Juliana Garnett (32 page)

Through the splash of murky water she heard Tré say, “Guard her well, Giles, and look to yourself.”

“Yea, my lord. God be with you.”

Looking up, she saw Tré against the rock, moonlight on his face and in his hair. As Giles bent to the pole, pushing the punt away from rock and into the current, she struggled upright.

Stunted bushes climbed the sandstone heights, silver-laced by the moon, waving slightly in the breeze. The same breeze carried Tré’s farewell after her:

“I would have loved you well, Jane of Ravenshed.…”

Realization struck hard, a knife to the heart, and she suddenly knew the truth: disaster. His life was forfeit.

She scrambled to the back of the punt, her movements rocking it violently. Giles caught her by the arm when she put a foot on the rail.

“My lady—do not render his sacrifice in vain.”

He released her, and she slowly sank back into the bottom of the small vessel, skirts billowing around her. As the craft slipped through the water, pole dipping and pushing with a soft
plash
on the river bottom, she stared at the now empty rock where Tré had stood.

Pitted rock, with holes like vacant eye sockets, stared back. And she felt the slow dying inside her, the anguish of loss a vibrant reminder that she would never be the same.

25
 

True Angevin, John reacted predictably. Echoes of the king’s rage were heard and felt through the entire castle.

Guy de Beaufort leaned against a wall in the great hall and listened helplessly as John condemned Tré to death.

A shudder racked Guy when the king promised a list of torments to be suffered before the final release of death was granted.

Through it all, Tré gave no indication by word or even the flicker of an eyelash that he heard or cared what was to be done to him.

Goaded, the king at last leaned forward, hands fisted on the arms of his high-backed chair. “You will not be so quiet while the flesh is flayed from your bones, Devaux. It should be entertaining to hear you squeal like an October pig.”

A murmur undulated through the throng of barons; it was plain that they disapproved of the king’s intent. Guy watched them, saw Adam de Lincoln exchange glances with Walter Foliot. Even the Saxon barons looked disturbed. Did Tré see?

He must have, for he looked at last at the king; his bruised mouth lifted in a faint smile. “Sire, do to me what you will. It is no more than has already been done these past years. So, too, did you flay me with the villainy of my overlord.”

“Welburn betrayed the crown as well.”

“Yet he is restored to his lands.”

John’s mouth twitched; his eyes narrowed. “It is so. We have seen fit to restore Welburn to his former lands and title, and grant him lands deseisined from faithless barons. Think you he will cherish Brayeton as greatly as you have, Devaux?”

Tré recoiled visibly. The king smiled with satisfaction and sat back; he beckoned his steward forward. “See it done, Gilbert.”

“Yea, sire.”

Quill scratched on parchment, the scribe writing frantically to keep up.

At the far end of the hall was a small commotion of new arrivals. The news of Jane’s escape and Tré’s arrest had not taken long to spread through Nottingham. Guy sucked in a deep breath, steeled himself against a wave of pain. He searched his brain for a solution, anything that would end this before the awful conclusion John desired.

“Sirs,” Tré said as he glanced around at the gathered barons, “observe the example I set for you. I have been played false, first by my overlord, then by my king. For this, and the release of a baron’s widow whose main crime is owning lands that the king covets, I am to be put to death. Think you that if your lands come under the king’s covetous eye, will he not do the same to you?”

Furious, John swung his gaze around the hall, called for an instant judgment. Not a baron moved, except those who stepped back in refusal. Devaux’s peers would not judge him. Deseisined he might be, but no baron present wanted to risk the dangerous precedent of conviction without cause.

Heavy silence descended, lingered in grim suspension. A moment’s hope sparked; Guy courted it gladly.
If no baron here speaks against Tré, the king must surely free him
.…

“I judge him guilty, sire.”

The words rang out into the hall, splitting silence and crowd as sharply as a crack of lightning. Men parted to allow the speaker to step through. Guy went tense as his gaze shifted from the approaching baron to the man just behind him—Gervaise Gaudet.

