Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5) Page 5

  At twenty, Duke Henry was now favored for succession. As the true heir to England’s crown by virtue of his father and grandfather, the Vatican preferred to see Matilda’s elder-born consecrated over his mother or Stephen’s son.

  As it stood, barring some unforeseen catastrophe, King Stephen would retain his throne until the event of his death, and thereafter, it would fall to Duke Henry.

  At long last, after nineteen years of anarchy, the nation was prepared to settle. Only, naturally, there was one person who was not so pleased by the recent arbitration…

  According to the missive, the King’s son left Wallingford in a rage, with a handful of barons who couldn’t stomach the thought of seeing an Angevin on the throne.

  Much to Giles’s disgust, at six and twenty, Stephen’s elder-born was no more than a spoilt wretch, and this latest tantrum was yet another example of why no one with half a brain should ever trust him. Add that to his affiliation with Morwen, and it was a dangerous brew.

  But this was the true danger of Morwen; her agenda was not Eustace’s agenda, nor was it King Stephen’s. Hers was a far, far more nefarious scheme, and if there was one thing Giles had come to understand, it was that she would do nothing that didn’t serve her purposes.

  The King’s son was only a distraction.

  Hoping to seize the fool before he did more damage, he and Wilhelm rode south with all due haste, stopping only now and again to rest their horses.

  It was dusk on the seventh night, when they arrived at Bury St. Edmunds, greeted by the scent of charred grain and earth.

  Mercifully, the stench of blistered flesh was absent from the milieu. Black-faced with ash, the entire flock could be found in the fields, salvaging what little remained—spring crops that would yield no ale, but at least the fire, far from prescribed, would improve the health of the field.

  Abbot Ording rushed to greet them. “My lords,” he cried. “Welcome! Welcome!”

  Giles alone dismounted, swinging one leg over his saddle to plant his feet on the ground. “He’s gone?”

  There was no need to say who.

  Ording crossed himself and kissed the tip of a thumb. “Aye, my lords. He took to his mount in a fit of rage after he realized most of the coffers had no keys.”

  “No keys?”

  “Well, my lord,” he said, his cheeks blooming red. “There are keys, of course. However, only one brother may ever be apprised where they are kept. We… er… locked him in the silo when the King’s son arrived. Verily, ’tis far simpler to make away with a single pricket than coffers full of gold.” The man crossed himself again. “Even so, he took a cartload, but we hadn’t another cart available for use—we burned them all in the barn,” he said behind a hand. “So he set fire to the fields in retribution, all the while cursing over Angevin hell spawns.”

  He was referring to Duke Henry, whose father was Angevin by birth. Giles re-examined the fields, his gaze finding the barn, which was also destroyed. It was difficult to say who’d wrought the most damage on this abbey—the monks themselves, or the Prince and his cronies.

  Mounted and silent, his brother studied the blackened fields, swallowing visibly—no doubt recalling the burning at Warkworth, where Wilhelm, alone, had hauled out their dead. “Bastard,” his brother said low. “I’d like to set fire to his arse.”

  Abbot Ording started over the blasphemy, crossing himself again. “My lord! You mustn’t say so: two wrongs do not make a right,” the priest scolded. “You wouldst do far better to pray for the prince’s soul.”

  “You pray for his soul,” countered Wilhelm. “I’d sooner give the stupid cunt something to pray about.”

  At six-foot-five and weighing more than sixteen stone, Wilhelm’s threat was hardly innocuous. Abbot Ording shuffled closer to Giles, although in truth, he should have worried more over Giles… if only he knew.

  Erudite though he might appear, Giles was a paladin—a polite title for his post to a company of what amounted to no more than a troupe of assassins.

  Perhaps it might seem odd that the King would hire one of his kind to retrieve his wayward son, but this was a true testament to the state of the realm. Giles understood why Stephen had called for his help instead of one of his own. Firstly, Giles was bound by his faith to exercise every option before dispensing “God’s justice.” However, far more importantly, if Stephen had to call upon his own Rex Militum, his son wouldn’t survive the day. At the instant, Eustace was the most hated man on the continent, and no less so by the King’s personal guards.

