The Conqueror (Hot Knights) (26 page)

She went inside and closed the door behind her, breathing a sigh of relief. At least it was quiet and private here. The place smelled of incense and beeswax. She walked to the rail, her footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Kneeling, she made a silent petition for strength and courage. Some of the anxiety seemed to leave her. She bowed her head again, this time praying for the souls of her mother and father. Her brothers. And Jobert.

A lump formed in her throat. What if she didn’t live to see him again, to look into his beautiful green eyes, to kiss his wide, grinning mouth?

Nay, she could not think like that. He had asked her to keep Oxbury safe, and somehow she would manage it.

She stood. A shout from the yard made her hasten to the chapel door.

Outside, she blinked at the sudden whiteness. Flakes of snow were falling, drifting down with a quiet deadly grace. The sky was a thick opaque gray.

She ran to the gate. The villagers filed in, clutching bundles of their possessions, carrying crying babies and wide-eyed frightened children. Edeva tried to reassure them. “You’ll be safer here,” she said. “We have twenty knights to defend us. Lord Brevrienne said the palisade could withstand a siege if necessary.”

Her words did not ease their apprehension. She wondered a little at their continued anxiety, until Osbert came up beside her and said, “We’ve found the priest. Lying at the side of the trackway with an arrow in his back.”

Hot anger rose in Edeva. “Fools! To kill a man of God, even if he was a worthless scheming wretch. I vow King William will not forgive this!”

“My lady.” Osbert’s voice was mournful. “’Twas a Saxon arrow we found in his back.”

Edeva knew that her mouth was hanging open in a very unladylike fashion, but she simply could not believe what she was hearing. The people of Oxbury would never have done such a thing. ’Twas unthinkable that such simple, stolid folk would kill a priest.

She started to make her thoughts known to Osbert. The words froze in her throat as she beheld Alan of Fornay walking toward her across the yard. On the side of his face shone a livid purple bruise. He was limping and fat flakes of snow gleamed in his dark hair.

* * *

“You’re not coming back with us?” Hamo asked as Jobert and his escort left Westminster.

Jobert shook his head. “I’m going into the city. There is someone I must speak with.”

“God’s blood, I don’t like this,” Hamo grumbled. “You ask us to leave you on your own in a place crawling with Saxons.”

“The Londoners are not such fools as to attack a well-armed Norman knight.”

“I hope you are right. But if you are not back by dawn where shall I see you?”

“I’m going to a tavern near the inn we stayed at. The Black Horse, it is called.”

“Yea, I remember.” Hamo grinned. “Give my greeting to the curly-haired wench.”

“You think she will remember you?” Jobert gibed.

Hamo stuck his chest out. “Of course she’ll remember me. How many men has she had who are hung like a lion?”

Jobert shook his head at Hamo’s conceit and turned his horse down the roadway toward the city. His errand was probably a foolish one. There was really no reason to suppose that Girard would be at the same tavern he had frequented a fortnight before.

But the conversation with the king had left Jobert unsettled. He needed to find proof that Valois was behind his difficulties at Oxbury. Otherwise, William would continue to think him weak and incompetent. His claim to the manor, and to Edeva, would not be resolved.

It was almost twilight and the traffic on the roadway had begun to thin. Jobert saw only a few knights and some farmers with their empty wain heading back to their steadings after selling their produce to merchants in the city. When he reached the city itself, the streets were more crowded, although not as bad as during the day. He could take in the sights without being constantly distracted by the bustling stream of humanity jostling him and making his horse shy.

Here and there among the clutter of wooden houses, he spied fantastic archways, ancient pillars and other elaborate stonework, made almost invisible now by years of soot and dirt, but still impressive if a man looked closely and imagined the effort and creativity it took to fashion them. So many centuries ago the Romans had built these wonders, their engineering brilliance surviving all who came after. Mayhaps that was why the Londoners accepted their new conquerors so easily, Jobert mused. They expected to prosper under the Normans as they had under all the other invaders.

King William was in the process of leaving his own mark on London, with a tower built close to the river on the east edge of the city. Constructed first in wood, it would eventually be rebuilt in stone, and would form the first line of defense in maintaining Norman control of the Thames. Jobert could not help wondering if William’s tower would last half as long as the Roman structures had.

The streets grew narrower, and he was forced to leave his horse at a stable and proceed on foot. It seemed farther to The Black Horse than he remembered.

Once he arrived at the tavern, he futilely searched the crowd for Girard’s bright mane. Should he wait? Might not his friend appear here later, after one of his amorous assignations?

