Sword of Justice (White Knight Series) (20 page)

Realizing he had been soundly trounced by an apt master of deception, Drake smiled feebly. “Then you do not finance women of sound qualifications. Or moneylenders of impeccable backgrounds?”

“I should say not.”

Drawn back to the wall of terror, Drake became fascinated with an iron mask welded in a fashion as to completely encase a skull. He blinked and gazed at Gervase, whose yellow eyes moved from the mask to Drake. “I take it Sheriff Clarendon is aware of these arrangements?”

“Naturally. As I said, he told me to expect you and to be forthcoming in all particulars.”

“He didn’t really, did he?”

The clerk blinked just the once. “Why ever not?”

“Because if he did, you would not have told me he had.”

His laughter was forced and fraught with nervousness. A second bead of sweat appeared on his lip. “As it is, I have said more than is prudent, but you have forced my hand. I cannot have Lord fitzAlan’s offspring spreading about a false and malicious tale that the Winchester Royal Treasury engages in usury.”

Suspecting he had outlasted his welcome, Drake stood. “Tell me, when King Richard made his withdrawal a sennight past, was an inquiry made into the treasury’s deficit?”

“I am not aware of a deficit.”

Drake’s wound emitted a sharp pang. Grimacing from the pain, he looked again at the wall of terror. “Quite a grim collection you have there.”

Gervase beamed broadly. “Aye, I take a great deal of pleasure from it. A favorite pastime of mine.”

Drake thanked him for his time and left, again under escort, and felt lucky to have escaped the torture chamber alive.

* * *

“You’re in no shape to ride out to Itchendel.”

Making a poor effort of saddling up Stephen’s gray, Drake became aware of the soft rustle of Aveline’s skirts and whiffed her ever-present lavender long before she spoke. She stood in the doorway of the livery wearing the stained apron she reserved for brewing ale. The yellow bitch sat obediently at her side, washed, scrubbed, and brushed much like Drake himself. The fairer sex was teaming up against him.

“Do you read minds, too?” he asked.

“I do.”

He secured the straps beneath the palfrey’s girth. “I have to see William.”

“It can bide,” she said, folding her arms over the apron. “You won’t make it. You’ll fall off your horse. You’ll die of exposure. You’ll get eaten by a pack of rabid wolves.”

“You can’t die of exposure in the middle of summer.”

She perched both hands on her hips. “Aye, you can. I’ve heard tales.”

Drake was trying to hoist himself up, but the saddle seemed uncommonly high. He started to laugh. What struck him as humorous he wasn’t sure, but it had something to do with giddiness, a foot tangled in the stirrup, and the image of a pack of wolves making a feast of his bones. He stopped laughing because it hurt too much and glanced back at her.

“I refuse to send you to your death!” She was immovable, adamant, stubborn, all the qualities that made Aveline Darcy so damnably attractive.

“Then come with me and be my nursemaid.”

She glared at him, disinclined to give in.

“Yea or nay. The sun will set soon.”

She pivoted on her heel and marched off. It was yea.

Three mismatched wayfarers rode out of town together: worthy cur, unbending daughter of an alewife, and injured knight. Aveline delayed the start of their journey, something to do with the right combination of dress, hose, and boots. Then it was a laggardly ride to Itchendel. Drake barely kept seat in saddle and more than once caught himself from pitching sideways. They beat the setting sun.

In the great hall, the barony villeins were feasting along with the Itchendel guard. Snot-nosed urchins, loud and underfoot, were a menace. Aveline’s regal canine was soon partaking of a magnificent feast provided by spoiled imps flinging scraps down on the floor. The women occupied a circle of chairs, sewing in their laps and gossip on their tongues. The knights segregated themselves near the hearth, and drinking goblet after goblet of good wine, exchanged ribald stories and tales of bravado.

Sitting at the trestle, William fitzAlan was laughing in response to a yarn one of the menfolk had just spun about a pig and a virgin. Without glancing up, he said, “You look like Hell.”

“I have an abiding affection for you as well, Father.”

