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IN THE GATEHOUSE, mercenaries swarmed around Mallory’s steed. Defying the captain’s orders, they dragged Drake to the rush-strewn ground in a pageant of fists and shouts. Two routiers, their faces vaguely familiar, did their best to dislocate his shoulders at the joints. Their yellow-haired compère took pleasure in using his knuckles with praiseworthy effect. Drake was forced on a brutal pathway through a crush of irate men. Mallory’s barking protests receded farther into the distance. Drake had already reached a place beyond feeling, and though fists eagerly struck out, he tasted none of the blows.
A rope was produced. A noose was roughly fashioned. Clamors of encouragement resounded. His hands were tied at his back. The hangman’s rope was thrown to the upper reaches of the central tower and secured above. Crates were stacked. Drake was brought forward. A voice of authority, shouting orders, went unheeded.
In a stampede of destriers, the king’s guard arrived with swords of fire. Malcontents were cut down in shrieks of agony, and man by man, the riot was quelled.
Geoffrey Plantagenêt, perched on a snow-white steed, pushed himself into the center of the courtyard. Torches encircled him. “You will desist from beating that man to a pulp! And you will remove that rope from his neck! He is the prisoner of the king. The king will decide his fate.”
“The king is dead!” someone shouted.
“Richard lives yet! And until he can appear before you, consider me his voice.”
“By whose authority?”
Geoffrey held up his right hand, where a ruby glowed. “The ring of our dead father, King Henry. Now take him to the tower.”
The path from the courtyard to the Tour de Moulin became Drake’s road to humiliation. The goons still held him fast. The others followed like vultures after carrion. Servants and cooks and chambermaids, their fists raised in scorn, watched him pass, retaliation on their minds. The queen’s ladies-in-waiting, pouring out from warm dwellings and cushioned boudoirs, stifled screams of horror with thrown-up hands. One—pleasing as a daisy ripe for picking—swooned into the arms of the others.
In time, his mind put up its own defenses, and one by one his senses departed until nothing was left but the puddled walkway coming up to meet his face.
When he awoke in the upper reaches of the turret—cold, wet, and hurting—three men loomed above him. Manacles were affixed wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle, the chains tethered to his waist and to an iron ring on the wall. His eyes wandered from the one man to the other, and finally to the last. The king’s nameless turnkey, who finished locking the chains; Mallory d’Amboise, captain of the Mortaigne guard; and John, brother of the king. Having secured the prisoner, the guard stood uncertainly.
“This man,” pronounced the comte of Mortaigne, “is to be accorded neither succor nor mercy. The king lay dying, if he is not already dead. Notwithstanding the archbishop of York’s declaration, I am in charge here.” A cogent look passed from John to Mallory before the prince turned with a flourish and was gone.” After Mallory took a last mournful glance at the prisoner, he obediently followed. The heavy door clanged home with finality.
When he was left alone in the chill and drafty tower, Drake gave into exhaustion. Time tripped by without him. Of dreams, he had none, except the one. The arrow striking and the king falling.
When next his eyes opened, he awoke disoriented. Blissfully he had forgotten where he was, what he had done, and why he was left in these cold and dingy confines with nothing in the way of creature comforts. Then everything returned in a sickening rush. He shifted with the rising discomfort. Directly, his senses became sharply aware of the clank and pull of the chains. The fetters were secure. Ease of movement was not an option. No camp bed, no pallet, no blanket had been afforded him. Instead, he lay in a cold tomb of anguish. One eye swollen shut. His jaw and neck where Mallory struck him, throbbing fiercely. And the injuries inflicted by the mob, swelling and bruising. None of it mattered.
From then on, Drake was subjected to a subtle form of torture. Over the lonely hours, water counting out drop by drop somewhere in the chamber, the king’s guard entered on a regular basis. After checking on the prisoner’s chains, they would kick him, perhaps to test whether he was still breathing, certainly to punish him for what he had done. In a perverse way, Drake welcomed their contempt. It was no worse than the contempt he held for himself. After they left, he would drift off until the dark dreams returned.