  “You came so swiftly,” said Ording, endeavoring to change the subject. “We thank you! Alas, though, there is nothing more to be done.” His demeanor changed now. “I… I’m afraid we haven’t much ale remaining, and in truth, we haven’t much of anything. The prince emptied our larders as well, though we could offer you a warm bowl of gruel if you like—or if you hurry, you might still catch him at Edwardstone.”

  “Is that where he went?”

  Abbot Ording lifted a shoulder. “We cannot know for certes, my lords, but he did hasten away with the name of that abbey on his lips. If you hurry, you may catch him.”

  It was clear enough that the good Abbot didn’t relish the notion of either of them remaining to sup. “Fret not, Good Father,” said Giles. “Keep your gruel for your weary men. By the looks of your flock, they’ll need it more than we do.”

  “Oh, thank you, my son!” said Ording, with a grateful bow. “Thank you so much!”

  “Miserly Benedictines,” groused Wilhelm.

  With a lifted brow for Wilhelm, Giles turned to reclaim his saddle, assuring the priest, “I’ll send word to Warkworth to dispatch more supplies. You’ll have more than enough to replenish your larders within the fortnight. Take it as our gift to God.”

  “Oh, thank you! Thank you!” said Ording. “God bless you—” He cast a wary glance toward Wilhelm, and said again, “God bless you both!”

  “Keep your blessings,” groused Wilhelm. “Save them for Eustace. The bastard’s going to need every prayer he can get if I get my hands around his throat.”

  “Nay, my lord!” chided Ording. “That is treason! He is still the King’s son.” He crooked a finger at Wilhelm. “Remember… as he hung on the cross, our Lord said, ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ I tell you true, no man may pass judgment in this realm.” Abbot Ording lifted his chin, scarcely able to meet Wilhelm’s gaze. “‘Vengeance is mine, I shall repay, sayeth the Lord.’”

  Giles smiled faintly. Little did the man realize… he was God’s vengeance on this earth.

  “‘If your enemy be hungry, you must feed him,’” continued Ording, heedless of the ire his words were inspiring in a man whose faith had died the night Warkworth burned. “‘If he be thirsty, give him drink; for by doing so ye shall heap burning coals upon his head!’”

  “So, I see,” said Wilhelm, sardonically. “You feed your enemies, but not your allies. ’Tis quite enlightening, Good Father. Thank you for that clarification. I see now that you follow your scripture to the letter.” He patted his empty belly to make a point, and thankfully, the Abbot was silenced by the rebuke, though his cheeks bloomed red.

  Wishing Wilhelm would shut his gob, Giles cursed softly beneath his breath as he gave the Abbot a farewell nod and a wave good-bye, then a final warning glance toward his brother. It was only after they were away that he dared to rebuke Wilhelm for his churlishness.

  “God’s bones! The years have yet to mellow you, brother. One of these days you’ll say the wrong thing to the wrong person, and we’ll both find our necks in a noose.”

  “That man is a greedy cur,” Wilhelm said defensively. “We came more than eighty leagues to his rescue, and still he cannot spare a measly mug of ale?”

  Giles sighed. “If ’tis true what he claims, he may not even have enough for his own men. Wouldst you have him share with you his last bowl of gruel when we have more than enough in our satchels to fill our bellies for a sennight?”
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  Wilhelm grumbled loudly. “I warrant he’s got more’n he claims. You heard him: He managed to save ‘coffers full of gold,’ so he can pay for more supplies, still you gift him more?”

  “The time for hoarding is done,” said Giles. “We’ve more than enough to share, and a siege of Warkworth is no longer likely.”

  “Says who?”

  Giles slid his brother a sideways glance, realizing how worried the man must be. Edwardstone was nowhere near Warkworth, and neither was the castle any longer vulnerable, but he couldn’t precisely allay his brother’s fears.

  For one thing, he couldn’t yet tell Wilhelm anything about the envoy due to arrive at Warkworth soon, with its precious cargo. If he knew, he would immediately return, for fear of his wife’s wellbeing. For another, who was to say in this current clime, and with Eustace’s current state of mind, that he would not find just cause to avenge their support of his father. After all, it was at a time precisely like this that he’d ridden south from Aldergh to burn Warkworth.

