"Gerome! Enough! Do not make a greater fool of yourself than you already have. Who exactly do you think this man is that I would send so far and pay so much?" Malagane looked at Griffyn and his eyes glittered like two shards of blue glass. "I warrant Wardieu himself is still in ignorance, is he not? This despite the fact you recently passed a night and day inside the walls of Amboise?"
Griffyn tipped his head in grudging admiration. "Your spies keep you well informed."
"Well enough that I could tell you what you dined on if you like, or ... ah ... how many times a certain young minx was reputed to swoon in appreciation of your stamina? I believe in being well informed, you see. Unlike those who would rely too heavily on others being forthright and honest. Wardieu, for example. Does he know to whom he played host? Does he know," Malagane asked with relish of someone savoring a rare and sinfully delicious sweetmeat, "that his old rival Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay has run havoc in every tournament east of Champagne as
... the Prince of Darkness ?"
In the utter silence that followed, only the hollow echo of dripping of water could be heard and the faint sputter of the candle burning in the lantern. Both Solange and Gerome stared at Bertrand, then at Griffyn Renaud, with the latter drawing most of the awe and disbelief.
"The Prince of Darkness?" Solange whispered. "You?" "Christ Jesus." Gerome's hand went to his throat again— in thanks this time that there was still something there to clutch.
"Well?" Malagane asked. "Does he know?" "I saw no need to volunteer the information," Griffyn admitted quietly.
"Though I thought it might have come out today when the tournament master claimed to have seen me registering."
"Rollo d'Albini? His eyes are rarely focused on a man's face, and when they are, the face needs to be closer than arm's reach for him to see more than a vague blur. Wardieu, on the other hand, has perfect vision. What do you suppose his reaction will be when he sees you take to the field wearing the blazon of the Prince of Darkness?"
"He will foul himself getting into his armor," Gerome predicted with an almost giddy laugh.
Griffyn shot him a glance that would have curdled milk, but Malagane was quick to intercede. "I understand you have declared your intent to accept only three challenges. Why is that?"
"Because I dislike wasting my time. Moreover, it has become the usual practice in the tournaments I have frequented to set a limit on the number of broken bodies they want carried from the field."
Malagane's smile was pure malevolence. "Well, we have
no limits here. In fact, the more bodies they drag from the palisades, the more anxious Wardieu will become to avenge the carnage. Change your declaration, my lord. Accept all comers. I doubt you will get more than two or three anyway after the first broken head, but we must give the appearance of willingness. As for your time, it will not be wasted. An additional hundred marks for each joust should alleviate your boredom. At the same time, an additional five hundred," he said to Gerome, "added to the total prize monies, should heat the blood of a few who might otherwise err on the side of caution."
"But ... the prize is only a hundred now!" Gerome objected.
"Exactly so. Think of all the brave but foolhardy young cocks who will think the risk well worth the chance to ride away with ten years' worth of earnings jangling in their purse! Well? What say you, my lord? Are you with us?"
"If I agree to this," Griffyn said slowly, "there can be no further contact between us."
Malagane's face flushed with excitement. "I have good men I can put at your disposal."
"I have a man of my own, but he will cost you another hundred marks."
Gerome opened his mouth to protest the audacity, but a gesture from Malagane cut him short. "Agreed. Is there anything else?"
Griffyn smiled grimly. "The name of a good armorer. I expect I will need to reassess my supply of lances."
He turned to leave, delaying only long enough to exchange his empty goblet for the chest of coins.
"Lord Verdelay?"
He stopped and glanced back over his shoulder.
"You will, of course, have no further contact with Wardieu ... or any of his kin."
Griffyn's eyes glowed eerily out of the shadows. He did not answer. He merely broadened his smile at the corners and carried on across the blackness of the chamber, departing the way he had come, with only the scrape of his boots echoing on the stone stairs.
Solange released a pent-up breath and was the first to speak. "You were very naughty, Bertrand, to keep such a delicious secret from me. The Prince of Darkness! I have heard he comes down the course like the very devil himself. But all that money, my love." She turned and looked up at him. "You have two of the finest assassins in Europe in your employ. Engelard Cigogni and Andrew de Chanceas would gladly see to Wardieu's demise for half the price you are offering this dark princeling."
