Dragon Tree (18 page)

“You are
welcome at Taniere, my lords,” Tamberlane said and touched the
reins to his horse, wheeling the big piebald around.

The leather of
de Langois’ saddle creaked as he turned to murmur a few words of
instruction to one of his men. When he was done and the younger man
had trotted away, he put a spur to his horse’s flank. His brother
and cousin, along with three other knights and their squires
followed at a casual pace, with Tamberlane’s guards falling into
step behind them.

De Langois'
slitted eyes moved constantly as they rode across the drawbridge,
assessing the height of the barbicans, the looming shadow of the
walls, the number of heads he counted peering through the
embrasures. As they passed under the portcullis, he noted that the
iron teeth gave less than a hands width of clearance to a mounted
man, and that the cables were wound so tightly in the winch that
the bars hummed with the tension.

He stared at
the carvings on both sides of the massive wooden gates as they
passed by. The doors were embossed front and back with dragons,
their bodies wound together in a thick coil that spread open at the
top like branches of a tree. The tree was split down the middle and
where the gates joined, the black iron claws could be locked
together. Aside from the defensive benefits, the carvings were so
intricate and lifelike that the dragons seemed to be glaring a
silent warning down at the visitors as they passed.

Once beneath
the portcullis, the small party rode directly across the outer ward
and through the arch to the inner bailey, where hostlers were
waiting to take the reins of the horses.

“This castle
is so far from the Roman road, I scarcely knew of its existence,”
Odo said when he dismounted.

“The solitude
suits my needs," Tamberlane said, casting a glance around the
ward.

Odo de Langois
removed his gauntlets, tugging one finger free at a time. He then
loosened his camail and pushed the mail hood back off his head,
revealing a shock of thick red hair stuck close to his head. A
quick raking with his fingers eased the tightness on his scalp and
left some of the greasy strands sticking straight up like spikes.
His eyes, the color of oiled iron, looked to the defenses of the
keep and the inner ward, while his nose, thin and hooked at the
tip, sniffed the air like a bloodhound trying to catch scent of his
prey.

“I confess I
have not felt hot water on my skin in nearly a fortnight,” he said,
slapping a glove across his thigh to dislodge some clinging mud.
“If your hospitality might extend that far, my lord, my men and I
would be most appreciative.”

Tamberlane
signalled to a lackey. “We will have a stoup of ale first, my lord,
by then the water in the bathhouse should be well heated."

“Excellent,
excellent! My tongue is dry enough to sand a plank.”

Tamberlane,
with Roland at his back, walked up the pentice and led the way into
the keep. Word of visitors had reached the hall well ahead of the
men and there were already flagons of ale and wine on the tables
set beside loaves of coarse barley bread. All of the knights, with
the exception of Odo and Rolf, took seats at one of the trestle
tables. Tamberlane invited the brothers to join him on the dais,
where there were varlets waiting with bowls of water that they
might wash their hands before breaking into the loaves of
bread.

Instead of
dipping his hands, Odo pushed the young boy aside, causing him to
stumble and slosh water down the front of his tunic. The knight
then drew his knife and stabbed into a loaf of bread, tearing away
a huge chunk which he proceeded to stuff into his mouth and wash
down with a full jacket of ale.

“Our victuals
over the past two weeks would make a mendicant weep,” he said, the
crumbs spitting from his lips, the ale glistening on his chin. “By
Saint George's grace, the softness of this bread is more welcome
than a woman's cunny."

“This
‘business’ that brings you to Taniere Castle,” Tamberlane said
after a moment. “You said it was of a personal nature?”

“Mmm.” Odo
nodded even as he curled his lip and spat a kernel of unground
barley onto the table. “It concerns the fickle nature of my wife,
Elizabeth. Despite my bowing to her every whim and pleasure,
despite my ability and desire to lavish her with wealth and
comforts beyond anything she could imagine, the sulky ingrate has
taken it upon herself to run away.”

