"A wool merchant?"
Fulgrin stood and helped Griffyn into the heavily padded aketon, tightening the crampons that ran down beneath the arms. "It seems he was once a guest at Chateau d'Amboise. A welcomed guest, so I gather, for he married one of the local widows and lived in the village until such time as wile's death sent him searching for some useful—albeit reckless—way to overcome his grief." "Are you saying he was a spy for the Black Wolf?" He prodded a thigh forward into a pair of leather leggings. "Likely used to carry messages back and forth to England."
"Messages? Between Amboise and ...?" Fulgrin straightened and lowered his voice dramatically. "Pembroke."
Griffyn's frown caused a deep furrow across his brow. It was the second time in as many days Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer's name had been linked to William Marshal.
"As for Bertrand Malagane's interest in land in Lincoln, it appears to be genuine ... unless there is some other reason you can conceive of why he would send Gerome de Saintonge to England."
"Saintonge is going to England? When?"
"As soon as the last pennon flutters down over the field on the morrow. What is more, he has hand-picked his troop from the most bloodthirsty vultures his barracks have to offer, including Engelard Cigogni and Andrew de Chanceas—two of the worst carrion-feeding jackals ever to put their swords up for hire. This, of course"—he paused for effect and snapped the last buckle into place—"after they have slit your fine throat ear to ear."
Griffyn looked at him askance.
"Truly. 'Tis likely why the count was so generous with his coin; he had no plans to leave you alive long enough to spend it. And before you scoff at the notion, kindly consider it was at great peril to the sanctity of my own throat that I uncovered this information."
Griffyn had no intentions of scoffing; Fulgrin's talents for gleaning knowledge from solid rock had ceased to amaze him long ago. It had also kept him alive more times than he could count.
That Bertrand Malagane had already made plans for his demise came as no huge surprise; he was probably intending to show that he was so appalled and outraged by Robert
Wardieu's death, he had arranged to have the champion's killer slain in retaliation. Moreover, he had probably also arranged to have it "discovered" that he, Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay, had been paid to kill Wardieu ... and in good English sterling.
"Shall I have the rouncies packed and ready for a hasty departure when you come off the field today?"
Lost in thought, it took a moment for Griffyn to focus on Fulgrin's face. "What?"
"Leave? Rouncies? Tonight?"
"Why would we do that?"
"Oh ... to keep the blood flowing through our veins, perhaps?"
Griffyn frowned and signaled for his hauberk. "I am not worried about Cigogni or de Chanceas."
Fulgrin's grunt was directed partly at the cavalier dismissal of the two most deadly and dangerous assassins in Normandy, and partly at the weight of the chain mail tunic as he strained to heft it over his master's shoulders.
"I am glad to hear you are not worried," he muttered, and returned to the chest for the mail chausses, which he laced around his charge's thighs and calves with less than his usually precise strokes. "I, of course, will sleep with both eyes open and knives clutched between all my fingers and toes, but I am glad to hear it will trouble you not at all."
"Certes, it will not trouble me tonight... since it would make no sense to kill either of us until after Wardieu is dead."
Fulgrin's squint-eye watered slightly as he glared in fulminating silence at the tall knight. He helped him into his cuirass—a vest of inch-thick bullhide boiled in wax and molded to fit the shape of chest and back—then bracers for the upper and lower arms, greaves and sabatons to fit over the legs and boots, rounded aillettes for the shoulders that would deflect the force of all but the most powerful blows.
His face was pouring sweat by the time he handed up the padded bascinet for the head and the mail hood with its descending gorget of pennyplate, the links strong enough to shield the throat but flexible enough to raise or lower as required. The final layer was the gambeson—the surcoat of rich hunting green silk emblazoned with the gold falcon in full wingspread.
"And when he is dead," he finally demanded. "What then? Do we wait for them to come to us?
"Either that, or we go to them." Griffyn held his arms out while Fulgrin strapped his swordbelt around his waist and fetched the great serpentine weapon from the chest. He ran his fingers lightly along the warning etched on the surface before he sheathed it, then, with a final adjustment to settle his gear, strode out of the pavilion and into the bright sunlight.
