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ON THE NEXT day, Drake covered considerably more ground. The deferential stillness of the previous day gave on to light-hearted joviality, except for one individual of the gentler sex, who became mordantly close-lipped and distant. In the afternoon, the clouds thickened and a light drizzle whisked overhead. But his memories and perceptions were so keen, nothing short of the earth opening up threatened to daunt their travels.
The third day went just as well, and Aveline remained just as stubborn. Toward dusk of the fourth day, they reached their destination. Drake instructed, “We cross the river here. There ought to be shoals.”
Since the mudflats were submerged beneath affluent spring rains, a boatman ferried them across. Afterward they headed west for less than a mile. Passing unmolested through a sluggish village, they climbed ever upward, over winding paths rutted by wheels and through forestland buffeted by winds. When the party reached open ground, Drake pointed.
“The gatehouse is there.” When no one spoke, he removed the cloth binding his eyes and peered up at a windy cliff.
White and stalwart, the château stood like a monument of time. Surrounded by whispering woods and unkempt grounds, the castle’s strongest defense lay in its remoteness. At its back, the Loire flowed west and east, moss interlacing among rippling shallows. Bracketed by two turrets at the château’s southeastern flank, the gatehouse rose precisely where Drake had indicated. A curtain wall containing two more turrets at the southwest and northeast corners surrounded the palatial keep. The vast inner bailey contained the necessary timber-framed structures of a thriving château. Smoke swirled thick and pervasive from more than one chimneystack.
They lingered at the forest edge, Drake and the others, their horses impatiently stamping hoofs into the well-worn track. No one said much or moved to act. Until Béthune said lightheartedly, “Behold, we are in enemy territory. Or perhaps home, where the skylarks sing their intrepid songs, disguising their genius with unbeautiful plumage.”
Heads turned curiously.
“It is Chaumont, one of the many glittering châteaux belonging to the estimable Thibaud the fifth, comte of Blois, the gay husband of Alys Capét, second-born to our beautiful Queen Eleanor by her first husband, King Louis of France, but not to be confused with Alais, born of King Louis’ second wife.”
Chauvigny bore his eyes into Drake’s, still blinking in the brilliant daylight, and said wryly, “A family reunion seems to be in the offing.”
“Only on one side of the family. The other side would sooner hack off my head.”
“A disheartening prospect, but one I look forward to,” said Fors.
Before they were given the chance to urge their horses forward, the mouth of the gatehouse opened, and the Blois guard thundered across the lowered drawbridge. Poorly hidden in the hedge, King Richard’s emissaries were quickly surrounded and disarmed, for the most part willingly, since Marshal Clarendon carried on him the necessary authority.
“Did I mention,” said Fors, “that Thibaud and Richard are distant cousins?”
“Right about now,” Chauvigny said, “I don’t think anyone gives a good God damn.”
The captain of the Blois guard, a few years younger than Drake, displayed a guileless hauteur. The pale blue eyes under the shock of straw-colored hair held a certain semblance to a lady Drake well knew, and their challenging glare never took themselves from him. Directing his steed in a wide circle, the arrogant captain studied this man he never formally met as if he were a longtime enemy. He alone of the castle guard donned no armor but wore a suite of fancy clothes more suitable for feasting and entertaining than guard duty. Rand Clarendon presented Richard’s writ, which the Blois captain did not pretend to examine nor did he care to listen to anything the king’s marshal had to say.
Brandishing swords, the Blois guard, to a man more mature than their leader, led Drake and his party into the castle. Upon their boisterous arrival in a gatehouse stinking of sweat and hubris, Drake was summarily used as a human as well as moral shield. Stormed by half the guard’s number, he was dragged off his horse and efficiently subdued with rope and fists.
