Warden of Time (The After Cilmeri Series Book 8) (30 page)

“It was my honor, sire,” he said, “though you laid all the groundwork yourself. I did little.”

“I am not displeased with the results,” I said. “Perhaps you made a better impression than you think.”

“Perhaps, sire.”

I nodded and indicated that Romeyn was dismissed. I planned to talk to him again later—probably tomorrow or the next day, to get a better sense of what had gone on in Italy. I would have to speak to Peckham after that, but I was looking forward to it. I didn’t plan to argue with him. Just because Peckham and I disagreed about some things didn’t mean we disagreed about everything, and I was pretty sure we could find common ground that would ease some of his concerns about my spiritual health.

After Romeyn left, I sat a while at the table, trying not to feel melancholy and to enjoy the brief moment alone. I shouldn’t have felt downcast. The pope’s answer was the best outcome I could have hoped for, but it was as if I’d charged myself up for a battle only to find my opponent had left the field.

Then someone knocked on the door. “Come,” I said, channeling my inner Star Trek because I could.

It was Bevyn. He shut the door behind him, though not before having a quick look up and down the corridor to make sure it was empty. Then he turned to me and bowed. “Sire.” He stood stiffly by the door, his hands clasped behind his back.

I looked at him warily. He was nervous about something. “Is everything all right?”

He came forward. The room was narrow, warmed by a broad fireplace on my left. A dozen candles shone from the mantelpiece above it, and the long, polished table at which I was sitting took up the whole of the middle of it. Upright chairs lined both sides. The wooden table was large enough to seat twenty, though only five of us had eaten at it this afternoon. Bevyn’s stocky body filled all the space between the wall and the row of chairs to my right, and he halted two paces away from me.

“I have a confession to make,” he said. “I’d like you to hear me out before you respond.”

I nodded, my heart beating a little faster. “Go on.”

“It has to do with the letter Peckham just brought you from Pope Boniface.” Bevyn had unclasped his hands from his back, but now they clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“Just tell me what this is about, Bevyn. It can’t be worse than my imagination.”

“I can’t speak to that, my lord.”

I waited, my elbows on the arms of my chair and my hands folded in front of my chin.

Bevyn drew in a breath, glanced up at the ceiling briefly to find his courage, and then looked me straight in the eye. “Sire, six months ago, when it appeared that Pope Boniface was the frontrunner to be ordained pope, the Order of the Pendragon secretly arranged to buy up all his loans from his Italian creditors.”

I pressed my folded hands to my lips and looked at Bevyn over the top of them. I’d managed not to gasp or exclaim, though my eyebrows had to be in my hairline.

“As you know, our paramount concern has always been your wellbeing, sire. What we knew about Boniface indicated that he might not view the world as you do. It was a precaution only. At first.”

“And now? You threatened to call in his loans if he didn’t back off, is that it?” I said. Though he hadn’t owned the loans himself, King Edward had done the same to both Peckham’s and Boniface’s predecessors—to get them to excommunicate my father.

“No, sire, we didn’t.”

Now I was confused. “So … you’re confessing this to me—why?”

“To alleviate your concerns that the Order has lost its ability to protect you, or—if you feared it—that the pope’s actions were in any way influenced by your allies. I assure you that we had nothing to do with the letter he sent. It was your righteous action alone that forced his hand.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“We felt you needed to know,” he said.

“The others threw you before me as the sacrificial lamb, did they?”

“I volunteered.”

I studied him. Bevyn’s demeanor had prepared me for bad news, but this was almost worse. I had refused to use the leverage I had against Boniface, and so had they. “So what you’re saying is that you had the chance to influence him, to ensure that this letter contained what I wanted, and yet you didn’t act? Why? Don’t try to tell me it was what I would have wanted, because you don’t think that way.”

Bevyn had the grace to look briefly abashed, but then he said, “We had word that Boniface hasn’t given up, sire. He believes he still has moves to make.”

I felt a growl forming deep in my chest. “What moves?”

The grim lines on Bevyn’s face deepened. “He is planning a new Crusade to take back the Holy Land, and he wants your support for it.”

I gave a gasping laugh. “A new Crusade? Does he want me to go on it?”

“He wants you to lead it. You and King Philip of France are the same age, sire. Young enough to endure the hardships, and powerful enough in your own countries, both of you, to lead an army to take back Jerusalem.”

I sat back in my chair. I hadn’t seen that coming. “So what exactly is his play now?”

“Pope Boniface is still drafting the missive. He hopes to release it in the new year,” Bevyn said, “but if he calls upon you publicly to Crusade and you refuse, you will look very bad indeed. Any complaints you have against Acquasparta will appear to be a false accusation to distract from your refusal.”

