The Reckoning - 3 (10 page)

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though, that he'll see them brought to justice. Christ pity him if he does not, for I've sworn a holy oath that the de Montforts shall pay for Hal's murder, every one of them, and I"
"Every one of them? Surely not Aunt Nell, too?" Edmund blurted out uneasily, and Edward gestured impatiently.
"Of course not. Aunt Nell would not have countenanced such a killing." After a pause, he said grudgingly, "And neither would Simon." *^n acknowledgment to an enemy did not come easily to Edward; moving back to the table, he reached for a cup of sweet red wine, swallowed to take the taste away. "There was a time, though, when I would have said the same of Bran ..."
William de Lusignan laughed. "I hear he has not drawn a sober breath in years.
He was probably so besotted he thought the bloodletting to be some quaint
Italian custom, part of the Mass!"
Edmund and Thomas and Erard looked at him in distaste, the first two because they detested him, Erard because he had been Bran's friend. But then, so had
Edwardonce. He was staring out onto the lake again, eyes narrowed against the white Sicilian sun. "It was mainly Guy's doing," he said. "I know that, for I
know Guy, God rot his misbegotten soul! But the fact that his guilt is greater does not excuse Bran or Amaury. They, too, have a debt to pay, and I shall see that they do."
"Amaury, too?" Edmund gasped, horrified that a priest might have taken part in a church killing. "I heard naught of Amaury at Naples!"
Erard shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wanting to speak up for Amaury, but loath to remind Edward of his friendship with the de Montforts. Thomas was reluctant, too, to intervene, but he'd been burdened with an innate sense of fairness. "Ned, you know there is no proof whatsoever that Amaury was"
Edward spun around. "Proof? He is Simon de Montfort's spawn, is he not? What more proof do I need? When I think of all that man has to answer for, the evil ideas he brought to England like some noxious French pox, the way he tried to cripple the God-given powers of kingship, I know he must be burning in eternal hellfire!"
By then the others had realized he was speaking not of Amaury, but of Simon.
"He would have torn asunder the very foundation of the realm, dashed us down into hellish chaos and darkness! Look at the allies he drew to him: the London rabble, Oxford students, unlettered village priests, Welsh rebels. But not men of good birth, not men of the peerage. And yet there are people who still hold his memory dear, who have made him into a martyr, who bleat that he died for them and their precious Runnymede Charter, for their 'liberties.' If Simon de
Montfort is a saint, then I'm the living, breathing incarnation of Christ
Jesus the

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Redeemer! But fools flourish in England like the green bay tree, and still he wreaks havoc upon us, even now from the grave."
None had dared to interrupt. When Edward at last fell silent, Eleanora crossed to his side, wiped away with gentle fingers the perspiration that trickled down his temples. He looked exhausted by his outburst, by this continuing struggle to defeat a phantom foe five years dead.
"Do you know whom I truly blame for Hal's death? Simon de Montfort, for it was he who led us to the cliff's edge. He's beyond my powers to punish. But his sons are not, and I shall see them in Hell. This I swear upon the surety of
Hal's soul."
TALAMONE, THE MAREMMA, TUSCANY
May 1271
V^JTHER men might envision Hell as a subterranean underworld, an abyss filled with flames and rivers of boiling blood. But to Hugh, Hell would forever after be the bleak, low-lying marshes of the Maremma.
Hugh was not alone in hating it, this vast, barren swampland stretching north from Viterbo, south from Siena, a haven for snakes, wild boar, and pestilent fevers. Men who'd remained loyal to Bran, even after Viterbo, balked at the
Maremma, and their numbers dwindled daily.
None knew exactly what had passed between Bran and his brother;
Bran said nothing and not even the bravest man dared to breach his frozen silence. That the rupture had come surprised no one, for Guy nad taken a bitter satisfaction in his act of vengeance, and Bran, once d sobered up, was sickened by it. Most of their men made the pre-

