The Warrior's Game (22 page)

Outlined against a now pewter sky was the abbey church’s tower, its square outline solid against the ragged clouds above it. Arched openings had been carved into the tower's side, marking the spiral of the stair that led from sanctuary to the bell's at the top. Escaping through these openings to ride the rush of the wind over the walls was the haunting sound of men chanting out the Vesper service.

As they reached the arch of stone that marked the abbey’s main gateway Sir Enguerran drew his horse to an abrupt halt and straightened with a start in his saddle. “What’s this?” he croaked.

Michel! Ami jerked to the side to look at the gateway. Michel wasn't there.

Indeed, no man stood near the gate, not even the porter, although one of the gate's twin doors stood wide in defiance of the deepening night. The emptiness of the gateway closed its hand around Ami, sapping the strength from her muscles and the life from her heart. She’d gambled all on one man and lost everything, her name, her repute, her future, and any hope for happiness.

“Why is the gate open?” Enguerran asked, his voice thick with exhaustion and illness. He swayed in the saddle as he sought to look behind him. His eyes were glassy and his skin glowed with unnatural heat. It was clear to anyone watching that he now fevered in earnest.

“Perhaps they know that we come, sir,” Edwin suggested, concern for his master filling his voice.

He urged their horse forward until it stood a little to the side of the knight's steed. Twice before Edwin had needed to steady his master when Enguerran seemed to be sliding from his saddle. Each time the knight had gruffly rebuffed the aid, insisting that he was well enough.

“Of course they do,” Roheise snapped. “I sent a man first thing this morning to warn the abbot that I would be arriving late in the day and that I expected them to prepare me a chamber in their guesthouse. Now move aside and let me pass.”

As she spoke she urged her horse to the other side of Sir Enguerran's piebald. That the mare still had life enough to dance around the bigger beast spoke well of its heritage. That Roheise boldly made her way into the compound when it was no place for a woman spoke to her arrogance. This was no place for a woman; every monastery kept a guesthouse outside its walls for female visitors.

The mare’s shoes rang against the entrance’s cobbled apron, the quieted as it found the hard-parked earth of courtyard proper. Sir Enguerran's piebald followed without its master's urging, determined to once again regain its rightful leadership. As Edwin urged their mount after the knight, following as Roheise led them toward a fine house to one side of the church, the rest of Sir Enguerran’s men trailed into the courtyard at their own lackadaisical pace.

Built upon a tall stone foundation, the abbot's residence rose nearly three storeys tall and was the equal of the goldsmith's abode in its building material. As with all such rural homes, whether in manor, abbey, or keep, the door to the house stood almost a man's height above the courtyard. However with holiness as the abbey's shield, the steps to the door were built of broad smooth stone rather than the more defensible and removable wood.

Two torches, their oily light casting a jaundiced glow onto the porch before the arched wooden door. A large window marked what must be its second-storey hall. For the now thick paneled shutters blocked that opening but their fit was off. The expensive golden light slipped through the gaps to lay a bold yellow pattern on the inky courtyard floor.

Roheise drew her horse to a halt near the bottom step. So accustomed was she to someone leaping forward to offer aid that she didn’t think to call out for assistance, only waited. Enguerran and Edwin stopped their horses nearby. Sir Enguerran tried to lift his leg to swing down from his horse, only to moan quietly and fall back into the saddle, clutching his arm close.

Edwin made a worried sound. “Dismount my lady, so I may help my master.” He threw the command over his shoulder at Ami, having long since forgotten his master's command that he was not to let her go just as he'd forgotten his determination to seduce her.

Here it was, God's own miracle, one she'd been sure could never happen. Ah, but now that it had, it came too late and bought her nothing.

Ami did as he bid. The moment her feet met the earth her legs took fire in pinpricks. Her knees buckled, threatening to spill her into the muck. She grabbed the edge of the saddle to hold her upright. Holy Mother! If she wanted to reach that porch she would have to crawl.

Edwin groaned as he dismounted after her. More accustomed to riding than Ami, he regained his mobility with a few shakes and kicks. Then, paying his captive no heed, he staggered over to assist Sir Enguerran.