He purchased a pot of greasy soup and a skin of wine, and drank the soup standing up as there was no place to sit. Finding a spot where he could lean against one of the inn’s dirty smoke-stained walls, he settled in to watch, taking occasional sips of his wine.

Hours passed, and no one paid him much mind, despite the usual awareness people had of him because of his size. It appeared he had been there long enough that the drunken louts surrounding him had forgotten his presence.

He finally stretched to loosen up his stiff joints and went out to relieve himself. The night seemed even darker. Jobert wondered if he would be able to find his way back to the stables without a lantern. But he had no way of obtaining one, and he was weary of his mission.

He fell in step behind a group of raucous knights who had a squire carrying a torch for them. They progressed some ways in the direction Jobert needed to go, laughing and singing, stopping now and then for one of them to piss or be sick. At last he had to quit them and turn south.

His footsteps sounded loud on the hard packed street. He was alone and around him the city slept, although the endless sound of church bells echoed in the night, calling the office of matins. The icy air penetrated his cloak and hauberk and settled numbingly against his skin.

Weariness and cold dulled his senses, and when he caught a glimpse of a movement behind him, he reacted sluggishly. By the time he turned, the assailant’s dagger had slashed the side of his neck. Jobert jerked out his sword, but the man disappeared into the shadows.

Jobert stood there, breathing hard, afraid to move. Someone had intended to sneak up on him and cut his throat from behind, and they had almost succeeded. Instinct told him to run, but reason overruled it. Mayhaps he could lure the man into trying again. If he could capture the assassin and make him confess who hired him, he would have proof to take to the king.

He began to walk again, thinking what a deadly game of cat and mouse he played. The man with the dagger, he could handle, but what if there was a crossbow directed at his back?

Nay, ’twas too dark for an archer to aim and shoot accurately, he told himself, hoping it was true.

His every muscle felt rigid, although he tried to walk casually, feigning unawareness. He swung his arms easily at his sides, though his fingers itched to draw his sword and face his attacker.

Two streets he passed. Three, and still nothing. He began to think that the man had given up. He passed an open alleyway and the hair on the back of his neck prickled.

The attack came from above, the man landing on him hard, knocking the wind out of him, then grabbing his hair and pulling up his head to reach his throat. Jobert rolled sideways, but the bastard hung on, clinging to his shoulders, yet keeping his body away from Jobert’s crushing weight. It was like having some sort of pincer bug stuck on him. Though he flayed and rolled, he could not dislodge his assailant.

He reached back to grasp the attacker’s face and the man bit him. Sudden rage swelled through Jobert. He lurched to his feet and crashed backward against a wall. The man gave a grunt of pain and let go. Jobert grabbed for him, but captured naught but thin air as the nimble devil danced away.

Jobert, hampered by his heavy armor, went after him.

They were in an alleyway, as dark and evil-smelling as sin. Jobert pursued by instinct, seeing nothing. His labored breathing echoed harsh in his ears as he paused to listen. A sense of despair enveloped him. If the man escaped, then all his wretched struggle would be for naught.

A ways ahead, there was a clatter, the sound of something falling. Jobert waited, reluctant to go further until he could get his bearings. The yowl of a cat rewarded his patience. Nay, the man had not gone that way. He was nearby, hiding.

Jobert jabbed the darkness with his sword, then swept the weapon in a wide arc around him. He took another step and repeated the motion, reaching as low as he thought the man could crouch, slicing the air with the deadly blade.

His sword struck something solid, hard. Not a man, a cask or something else made of wood. He poked the sword behind it and was rewarded with the feel of the blade cutting into something soft and yielding. The man shrieked and upended the barrel as he tried to get past him. Once more Jobert swung his sword. It hit its target with a wicked sound, cutting into flesh, crunching into bone. There was a sickening thud of a body hitting the ground.

Jobert was there in a second. He knelt down and lifted the man’s head, praying he wasn’t dead already. “Who sent you?” he demanded. “Who?”

The man made a gurgling sound. Jobert shook him. “Tell me, you bastard.”

He coughed and sputtered, then mumbled something in Saxon. Realization dawned and Jobert switched to the English tongue to repeat his question.

“Valois,” the man finally groaned.

Exultation swept through Jobert, but it was short-lived. Would the king believe him? He needed to take this man to William and have him speak the name to the king.

There was no hope of that. He could feel the life seeping from the Saxon even as he held him The man would not live a breath beyond the alleyway even if Jobert managed to carry him that far.

