Defiant (16 page)

For the second time.

Ten years ago, England had begun a slow collapse inward when John’s grand expedition to reclaim Normandy disintegrated into bickering and double-dealing. Even William the Marshal was accused of treachery. The invasion was called off. Stationed at Chinon with Hubert de Burgh, Jamie himself had watched the French king subsume Poitou and Anjou that spring.

Then the Archbishop of Canterbury died a few months after, ripping open a dispute between Church and Crown that would end, years later, in excommunication.

These were serious blows to John’s power and prestige. In consequence, he had ridden forth, collecting submissions and
reclaiming fealty from his lords, taking hostages from his barons, humiliating powerful men when he needed their loyalty.

The one estate that did not need to give hostages or submissions was the great Everoot earldom. Of course, that was because there was no earl
there
—he’d died ten years prior, on return from Crusade. This had placed the estate conveniently in the king’s hand. King Richard had never done anything with it. Hoping the heir would be located, building castles in France; there’d been many things to occupy
Coeur de Lion
’s attention.

There were not so many to occupy his brother John’s. The moment he placed the crown on his head, John installed his own man at Everoot to steward the estate and the independent-minded countess left behind. He chose one of the few loyal northern barons, his trusted lieutenant, Lord d’Endshire.

And so, after the failed invasion, weary from the grueling work of antagonizing his barons, John had stopped at Everoot. He’d needed a respite. He’d desired a heartfelt welcome. He’d expected a docile estate and an obedient vassal. He got none of this.

Instead, King John saw or heard or discovered something that tipped his emotional scales into an all-out rage. And somehow—no one knew how, as all those who’d been there that night were either dead or silent for other reasons—Lord d’Endshire ended up dead, his five-year-old heir gone missing.

Rumors swirled that a nurse had taken the heir and run. That Mouldin had been sent after them, like a wolf on a hare. Some said he’d caught the children. Others claimed, no, they had escaped, never to be seen again.

Looking through the orange-blue flames, Jamie now knew the rumors were true, for he was looking at the “nurse” who had made it happen. A girl who had done what not even powerful barons fleeing into the wilds of Ireland could do: escape the wrath of King John. With a child in tow.

Roger, the d’Endshire heir, toddling through these woods. Holding Eva’s hand.

“How old were you?” he asked in a low voice.

She turned her face away. “Thirteen.” It sounded like surrender. It sounded like shame.

Like knows like.

He shoved to his feet, circled the fire, and dropped to a knee beside her. Silently, he slid his dagger free and sliced through her bindings. The ropes fell away, but she kept her hands thrust out, her wrists pressed together.

“You do not ask me of tricks,” she said in a shaky voice.

“I do not care about tricks.” Children should not run screaming through the woods. Or the London streets.

She opened her arms, and it seemed, for a moment, as if she were going to embrace him. Then she bent her elbows, hands up in the air, by her ears, and rolled her shoulders, tipping her head back. She abruptly put her arms down.

“I have no tricks, Jamie.”

God’s teeth, was she reassuring
him
? “That is highly unlikely,” he said curtly, returning to his side of the fire.

He felt agitated, restless . . . uplifted. Hearing nightmarish stories that so closely mimicked his own usually brought on the black moods, undiluted by anything uplifting or inspiring.

Perhaps it was that, amid this ever-expanding dung heap of royal shite, there was one solid truth he could now stand upon: Roger was the heir d’Endshire. And Eva was protecting him.

There was only the briefest flicker of awareness at the next thought:
And now, I am protecting her.

M
oudlin? A message from Mouldin?”

“What?”

The softly spoken word belied the rage Engelard Cigogné saw haunting the king’s face. And he had seen many looks pass over the royal visage in his tenure as one of the king’s most trusted captains. This was one of the less pleasant ones.

They were standing in the king’s office at Windsor. The room was controlled chaos, filled with people coming and going, courtiers sharing tales, Wardrobe officials reporting income, household knights receiving instructions or delivering confirmations of payments received or deeds done. Sheriffs’ men returning investigative reports. Hounds and servants and whores. It was a cacophony of humanity within the walls of Windsor as war inched closer every day.

