The Winter King (32 page)

‘What is it?’ he asked.

She began to speak, stopped, then took a deep breath and started again. ‘You are in danger,’ she said, her tone strangely detached. And, fluently, clearly, without a single hesitation, she described a hall, a high dais, gloriously clad lords and ladies, wildly extravagant amounts of food and wine.

And a silent assassin, who crept out of the shadows with a deadly blade in his hand.

Now King John lay on his soft bed, hands behind his head, letting the images – and the thrill of excitement and pleasure they had set off – fade and die.

She had warned him, and he had believed her. It had been fairly easy to find a man who looked sufficiently like him in colouring and stature to fool those who did not know him personally – the vast majority of those attending the feast – especially once Matthias had been decked in the king’s garments and jewels. Those who knew what he looked like were, of course, aware of the subterfuge. And, beneath the rich silks and velvets, Matthias had worn the mail which had turned the knife; the huge, purple bruise would fade, in time.

He had also worn, between the mail and the outer garments, a strange device: over the ribs that guarded the heart was a shoulder of pork, wrapped in a length of muslin wound tightly around his chest. It had been John’s idea: if indeed someone was out to kill him, he reasoned, then if they realized the first stab into the heart had been unsuccessful, they would be more than likely to go for the throat instead. Of course, it wouldn’t have mattered all that much if Matthias had died, but John liked a challenge, and the idea of outwitting his would-be killer appealed to him. Let the man believe he had succeeded; now
that
would be a triumph indeed.

The ruse had worked. In every single detail, the elaborate scheme had gone off without a hitch. And, because of Meggie, John was unharmed.

Eyes still closed, he brought to mind an image of her face. His hard, cruel features softened into a smile. He was going to have to decide how to thank her …

He allowed his imagination free rein for a while. Then, returning with an effort to reality, two thoughts occurred to him. The first was that, now that the assassin had acted again, only the obtuse or the biased could possibly go on doubting who had killed Benedict de Vitré: it was beyond reason that more than one man would operate in so exactly the same way. And it followed, of course, that this foolish idea of Benedict having been poisoned by a fatal potion was no longer credible.

The other thought – and now John was getting to his feet, drawing on his beautiful boots – was that it was time to find out if there was any news on the hunt for the man who had just tried to kill his sovereign lord. There damned well should be, he reflected, for he had dispatched orders to every sheriff within a ten-mile radius to organize search parties. John was still furious that the assassin had managed to escape. It wasn’t as if his guards had not been warned: they had been fully briefed to expect an attempt on the man sitting up on the dais, dressed in the king’s fine garments. Yet the would-be murderer had managed to creep round behind the dais, leap up, make what should have been his deadly stroke, and then melt away like a patch of shadow under the midday sun.

It had been skilfully done, John had to admit. Those blasted acrobats and tumblers had drawn every eye in the hall – he felt the hot rush of blood as he remembered one particular young woman, with a body as supple as a snake and a strangely beautiful face as seductive as a siren – and he wondered now if that had been the intention all along. He had thought it odd, to have entertainers at a funeral feast. Did it mean that whoever had commanded them to appear had needed the distraction they would obviously provide?

He thought about it. If that were so, then either the lovely young widow or that sinister steward of hers – perhaps both – were behind tonight’s plot. Which meant they had also been responsible for putting old Benedict in the ground.

The king paced the room. While he waited for his men to bring in the assassin, perhaps he should summon Lady Richenza. When the killer was eventually dragged before his king, the lady would be summoned to watch.

The sport promised to be better than hunting the wiliest, fiercest, biggest boar ever born.

In the hall at Wealdsend, Josse held tight to Helewise’s hand and waited to see what death would look like. He had inched his right hand down until it hovered close to his sword hilt, and already he was planning the move that he would make – practised over a lifetime – as soon as the assault began.

It probably wouldn’t help much, for he and Helewise were but two, and Lord Wimarc had a dozen hard, well-drilled men at his command, not to mention a killer with dead eyes who had just slain the king. But Josse was a fighter, and it would not feel right to die without his sword in his hand; without getting in at least one blow in return.

