Beast: Great Bloodlines Converge (28 page)

The Bird and Bucket Tavern

“They say that de Russe is in London now, in residence near the Tower,” said the barkeep to le Foix. “He must have business with Gloucester or with the king.”

Armand le Foix had spies all over London, trying to discover the whereabouts of Bastian de Russe, but it was the faithful barkeep who finally had the information he sought. Leaning back in his chair with a full cup of ale in hand, le Foix listened to the barkeep with great interest.

“Who says this?” he wanted to know. “Reliable sources?”

The barkeep shrugged, wiping at his hands with his dirty bar towel. “English soldiers have come in here and they have spoken of many things,” he said. “Yesterday, there were five or six of them, Gloucester’s men, who spoke of de Russe’s presence at the Tower.”

Le Foix sighed, mulling over the information. It was late, the night dark and cold, but the tavern was oddly empty. He looked over the crowd that was there; merchants and travelers only. There was even an old drunk at the table nearby, his head on the tabletop. Perhaps he was asleep, perhaps not. There were no soldiers or knights about, in any case. He looked back to the barkeep.

“So we know he is there,” he said. “But I cannot get into the Tower.”

The barkeep was thoughtful. “If it is de Russe you seek, mayhap we can bring him here,” he said helpfully. “We can bribe him somehow to come here. Do you want to kill him?”

Le Foix shook his head. “Nay, I do not,” he said. “De Russe is much more valuable to me alive than dead. I think... I think, mayhap, he may understand our cause. He was close to the Maid and if what the English soldier said was true, then mayhap he was closer than we think. I do not wish to kill the man – I only wish to speak with him to know if he indeed has a relic from the Maid. It is the relic I truly want.”

“But why?”

Le Foix looked at the man as if he were completely daft. “Think on it, Arneau,” he said. “Think on the supporters that would rally to a true relic from Joan of Orleans. Her cause would not be lost nor would the cause of France. It would renew the faith of the weary and convince them to continue the fight.”

It seemed logical enough, passionate words spoken by a passionate man. The barkeep studied the dark French knight for a moment.

“Did you know the Maid, le Foix?” he asked.

Le Foix drew in a long, thoughtful breath and his eyes took on a distant look. “I was with her when we marched on Auxerre,” he said softly. “I remained with her when we marched on Troyes and eventually to Reims. I had never seen anything like it in my life, Arneau – the armies that surrendered in her path, the people who would fall at her feet... it was like Christ returning to Jerusalem. She represented more than God’s favor. She represented the heart of France. If I have this relic that de Russe has, then the heart beats again.”

Arneau the barkeep had never seen le Foix express such sentiment. True, the man was deeply loyal to France, but in speaking of the Maid, there was something more to his expression. There was love there, but not for the Maid. It was for what she represented.

“Then we will have men watch for de Russe and we will follow his movements,” Arneau said. “Mayhap you will be able to speak with him.”

Le Foix nodded. “Possibly,” he said. “If I only knew where his possessions were and where he slept at night, his habits in general, mayhap I would not need to speak with him at all. It is the relic I want, after all. Whether or not de Russe agrees to give it to me, I will have it.”

Arneau looked up as two weary men wandered into his bar. He watched them take a seat at a table away from the door before returning his attention to le Foix.

“But you must confirm that he has it,” he said. “The soldier could have been lying.”

Le Foix nodded. “I realize that,” he said. “But the man seemed very sure. The only way I will know for certain, I suppose, is to ask de Russe or to find where he keeps his possessions.”

“But what if he will not give it to you?” Arneau wanted to know. “What if he wants to keep it for himself? If he took it, surely that was his intention.”

Le Foix looked up at him, serious meanings on his dark features. “It is more valuable to the people of France than it is to him,” he said quietly. “If he will not give it to me, then I will kill him and take it.”

Arneau lifted an eyebrow. “You are speaking of the Beast,” he reminded him. “If you truly intend to kill him, it will not be easy.”

Le Foix didn’t seem particularly concerned. “How do you catch a beast, Arneau?”

The barkeep shrugged his shoulders. “Poison?”

