Dragon Tree (34 page)

Full night had
fallen. Water was dripping from the lips of the roof and cisterns
and frogs were
chirruping
back and forth through the fog.
Over the years Hugh had acquired the patience required of a
successful ferret, but it was beginning to wear thin. He could
squander no more time inside the monastery walls; he had pressing
matters to attend to elsewhere.

Taking a bold
chance, de Bergerette left his niche and stole silently across the
courtyard to the archway outside Tamberlane's door.

The breezeway
was empty; nothing moved but the clouds of mist.

Catching the
Dragonslayer sound asleep would be too much to hope for, but so had
the likelihood of seeing both knights dispatched to the pilgrim's
hall for the night.

Stealthy as a
roach, the one-armed knight crept closer and put his ear against
the wood to listen for sounds of movement within.

At first he
heard nothing. But then he jerked his head away and stared at the
solid oak door as if he had been hearing things. He listened again
and this time the muffled noises were familiar enough to set the
nape of his neck tingling.

There could be
no mistake. The Dragonslayer had a woman with him! A woman who was
whimpering and snuffling like a bitch in heat.

How far the
pious and mighty had fallen!

Excommunicated, cast out of the Brotherhood, and now fornicating
with a woman under God’s own roof!

Fighting to
repress the urge to roar with contemptuous laughter, de Bergerette
had to take a step back in order to give himself time to think. It
would be an exquisitely satisfying moment to burst into the room
and catch the pair in the throes of ecstasy, for the only sword the
Dragonslayer could handily reach would be imbedded deep in his
whore. Tamberlane would have a dagger buried in his broad back or
slashed across his throat before he even saw the danger coming.

Hugh's missing
right arm throbbed with a vengeance and he gripped the dagger
tighter. If he was going to do anything, he had to do it now, and
with memories of the agony he had suffered rising up to boil in his
blood, de Bergerette approached the door again and tested the iron
latch. It moved easily enough, but just as he was setting himself
to shoulder his way into the cell, his foot slipped on something
round and hard and he heard the crack of an acorn shell explode
under his heel.

The shock of
his own carelessness sent his wits flying briefly in all
directions, and by the time he recovered, he heard movement from
inside the cell.

~~

Tamberlane
jerked the door open. His sword was raised, his teeth set to issue
a challenge... but there was no one there to answer it.

The breezeway
was empty. Frogs were burping and water was dripping, but there
were no other sounds, and apart from some faint swirls in the
encroaching fog, there were no signs of movement anywhere
nearby.

He stuck his
head out beyond the niche and looked both ways. Nothing. No one was
lurking, no one was walking past.

Lowering his
sword, he was about to withdraw back into the cell when his gaze
happened to turn down and he saw the crushed acorn shell. After
another wary glance cast about the yard, he bent and retrieved it,
turning it over in his fingertips. The outer shell was wet, soaked
by the dampness, but the nut inside was clean and dry, indicating
it was recently crushed.

Someone had
been standing outside the door. That same someone had tried the
latch but thought better of coming inside the room.

Roland or
either of the two knights would not have approached with any
attempt at stealth knowing the two dogs were inside. Moreover, it
had been less than a minute since Maude had growled a warning. Any
or all three would have to run like the blazes back down the
breezeway to disappear so fast from view. Roland might have managed
it, though for what purpose Tamberlane could not suppose. But not
Geoffrey or Boethius. Both carried too much suet around the waist
and too much belligerence in their nature to lift their heels and
run.

He debated
sending the dogs out, but if it had been one of the mendicants, a
chewed limb would not win favor with Father Michaelus.

He sensed
movement to his right and turned in time to see a pale glow seeping
through the mist at the far end of the breezeway. Someone was
emerging from the pilgrim's hall and carrying a light.

Ciaran felt
the mist on his bare skin and remembered that he was stark naked.
He turned quickly to look for his clothes and found Amie standing
behind him, holding out his tunic and long woolen mantel. He took
both with a quick nod of thanks.

