The Dragon Throne (6 page)

“My father did convince me, Edmund, during his last illness,” Elviva was saying. Her voice was familiar but at the same time not as he remembered it. “Just before he died prayerfully last All Saints' Day. Father told me that most regrettably you would likely perish on Crusade, like so many other brave men.”

“I am grieved to hear of the death of Peter de Holm,” said Edmund, thankful that courteous formula provided conversational stepping-stones. It was considered unlucky to speak of the dead with anything but Christian good manners. “I always admired your father,” Edmund added, truthfully enough.

Walter made a prayerful gesture, his hands pressed together, and parted his lips, about to speak.

Elviva gave Walter a long, silencing glance.

More than a year had passed since the days when Edmund had first traveled with Sir Nigel and Sir Rannulf toward London and the Crusades. He had sent no word home to Elviva, and had heard no hint of life in Nottingham—but only castle seneschals and Exchequer's men sent routine messages from one place to another. Edmund knew the truth of what Elviva was saying—many men had died on the Crusade.

“My father,” Elviva continued after a pause, “had never assented to my possible marriage to you, Edmund.”

The young knight felt a surge of emotion thicken his tongue, and was aware of the curious eyes and ears of servants in the room beyond.

“Walter made a generous wedding payment,” Elviva continued, with a visible effort to keep her voice steady. “And my mother was grateful.”

“And yet you are happy to see me alive?” asked Edmund, feeling more bitter and helpless with every heartbeat.

“Beyond happy,” said Elviva breathlessly. “I am grateful to Heaven for bringing you home again.”

Was that, Edmund wondered, a tear in her eye—and a glint of alarm in the eye of her husband? The young knight was certain that the soft-handed husband had never whetted a sword or fastened on a helmet in his life.

Edmund had seen enough of the world to realize that he could seize Elviva and carry her away. It would be a crime, and the sheriff would make Edmund answer for it, but many a townsman would agree that a returning Crusader could be forgiven a bit of passion.

Grab her and carry her like a trussed ewe, urged a secret, war-hardened part of his soul.

Pick her up, and march her right on out through that big oak door.

After all, it's plain that's what she wants.

EDMUND CLENCHED HIS FISTS AND STOOD right where he was.

“We are all,” Walter fitz Walter was saying, “grateful to Our Lady for bringing you safely home.”

Edmund had to admit, privately, that the merchant had a pleasant voice.

“I myself always spoke well of you,” Walter added.

He was a respected wine dealer, and had been for years. In a trade marked with shipments of doctored wine—colored with flower petals and flavored with alum and ox blood—a wine merchant who sold an honest beverage was highly valued. Such a man could afford fine clothing and a spit-roasted capon at every midday meal.

“Why should any man speak of me at all?” asked Edmund, just a trace of challenge in his voice.

“I think some might have suspected,” returned Walter, “that you were not entirely innocent of your master's crimes.”

Elviva spun and gave her husband such a look that the rich man turned away and found some reason to stir the coals in the brazier until sparks spun upward.

But Walter had intended to insult Edmund, and he had succeeded.

I could cut him into chops, thought Edmund, and no man of heart could blame me.

“It was never my pleasure to know you well, good Walter,” Edmund found it in himself to say. “But I understand that you provide a fine red wine to the gentlefolk of this town—” Edmund steadied himself, nearly choking on this artful speech. “And I trust that you will provide for the happiness of Elviva.”

Walter turned back again, but avoided meeting his wife's eyes. “She has won my heart,” he said, a phrase gentlefolk used instead of saying “I love her.”

Edmund said nothing further for a moment, wishing Hubert were here to utter something smart but polite.

“You thrived on your Crusade, it would seem,” added the wine merchant.

“I was not killed,” assented Edmund, “by Heaven's grace.”

Edmund was aware that, although he had shaken out his surcoat, and hurriedly washed his face and hands at the well near Goose Gate, he traveled without a squire to polish his leather and wash out his garments. He could not cut much of a figure in the house of such a rich man and, not for the first time in his life, Edmund felt large and coarse—the son of a barrel maker.