Le Foix shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “A trap.”

Arneau didn’t say what he was thinking. It would take a very big trap to snare this particular beast. He headed back to his bar duties while le Foix drained what was in his cup and left the tavern, heading off into the night. For now, their conversation was finished.

On the table nearby, the man they believed to be a drunk sleeping off his alcohol lifted his head. He hadn’t been asleep at all. He had heard every word spoken.

Perhaps the information might be worth a bottle of wine to the right people.

Young Henry was both thrilled and frightened at the prospect of spending the night at Braidwood. He’d only really slept in two places in his entire life, and his world in general was greatly structured, so the introduction of a new environment had the boy very nervous. Excited, but nervous.

The nurses wept when they were told, by Gloucester no less, that they would not be able to accompany the boy king to Braidwood. The ruse was explained to them and it was decided that one of Henry’s young companions would sleep in the king’s bed as a decoy. That upset the nurses even more but Gloucester disregarded their weeping. He did, however, insist on sending the king’s head physician, to which Bastian reluctantly agreed. The old physician seemed genuinely fond of Henry, and Henry seemed fond of him, so it wasn’t such a bad thing. The boy needed at least one person with him who wasn’t a complete stranger.

Gannon, who had accompanied his sister and her husband to the Tower, remained outside when Bastian and Gisella had gone to meet with the king. He was gathered with a few de Russe soldiers at the Byward Tower, the exit to the west, so that they would be available for Bastian when the man was ready to leave the Tower. Gannon had remained with the carriage that had brought Gisella over and, at one point during the evening, even lay down on the bench and slept for a few minutes because he was so exhausted from all of the travel over the past several days. He was awake, however, when Bastian and Gisella emerged from the White Tower with a youth and an old man in tow. He walked out to meet them as they crossed the ward, heading away from the White Tower.

“How was the feast?” Gannon asked Bastian. “We could hear the music out here.”

Bastian nodded. “Very fine,” he said, turning to indicate the boy. “I do not believe you recognize our king, Gannon. This is Henry.”

Gannon looked at the young man in shock and quickly bowed in his direction. “Your Grace,” he said. “I am honored to be in your presence.”

Henry looked at the tall, dark-haired knight but didn’t say anything. He was exceptionally unpracticed with conversation in general, as others usually spoke for him, so he turned to Gisella nervously, who smiled at him.

“Sir Gannon is my brother,” she told the king. “He is an excellent knight. You may trust him.”

That seemed to ease Henry somewhat as he followed Gisella to the carriage. She opened the door and ushered him in. Bastian was standing right behind her and he helped her into the carriage after the young king settled himself. The physic, smelling heavily of yeast for some reason, was the last one into the cab. Bastian spoke to the man as he settled himself on the seat opposite Gisella and the king.

“I did not hear your name,” he said.

The old physician pulled his cloak more tightly around him in the cool evening air. “I am Darwich,” he said. “I met your great-grandfather once. Brandt de Russe was a sight to see, you know. A big man, like yourself.”

The comment garnered Bastian’s interest. “I never met him,” he said. “He died a few years before I was born.”

Darwich sniffled, wiping his nose on his cloak. “A great man,” he commented, reflecting on the mighty Duke of Exeter those years ago. “A great man indeed.”

“How did you know him?”

The physic sniffled again. “I was training as a physician,” he said. “I helped tend the man when he was injured at Poitiers.”

Bastian’s thoughts lingered on his great-grandfather as he headed for his rouncey, who was being brought forth from the stables along with Gannon’s horse. Brandt de Russe had nearly died at Poitiers from what family legend said but now it appeared as if Bastian might have an opportunity to confirm it first-hand, which pleased him. There weren’t many men left from the wars back then. Swinging himself onto the back of his horse, he spurred the animal forward and the party set out from the Tower of London and into the moonlit roads beyond.

Bastian rode to the rear of the party with Gannon in the front at point because Bastian wanted to be able to keep his eye on the king at all times. The half-moon was bright in the sky, casting silver light upon the dark waters of the Thames. It was quiet, too, as they made their way down a well-traveled road towards the ferry that would take them over the river. Braidwood was on the opposite side and Bastian could see the familiar silhouette in the distance.

