Sword of Justice (White Knight Series) (28 page)

Dipping quill into inkhorn, the sheriff held out the writing instrument. Drake took it, suspended it over the vellum, and looked across the table at Randall. “You expect me to put goose quill to vellum?” he asked, surprised he still had command of his voice.

Rand smiled affably. “I do.”

“You left out a few names. Drogo’s. Tilda’s goons.”

“You’re welcome to add them as a postscript, but this will do as a start. The hangman’s rope can only encircle one throat no matter how many deaths occurred at the hand of one man.”

Drake made as if to write out his name. “You’re sure you want me to sign this?”

“Quite sure.”

“Well … there’s a problem.”

“Do tell.”

“With this confession.”

“I’m tired of fencing with you, Drake.”

“As I said before, I’m not Drake. I’m Stephen.”

“You and Stephen switched places,” Rand said, entirely sure of himself. “Stephen sailed for Normandy as you while you remained behind as him. You went to the hollow, where you and Jenna often met, to confess your sins: that you killed her lover and then, to cover up your crime, her lover’s comrades. She could never forgive you for murdering Maynard. She refused you. You impaled her in a fit of jealousy. The dagger you used was your own. After consummating the deed, you placed the weapon in her hand to make it look as though she took her own life. But she didn’t, did she?”

Drake let out a breath and said, “No, she didn’t.”

“Then you admit to killing her?”

“I admit to nothing, except to say,
I
was Jenna’s lover, and not your brother.”

Rand raised his chin and peered out from beneath half-closed eyelids. “You still hold that you are Stephen?”

Drake still gripped the quill in his unsteady hand. “I can forge Drake’s name if you like, but the signature won’t carry its weight at the assizes. We may be twins, but our handwriting is different.”

“If you
are
Stephen, then
you
killed Jenna.”

“Why?”

The two men glared at each other.

“Jenna stole the dagger from me when last we were together. In my chamber at the alehouse. Before I left for London. Aveline Darcy can attest to our rendezvous. And Graham de Lacy can vouch for me since I asked him to look out for Jenna whilst I was gone.”

“Why would she steal the dagger?”

“There can only be one reason. She feared for her life.”

Rand mulled over his assertions before saying, “A fair to middlin’ alibi, which I don’t believe for a trice. Be quick about it, Drake. The ink is drying on the nib.”

“
Let it dry
.”

The challenge was put before Rand. He showed his pique with flinty eyes. Each man held his breath. Drear and bare, time marched on.

Eventually Drake laid the quill atop the unsigned confession. “If you still insist, I’ll put my name to it later. But only after you’ve had a look at this.” Drake handed him a rolled parchment.

The acting sheriff took it, perplexed, but spread the sheepskin over the confession. A Hebrew notation marked the upper corner. “Yacob’s?” Rand asked, glancing up. “Yacob ben Yosel’s?” When Drake nodded, he said, “There is more, then?”

“Aye, in safekeeping.”

“No fool you.” Poring over the document, the sheriff studied each entry. Before long, he threw up a questioningly look. Drake let the ledger speak for itself. Bending his head once more to parchment, Rand read again from the top, both elbows perched on the table and thumbs rubbing temples. When he finally sat back, he said, “Stephen’s debt … sorry …
your
debt has been expunged, I see.”

Drake had no choice but to single out this particular page. In the ledger the author had been cruelly murdered for, the ledger Rachel’s home had well-nigh been burnt to the ground for, the ledger Yacob ben Yosel painstakingly duplicated with his own hand for a postmortem event such as this, Stephen fitzAlan’s name did not stand alone. Maynard Clarendon, Seward Twyford, Rufus fitzHugh, and Drogo Atwell were also listed, along with the repetition of a single name beneath theirs, the name of the one man providing surety not just for their loans but for innumerable others: Gervase des Roches, clerk of the Winchester Treasury.

“Graham settled the debts.” Drake was on his feet by now, his spurs jingling with every step.

“Why so unstinting?”

“Not with coin, but by spreading a rumor. Or rather, by facilitating a rumor.”

Randall sat back, the chair creaking, and waited for Drake’s explanation.

“Jenna spread what she thought a harmless tale … about Maynard and … and herself. And … and I let her … at your brother’s urging.”

“For what purpose?”

“One reason that I know of. A second I’d be guessing.”

“I’m listening.”

“To hide our … relationship … in Jenna’s mind. If that were all, it would have been harmless enough.”

Rand waited.

“To give my brother a motive for killing Maynard.”

“The purpose being?”

“The end game,” Drake said, “was to prevent Maynard from seeking absolution from you, the sheriff of Hampshire.”

“Acting sheriff,” Rand corrected. “Absolution from what?”

“Collecting the tribute.”

“An unsanctioned tribute.”

“Maynard only learned about that after the fact.”

Randall thought it over. “Doesn’t stand to reason. Whatever his troubles, and he’s had plenty, Maynard never came running to me.”

“Then to silence
you
.
About the treasury’s underhanded dealings.”

Rand calmly said, “Which are?”

“Can’t you see, man?! There is your proof!”

Rand lifted the parchment. “This? This proves nothing, except perhaps a moneylender practicing his penmanship using one man’s name. And,” he went on, forestalling Drake’s protest, “even if there were merit to what you say, I would be the first to, as you say, seek absolution from the king, but only after avenging my brother’s death through any means possible.”

“Not if you valued your life more. Nor would anyone blame you.”

“You’re saying I wouldn’t kill the man responsible for Maynard’s demise?”

