Dragon Tree (37 page)

Odo clenched
his teeth and snarled again. “Who are you, cur? Show yourself so
that I may know the face of the man I slay this day.”

Tamberlane
raised a gauntleted hand and lifted the slotted visor, then on a
second thought, removed his helm completely, casting it aside with
a clank of metal so that all he wore was the chain mail coif. Odo’s
rage momentarily clouded his vision when he saw the unmistakable,
luminous green eyes.

“You!” A curse
escaped from between his teeth. “A one-armed ferret whispered in my
ear not three days gone that you had left your lair, but I could
scarcely believe it. He said he came upon you fornicating in the
abbey with my slut of a wife. I might have thought it beneath you
until I remembered you were accustomed to fucking Saracen whores.
Thus, any bitch above the dung mark would have a sweeter
taste.”

Tamberlane
smiled with lethal calm. "Whereas I might have thought it beneath
you to take up the blade of an assassin, but lo... here you are,
poised to carry out the blackest treachery of all. Tell me—what
price these days to spill the blood of a king? Two holdings? Three?
And if you succeeded, I wonder, how long you think the prince would
let you live? Not long enough, I warrant, for you to formally stand
trial for the slaughter of a village full of innocent people. For
that I have already judged you guilty and you shall pay with your
life.”

Odo roared. He
spurred his horse forward. His sword was in the air and swinging
but Ciaran was ready for him and the first pass was met with a
resounding clash of steel on steel. Both men were powerfully built,
their arms like oak, their blades well blooded in battle. They
turned and rode at each other again, this time bashing at shields,
striving by sheer force and shock of impact to unhorse the
other.

On the third
pass, Tamberlane’s shield was split in two but he managed to hack
through the links of the mail protecting Odo’s left arm. The armor
was enough to lessen the force of the blade, but not enough to
deflect it completely and first blood was drawn.

Ciaran cast
the shattered bullhide to the ground and reached for his
misericorde--a weapon longer than a dagger but half the length of
the battle sword. With blades in both hands, he guided Tristan with
his knees, urging the destrier to charge again and again, the turns
and circles becoming smaller as the two knights flailed and bashed
at each other.

Both were
showing blood. Neither showed signs of weakening. There was
fighting going on behind them as Roland, Boethius, and Geoffrey
battled the remaining knights, but most of the crossbowmen had fled
and those few who remained felt their loyalties draining out of
them as the tide clearly turned in the favor of Tamberlane’s
valiant party of defenders.

~~

Across the
field, Amaranth was lured out of her hiding place by the sound of
screams and the clashing of swords. She crept closer to the edge of
the trees to watch, her heart in her throat as she saw Tamberlane
take a crushing blow across his back and shoulders. It was a strike
that surely would have split him in two but the blow glanced off
his armor, slicing only his gyphon and nicking an ear.

~~

Odo was so
surprised to see the knight still upright that he paused and stared
a moment—a moment which allowed Tamberlane to swing his upper body
around in the saddle and drive the pointed tip of his sword into
the hollow of Odo’s armpit and clear through the breadth of his
chest. At the same instant, when the shock of feeling the blade
punch through his flesh was the greatest, Tamberlane brought the
misericorde forward, slashing it across de Langois throat with
enough vehemence he heard the blade scrape across the backbone.

With the
severed neck gouting blood, Odo's torso remained upright in the
saddle for as long as it took for the weight of armor to tip it
over and send it crashing to the ground. The head, with it’s shock
of red hair, tore free and was sent spinning toward the end of the
cliff, where it rolled over the edge and dropped out of sight.

~~

Amaranth had
not been aware of holding her breath until she saw Odo’s body fall
and knew that Tamberlane had won the day. Her relief was
short-lived however when she realized that Ciaran's shoulders had
taken a decided slump. Even from a distance she could see that he
was struggling with the pain of an injury, and when his horse
turned, blood had soaked the length of his thigh crimson. Releasing
a soft cry, she broke from the cover of the trees but had only
gained half a dozen paces when someone else stepped out from behind
a broad oak and caught her up around the waist. She was lifted off
her feet and slammed against the trunk, the force causing her head
to crack against the hard bark.

As her senses
started to fade and her body slumped into unconsciousness, the last
thing she saw was the empty, knotted sleeve of her attacker.

~~

Tamberlane's
thigh was slashed, his left arm and shoulder were badly bruised,
and a cut over his eye had turned most of the world red. Tristan's
flank was slashed, which made the great beast snort and dance with
the pain, and as he wheeled about, Ciaran caught sight of Hugh de
Bergerette hauling Amaranth back up onto her feet. Her head lolled
drunkenly forward, her arms hung limp at her sides, and the former
Crusader was struggling to lift and support her with only one
arm.

Ciaran roared
and spurred Tristan toward the woods. De Bergerette heard the
thunder of hoofbeats and managed to hook the stump of his arm under
Amie's chin. He pressed the blooded edge of his sword alongside her
face so that a single, vicious swipe would remove her cheek and
nose.

Tamberlane
reigned Tristan to a halt a few paces away.

"Let her
go!"

"Once again,"
de Bergerette snarled, "you disgrace yourself over a female. You
slay the husband so you can have free reign over the wife."

