The Winter King (31 page)

Sweeping his cloak aside, he took two steps towards Josse, who swiftly altered his position so that he stood immediately in front of Helewise. The move was instinctive; prompted, perhaps, by the experiences of a fighting life.

For he felt the threat, like a fist flying through the air towards him.

Lord Robert Wimarc spread his arms wide, like a good host offering the best his household could provide. Smiling benignly, first at Josse, then at Helewise, he said pleasantly, ‘And now, my lady, sir knight, it remains only to decide what we shall do with you.’

‘B
e
careful
!’ the man cried. ‘That hurts!’ Then, suddenly noticing the broad-shouldered, deep-chested, black-clad figure who had approached and stood silently watching, he muttered, ‘I’m sorry, my lord. It’s – it’s rather painful.’

The wounded man was seated on a stool, his chest bare, and Lady Richenza’s personal maidservant was applying a cloth wrung out in cold water to the huge bruise swiftly spreading across his back. The man in the costly black velvet robe leaned down to get a closer look. ‘Yes, I imagine it is,’ he agreed.

He bent down and picked up the mail shirt which the wounded man had been wearing beneath his outer garments, now lying discarded at his feet and half-hidden by the gorgeous scarlet tunic and the fur-trimmed cloak. The black-clad man weighed the mail shirt in his hands, inspecting the fine, linked steel rings. On the area which would have covered the left side of the wounded man’s back, some of the rings were slightly distorted, although that was the only visible damage. ‘The mail lived up to its reputation,’ the black-clad man observed. ‘It ought to be good: it cost me enough.’ He laughed softly, and the man with the bruise made a brave attempt to join in.

The man in black velvet suddenly crouched down, his hand on the wounded man’s arm. ‘You have just done me a great service, Matthias,’ he said gravely. ‘I selected you for your resemblance to your king, and you agreed to help in this deception. It was bravely done, and it shall not be forgotten.’ He held out a leather bag which, as it fell into Matthias’s hand, gave out the chink of coins.

Matthias attempted to rise, dropping his head in a bow. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

The black-clad man turned to leave, his mind already moving on to other matters. Then, as if struck by an afterthought, he turned back to Matthias. ‘Oh, and you can keep my scarlet tunic, too.’ He laughed again. ‘Something to remind you of the night you impersonated a king, and took a blade intended for him.’

Then, whistling quietly under his breath, King John walked away.

In the master guest suite at Medley, the king lay on the soft feather bed, thinking hard. He had dismissed his bodyguard – they had fussed round him once too often that night, and he had kicked the most insistent in the backside – and now, at last, he was alone. His men were not far away – he could hear them, moving about and muttering quietly just outside the door – but at least the room, empty but for himself, gave the illusion of solitude.

She’d been right. That fascinating, elusive woman – softly he said her name aloud: ‘Meggie’ – had warned him what was going to happen and, thank the good Lord, he had believed her. Entirely because of her, he was alive and unharmed, instead of lying dead on the stone-flagged floor of Medley Hall. There could be no doubt that the deadly blade would have inflicted a fatal wound: John had seen that vicious bruise on Matthias’s back. Had it not been for the mail shirt, the blade would have gone in between the ribs and, driven up at the right angle by a skilled hand, would have penetrated the heart.

They had told the king how his old friend Benedict de Vitré had died. If tonight’s would-be assassin was the same man (dear God, surely there could not be two!) then, but for Meggie’s warning, his victim would now be as dead as Benedict.

John did not often pray, unless by so doing there was some worldly advantage for him, such as being observed in his obedient piety by someone likely to be impressed into doing whatever he wanted of them. Had anyone dared to ask him, he might have confessed to doubting whether God in fact existed; the god of the ubiquitous, carping, nagging men of the church, anyway. But now, all alone in the luxuriously furnished room, the brazier in the corner warming it to a pleasantly balmy temperature, he sent up a word of thanks, to whoever or whatever might be listening, for the accident of fate that had brought him and Meggie together in the forest glade. He closed his eyes, and instantly her face formed in his mind. Smiling, he relaxed into the self-indulgence of memory.

