Catherine Coulter (2 page)

Garron laughed. “You have your heir, Severin, the handsomest babe in the world, so you yourself told me. You have a comely wife who sees well to your needs, Oxborough prospers. Be content.” Garron paused a moment, his fingers hovering over a pawn. “Did you read the king’s missive? Surely what he wants would relieve your boredom. Does he not want you to execute some daring commission for him?”

Severin moved his queen, and announced, “Checkmate, Garron.”

“Hmmm.” He studied the board, gave Severin a twisted smile, and gently laid his king on his side. “The game is yours. Come, tell me, what does the king wish of you?”

“He wishes to breed one of his favorite stallions, a gift from Philip of France, to Lady Hastings’s mare, Marella. He wishes me to send Marella to London when she is next in season.”

The king had sent him here for
this?

“Ah, Trist, come and bid welcome to Lord Garron. You spent all your time watching over Fawke this evening, ignoring me, the one who has fed you and saved your furry head more times than you can count, and I know you can count, since I’ve seen you equally divide acorns among your own babes.”

The marten climbed up Severin’s arm, settled himself on his shoulder, bathed while he watched Garron.

“Hello, Trist. I am not a bad fellow. If I had a bit of pork, I would give it to you. I did not know you ate acorns.”

“He doesn’t. He is, I believe, teaching his own babes how to count, though they’re very nearly grown now and ready to leave us for the forest. Why would they count anything, I wonder?”

Garron laughed.

Trist appeared to consider the laughter and the acorns. After a moment, he extended a paw. Garron lightly ran his fingertips over the marten’s paw, then up his back.

“He spends most of his time guarding Fawke. I have told him it is not necessary, but he doesn’t heed me.”

Trist mewled and wrapped himself around Severin’s neck.

“Ah, Garron, the king made other requests. He does not write it in so many words, but he sent you here to ensure we will support each other against mutual enemies since Oxborough and Wareham are not too far distant from each other. ’Tis true that he encourages some strife between his barons and earls, not wanting to have too much complicity brew up between his vassals, but since we are both known by Lord Graelam de Moreton and approved by him, the king wants us strong, should he need us.”

“Need our soldiers at his back and our money in his coffers, you mean.”

Severin’s mouth twisted in a grin. “Aye, that’s it.” Trist mewled.

Garron raised his goblet, fashioned of a beautiful dark green glass from the Rhineland, and saluted Severin. “I am ready for your friendship and I willingly offer you my assistance should you ever need it.”

“I, too,” said Severin, and raised his own goblet.

The men drank. Garron said, “But you know, I am tired of fighting. I am also tired of men’s duplicity, something that abounds at court. I believe I should enjoy boredom, Severin, mayhap a good six months of it.”

The men drank more of Severin’s precious wine, and Garron lost another game of chess.

Garron was jerked back at the loud yell just ahead. He held up his hand to keep his four men in place. He patted his destrier’s neck, calming him, and Damocles immediately quieted. They heard another yell, men cursing, arguing, horses whinnying and thrashing about.

Garron said low to his man Aleric, “Stay. I will see what’s happening ahead.”

He dismounted and drew his sword as he walked quietly through the thick trees and the tangled undergrowth toward the men’s voices, louder now, curses filling the air. Through the branches of an ancient oak tree, he stared into a small clearing. A huge man, surely the size of a sixteen-hand stallion, his face covered with a filthy black beard, was trying to hold a struggling boy who was slamming his fist into the man’s face, his neck, his chest, whatever part he could reach. The man tried to avoid the blows, not retaliating. So, he didn’t want to break the boy’s neck. He tried to grab his hands, but the boy lurched back and slammed him in the belly. Garron was impressed. The boy wasn’t about to go down without a fight. The boy yelled, his voice shrill with fear, “Let me go, or I will kill the lot of you! You fools, this man, your leader, he lies to you! I will bring you no gold, I will bring you nothing but misfortune. Let me go!”

The boy had bravado, Garron would give him that. As for this villainous lot setting the boy free, that didn’t seem likely. There were two other men, both hard looking as the man mountain, ready to jump into the fray, their clenched fists holding thick-bladed knives.