The sword at Edmund's side, however, had caught Walter's eye.

“It is plain to see,” continued Walter, “that you have received some honor for your efforts.”

Edmund's customary modesty made him lower his gaze. “It is true,” he agreed. Such things were, in the event, hard to put into words.

“Some soldier's recognition, perhaps?” prompted Elviva in a rapt tone.

Edmund gave a nod.

“Some duke or foreign nobleman paid you a prize?” offered Walter.

“As it pleased Heaven,” allowed Edmund, “I was made a knight.”

“Edmund!” gasped Elviva.

“By our own Prince John,” added Edmund, feeling a stew of pride and embarrassment.

Modesty prompted Edmund to add, “Sir Hubert of Bakewell—my good friend—is a better swordsman than I will ever be. Now
he's
a worthy knight indeed!”

“Sir Edmund, you will dine with us tonight,” said Walter fitz Walter fervently.

Having a knight at his table, Edmund knew, would do his household honor.

EDMUND EXCUSED HIMSELF FROM THE wine merchant's house without tasting food or drink—although he was hungry, and thirsty, too.

Maud, the widow of Otto the moneyer—Edmund's former master—had remarried. She now lived as the wife of Aymer le Goff, and her husband prospered as chief mason of Nottingham, with an appointment to maintain the city walls. Edmund was heartened at this news—a new husband was often the only means a widow had to provide for her future.

Maud welcomed Edmund with joyful tears, and Aymer called out into the street to come and “see the returning warrior, defender of Jesus!”

Edmund had dreamed of homecoming, but of a different kind, every beloved face in its familiar place. The young knight was increasingly in need of quiet so that he could sort through his tangled feelings.

Aymer insisted on showing Edmund around the fine, stout-timbered dwelling Maud now called her own. It was a prosperous house, with a solar-room for spending pleasant hours with family and guests, and separate bedchambers for the many daughters from Aymer's previous marriage.

“You'll live here with us, dear Edmund, won't you?” pleaded Maud. “And eat stewed mutton and figs every noon—that used to be your favorite.”

“And we'll find some dimpled pink-cheeked lass to wed and bed you, Sir Edmund,” Aymer joined in heartily.

Aymer's daughters peered through the doorway, too awed to make a sound.

“They've never seen a Crusading knight,” Aymer explained. “Not one who has spilled pagan guts.”

All five little girls shrank at these words.

Edmund begged leave for himself, saying that he wished to offer his prayers in the parish sanctuary.

 

Edmund wandered the familiar lanes under a starry sky, bumping his head more than once on an overhanging eave. He had grown taller, or perhaps the town had grown small.

The crooked byways of Nottingham looked as he had remembered them, but they smelled, more strongly than he had recalled, of both human and animal ordure. Had the thatched roofs always appeared so mildewed, even by moonlight? Had these thin, furtive cats always lurked behind dung heaps, and had the pigs feeding on refuse outside dwellings always bickered so loudly?

He had offers of a soft bed in many a noble house, including the sheriff's castle where, the page boy assured him, “every manner of sweet nourishment was being readied.” Men and women called out cheerfully to him as he passed.

Edmund smiled and returned greetings, and he accepted more than a few swallows of offered ale, the brown, thick drink he had dreamed of, better than the brew of any other town. Tavern owners pressed food upon him, fish pies and smoked eel, grilled suckers—young rabbits—and fat golden cheese.

Edmund felt, however, that the city indeed had diminished and that the peaked roofs, the chimneys, and even the parish churches were all smaller than he had remembered. Long after the last welcoming matron ceased to call after him, the town subsiding into sleep, Edmund walked the many passages between shops and dwellings, and the night watch let him wander with a chuckling, “Welcome home, Edmund.”

Now when the young knight stood still, he was certain he heard the rhythmic chime of chain mail. A booted foot splashed a puddle.

Someone was following.

