Dragon Tree (38 page)

“What has
happened here today?” the king whispered again in horror. “Rise up,
rise up damn you, and tell your liege why this field is red with
the blood of... of men I would call friends and allies.”

"They were no
friend to you, Your Majesty," Tamberlane declared. "They were sent
here to wait in ambush and to prevent you from returning to
London."

"They meant to
kidnap me? By St. George, I have had enough of kidnappings to last
a lifetime."

"No, Your
Majesty." Ciaran raised his head and met the king's gaze full on.
"They were not here to kidnap you. Their blades were well honed and
their intent was to use them."

“By the look
of it," La Seyne murmured, "I would say Hubert Walter’s words of
caution were well advised.”

The king moved
slowly to stand over the body of Rolf de Langois and the
combination of anger and disbelief turned his face a mottled red.
“My brother is greedy and ambitious, but I did not think he would
stoop to this.”

“His spine has
been stiffened these past four years with the gold wrung from your
people,” Tamberlane said. “He has taxed them half to death, and
those who cannot pay... he commands their loyalty through murder
and torture."

Richard turned
the Plantagenet blue eyes on Ciaran. There was a wealth of warnings
delivered in that one glance, and it was with a further start that
he recognized the man he had last seen standing before a tribunal
of Templar knights.

“Well, well.
Dragonslayer. I heard you were dead.”

“Not quite
yet,” Tamberlane said grimly as he glanced around the carnage on
the field. "Though not for lack of trying."

Richard
smirked. "So I see. I almost failed to recognize you, for you have
a deal more hair than the last time we met. The look of a rogue
knight suits you."

"I live a
peaceful life, Sire. For the most part."

The king
directed a comment over his shoulder at the Black Wolf. “Do you
hear that, Randwulf? The country has, indeed, gone to hell if the
fearsome Dragonslayer is content to live in peace."

“'Tis an
honorable aspiration,” La Seyne murmured dryly. “I savor it myself
when I am not dragged away from my hearth.”

Richard
snorted. “My two most formidable swords sheathed and cozened by a
warm fire. You, Randwulf, I have seen your sheath and the Lady
Servanne fits you well. It was—” he added in an aside to Ciaran— “
like drawing teeth with a twig for my mother to persuade this wolf
to leave his cozy lair.” He paused and frowned as if another
thought occurred to him. “Where is your holding? I must come and
drink the water to see if it has been tainted by all of this
domesticity.”

Tamberlane
shook his head. “I live by an uncle’s good graces at Taniere
Castle, a demesne of some little worth at the edge of
Lincolnshire.”

“Taniere...?”
Richard muttered the name aloud and a moment later another
gray-cloaked moth approached to whisper in the royal ear. “Ahh,
yes. I know it now. A meager place of stone and dampness, hardly
worthy of a man who has saved his king this day.”

“I have grown
accustomed to those stone walls,” Tamberlane said quietly. “And
plan to drink a good deal more of the water therein."

Richard
laughed. “Then it is yours. I shall speak to Glanville and grant
him some other worthy holding in exchange. Belmane, perhaps. Aye.
That should put a beetle up my brother's arse. Unless you would
like Belmane for yourself? Its owner seems to have lost his
head.”

While the king
admired his own jest, Tamberlane graciously declined. “Taniere
suits me well but if you wish to grant me a boon, there is one I
would ask of you, Sire.”

Richard looked
pleased. “Ask it! If it is within my power to grant it, it is
yours.”

“A humble
man—especially one with so many strikes against his shield as I
bear—requires the permission of his liege to marry another of
higher blood.”

“Higher
blood?” Richard crossed his arms over his chest. “You Glanvilles
were never ones to aim low. Well then, out with it. Who is
she?”

Ciaran turned
and after a moment’s hesitation, held his hand out to Amaranth.
With halting steps she moved forward, placing only the chilled tips
of her fingers into his palm. The king’s eyes raked over her hair,
her face, her boyish garb... then up to her face again, whereupon
his eyes widened with astonishment.

“Lil'bet? My
little cousin... is it you?”

Amie let her
hand fall away from Ciaran’s but only long enough to drop down into
a curtsey before the wide-eyed Lionheart.

“It is I, and
I bid you welcome home, Sire,” she said softly. “Your presence here
in England has been sorely missed.”

Richard
started to nod, but then frowned. “But did I not hear that you were
married already?"

Instead of
answering, Amie looked pointedly at the body of Odo de Langois.

"God's truth."
Richard planted his hands on his hips and looked from the corpse to
Amie to Tamberland. "I can see I have, indeed, missed much. Is this
your wish then as well Lilb'et? To be bound for all eternity to a
man such as this?”

“For a man
such as this,” Amie said, smiling at Ciaran, “I fear eternity will
not be long enough.”

EPILOGUE

The journey
back to Taniere was a far more comfortable affair than the journey
away. For one, they traveled with the king and his guardsmen first
to London. News of Richard's arrival spread like ripples on a pond
and each day, each mile saw barons and nobles loyal to Richard
stream up the road to join him, their pennons snapping in the wind,
their faces grim with determination to support their king should a
show of force be needed to oust Prince John and his army of
jackals.

