is the product of my own imagination taking flight. If I was a bard, I would be adding more each time I sang the story, if only to catch and hold the listener's attention.
For a complete list of all my books, including the award winning Pirate Wolf Trilogy, please visit my website at http://www.marshacanham.com
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