When word had been brought to him that Benedict de Vitré was dead, he had resolved straight away to go down to Medley Hall. Attending his old friend’s funeral feast was a good enough excuse: the reasons behind it were rather more complex. Of course, John was aware how efficiently Benedict had been collecting taxes on his monarch’s behalf, an efficiency which, according to John’s spies, was closer to extortion. The man had been ruthless, and his brutality had spread down to infect the men who worked for him. Not that the king had objected. Money was money, and he always needed more.

He was also aware that Benedict had been robbing him. Now, briefly coming out of his reverie, he opened his eyes and glanced around the sumptuous room. Fabrics and furniture like these had not come from some local workshop. Added to that the brash new extensions that had been added to the mellow old house, the brilliant jewellery and the glorious gowns worn by Lady Richenza, the smart livery of the household servants, the crude extravagance of that evening’s food and drink, and the glass and silverware with which it had been served, and the obvious conclusion had to be that Benedict’s theft had been on a grand scale. John was still making up his mind how to retrieve what was rightfully his – an image of publicly stripping the young widow in the midst of her full household was quite tempting – but the one certainty in his mind was that he would regain every last penny. In addition, the officers he had ordered to go through Benedict’s accounts would report faithfully and accurately concerning the amassed revenues currently locked away in Medley’s cellar, and the king would take the lot away with him when he left.

His sudden decision to travel down a day or two before the funeral feast had been because he wanted to go hunting. The great forest perpetually beckoned, and the opportunity to answer its potent summons did not crop up nearly often enough. On the edge of the forest, too, was St Edmund’s Chapel, and somewhere nearby lived the mysterious woman who, even after a year, still danced in and out of his dreams.

They’d had a fine day’s hunting, he and the close band of companions he’d chosen to go with him. The forest had lived up to its reputation, and he had been more than satisfied with the chase. Augmenting the thrill of the hunt – and something known only to himself – was the secret awareness that deer and boar were not the only quarry he intended to pursue.

As the day drew towards its end, he had remarked to his party – in tones of well-simulated but false surprise – that they appeared to find themselves in the vicinity of St Edmund’s Chapel. Affecting nonchalance, he told his companions to go on to the hunting lodge where they were all putting up. ‘Don’t wait for me,’ he said, ‘it’s a chore and a bore, but, since we are close by, my conscience compels me to pay my respects at the chapel which my late and esteemed lady mother ordered built to commemorate the life and the amazingly heroic deeds of my beloved elder brother.’

One or two of those closest to him had suppressed smiles. They knew what he had thought of his mother and his brother. He had detailed his bodyguards to stand watch, looking down on to the abbey and the roads leading in and out. Then, his heart beating hard, he had gone to the chapel and waited. Nobody was there; nobody came to join him. Impatient, stricken with the first doubts (
what if she doesn’t come?
) he hurried out into the clearing, stopping on its perimeter and standing behind the concealing bulk of a mighty oak. Still nothing. Then an idea occurred to him: she was a creature of mystery, wasn’t she? Then surely the most likely place to find her was deep inside the forest. Suddenly confident, a smile spreading across his face, he turned his back on the glade and the daylight and plunged off into its dark depths. And, a little later, sitting propped against a particularly graceful birch tree, suddenly he knew without a doubt that she was near.

He could almost make himself believe that she had been on the lookout for him …

Lying on Benedict de Vitré’s luxuriously appointed guest bed, he gave himself up to the memory of those first few moments.

Presently, he turned his mind to what else had occurred between them.

‘You’re here because Lord Benedict is dead,’ she said. ‘I thought you would come.’

‘To pay my respects to my old friend?’ he suggested.

She smiled. ‘If you say so, my lord.’

She knew, though; there was no need to ask. Looking into her clear brown eyes – the setting sun had set sparkling lights dancing in them, he recalled – he wondered fleetingly if she thought the less of him, for using the excuse of honouring a loyal servant to cover up his urgent and rapacious desire to get his hands on every last penny that de Vitré owed him.
It does not matter what she thinks
, a cold voice said inside his head.

Attuned to her as he was, he sensed there was something she wanted to tell him. Then – and it had astounded him – she revealed that she stood accused of causing Benedict de Vitré’s death with a dangerously powerful potion.