John leaned forward again, a glitter of triumph in his eyes as he fixed them on the baron before the dais. “Speak thy name so that all may hear.”

“Walter of Gedling, Lord of Dunham and Kelham,” he said. The men around him muttered in disquietude. Dunham met it calmly. His gaze swept the hall, paused briefly, then moved to where Guy stood against the wall. Spite gleamed in blue eyes, mouth thinned with satisfaction. “A baron and a peer, sire, and I judge Lord Devaux guilty of obstructing your justice.”

Guy pushed away from the wall; fury vibrated in his battered muscles, guilt spliced his heart.
He knows about Lissa and strikes at me through Tré
.…

Before he could speak, another baron came forward; red hair gleamed in hazy light. Gilbert of Oxton claimed the king’s attention. “Sire, Lord Dunham does not speak for all barons present. We do not judge Lord Devaux or offer our condemnation. It is our desire that the matter be presented before the chief justiciar at the next council.”

Shock rendered Guy motionless. Such support from Saxon barons was unexpected. Nor did it seem to please Gaudet and Dunham, who briefly conferred before turning back to the king. John’s scowl was evidence of his own displeasure.

Walter of Gedling took a deliberate step forward, while Gaudet beckoned to the king’s seneschal.

Dunham spoke Norman French, fluid words that fell like stones on the ears of all present: “I offer a champion for trial by combat, if it pleases you, sire.”

“It would please
me
,” Tré said into the silence, and glanced at the king. “I will fight whomever Dunham presents in his place. I am willing to prove my innocence and take back my title and lands.”

Despite his ire, it was obvious that the king did not want to risk losing such profitable revenues. He fidgeted, eyes dark slits, and chewed a nail as he regarded the barons. Then he laughed, a harsh sound.

“By God’s teeth, it seems you have more courage than logic, Devaux. It would make little sense for me to grant a trial by combat when you are adjudged guilty as my appointed official.”
Eyes shifted, widened a bit. “Yet, as high sheriff instead of baron, you have no more rights—”

Swiftly, “But I am a baron, sire, deseisined of my lands and title, appointed sheriff only by your decree. It is a fact that cannot be altered or ignored.”

“By your leave, sire,” Dunham said again, smoothly, with a subtle smile, “a trial by combat would end this farce.”

“Yea, and may well set free this treacherous baron,” the king snapped. “If triumphant he will join other northern barons who seek to leach my coffers with constant rebellions and refusals to pay proper scutage.”

The king’s seneschal leaned forward, spoke softly into John’s ear, then stepped back. Arrested, the king swung his gaze back to Dunham.

“Speak, Walter of Gedling. We will consider your proposal.”

“If Lord Devaux so agrees, a trial by combat with a champion of your choice will settle all, sire.”

“I agree.” Tré shot Dunham a contemptuous look. “I will fight any man of your choosing.”

“To the death—
jouste à l’outrance.
”

“Yea, to the death most willingly, my lord Dunham.”

King John sat back with satisfaction in his eyes, nodded. “Then I propose that it be done.” He steepled his hands, regarded the hall for a long moment. Then, voice raised, he said, “Sir Guy de Beaufort, come forward as champion against Devaux, and you will be granted lands and title for a victory. Refuse, and royal judgment will be levied against him as high sheriff and treasonous baron.”

Tension gripped the hall, held it in thrall to uneasy anticipation. Not yet Prime, it seemed not another person could be squeezed into the crowded aisles.

Appalled, Guy heard Tré’s angry protest that he could not be made to fight his own liege man, and the king’s smooth rejoinder that it was a free choice, not a command.

“What say you, Guy de Beaufort?” John offered with malice in his eyes. “When you are recovered, will you lend Devaux the chance for redemption? A title and lands are the prize for the winner … worthy reward for a victory well fought.”

In the space of a heartbeat, Guy saw the implications.
Refuse, and Tré would die a tormented death. Agree, and he would face the man he loved as a brother over drawn swords. It did not take him long to decide.