At almost the same instant, Brenna was blinking the sunlight out of her eyes as she crossed the common and approached the entrance to the bowers. Robin was on one side, Richard and Geoffrey LaFer on the other. Will and Sparrow were with Dag, helping him prepare for his match with Anjou; they would join them in the royal dais in short order, hopefully in time to see Dagobert's ceremonial progress around the field.
Brenna had felt clumsy and all thumbs as she had dressed for the spectacle. She was thankful she had not brought Helvise with her, for the maid's sharp eyes would surely have seen the tender pink patches of skin everywhere on her body—conspicuous reminders of rough beard stubble and greedy lips. As it was, her bliaud was altogether too form-fitting and silky over flesh that was too tender to want constant reminders of the equally silky, tender hands that had stroked over her body all night long. Her overtunic was a rich, rusty gold velvet that molded her breasts and emphasized the trimness of her waist, and while she knew the gown was flattering, she would have preferred a plain holland tunic that would not have drawn quite so much attention to her sex.
Convention required her to cover her hair, and at least
the plain white wimple and veil looked innocuous enough, held in place by the thin circlet of unadorned gold. The day was warm and brilliant under a clear blue sky, but her flesh felt unaccountably chilled and her hands clammy as she waited, first with Richard, then with Geoffrey LaFer, as Dag dressed for his match. Under normal circumstances, she supposed she would have been just as excited and full of merriment, just as eager to watch the opening procession of drummers, trumpeters, lords and knights and ladies. She would have been honored to sit in the same bower as Prince Louis and flattered that their host, Bertrand Malagane, kissed her hand and complimented her on her fair countenance. She would have gasped in awe with the rest of the crowd to see the burly champions arriving at their pavilions, surrounded by squires and handlers sagging under the weight of weapons and armor. She would have shivered deliciously to hear the names of the most ferocious contestants who had come together to compete in the pageantry of the Enterprise of the Dragon's Mouth; names like Mauger the Murderer, Eustace the Widow-Maker, Ferrau the Pitiless, Blondel the Damned, as well as the legendary assassin Loupescaire (whose legend had lost some of its luster when a forewarned victim had arranged to have both his feet chopped off).
Into this company had also come the fearsome Prince of Darkness, the self-proclaimed Devil Incarnate, and while Robin was showing remarkable restraint thus far, there was a tautness around his mouth that suggested Sparrow might have to keep his knife unsheathed. He was amiable enough to the Dauphin and answered questions on tactics and strategies with a patient enough demeanor, but there was the underlying impression that he wanted desperately to be on the field, not watching from a wooden bench.
This business with Dag and Roald of Anjou proved none of them was really safe from the recklessness of his own honor.
Tossed into this cauldron of simmering tension was now the specter of Griffyn Renaud. As Will had pointed out, he had not come all this way to sit and watch the pageantry; he had come to fight, to prove his mettle, possibly to try to win the prize of six hundred marks. Before last night, of course, she would not have cared if he threw himself against Lucifer and all the demons of hell. Before last night she could not have cared less who he fought or what the outcome. Now, however, she found herself chilling at the thought he might well end up broken and bleeding under the hooves of some paladin's charger. On the way to their seats in the bower, she had found herself looking anxiously at each pavilion they passed—she did not even know his colors, for pity's sake—hoping to see, hoping not to see his broad shoulders clad in mail, waiting for his call to arms. It was also the custom for a knight to beg the favor of carrying a lady's token—a sleeve or scarf—into the lists and to fight in her honor. This was usually done during the ceremonial progress around the field when the knight stopped and dipped his lance before the lady whose affection he sought. If she accepted, she fastened the token to the weapon and promptly melted, beyond capability of speech and breath, into the waiting arms of envious companions. Brenna did not even want to think what would happen, how she would respond, what Robin or the others would do if Griffyn Renaud chose to single her out in this fashion. She would indeed melt—into a nerveless, senseless puddle on the floorboards where she would remain, fixed by shame and guilt in utter disgrace.
She groaned softly to herself and tried valiantly to concentrate on the jousting.