 

When Edmund paused to rub the head of a street dog—had these creatures always been so scrawny?—the brindled mutt peered down at the distant hulking shapes of horses in the stable beyond and stiffened, sniffing the air.

“Who's coming after me, like a velvet-footed weasel?” inquired Edmund of the cur, almost believing the creature could speak. What nature of enemy, Edmund wondered, could insinuate his way through the city gates, and past the night watch?

Some enemy.

Some furtive enemy, subtle as the Devil.

Edmund crouched and waited.

 

A mouse scampered over Edmund's foot, and a night-creature—a bat or an owl—half flew and half fell across the stars. The knight had learned around Crusader campfires that no swordsman loves a city fight, where crowded walls secrete enemies and prevent a free swing of the blade.

He crept onward along the street. It was with a feeling of relief that Edmund found the stables, and located Surefoot.

If there was going to be any fighting tonight, thought Edmund, it would be on horseback.

The horse was feeding on a trough of summer grass, and he welcomed Edmund with a gentle nicker.

The stored-up grasses of the previous sunny season—mostly brome and meadow catsfoot—gave the stable a sweet scent, and the horse gave off pleasant animal heat against the increasing night chill. The good-hearted creature reminded Edmund of another horse, one Edmund had loved well—brave Winter Star, mortally injured during the same battle that had so badly stricken Sir Nigel.

Edmund stroked Surefoot. He was speaking to the animal in a soft voice, when the horse shot up its head and gave a snort of warning.

A LIGHT TREMBLED AT THE FAR END OF THE stables.

A smoky candle was held aloft by the half-seen arm of a figure wearing what appeared to be a sword and riding-armor, a leather chest piece with a chain-mail skirt.

“My lord?” queried a youthful voice.

Edmund was unaccustomed to the respect routinely offered a knight. For a moment he was convinced that this approaching man-at-arms must have mistaken him for someone else. “If you are looking for Edmund, the former moneyer's apprentice,” he responded at last, “you have found him.”

Then he had to laugh silently at the sound of his own voice. He used to overhear gruff, sword-wearing men on market day in years gone by and marvel at their rough manner. Now Edmund himself had turned into one of them, and he did not entirely relish the transformation.

“My lord, if it please you,” said a youth with wax-yellow hair, little more than a boy. “I have a word for your ears.”

“If you have come to put me in chains,” said Edmund, speaking with a calm, defiant frankness, “you will need companions.”

“My lord, I have a duty to you,” said the young man, “and a bitter message.” He sank to his knees in a show of obeisance. His hand was trembling, the light sending quaking shadows throughout the stable. “One I have been reluctant to deliver, if you'll forgive me.”

“What knight do you serve, good squire?” said Edmund.

“My lord, I serve you,” said the boy. “If you would allow it.”

Edmund considered this. “Who sends you to me?”

“My lady Elviva,” was the reply. “She said I'd make a better squire than house servant, and I will prove her right.”

Edmund directed the lad to stand up.

“My lord,” continued the boy, “the gate guards are loyal to King Richard, and will not let the prince's men set foot in town. But the report from messengers is that the usurper's men have captured Sir Rannulf.”

“What messengers carry such tidings?”

“Woodsmen, Sir Edmund—outlaws, if you please, but not the cutthroat variety. Men who have little love for Prince John.”

“These rough men must be mistaken.”

“And my lord,” added the lad reluctantly, “Prince John's men have offended our cause all the further by capturing Sir Nigel.”

Edmund struck the stable wall a blow with his fist. Horses stirred all around, nickering and turning in their shelters.

“And, my lord, forgive me for reporting so,” said the boy, all but sinking to his knees again, “these green-clad men say that the prince's followers have taken Sir Hubert captive, too.”

Edmund wrapped his hand around the pommel of his sword.
Heaven be my shield
. “Is there any further news you have for me?” asked Edmund, with a great effort at calm.

“My name is Wowen Wight, my lord,” said the squire. “My father was scutifer to old Sir Roger of this town, and he was a patient teacher. I think you'll find I can tell a spear from a spoon.”