He laid the man down and reached for the dagger at his waist. Before he had time to perform the act of mercy, the Saxon gave a shuddering moan and went still.

Jobert leaned back on his heels and pondered what to do. Should he take the assassin’s ruined body to the king? He grimaced at the thought of arriving at Westminster carrying a bloody corpse. Nay, he had no stomach for such an errand. Already, he was exhausted and half-frozen. ’Twould be all he could do merely to make his way back to the king on his own.

Stiffly, he rose. He made the sign of the cross over the dead man’s body, then turned and left the alleyway. Surely someone would find the corpse and carry it to the church for burial. It made him a little uneasy to leave without really even knowing what the man he had killed had looked like, but there was no help for it. He must keep moving.

He finally reached the stables, and after rousing the sleeping ostler and then soothing the man’s bad temper with silver, set off for Westminster.

“W
hat have you done?”

Edeva flinched as Fornay bore down on her, eyes flashing. The news about the priest rattled her. She did not feel so certain of her decisions as she had been a few moments before. What if Bourges went to the king and told him that the villagers of Oxbury had killed a Norman priest?

Osbert rushed toward Fornay. “Sir Alan, thank God. We could use your assistance. I fear those bastards are going to take another run at us. What can we do? We’re near out of arrows already and the walls won’t hold if they get any siege engines up here.”

“We’re under attack?” It was Fornay’s turn to frown.

“Yea, sir,” Osbert said. “The Lady Edeva was right about Bourges. Not a fellow to be trusted. They’ve taken Rob prisoner, and there’s no telling what they mean to do.”

“Rob—a prisoner?”

“Yea, sir. Are you certain you feel all right? You look damned pale.”

“Who is Bourges?”

“The leader of the men who have Rob.” Osbert pointed to the palisade walls. “There’s a whole troop of knights in the valley. Remember, that’s why you and Lady Edeva were up on the gatetower. You do recall that part, don’t you, before you fell off the ladder and hit your head?”

Alan’s jaw tightened when Osbert mentioned him falling off the ladder, and Edeva thought Alan would blurt out the truth. He did not, merely saying to Osbert, “How many are there?”

“Oh, two score at least, plus squires and servants. They could put us down easy, which is why their retreat is so puzzling.”

“They’ve retreated?”

Osbert nodded. “For now, but I vow they will be back, and this time with proper siege engines. These old walls will crumble like twigs,” he added gloomily.

“I don’t understand any of this,” Alan said “Did these men say what they wanted, or simply attack?”

“Bourges claimed to have a message from the king,” Osbert said. “But he would not produce it. And when Rob went out to speak with them, they took him prisoner.”

Alan shook his head, as if trying to clear it. Edeva did not doubt it still ached after the blow she had landed.

“What do we do, sir?” Osbert asked again, obviously made anxious by his captain’s silence. “Somehow we have to defend this place. If Brevrienne returns to find Oxbury destroyed or in the clutches of another Norman lord, there’ll be hell to pay!”

“Send the squires and village youth out to gather up the loosed arrows,” Alan said. “And if you fear a siege, have all the oil stores put in pots over the fire and heated until it boils. We’ll dump it on their heads if they get too close to the walls.”

Osbert, looking much relieved, started off to do his bidding. A few paces away, he turned. “What about the priest, sir?”

“The priest?” Alan asked blankly.

“What should we do with his body?”

“Jesu, how did the priest die?”

“No one knows. The men found him outside the palisade with an arrow in his back. A grim way to go. I’d not wish it on any man, even a sour-faced, stingy cleric like Father Reibald.”

Alan shot Edeva a’ suspicious look. “Have you examined the arrow that killed him?”

“Of course. Plain ashwood, fletched with goose feathers.”

“A Saxon arrow.”

“In truth, sir, but that does not mean a Saxon shot it.” Osbert gestured toward the gate. “With all the arrows launched by both sides in the last skirmish, there were likely some that were reused. ’Twould have been as easy for the enemy to have shot him in error as for our own archers. That fool priest had no business wandering around outside the palisade during a battle!”

Alan shook his head again. “Have his body put in the souterrain,” he ordered Osbert. “’Tis cold enough the corpse will not putrefy. We’ll wait until Brevrienne returns before burying him.”

Osbert ran off to carry out the orders. Edeva stood where she was, waiting for Fornay to confront her. “So, you were right,” he finally said. “There is treachery afoot.”

