For Love And Honor (12 page)

“Don’t put yourself in jeopardy with my
father for my sake,” Joanna cautioned. Smiling ruefully, she added,
“If he were to send you away, what would I do? We have only each
other, Rohaise.”

“I will be careful,” Rohaise promised. “Ill
take care to please him in bed each night, and try to soothe his
temper when it flares.”

“It would be a great joke if you were to get
with child after all this,” Joanna said.

“I begin to think the fault for my barrenness
lies not so much with me as with Radulf,” Rohaise told her. Then,
changing the subject, she asked, “What of Alain? Do you believe
Radulf’s claim that he killed Crispin?”

“No matter what my father or anyone else
says,” Joanna replied, “I know in my heart that Alain could not
commit murder.”

“That is what I think, too,” Rohaise said,
“nor Sir Piers, either. But I wish I knew who did do it.”

Father Ambrose left Haughston early on the
morning after Crispin’s funeral. He traveled alone. It was safe
enough to do so; even in that part of England, so near to the Welsh
border. Under the rule of King Henry I there were precious few who
would dare to attack a priest. Father Ambrose rode a gentle mare
and had, in addition, two other horses, a spare mount for himself
and a pack animal that carried his few belongings, along with a
surprising amount of food for one traveler. Since he had made no
secret of the fact that he was going to London and then on to
Hastings, from where he would cross the Narrow Sea to Normandy, he
took the road leading in that direction. This road, which was
little more than a track in the wilderness, wound through a deep
forest. As the day was bright and warm, Father Ambrose went
bareheaded, his freshly shaven tonsure a shining symbol of his
holiness for all the world to see. But his thoughts were not on
matters spiritual, and as he rode along he repeatedly sent
searching glances into the greenwood on either side of the road.
When, in late morning, a figure muffled in a dark cloak stepped
into the road before him, he pulled hard on the reins, stopping his
horse at once.

“Thanks be to God,” he exclaimed. “I feared I
had missed you, or that you had been taken during the night and I
not told of it.”

“You had best come into the trees,” Piers
said. “Alain and I have found a spot that should be safe for a
while, at least until we have decided what to do next.” Taking hold
of the bridle, he led Father Ambrose’s horse off the road. Since
their reins were attached to the priest’s saddle, the two extra
horses could only follow.

“I’m surprised you were let out of Haughston
with these animals,” Piers remarked, looking at the horses with
admiration for their fine quality.

“
I was
surprised, too, so much so that I wonder if I’m being followed,
though I have seen no sign of pursuit.” At that point in their
progress through the dense greenery Father Ambrose swung lightly to
the ground; the underbrush had become too thick for him to ride
without being seriously hindered by large bushes and low-hanging
tree limbs. “You will forgive me for saying that, having forsaken
my knightly vows for holy orders only five years ago, I find it a
pleasure to be so well mounted once more and to be riding out on a
quest for ju
stice on so fine a day.”

“Did you steal them?” Piers asked, looking
toward the horses again.

“Certainly not, my son,” the priest replied
with just the trace of a twinkle in his eyes. “They are but a
donation from Baron Radulf to Holy Mother Church, in partial
penance for his sins. Ah, Alain, there you are. Thank God you are
safe.”

“I would not be even this safe without your
help and Piers’s quick wits,” Alain said, leaving the cover
afforded by a thick clump of bushes and coming toward the priest.
“Somehow we have eluded an army of searchers and the dogs Radulf
ordered set on our track. We spent the whole of that first night
standing in a pond with cold water up to our necks while the hounds
yapped and yammered too close for my ease. In spite of the cold and
the uncertainty, still I thank you both for my life.”

“If only we could have saved Crispin’s life,
too,” Piers murmured. “If only we were four here together, instead
of just three.”

“Aye. Crispin’s death angers me and pains me
sorely.” Ambrose bowed his head, crossing himself. “I shall never
cease to pray for my nephew’s dear soul. It’s all any of us can do
for him now.”

They
stood in a rough circle, each man close to tears at the thought of
their lost kinsman and friend, while Ambrose sa
id a
prayer.