Young Henry was thrilled with the ferry crossing, as he’d rarely had the opportunity to do that kind of thing. Bastian permitted him to get out of the carriage and stand at the front of the ferry, feeling the cold wind against his face. It was a glorious sensation. But the physician cut his joy short suggesting that the cold air might not be good for his health, so the boy begrudgingly climbed back into the carriage. Soon enough, the ferry docked on the opposite shore and they were off for the short jaunt to Braidwood.

The de Russe manor was rather eerie at night because of the heavy vines all over the structure. It gave it a haunted look in the darkness but as the big iron gates opened wide to admit Bastian’s party inside, the manor itself was sufficiently lit and big torches burned along the drive, illuminating the manicured path. When the carriage finally stopped, Bastian dismounted his steed and went to the carriage to assist the young king and Gisella out of it. As he was steadying his wife as she climbed out, Lucas and Brant emerged from the house.

Young Henry eyed the knights as they approached, as the boy was naturally afraid of anyone he didn’t know, but Bastian made sure to ease the young king, introducing him to the two men.

“Your Grace, these are two of my knights – they are my cousins, in fact,” he said. “The man on the left is Sir Brant de Russe and the man on the right is Sir Lucas de Lara. Good knights, young Henry is to be our guest tonight.”

Brant and Lucas were both caught off guard by the introduction of the young king. Brant, who was in the Earl of Warwick’s contingent, knew the young king especially well. He wasn’t personally acquainted with him but he certainly knew him on sight. He fleetingly wondered what Warwick would say to the king being out of the Tower and not highly protected, but he said nothing. Still, he cast Bastian an odd look before bowing in supplication to the king.

“Your Grace,” Brant said. “Welcome to Braidwood.”

Henry nodded his head, barely, keeping his attention on Bastian because he was uncertain and didn’t know what else to do. Bastian began to walk and the young king stuck beside him, never wavering. He shuffled alongside Bastian on the pebble path in his fine velvet slippers, looking at his surroundings with wide eyes.

“The king is going to be spending his nights here for the time being,” Bastian explained to his cousins. “His uncle, Gloucester, thought it would be an excellent idea since I refuse to sleep at the Tower yet, as his protector, I should be with him at all times. Lucas, can you please tell Collins that the king will be placed in the chamber next to mine?”

Lucas, who had been bringing up the rear, moved swiftly past Bastian and headed into the house. Just as he entered the warmly lit entry, Martin exited. He approached Bastian without as much as looking at those around the man. He was singularly focused on his cousin.

“You are not going to believe it, Bas. Uncle Braxton is here. He arrived from West Court after you had left for the Tower.” He sounded flustered but his focus abruptly came to rest on Henry. He lifted his eyebrows. “God’s Blood, what’s this? Another page? As if we need another one. We already have three. Is his father some well-connected general that you want to please? Well, come along, boy, and I’ll show you where you sleep.”

He grasped Henry by the neck and yanked the boy with him. But Bastian threw out an arm and blocked his cousin from proceeding, dragging Henry along by the neck as he was.

“Remove your hands,” Bastian said in a low voice. “Do you not recognize the king when you see him?”

Martin looked at Bastian as if the man had gone mad but when he looked down at Henry again, he ended up taking a second look and his eyes widened.

“God’s Blood,” he hissed. “Your Grace, I did not recognize you in the darkness. Pray forgive me for laying a hand upon you. I did not know.”

Henry was rubbing his neck where the big knight had grabbed him. He didn’t say a word. He simply scooted back to Bastian’s side. Bastian frowned deeply at Martin, who was appalled by what he had done. Bastian pushed past his cousin, focused on the fact that his father was inside. He was both curious and concerned about the man’s premature visit.

It was warm inside the entry of Braidwood and relatively bright thanks to several banks of expensive tallow candles that were burning. The oily smell of their flame hung in the air but Bastian knew the candles were alight because his father was not particularly fond of dark rooms. With Henry following him closely, nearly plastered against him, Bastian entered the big reception room and immediately located his father.