“Don’t kill him! No, the rest of you stay back.”

This was from their leader, who looked like a king surrounded by beggars. He was richly dressed in a red wool tunic, a fine sword strapped at his lean waist, his armor well made. One of the men stepped toward the struggling boy, and their leader raised a gauntleted hand and called for him to stop.

Garron watched the boy suddenly free himself, rear up, and clout the big man in his nose. He heard the bone crack from where he was standing. Blood gushed everywhere. The man bellowed, jerked the boy up by his collar, and flung him three feet away from him, against a pile of rocks. “Ye little cockshead! Damn ye to hell and back for busting me nose, you puling little sprat!” He charged the boy, flinging out ribbons of blood in all directions.

T
heir leader yelled, “Stop, Berm! You idiot, I told you not to harm the boy! Look what you’ve done. My lord will kill all of us if his head’s broken open. You’ll be without your liver before the night falls if you’ve killed him.”

Berm swiped his hand over his nose, and looked with loathing at the boy, now lying unconscious on his back. “He bain’t be dead, the little bastid.” But his fists smoothed out as he bent down to pull him upright. Fast as a snake, the boy struck up with his legs into Berm’s groin and sent him pedaling backward, yelling as he grabbed himself. “My manhood is dead! The little spittlecock kilt it!”

Good blow
, Garron thought, and now was the time to intervene before the others fell on him like a pack of wolves. He shouted, “Aleric,
á moi
.” He leapt out from the trees into a small clearing, his sword held high.

He yelled, “That will be quite enough, lads!”

Garron felt their surprise, their terrifying joy when they saw him, prey more meaty than this scrawny boy.

Their leader shouted at Garron, “This is none of your affair, sirrah! Get you gone now and we will not kill you!”

Garron glanced at the three villains, then over at the boy, who was scooting away from them as fast as he could move. He came up and pressed against a tree, drew his knees to his chest. Garron saw the wild hope in his eyes. Garron smiled at him.

Berm was bent over, still holding himself and moaning while blood gushed from his nose. Garron couldn’t make out his features what with the filthy woolen cap pulled over his forehead and the huge tangled black beard that covered his face and neck. He looked back at the man in the rich red tunic, and said easily, “I’ve a fancy to save the boy. Would you like to tell me what you’re doing with him?”

Red Tunic said, “He is my nephew, a spoiled and heedless boy, and disobedient. I was merely taking him back to his father.”

The boy yelled, “You’re a mangy liar! I never saw you before in my life until you and these nasty louts kidnapped me!”

Red Tunic took two steps toward the boy. Garron stopped him with a raised hand. He said, his voice cold as the winter solstice, “I suggest you and your men leave at once. If you do not, then Saint Peter may find himself judging you this day. Given what you’ve done, I doubt you would like the outcome.”

One of the men growled as he slashed out with his knife, “ ’ Tis nay likely, ye cockhead. I can send ye to hell meself. Saint Peter will never have a whiff of ye.”

“Look behind you,” Garron said, as he leapt backward.

Aleric called out, “Aye, fill your eyes, you fool! We are here, my lord.”

Garron said easily as he slashed his sword before him, “Either you leave now or you will die. It is your choice.”

Red Tunic shouted as he pulled his sword from its scabbard, “Kill them!” He ran straight at Garron. Garron saw furious concentration and intelligence in the man’s dark eyes, unlike his men, who were all violence and no brains. This man was a formidable opponent, single-minded in purpose, and filled with pride. Was there desperation as well? No, he didn’t think so. He was a good fighter and he knew it. Garron saw one of the men run toward the boy. He jumped back from Red Tunic’s sword, pulled his own knife from his belt, and released it all in one smooth motion, so fast it was a blur. The man grabbed at the knife that stuck out the back of his neck. He whirled around, stared at Garron, and crumbled to the ground. There was an instant of frozen silence, then Red Tunic yelled, fury lacing his voice, “Bastard! I’m going to kill you now!”

You’re still not afraid of me.
Garron smiled, then yelled like a berserker as he ran toward Red Tunic, his sword directly in front of him like a lance. He heard the horses scatter into the forest.