In time, the sentries brought food and drink, but he couldn’t eat and had difficulty lifting the cup, more mead spilling onto his tunic than into his mouth. Sleep took him at intervals. The dreams faded. Lethargy borne of abuse and fatigue took hold.
The iron-reinforced door creaked open. Drake waited for manhandling. When it failed to arrive, he twisted his head around and opened his one serviceable eye. Randall of Clarendon, the sheriff of Hampshire, or rather the deputy sheriff, squatted against the opposite wall, his long-fingered hands forming graceful fans over bent knees. “You’re a mess,” he said in English, “which, come to think, seems to be the normal course of your short life.” A smile fleetingly swept his mouth. “Has your urine turned black?”
Drake blinked. Breathing was wearisome. Speech was impossible. He had nothing to say anyway.
“I take that as a no. ’Twould seem there’s no internal bleeding. Which means you’ll live, Drake fitzAlan, to face the punishment of your sins before man and God. Man first, God to come.”
Running a hand through his hair, he stood and paced the cramped quarters. Older than Drake by a decade, Rand seemed ages older. Hard living and hard drinking contributed to the haggard looks of the deputy sheriff of Hampshire, the reeve of Winchester, the arm of the king and the king’s castle in what had once been the thriving capital of England.
“Since you left Winchester, interesting handiwork has been at play. Maybe you’ve heard, maybe not.” The lanky limbs, the lank hair, the colorless eyes were the same, though he appeared older and more bitter. “Godfrey de Lucé, you remember his name? Our newly named bishop of Winchester, and not coincidentally, sheriff of Hampshire? Sailed for Normandy February last. You were there, weren’t you, at Nonancourt? Then you saw him. And you know that in his absence, Longchamp seized the county of Hampshire for himself. Thorough he was, the king’s loathsome chancellor, in stripping our dear bishop of everything but the bishopric, much good the title would do him without the income or the authority. As expected, there was Hell to pay. Amusing, if I were not in the middle of it. In all the confusion and with so many sheriffs to be had, no one in need of a deputy sheriff, I became persona non grata as it were. Richard rescued me from perfidy. Call it the draw of the short straw, but I arrived early yester eve and am now what you see, the king’s marshal. A dubious post with, God save me, limitless duties and responsibilities, exactly what I have always wanted to shed.” He smiled again, hoping to elicit something, anything, from the prisoner of Moulin Tower.
Drake turned his head away and closed his eye.
“Why is it, Drake, you’re always in danger of losing your neck?” He squatted on his heels and prodded him with a finger. “You cannot turn away. You are accused of a grievous crime. The king lies on his deathbed with only Eleanor and the king’s surgeon in attendance. He hangs on by a thread, I’m told. Arthur, the king’s nephew, and his mother, the dowager Duchess Constance of Bretagne, have been sent for. So too have Archbishop Baldwin and our dear chancellor. Richard, I hear, expressed the desire to make the boy his heir, which is as hapless as it gets, for you know a child of two can be quickly deposed. Dispositions, however, are being hastily written.”
His sigh was genuine. Randall of Clarendon always carried with him his humanity, which was heavier than all the sins in England.
“I cannot be lenient with you. I cannot offer you succor. But I can, if told the identities of the men with whom you conspired and the names of the accomplices who aided you, see that you do not suffer before you’re hanged. For you will hang.”
Drake was not sure whether he slept or descended into a stupor. Or if Rand left and returned, or remained at his station, back braced against the wall. He only knew that the king’s marshal eventually brought over a bucket of cold water and a rag.
“It is only because the sight of blood appalls me. Else, I have judiciously been informed, John would heartily disapprove.” His laughter was laced with acid.
More than one bucket was needed. The surface wound above his ear had bled liberally but pained him no more than a bee sting. The ripped flesh of his upper arm had not bled as much but stung worse.
Once again, Drake became disoriented, unsure of the sequence of events and unaware of the passage of time. He only knew that it was impossible for him to stay awake and attentive, and that it was the ex-deputy sheriff of Hampshire’s one-sided conversation that lifted him from apathy from time to time.