Wincing, Drake bent down and dutifully delivered a kiss to his sire. Sensing something amiss, William gazed up but made no comment.

“You know Aveline Darcy.”

Rising to his feet, William shifted his eyes inquisitively at Drake before focusing them on Aveline. “
Demoiselle
Darcy and I are well acquainted.” He kissed her hand. Aveline received the greeting impassively. The lord of Itchendel bade Drake and Aveline to sit. Then he snapped for the page, who hurried off to the kitchen.

A sumptuous feast was brought out. Guinea fowl. Asparagus with cream sauce. Honeyed lamb. Flaky buns. Sweet creamery butter ladled over peas with saffron and sage. The meal revived Drake like a fisyk. Uncharacteristically subdued, Aveline hadn’t spoken a word since their arrival, picking at her food and leaning against a fist.

The knights dispersed to their duties. Mallory dropped by to give Drake a concerned look followed by a well-aimed pat on his backside. Drake swallowed a painful snort. The
chevalier
guffawed and staggered off.

William stood up and stretched, signaling the close to an overlong evening. Standing at the postern gate, he saw his guests out, the grown-ups more than satisfied and the little ones cranky but reluctant to go. Rush lights illumined footpaths leading to cottage and hearth. Staring into the balmy night, Drake stood beside his father and watched the cottagers blend into the dark. He said, “Why didn’t you tell me about your part in the merchant’s alliance?”

William’s head twisted around. His angry glare transferred to Aveline and then returned to Drake. “How the devil did you find out?”

“I came across a certain black book kept by a certain madam
of a certain bawdyhouse.”

“I’ll wager all of Itchendel as to which uncouth method you used.”

“You’d win.” Aveline’s face turned a deep cherry. “I take it the amount you put in was a small percentage of your worth.”

“A trifling sum.”

“One-thousand pounds is not a trifling sum.”

William swore and glanced once more at Aveline. “If you must know, it represents a third of Itchendel’s value.”

“Oh, is that all.” Aveline saw it in his face and moved protectively closer. “You must be mad.” Drake turned halfway around. He wasn’t going any farther. Before he pitched headlong to the floor, the daughter of an alewife grabbed his waist, softening the blow of hard head meeting harder stone.

A groan brought him around. Awakening in the turret bedchamber he had shared with his brother since childhood, he found himself stripped of half his clothing and propped onto his side. Aveline was redressing the wound while William’s troubled face swam above.

“We’ll talk in the morning.”

“We’ll talk now.” His voice sounded far away, but he managed to keep his eyes open.

“You’re as stubborn as your brother. He didn’t want to go. D’Amboise had to rope him to his horse to get him out of the country.”

 “You ought to know us by now.”

“Aye. But I still think of you two as wee boys obedient to my omnipotent will.” Close to laughing, he sat beside Drake and enclosed his son’s arm with a strong hand. “Very well, then. Every member agreed to a similar outlay of chattels and ready coin.”

Drake swallowed heavily. “For a tavern?”

“Not for a tavern, as well you know!” His father’s complexion colored for the second time that evening.

The tender brushings of her fingertips a comforting presence, Aveline wrapped fresh dressings around his waist. “When were you going to make it known that Stephen’s gambling debts exceeded your obligation?”

William swung his eyes to Aveline. “She knows?”

“She,” said Aveline, “can speak for herself. If you’re asking whether I know the son before you is not Stephen, I do.”

William kept his eyes on Aveline but said to Drake, “Worry not about the debt.” The squeeze he gave his arm was meant to reassure. “No one dares ruin a respected lord without risking serious repercussions at court.”

“And the tribute money you handed over to Graham and the others?”

 “It was never intended to cover the shortfall. I volunteered the sum to save your brother’s hide and pay off his debts.”

“Then it wasn’t protection money?”

“In very personal terms, aye.” William palmed his forehead. “You’re feverish.”

Aveline rolled Drake onto his back and covered him with the counterpane. “Then the tax collecting band …?”