Moments later
a cowled, rotund figure emerged from the clouds of gold-tinged
mist.

"A foul night,
by God's grace," Brother Ignatius mused, slowing as he approached.
"Not even a fox would be fool enough to venture into a hen house on
a night such as this."

"And yet you
are out and about, Friar."

"I am come to
deliver a message from Father Michaelus. He wishes you to know
there has been a sighting of a red boar in the woods nearby, and
further, that although that selfsame red boar had been intent upon
a mission of personal importance, it has been cut short by way of a
royal missive and he has been sent south with a host of some forty
men. With the weather easing, they should pass this way on the
morrow."

Amie was
hiding in the shadows inside the doorway and Ciaran sensed her
sharp intake of breath as she heard the whispered words.

Ignatius
tipped his cowled head in Ciaran's direction. "Father Michaelus
does not wish to bring such trouble as rides with the boar inside
the monastery walls."

"There will be
no trouble," Tamberlane assured him. "Convey my thanks to the good
Father for his hospitality. We will be gone before the bell rings
for Prime."

Ignatius
nodded and turned to resume his slow, even pace back to the
pilgrim's hall. "The postern gate in the east wall is rarely
attended even in good weather. You will find your horses waiting on
the other side."

The friar
retraced his steps along the arched walkway where he and the blot
of lantern light were soon swallowed back into the mist.

After waiting
and listening to the drips and drops for a few moments, Ciaran
stepped back inside the monk's cell and closed the door.

Amie was
pressed up against the wall, the baggy woolen shirt hastily thrown
over her nakedness. Something glittered in her hand and Ciaran
caught sight of his own wickedly sharp poniard gripped in a
white-knuckled fist.

"A red boar!"
she cried. "It could only be Odo. He is here! He has tracked us
through the woods! He has found us!"

But Tamberlane
was not listening. He gently pried the poniard from her hand and
turned it over and over, studying the blade as if he had never seen
it before.

"I do not
think he is tracking us," he murmured. "Did you not say he was a
trusted ally of Prince John?"

"What does
that have to do with—?"

Tamberlane
turned the blade again. "How high would he climb in favor if he
helped secure the throne for John?"

It took a
moment for her to understand what he was saying, and when she did,
her hand flew to cover her mouth. "Not even he... would dare to
murder a king."

"Only a wife,
a priest, and a village full of innocent farmers?"

The thought
was too horrible to contemplate, but Amie felt a chill ripple down
her spine... a chill that told her Ciaran was not wrong. Odo's
retinue had always been comprised mainly of mercenaries and men who
wore the black hood. They were men with no consciences, men who
killed for a silver coin and suffered no pang of guilt or remorse
afterward.

"You said the
prince had been to Belmane on several occasions? What was his
business there?"

She started to
shake her head to plead ignorance, but stopped. Her face turned
whiter than Marak's as the blood drained down to her toes.

"What is it?
What are you remembering?"

Her fingers
slid down her throat and curled around the cross she wore. "I think
I know where Richard intends to land when he crosses the Channel.
And I think I know how Odo will bait the trap to ambush the
king."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The fog was
thick as porridge as the horses and riders crossed the narrow
bridge. Spickets of moisture clung to their clothes and faces. The
horses had been left where Brother Ignatius had said, tethered to a
sagging oak tree. Neither the beasts nor their riders looked
comfortable crossing the river for it was swollen by the rain,
rushing beneath the rickety bridge so fast and furious the peaks
touched the underbelly of the planking.

The wolfhounds
proved their worth yet again by running silently into the
mist-shrouded greensward to scout the way ahead and sniff out any
potential threats.

They rode hard
through the morning and stopped midday when it became necessary to
give the horses a chance to rest. The foresters had found a small
mud and wattle cottage set in the middle of an overgrown glade not
far off the road. The roof was gone and the walls were half
crumbled. It had been abandoned for some time to judge by the
number of birds nests built on the crux of every timber or
stone.

