The Last Arrow RH3 (28 page)

Malagane gave the wine in his cup a thoughtful swirl. "I confess, I wondered about that myself, but then I reasoned: one of the strongest arguments against Arthur of Brittany becoming king was the fact he had never set foot on English soil, had never heard the voice of the English people, had never acted upon a thought that did not first come from King Philip's head. If Eleanor is indeed alive, and if she did elect to remain in England to better acquaint herself with the ways of her English subjects, it will be seen as a repudiation of her brother's French alliances; further, that she has chosen to sever ties completely with Philip. Her claim to the English throne is valid and stands before John's. The barons might well be desperate enough to accept her, especially if she agrees to marry a consort of their choosing and thus put the balance of power in their hands. In that unhappy event, England would have a beautiful young queen and Prince Louis, who is all but ready to lead his army across the Channel and assume the role of regent, would be left waving his flags from the shores of Normandy."

"William Marshal would never accept her... would he?"

"Pembroke is a realist. He can see the kingdom breaking apart before his eyes; civil war is inevitable if something is not done to salvage the dignity of the throne. The barons are committed to ousting John, and he has watched their numbers grow from a handful to an army, gaining strength and credibility every day. Even the common people have begun to support the notion of inviting Prince Louis to assume the throne—which is what we have been striving to accomplish these many years," he added, his eyes gleaming zealously. "To unite the people of England and France under one flag, one rule!"

Some of the gleam faded as he gazed down at the body again. "But suppose ... just suppose the Marshal has been hiding and protecting a legitimate claimant to the throne all these years? Not just any claimant, mind you, but a young, innocent woman of impeccable virtue whose blood ran in the veins of the two golden kings the people so loved and admired. A spirited woman as well, brave beyond measure to have lived in England all these years when the faintest breath of her existence would have drawn an assassin's knife. A woman so beautiful in countenance she was likened to a pearl. The Pearl of Brittany she was called. A gem of incalculable value who could be used now to end the threat of civil war and unite all of England under the Plantagenet lions again."

"You think William Marshal would condone such a thing?"

"No," Malagane said bluntly. "Not himself. Not without breaking his solemn oath of fealty to the king, and that he would never do."

"Then what- ?"

"Such is the curse of most men with rigid codes of honor: how do they adhere to a righteous principle when all the virtues of sentiment, reason, logic, and nobility tell them their way is wrong?"

Since Solange did not possess any of these qualities in any abundance, it was left to Malagane to supply the answer.

"They would appeal to men of similar noble qualities to help wrest them of the problem. In this case, a man not

'constrained' by any oath to the English king, but whose life has been irrevocably bound to the queens and princesses of Aquitaine and Brittany."

"The Black Wolf," she whispered in awe. "Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer."

"Can you imagine," Malagane said, his voice strained beyond comprehension itself, "the power he would have if Eleanor of Brittany became Queen of England? Between him and his bastard son FitzRandwulf, they already control most of Blois and Touraine. The Aquitaine would instantly pledge loyalty to the English throne, as would Brittany, Poitou, Maine, and Angouleme. With the black-and-gold leading her armies, Eleanor would take back all of Normandy and Philip would be driven back behind the borders of Paris."

Solange looked appalled. "Surely ... we cannot let this happen! There must be something we can do to prevent it!"

"The only way to prevent it," he said tautly, "is to insure Eleanor of Brittany never becomes queen, is never given the opportunity to rally the English barons, is never permitted to become more than the romantic, tragic Lost Princess of legend."

"We have to find the bitch and kill her," Solange said succinctly.

"Crudely put, but wisely said, for by the same token, if we remove any hope of a rallying point for the barons, they will have no choice but to accept Louis as king." "John has a son," Solange pointed out. "A seven-year-old child!

Where would the logic be in deposing a king and putting a babe on the throne? No, the barons want John out of the way and strong leadership restored to the throne. They have watched him squander almost all of their possessions and territories in Normandy and France, and may see the possibility of having their castles and lands here returned if Louis takes the throne. Conversely, there will be lands, castles, titles falling into the hands of those who have remained steadfast and loyal to the French cause all these years. Men like ... me," he added proudly, "who have never faltered in our efforts to see the two countries united under the House of Capet! For that"—he slammed his fist on the table, scattering a small clutch of rats that were feeding beneath—"I will not let some half-forgotten princess spoil our plans now!"

"Half forgotten and well hidden all these years," Solange reminded him.

"Your next question, of course, is how do we find her?"

"It would seem to pose a small problem," she agreed.

"Not if you know where to look."

She puzzled over his smug smile for a moment then a green light suddenly flared in her eyes and she joined him in staring down at the body. " 'Remove the pearl from Nottingham,' " she quoted. "The pearl... the Pearl of Brittany!

They have hidden the Pearl of Brittany in Nottingham!" Her exuberance suffered a momentary setback as she looked up at him. "But where in Nottingham?"

"Where could a woman remain hidden away for eleven years, isolated from intrusion by the outside world?"

"A convent? But there must be hundreds of them in middle England."

"Ahh, but how many would have once come under the patronage of Lucien Wardieu, Baron de Gournay?"

"Wardieu? There is another plague of Wardieus in England?"

He laughed. "Only the one plague, my dear, but of course you are too young to know Lucien Wardieu as anything other than Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer."

"Christ Jesus!" She gasped. "Is there no end to this web?"

"None. Unless we tear it down and insure it can never be spun again."