To no advantage, Aveline fought in the noble defense of her man. The shrewd captain, realizing soon enough that the plucky squire was a woman, personally took charge of her, securing his prize with an elbow cinched around her delicate throat. She mewled pitifully beneath the grip, which persuaded everyone to become entirely cooperative. He gazed full-circle, gratified with the peaceful outcome. “And now, you will allow yourselves to be bound. Unless you wish the lady to suffer an immediate and ignoble death. Prior to or after ravishment, as is your preference.”
Carrying chains and leather strapping, his men moved menacingly forward.
“You will stand off, Captain!”
Drake immediately recognized the voice.
“Mon seigneur?” came the spoiled response.
“You heard me!”
The captain reluctantly released his victim. Aveline explored her throat, coughing her fright away.
Dressed in satin saffron, the speaker stepped into the torchlight and took her hand into his. “And now,” he said, sweeping an authoritative glare around the men of his guard, “you will release the others.”
“But ...,” the captain began to protest.
“Idiot! They have not come to invade, not with six men and one woman.” His eyes slowly made the circuit of those six men and one woman. “Have you?” and received the assent he expected.
Gravely studying Aveline, the gentil-homme continued to hold her hand. “Are you all right, my dear? Because if there is any damage, I will eviscerate our dishonorable captain.”
“You’ll what?” the dishonorable captain yelped.
“You heard me.” He did not have to raise his voice to put the captain in his place.
The ropes having been dispatched, Drake wiped blood from his chin. Aveline retracted her hand from the nobleman’s gentle grasp. “If you please, kind sir,” she said, tipping her head.
He gave her leave.
Her spine straight and proud, she turned on the captain. “If you please,” she said to the boy, reaching out for his sword.
The captain balked.
“Consider the lady’s wish your command.”
Glaring at the nobleman, the captain reluctantly handed over the sword. Heavy and clumsy in her grasp, she brought the weapon to Drake, who took it, one eyebrow lifting. “I have been insulted. Will you let the insult stand without reply?”
Drake bowed his answer. The captain squawked in protest. “The lady is within her rights,” said the white-haired lord in saffron. “She has been insulted. Worse, she has been violated.” To Drake he said, “Not only do you have my permission, but you have my blessing.”
Drake approached with deliberation, his eyes making a study of the captain’s pretty costume. The captain, rightly scared, backed away from the knight he had ordered manhandled once too often. Drake raised the sword expertly before him. Torchlight gleamed off the steel. Each turn of the blade was another agony for the overdressed lout of a captain. He backed up all the way to the stone wall upon which he might easily be eviscerated and then judiciously impaled. With a skilled arm, Drake executed several deliberate strokes. With each swipe, the captain shrieked like a girl. When he was done, Aveline’s champion flung the sword away.
Calmly, Drake strolled back to his ladylove. Together they surveyed his handiwork. Stripped of every item of clothing save for braies and hose, the captain exhibited several superficial sword marks across his torso: livid, crisscrossing, and dripping red against the white of his sun-shy skin. His garments, once so lovely, lay like mowed weeds at his feet.
“You are chilly, are you not?” the lord asked the captain.
The captain nodded dutifully.
“It is so. You have been properly admonished, Captain. You may beat a hasty retreat and cry to your mother, if you will.”
The captain bent, gathered together his ruined outfit, and fled into the château.
Thibaud, comte of Blois, turned apologetically toward Drake and Aveline. “My son Louis, who has yet to learn his manners.” Smelling unmistakably of ambergris, he reached out a hand. “We meet again.”
“I should have recognized your voice,” Drake said, “from Nonancourt.”
“Indeed, you should have. But we did not have a chance to speak.” And added, “Then.” He strolled through the same portal his grown son had fled like a brat of eleven or twelve instead of a man of eighteen or nineteen. “Come. I’m sure you have a thirst after your long journey.”
Fors led the way, soberly wiping a bloody nose. Chauvigny followed, rubbing a sore arm. Hand and cheek smeared with blood, Béthune lagged behind. Relinquishing his place, Rand gestured Drake and Aveline through, though with a bleeding hand. Finally, Devon brought up the rear, matching his master’s halting gait.
