June 1067, Paris, Francia
The sound of chainmail jingling beyond the thick door signaled the soldier’s arrival. The two men seated at the table exchanged quick glances. The younger of the two rose abruptly, wrapped his cloak about him and pulled his hood low over his face. He faded into the deep shadows of the vaulted alcove. The other remained seated, facing the door, and continued to write upon a sheet of vellum.
When the deeply carved oak door opened, Brian Dubec slipped inside. His breath came in gasps as if he had run a long distance. He strode toward the table and paused, waiting until he was addressed, aware of the faint scent of freshly shaved cedar.
He knew he would be made to wait. His keen eyes assessed Thierry de Châlons, advisor to King Philip, who had negotiated Lady Stafford’s betrothal for Francia. Thierry continued to write with a reed pen encased in a silver holder. He wore a large emerald ring on his index finger and a bejeweled chain around his neck, which sparkled against the finely woven, black wool of his robes. A distinctive gold and silver brooch, two lions with entwined tails, clasped his gray mantle at the shoulder.
Dubec looked about the plush, small room, a sufficiently discreet chamber buried in the Palais. His gaze swept over the ornate raised brazier and the rock-crystal torch sconces elaborately carved with fishes; at pools of bright light reflecting off polished marble walls. He admired the thick, woven rushes, an expensive and rare luxury; the gold candelabra, noting they were unmarked by identifying seals; and his eyes lingered on the sumptuous burgundy drapery hanging from ceiling to floor. Peering into the shadows, he concluded they were alone, a condition he’d required when switching masters.
“You bring word of the marriage?” Thierry asked without looking up.
“The deed is done.”
Thierry nodded and, taking another sheet of vellum, continued to write. “Eustace?”
“His liaison meets in secret with Edric ‘the Wild.’”
“The . . . Wild?” Thierry smiled, amused.
“A former thegn of Shropshire. He and his band live in a great woods, like beasts, they say.”
“Ah,” the seated man nodded. “Tell me about L’Enfant. Who is he? What is his pedigree, and why is Eustace interested in him?”
“I know only that he is young, perhaps fifteen winters. He studies at Sithiu monastery in Flanders. I don’t know the reason for Eustace’s interest.”
Thierry put down his pen, rotated the emerald ring on his finger and studied the soldier. Dubec waited for a challenge.
“Guillaume Arques?”
Disappointed by the question, Dubec answered, “In Boulogne, awaiting your summons.”
The king’s advisor slid a packet of missives across the table toward Dubec. He then took one of the banded scrolls stacked on the table beside him and stood, tapping the scroll across his palm as if measuring the messenger.
Dubec did not flinch under the scrutiny.
“This land is yours,” Thierry said, his bejeweled hand passing the document to Dubec. “And these coins.” He gazed at a leather pouch sitting on the table. “Deliver the missives as instructed. We will contact you again.” With a flick of his head, he dismissed the soldier.
Dubec took the scroll, tucked the missives into his belt and lifted the pouch resisting an urge to weigh the coins. “Thank you, my lord.” He bowed and departed.
When the door closed, Thierry stepped around the table, went to the door and dropped the latch. He leaned his back against the portal and listened to the fading echo of boots on the stone floor and nodded at the shadows.
King Philip emerged. He threw his hood back and folded his hands into the large sleeves of his gold-embroidered tunic. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face.