The rain had
stopped but the skies were gray and overcast with thick scudding
clouds. Having left the abbey without breaking their fast, they
built a small fire and spitted a brace of hares Quill and Fletcher
had caught. Roland supplemented it with a small pot of broth made
from the wild onions and carrots he found growing near the edge of
the glade. Boethius contributed a skin of wine... one of four he
had brought away from St. Albans.

It was a
welcomed meal, devoured to the last scrap of meat scraped from the
smallest knuckle of bone.

Tamberlane,
who had been quiet for the greater part of the morning began
speaking without any manner of preamble.

“The abbot
came to me with information that King Richard is nearing Calais and
is on his way home to England.”

Boethius
stared into the fire, poking it with a stick as he listened. Sir
Geoffrey glanced up from picking a sliver out of his thumb. Both
knights had sat in the pilgrim's hall long enough to have heard
whispers and gossip concerning the king's return, so neither was
startled by the news. Behind them, Roland stopped honing the blade
of his knife on a whetstone and both foresters moved closer to hear
what was being said.

“It was put to
me that Hubert Walter suspects treachery, that John does not intend
to relinquish the throne or the crown. It was also suggested that I
should leave the path we are on now and ride for the coast. My
first thought was to refuse, for what good would one sword be?”

“Two swords,”
Boethius growled at once.

“Three,”
declared Sir Geoffrey.

“Four,” cried
Roland.

"And our bows
can cut down five for every one who falls under the weighty swing
of a sword," Fletcher declared.

"Although the
exact words have never been spoken aloud, and unless the trunk of a
tree has fallen on your heads," Tamberlane continued, "you must
already know the identity of the lady who travels in our
company."

Amie sat
quietly by the fire, her lashes lowered.

"What you may
not know is that her husband, Odo de Langois, has also been called
away from the hunt he was on in order to seek a new quarry."

Boethius
bristled. "The king?"

"He travels
with a full host of armed men which may have increased above forty
or more since leaving Taniere. Against six, those are poor odds at
best."

“One good
knight on a fair horse can account for four guardsmen without
breaking into a sweat,” Sir Geoffrey's voice came gruffly out of
the silence. “Five if he unties his damn swordarm from behind his
back.”

“We would also
have surprise on our side,” Roland chimed in. “Those attempting an
ambush will be looking ahead, not behind.”

“The coast is
long and the abbot was uncertain as to where Richard might come
ashore," Tamberlane said, raking a hand through his hair. “But the
Lady Elizabeth—" he paused to acknowledge Amie by her proper
name—"believes she knows where the king, and in turn, Odo de
Langois, are bound."

The men looked
at her, and Amie met each gaze in turn. “Sandwich,” she said
quietly. “The king will come ashore at Sandwich.”

Boethius
frowned. “Why say you that, lass?”

“Because I
know some of his habits from his youth.”

“You’re naught
but a youth yourself, how would you know the habits of a king?”

She fingered
the cross that hung around her neck, then looked at Tamberlane. His
face was a blank slate and she moistened her lips first before
carefully flicking the tiny metal clasp that opened the outer shell
that Marak had made to conceal the ornate crucifix within.

The two
knights recognized the Plantagenet leopards at once.

“I am related
by blood, albeit born on the wrong side of the hedge,” she admitted
softly. “My mother was the king’s half sister.”

Boethius' only
show of surprise was an arched eyebrow. “And these habits you speak
of...?”

“When I was a
child of five or six, I remember my father engaging in a terrible
argument with someone I did not know, had never seen before. To a
child, he looked like a god and in truth, the blustering King Henry
was a divinity of sorts... a man who had been ordained by God to
rule. He and Father were arguing over his son, my half-cousin
Richard, over whom I had a terrible crush and because of that I
listened from behind a curtain.

“It happened
that Richard had been caught in the arms of his lover and King
Henry was in a killing rage. The two had barely escaped his royal
wrath alive and because my father had taken Richard as squire,
training him for knighthood, Henry assumed he had come to Father
seeking a place to hide.