The Last Arrow RH3 (29 page)

Malagane laughed at his expression. "Be at ease, we are all friends here."

"I have no friends." Griffyn's mouth flattened. "And I prefer to take my ease in small increments. Even if that were not the case"—he paused and glanced around the torture chamber—"I doubt it would have been possible for you to have chosen a more comforting place to meet."

"There are few places inside Gaillard where one can guarantee absolute privacy," Malagane replied easily. "If it disturbs you, however ...?"

The dark knight waved a hand dismissively and extended the gesture to accept the goblet of wine Solange offered.

As their fingers touched, the texture of the scarred skin drew her attention downward for a moment and when she looked up again, there was more than a hint of curiosity in her eyes.

"I tried to retrieve my soul from hell once," he explained blithely. "It preferred to stay where it was." The clear, opaline eyes widened.

"I think I like him, Bertrand," she breathed. "He has wit."

Malagane had watched the exchange but now addressed his son. "Did you notice any new arrivals in the bailey?"

"He is come." Gerome nodded, knowing whom he meant. "Surrounded by at least four-score knights to boast the grand occasion of his presence."

"We are speaking, of course, of Robert Wardieu d'Amboise," Malagane said to Griffyn. "Do you know him?"

"We have met in the lists before ... but then you must have known that already before you sent all the way to Burgundy inviting me to attend your little gathering."

"Gascon, was it not?" Malagane asked. "You fought to a draw."

"The judges did not see it that way."

"No. No, in sooth they did not. They called the win in Wardieu's favor despite the fact you landed far more solid strikes than he."

"You were there?"

"As a spectator only," he said with a deprecatory shrug. "But tell me, Lord Griffyn: why have you never ventured back into Normandy to demand a rematch?"

"One of us would likely have killed the other long ere now, if I had."

"And now? Which one of you would emerge the victor, do you suppose?"

Griffyn swirled the wine around the bottom of the goblet. "I would not rush to affix a price on my armor any too soon."

It was not said as a boast nor with any measure of false conceit. Any knight worthy of wearing his spurs entered the lists confident of his power and prowess, yet was still cautious enough to have visited the moneylenders in advance to put a fair trophy value on his horse and armor.

"Wardieu has not seen the belly of a horse in five years," Malagane argued guardedly.

"The last belly I saw"—the pale eyes flicked to Solange— "was soft and white and quivered at my touch."

She stared at his mouth and her own slackened as a spray of gooseflesh shivered into prominence down her arms.

"The thousand marks was your invitation to attend," Malagane said, returning to the issue at hand. "But it is only half of what I am willing to pay should you run the lists against Robert Wardieu and defeat him." He waited for Griffyn's gaze to return, narrowed with interest. "Do you think you could do it?"

"For that much, I could feign holy vows and split the Pope out of his pulpit... but all the English sterling in the realm will not put me into the lists with Robert Wardieu if he himself has chosen not to fight."

"Not fight?" Gerome de Saintonge sneered. "Where did you hear such nonsense?"

"From his own lips, not an hour ago when our paths crossed in the bailey. Just before I met up with you, as a matter of fact. He claims to have injured himself hunting boar and while he is still entered in the melee, he is taking no challenges for single-combat matches."

This was unexpected news to Malagane, and he paced slowly to the wall, needing time to absorb it.

"I find it difficult to believe," he murmured. But then his sharply pinched nostrils flared as if scenting prey and he nodded to himself. "Yet it makes perfect sense. He would not want to run the risk of injuring himself more seriously—too seriously to venture abroad, for instance. On the other hand ..." He reached up and gripped one of the iron shackles hanging from the wall, studying it with a thoughtful frown. "On the other hand, he is a proud man. A proud champion. At four and twenty he is in his prime in body and spirit, and holds a rare, unassailable belief in the ideals of chivalry. Do you know the history of his family, Verdelay?"

Griffyn shrugged as if such things were of no interest to him. "I know his father was once called the Scourge of Mirebeau and, if the legends are to be believed, had a penchant for slaying dragons and salvaging lost souls."

Malagane laughed. "Indeed, where else but at Amboise would you find a lord who has a dwarf for a seneschal and a giant for a castellan? But did you know the first dragon he slew was his own brother? A bastard, to be sure, but so alike in face and form they were said to be as twins. As the story goes, the brother—Etienne Wardieu—sought to eliminate the bastardy in his blood and followed the Wolf on Crusade to Jerusalem, where he ambushed him and left him for dead, then returned to England and assumed his guise as Lucien Wardieu, Baron de Gournay.

"The baron did not die, of course, but was sufficiently damaged and disillusioned to forestall an eager return to Lincoln. He sought to start a new life for himself in France instead, where he applied his rage to the tourney circuit and eventually won the attention of the old dowager, Eleanor of Aquitaine. She, in turn, used him with immeasurable success to keep her greedy sons in line. He actually fought Geoffrey Plantagenet in a joust to teach him some humility, although if memory serves, it was but a brief month later that the duke was killed in another tournament, so the lesson was not well learned.

"The queen next called upon her scarred champion when the Lionheart was off slaying Infidels and John was acting as regent in his absence. It was then that Lackland made his first feeble attempt to eliminate Geoffrey's children as an obstacle—he was convinced, you see, that Saladin could accomplish what he had been unable to bolster the nerve to do up to then; namely, kill his brother and clear the path to the throne. His ploy to kidnap Arthur and Eleanor was thwarted by the Black Wolf, who managed to rescue the boy before he could be smuggled on board a ship bound for England, and then to retrieve the young Princess Eleanor when she was carried off to Lincoln and entrusted to the care of none other than" ... he paused for effect... "Wardieu's own bastard brother, who was by then one of Prince John's favorite pet dragons.