Lord Wimarc was out of his vast chair, moving across the floor towards them. ‘I have considered the options,’ he said, as calmly as if he were choosing what to offer them for dinner, ‘and I am tempted to have you taken well away from Wealdsend, whereupon I would shut and bar my gates and return to my isolation.’ He sighed deeply. ‘But I very much fear that would not be the end of it, for you know I’m
here
now, don’t you?’ He looked at Helewise, then at Josse; long, searching looks, as if this were a reasonable point and he was keen for them to agree with him. ‘Oh, I know how it would be,’ he muttered, half to himself, returning his gaze to Helewise. ‘It would begin with a mission from those good nuns and healers at Hawkenlye Abbey, disguising their intrusion as loving kindness and concern for my loneliness and my grief, but that would not be the truth of it, would it, sir knight?’ In an instant, he had spun round to Josse, his eyes burning in his tense, pale face. ‘A little while ago, you were kind enough to point out what my future would be. However, you left out one important fact: those would be the likely outcomes only were it to become known whose hand was behind the assassination, whose will guided the killer.’ He looked briefly at Manticore, standing impassively beside him. His voice dropping to a whisper, he said, ‘
You
know, Sir Josse, and so does the lady here.’

He stepped back, and a terrible smile stretched the thin mouth. ‘Do you see? You do, don’t you? I’m very afraid that you leave me no choice.’

As he turned to give to Manticore whatever brief command would end Josse and Helewise’s lives, Josse drew his sword, the sound almost deafening in the silence. Throwing his free arm round Helewise’s waist, he dragged her roughly to him, holding her hard against his side. In the same instant, he took two steps back, then spun round and, praying with all his heart that Helewise was still as strong and agile as he remembered, he started to run towards the long fire pit. Selecting a spot where the flames were no more than a glow, he increased his pace – she did too – and together they leapt over the pit.

Lord Wimarc shouted something, and feet pounded on the stone flags of the floor. But Josse barely heard, for the blood was pounding in his ears, deafening him, and all his attention was focused on what lay ahead.

Only three of the guard were on this side of the long hearth and, too far away to have overheard the conversation between Josse and their lord, they seemed unaware of what had happened. Two stepped forward, one with drawn sword, and Josse yelled, ‘See to your master! He is in dire need!’

The great doors to the outside world – to safety, to remaining alive – were ahead. But now someone was hard on their heels: someone who ran with the swift, sure steps of a man who had just been given an order, and who would let nothing obstruct its completion.

As Josse reached out a desperate hand to pull apart the doors, they were thrust open from the other side. Helewise gave a cry of alarm.

Gervase de Gifford, sheriff of Tonbridge, stood at the top of the steps leading up from the courtyard. Behind him, in neat, disciplined order and armed with sword, knife and cudgel, stood more than twenty men.

In a heartbeat of stillness, Josse met Gervase’s eyes.

‘I understand from Abbess Caliste that you might need some help,’ Gervase said. Then, with the grin of the fight-hungry boy he must once have been, he turned to his men, raised his sword arm and cried, ‘
Go!
’

From behind him, someone shoved Josse aside; a hard push that felt like a vicious punch. He stumbled and, but for Helewise’s strong arms, would have fallen. A dark-clad figure leapt off the top of the steps, flew through the air and, more than a tall man’s height below, landed lightly on his feet.

‘
After him!
’ Josse roared. Gervase spun round to him. ‘He’s the killer!
Don’t let him get away!
’

Four of Gervase’s men scrambled back down the steps and ran off after the fleeing figure. Peering into the darkness, Josse realized, with a sinking heart, that Manticore was already out of sight.
He knows this place
, he thought, sick.
He is a survivor, and he will long have worked out any number of escape routes. Gervase’s men don’t stand a chance
.

He turned and, clutching Helewise to him, limped back into the hall, to instantly find themselves in the midst of a battle. Tired, hurt and, more than anything, concerned for Helewise, Josse admitted to himself that it wasn’t his fight. He led her aside, away from the violence, and together they watched as Gervase and his men gradually overcame Lord Wimarc’s guards.

‘He’s the man responsible,’ Josse said to Gervase as, from the top of the steps, they watched Lord Wimarc being led away to captivity, his eight surviving guards following behind, and all under the tight control of Gervase’s toughest deputies. ‘It was Lord Robert Wimarc who ordered the murders of both Benedict de Vitré and King John.

