Crown of the Realm (A White Knight Adventure Book 2) (3 page)

CARRIED ON THE BREEZE
, a woman’s voice warbled, singing of the source of her affections: a worthy knight.

Pavilions dotted the mowed field below. Campfires were scattered
about in no particular pattern. At the perimeter of the grounds, mounted guards wearing surcotes of fleurs-de-lys for France or rampant lions for England rode defensive patterns. On the lookout for his brother, Stephen met him halfway up castle hill and raised a questioning brow.

“You won’t like it.” Drake took bow
and arrow quiver from Stephen’s outstretched hands and slung them over a shoulder. 

Like adjoined mirrors, the brothers advanced on the festive party at the base of the grassy hill. Lissome and graceful of limb, the fitzAlan
brothers projected predatory qualities, further accentuated by high foreheads, sculpted cheekbones, and untamed hair. Given their age, fresh out of innocence, those who did not know the brothers readily dismissed them as easily mastered, mistakenly so. Certainly less than a year ago, they had been wide-eyed squires at the brink of manhood. Now as knights serving the king of England, they were paragons of that very manhood. Where demeanors of blithe care once dwelled, fierceness now resided, and a kind of recklessness. They had seen the best and experienced the worst of England’s underbelly and political treachery. Yet they were the ones least aware of the invisible yet genuine line they so recently crossed. To see themselves, they had to look into someone else’s eyes. Even then, they perceived but the faintest of reflections. This they did know: trust was earned and never conferred. And aside from each other, they trusted no one.

By the time they reached the bottom of castle hill, Drake had apprised Stephen of
the juicy details. Between the insults heaped on them by two kings and the notion of an assassin skulking about the rafters of Nonancourt Castle, an assassin they were expected to somehow unmask, Drake and Stephen were in spiteful moods.

Taking up the brothers on either side, Baldwin de Béthune, André de Chauvigny, Tancrede d’Évreux
, and Guillaume de Fors—all trusted knights in Richard’s service—took it upon themselves to dash those moods by the sharing of camaraderie, wine, and ribbing. The brothers swapped punches and lighthearted cursing with the king’s declared favorites and settled shiftlessly onto the turf. Several wineskins, somehow always full, flowed from fist to fist and gullet to gullet. As the sun began to sink, the knights sang along with the troubadour’s songs. And though the lutes and rebecs were mellifluous and on key, their voices were slurred and drunkenly off-key. Laughter tripped along like a stream, sputtering now and then in harmonizing melody and intensifying in direct proportion to the wine consumed. Drake and Stephen added to the merriment by trading bawdy prose composed in the spirit of the moment.

“Ah,” sighed Drake,
an elbow dug into the ground and his hand waving above him, “to mount a beauteous white mare in a single leap, straddle legs on either side of her bountiful girth, and with the heels of one’s boots, kick the flanks of her rounded hips until she screams for mercy but begs for more.”

Stephen allowed no opportunity for any one man to recover. “Afterwards to plunge the sword of ardor into that sweet golden valley between furry mounds of pure perfection and ride the sun-kissed mare from the owl’s hoot to the cock’s crow, not once taking a moment’s rest
. That is, if one has the stamina.”

“And then,” bellowed Drake, feeding the laughter, “to crawl off to bed and sleep out the
day, dreaming of a blade honed sharp from the fire of delight only to be cruelly quenched in a waterfall of ice.”

Giggling themselves witless, six knights removed their belts and put aside their swords. Wineskins were
brought to parted lips and drained. The western sky turned opaline. The knights grew as mellow as the setting sun.

Escorted by guards, squires
, and servants, the kings of England and France arrived amidst laughter and song. A raised platform providing elevated sight lines awaited their occupancy. An elite cortège of intimates joined the kings on the torch-lit scaffolding. On Richard’s side, his brothers: John resplendent in rubies and pearls, and Geoffrey severe in black. On Philippe’s side: Comte Thibaud of Blois, the king’s uncle, and Andreas of Champagne, the royal chaplain.