“We shall talk, you and I,” Rand said, pacing. “We shall talk for as long as it takes.”
Drake gazed wearily up. He had learned from experience that the king’s new marshal was a patient man. And stubborn as a mule.
“It won’t do, Drake, your silence. Not by a ha’penny in Hell. For instance ....” Rand again took up residence against the wall. “You and Richard had a disagreement, I’m told, over a marriage of convenience. Convenient most of all for the king, least of all for his loyal knight who, unlike most, has little ambition. Your first try at assassination happened that very day. An accomplice—Tancrede d’Évreux—was later found dead under your hand. A lady-in-waiting was poisoned in her bed, purportedly by you. Your other accomplices—Béthune, Fors, and Chauvigny—once righteous men, remain under lock and key at Nonancourt. Along with Devon, your squire, who is as innocent as they come.”
Drake shifted onto his side, the chains rattling in his wake, but the voice persisted.
“Naturally I don’t believe a word of it. Not for a trice can anyone convince me any of you are guilty of regicide, especially Drake fitzAlan. As the eldest son of a lord, he knows what’s expected of him, no matter that he loves the daughter of an alewife. It’s different for a man like me. I can pair with whatever damsel I take a fancy to, so long as she doesn’t mind loneliness and foul language.”
Something approaching a smile touched Drake’s lips.
“Ah,” said Rand, “something yet lives inside you. I was wondering.” The marshal was sitting on his heels beside him. “Where is Aveline, by the bye? Her ma and da and brothers miss her. Especially her green-eyed little Pippa. Ever since she left January last, all of Winchester’s been a-titter with gossip. Is that where Stephen is? Escorting her back to Winchester?”
He examined Drake’s hands, trapped as they were inside the manacles.
“Is this rope burn I see? Not long past, by the looks of it. They almost hanged you, didn’t they? That must account for it.” Once again his expression begged for explanation. “Talk to me, Drake. Where’s Stephen? Something’s amiss here. I feel it where it counts, in my gut.” He left off rubbing away the migraine that was Randall of Clarendon’s constant reproof for living an honest, and more times than not, celibate life. “As you can see, I have no answers, merely questions. Are you thirsty? I’m thirsty.”
As if deciding something, he abruptly stepped out of the cell and barked an order. Soon he returned, flask in hand. He poured wine into two cups and offered one to Drake.
Had he been able to sit up on his own, Drake still would not have taken the cup.
“Please yourself.” Rand drained one cup, drained the other, and immediately refilled both. This time, he used a supporting arm to help the prisoner drink.
The temptation was too great. Drake gulped the contents to the dregs, closed his eyes, and settled back.
The one-sided interrogation went on. In its perpetual drone, Drake drifted in and out of sleep, only to be brought back to Rand’s queries, surmises, concerns, and conundrums. “Where’s Stephen? You still haven’t said. On the queen’s orders, we’ve been scouring the countryside for him. Where there’s one fitzAlan brother, so says Eleanor, the other is not far away. Though it goes without saying that as soon as he steps one foot inside Chinon to rescue you, there’ll be two fitzAlans chained to the wall of this chamber.” His voice dropped off. Rand was thinking again. The half-moons under his eyes were smudged to a dour blue-black. Drake wanted to tell him to stop thinking, that he would wear himself out thinking. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”
Soon Drake was propped against the wall. His bowed head favoring the good eye, he ladled spoonful after spoonful of hot potage past swollen lips and sore jaw.
Nearby, Rand likewise partook of a meal slightly more substantial. “The comte of Mortaigne would disapprove, of course, most violently and most deafeningly. But I am the king’s marshal, am I not? And the king’s marshal cannot go unfed. Further, the king’s marshal refuses to sup alone.” He chewed thoughtfully. “Your palfrey heals well, by the way. The arrow came out clean. There was little blood. Must have set your father back a pretty penny to procure the pair. Are they brothers, the Arabians? They look as alike as the two of you. I shouldn’t wonder they are brothers, bred of the same mare and stud. Perhaps one is slightly older than the other, but they don’t seem such. A handsome pair, as are you and Stephen.”
