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AT FIRST LIGHT, he rode Jenna home on Stephen’s dappled gray, a twin to the one Drake had stabled back at Itchendel. His hands encircling her waist, a slenderer waist than it had been mere days before, he helped her dismount. Holding onto her hands, he leaned close and kissed her. Ribbons of grief streamed down her face. His mouth tasted the salt. She gave him a final embrace and sprinted toward the manor house where she and her family had moved July last.
He soon lost sight of her slender figure as it disappeared into the muted brown landscape. She did not look back.
Other than a fight with a notable town bully, all that was needed to complete the transformation from Drake to Stephen was a change of clothes and a new sword.
He wore the sword already, having strapped it on immediately after climbing down from Nelda’s window. As for clothes, the bundle Stephen brought back with him contained garments from his personal wardrobe, recognizable as uniquely his by their cleanliness and fine cut, a sharp contrast to Drake’s usual slovenly dress.
After riding Jenna home, he changed quickly, mounted the gray, and rode for the castle of his recent captivity. When he was shown into the great hall of Twyford Castle, the kind of hush that welcomes Death itself palled the gathering of grieving kinsmen. Those who knew one or the other fitzAlan brother stared with contempt. More than one man put hand to sword. Those who didn’t were soon enlightened.
“Stephen, dear, how thoughtful of you to come. I know you and Seward were boon companions.” Everyone had presumed the young man standing before them was Drake fitzAlan—murderer and mutilator—until Elberta Twyford, Seward’s gracious mother, shattered the illusion.
Drake hitched a shoulder inside Stephen’s stiff but elegant tunic. Though Lady Twyford cleared up any misinterpretation concerning his assumed identity, the rest of Seward’s kin threw off the palpable opinion that the identical twin brother of a murderer and mutilator was little improvement. Leaving hushed whispering behind, Elberta ushered Drake into the chamber where Seward lay just outside Death’s door.
Sitting vigil beside the frail heap that was his only son, Corwin of Twyford stared blankly at the knight come to offer his respects. “Look. Look what your brother did to him!” His leathery face, marred with scars and grief, reddened with wrath. Elberta hurried to her husband’s side and calmed the man whose son was his spitting image. Lord Twyford looked again at Drake as if he were the brother of the Devil himself. Then he broke down. “I know, I know,” he said, and covered his face with a broad, shaking hand.
Taking a respectful course to the other side of the bed, Drake climbed the steps and gazed down at Seward Twyford, waxen as any man on his funeral bier and gasping shallow breaths through a slack-jawed mouth.
“My baby, my darling.” Elberta’s eyes overflowed.
Seward would not live, not because he looked like death itself but because his shattered skull had penetrated brain matter, evident through the swath of seeping bandages.
“You know that Seward ... that he has been ...?”
Drake nodded and gulped.
Elberta urged her lord away from the sickbed. “I’ll stay with Seward. You take Stephen to the stables. Go.” Casting Drake a sharp look of hostility, the lord of Twyford reluctantly obeyed his bride.
What Twyford had to show Drake was a white destrier standing forlornly without its master. “In his hurry to leave my humble abode, after he attacked my son, your brother left this behind.” The destrier nickered a friendly welcome. Since the steed was worth a year’s income to a common lord, Twyford probably would have kept the animal had it not been immediately recognizable, and further, had it not been associated with the supposed murderer of his son. “He does belong to your brother?”
Drake wanted to apologize to Lord Twyford for the harsh fate that befell his son, but there was nothing to apologize for. He wanted to offer his condolences, but it was premature for such. Instead he said, “May I ask a courtesy? May I take a look at your dungeon?” Though the lord of Twyford did not ask why the request had been made, Drake told him the truth as far as he was able. “My brother Drake was held there against his will.”
“I know of no such prisoner.”
“Several men were involved, one of them a stranger to these parts. A big man with a deep voice, possibly from Cornwall.”
“The countryside was filled with strangers that day.” After regarding the fitzAlan lad with skepticism and a bit of curiosity, Twyford relented and wordlessly escorted Drake below. Upon arrival, both men recoiled. The stink of vomit, ordure, piss, blood, and fear was yet rank. The bloodshot eyes of a grieving father looked toward Drake with more than one question, but he didn’t have to ask anything. He understood what had happened here. “Could be Seward was not wholly blameless.”
“Still, he didn’t deserve his fate.”
“No man does.” A tentative truce had been struck, but it was short-lived. As Drake made to go, Twyford’s voice checked him. “If Seward was involved in punishing Drake for his depraved deed, then glory to his accomplishment and lamentation for his failure. For I warn you, Stephen fitzAlan, and I warn your father. Drake will be a man without castle or country for the rest of his born days. If ever he has the boldness to show his face in Winchester again, I intend to finish what my son started.”
Drake departed with the destrier on lead and rode to another unwelcome destination. The greeting he received from Swithun fitzHugh was no more civil than Corwin Twyford’s parting.
True as blood runs dry, Lord fitzHugh did not know the first thing about his son’s misspent youth, his profitless days, his wayward nights, his feckless friends, or his newly made acquaintances, nor did he care. He only knew his youngest had been cut down at the prime of his life in an unspeakable manner. Drake wisely thought it best not to speak ill of the dead, especially since fitzHugh had in mind for Drake fitzAlan the same fate as did Corwin Twyford, except for a barbarous addition that made Drake lock his legs, not to open them until he remounted the palfrey and galloped safely away.
At the de Lacy manor, Graham’s father was too preoccupied with overseeing his fields to care about his son’s whereabouts. No, Lord de Lacy had not seen Graham since the day of that damnable tournament. No, he had no idea where that bastard of a lad was off to or what trouble he was getting himself into now. No, he didn’t give a good goddamn whether the youngest of his five worthless sons was alive or dead. Further, it was no concern of his who got hanged or gutted, nor was it ever likely to be. “Good day to you, sieur, if I may rightly call you so. But being most keenly aware of the character of your brother, or the lack thereof, I’m not in mind to call any fitzAlan ‘sieur’.” He tipped his hat most gallantly and urged his roan forward.
“I’ll say one thing for you, sieur,” Drake said to de Lacy’s back. “Unlike Lords fitzHugh and Twyford, you don’t wish to see my brother dead.” He smiled agreeably.
De Lacy brandished a knife. “Indeed so? I say this advisedly to you, fitzAlan. Don’t rush to the precipice of judgment. You and your brother may be forced to jump.”
