Part 28 (2/2)
And a week was too long by any man's guess.
”My lord bishop-a word with you?”
Friar's attention was startled away from the field by the sound of a man's gruff voice over his shoulder. He turned and could not completely quell a chill of foreboding as he came face-to-face with an armed knight and three brawny guardsmen. The knight looked vaguely familiar with his long, thin nose, deep-set eyes, and coa.r.s.ely unpleasant features, but for the moment, his blazon of scarlet and yellow eluded ident.i.ty. As casually as he could, Friar clasped his hands together within the voluminous cuffs of his bishop's robes and nodded a formal greeting.
”Do I know you, sir knight?”
”You might. If you were in the forest a sennight ago and part of a band of rogues who ambushed innocent travelers ... you might know me.”
Friar's right hand inched toward the dagger he had strapped to the inside of his other wrist. The act was concealed by his sleeves, yet the knight detected the movement and grasped a hand around Friar's wrist, knife and all, effectively spoiling the intent.
”I would have a word with you in private, my lord bishop,” said the knight again, his voice a low rumble of authority. ”You have nothing to fear from me, unless of course, Mistress Bidwell has been duped out of her senses- which I suspect she has-and has asked me to seek help from the wrong quarter.”
”Mistress Bidwell? ... Biddy?” Biddy?”
The knight scowled and squeezed Friar's wrist to the point of making the hand swell and turn bright red before he released it. ”I gave her my word to seek you out, and seek you out I have. Now, by G.o.d, you will come with me or you will die here by your own misfortune.”
Friar glanced past the knight's shoulder and shook his head quickly at someone who had stepped out from behind a small, straw-filled cart. The knight, sensing the threat, whirled around, as did the three guards, only to find themselves staring down the shaft of a slender ashwood arrow. The ”monk” holding the bow was tall and slim; his cowl had slipped back to reveal a shock of bright copper curls and an even more shocking scar down the left side of his face.
The three guards reached instinctively for the hilts of their swords, but a harsh command from the knight stopped them.
”You,” he snarled, staring into Gil Golden's amber eyes. ”I know you, by G.o.d. You were the one who did this-” Sir Roger de Chesnai smacked his thigh just above the bulge of padding that distorted the fit of his hose. His expression grew blacker as he swept his gaze along the length of Gil's robes. ”Aye, 'tis well you hid yourself behind the church's cowl, for I would have scarred the other half of your head for you by now.”
”You can still try,” Gil said calmly. ”Although I stopped your boastings once with ease.”
”A lucky shot,” De Chesnai growled.
The tip of the steel arrowhead swerved up and held unwaveringly to an imagined target dead centre of De Chesnai's brow. ”No luckier than the shot I could use now to send your eyeball out the back of your skull.”
”Christ on a cross,” Friar muttered. ”This is hardly the time for petty vanities. Kill each other later if you have a mind to, but for the moment, could we all set our differences aside and find the answers to some questions? Sir Roger de Chesnai-aye, I have fixed a name to the face-you are one of Sir Hubert's men?”
De Chesnai continued to glower at Gil while he nodded. ”Sir Hubert's man, and now the Lady Servanne's.”
The feeling of dread that should have dissipated upon identifying Sir Roger had not alleviated in the least, and now Friar knew why.
”Lady Servanne ... has something happened to her?”
”Alaric-” Gil's voice interrupted before the knight could reply. ”I tried to reach you before you took your seat on the dais, but you were so close to Prince John, and there were too many people about.”
”Has something happened to Lady Servanne?”
”Not here,” De Chesnai commanded coldly. ”A dozen pairs of eyes could be on us, and an equal number of p.r.i.c.kling ears. And for G.o.d's sake, tell this red-haired b.a.s.t.a.r.d to lower his bow before we are all done for.”
”Gil-” Friar signaled her to put up the longbow, and grudgingly she obeyed. On a further thought, she set both bow and arrow aside long enough to shrug out of the monk's robes, which were now a greater hindrance than a disguise.
”The old woman is hidden nearby,” said De Chesnai. ”It is best you hear all from her. Come. She may be holding on to life by a thread as it is; we can waste no more time.”