Outside, in the corridor, was a line of penitents even yet wanting to genuflect at the royal altar of endowments.

But mostly, always, everywhere, were the messengers. They galloped along the roads of the countryside like blood through the body, bearing vital messages as the realm convulsed at the edge of civil war.

Evidence of the most recent delivery still sat on the table:
a scroll and a plate of eels, uneaten even now, hours later, after the terrible message had come in.

London had fallen to the rebels.

And now another messenger stood before the king, his hand pressed to the table, trying to catching his breath and saying things Cigogné knew were destined to end badly, such as, “I came as quickly as I could,” and “I bear a message from Mouldin.”

King John went still.

Bent over the long, carved table, he let the messenger’s words echo off the stone walls, then straightened. His black hair hung straight down past his ears, curling up slightly above his shoulders as he pinned his gaze on the unfortunate messenger.

“That is not possible.”

The messenger looked flummoxed.

“Mouldin is an outlaw. I destroyed him years ago, ran him to ground. He would not be sending me a message. And he would
never
be back in England.”

The messenger paled slightly. “But he is, sire. At least, that is what the message claims. Guillaume Mouldin.”

Mouldin. The name could still conjure shivers up spines. He’d had many names in the past, though: the Hunter; Keeper of the Heirs; Mouldin-head, that last a name mothers used up north, a legend to frighten children into good behavior.
He’ll take you and run away with you
, their parents warned. But Mouldin had never run with them. Legends always got twisted.

The messenger still had his hand on his chest, looking increasingly pale as John stared at him. “Tell me the message,” the king finally snapped.

Straightening, the messenger moved his gaze just to the left of the king’s face. “Mouldin has Peter of London in his keeping. His... possession. So the missive says.”

The king stared for a long, motionless moment, then sucked in a breath so forcefully his nostrils narrowed. From outside
the office chamber came the sounds of voices chattering and distant laughter, but inside, it was absolutely silent. Everyone had felt the sudden calm that so often preceded a royal storm. They’d turned as one and fallen silent, ready to bolt.

“No.”

The messenger swallowed tightly at the single word. “Aye, sire.”

Engelard Cigogné kept his attention squarely on the king. When you were employed by John Lackland, you learned to attend his mercurial moods with devotion. It was rather like being a military tactician, with somewhat the same results.

“No,” the king said again, very slowly, as if he were explaining a complicated concept. He pushed aside the eel dish and laid his palms upon the table. “That cannot be. This message, ’tis a ruse, trickery.”

The messenger fumbled in the leather pouch at his side and drew out a folded piece of parchment. He extended it. “I think not, my lord.”

The king looked down at the distinctive drawings, and his jaw tightened, as did the hand clutching the pages. “Christ’s bones,” he muttered.

“Mouldin sends word he would be pleased for you to have Peter of London back.”

The king’s jaw gave a tic, a faint tightening.

“For a price.”

That made John almost levitate off the floor. “A
price
?” he roared. As one, the silent occupants of the room took a step back. “Mouldin-head thinks to barter with
Us
?” He slammed his hand onto the table. “That goddamned piratical slave trader,
he
shall pay a price, with his outlawed head. All four corners of the realm shall know his flesh at once—”

“Or he will sell him to the rebels.”

King John stopped short. “Repeat yourself.”

The messenger looked hopeless. All there was to do was complete his mission and hope his head was still affixed to his shoulders come morn. He rallied valiantly, taking his hand off the table, straightening his spine.

“Guillaume Mouldin sends words he is selling the priest to the highest bidder. At the northern town of Gracious Hill. In five days’ time.”

A bright red flush spread out from beneath the king’s trimmed beard across his forehead and cheeks. The faintest tremble of his silken surcoat revealed he was shaking from rage. He looked down at the table, then reached out and shifted a spoon lying atop the eel platter with precise slowness. Cig took a long, silent breath.