Edeva breathed a sigh of relief. He accepted their predicament. Though he might despise her for what she had done, he would not sacrifice Oxbury’s safety to punish her. “You think this man Bourges means to seize control of Oxbury?” she asked.

“I know not. Indeed, I can fathom none of it,” he answered flatly.

“Mayhaps this is the danger Brevrienne feared, the reason he spoke to us about working together to defend the manor.”

“I wish he had told us more.” Fornay’s gaze met Edeva’s. “Have you thought of sending a message to London?”

She glanced up at the leaden sky. “If it snows, a messenger would not be able to get through.”

“If it snows, that will delay Brevrienne’s return.” Fornay turned away from her, his hands clenched into fists.

“We’ll simply have to carry on as best we can without him,” Edeva said. “I was thinking of sending the women and children to hide in the woods. That way they would be safe if the palisade was overrun.”

“But if there is a siege, they would be caught outside in the weather.”

Edeva nodded. There was no good solution, at least until they knew the intentions of the enemy. Would they be satisfied to claim the manor, or did they mean harm to the people of Oxbury?

“The priest warned me of this,” she said. “He came to me soon after Brevrienne left and suggested Jobert would not be able to hold Oxbury and that another Norman would come and claim it. He implied I could make a better match with the new lord.”

“God’s toes!” Fornay exclaimed. “Why did you not tell me this sooner?”

“I did not think you would believe me. Besides, the priest was always saying strange things, and I knew he disliked Brevrienne. I thought his musings naught but wishful thinking.”

“But mayhaps he knew that Bourges would come. Mayhaps he was even part of the plot.”

“Then, why did they kill him?”

“It could have been the Saxons,” the knight argued. “Or simply an accident. As Osbert said, ’twas senseless for him to be outside the walls.”

“Unless he was meeting Bourges.”

Fornay nodded. “It seems likely the priest was part of this, but I still do not see the logic behind the plan. Bourges may seize Oxbury, but he will have no legal right to it. What man would risk King William’s wrath for a demesne no richer than this one?”

They stared at each other, both troubled by their inability to reason out the purpose behind the enemy’s actions. “What do we do now?” Edeva asked.

“We prepare for their attack.”

She nodded, feeling utterly helpless. After a moment, she started to walk away.

“Lady!” Alan said sharply.

She jerked around.

“You have a mighty arm for a wench, but your knots are a disgrace. It took me only a moment to wriggle free.” There was a slight quirk to his mouth as he spoke.

“What of the drug? I gave you enough poppy juice to make you sleep until sunrise.”

“Luckily, I puked it up. Again, you miscalculated, lady.”

He was actually grinning at her. Edeva stared at him in astonishment, and then smiled back. “I must say I would not have risked hitting you if I was not certain that you were such a hard-headed stubborn lout that you could survive it.”

“Yea, I am that, lady. Mayhaps at times, I am too stubborn. I don’t always listen to reason.”

Could he actually be apologizing? Edeva could scarce believe it. She approached him and reached out to examine the livid bruise on his temple. “Tincture of woodsage and wine would bring down the swelling.”

“I have not time for it,” he said, pulling away. “If you would help, then think of a way to fortify the walls ere we are attacked again.”

* * *

William frowned as Jobert entered the spartan bedchamber. The king sat on a stool with his legs stretched out as a servant unfastened his crossgarters. Without his armor, wearing a plain linen tunic and with his eyes smudged with weariness, he looked like an ordinary man rather than the formidable Conqueror.

“Brevrienne, what is it this time?” he demanded sharply.

Jobert moved into the lamplight so the vivid stain on his mantle was plainly visible. “I come to you wearing the blood of my would-be assassin. Before he died, the man spoke a name to me, the name of the lord who hired him—Valois.”

The king’s brows lifted, but his eyes betrayed nothing. Jobert waited. A dozen heartbeats passed before the king motioned the servant to leave.

When they were alone, the king rose, a slight jerk in his movements revealing the stiffness in his legs from which all old soldiers suffered. “You have his name from the lips of a dying man,” he said, then grunted. “’Tis not enough.”

“My lord—” Jobert began angrily.

William raised his hand to hold back his words of protest. “I did not say I did not believe you. I am convinced that Valois does plot against you.” He reached to pick up a chess piece from the game set up on a nearby table and fidgeted with the piece, turning it over in his fingers. “You must see my predicament, Brevrienne. I may be king of England and duke of Normandy, but my power still depends on the good will and support of other men. God may have granted me success, but He daily tests my worthiness.”