Tamberlane’s
face remained blank and he was able to say with complete honesty,
“I am not familiar with any lady by that name, my lord, nor have
any errant wives come knocking on my gates.”

“I only
mention this as a matter of course, but you are aware, naturally,
that by law you would be required to surrender her to me if she
had.”

Tamberlane’s
long fingers stroked the side of his pewter mug, gathering beads of
condensation. “If I knew of the presence of Lady Elizabeth de
Langois here at Taniere, I would most certainly surrender her
forthwith.”

Odo continued
to chew thoughtfully, trying to gauge the expression in the cool,
steady green graze which struck him now as being remarkably similar
to the gaze of the dragons that had watched them as they passed
through the gates.

“Perhaps she
was seen in the village? She would be a difficult trick to
overlook. Slender as a wisp, with long flaxen hair, impertinent
eyes, and an over-bold mouth?”

Tamberlane
pursed his lips. “On my honor, I have not seen any woman hereabouts
who fulfills that description. The villagers hereabout are mostly
Saxon, with dark hair and darker eyes. A noblewoman, especially one
so fair as you describe would surely draw attention in a village of
barley growers and cabbage farmers. Roland—?”

The squire
stepped forward at once.

“Has anyone
remarked on the presence of a fair-haired noblewoman in the
village? Traveling...” he consulted with Odo by way of a glance.
“...surely not on her own, but with a companion?"

“She had an
accomplice. A foolhardy priest. But he left her off somewhere down
the road.”

"Alone? In
these woods? And you say she has been gone from your castle for how
long?"

Odo's eyes
narrowed. "Nigh on five weeks."

Tamberlane
leaned back in his chair and spread his hands. "Surely you can see
how unreasonable it would be to suppose a genteel noblewoman could
survive four weeks in these woods. Woods that you yourself remarked
as being full of outlaws."

"That was why
I thought to approach your gates," Odo said evenly. "In the hope
she might have sought protection."

Tamberlane
laughed outright. "Taniere is hardly a sanctuary for wayward
wives.”

“I have been
following the trail of whispers, some faint, some carrying a ring
of truth.” Odo's eyes glittered at the laughter and his hand
tightened around the hilt of his eating knife. “I was told she
sought comfort at the village that was so recently attacked and
burned."

Tamberlane
drew a deep breath. "Indeed, a sorry affair. The monks at the
nearby priory took upon themselves the burden of burying every soul
who dwelled there. I do not recall them making any mention of a
stranger amongst the tenants, nor any woman fitting the description
you gave."

Odo tapped his
fingers on the board, his eyes still glittering as he watched
Ciaran's face for any sign of evasion. "It would appear, then, that
she may have wriggled through the net again, slippery little eel
that she is.”

“It would
appear so. For rest assured, I have no use for rebellious wives
here and would happily be relieved of so troublesome a burden
whither it were a dictate of the law or not. In the meantime, rest
and eat your fill." He
signaled
for more ale. "And while you do, pray catch
me up on all the news from the outside world. We have so few
visitors, a stray pigeon that alights in the ward is cause for
rejoicing. What news of the king? The last we heard was that the
ransom had fallen well short of the mark despite the prince’s best
efforts, and the dowager queen was being pressed to sell the
Aquitaine to Leopold to win the king’s release.”

Odo de Langois
hesitated a moment longer, obviously reluctant to leave the subject
of his missing wife. “Your news is weeks old, friend, and sprinkled
with faery dust. The dowager would see all her sons dead before
bartering away her precious Aquitaine. As for the ransom, five tons
of silver has been collected and already delivered to the Austrian
knave.”

“It departed
England safely?”

“And why
should it not? The prince has been just as eager as his mother to
see the release of the king.”

The words
sounded ludicrous, even to a man who was loyal to Prince John. It
had taken nearly two years to raise the sum demanded for King
Richard’s release. During those two years John Lackland had done
nothing to aid the efforts of either his mother Eleanor or the
Bishop of Salisbury, Hubert Walter, in collecting the ransom.
Indeed, he had done everything he could, including theft and
murder, to prevent the silver ever reaching Austria.

