The Warrior's Game (8 page)

Nay, that was Lord Amier speaking. Michel knew now that he would never have been a craftsman, even if his grandsire hadn't made a squire of him. Although Michel’s grandfather and father had both trained as goldsmiths by the time of Michel's birth neither man worked a forge. Instead, other masters and journeymen turned out gewgaws for the well-to-do, leaving Michel's kin free to engage in the far more lucrative trade in currency. So profitable had the exchange of one country’s coin into another been that none of his direct family now needed to lift a finger to earn their keep. Moreover, they lived far better than Lord Amier ever had.

This was something Michel had only recently learned. One condition of his squiring had been the severing of any contact between Michel and his common family. Just as Amier had sold his daughter to the goldsmith to restore his treasury, Michel’s father had traded his younger son back to the gentry to advance his common bloodline.

Five years ago, shortly after Lord Amier's death, Michel had received a missive from his sire, inviting the prodigal son back into the fold. Michel had gone, craving a place where he might feel the ease and comfort others called home. Although that had not resulted, his reintroduction to his kinsmen had led him to entrust his every extra coin to his sire and brother. They had proved better with silver than farmers with seed, reaping crop after crop of profit, something that had steadily improved Michel’s style of life.

Now, as Michel watched Master Robert smooth Lady de la Beres’s narrow veil band, he regretted he hadn’t sought out his family the moment he’d reached his majority. Had he done so he wouldn't have have needed a king’s uncertain promise to get him a wife. Instead, Michel could have simply bought himself a knight’s daughter, free of all political ramifications.

“Master Robert,” Michel called out.

The smith turned to look at his guest, his brows raised and a smile upon his face. “Good morrow, Sir Michel. How may I assist you?”

“By allowing me to pay the cost of repairing that band,” Michel replied. “It’s a pretty thing, certain to do justice to the head it adorns. Do be certain to tell its owner that I made it my gift to her.”

“I’m certain the lady will be greatly appreciative, sir,” Master Robert replied, smiling.

As he should. Robert knew if Michel paid him he’d get his coin this week instead of months or even years from now. “It will be a pretty thing again once I’m done with it,” the smith said, admiring his own handiwork.

Giving the man a nod, Michel strode away, having just delivered a crushing blow to the woman he meant to make his wife. By paying for the repair the way a lover might he'd turned Lady de la Beres’ band into a symbol of her unwilling passion for him. From this day forward every time she looked upon the piece she would remember how she'd offered her body to a commoner, begging him to sate her physical needs.

Michel freed a harsh breath. Now here was irony indeed. Five days ago her scorn had so set his teeth on edge that he’d sought to humiliate her by waking her passions. Today, after catching a glimpse of honest passion beneath her prejudice, he strove to reawaken her scorn.

Michel’s troop waited in the courtyard for him, eleven of the twelve men already mounted. Yet afoot, Roger Twofingers, so called for the number of digits hewn from his left hand in some long ago battle, held Michel’s horse. Although most of these men were English, they all wore the de Martigny colors. Battle-hardened soldiers all, none cared that the man they followed was foreign-born. For them, a man’s worth was measured by his ability to swing a sword and bring those who followed him out of a battle hale and hearty, and those were skills Michel owned in abundance. As for Michel, he'd chosen them for their ability to hold their tongues and their loyalty to the one who paid their wages, both attributes he appreciated, as well as their disagreeable appearances. The harder they looked, the less likely it was some brave band of boys would try to prove themselves better than a knighted commoner and his men.

“We're off then,” Michel commanded Roger, taking his reins from Roger and rising into his saddle.

As per John's command each day Michel and Sir Hubert, Winchester's castellan, met, and each day Sir Hubert struggled to hide his disdain for John's mercenary. In all truth the castellan was more tolerant of Michel than most Englishers. Perhaps this was because he was the fourth son of a baron, something that left him no more inheritance than the pride he took in his name. That didn’t mean their meetings, naught but formality as they listened to each other report on the state of the wards and castle, were easy. If the castellan never turned his shoulder, neither did his gaze meet Michel’s. Save for that, Michel might have offered Sir Hubert congratulations. Any knight capable of working his way from penniless extra son to guardian of a royal fortress was worthy of Michel’s respect.

Once Roger was mounted, Michel led his troop out through the alleyway and onto the lane running in front of the smith’s shop, then turned his horse’s head toward the castle above the town. He urged his horse to move no faster than a walk, being in no hurry. Once his meeting with the castellan was finished all he had to look forward to was the ordeal of that godforsaken midday meal. It wasn’t the derision of the wards that bothered Michel, it was how John counted on his mercenary's daily exposure to the women of his household to thwart his mercenary’s wedding plans.

All the breath left his lungs. “God take me for the idiot I am,” he snarled to himself as the magnitude of the error he’d just made reared up before him.

