Beast: Great Bloodlines Converge (20 page)

Bastian wasn’t following her train of thought. “What do you mean?”

Gisella’s smile broke through. “The white stallion that I brought with me from Bella Court,” she said. “He was a gift to me but to be perfectly honest, he scares me. He is very strong and quite excitable. I would like to give him to you so you do not feel so badly about having a toy horse stolen. A real horse is much better.”

Bastian couldn’t help it, his eyes widened. “That is quite generous, Lady de Russe,” he said. “That horse is magnificent.”

“He is yours now.”

Bastian was both deeply surprised and very pleased. “I am grateful,” he said. “But you truly do not have to do that. You were not the one that stole my toy horse.”

She laughed softly. “I know,” she said. “But mayhap my gift will make you feel a bit better about what you lost.”

He nodded pleasantly, his eyes glittering at her. “Indeed,” he said, gratitude in his expression. “I cannot thank you enough. But who gave you the horse?  Should you not make sure they are agreeable to let you give it to me?”

Gisella’s smile faded. “Nay,” she said. “Gloucester gave me the horse although I did not want to accept it. He insisted. Now, he will see you ride the horse and understand that I truly meant what I said – I did not want it.”

Bastian sensed something behind that statement, something slightly sinister, but he didn’t pursue it. He made a mental note, however, to ask her later. He seemed to remember someone telling him that Gloucester had been chasing Gisella. Perhaps there was truth to that. By the look on her face, he could see that there was. He would discuss it with her later but, for now, he was quite happy to take Gloucester’s gift off her hands.

“Then I will take the horse and gladly,” he said. “You have my thanks.”

“You are quite welcome.”

Braxton, who had been sitting silently throughout the exchange, watched the expressions between Bastian and Gisella. There was something warm there, something almost tangible, like an invisible river that was somehow flowing between them. Upon the river was interest and attraction. One would have been blind not to have seen it and Braxton was glad for it. Much would be waiting for them in London and the sooner they established the strength of bond between them, the better. It seemed that Bastian actually had a chance for happiness with his new wife and Braxton hoped that happiness would have a fighting chance against Gloucester and Bedford and all that was kingly and political.

London, he suspected, was going to be quite an adventure for them all.

The Bird and Bucket Tavern

London, England

“He took it,” a soldier at a dirty, leaning table was wildly drunk, bellowing to anyone who would listen. “I saw him take a piece of her! He took it and put it into his coin purse. I saw him do it and no one can tell me otherwise!”

The tavern was near Westminster Cathedral, a place frequented by soldiers and clergy alike. It was strangely full on this day as the nooning hour approached, and the soldier in question had been in that same spot for almost two full days, drinking and eating and occasionally sleeping with his head resting on the table. He was blowing through his money rather quickly but the barkeep would let him stay so long as he continued to pay.

He’d also been bellowing about Sir Bastian de Russe and as the hours passed, most every patron in the tavern came to understand that the drunken soldier had been part of Bedford’s contingent in France. At one point, the soldier began to speak of the Maid and weeping when he described, to a table full of other drunkards, how noble she had been when the flames consumed her. This particular subject had the attention of nearly everyone, especially the barkeep, who sent a boy running for a regular patron to the tavern who had not yet shown up. He thought perhaps this patron might like to hear what this soldier was screaming about. It would certainly be something of interest.

The boy returned to the tavern some time later with a big, dark man on his heels. The man had shaggy hair and a raggedy beard, but there was no mistaking his big hands and big weapons. He was a Gascon knight, a man who had a connection to a network of Gascon knights, known as Armagnacs, in London. He had fought the English in France for many years until he realized he could probably do more good for his country if he worked inside of England instead. He specialized in espionage, kidnappings, and assassinations these days. His name was Armand le Foix and his sting was deadly.

So le Foix sat in a corner of the tavern near the soldier, listening to everything the man said. He’d been sitting there since late the previous night but now, as the day trudged onward towards the nooning hour, le Foix decided to make a move in the soldier’s direction. He had questions for the soldier under the guise of buying him a few more drinks because the information the soldier was spouting was very, very specialized and could be useful for le Foix’s network. At least, he hoped so.