  Furthermore, it was no secret that Giles had fervently lent himself to the negotiations at Wallingford, and that he’d lobbied vigorously in defense of Duke Henry. And everyone also knew that Warkworth enjoyed the support of the Vatican, the very entity that so long denied Eustace his confirmation.

  Therefore, in truth, Eustace had more than enough cause to attack Warkworth, and despite this, Giles sensed he would not—not yet, at any rate. If ever he returned to Warkworth, it would be with Morwen by his side, and they would come for the Pendragon sisters. But this was why they must locate Eustace with all due haste, and return him to London. They must find the fool before Morwen found him. And then they must hie back to Warkworth to meet their guests.

  Reaching back into his saddlebag, he snatched a bit of salted meat and tossed it over to his brother. “Fill your belly,” he demanded. “We’ve another five leagues to ride, and I’ll warrant the prior at Edwardstone will find you less churlish if you settle that demon in your belly.”

  With a scowl on his face, Wilhelm caught the length of salted meat.

  “Our battle is not with God, Wilhelm, nor with those poor monks. They, too, have suffered because of Eustace. You would do well to remember what it feels like.”

  His brother all but snarled as he shoved one end of the salted meat into his mouth, and said, with a mouthful, “Betimes you’re an imperious ass.”

  Giles’s face split with a toothy grin. “Only betimes?”

  Reluctantly perhaps, his brother’s lips turned up at one corner, revealing a hint of a smile that sometimes mirrored Giles’s. But the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll wager five marks he’s not gone to Edwardstone,” said Wilhelm as he chewed.

  “You think Ording lied?”

  “Nay,” said Wilhelm. “I just think he wanted us gone and it was the first thing that came to his lips.”

  Giles arched a brow, intrigued by the conjecture and the wager. “Silver or gold?”

  “Gold,” said Wilhelm as he chewed.

  An entire month’s wages.

  “Where to?”

  “Darkwood.”

  “Darkwood?” asked Giles. “What makes you so certain, brother?”

  “Well… consider it… that mean little shit might not give a damn that he’s defiling God’s lands, but I warrant his men will. See how you rush to chasten me for words alone? After Bury St. Edmunds, they’ll abandon him for fear of God’s wrath.”

  “Probably, but why Darkwood?”

  “Only think on it,” suggested Wilhelm. “Money will not gain him what he wants, but Morwen could give it to him yet. And where would you go if you meant to seek that Welsh witch?”

  Darkwood Inn was more than a den of thieves. It was Morwen’s enterprise, so they’d discovered some years ago. She, alone, was Darkwood’s patron, and though she might not be in residence, that inn keeper would know how to reach her. Giles gave his brother a nod, and without another word, he turned his mount.

  His brother followed suit.

  6

  The former lady of Blackwood arrived with, all things considered, a small retinue. Thankfully, none of the bunch happened to be Mordecai. For that much, Cael was grateful. Her manservant was nosy, intrusive, and the first thing he seemed to like to do, every time, was pore through the castle to see what he could find. Preventing Mordecai from gleaning their plans would have been nigh impossible, and there was no way Marcella could finish her task in the courtyard with Mordecai milling about. As it was, he sent Morwen’s Welsh “guests” with escorts to see to their quarters and personally kept Morwen preoccupied, so she wouldn’t run to admire her Unholy Grail. Hopefully, in the meantime, Marcella would find a way to mask the scent of her potion, because Morwen had the nose of a bloodhound.

  He cringed now as she sniffed the air, like a dog following a scent, and he moved quickly to distract her. “I see you managed to wrest Owain from his throne of twigs.”

  She arched a brow. “Art jealous, my pet?”

  “Hardly. He’s cocksure, no doubt, but he’s already made himself an enemy of the one man who helped him take his throne.”

  “Cadwaladr?”

  “Aye.”

  “If I have my way, he’ll be driven into exile. Don’t worry. We’ll dispose of Owain soon enough,” she said. “You’ll take his island then. For now, we need his armies.”

  “Even the best of Welsh bowmen won’t stand against Stephen.”

  “He’s weaker than you think,” she said. “And besides, we only need one.”