Trapped where she stood, Ami watched as the knight more slid than swung off his horse. Edwin caught him just before he fell. The knight leaned heavily on the young man's arm.

“To the porch,” Enguerran managed to say, his voice a quiet rasp.

As the two men turned, Ami came face-to-face with a man who willed her dead. The torches spilled their yellowed light across Enguerran's face. Gray and brown stubble covered his unshaven cheeks. Night turned his eyes into black holes. His teeth glinted as his lip lifted in a sneer.

“I should have known when the king waved his bride price it meant I’d end up with something of equal value: nothing,” he spat out, coughing around his words, his voice a growling whisper. “No matter what I told that noble bitch over there,” the jerk of his head indicated Roheise, who was now glancing impatiently around the courtyard, “I know the truth. You laid with the mercenary, you whore. Don’t think you won't pay for the wrong you do me. Now, up the stairs with you. I want this farce finished.”

That shredded Ami's hopelessness. Her fists clenched. She commanded her foot to move, and it did. Its fellow followed, bringing her almost nose-to-nose with her neighbor. Both Edwin and his master leaned back, startled by her aggressive movement.

“By God, but I’ve had enough of men using me,” she snarled, not bothering to keep her voice low, “whether that man be you, using me as some shield, or John ,entertaining himself by tormenting me, or Michel, using me and then abandoning me to you with no hope of rescue. Hear me now, Enguerran d'Oilly. I won’t have you. Run, knight, run your fastest and I’ll still be the first to climb those stairs. By John’s word, if I reach that doorway before you, I can choose my own fate.”

Ami pivoted and started toward the steps, her feet still dragging more than she liked.

“I knew it! De Martigny took you!” Roheise yelled in triumph. She was excited enough to began dismounting without assistance.

“Nay, I took him,” Ami shouted in reply, no longer caring who heard what, as she shuffled grimly on toward the porch and what little choice was left to her.

“Stop her! Don’t let her say anything else,” Enguerran croaked in panic from behind Ami, but even frantic his voice was hardly more than a whisper.

Edwin released the knight to grab Ami by one arm. He started to haul her back toward him. She turned in his hold and, with all the might that remained to her, drove one foot into his shin.

The soldier yelped and fell back, only to stumble into Enguerran, colliding with the knight’s injured arm. Enguerran shrieked and crumpled to the courtyard floor.

Staggering into a run, her hems flying, Ami made her way to the lowest step. That her name and repute were destroyed, done in by John's unfair game, made her choice clear. Her mouth lifted in a tight little smile. John would get his royal whore, but it would cost him. She would find ways to make him pay and pay again for cheating her of all she’d ever wanted in life.

“Where are you going?” Roheise demanded, grabbing Ami as her intended sacrifice put her foot on the first stair.

Her heart on fire, Ami did just as Richard de la Beres had taught her, were she to be accosted. She closed one hand into a fist and drove it into the noblewoman’s midsection. Gagging, Roheise dropped to sit on the courtyard floor.

Boots scraping on the stone, Ami climbed to the porch, reaching it as the abbot's door opened. A tall man stepped out, closing the door behind him.

Haloed in the torchlight, Ami recognized him from her visit here. The abbot. His was a narrow Norman face, clean-shaven as monks were wont to be. He wore a habit with its cowl thrown back to reveal hair the same silver as the metal threads that wove a pleasing pattern around his habit's cuffs and hem. Hanging from a massive chain, a golden cross rested against his breast.

He reached out a hand to her. On one finger he wore a ring set with a glinting jewel the size of a partridge's egg. Ami took his hand, dipping her head briefly to make a pretense of kissing the stone that symbolized his right to rule this place, then stepped back from him.

“My lord abbot, I am Amicia de la Beres,” she informed him, raising her arm in front of her as she removed her hidden missive from her sleeve. “I pray you witness that I have arrived in your presence ahead of Sir Enguerran d’Oilly. Against that, His Majesty has given me the right to choose my own fate and I now demand that right.”

As she finished, she handed him the fold of parchment. Even in the uncertain torchlight she could see the damage her body's heat had done the seal. The wax had lost the imprint of the king’s seal to wear the pattern of her skin instead. Would that negate her right?

