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“I AM WHAT some would call a landed seigneur, though woefully lacking in land. And a loyal vassal of Richard’s, except when he insults me, which is most of the time.” In the hastening dark, Bertran de Born saw to the security of the encampment’s perimeter, the comfort of the horses, and the spirit of his men. He was a master who controlled by wit rather than whip. When antics became too boisterous, he resorted to song, his voice soaring lofty and accomplished. He employed words meant to instill pride and courage, words written by the knight himself in the quiet hours when his men slept.
The king’s knight and troubadour traveled hard but traveled well. He shared his stores as he shared his song. Munificently he passed out the freshest loaves of maslin bread, the sweetest tastes of Anjou wine, and the choicest cuts of roast piglet, the beast struck down shortly after making camp.
Duties discharged and his sword set aside, he sat a respectful distance from Drake’s small party while stirring the campfire with a stick. “During my untold years with Richard,” he addressed Aveline, “I was forced many a time to put up with the infamous Plantagenêt temperament. FitzAlan here knows some of what I speak. Not all, as he and his brother were barely out of swaddling when they began their service. Was it three or four years past since you and Stephen joined Richard?”
“Six,” Drake said, lifting one of Born’s silver goblets to his mouth.
“Seven years ago, I joined Young Henry against his brother. Against my liege lord, you understand. Against the inestimable, the fierce, the handsome, the short-tempered duke of Aquitaine, not to mention his father, the king. When the debacle ended, Richard reluctantly took me back into the fold. He should have been grateful for what I did. If not for me and my Aquitaine allies, his brother would not have gone down the wayward path and met his untimely death. And Richard, alas, would not now be king.”
Leaning forward, he sliced off a pork loin. “Then I did the unthinkable. I tried to displace my older brother and take the family castle by force. Richard evicted me, the bastard. That time I did the forgiving, if not crawling on hands and knees.”
Born’s eyes prowled the fire circle. “From the devil the Plantagenêts sprang, and to the devil they will go.”
“You’re headed back to Chinon?” d’Amboise asked on a belch.
Born nodded. “Richard leaves for a last reconnaissance of Aquitaine. He has some castle-mending to do. Also bishops to name. Seneschals to secure. Charters for a religious house or two. A visit to his only begotten son, bastard though he is. A hanging in Bigorre of some nameless noble who takes joy in plundering innocent pilgrims. A second meeting, I gather, with the kings of Navarre and Aragón. Richard will need swords to contain the Aquitaine during his absence. Spanish swords. The best kind there are when Norman swords are drawing blood elsewhere.”
Drake leaned back on his elbows. “Then you’ll be going on crusade with Richard?”
“I can’t afford to. I’ll keep the home fires burning, figuratively rather than literally.” His smile was barbarous. “You don’t fancy marrying the heiress of Angoulême? I hear she is a rare beauty and virtuous besides. Then there are her uncles Ademar and Aimery, who ought to make your life Hell. If you should survive the wedding night.” His laughter surpassed that of his men.
Drake looked toward Aveline. Her eyes, golden from the campfire, stared beyond the pyre.
When the piglet was reduced to charred bone, Born brought out a lute that had seen many wars. He tuned the instrument, stretching the catgut to a precise and pleasing tone. His voice had a grainy quality yet was melodious from a lifetime of practice. The song began pleasantly enough, exalting the joyful time of spring when flowers come into bloom and birds chirp gaily, but abruptly changed tone with images of war and of men bleeding and dying on those same blossom-laden fields.
The last note brought mordant chortles. Gazing at his silent instrument, Bertran said to Aveline, “I know your man.”
She slid her eyes sideways.
“FitzAlan is loyal to Richard, that much is certain. Therefore, he is neither assassin nor traitor, which is why I didn’t hang him as soon as I laid eyes on him.” He shrugged as if the facts were trivial. “Clearly there are forces working against him. The king’s brother, most likely.”
“But which one?”
Born broke into genuine laughter. “She’s an uncommon lady, is the mystery woman of Dreux.”
“That she is,” Drake agreed.
Climbing wearily to his feet, Born said, “A long day greets us come morning. Captain d’Amboise, you’re welcome to join us. You wouldn’t want your lord to miss you for one day longer than necessary.”
“There’s truth in that, monsieur.”
As the seasoned knight tramped off to his bed beneath the stars, Drake washed weary eyes over Aveline. Despite flames licking her face, the chill of a spring night gripped the daughter of an alewife. Drake wrapped his tunic about her shoulders and held her close while she idly plucked the strings of Born’s lute. Discordant notes rang out. “Do not try to make me respectable, Drake fitzAlan. I have chosen my lot in life.”