56
dictable and pragmatic decision to remain at Sovana Castle with Guy and his powerful father-in-law. But a score of knights had elected to follow Bran.
These die-hard loyalists had not bargained upon the Maremma, though, had not bargained upon endless, empty days under a searing sun, a landscape of windswept desolation, muddy bogs, reed-choked ponds of stagnant water. The impoverished port of Orbetello, the shabby ^coastal village of Talamone, the inland town of Grosseto, then back to Talamonetheirs was an aimless wandering without purpose or plan, and to the disgruntled, uneasy men, it began to seem like the accursed odyssey of Cain. Bran shrugged off their queries, ignored their protests, and as their patience waned, one by one they slipped away. By this hot, humid Whitsunday in late May, they had all forsaken Bran but two
Hugh and a French knight, Sir Roger de Valmy.
Hugh had risen early, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere of their inn.
He'd meandered about the harbor for a while, practicing his Tuscan upon obliging passersby. Out of sheer boredom, he stopped to help the blacksmith shoe a recalcitrant filly and then drew well water for an elderly widow. When several youths invited him to join in a rough-and-tumble game of palone, he was quick to accept.
Hugh was still surprised by the continuing friendliness of the Tuscan people.
They were unabashedly curious about the Viterbo murder, but he found none of the hostility he'd expected. While he encountered no one who condoned the killing, he met no one who did not understand it, either. Blood-feuds were too familiar to shock. A pity, all agreed, before pointing out that it would not have happened if the Earl's body had not been so foully abused at Evesham. Two sides of the same coin, no? Men crossed themselves, then shrugged.
For several hours the boys tossed a football back and forth. By the time the game broke up, Hugh was sweaty and out of breath and limping from a particularly energetic tackle, but happier than he'd been in weeks. His conscience was beginning to prickle, though, and he headed back toward the inn, in case Bran might have need of him. Reaching the stables, he detoured to check upon their horses, and it was there that he found Sir Roger de Valmy, saddling his stallion.
Hugh could not conceal his dismay. "You are leaving?"
The Frenchman nodded. "I ought to have gone weeks ago, but I kept hoping Bran would come to his senses." Buckling the saddle girth, he stepped from the shadows. A dark, stocky man of middle height, his most notable feature was an ugly scar, one that twisted his mouth askew, into a sinister smile that could not have been more deceptive, for he was by nature affable, generous, and perceptive. "Look, lad," he

57
jaid slowly, "I like Bran. But he is drifting into deep water, and I am n0t willing to drown with him."
Hugh saw there was no point in arguing. "Where will you go?" "South. Charles keeps his court at Naples. I mean to seek him out, offer him my sword. I've fought for him in the past; he knows my worth."
"But. . . but are you not afraid to face him? After Viterbo . . ."
De Valmy smiled. "Have you not wondered, Hugh, why there was no pursuit? Why no efforts have been made to track Bran and Guy down? Oh, I daresay Charles disapproved of the killing. But no king willingly loses a good battle commander, and Guy de Montfort is one of the best. I'd wager a thousand livresif I had itthat Charles is going to wait for the furor to die down, for men to forget, and then, lo and behold, Guy will turn up in his service again."
Hugh was shocked by de Valmy's cynicism. "But Guy and Bran have been outlawed, their lands forfeit!"
De Valmy shrugged. "Yes, but you did not see Charles laying siege to Sovana
Castle, did you? No, if Charles does not in time restore Guy to favor, it'll be only because he could find no way to appease Edward, not because of his moral outrage over the murder."
"What of Bran? Does he know you're going?"
De Valmy nodded again. "He did not even blink," he said, then swung up into the saddle. "You're a good lad, Hugh, and I'm in need of a squire. Come with me."
"I thank you, Sir Roger. But I cannot."
De Valmy did not look surprised. "No, I suppose not. But I did want you to have a choice, lad," he said, and rode out of the stable.
His leaving sent Hugh's spirits plummeting. What would happen now? What were they going to do? He could not bring himself to face Bran, not yet, and he followed de Valmy into the blinding, white sunlight.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. He spent much of it sitting on a secluded, rocky beach just east of the village. Lying back upon the hot sand, he stared out to sea, watched gulls circle and squabble overhead, flung shells into the surf, and sought to convince himself that a happy ending was still within Bran's grasp. He had in fact devised a plan, but he'd so far lacked the courage to broach the subject with Bran, for never had Bran been so unapproachable as in the weeks after Viterbo. As always, he kept his grieving to himself, and thus made it impossible for others to offer any sort of comfort. Hugh could only look upon his silent sorrowing, his daily drinking, and hope for a miracle.
He dozed for a time, awoke with a start, with the guilty realization