"They are also known to be in my employ, and what we do here must be accomplished with the utmost discretion, with no possibility of any blame falling in our direction. Nor will de Chanceas and Cigogni rust from lack of use, for once Wardieu is dead, Renaud's usefulness will also be at an end."
Solange looked up at Malagane and her eyes burned like green fire. "In that case ... may I have him, Bertrand? He should be made to answer for the insults he has rendered you here today."
He reached out and stroked the pad of his thumb across her lower lip. "I am touched by your sensitivity, my dear. It will be a shame to destroy such noble savagery, but we will want no loose ends, no witnesses to trouble us later."
As soon as he was in the sunlight again, Griffyn filled his lungs several times, yet the lingering taint of the musty donjon air stayed with him until he was across the inner bailey and through the gates to the middle ward. There, the crowds were still as thick and boisterous as before, though the colors seemed more vivid, the smells sweeter as he passed by booths of meat, spices, and exotic scents.
His long strides carried him straight on through to the outer bailey without stopping, and it took him another fifteen minutes to make his way out the massive double barbicans and down the winding road to the encampments below.
Since his arrival the previous day, the numbers of tents and pavilions had easily doubled. Firepits had been dug and pocked the ground at every turn; iron tripods balanced huge black cauldrons over the flames, the bubbling contents sending up clouds of steam to mingle with the clouds of milky woodsmoke. There was also garbage and offal collecting everywhere—the hazards of a large, temporary bivouac—and he narrowly missed treading in several fresh heaps of steaming dung as he made his way toward the river.
He located his own pavilions, relieved to see they were still somewhat isolated from the others by a patch of rough gorse, but was not surprised to see only bare, rocky ground in front of them. His belly reminded him he had not eaten anything but a handful of roasted chestnuts since early morning, and as he flung aside the canvas flap to the main tent, he cursed when he saw the comfortable, curled form of his squire fast asleep on a pile of blankets.
"Fulgrin!"
His voice boomed like a clap of thunder and brought the sleeper straight up off the bedding, his arms and legs splayed wide, his hair stiffened into spikes for the few seconds it took him to blink his eyes into focus and identify the storm-cloud looming in the entryway.
"Christ-a-mercy!" He clapped his hands together over his heart. "I could have swallowed my tongue!"
"You should give thanks I do not carve it out and make a pie of it. Have you nothing better to do than foul the air with your snores?"
Fulgrin was short, wiry, and villainous in appearance, with one eye scarred permanently in a squint. The other was usually red around the rim from pure belligerence.
"Fine thanks I get for staying up half the blessed night long unpacking the rouncies and building you these splendid lodgings!"
Griffyn glanced wryly around the walls, which sagged, and at the canvas ceiling that was not quite balanced on the two center poles.
"I meant to fix it by daylight," Fulgrin snapped. "Even to spread a carpet of fennel to soothe your delicate senses, but my head was thick from lack of sleep and from drinking my way into genial camaraderie with the squires of a dozen other nobles and knights."
"And?" Griffyn unbuckled his swordbelt and set it aside. "What did you learn?"
"That the ale is sour and the company full of itself." He scowled and wagged a finger. "Do you not lay that there.
Everything has a place, as well you should know by now. Of course, if you loosed the strings of your purse once in a while, we could languish in willful extravagance and add a pace worth of canvas at either end so that we did not rub noses each time we passed ... but nay, nay. Let me not be the one to find fault in your penurious ways."
Renaud sighed and hung his belt on one of the poles. "Remind me again why I tolerate your company?"
"Because I tolerate yours. And because," he added succinctly, "you need me."
"Like the pox," Griffyn muttered.
"I heard that."
"You were supposed to."
"Hmph. Ask me, then, what I have done this morning to deserve such scorn. Ask me!"
Griffyn glared across the width of the tent as he stripped off his surcoat and shirt.