"Let the girl
go," Ciaran's voice was low and even.

"She means
something to you, does she? As much as a hand and an arm perhaps? I
have often thought of finding you and repaying you for this—" he
hitched the stump of his arm higher under Amie's chin, causing her
head to arch so far to the side, another inch and her neck would
snap.

But Ciaran
could see, where Hugh de Bergerette could not, how Amie's hand slid
down, how her fingers curled around the hilt of the dagger sheathed
at her waist. She kept her body limp but her intentions were
anything but as she drew the blade and thrust it back, her aim
catching the knight between his thighs just below the hem of his
gambeson.

De Bergerette
howled with pain as the blade sank into his groin. His arms sprang
open and Amie lunged forward, darting to the side as Ciaran raised
his sword to deal the fatal blow. For a moment he was swept back to
the desert and he saw Inaya so horribly wounded, protecting the
tiny bundle of blue in her arms.

He slowly
lowered the blade and shook his head.

"You were not
worth the effort to kill in Arsuf, you are not worth the effort
now."

He whistled
softly. The two wolfhounds bounded out of the woods, leaping as
one, driving de Bergerette to the ground as they landed on his
chest.

Ciaran
cantered forward and scooped Amie into the saddle. As they rode
away they could hear sounds of growling, snarling, gnashing and
screaming, but Tamberlane only put the spurs to the piebald and
galloped back across the field to the top of the cliffs.

He glanced
around once to insure the field was his. The hail of arrows had
slowed to occasional well-placed shots. Geoffrey de Ville and
Roland Longchamps were herding surrendered foot soldiers into a
circle. Boethius was still engaged with two routiers, but it was
plain he was just toying with them, savoring the heady rush of
combat again.

Ciaran felt
that same rush of blood through his veins.

He had fought
as a whole man again and, as he remembered it now, God’s name, as
well as that of King Richard, had been on his lips as he rode out
of the forest.

He winced at a
sharp pain in his thigh and was reminded of the gash in the muscle.
He had other cuts, and would likely be bruised black and blue come
morning.

Amaranth rode
before him, one arm around his neck, the other against his chest.
Her face was pale and lovely and as Ciaran turned his gaze to the
brilliant blue of the sky, he knew that he had come alive
again.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

The ship Rolf
de Langois had seen with his dying glimpse sailed steadily toward
landfall, and
maneuvered
unerringly into the small, protected cove. As the sails were furled
and the anchor dropped; a longboat was lowered into the water and
ten men cloaked in pilgrim’s gray boarded and were rowed ashore.
All wore plain, conical steel helms with wide, descending nasals.
All were dressed in drab gray showing no crests or colors or fancy
weaponry.

Nine of the
ten, after a small argument on the wet shingle, came up the goat
path first, their cloaks swept back over one shoulder to free their
sword arms. They had the efficient look of royal guardsmen about
them and proof of that was borne out when the tallest among them
saw the carnage that littered the meadow.

He came
forward and cast his steely gaze down the soiled and bloodied line
of defenders, most of whom were nursing wounds. Sir Boethius had a
stained strip of cloth tied on an angle over his forehead
concealing an eye that was split and swollen almost closed. Lord
Geoffrey de Ville had a slashed rib and a hand wrapped in bloody
bandaging, but that hand stayed close to the hilt of his sword and
would have swung it upon the instant had he doubted the intentions
of the new arrivals.

Their leader
was an impressive beast of a man. Standing well over six feet tall,
his body was a superb tower of muscle that commanded the eye upward
to the coldest, cruellest pair of eyes most mortal men had ever
seen. Pale blue-gray they were, twin mirrors of ice and frost,
steel and iron. Piercing eyes that held more secrets than a soul
should want to know, or, if knowing, would live to tell. His
massive torso was made even more so by the jerkin of gleaming black
wolf pelts he wore over his mail hauberk. His chest expanded
further as he insolently placed one hand on his hip and the other
on the curved support of the longbow he held casually by his
side.

“I am left to
surmise some mischief has been wrought here today,” he murmured
thoughtfully. "Who is to answer for the cause?"

Boethius and
de Ville stepped aside, revealing where Tamberlane sat upon a large
boulder, his thigh bound in several layers of wadding and linen
strips. A crooked half-smile playing across his lips when he saw a
flicker of recognition in the blue-gray eyes.

“My lords and
lady, the vaunted Black Wolf, Scourge of Mirebeau, honors us today
with his presence this side of the Channel. I had heard he had
avowed never to leave his new eyrie in France.”

The thusly
identified scourge narrowed his eyes. “I had heard a similar vow
with regards to a slayer of dragons: that he had buried himself
away in this godforsaken land of noddypeaks and arse-whistlers,
sworn to pluck daisies and count rings on the surface of a pond for
the rest of his days.”

“Daisies?”
Tamberlane paused and rolled the thought across his tongue before
speaking. “They were never a favorite flower of mine. Speak to me
of amaranths, however, and I would happily count those petals until
the future becomes the distant past."

At the sound
of her name, Amie’s head came up. She had been wrapping Ciaran's
thigh in the linen bandages, and when she looked up, she smiled at
him, not the glowering Black Wolf.

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.