"Subsequently, there came a mighty confrontation between the Wolf and the Dragon. When the flames cleared, the little princess was rescued and safely returned

to her grandmother at Mirebeau. The Wolf not only slew his brother, but married the Dragon's intended bride and discovered a son—Eduard—he never knew he had. All quite romantic and awe-inspiring, I assure you. You may even have heard one particular chanson d'amour that accounts the story of how Robert Wardieu was conceived in the waters of a magic pool, the product of a wolf and a virgin maiden, destined for some great and glorious enterprise that will have men singing his praises until the end of all time."

"I rarely have the time or patience to listen to songs," Griffyn said dryly. "Or romantic stories." "Nevertheless, a man should know his enemy. In this case, you should know that the blood of both the Wolf and the Dragon flow in Robert Wardieu's veins. To him, the virtues of courage, courtliness, and largesse are not just noble notions to strive toward; they are a way of life and guide his every footstep. The need to triumph absolutely over evil fuels his passions, feeds his ambitions as it did his father and brother before him. I will not bore you with the details of Eduard FitzRandwulf's championing days; suffice it to say John Lackland would not be king today, nor probably even alive, had Eduard been given free rein over his emotions eleven years ago. He was very close to Arthur of Brittany and would have ridden in support of his quest for the throne had the foolish young duke not chosen, for his first act of war, to lead his army against Mirebeau and the dowager queen. Chivalry again, you see. Honor, pride, loyalty—the downfall of every man of such strident principles. Think of the trouble they could have saved us all,"

he added with a sigh of genuine regret, "had there been but a drop more ambition and greed in their veins."

Griffyn's voice began to grate with impatience. "I am still at a loss as to where all this is leading."

"It is leading, my lord, to the fact that I am willing to pay quite handsomely to see the great champion from Amboise humbled."

"Humbled?" Griffyn asked pointedly. "Or killed?"

Malagane's eyes narrowed, which caused the tall knight to offer up a wry laugh.

"I stepped unknowingly on a hornet's nest once," Griffyn said, "and did not enjoy the experience. If there is something more going on here, I would know it before I agree to do this thing or not."

"I was not aware, in such a violent profession as yours, that you needed a reason to kill. I assumed it was merely a natural denouement. And that I would be paying enough to avert your curiosity."

"Actually ... you are paying too much for a simple killing. And that makes me extremely curious indeed."

Malagane pursed his lips. "I would have to know I could count upon your absolute discretion."

"I would have to know I could count upon yours," Griffyn countered smoothly.

Gerome's spine stiffened and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. The pale eyes barely flickered to acknowledge the movement, yet a split second later, a soft whisper of steel cut through the air and, in the next instant, Gerome de Saintonge stood with his back against the wall, his neck stretched taut against the gleaming threat of Griffyn's blade.

"You objected to something I said?" "You dare to question my father's integrity?" Gerome spat.

"He dared to question mine," Griffyn countered silkily.

Malagane saw a line of blood forming on his son's throat and raised his hand. "Let him go. He sometimes ... acts in haste, without thinking."

Griffyn fixed the count with an icy stare. "Surround yourself with fools, my lord, and they will find themselves making foolish mistakes."

"Let him go. He was only following my orders."

"Which were?"

"Not to let you leave here until we came to an amicable agreement."

Griffyn's grin was slow to form. "And you thought he could have stopped me?"

"A slight... miscalculation," Bertrand admitted, Griffyn relaxed some of the tension in the blade, not enough to remove the threat of a severed jugular completely, but enough to put a promise in the dull blue eyes as a steady trickle of blood started to run down under the collar of Saintonge's fine gold tunic.

"You were about to tell me why you want Robert Wardieu dead," he said.

Malagane sighed with obvious reluctance. "We have reason to suspect he may be making plans to interfere with King Philip's invasion of England this coming spring. Further, we suspect he intends to leave here immediately after the tournament and cross the Channel; once there, to join forces with the Earl of Pembroke."

"The earl is Lackland's man, is he not?" "Alone and unto death, so he claims." "And you are afraid of letting one man join him?" "One man who can rally an army of thousands upon his command."

"Why in God's name would he rally a thousand fleas to help the English cause? Did he not just lead his army into Maine to drive Lackland back across the Channel?" He saw the frown crease Malagane's forehead and his mouth twisted down. "Burgundy is not poised on the edge of the abyss, nor do we wear rough hides and gaze in awe at the wheel."

The count made a placating gesture with his hand. "I did not mean to imply ignorance, simply that there are matters that cannot possibly hold any meaning or importance for you."

"Such as?"

"Such as..." Malagane's jaw tightened again. "Wardieu's claim to estates in Lincolnshire. They were stripped from his father by King John in an act of retaliation, and with the barons now in revolt, Wardieu may have it in his mind to return and lay claim to what is rightfully his."

"Land?"

"And the barony that goes with it, yes." "For that you would kill him?"

"If I wanted it for myself, yes, I would kill him ten times over. It is an extremely rich tract of land situated between Lincoln and Nottingham, ideally positioned to defend both the north and south. If you doubt its strategic value, ask Prince Louis—he is here, in the chateau—if I have not pledged to hold middle England for him once he has wrested the throne from its current occupant. This"—he indicated the chest of coins—"is but a pittance compared to what I have already invested in men and bribes and time, and I am not about to see it all lost over the whims of one disseized baron."

Griffyn drew a deep breath and exhaled it around a curse.

"Simple greed," he said as he lowered his sword, "is always far easier to understand when politics are set aside."

Gerome choked out a coarse oath and held a hand against his throat. The fingers came away inky wet with blood and he cursed again. "The next time you draw your sword on me, you had best be prepared to use it."

"I am prepared now," Griffyn said easily, "if you are prepared to die."