The abbot gave a nod and took the missive. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said, his voice smooth and musical.

“My lord abbot,” Roheise panted, staggering onto the porch, her arm clutched about her midsection. “Michel de Martigny used this woman against all that is right and proper. I believe he has also assaulted the men of my household guard. I demand you find that base and foreign mercenary and aid me in seeing that he suffers his rightful punishment for these outrages.”

The abbot held up a hand to stop her. “I can only deal with one woman at a time, Lady Roheise. Allow me to deal with Lady de la Beres’s difficulties before asking me to pay heed to your needs.”

A hiss of surprise escaped Roheise. “What is this, cousin? Ignore me at your peril for what I demand is nothing less than the will of Lord Geoffrey,” she said, referring to her powerful brother-by-marriage.

The churchman’s expression tightened at this not so subtle threat. “Be that as it may, Roheise, Lady de la Beres presently holds my attention.”

As Roheise gave an outraged gasp, the abbot turned toward the door. “Brother Martin?”

The door opened and a monk slipped through the opening and onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind him until it stood barely ajar. Slender and middle-aged, the circle of shaved skin at the top of his head gleaming in the torchlight, he studiously avoided looking at either woman on the porch as he tucked his hands into his wide sleeves and bowed his head before his superior. It was his manner more than anything else that named him his abbot’s chamberlain.

“Aye, my lord abbot?”

“Please lead Lady Roheise to the chamber she requested in the guesthouse. As you go, command Sir Enguerran's man to bear his master to our infirmary.”

Roheise’s eyes widened as she realized she and her demands were being ignored. “One hour, Maurice. If you do not come to me within the hour, you’ll regret it.” She turned and strode down the stairs, not waiting for the brother who was to be her escort.

Maurice of Thame watched his kinswoman go, a faint air of dislike clinging to his features. Only when he could see her no longer did he turn his attention to the parchment in his hand. With the wax yet soft it opened easily. He unfolded it, stared at its surface for a moment, then looked at Ami from over its top.

“So what fate was it you expected to claim with this when you arrived?” he asked in gentle question.

“I want to--” Ami started, intended to shout out that she would become the king’s whore only to stop and eye him in confusion.

Expected to claim? Tears welled at the fate she’d expected to claim upon this morning’s rising and now could not. Michel was either dead or he had proved more false than any man who'd ever tried to seduce her.

When she said nothing the abbot turned the parchment in his hands, holding it up so she could see its surface. Ami stared at an empty piece of vellum. Not so much as a greeting was scratched upon that skin.

Ami gawked, reading the message on that skin with ease. The king had played with her the way a lass made people of her poppets. For his own amusement he’d turned her into the hunted, letting her scurry about, thinking she'd something to gain when there was nothing. In that instant she was ready to call Roheise back and offer to do whatever the woman needed to see her king destroyed.

“That royal bitch’s son,” she snarled, hating John with all her heart.

The abbot smiled at her. “Having known our king’s mother I must respectfully disagree. She would have torn out her son’s liver if she’d lived to see this. But tell me, what were the choices you believed you’d have in this game of His Majesty’s?”

“If I arrived first I was to choose between entering a convent, becoming our king’s lover--” that sent the abbot’s eyebrows flying toward his hairline “--or marrying either Sir Enguerran d’Oilly or Sir Michel de Martigny.”

“I see,” the churchman said quietly. “And of these four, which would you have chosen.”

“Does it matter any longer, my lord?” Ami asked tiredly. “There were never any choices for me to make. Our king isn’t willing to free even a ward as inconsequential as me from his custody.”

All emotion drained from her as she spoke. All she wanted was a warm, private corner where she could rage, weep, and sleep for days without interruption. There was little chance of that. Her life was ruined beyond any hope of repair and on the morrow she would return to Winchester where she would rejoin the other wards. Only she would no longer have her name or her pride to protect her from the scorn of others.

“Humor me,” the abbot persisted. “Which fate would have been yours?”

The memory of waking this morn in that hut with Michel’s arm heavy on her shoulder made tears again sting at her eyes. She swallowed them. “I would have chosen to marry Sir Michel de Martigny.”