  “So, then, you have news from Wallingford?”

  “Nay,” she groused, removing her gloves and snapping them with annoyance. “You?”

  Cael shook his head. “Nay. Apparently, whatever compromise they’ve agreed to is now only privy to those who were present in the marquee. I’ve not heard a whisper.”

  “Your… spy?”

  “Nay,” said Cael, again. “Not a word.”

  “Pity,” said Morwen, though her tone seemed hardly disturbed. “Really, my lord, how am I supposed to plan my revenge if I haven’t any notion what that fool means to do?”

  Cael didn’t bother to point out that had he remained with the King as was originally intended, he would have been a witness to the entire negotiation. And nevertheless, that was a moot point now, because here he was, and so was she.

  “Don’t worry,” she said again. “Without Maude to temper his tantrums, he is prone to maudlin fits of pride. For all we know, he may have already refused Duke Henry’s demands. After all, we know how arrogant that little whelp can be, and if such is the case, Eustace shall remain his heir.”

  “Doubtful,” said Cael, and because it had never been his way to mince words, he didn’t intend to begin now. “Unless you have something momentous planned, you ought to begin wooing Duke Henry. Despite that the news has not been made public as yet, I know enough to know he will walk away with the spoils. If not today, then later.”

  Morwen clucked with disdain, lifting a hand to silence him. “I weary of speculation, Lord Blackwood. If you cannot provide me facts, speak naught at all.”

  A muscle ticked at Cael’s jaw, though he nodded, ceding to Morwen’s will, for the moment. He wasn’t always so compliant, and he knew she valued his unbridled advice, but today was not the day to test her. In truth, he would like to have told her naught at all. He was growing ever so weary of her brusque demeanor, and the prize at the end of this journey was beginning to look like no prize at all. It could well be that, in the end, their affiliation would bring him naught but grief, and Owain would keep Anglesey.

  “What of my daughter?” she asked, contempt dripping from her tone.

  “She has agreed.”

  Morwen tilted him a glance. “So you have said, but I cannot rightly conceive it. My daughter is a shrew if ever I met one. Tell me, you must have fucked her?”

  Cael forced a smile, ignoring her rude question. “You will see,” he said, and hoped his tone sounded appro
priately optimistic. “She has changed.”

  “I hope so,” she said, and shrugged off her fur cloak, laying it into the hands of one of her attendants. The man dusted it off, then departed without so much as inquiring as to which room she would be assigned.

  “Wait!” said Cael, not wanting him to pass through the courtyard. “Take it to the lord’s chamber,” he commanded the servant, and pointed to the stairwell.

  Morwen offered him a coy smile. “How lovely. You would provide me your bed chamber? Do tell, my lord… will you be joining me as well?”

  “On my wedding night?” he asked, with a well-calculated wink. “Alas, nay,” he said. “For the purpose of this evening, I will happily share my lady’s bower. ’Twill be easier that way, and perhaps it may afford us a bit more… privacy.”

  “You must know I have talents my daughter does not.”

  “And nevertheless, I’d never disrespect you, meistres.”

  She cast him a sideways glance. “You are ever a spoilsport, my lord. And you bore me, in truth.”

  “Aww, well. I’m quite certain you haven’t any use for an old goat like me,” he said, and then he added, “You’ll be comfortable in the lord’s chamber and I presume you’ll enjoy a view of tonight’s celebration from the inner balcony.”

  Built adjacent to the tower, joined by an ancient, ivy-tangled courtyard, the great hall consisted of two levels—the great hall itself, and the lord’s apartments on the second floor. The kitchens were nearby, attached by a loggia. No doubt, Morwen would enjoy a good glass of mead as she surveyed her minions in the comfort of a robe—or at least, the thought of it should please her…

  The reality would be somewhat removed from this plan. Fortunately, he knew she coveted the lord’s chamber, and it suited his purposes to put her off her guard.

  Like Mordecai, she rather enjoyed a good snoop, and, after all, if a man had anything to hide at all, he would keep it in the privacy of his quarters. Still, Morwen found a reason to grouse. She was as distractible as she was irascible today. Hopefully both would work in his favor.