The bowl was taken away. Drake remained where he was, stronger for the food.
Rand again paced. “Why Drake, why? You worship Richard, you and Stephen, I know you do. What possessed you to go so far? A petty squabble over a troublesome marriage proposal? I don’t believe it.”
Drake offered no comment, not that Rand expected one.
“For payment then? If that were so, who would have reason enough and silver enough to turn you and Stephen against Richard? John? We all know John doesn’t have enough coin to piss in a pot. He laid all his bets last summer and has no more left for a decent wager. Moreover, if it were John, you would be the first to denounce him. Because of Jenna.”
Jenna de Berneval, the daughter of Queen Eleanor’s erstwhile gaoler and Drake’s childhood sweetheart. Killed by a dagger to the heart.
“As to Geoffrey, his fingertips itch at the very thought of an archbishop’s treasury awaiting him in York. Even if he could get to it, even if it contained a million pounds sterling, even if the Old King’s ring is a perfect fit, no man would recognize a bastard brother as monarch, not when there’s a legitimate brother at hand. Unless ... after Richard dies ... John were to meet with a convenient accident of his own? I suppose. Yet neither John nor Geoffrey has been tested on a battlefield, and it would take a general to hold onto the empire King Henry fashioned. Leaving Philippe. King killing king? ’Twould seem imprudent but not beyond reason.”
Drake must have fallen asleep again. When he groggily opened his eyes, he lay on a pallet. A blanket, smelling strongly of horse, covered him. The aches and pains were, if anything, more pronounced. He stirred, groaned, and clinked. Across the way, Rand was leaning against the curved wall and staring down at him.
“There’s no news on Richard’s state. He lives, but ....” He bent his head, exhausted. “What aren’t you telling me, Drake? Why aren’t you telling me?” He strained his head upright. His eyes were bloodshot with fatigue. “Why do you treat me like the enemy? I am not the enemy. Or maybe I am. Maybe you think I am. Or maybe you don’t know if I am.” He braced his chin in a cupped hand. “I’m told there were other attempts on the king’s life. They say you wanted to make it look as if Richard were the victim of an unfortunate accident. When that fell short, you paid off d’Évreux to shoot the errant arrow. After all else failed, you came out into the open.”
He stood and paced, the fall of his boots ringing against the walls. “None of it ... absolutely none of it makes sense. Suppose ...,” he went on, thinking it out, “suppose Richard were to die. Who would gain by it? John, of course. After him, Geoffrey. King Philippe, possibly. The least to gain would be Drake fitzAlan, whose fortune lies best with Richard.” Another thought struck him. “Philippe singled you out for insult, I hear. It was then that Richard brought up the name of Matilda of Angoulême. I’m thinking ....”
Stop thinking, Rand, stop thinking.
“If a few ill-executed accidents fail to deliver the promise, why not force someone out of favor with the king to do the dirty deed. Someone like Drake fitzAlan, who has reason for reprisal plus a steady hand. But what to entice him with? Riches? Being an elder son and standing to inherit Itchendel, he has riches enough. And freedom to marry the woman of his choice. No king’s vassal has that choice. Which leaves ...”—and here he paused—“... blackmail of the worst sort ... against someone he loves ... his brother ... or his woman.”
He shot forward. “Where is Stephen, Drake? Where is Aveline? Or should I say, in whose custody are they?”
Rand got the response he wanted: a sharp turn of Drake’s head, a silent pleading. He was already unlocking the manacles and calling for the guard. They rushed in, swords drawn. “Fetch d’Amboise!” The men dithered. “You heard me. Now!”
Drake’s voice was husky. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“But I do. I know perfectly well what I’m doing.”
He had already released the ankle shackles. Drake reached for the marshal’s arm. “Don’t do this. I beg of you.”
“If they are not already dead, they soon will be. No amount of self-destruction will bring them ... or you ... deliverance.”
“There’s a chance.”
“Remote. Which you’ve known from the start, haven’t you? May God curse you to Hell, Drake fitzAlan, for what you’ve done. For I won’t.”