Alaric hesitated, wary of a trap. There had been no love lost between the old harridan and the Black Wolf; there was certainly no reason to trust Sir Roger de Chesnai, who still walked with a slight limp thanks to Gil's aim. It could be a ruse, designed to catch Friar and lure out of hiding any others who were taking refuge amongst the castle inhabitants.
”All right,” Friar said. ”Lead the way. But be advised there are more than a few steady hands pulling back on bowstrings as we wend our way through the shadows.”
De Chesnai's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more. He beckoned his three men to fall into step behind him and started walking swiftly toward the castle's cramped streets of smoky workshops. He followed a twisted route into the heart of the noisy, crowded labyrinth until they arrived at the start of armourers' alley.
As hectic a place as it had been the previous nights, it was all but deserted now. The forges were cold in the smithies, the men all off somewhere celebrating their craftsmans.h.i.+p and skill. De Chesnai headed for one particularly dismal-looking bothy and again Friar paused, acutely conscious of how conspicuous he appeared in his black and crimson robes.
On a command from De Chesnai, the three guards dispersed, strolling casually to take up positions overlooking the approaches to the bothy. Gil had melted into one of the snickleways long ago, but reappeared now to give Friar a rea.s.suring nod.
”There are no eyes but our own watching us,” she announced, and smugly arched her brow in De Chesnai's direction.
Bristling at the insult to his integrity, the knight thrust aside the ragged bit of canvas that served as a door. ”Inside, the pair of you. And there had best be no tricks, or I will be the first to twist a knife in your gizzards.”
Friar ducked through the doorway, followed by Gil and Sir Roger. The bothy was windowless and airless, the stench of raw bog iron nearly as overpowering to their throat and eyes as the tang of animal urine in the filthy straw. What light there was came through gaps in the thatched roof and holes in the canvas door.
Biddy was lying on a pallet in the corner, and at first glance, she was so pale and still, Alaric thought she was dead.
”Biddy?” He dropped down onto a knee beside her and took up one of her ice cold hands in his. ”Mistress Bidwell? Can you hear me?”
Biddy cracked open an eyelid. It took a moment for her to bring Friar's face into focus, but when she did, she squeezed his hand with more strength than he would have supposed she possessed.
”What happened to you, Biddy?”
”Not important,” she said, straining to form each word. ”My lamb is all that matters now. You must find her and take her away from this terrible place.”
”Find her? The lady is not in her chambers?”
”I was trying to tell you-” Gil blurted out, halted mid-sentence by the combined persuasion of De Chesnai's grip on her arm and the glowering warning in his eyes.
”The baron's men,” Biddy gasped. ”They took her away. Dragged her from the tower. He ... hurt her dreadfully. He ... struck her ... again and again!”
Biddy's eyes rolled upward so that only the whites showed from between her s.h.i.+vering lashes. Her breathing was raspy and uneven, and Alaric, at a loss what to do to ease her pain, held her hand as tightly as he dared and suffered silently through the spasm with her.
”She managed somehow to crawl down from the tower and find me where I waited by a postern gate,” De Chesnai explained in a murmur. ”The effort cost her dearly, but she was determined not to die until I brought her to La Seyne Sur Mer.”
”La Seyne?” Alaric looked up.
”Indeed. My men and I barely managed to bring her this far before the talebearers were blazing through the castle grounds with the news of De Gournay's victory. Since her first choice was obviously out of reach, she insisted upon you.”
Friar glanced back down at Biddy. Her eyes were open and clear, save for the tears that flowed in a fat stream down her temples.
”He will kill her, Friar,” she cried. ”He means to torment her first, then kill her; I know he does. The same for poor Eduard-oh, the brave, brave lad! He tried to help, but he was no match for the Dragon. And because he is the Wolf's son, you can imagine how much pleasure it will give the baron to hurt him.” A great shuddering sob racked Biddy's body before she added, ”I dread to think how much more it will delight him to torture my poor lamb.”
Friar shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs. ”Did you say ... the Wolf's son?” son?”
”Eduard. Young Eduard ... the Dragon's squire. He has been taken away as well but wounded so mortally, I fear he cannot have lived out the hour.”
”Do you know where he was taken? Do you know where the Lady Servanne was taken?”
<script>