56
dictable and pragmatic decision to remain at Sovana Castle with Guy and his powerful father-in-law. But a score of knights had elected to follow Bran.
These die-hard loyalists had not bargained upon the Maremma, though, had not bargained upon endless, empty days under a searing sun, a landscape of windswept desolation, muddy bogs, reed-choked ponds of stagnant water. The impoverished port of Orbetello, the shabby ^coastal village of Talamone, the inland town of Grosseto, then back to Talamonetheirs was an aimless wandering without purpose or plan, and to the disgruntled, uneasy men, it began to seem like the accursed odyssey of Cain. Bran shrugged off their queries, ignored their protests, and as their patience waned, one by one they slipped away. By this hot, humid Whitsunday in late May, they had all forsaken Bran but two
Hugh and a French knight, Sir Roger de Valmy.
Hugh had risen early, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere of their inn.
He'd meandered about the harbor for a while, practicing his Tuscan upon obliging passersby. Out of sheer boredom, he stopped to help the blacksmith shoe a recalcitrant filly and then drew well water for an elderly widow. When several youths invited him to join in a rough-and-tumble game of palone, he was quick to accept.
Hugh was still surprised by the continuing friendliness of the Tuscan people.
They were unabashedly curious about the Viterbo murder, but he found none of the hostility he'd expected. While he encountered no one who condoned the killing, he met no one who did not understand it, either. Blood-feuds were too familiar to shock. A pity, all agreed, before pointing out that it would not have happened if the Earl's body had not been so foully abused at Evesham. Two sides of the same coin, no? Men crossed themselves, then shrugged.
For several hours the boys tossed a football back and forth. By the time the game broke up, Hugh was sweaty and out of breath and limping from a particularly energetic tackle, but happier than he'd been in weeks. His conscience was beginning to prickle, though, and he headed back toward the inn, in case Bran might have need of him. Reaching the stables, he detoured to check upon their horses, and it was there that he found Sir Roger de Valmy, saddling his stallion.
Hugh could not conceal his dismay. "You are leaving?"
The Frenchman nodded. "I ought to have gone weeks ago, but I kept hoping Bran would come to his senses." Buckling the saddle girth, he stepped from the shadows. A dark, stocky man of middle height, his most notable feature was an ugly scar, one that twisted his mouth askew, into a sinister smile that could not have been more deceptive, for he was by nature affable, generous, and perceptive. "Look, lad," he

57
gaid slowly, "I like Bran. But he is drifting into deep water, and I am n0t willing to drown with him."
Hugh saw there was no point in arguing. "Where will you go?"
"South. Charles keeps his court at Naples. I mean to seek him out, offer him my sword. I've fought for him in the past; he knows my worth."
"But. . . but are you not afraid to face him? After Viterbo ..."
De Valmy smiled. "Have you not wondered, Hugh, why there was no pursuit? Why no efforts have been made to track Bran and Guy down? Oh, I daresay Charles disapproved of the killing. But no king willingly loses a good battle commander, and Guy de Montfort is one of the best. I'd wager a thousand livresif I had itthat Charles is going to wait for the furor to die down, for men to forget, and then, lo and behold, Guy will turn up in his service again."
Hugh was shocked by de Valmy's cynicism. "But Guy and Bran have been outlawed, their lands forfeit!"
De Valmy shrugged. "Yes, but you did not see Charles laying siege to Sovana
Castle, did you? No, if Charles does not in time restore Guy to favor, it'll be only because he could find no way to appease Edward, not because of his moral outrage over the murder."
"What of Bran? Does he know you're going?"
De Valmy nodded again. "He did not even blink," he said, then swung up into the saddle. "You're a good lad, Hugh, and I'm in need of a squire. Come with me."
"I thank you, Sir Roger. But I cannot."
De Valmy did not look surprised. "No, I suppose not. But I did want you to have a choice, lad," he said, and rode out of the stable.
His leaving sent Hugh's spirits plummeting. What would happen now? What were they going to do? He could not bring himself to face Bran, not yet, and he followed de Valmy into the blinding, white sunlight.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. He spent much of it sitting on a secluded, rocky beach just east of the village. Lying back upon the hot sand, he stared out to sea, watched gulls circle and squabble overhead, flung shells into the surf, and sought to convince himself that a happy ending was still within Bran's grasp. He had in fact devised a plan, but he d so far lacked the courage to broach the subject with Bran, for never had Bran been so unapproachable as in the weeks after Viterbo. As always, he kept his grieving to himself, and thus made it impossible for others to offer any sort of comfort. Hugh could only look upon his silent sorrowing, his daily drinking, and hope for a miracle.
He dozed for a time, awoke with a start, with the guilty realization