Jobert took a deep breath. “You won’t accuse him?”

“Not publicly. I will send a carefully worded letter reminding him that the lord of Oxbury has my favor, and if he comes to harm I will have the matter investigated.”

“But your highness, the man has tried thrice to murder me!”

“And, through the grace of God, you have survived.”

“Worse yet,” Jobert continued heatedly, “his reason for hating me is a false one. ’Tis not my fault that his daughter chose the Church rather than a wealthy husband! Why should I be the victim of his greed and bitterness when I am innocent of any wrongdoing? Why should his treachery and evil go unpunished?”

The king carefully set the chess piece down. “I did not say he would go unpunished. He has broken faith with me. I warned all my barons that I would not allow them to pursue their grievances against each other in England. But as the Lord in his wisdom says in the scriptures, ‘for every thing there is a season’. This is not the time for Valois to pay his debt.”

Jobert was silent. The king’s decision frustrated him, but he could see there was no point in arguing further.

When he looked up, the king watched him, an amused expression on his face. “Mayhaps giving my permission for you to wed the Oxbury heiress will help ease your disappointment. Consider what I have done for you already, Brevrienne. I have raised you from a landless knight to a baron, and from what I hear of it, Oxbury is a wealthy demesne with the potential to be even wealthier. You should be rejoicing in your good fortune, rather than cursing me.”

Jobert nodded. In truth, William was giving him much more than he had once hoped for, not only land and a title, but also the woman he loved. Possessing Edeva was worth much more to him than gaining revenge against Valois. He was a fool if he did not accept that.

He bowed low. “Never would I curse you, sire. You have indeed made me a fortunate man. I will repay you with a lifetime of loyalty, and should Edeva bear a son, I vow to name him ‘William’ after the most generous and valiant of men.”

The king approached and raised him. “Hurry back to Oxbury then, and wed your heiress, lest she bear another `William the Bastard’.”

The two men laughed, then Jobert quickly departed, but not before inviting the king to visit Oxbury when he had an opportunity to pass that way.

Outside the Westminster compound, Jobert paused to look up at the sky. A heavy mass of clouds still concealed the stars, and that and the cold, damp air suggested a snowstorm was on the way.

He urged his horse into a trot. Now that things were settled with William, he was anxious to get back to Oxbury. Though he was already weary beyond measure, he had made up his mind to rouse his men as soon as he reached camp and set off for home before the weather closed the roadways.

* * *

Edeva sat up on the hard bench and stretched her stiff muscles. She had insisted that Joan, who was near to her time to have her baby, and several of the other village women with very small children, use the upper chamber while she bedded down in the hall.

She smoothed the wrinkles from her gunna and tucked a stray lock of hair into her braid, thinking of all the work ahead of her. Though she was grateful for their battle expertise, neither Alan nor Osbert had an inkling of what must be done to maintain a fortress full of people. Merely baking enough bread to feed everyone required hours of labor. And there were other foodstores to prepare, water for drinking and washing, clean rags for swaddling babies...

Briskly, she shook out the mantle she had used as a blanket and put it on, then made her way from behind the screen to the main portion of the hall. Most of the adults were awake, although a few soldiers who’d had guard duty the night before still snored. She directed some of the women to tend the fire and the others to cut up the remaining loaves of bread and feed the children.

A shower of icy pellets struck her face as she opened the door of the hall. This was no soft, gentle snowfall but a vicious, treacherous mixture of sleet and freezing rain.

Edeva pulled her hood farther over her face and hurried to the kitchen shed.

As she entered, the heat from the ovens instantly melted the ice on her mantle and face. She nodded to Beornflaed. “I see you have the bread started. Make some bean and bacon pottage as well. ‘Twill help warm everyone as well as stretching the food supply.”

“You think we are in for a siege?” the cook asked.

Edeva hesitated before responding. Although she hardly thought it possible that they could hold out for more than few days, she dared not share her fears with the servants and the villagers. “I’m not privy to Sir Alan’s battle strategies, but it seems to me only wise to ration our food supplies.”

The cook nodded vigorously. “Pottage it is. I’ll send the pit boys for a few baskets of beans and a flitch of bacon. You should eat yourself, lady,” the woman added. “You look as pale as a wraith.”

Edeva sank down on a stool by the bread oven as the familiar queasiness struck again. Despite her churning stomach and woozy head, she knew a sharp sense of satisfaction. ’Twas almost certain she was pregnant.