The king looked at the messenger. “Leave us.” It was interpreted as an order for all, and people began pouring out the door like water flowing.

When everyone was gone, the king turned to Cigogné.

“Did I not take measures to manage this matter?” he said, with more of that eerie calm. “To prevent this very thing? To ensure Peter of London never reached the negotiation table? Furthermore, to prevent
anyone
from gaining access to him and his reckless, foolish, treasonous—”

The king stopped himself. “Did I not take measures to prevent this very thing?” he repeatedly softly.

“You did, sire.”

“I sent Jamie for the priest.”

“Aye, sire.”

“In other words, I
managed the matter.
”

“Aye, sire.”

“Yet now the rebels have seized London, Guillaume Mouldin is back in the game, and further to the point, he has kidnapped the one man in all of Christendom who can kick the legs out from under my God. Damned.
Throne!
”

This last was a bellow. Cigogné refrained from replying. He certainly refrained from pointing out that Mouldin’s most notorious feats had been done in John’s employ, in the king’s name, and thus most of his riches in human trade had come as a result of not slaves but heirs.

Heirs King John had wanted watched, held, sometimes sold to the highest bidder. Occasionally destroyed. Mouldin held them all for John, heirs and wards, minor sons and heiress daughters of enemies and of friends. The Keeper of the Heirs. The Hunter. Not of deer but heirs. Because sometimes, well, they did run.

Once, they had escaped.

Thus the royal fury.

The king smashed his fist down on the table so hard it shuddered, then started picking up cups and bowls and flinging them across the room. They smashed into the far wall, one by one, tinkling explosions of pottery.

Cig tipped his shoulders back just as a platter came flying by, flinging a greasy trail of garlic sauce over the rushes. A dog under the table started to rise to taste the delicacy, then quickly went back down as John kicked his chair away. The hawk on the stand behind the seat clawed his perch restlessly, one set of talons lifting, then lowering. His hooded head bobbed in nervous agitation.

John planted his palms on the table, gripping its edges so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Bring me Jamie,”
he said from between gritted teeth.

Cigogné cleared his throat. “Jamie has not returned, sire.”

This effected a sudden quiet. “Not returned?” The king sounded confused, almost dumbfounded. “Not returned? How could this be?”

Cig assumed the query was rhetorical and did not reply.

“No Jamie,” the king murmured. “No priest. And now
Mouldin is back in the game.” A moment of disquieting quiet ensued. The king looked up. “I have a job for you, Cigogné.”

He bent his head. “Your Grace.”

“Go to Gracious Hill and get me Peter of London. Take enough coin to ruse a ransom if need be, but above all, retrieve the priest before the rebels do. Mouldin, kill.”

“Aye, sire.”

“And the priest. . . . See that he does not cause problems.”

A rush of cold unease slid through Cig’s blood. “He is a priest, my lord.”

The king’s gaze sharpened. “He is a troublemaker. See that he does not cause any.” The king met Cig’s eye. “And bring me Jamie.”

“Sire, in what manner do you mean—”

“In the manner that should Jamie emit the faintest whiff of disloyalty, you will ensure he does not cause any trouble either.”

Now Cig knew fear. Cold in the pit of his chest, something that had not occurred since he’d looked down upon his first battlefield. “Sire.”

The single word was so low-pitched, so clearly a countermand, so clearly a disapproval, the king stopped and stared.

“We have moved past risk here, Cigogné. We are into peril. Something is afoot that tends toward the dissolution of my realm.”

Cig held his silence.

“Jamie can track a raindrop in a storm. Yet he lost my priest?” The king’s tone was incredulous. “Hardly. Something is afoot. You will learn what it is. My kingdom totters upon it. Surely I can rely upon you? Or need I find another, more loyal man? One without estates?”

The threat was clear. Cig moved his gaze to the wall just
above the king’s left shoulder and gave a clipped nod. “I am your man, my lord.”