By the time
the king's host reached London, the Great North Road was congested
with a solid column of men numbering in the tens of thousands. Word
reached them long before they saw the gleaming spires and rooftops
of the city that John had hastily boarded a ship and fled to
France.

Richard
reclaimed his city and his throne with much fanfare. The crusader
king promised to restore peace and prosperity to the land, and to
remain for however long it took to heal the wounds caused by his
absence.

At his
insistence, Tamberlane and Amaranth stayed in London for a month,
during which time they were married with Richard himself placing
the bride's hand into that of the groom. After a week of
celebration, the knight and his lady returned to the dark mists of
the greenwood and the still waters of the lake that surrounded
Taniere Castle.

They arrived
just as the sun was setting. The castle battlements were outlined
in a blaze of orange and gold and as they rode across the draw, the
six twisting heads of the carved dragons seemed to gaze down on
them in welcome.

Seeing
something new, Tamberlane smiled and called a halt, for in each
iron jaw there now hung an ornate iron bell. Marak's work, he
suspected. The wily healer must have somehow known Ciaran would not
be returning home alone.

“Do you know
the legend of the Dragon Tree?” he asked.

“Marak told
me,” Amie said, following her husband's gaze. “He said it was made
long ago in an enchanted forge, and according to legend, when a
pure heart rings their magical bells the dragons will awaken to fly
in six directions. The dragon of the nether region will flee from
despair and bring hope. The dragon of heaven will return with the
gift of true love. And from the four who fly to the corners of the
earth will come peace, health, wisdom, and happiness.”

Tamberlane
smiled. “Then ring the bells, my love. For these lazy dragons have
slept long enough.”

THE END

AUTHORS
NOTES

I hope you
have enjoyed The Dragon Tree. If you would like more medieval
adventures, the story of the Black Wolf, Randwulf de la Seyne Sur
Mer and his family can be found in the
Robin Hood
Trilogy
, three books which include
Through
A Dark Mist
,
In the Shadow of
Midnight,
and
The Last
Arrow.

Much research
went into the writing of the trilogy as I searched for the origins
of the outlaw known as Robin Hood. The plain truth was, he never
existed. There was a Robert Hode, who came closest to the time and
place, but he was a peasant farmer. Guy de Gisbourne existed, but
he was not the sheriff of Lincoln at the time. That position was
held by a woman, Nicolaa de la Haye. There was a Robert, Earl of
Huntington, who most stories seem to focus around as being the man
the legend was based upon, but there was nothing to suggest or
confirm he turned outlaw.

What piqued my
greatest interest was the mention of the Lost Princess, Eleanor of
Brittany. King Henry had three sons: Richard, Geoffrey, and John.
Richard was the eldest and became king after Henry, but he died
without heirs. His brother Geoffrey would have been next in line,
but he died before Richard, leaving his two children, Arthur and
Eleanor next in line for the throne. Arthur was raised in France,
and was a mere teenage boy when the Lionheart died. Much has been
written about his misguided attempts to raise an army to fight his
uncle John for the throne, which was legally and rightfully his.
His grandmother, the dowager Queen Eleanor even supported his bid
to become king, but his attempt to defeat John at Mirebeau failed
and he was taken prisoner along with his sister. At some time
during his captivity, Arthur died. It was widely believed that John
had him killed, though nothing in the history books exists to prove
it. Arthur's sister, Princess Eleanor, subsequently vanished and
there were only very obscure references made to her over the next
two decades, none of which suggested she made any attempt to claim
the throne. Why? No one knows, or if they did, it was never
recorded. Some say she entered a convent. Some say John kept her a
prisoner for seventeen years until her death. In the history books,
she is simply referred to as the Lost Princess of Brittany.

Finding little
gems like that is what stirs an author's muse, and mine was stirred
enough to write three books around the legend of the Lost Princess,
introducing a variety of characters and heroes whose feats could
well have all been attributed to the mysterious character of
another legend, Robin Hood. These were the dark ages when written
records were kept by monks and churches who wrote mostly in Latin.
England had been conquered a century before by the French and most
nobles spoke that language; Saxon English was common only amongst
the lower classes. Adding to the confusion of three languages,
bards and poets exaggerated stories that were only passed from
mouth to mouth and by the time they were written down...if ever
they were...the original tale was altered to suit whoever was
singing it at the time. History has never been written by the
vanquished, only the victors. Legends, on the other hand, are
passed down by those who want to make the past deeds seem favorable
to the downtrodden.

My Robin Hood
trilogy is the product of my own imagination taking flight. If I
was a bard, I would be adding more each time I sang the story, if
only to catch and hold the listener's attention.

For a complete
list of all my books, including the award winning
Pirate
Wolf Trilogy
, please visit my website at
http://www.marshacanham.com

You can follow
me on Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/marsha.canham

Or subscribe
to my pithy blog,
Caesars Through the
Fence
.

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@marshacanham