“Sir?” Roger shot a sideways glance at his employer as they guided their horses through Winchester’s main gateway, avoiding a departing oxcart.

“I’ve made a tactical misstep,” Michel muttered in reluctant explanation.

A woman as bold as Lady de la Beres wouldn’t quietly absorb a blow like the one that band offered. Nay, she’d plan retaliation at the earliest opportunity, and that opportunity arrived with today’s meal. Jesus God, but he'd played right into John's plans! What had he been thinking?

And there was the crux of the problem. He hadn’t been thinking. Instead, he'd let a woman distract him.

Once again, the possibility of leaving England without the prize he’d been promised rose up before Michel. Damn, but he didn’t want to turn his back on what he’d accomplished here to begin again somewhere else under some other capricious prince.

Roger gave a snort. “Not an uncommon event when men spar with women,” he said in gentle reproof. “Care to elaborate?”

Michel didn’t question how Roger knew his error had to do with Lady de la Beres. For all his brutish appearance Roger was surprisingly perceptive.

"Perhaps later. Suffice it to say I think it's time we take that journey I mentioned, leaving as soon as our interview is done this very day."

Michel shifted in his saddle. "Will," he said to the man behind Roger, "you and the others return to the smith's house. Tell Mistress Hughette all of us will be dining with the household for this meal, doing so at my expense. Tell her as well that Roger and I will come late, depending on the length of my meeting with the castellan."

The man nodded and with the lift of his hand signaled for the troop to turn. As they retreated there was nothing left for Michel to do save gaze at Winchester's wide courtyard while his stomach churned.

Leaving Winchester hardly resolved the mess he'd just made of matters, especially not with John still lingering at nearby Windsor. Although Sir Hubert would accept an excuse of personal business as a reason for a two or three-day absence, the king's wards would not. As much as the high-born bitches despised Michel sitting at the head of their table they'd resent his absence even more, finding insult in his empty chair, claiming it evidence of his disdain for them. Their complaints would fly along ancient Roman roads and overgrown country byways to the king, reaching John about a day and a half into Michel's three day journey.

At least by then Michel would know if the lady's properties were worth the trouble she and the king were making for him. The king's wrath over his defiance Michel could bear, especially if he liked the lady's lands. The trick would be escaping Winchester before he again crossed paths with Amicia de la Beres.

Michel drew his horse to a halt before the king's hall. "I've changed my mind. We won't be leaving Winchester until after None and I won't be dining at the smith's house,” he said to Roger. “Instead, you return and eat your fill. When your meal's done send the men outside the city walls to wait while you bring my armor here to me." After he'd armed he need only wait to leave the castle until after the midday meal was underway and the lady was safely trapped within the hall with all the other wards.

Frustration joined Michel's disappointment. Damn John. Damn the lady. He could be trapped here for almost an hour twiddling his thumbs when he could be making good use of those lost moments.

Roger’s laugh was a quiet rumble. “What makes you think she'll make it that easy for you to avoid her vengeance? Trust me, an angry woman knows how to lay a trap."

Michel sent his man a narrow, sidelong look. "I didn't realize you were such a swain, so attuned to the thinking of the weaker sex.”

Roger grinned. “What choice have I with this face of mine?” The lift of his hand indicated his scarred features. “No women is going to tap at my door, hoping I’ll open my arms and take her into my bed. I must woo by sly insight.”

Michel grunted in amusement despite his present dire situation. Roger winked and turned his horse back the way they'd just come, whistling that lewd tune of his as he rode.

“He did what!” Ami’s shocked cry rang in the goldsmith’s hall.

The smile on Robert Atte Cross’s face dimmed a little. He glanced at his wife who stood beside him. A frown pinched Mistress Hughette’s brow. She pursed her lips.

Offering Ami a bend of his head, as if doing so might make what he said more palatable, the smith repeated himself. “Sir Michel de Martigny instructed me to tell you that he wished to make you a gift of the band’s repair, my lady.”

Horror raced through Ami. She looked at Maud. Until this moment her maid hadn’t realized it was Sir Michel who dwelt here. Although the girl had asked about the armed men leaving the courtyard while in Mistress Hughette’s kitchen, the housewife's only explanation was that they presently hosted a knight as a guest. Now, the maid’s eyes were round as pence. Her face was the color of almond paste.

Ami watched helplessly as her maid added the identity of Mistress Hughette’s guest to her mistress’s dented band and this unexpected visit to a goldsmith’s shop. There was no mistaking when Maud completed her calculation, or that she’d come to the wrong conclusion. Nay, not the wrong conclusion, the conclusion Sir Michel intended everyone to devise by way of his gift.

The maid pressed her hands to her lips. “Oh, my lady, what have you done?” she breathed through her fingers. Although shy, Maud was as clever as the next woman. If she believed Ami came here for a secret assignation so would everyone else who heard this tale.