His actions
had plunged all of England into a period of treachery and violence,
where greed outweighed loyalty and neighboring barons turned
against each other to the point of open rebellion. Those who sided
with John were promised great wealth, land, and power in return for
their support. Those who upheld their allegiance to Richard found
themselves arrested on imagined charges, their property seized,
their sons outlawed, their families cast from the gates like
peasants. Even the Archbishop of York, Richard’s bastard brother,
had been thrown into prison. William Longchamps, the king's
Chancellor, had fled to Europe days before an assassin’s knife
could silence his vocal dissent.

Prince John
had assumed the throne in all but name and had grown so fat and
comfortable in the position, he would have done anything in his
power to keep his brother prisoner at Durnstein. Nobles were
kidnapped and murdered, their deaths blamed on the roving bands of
outlaws who filled the forests—outlaws who were, for the most part,
men who had spoken out against Prince John and chose the forest
over being drawn and quartered. One such band was led by the nephew
of William the Marshal—Henry de Clare—and it was he, working in
concert with Salisbury and the dowager queen, who had turned the
tables on the prince’s thieves and taxmen, robbing them to raise
the bulk of the ransom.

Odo de Langois
was the prince’s man. His loyalties were as plain as the scarlet
boar emblazoned across his surcoat. The iron gray eyes did not look
to the walls and defenses of Taniere solely to search for an errant
wife. He looked with a greedy eye and an ambitious desire to add to
his holding of Belmane.

He had likely
already assessed the vaunted Dragonslayer as a threat and found him
sadly wanting. Despite the breadth of his shoulders and the
overbold contempt in his voice, Tamberlane’s reputation was founded
upon past deeds. In recent years he had done nothing but sit at his
table and drink mead. He was excommunicated by more than just the
church. Here in the depths of the forest, he was also
excommunicated from the outside world.

At the same
time, Odo had to acknowledge that such a man would not be inclined
to draw attention down upon himself by breaking the laws over
something so paltry as a runaway wife.

Even so, he
could not shake the feeling that something was not quite right.
There were too many shadows, too many corners and de Langois could
not shake the sensation of unseen eyes watching him. He had felt it
since they had crossed the draw and blamed it first on the dragons
guarding the gate, then on the eerie green eyes of his host. The
hall was large, and there were shadows everywhere. There was a
minstrel’s gallery high on the far wall, but so rarely used the
beams and pilasters were spun with veils of cobwebs. Any movement
there would stir them.

He stared up
into the blackness for a long moment, wondering at the cold
prickles that rose across his nape. The source was not resolved
until a finger of smoke, climbing from one of the brazier fires,
led his gaze to the wall above the hearth. There he saw the same
dragon tree as had been depicted on the front gates, the same
entwined creatures with their jaws open and their tongues curling
outward with ominously chilling realism. The carving was in
polished oak this time, breathtakingly lifelike, from the scaled
and twisted heads of the dragons to the six pairs of sightless eyes
that seemed to be staring right into the skull of Odo de
Langois.

They were the
kind of eyes that would follow a man whether he sat in the front of
the hall or the rear, whether he walked or stood perfectly
still.

They were, he
decided, the first thing he would dismantle and burn as soon as
possession of Taniere Castle fell into his hands.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Marak was
fairly certain Tamberlane would not betray Amaranth’s presence at
Taniere Castle. At least not until he’d had a chance to speak to
her further and learned the whys and wherefores.

He was not so
certain, however, that Amaranth would not betray herself.

They had
watched together from the gloom of the barbican as her husband and
Tamberlane had met on the shore. They were too far away for their
words to carry across the distance, but it seemed to be a
surprisingly amiable exchange. At the end of it, when Tamberlane
had led the other knights back across the draw, Marak had been more
intent upon watching Amie’s face than studying the men as they
filed past, and the changes he saw there surprised him more than
Tamberlane’s civility with Odo de Langois. The look of the lost,
fragile waif was gone and in its place was loathing in its purest
form.