“
Mon amie
,” he said as he approached the soldier’s table. “You have just returned from France, have you not? Allow me to buy your drink. It is the least I can do for a weary soldier.”

The soldier, drunken and slobbering, nearly tipped over when he tilted his head back to look at le Foix as the man sat next to him. Le Foix grabbed him to steady him.

“Be careful,” le Foix said. “You do not want to kill yourself now. You only just returned.”

The soldier looked seriously at le Foix, or at least as serious as he could given his inebriated state.

“Who are you, sir?” he asked.

Le Foix smiled, revealing big, stained teeth. “I am a soldier, too,” he said. “I heard what you were saying. It sounds as if you have run into some trouble.”

The soldier blinked as his soused mind processed the statement. “No one will listen to me,” he slurred. “I have gone to Westminster Abbey to speak with the priests there, but they did not believe me. I was so upset that I came to this place and have been here ever since. I was supposed to join my regiment and return to Gloucester, but I did not. If they find me, they will punish me.”

Le Foix put his hand on the man’s shoulder and motioned to the serving wench, indicating for her to bring more drink. “No one will punish you,” he assured the soldier. “What did you tell the priests at Westminster that they did not believe?”

The soldier lowered his voice and leaned in to le Foix. “I saw him,” he hissed. “I saw de Russe take a piece of the Maid and put it in his purse. He took a relic from that woman and no one will believe me!”

Le Foix cocked his head. “De Russe?” he repeated. “Bastian de Russe?”

The soldier nodded, nearly tipping over again. “The Beast himself,” he insisted. “He treated the woman with kindness. Kindness, I say. He even killed for her. He protected her. He was in
love
with her. And when she died, he took a piece of her. He is sympathetic to France, I tell you. Why won’t anyone believe me?”

Even though le Foix had been listening to the same drivel for the past several hours, this was the first time the soldier had elaborated more than just cursory shouts and grumbled. Frankly, le Foix was somewhat shocked by what he was hearing.
In vino veritas
, he thought.
In wine, there is truth
. He put his arm around the soldier’s neck and pulled the man closer.

“I will listen to you,
mon amie
,” he assured him quietly. “But you must stop shouting this all over town. Everyone thinks you are a mad drunk but I know better. You are not a mad drunk. You have seen something that upsets you greatly.”

The soldier nodded and the tears began to come. “De Russe is a legendary knight,” he wept. “How could he betray England like that? I do not understand how he could do it. No one will believe me!”

Le Foix squeezed the very bad smelling soldier as a tavern wench put another pitcher of cheap ale on the table. Le Foix picked up the pitcher and poured a full measure of the cloudy blond drink into the soldier’s empty cup.

“I believe you,” he said softly. “But I want you to tell me everything you know. If we are to accuse de Russe of betrayal, then I must know everything. And once you finish telling me what you know, I will take you to friends of mine who will believe you also. Have no fear, we will do what we must.”

The soldier looked at him with great hopefulness in his eyes. “You will help me?”

“We will help you.”

The soldier nodded, relieved, wiping his eyes and nose with the back of his hand before taking a big gulp of the ale.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, grasping le Foix by the collar of his tunic. “Thank you very much. I am so glad to have found someone who believes me.”

Le Foix didn’t say any more. He fed the soldier the rest of the ale, until the man passed out, and then he carried him out of the tavern and on into the maze of alleys that stretched through the slums of London like a massive spider’s web. These were the dirty bowels of London where the wretched and dishonest lived their terrible lives. The entire area smelled like a sewer because that’s what it was; a filthy hive of humanity.

When the soldier finally awoke, it was in a dark, small room that smelled heavily of urine and smoke. There were men all around him, unfriendly faces glaring down into his pale eyes. Having no idea where he was, or how he got there, the soldier was completely at their mercy as they began to pepper him with question after question. It went on for hours and when the soldier had finished telling them all he could, they threw him into a room and bolted the door.

The Armagnac network was not about to kill an eyewitness to Bastian de Russe’s subversion. The man they had looked upon as an enemy, the Beast of legend, was evidently not so much an enemy as they had presumed. If what the soldier said was true, and the man had no reason to lie, then a man they once believed to be their biggest adversary was perhaps not an adversary at all. He might even be their salvation.

They had every intention of finding out.