Ami looked at the band in her hands. It glowed with more brilliance than it had owned in years. Aye, but no longer was it a pretty and expensive bit of jewelry, something Ami cherished. He had ruined it, just as he had destroyed her dignity and stripped her of her worth.

Horror died beneath the onslaught of anger. God should have taken Sir Michel in the alcove when the mercenary had begged for it. Then again, God would have His chance at the man soon enough. Ami would fillet him as soon as she could find him.

She raised her head to smile at the smith and his wife. At least, she hoped it was a smile and not a grimace. “Master smith, although Sir Michel names this a gift I fear the knight plays a jest on you and me, one in very poor taste, I might add. I am a ward to King John. Our king has but recently named Sir Michel the administrator of my estates. Thus, any coin the knight expends on my behalf is returned to him from my income.”

“Ah, but of course," Mistress Hughette seconded swiftly. "That makes sense. I’m certain that’s what the knight meant when he spoke to my husband.”

The concern in the housewife’s voice sent a wave of relief over Ami even though Mistress Hughette’s reason for aiding Ami was selfish. If rumors circulated that a gentlewoman had used the goldsmith’s house for an assignation, then the smith’s wife would be named a procuress, destroying her repute along with Ami's.

“But I’m quite certain he said this was to be a gift,” the smith insisted, glancing between the two women.

His wife put her hand upon her mate’s arm, her fingers digging into his sleeve. “Nay Master Robert, you misheard. It is as the lady says, a jest made at her expense. This is our guest's way of asserting his newly won control over the lady's purse. Assure yourself that it's her coin and no other that purchased this repair.”

Frowning, the smith blinked as he realized there was a message for him in his wife’s words. He puzzled over it a moment, then his eyes widened in shocked understanding. “Aye, I remember now. He did seem amused. I see how I misunderstood his prank for something else.”

“My lady,” Mistress Hughette offered Ami a deep bend of her knees. “Thank you for your trade. You’ll excuse me but it’s time to begin setting up the tables for the midday meal. My husband will see you out.”

No matter how nicely the merchant’s wife smiled, Ami heard the message within the message. Ami was to please leave, doing so this very moment. It would also be kindly appreciated if she took her trade elsewhere, at least until Sir Michel gave up his use of this home.

Still reeling at yet another blow from the mercenary, Ami followed the smith down the stairs. As she and Maud stepped out onto the street, Ami's royal escort straightened from his slouch against the wall of a chandler’s establishment across the lane to join the women. Ami barely noticed him as she strode along the lane, her band clenched in her hand and Maud trotting to keep pace with her stalking mistress.

Anger grew with every step. It wasn’t as if this last blow was necessary. She’d heard Sir Michel’s message, the promise that he’d extract his price if she ever again dared to visit him. Again. A second time, not the first.

“That overbearing commoner! That arrogant foreigner! How does he dare abuse me so?” The words streamed from Ami on a raging hiss.

Maud gave a panting squeak at this. “Oh, my lady, I cannot bear it any longer. Tell me true. Why did Michel de Martigny pay for your band?”

That brought Ami to an abrupt halt. She turned on her maid, but before she could speak, tears formed in Maud’s eyes.

“I changed my mind,” the maid cried. “Don’t speak. There's no need. I can see it in your face."

That made matters even worse. Ami’s eyes widened in indignant disbelief. “What are you talking about?" she cried. “You know me better than any. Now you hear me and you hear me well. That mercenary didn’t pay for anything. It was my coin and no other that bought this work. Moreover, you are to never again to repeat those words, not before me and definitely not in front of anyone else. Better yet, forget that we ever left the hall this morning. Now, holding your tongue tight in your head, turn your feet in the direction of where we belong and move.”

Maud whitened at Ami’s chide. Reaching out, she caught her mistress by the arm. For Maud it was an act more brazen than any she had ever before attempted.

“God save us both but as bad as this is you aren’t finished with him!” Her voice was shrill in fear. “Tell me you won't try and soothe your outrage by shouting at him.”

Catching an arm around Maud’s waist, Ami nigh on dragged the smaller woman to one side until they stood against the featureless wall of a beltmaker’s house. The soldier started to join them. Ami glared knives at him. The man, his brows already high on his forehead, stepped back until he was close enough to the shop window to make a pretense of examining the belts displayed there.

Ami turned her back on him to address Maud. “Have a care with what you say,” she hissed, her voice lowered so her words were drowned out by the street noise. “Do you want everyone around us to think I’m so forward that I’d shout at one of the king’s mercenaries?”

“But you are that forward,” came Maud’s all-too-truthful reply, her voice no louder than a whisper. “My lady, I cannot let you do it. This is no ordinary knight, bound by honor and the constricts of his good name. This is a monster who paints his mail black. Confront him boldly and he’ll slaughter you.”