Stepping forward, moving stiffly with his bandaged arm and hand, he bowed to the merciless king. “I agree, sire.”

“You are a fool, Guy.” Tré stared out the window of the chamber that was his cell. Anguish clogged his throat, made his words harsh. “I refuse to fight you.”

“You swore before witnesses to fight a champion of the king’s choice. It is beyond either of us now.”

Bitter truth. “I regret not killing Gaudet when I had the chance. He is behind this.”

“Walter of Gedling was the monk I heard with Gaudet that day,” Guy said heavily. “I thought it was Welburn.”

“Odd, that the lady did not recognize her husband’s voice,” Tré observed.

Guy muttered a soft oath. “Treacherous lady … she claims she did not.”

“And you do not believe her.”

“Nay, I do not.” He paused, said acidly, “I should have listened to you. Faithless female betrayed us all—even her own cousin—with her silence. She pleads fear of her husband, when it should be me she feared most.”

“Absolution, Guy. Forgive the lady, for she is like most women and cannot withstand the storm.”

“I cannot. It took great restraint to keep my hands from her throat.”

Rain fell outside; a soft patter on stone, turning the outer bailey to mud. Beyond the town walls, the spires of Sherwood Forest were hidden in gray mist. He thought of Jane, turned to look at Guy.

“Do you have word of Lady Neville?”

“Giles sent word he escorted her to the Blidworth Bottoms, where she insisted he leave her. She is not at the manor, though the king did send his guard there to search. I hope she has sought refuge in a nunnery.”

Tré spread his hand on the stone ledge of the window; it was cool beneath his fingers, a reminder that he still had the capacity to feel. Since watching Jane slip away in the punt with Giles, he had thought himself more dead than alive.

“I ask you again,” Guy said softly, “to flee England and let the king’s rage cool. There are barons who side with you, and will offer you sanctuary.”

“Flee like a hound with my tail between my legs? I have never run. It summons to mind my contempt for barons like Robert FitzWalter and Eustace de Vesci who betrayed the king, then fled. I would rather die than live an hour as a coward.” He stared out the window. “We are too well watched, Guy. There is no escape, even should I agree.”

“The king and barons return from Clipstone Palace on the morrow,” Guy said, an abrupt warning that time was running out. “As he must return soon to Bishopstoke, the contest is set to begin within an hour of his arrival here. A priest has been sent for to offer us last sacraments.”

“John wastes no time.” He turned to gaze at Guy. Strain marked the knight’s face; hazel eyes were shadowed, grooves cut deep on each side of his mouth. “Guy. You are still my liege man, bound by oath to obey me. I hold you to your vow to watch after the lady Jane when I am dead.”

Silence fell between them; Guy’s face reflected sorrow. He shook his head slowly. “I am a landless knight, with naught in this world of my own. My death will be marked by no one. The lady loves you. To take you from her would be far more cruel than anything I have ever done.”

A cold chill seized him as he stared at Guy; he knew what was intended. It was intolerable. “Do not defy me. I will not live with your blood upon my hands.”

Anguished: “And you think it more easy for me? You have been my liege lord and my friend far too long.
Christus
, I curse the devious mind that set us to this pass, for we are neither one deserving of such torment.”

A soft scratching sound behind them summoned their attention to the chamber door. It swayed inward on creaking hinges.

“My sons,” came a rusty voice from within the depths of a cowl, “I find you both too willing to die needlessly for the whim of a king. Mortal sins of pride.”

Shock rendered Tré speechless. The portly monk stepped into the room, shut the door softly behind him, and leaned against it.

Finding his tongue, Tré said harshly, “It is the duty of a monk to offer redemption, not judgment.”

“What if I offer liberty?”

“That is not your prerogative.”

Laughter rasped; the monk moved forward nimbly for such a corpulent man. “I have God’s authority—and that of the abbot—to see you safely away if you choose life over a vain death.”