“Having consigned Crispin to the care of our
most blessed Lord,” Ambrose said, “it is my next duty to care for
the living. And it seems to me that at least one of you is in sore
need of my care.”

The Alain of Woodward whom Father Ambrose
regarded in that forest glade was a very different man from the
openhearted, cheerful young fellow who had arrived at Banningford
Castle less than a week earlier for his cousin’s wedding. Alain’s
face was pale and drawn, his every movement taut with tension, as
if he were poised for flight at an instant’s notice.

“Have you been ill again?” Father Ambrose
asked, much concerned.

“No, the sickness passed quickly. I have been
worried for your sake,” Alain explained. “And I have been afraid
that Piers and I would be caught before I could remember everything
that occurred on that terrible night and thus prove that I did not
murder Crispin. That’s what Radulf is saying, isn’t it? That I did
the deed? We knew he would. Uncle Ambrose, I want you to convince
Piers to separate from me. Tell him it’s the best thing for him to
do. He won’t listen to me.”

“
It has
been a long time since I’ve heard you call me uncle,” said Ambrose.
“The word is sweet to my ears, even if it is only an honorary
title. My dear boy, I cannot advise Piers to leave you. What would
he do? Return to Haughston, where he was to become a household
knight for Crispin? Go where Radulf now rules? How long do you
think Piers would survive there? Radulf will claim
– indeed, he is already
claiming – that Piers is as culpable as you are.”

“It was a foolish idea.” Alain rubbed both
hands across his face. “I can’t seem to think clearly right
now.”

“Perhaps that is because you haven’t eaten
recently,” Ambrose said. “My lads, will you share my midday meal
with me and listen while I give you good advice?”

“More than that,” said Piers. “I, for one,
will promise to follow whatever advice you give.”

“Now those are the words of a wise man.” With
the easy movements of one who had once been a fine knight and who
was still in remarkably good physical condition, Ambrose pulled a
package out of his saddlebag and tossed it to Piers. There was a
wine jug fastened to the packhorse’s back, and this Ambrose removed
and gave to Alain. Then, hoisting his priest’s robe up to his
thighs, Ambrose sat cross-legged on the ground.

“
Leave
the horses as they are,” he said when Piers made a motion toward
unsaddling the mount he had ridden. “We may have to leave this
charming spot in haste. You may drink freely of the w
ine,
Alain. There is no poppy syrup in it.”

“Poppy syrup?” With the wine jug at his lips,
Alain paused to stare at the priest. “Is that what made me
sick?”

“
I think
it most likely,” Ambrose said. “Poppy syrup mixed with certain
herbs will produce the
symptoms we saw in you. The ingredients are easily
available. Any good chatelaine will have them in her stillroom,
ready to mix together to ease the pains of wounded men.”

“Surely you don’t think the lady Rohaise is
involved in this?” asked Piers. “Or Joanna, either?”

“No,” said Ambrose firmly, “I do not. Having
no proof of anyone’s guilt, I leave the choice of culprit to your
imaginations. But I would wager, Piers, that had you taken a full
cup of wine with your meal instead of a mere sip on the night when
Crispin died, you would have been sick also. Though such
speculation means little without incontrovertible proof, I believe
that you were both meant to be blamed for Crispin’s death.”

“Who did it?” Alain demanded.

“I do not know,” said Ambrose.

“But you suspect,” Alain persisted
tensely.

“I will not speak a name and thus cast doubt
on any man’s character without proof,” Ambrose replied.

“
But I am
being blamed without proof!” Alain cried. “And, heaven help me, if
I had to prove my innocence,
I could not do it, for I still
cannot re
member exactly what
happened when I left the great hall that night.”

“You were not meant to remember,” Piers put
in. “That’s what the poppy syrup was for, to confuse us.”

“Is Joanna well?” Alain asked suddenly.

“I have not seen her since that night. Her
father has locked her in her bridal chamber.” Ambrose went on to
tell his companions all that he knew about Joanna’s situation and
of Radulf’s search for the two men whom he had loudly proclaimed to
be Crispin’s killers.

“We must find a way to release Joanna.” Alain
rose as if he would start at once for Banningford Castle.