‘He’s not dead, Josse,’ Gervase said quietly. ‘The king, I mean.’

‘He is!’ Josse insisted wildly. ‘He was killed this night, at Medley Hall, as he attended the funeral feast of Lord Benedict! Haven’t you been informed? He was slain by the hand of the same assassin who—’

‘Josse, it seems he was forewarned,’ Gervase said, speaking loudly against Josse’s ranting. ‘They found another man with a passing resemblance to the king, and dressed him up in the royal garments. They took the precaution of providing a mail shirt, which is just as well because otherwise the poor sod would be as dead as Lord Benedict.’

Helewise touched Gervase’s arm, attracting his attention. ‘You must understand that Lord Robert Wimarc is a man lost in a dark world of grief,’ she said softly. ‘Please, Gervase, listen to him before he is condemned.’

Gervase looked at her. ‘He ordered the death of one man, and wished also to kill his king,’ he said coolly. ‘Do you really think, my lady, that there will be mercy for him?’

‘At least let him have the comfort of a priest,’ she persisted, ‘for he has suffered for half a lifetime; perhaps more.’

Gervase went on staring at her, not speaking. ‘You owe us this, Gervase,’ Helewise said very quietly.

With a curt sound of impatience, Gervase turned on his heel and strode away.

In the sudden silence of the rapidly emptying hall, Josse turned to her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’ She smiled. ‘It’s not every day you come close to losing your life. I must say, it tends to enhance the joy of still being alive.’

He chuckled. ‘It does that. Aye, I too thought our time had come.’ He hesitated. Then, taking her hand, he said quietly, ‘There’s nobody I’d rather die beside than you.’

She gave a soft sound, perhaps a sob. Then she said, ‘But not just yet, hmm?’

I
n the hut in the forest, Lilas said suddenly, ‘Something’s happened.’

Meggie struggled up out of her first, deep sleep; they went to bed early out there, usually tired from a long day out of doors, and she knew from the quality of the darkness that the night was not yet far advanced.

She wriggled to the edge of the sleeping platform and looked down at Lilas, huddled in her blankets. Lilas, offered the choice of where to sleep, had opted for the floor beside the hearth.
Old’uns like me need to get up and pass water in the night
, she’d said,
and I don’t want to break my neck trying to clamber up and down that tiddly ladder when I’m half asleep
. Meggie had been hugely relieved. She liked her sleeping platform to herself.

‘What’s the matter?’ she murmured, yawning hugely. ‘Are you unwell?’

But she knew, even as she asked, that it was nothing within the little hut that had disturbed Lilas’s sleep. She felt cold suddenly. She demanded urgently, ‘
What’s wrong?
’

Lilas did not at first reply. Meggie jumped down from the platform and poked up the embers in the hearth, sending small flames along a smouldering log. By the soft light, she studied the old woman’s face.

‘There’s been peril this night,’ Lilas intoned quietly, eyes staring out unfocused into the gloom. ‘Blood; woundings; death. And a man running, running … they pursue him, but he will never be caught. He’ll vanish, like the mist before the sunrise …’

Meggie felt her heart thumping in her chest. What did this mean? Had the warning failed? Was he …?

She found she could not bear to even think it.

Lilas would say no more. In the face of Meggie’s increasingly desperate questions, she simply pressed her lips firmly together and refused to be drawn.

Sleep was a very long way away. Meggie fetched a blanket from the sleeping platform and, settling down next to Lilas, she stoked up the fire and prepared for a night of vigil.

Someone was tapping gently on the door. ‘Meggie?’ a voice called softly. ‘Meggie, are you awake in there?’

Meggie leapt up and flung open the door. The moon had set, she noticed absently: dawn must be close. Outside, warmly wrapped and with excitement flashing in her dark eyes, stood her friend Tiphaine, the herbalist.

‘What’s happened?’ Meggie demanded, dragging her inside and shutting the door. ‘
Who is dead?
’

The last words emerged as a suppressed shriek. Tiphaine took her hand, speaking soothing words. ‘Hush, child. Nobody you love has been hurt – or, at least, nothing that won’t soon mend.’