Trailing the royals, the retinues of both courts trickled onto the site along with platters of foodstuff, hampers of bread
, and casks of wine. Nobles, bishops, and knights rambled below the reviewing stand, keeping warm near the cook fires while conversing idly, laughing raucously, and drinking liberally of Anjou wine,
les vins pour la mer
.

Bertran de Born, chevalier and trouvère, arrived with his troupe of hard-bitten knights. Richard’s watchdog Mercadier
, along with his mean-spirited mercenaries, entertained themselves apart. Philippe’s premiere knight Guillaume des Barres and his foul-mouthed followers took up quarters opposite. The melodic disharmony increased fourfold.

Queen Eleanor and her ladies-in-waiting were welcome additions to the festivities, swathed as they were in every color of the rainbow. Climbing to the dais in a babble of
merry voices, they meandered idly across the clattering boards, relaxed on padded benches, or stood expectantly at the edge of the platform, observing all from behind protective rails while anticipating the true entertainment of the night. From their lowlier-than-low vantage points, Drake and the other men admired the fair sex from afar, sampled wine with every ladylike nuance, and giggled raucously. Life did not get much better than this.

Among the sweet young faces inhaling
nature and exhaling laughter, Alais de Capét’s shone the brightest. She stole occasional glances in Stephen’s direction, glances Stephen feigned to ignore. Drake backhanded his brother on the arm.

“She thinks I’m you
,” was Stephen’s lame defense.

“
I dare you, brother mine, to convince Richard of that,” Drake said, tipping back a wineskin. “Or,” he said, licking his lips and sniggering, “you could marry Matilda of Angoulême in my stead whilst I go on my merry way to do whatever I damned well please.”

“I hear tell she’s short, fat
, and pruny.”

Drake grunted derision and bolstered himself with more drink.

“You only need look at her once …”

“On our marriage day?”

“Bed her twice …”

“For good measure?”

“And banish her to a castle tower for the remainder of her natural days.”

“Or
the rest of my natural days, whichever comes first. Most likely mine.” Drake held out the wineskin. “Does it taste like wine to you?”

Stephen
took a generous taste and afterwards, shrugged. “It’s definitely wine.”

“Isn’t wine supposed to
make the world a better place and turn you into somebody you’re not?”

“You will always be Drake fitzAlan, a man whose destiny cannot be avoided, unless you wish to become me.”

“We’ve tried that many a time.”

“And still cannot escape fate.”

“Or the order of our birth,” Drake allowed.

The bounty was generous and varied. As it was a Friday
and the Lenten season as well as the Feast of St Eugenia, salmon was being grilled over the cook fires. Other dishes enlivening the palate and satisfying the belly had been prepared beforehand. Pike in galentyne with a cinnamon-and-onion sauce. Crayfish and herring. Blancmange. Bream stew. Tourteletes made of minced figs, rolled in pastry, and fried. Plenty of sops to scoop up the fish. And tardpolane pies filled with dates, almonds, figs, raisins, and cheese.

Béthune and Chauvigny
delivered the platters, but d’Évreux, who had gone with them, became pleasantly ensnared by one of the preening ladies-in-waiting, her laughter mincing and her eyes flirtatious. The five remaining knights circled the feast frond-like and used fingers as forks and tongues as spoons.

“You know she takes a different lover to bed every other Sunday
excepting Pasch,” Chauvigny said.

Drake said, “Matilda of Angoulême?”

“Get your mind off that cow,” Béthune said. “No, the one smirking at your brother.”

Stephen gazed up at Alais Capét, his eyes slack and indifferent. “What does she do on Pasch?”

“Three men. At once. One fore, one aft, and one to suck her toes.”