“Do not even think of it,” Ambrose advised.
“One man, or two, cannot hope to conquer Banningford. You would be
captured, and I don’t doubt that Radulf would torture both of you
into madness, and confessions, before hanging you from the
battlements. Sit down, Alain, and listen to me. I want you and
Piers to travel with me to Sicily.”

“No,” Alain protested. “I won’t leave
England. Justice must be done for Crispin’s sake. I have to find
proof of who is the true murderer and clear my name. I have to
rescue Joanna from that tower room.”

“In time, I believe you will,” said Ambrose.
“But there is nothing you can do for now except save yourself.”

“I won’t leave Joanna!” Alain’s face was dark
with anger, his fists clenched.

“Perhaps I should have put poppy syrup in the
wine after all,” murmured Ambrose.

“Alain, keep still and listen to him,” Piers
urged. “We may not have much time before the searchers Radulf has
sent out after us reach this part of the forest.” As usual Alain
listened to Piers when he would heed no one else.

“All right, old Sir Piers, I’ll hear what
Uncle Ambrose has to say.”

“Sit down, then,” Ambrose ordered, and Alain
obeyed.

“I am known to be traveling to London, and
then on to Normandy,” Ambrose said, “which means that Radulf’s men
will most likely concentrate their search south and east in that
direction, in the belief that I will try to aid your escape.”

“They will more surely think so when they
learn that you have taken three horses to speed our journey,” Piers
noted.

“Exactly.” Ambrose nodded. “That was my
intent: to make them think so. But while Radulf looks for two
knights with a priest heading for London, three priests will ride
north for a day or two and then turn westward into Wales. I have
robes for you in the saddlebags there.”

“Wales?” Alain repeated. “Why to Wales?”

“
From
Wales,” said Ambrose, “it’s easy enough to get to
Ir
eland.”

“A fine idea,” Piers noted approvingly. “That
ought to put Radulf off our trail. And from what I’ve heard of the
Welsh, they won’t be very helpful to him even if he does pick up
our scent.”

“Aye.” Alain did not show much enthusiasm,
but he did keep quiet while Ambrose went on, telling them the rest
of his plan.

“
Once in
Ireland we can easily find a ship bound for Bordeaux, since there
is a thriving wine trade between the two places. From Bordeaux we
will travel southward overland to Narbo
nne and thence to the
Middle Sea, where we
can take
ship for Sicily.”

“It is a long journey,” Alain objected. “It
will take months, especially if the weather is bad and the winds
against us while we are at sea, or waiting ashore for a ship to
leave.”

“All the better,” said Ambrose with a touch
of mischief in the glances he gave to both his companions. “There
will be time for me to further your education while we travel. You
will need to learn more Latin than the little you know now. A fair
knowledge of Greek would not be amiss. Then there is Arabic, of
course. I have been studying it for several years in preparation
for my second visit to Sicily.”

“It’s all well enough for a learned man like
yourself, but why should I want to speak a heathen tongue?” Alain
asked scornfully.

“The question betrays your ignorance of the
land to which we are going,” Ambrose told him. “In addition to the
languages, I will teach you what I know of the remarkable kingdom
of Sicily, so that you will be able to make your way at King
Roger’s court. I want you to avoid the foolish mistakes I made
while I was in Sicily on my way home from the Holy Land. When I was
still a knight I did not appreciate the learning or the other
opportunities that were available to me if only I had cared enough
to take advantage of what was offered. Now I return in search of
the learning I missed on my first visit, and I would have you take
advantage of the opportunities I once ignored.”

“If I leave England with you, which I have
not yet agreed to do,” Alain said, “I will go only as far as
Ireland, or possibly Bordeaux, and only for a short time. I will
admit that a sea voyage may do much to clear my thoughts and make
it possible for me to remember what happened when Crispin was
killed. I can see that leaving England might be a good idea until
the furor dies down. But as soon as I can, I will return, to prove
my innocence and to rescue Joanna from her father.”

“I thought I had made it plain to you,”
Ambrose said. “Radulf will see to it that you are proclaimed an
outlaw. Once King Henry signs the proclamation, any man in England
may kill you without fear of retribution. When your father dies you
will not be able to inherit his lands. They will escheat to the
crown instead.”