“You would let the king pass judgment, as is his duty.”

His finger lay alongside an unperturbed eye. “Where’s the connection, then? The tribute collections have nothing to do with the treasury of Winchester.”

“Oh no?” Drake gripped the parchment. “The tribute was collected at the barony’s behest … to cover ruinous loans … funded illegally by the king’s treasury.” Letting the parchment float back to the table, Drake paced, sword clattering at his side.

“Unfortunately Yacob ben Yosel is not here to testify to the truth of such an allegation.”

Drake stopped pacing. “How very convenient that those who could testify are all dead.”

“Except for Graham.”

“And the murderer.”

“You shock me, Drake fitzAlan … sorry … Stephen. You knock the feet right out from under me.” He scraped back his chair, and leaning back, folded arms over chest.

Drake remained standing, clutching and unclutching the pommel of Stephen’s sword.

“Gervase des Roches, then, is the mastermind behind everything? And Graham did his bidding?”

“I only know Graham is the only man left alive out of a troublemaking band of thieves who stole from their own fathers.”

“You’re saying Graham is the murderer?”

“He knows how to use a sword. And a dagger. In fact,” he said pointing, “that very
dagger. He tried using it on me, remember? As for the treasury, I suspect you’ll find it lacking.”

Randall let his chair fall forward. The legs thwacked the floor with a bang. The sheriff pondered. And then he bolted from his chair.

* * *

Sending for the usher, the chamberlains, and the tellers, Randall ordered the receipt of the Winchester Royal Treasury to be opened.

“Where is
mon sieur
des Roches?” Rand asked, after they assembled before the locked underground chamber.

The usher answered. “He cannot be found,
sieur
.”

“Since when?”

“Since two days past.”

“Why wasn’t I told?”

The men looked to each other for courage. No one wanted to take the blame for something not of their doing. “We thought he would return anon. He often goes off.”

Saying nothing, Rand motioned for the others to proceed.

The men pressed forward, torches carried aloft.

The pyx held ten wooden receptacles, each girded with an immovable strap and the seal of the treasurer, themselves contained within a sizable stone chamber secured by a bolted door, itself enclosed within an even larger stone chamber and secured with another bolted door. Two keys, each in the possession of two chamberlains, were fitted into two locks of one of the boxes picked at random. When the lid of the coffer was thrown open, the usher ascertained that neither the strap nor the locks nor the seal had been tampered with. A teller counted out the contents and confirmed the box held the proscribed hundred pounds in silver. All the foregoing was accomplished before the sheriff, the chamberlains, the usher, three other tellers, and one knight of Winchester. As Drake guessed, the treasury held a meager tally: no more than a thousand pounds.

“I’m not wholly surprised,” said Randall. “The king took most of the coin with him in August. The Exchequer isn’t due to meet until later this month, whence the balance will be collected.”

The usher hesitated to disagree.

“Speak up, man!”

“A-according to the t-tallies, the balance not to be collected, as you say, until the Michelmas Exchequer, there ou-ought to be upwards of twelve-thousand pounds.” Never more sure of himself, the usher’s stutter miraculously disappeared. “Precisely twelve-thousand, nine-hundred, two-and-thirty pounds of silver.”

“Then where is it?”

“That’s what
I
would like to know.” The usher was indignant. More, he was gloating.

Chapter 26
               
 

WHEN DRAKE RETURNED
TO STEPHEN’S
chamber at the alehouse, it was full dark. A monk supplied with enough flagons of wine to inebriate a monastery greeted his brother at the door.

Stephen shed his monk’s robes while Drake collapsed onto a chair, legs spread forward and head flung back. He was bone-weary and in no mood to explain how twelve-thousand pounds had been filched from the Royal Winchester Treasury by means unknown and thieves at-large; or how the clerk of the treasury was the subject of a wide search; or how an unsigned confession was temporarily buried under warrants, writs, and lists but undoubtedly would resurface and demand attention. 

Since Stephen wasn’t in much of a talking mood, either, they eventually settled onto the floor and shared the wine.

Using a folded arm to pillow his head, Drake said, “I wish I could remember our mother.”

The defrocked monk said, “I do.”

“Not likely. She died the day after giving birth to us.”

“Still, ’tis so.”

“Was she as beautiful as they say?”

“More so.”

“Eleanor remembers her. Said we take after her.”

“We don’t take after William.”

“Thank God for small favors.” They crossed themselves in unison.

The brothers drank on, wordlessly toasting Jenna on each round.

Stephen asked, “What should we do about John?”

“Do?”

“It can’t be coincidence, Jenna’s stolen missive. We ought to tell someone.”

“Are you mad? Accuse the brother of the king?”

“You saw her. She didn’t put up the least of a fight. Whoever did it … she knew him … trusted him.”

The more Drake drank, the more he remembered. The more he remembered, the more he hurt. The more he hurt, the more he drank. Outside, a storm was brewing. Inside, a similar storm was brewing, not as brilliant or noisy, but harboring the same potential for violence.

Like a true brother, Stephen kept up drink for drink. He was past hurting. Drake was not. Hence, he said it. “The day before I rode for London, Jenna asked me to deliver a note to court. Folded at four corners, twice, and sealed with a G for Geneviève. And took me to bed in gratitude, thinking I was you.”

The words slowly penetrated his brother’s mind. A flash of lightning exposed his milky orbs. “God’s eyes, she didn’t!”

Drake had no mercy left in his heart, not even for the span of three breaths. “I protected you. Ask me how.”

Stephen was slow to say, “How?”