"To do that, you would have to destroy the Black Wolf." "The Wolf is all but a cripple," Malagane said, dismissing his importance with a flick of his wrist. "He needs sticks to walk with and barely has the strength to stand on his own and piss. The real power of the black-and-gold is held in the hands of his sons, the vaunted heroes of Roche-au-Moines, the shining pantheon of chivalry and courage in mortal guise—three of whom, as it happens, could well be inside the walls of the chateau as we speak."

"They have come to Gaillard to play at jousting while their precious Pearl is in danger?"

"They may not know it yet."

She looked dubious. "We may have intercepted the Welshman, but would a message of this importance be entrusted to only one courier? For all we know, another has already been delivered to Amboise and the heroes are halfway to England!"

"If there were any changes to their plans, I would have known by now. And besides, their pennons were seen on the road early this morning. They are here, all right. I can feel their arrogance in the air."

Solange regarded him closely. "You are not thinking of doing anything foolhardy, are you, my love? Cripple or not, if the Black Wolf of Amboise even suspected you of plotting to kill his sons, he would raze Gaillard to the ground and roast your liver over the rubble."

"I have no intentions of killing all of them; only the one who poses the greatest threat to our immediate plans."

"Robert Wardieu," she surmised.

"The heir and champion of champions," he concurred dryly. "Without him to control them, the other two are hotheaded and careless; they will get themselves killed cuckolding some intolerant husband and spare us the bother.

Lord Robert is their anchor. Cut him loose and the others will drift wildly into the wind."

"Have you someone in mind capable—or willing—to wield the axe?"

"As it happens, the matter is already well in hand." His gaze was drawn to the arched stone portal at the far side of the vast chamber. There, a soft bloom of light could be seen growing brighter, accompanied by the sound of footsteps grating on the stone steps. "Behold, my dear. Gerome has come at last. And with him, hopefully, the solution to our little problem."

As if on cue, two men came through the entryway, but only Gerome de Saintonge came forward out of the shadows.

He carried a smoking pitch torch in front of him, the glare from the sputtering flame caused his yellow hair and gold surcoat to blaze brilliantly against the gloom and to temporarily blind both Solange and Malagane as he approached.

Eyes that were a dull blue imitation of his father's went first to the lifeless body on the table, then to Solange, who had moved discreetly behind Malagane's shoulder to shield herself from the bright torchlight.

"Forgive me," he said, offering a mock bow. "I forget you prefer the comfort of darkness."

He doused the offending instrument in the water barrel, releasing a boiling foment of hissing bubbles and a huge cloud of steam into the air. "Still toying with the Welshman?"

"Until a short while ago," Malagane nodded. "Alas, he did not bear up very well."

"Few men do under the skillful renderings of our demoiselle tortionnaire."

Malagane's eyes were still scorched by the effects of the light, and he could distinguish little more than the vague outline of a man standing back in the shadows. "You were successful? You had no trouble finding him?"

"He found me, actually." Gerome turned and raised his hand. "Come, my lord. Meet your host and my father, Bertrand Malagane, Count of Saintonge."

Malagane waited, unaware he was holding his breath as the newcomer entered the dull ring of light cast by the horn lantern. He had been given a rough description for identification sake, but nothing had prepared him for the sheer menacing size of the man. He was dressed all in black, from his boots to his hose to his tunic. His hair was black as well, carelessly cut and left loose to flow around his massive shoulders. A stray reflection, or some other trick of the light, caused his eyes to glow out of the dark long before the rest of him took shape. Like a big cat emerging from the shadows, the eyes were all that were visible, steady and unblinking. A pale gray-green they were, like the luminous phosphorescence on a moon-washed sea.

Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay." Malagane reined in his excitement with an effort. "I have heard a great deal about you. We are flattered you could find your way to accept our invitation to attend."

"The invitation did not come without flattery of its own," Griffyn replied.

"Ah, yes." The count gave Gerome a curt nod and the yellow-haired knight melted back into the shadows, returning with a helmet-sized leather chest he had retrieved from a nearby table. A flick of a squared thumbnail freed the hasp and he lifted the lid, tilting the contents into the warm glow of light from the horn lantern. It was filled with coins.

Hundreds of them. All minted with the curly-haired likeness of Henry II.

"A thousand marks was the agreed price, I believe? I trust you have no objection to receiving it in English sterling rather than Norman deniers?"

"Why would I object to receiving greater value for my coin?"

Malagane chuckled. "Why indeed?"

He saw where the knight's gaze had strayed and he invited Solange forward for an introduction. For her part, she had already finished her inspection and decided this was no ordinary mercenary, no ordinary sword for hire. The wool of his hose was as tight and smooth a weave as Malagane's, his tunic was a dark hunting green, not black, and made of such tender doeskin it could be mistaken for velvet. His skin was as bronzed as a peasant's, yet the face ... the face was anything but common or loutish. It was handsome in a way that almost stripped the breath from her throat, and she reacted the way she always reacted to an object of such obvious sexual promise. The flesh across her breasts grew taut, the nipples puckered and stiffened into visible prominence beneath the silk of her cotte, and her murmured greeting came out in a low, rasping growl.

"May we offer you some wine, my lord?"

"Wine would sweeten the mood considerably, thank you."

She crossed deliberately in front of him and slipped into the shadows, the hem of her cotte reduced to a transparent mist around her ankles. The cotte itself was made of the finest cream-colored Syrian baudekin, a delicate cloth woven with threads of pure gold that caught what little light there was and shimmered around every curve and indent of her body.

Griffyn's eyes started to follow her, as she expected they would, but when she turned, he was not looking at her but at the ravaged body splayed limp upon the table.