“Aleric, dispatch the others,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Protect the boy!” He saw the man wasn’t so cocky now. He paused, stroking his chin a moment, goading his opponent. “If you weren’t so meager, I would take your rich red tunic after I slit your throat. Mayhap I’ll spare you if you offer it to me on your knees. I’ll give it to the boy.”

“I am not meager, you whoreson!”

“If you are not meager, then just who and what are you?”

“I am—it is none of your affair. There is no reason for you to interfere. You have killed one of my men. You will pay for that.” He slashed his sword in front of him. “You’ll not have my tunic, damn you.”

“I’m thinking if the boy doesn’t want it, I will use it to wipe down my horse after I have sent my sword through your belly. Why are you afraid to tell me who you are? Who is your master? If I don’t kill you, mayhap he’ll relieve you of your tunic when you return to him empty-handed. You are so scrawny, mayhap he’ll use your tunic to rub down his horse.”

The man squared his shoulders and cursed, loud and fluent.

Garron said over him, “Four men with a struggling boy. You stole him, didn’t you?” His smile was ferocious. “What are you, a pederast? Or is your master a pederast?”

Red Tunic growled deep in his throat and lunged. He was well trained and agile, Garron thought dispassionately as he sidestepped, watching how the man moved, watching for a weakness. Then he saw it. The man was furious, not thinking hard and cold, as a warrior should. Garron knew the man didn’t have his strength, but he didn’t want to kill him just yet. He wanted to know who he was first, and who the boy was, and so he contented himself with hacking a wide circle in front of him, keeping him back, wearing him down. He knew the moment the man realized he wouldn’t survive this fight. He chose to run, shouting over his shoulder as he jumped a tree root, “You’ll die for this!”

Garron was after him in an instant, but Red Tunic had a stout warhorse nearby, and Damocles was back in the forest, tethered with his men’s horses. He was mounted and away before Garron could catch up to him. He stood there panting, watching the bright red disappear into the thick of the trees. He wondered again who the man was as he slid his sword back into its scabbard. He knew if he chanced upon the man again, he would certainly recognize his thin face, his dark, hot eyes beneath heavy black brows. He’d also recognize his warhorse, a bay with four white fetlocks, a horse he would take after he’d dispatched the man to hell.

Garron flexed his hand as he walked back to the clearing only to see Pali, his eyes red and watery, stick his sword in a man’s chest, then kick him onto his back.

It was dead silent now in the clearing.

Garron said, “Where is the boy?”

Aleric looked around. “He was—well, the ungrateful little bittle’s gone. He must have been frightened and run to hide in the forest.”

“No wonder,” Garron said. “What were they going to do with him? Ransom, I suppose, and that would mean he’s of some importance to someone.”

Aleric asked, “Shall I send Pali to search for the boy? With those long legs of his, he can cover more ground than the four of us put together. Or Hobbs, he can see better than an eagle.”

Gilpin, Garron’s squire of nearly two years, laughed. “Aye, Hobbs can see a worm hiding under a leaf.”

Garron looked at the dying afternoon sun overhead through the thick trees. It was growing late. Still, he couldn’t simply leave the boy alone. He and his men searched, kept assuring him they wouldn’t hurt him, that they would protect him.

They didn’t find the boy, even though Garron called again and again to him.

Finally, Garron said, “We have only another hour or two of daylight. I wish to be at Wareham before night falls. I wish to sleep in my own bed this night.” How odd that sounded—his own bed, the lord’s bed, not the small narrow cot he’d shared with his younger brother, Kalen, years before, a younger brother long dead.

He kicked the boot of one of the dead men as he said, “We have no tools to dig graves, so we will leave them.” He looked again at the sun, wondering if he should search more for the boy. How far from home was he? And that damned man in his red tunic who’d kidnapped him, who was he? Garron shouted yet again, “Boy! We mean you no harm. We have killed your captors. I promise you safety. Come out now!”

After a few minutes of silence, Garron realized there was no hope for it. “We’ve done our best—either he’ll survive or he won’t. Let’s go home.”

As they walked back to their horses, Garron asked, “Did any of you recognize their leader, the man in the red tunic? He would not tell me his name or that of his master.”

“Nay, but he’s an old hound,” Gilpin said, and spat on the ground.