Seated by the blazing hearth, Braxton was warming his old bones by sitting as close to the flame as he possibly could without igniting his clothing. He looked up when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, his gaze falling on Bastian as the man entered the room with a young boy at his side. Braxton’s old eyes twinkled.

“Ah,” he said. “So you have returned from the Tower.”

Bastian came to a halt several feet away because the fire was so damn hot. “Indeed,” he said, eyeing his father. “Why have you come? I told you I would send for you once my wife and I were settled.”

Braxton shrugged, not particularly interested in his son’s disapproving tone. “I was bored,” he said. “West Court holds no excitement for me so I thought I would follow you here.”

Bastian peered at him. “You did not come alone, did you?”

Braxton shook his head. “I brought ten men with me. They are out in the soldier’s lodgings.”

At least he hadn’t struck out alone, which wouldn’t have surprised Bastian in the least. Not knowing what else to say, Bastian glanced at Gisella, who was standing to his left. He pursed his lips irritably in response to his father’s declaration of boredom, but she grinned.

“Of course you are welcome to be here with us,” she assured the old man. “Pay no attention to your son. He is irritable this evening.”

Braxton smiled at his new daughter. “I like you very much, Lady de Russe,” he said. “You are very gracious.”

Gisella giggled, biting her lip and pretending to wipe away the smile when Bastian frowned at her. But he couldn’t hold it for long and ended up cracking a grin.

“Of course you are welcome, Father,” he said. “I did not mean to intimate that you were not. In fact, I would like you to meet someone. This is good King Henry and he will be our guest tonight.”

Braxton turned his attention to the boy, peering intently at him as the boy gazed back at him with some trepidation. In fact, the young king appeared quite stiff and afraid. Braxton shifted in his chair.

“Your Grace,” he said evenly. “I apologize that I am not standing to greet you. It is difficult for me these days.”

The boy simply looked at him, unsure what to say. Then he lowered his gaze, looking at the floor. Braxton studied the tense young man carefully.

“Are you afraid, Henry?” Braxton asked, completely disregarding protocol.

Henry nodded after a moment’s hesitation. He glanced up at Bastian nervously, fearful he that he should say more, possibly to explain himself, but he was unable to. He was in a rare situation where there weren’t ten people speaking for him so he truly had little idea on how to behave.

Braxton could see the unrest, the anxiety. The lad had been a king since nine months of age and in that time he’d never been allowed to be anything other than a figurehead. Everyone spoke for Henry. Everyone made decisions for Henry. Like Gisella and Bastian, Braxton could also see what damage had been done to this child and, like his son and daughter-in-law, the seeds of pity sprouted.

“Henry, come here,” Braxton said, not unkindly.

Terrified, Henry looked to Bastian for direction and the man nodded encouragingly. “Go to him,” he said. “He will not harm you. He is my father and he is a very wise man.”

Timidly, Henry took a few steps in Braxton’s direction. Even though his eyes were on the boy, the old man spoke to his son.

“Bastian,” he said. “Bring a chair for young Henry. Let him sit by the fire and be comfortable.”

Bastian pulled up a padded leather chair for the young king, who gingerly planted his skinny bottom on it. Perched on the edge of the chair, he looked at Braxton rather anxiously.

Braxton’s gaze was steady upon the king, thinking on the rather pitiful young boy, but he began to realize that the reception room was full of people hovering about; Bastian, Gisella, an old man he didn’t know, and five knights, including Brant who had just entered the room. No wonder the boy was nervous. He was being watched by people he didn’t really know as well as being in a strange place. It was probably a nightmarish situation for him. Braxton glanced at Bastian.

“You and your knights have duties to attend to, do you not?” he said. “The king and I shall become acquainted. And send Collins in here when you go.”

Bastian could see that his father was very interested in young Henry but not because he was the king. Braxton really didn’t care much about that. Braxton was quite fond of children but his were all grown up. He had a granddaughter but Bastian had no idea how often he saw her, so Braxton simply wanted to sit and talk to the boy. It was one of the things Braxton did best. Bastian smiled faintly, remembering the times he had spent with his father as a child. They were still the best times of his life.