Dag was to meet his opponent in the west half of the enclosure. The field had been divided in two by a barrier decorated with cloth hangings, and each of these in turn had a low, single-hung wooden tilt to define the course and insure the riders remained in their own lane. Bowers for the spectators flanked the field, blazing with colors and waving pennons. At either end of the huge rectangle were recets, designated areas of refuge where knights could catch their breath between runs and rearm. Many more pennons flew there, for lances were leaned upright against the palisades, some painted in the colors of their lords, some banded, some spotted, all hung with a flag bearing the arms of the champion.
The jousts themselves were staggered so as not to detract one from the other, also to provide continuous entertainment and thrills while the one list was being cleared of debris. Each time two challengers took to the field, they rode a ceremonial progress around the outer ring of the entire field to salute the judges and give homage to the Dauphin.
Brenna peered anxiously at each contestant as he entered the enclosure and began his progress, but in full armor, with pot-shaped helms obscuring all but a narrow strip of their faces, they were mostly anonymous, identifiable only by the devices emblazoned on their gambeson and shield. There was a herald reading names at the outset of each match, and Brenna listened closely each time he stood and consulted his scroll of parchment, but did not hear the name she sought in the first three contests, and then it was Dag's turn and she temporarily traded one set of fears for another.
"Can you see him?" she asked, craning her neck to see around Richard's broad shoulders.
"There." He pointed to the entrance of the enclosure. "By God, he makes a fine cut of a fellow, I must admit, no thanks to my tutoring."
Sparrow, his attention divided ungraciously among the other burly men-at-arms whose duty it was to stand guard over their masters, heard the comment and leaned forward to glare.
"Your tutoring, you great heaving peewit? Your tutoring has thrust him into this peril despite all common good sense. Your tutoring may earn him a dented head and cracked bones."
His lecture was cut short as Robin hissed him into silence. They were seated two rows back from the Dauphin and the Count of Saintonge, and at the sound of Sparrow's voice, Malagane's silver head turned and he glanced back.
"Lord Robert! You must be proud of your younger brother. He does indeed cut a fine figure. We can only hope it will be as fine at the end of the joust," Malagane added, inviting the Dauphin to share a good-natured laugh, "since he is the only one representing the black-and-gold this day."
Robin and Richard both stiffened and Brenna put a hand on each arm. She felt like a fawn caught between two lions, although she was not entirely unsympathetic to their plight- The Dauphin was narrow-nosed and spent a good deal of time looking down it, while Bertrand Malagane resembled a cobra she had seen once at a fair: sleek and smooth and quick to strike with a venomous tongue. Seated on his right was Solange de Sancerre, and behind was his son, Gerome de Saintonge, whose head swiveled to note the slightest move Brenna made. She caught him staring openly and outright at least a score of times, always with a leering, lopsided grin that made her feel as if she were naked from throat to waist.
Brenna forced herself to ignore them all as Dag approached the dais. He did make a splendid sight. He rode a gleaming black destrier fully caparisoned in an ebony silk saddle cloth trimmed in gold bands and tinsel, the saw-toothed hem falling almost to the beast's knees. The warhorse was a knight's most valuable weapon in battle, and beneath all the rich finery they carried nearly as much body armor as the rider. A croupiere molded of cuir bouilli fit the shape of the hindquarters and a fan-shaped poitrail guarded the breast and shoulders from a misplaced—or deliberate—strike from a lance. The noble head was covered in a leather chanfrein that exposed only the eyes and kept the animal focused straight forward.
Dag's own helm was flat-topped, painted in black with gilding along the seams and joints. It consisted of metal plates bolted and screwed together to surround the head and neck, offering limited visibility through a hinged visor that could be lifted when on parade, or was lowered to signal readiness at the start of a charge. His visor was up now as he rode around the enclosure and caused his beast to dance a caracole in front of the royal dais. Prince Louis nodded to acknowledge the salute, as did Bertrand Malagane, and Dag cantered on toward the Bower of Beauty where a dozen or more hopefuls leaned forward in their seats and drew a collective breath.
The same dozen melted back in obvious disappointment as the youngest—and some may have thought the hand-somest—Wardieu rode past, not stopping until he reached the far end of the enclosure, where Timkin was waiting with his shield and lance. Roald of Anjou, meanwhile, had also completed his progress and was waiting, like a large mound of crimson dough, for a cinch to be tightened on his saddle.