The fitzAlan squire, a lad of fifteen quickly
approaching the exalted age of sixteen, scurried energetically to and fro. Outfitted in a tunic of vivid sorrel that nearly matched the locks of his hair, Devon of Wheeling brought his charges the best filets of fish, the tastiest morsels of cheese, the most savory sweetmeats, and goblets filled to overflow. One day the face would not be so open or trusting, but Drake and Stephen loved him like a little brother and took turns training the eager lad in the ways of the chevalier. Someday, a day that would arrive sooner than either brother wished, they would dub him knight in the same manner Richard had dubbed the brothers fitzAlan knights August last. In return, they would receive the same unbounded loyalty and faithful submission, just as it had gone for countless generations before them.

A harmless pebble skimmed past Drake’s head. When he glanced up, Mercadier’s
compatriots were guffawing. A different sort than even the most rough-and-tumble of knights,
routiers
as they were called, the mercenaries possessed neither homes nor attachments, and didn’t much hold to honor or loyalty. They earned their pay by being what they were: savage and foul. Often Brabançons and Flemings or nomadic outlaws hailing from every territory of the continent, they were reviled and feared by allies and enemies alike.

The wine having slipped past his gut and spilled into his legs, Drake tittered
even though he wasn’t amused.

S
ince Mercadier wasn’t anywhere about, the chafing persisted. One of the men, a dapper yellow-haired fellow and reasonably scrubbed as
routiers
went, nudged the lean fellow beside him. The lean fellow missing teeth. The pretty man wiped his mouth with the back of a grimy hand and sent forth a buttercup smile, infectiously depraved. Jerking his head in Drake’s direction, he made comment to a third man, who flashed a saber-toothed grin. On a dare, a knight in the French camp called out something crude. A rough voice answered. The sniping escalated.

The wind picked up. The air chilled. Drake drew his hair into a thong and lay back, pointing his nose sky
ward. He sighed volubly and put his thoughts on anything but Matilda of Angoulême and a few foul-mouthed
routiers
.

“I decided,” said Stephen.

“What?”

“I
’m not going on crusade.”

Drake propped his head onto a hand and studied his younger brother, who
refused to return the scrutiny. “I thought we settled that.”

“
We?”

“We decided you would make a poor monk.”

Stephen swirled his hand in the air. “Then I’ll become a troubadour, a singer of songs.”

“You took the cross
, as did I.” At Stephen’s silence, Drake sputtered and collapsed, irritably fitting his shoulders into the turf. “It’s the drink talking.”

“Far from it, brother mine.”

“But Richard …”

“—
won’t notice I’m missing until Cyprus. By then, it’ll be too late.”

“
He’ll take it out on me instead.” Drake looked askance at his brother. “Your decision doesn’t have anything to do with—”

“Philippe’s insults?” He shook his head. “
I’ve been thinking about it for a while. My mind’s made up.”

“I can’t go without you.”

“You can. You will.” Stephen drank from his cup and mused. “Two halves to a whole, that’s what we are to each other. But you’re the eldest. Your future is mapped out. You will inherit Itchendel. And now Angoulême, if Richard has his way, which he will. I can’t always be the brother of Drake fitzAlan. I want to know what it’s like to be Stephen fitzAlan, a man unto myself, whoever that turns out to be.”

Drake
was about to argue when Chauvigny tapped him on the shoulder. Several French knights, no more sober than the rest, were preparing for the exhibition. Mirth riding high in their hearts and wine flowing liberally through their veins, the men doffed helms to the ladies and curtsied with hands to hearts.

Ladylike g
iggles erupted and coquettish eyes rolled.

Once f
ully armored in hauberk, coif, and mailed greaves, the knights mounted warhorses with winks and whoops. Lances secure in their grips, they took turns smashing a quintain painted in the guise of an enemy Saracen. Too tipsy for the treacherous arm of the pirouetting infidel, three of the riders were summarily catapulted from their chargers. Each trick, whether successful or not, brought cheers from the men and cries of pleasure from the ladies.

The catcalling and ribbing between
des Barres’ knights and Mercadier’s mercenaries resumed. Obscene gestures were traded off. Mothers were indicted and fathers were damned. Returning from his flirtations, d’Évreux became an unwitting target but returned handily slur for slur.