"I have hired three grooms, an armorer, a lad to run errands, and found excellent stabling for Centaur and Centurion—the latter is in a most foul temper, by the way, being separated from Centaur so long and then dragged ignobly behind the wheels of a cart."
"I was planning to take him through his paces later today."
"Better you do it earlier. He will no doubt bite you to show his gratitude anyway, and I would not blame him. Was the detour through Amboise so necessary as to upset the most truculent piece of horseflesh this side of Hades?"
"I thought it was. And he will recover. Is there anything else useful you have to tell me?"
"Besides the proximity of the wagonful of evening beauties camped nearby?" He sucked in some air through the gap between his front teeth and whistled it free. "Well, you might find it of some value to know there is no other way in or out of Gaillard except through the main gates. The Lion-heart saw no need for posterns, since they were too commonly used by uninvited guests. There is one small portal on the west wall, but it opens onto the spill of cliffs and invites a clumsy fellow to tumble nearly four hundred feet down a sheer drop to the river. I could not determine its purpose other than for the ready disposal of, er, refuse from the donjons."
"Guards?"
"Are as guards everywhere. They have sticky hands and spates of blindness when it is worth their while. They do, however, share a fulsome respect for the custodian,
Bertrand Malagane, and for his bloodless mistress, Solange de Sancerre."
"I have just come from making their acquaintance and a healthy respect is due. What about the son?" "Which one?
He has eight." "The captain of the guard."
"Gerome de Saintonge? They give him the prisoners first to soften with his fists. Prisoners and women from what I gather; he likes to leave both broken and bleeding after he has had his fun. Dangerous, but in a predictable way, whereas the father is more cunning up here." He poked his temple with a finger, narrowly missing his eye. "The count is the eyes and ears of King Philip. He has leagues of spies here and in England, and I doubt a goat could shite without him knowing the how and where of it."
Griffyn nodded. "He knew I was at Amboise. He even offered to tell me what I ate and who I kissed."
"You kissed someone at Amboise?" Fulgrin's brows shot up.
"Merely a figure of speech. The fact is he must be exceedingly well informed if he has spies inside the Wolfs lair.
For that matter, he knew who I was before he even dispatched his man with a personal invitation to participate in his tournament."
"I would not be in any great hurry to cross him— knowing how well you take to orders—or refuse him outright anything he asks you to do. He ... has asked you to do something, has he not?"
"Indeed he has." Griffyn fetched the cask. Eager fingers lifted the hasp and opened the lid, but when he saw the small fortune in coins, Fulgrin's jaw gaped and his hands actually suffered a tremor.
"God's liver," he gasped. "How much?"
"A thousand here," Griffyn mused, "and a thousand more when I kill Robert Wardieu."
Fulgrin looked up. "Two thousand marks to do what you have come here to do anyway?"
The irony drew the sides of Griffyn's mouth upward, and he walked barechested to where two large trunks were set side by side against the tent wall. The first contained an assortment of swords, daggers, and other wicked-looking implements of his trade; the second contained a carefully oiled suit of heavy chain mail. From the first chest he selected a double-edged sword, the blade nearly four feet long, wrought of twice-tempered steel with very little taper and a shallow blood gutter that ran the full length. In truth, the gutter was not for blood but for the balancing of the blade, and as he cut it expertly left to right, an admiring smile curved his lips. It was a thing of beauty; not a pit, not a scratch marred the surface. The pommel had serpentine guards to protect his hand, the hilt was deeply scored with a diamond pattern to insure a firm grip. The metal seemed toy warm instantly to his touch, while the light danced along the surface like blue fire, revealing the finely etched words that read: You need not hope that you will ever see heaven, for I have come to take you to the other side.
"A Welshman died rather painfully today," he murmured, the sparks from the blade reflecting in the luminous depths of his eyes. "Prove how indispensable you are to me. Find out who he was and if his death has anything to do with Saintonge's desire for Wardieu's demise."
He reached into the second chest and withdrew a large square of carefully folded silk. The pennon spread open in his hand, the light once again catching the threads of the deep green background, making it shimmer like the still waters of a pond. Emblazoned on the green was a gold falcon in full flight, the wings outspread, the talons extending forward as if about to strike.