He wondered why he had not been told of this. A cold, hard anger began to simmer deep inside him; when he returned to Medley, the fury would emerge. For now, there was her.

‘I did not kill him,’ she said. ‘It was I who discovered the wound that penetrated his heart and brought about his death. If my hand had indeed wielded the blade, why, in God’s name, would I have proclaimed its discovery?’

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Why indeed.’

‘Besides,’ she ploughed on, ‘I had no reason to kill him.’ He kept his eyes fixed to hers, willing her to continue. ‘Well, other than the fact that he was a savage bully,’ she added after a brief pause. ‘Quite ruthless and totally without compassion, in addition to which he was robbing you blind, keeping back a portion of everything he collected in your name to spend on himself, that pretty wife of his and that spectacularly garish new wing on the side of his house.’ She stopped. ‘
Oh!
’

He felt almost sorry for her. Never having experienced the method with which he extracted the truth from those tempted to hold it from him, she was, he realized, quite defenceless. Deliberately he softened his expression, and smiled at her.

‘Benedict de Vitré was a dishonest rogue,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, so I have reliably been informed.’

She was still staring at him. Now, he almost felt that it was
she
who was determined that
he
should say more … ‘I believe you,’ he said. Then, wanting to laugh with the pure joy of the moment, he added, ‘I can well believe you might want to kill a man, Meggie. But you would not do it by means of a poisoned potion. You would do it face to face, no doubt with that slender but extremely elegant blade that you carry by your side.’

With a quiet gasp (of dismay? But why should she have been dismayed?) she glanced down at the sword. He held out his hand, and she drew it, presenting it for his inspection.

It was a beautiful weapon, made by an outstanding craftsman. The hilt was bound with fine leather, stained with some subtle dye that gave it a purple hue. The colour, it was clear, had been chosen deliberately, for, running through the dull, grey steel of the slim blade with its very slight curve, was a sheen of violet.

‘Where did you get this?’ he asked, genuinely intrigued. He turned the sword over in his hands, watching the play of the light on the metal.

‘It was made in a forge in a Breton forest,’ she said. He detected a change in her voice. ‘On a bright day, when the sun on the peaty water made it dance with gold.’

‘Hm.’
Very poetic
, he thought. Then, in almost the same instant:
Made for her by someone she loves
.

Practised as he was in the art of love, he knew he was right.

He raised the sword and, stepping away from her, made a few sweeps through the air. The sword seemed to sing.

He glanced at her, and saw she had not taken her eyes off him. ‘My … it’s said all good swords should have a name,’ she said. ‘My blade is called Limestra.’

‘Limestra,’ he repeated, looking at her and raising one eyebrow.

She grinned. ‘No, I’d never heard it either. Apparently it means
purple
in Breton.’

Turning the hilt towards her, he handed back the sword. ‘I recall that, once, I offered to teach you swordplay,’ he remarked. He heard her quick intake of breath: she, too, remembered. He studied her very closely. ‘I imagine that, now you have your own instructor, there is no need.’

She met his eyes and did not look away.

‘I would not raise a sword to you, my lord,’ she whispered.

‘Your lord?’

She bowed; a graceful movement, her body supple as a willow whip.

She still held her sword in her hand. He drew the long hunting knife from its scabbard on his belt. It was only a hand’s breadth or two shorter than her blade. Slowly, deliberately, he drew it this way, then that, in a series of movements that were more like some formal, stately court dance. She responded, mirroring his actions, her blade meeting his, parrying, then, when she saw a gap, swiftly sweeping into it, yet always stopping short.

They moved closer and closer. Then, dropping his knife, he took her in his arms. As he had longed to do when first she came into the glade, he drew her close to touch his lips to hers.

Before, just now, there had been resistance; he had seen – or perhaps recalled – that sudden flash of blue, and in his memory the warning had rung out, clear as a sweet, high bell, that she was forbidden.

This time, he – she – ignored it.

Suddenly she wrestled herself out of his embrace, and a great sob broke out of her. She put her hands to her head, as if to contain some terrible thought or image. Briefly she closed her eyes, then opened them again. Violently she shook her head, as if in pain or terrible despair.