“—Is no collecting band. Aye, I heard the talk in town. It was good for a laugh.” Over a young knight’s body, the eyes of a father and the daughter of an alewife met. “The lords of the manor created that merry band of thieves to raise enough silver to pay off the debts of all. Some have more means while others have less. But we’re in it together.”

“You put your faith in Graham? And Drogo, too?”

“Graham, aye, but Drogo …? Crist’s blood! Did that scoundrel get mixed up in something that was no concern of his?” For answer, he looked first at Drake, then at Aveline, and shook his head, rabid with anger. “Serves him right, getting himself killed. ’Twas what I feared.”

Drake felt whatever color was left in his own face drain away. “That your son is a murderer?”

“At least give your father a little credit. No. It’s that our efforts to make good, noble as they were, have been corrupted.” His fist clenching and unclenching, he looked for a solid object to punch. “The silver … it’s gone … disappeared. So Graham informed his father only yesterday. Robert threw him out and told him never again to darken his threshold.” He used the mattress to dissipate his anger. “Damn it all to Hell!”

Rocking with the quake of the impact, Drake said, “Then Drogo and the others … Graham must have murdered them … and taken all the silver.”

William shook his head. “In spite of him leaving his mark upon your backside, Graham is no more a murderer than Drake fitzAlan. No, it has to be someone at the center of things. We weren’t robbed once with our initial outlay on a moneymaking venture. Nor twice when our sons went into debt. But thrice when we tried to make amends.”

“The gambling loans will be called in soon. The Jew and Tilda, they’ll have little choice.”

“I say not. Whoever is behind this cannot afford a scandal, nor will he defame us at the Grand Assize. But ruin us nonetheless with his guile and deceit? But who? And for what purpose? This goes deeper than a band of youths up to their eyeballs in gambling debts. A plot is afoot, and more than a few worthless souls will be sent to perdition. But let that not be your concern.”

“Nay?”

His smile was devilish. “You’re the one who will lose by it. When I have naught to leave you. And worse, when you’re branded an outlaw forever.”

Drake let out a final groan.

Chapter 17
                    
 

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT IT
means to be a knight.”

Drake, Aveline, and the yellow bitch were riding back to Winchester. Aveline glanced askance at Drake, her eyelids narrowing into slits. “I’ve had my experience with one or two.”

The grasslands were choked with blue-green fescue and yellow vetches, rose-colored rest harrow and blue bellflowers. Butterflies skipped from blossom to blossom, while warbling sparrows ground fed in the cool of the morning. The lazy hoof beats of their horses were the only sounds to disturb the hum and buzz of nature’s toil.

“Truly understand the sacrifice,” Drake said. “You don’t just buckle on a sword one morning and declare yourself a knight.”

“Knights are men, aren’t they? Then I understand them.” Drake fought the urge to smile. Aveline Darcy was a force to be reckoned with. She was headstrong, even when dead wrong.

“When a boy is destined to be a knight, his father puts him on horseback before he takes his first baby steps.”

“My, I never stopped to consider.” She forced a yawn.

“A lifetime of training begun before memory.”

“My heart is aflutter with awe.”

“You’re ribbing me.”

“Nay, not me. I would never mock …
a knight
.” She laughed at his expense.

The road opened. He urged the dappled gray with a spur and a hurrah, and rode ahead of the daughter of an alewife. “Horse and man working together as one,” he called back. “Understanding what the one wants before the other knows himself. Being of one mind, one body, one intent. That comes first.”

As he put Stephen’s palfrey through the paces, the dance of horse and fitzAlan was a sight to behold, as he knew it would be. Palfreys possessed a smooth four-beat ambling gait, graceful and agile, light and elegant, faster than a walk but slower than a canter, and as rhythmic as a
rondelet
. The brothers spent countless days training their matching steeds to dance and prance on a whim and a heartbeat. To the twin horses, one brother was like another since they trained with both every day. The difference between one brother and another or one palfrey and another mattered not. The dappled grays instantly obeyed the touch of thigh, knee, and foot, and responded to guttural commands only master and horse understood since they were of one mind and one spirit.