I gave a laughing scoff. “So, if I crusade, he leaves me alone to do as I wish in my own country. And if I don’t …”

“That is still many months away, sire. Best not to borrow trouble.”

“How did you hear of this?” Then my eyes narrowed. “I thought you didn’t have a spy in Boniface’s court?”

“We didn’t—”

I overrode him. “Don’t deny that you know about this because of the Order. It’s written all over your face, and I can tell you’re quite proud that you had the foresight not to call in Boniface’s debts now, to give you influence and leverage over him later. Who is it?”

“Sire—”

I leaned forward. “Tell me who it is.”

Bevyn swallowed hard, knowing better than to deny me this one thing I asked. “Acquasparta’s secretary.”

“Why would he report to you?”

“He has an English mother. Acquasparta doesn’t know.”

“Who found that out? Whose idea was it to recruit him?”

The door opened behind Bevyn, and Lili entered the room. “It was mine.” She hesitated on the threshold. Her chin was up and her gaze steady, but she had her hands clasped in front of her in such a way that told me she was a little nervous too.

I studied her. “Did you fear I’d be angry?”

“It was a possibility,” she said.

I shook my head, caught between disbelief, gratitude, and awe. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such loyalty, but I can’t be angry when you were looking out for my interests in a way that I could not.”

“We love you,” Lili said.

“I know.” Then I bit my lip. “I’m not exactly looking forward to crusading with Philip of France, however.”

“You can’t predict the future, my love,” Lili said, advancing towards me. “Not even you know what it holds anymore.”

“No, I don’t. I suspect that’s a good thing.” Smiling, I rose to take her hand.

The End

Historical Background

“In king Edward I.'s reign, anno 1293, the French shewed themselves with a great fleet before Hythe, and one of their ships, having two hundred soldiers on board, landed their men in the haven, which they had no sooner done, but the townsmen came upon them and slew every one of them; upon which the rest of the fleet hoisted sail, and made no further attempt.” –
Edward Hasted (
The Town and Parish of Hythe
, 1799)

Isn’t that awesome? As my eldest son says, “you can’t help but feel there has to be more to the story!”

The townspeople’s ability to repel a French invasion is rooted in the formation of the Cinque Ports: “In the centuries before the Tudor Kings of England first developed a standing navy, the men and ships of the Cinque Ports provided a fleet to meet the military and transportation needs of their Royal masters. With good reason, these small ports have been dubbed the Cradle of the Royal Navy.”
http://cinqueports.org/

Men of the Cinque Ports, the five initial ones being Dover, Hythe, Sandwich, New Romney, and Hastings, were given freedom from a wide range of taxes and the ability to be tried in their own courts rather than royal courts. In return, they were expected to defend England from invasion. Which the men of Hythe seemed to do with efficiency, in our history as well as David’s.

As the
After Cilmeri
series has continued, I have tried to adhere to the history and culture of the Middle Ages, even as David’s story has strayed further from ‘real’ history. The descriptions of the towns in England, England’s political structure and issues of the time, and its conflict with the Church that David faces, all evolve out of the people and events of the late thirteenth century. Disputes with King Philip of France were ongoing during this era, and Pope Boniface’s view of the Church’s role in secular affairs conflicted with the philosophies of both France and England. The Medieval Inquisition was also in full swing, much as I’ve described in
Warden of Time.

As always, a difficulty with writing historical fiction—even when it’s fantasy—is to tell the story without getting bogged down in historical explanations or politics. Suffice to say that the number of players in the English court and the intricacies of English politics can be both deadly dull and endlessly fascinating, and I try to walk the line between the two.

I hope you have enjoyed reading
Warden of Time.
To sign up to be notified the moment I have a new release, please see the sidebar on my web page:
http://www.sarahwoodbury.com/

You can also connect with me on Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/sarahwoodburybooks

Keep reading for a sample from
The Good Knight,
the first book in another series set in medieval Wales, currently
free
at
Amazon
:

The Good Knight

Intrigue, suspicion, and rivalry among the royal princes casts a shadow on the court of Owain, king of north Wales…

The year is 1143 and King Owain seeks to unite his daughter in marriage with an allied king. But when the groom is murdered on the way to his wedding, the bride’s brother tasks his two best detectives—Gareth, a knight, and Gwen, the daughter of the court bard—with bringing the killer to justice.

And once blame for the murder falls on Gareth himself, Gwen must continue her search for the truth alone, finding unlikely allies in foreign lands, and ultimately uncovering a conspiracy that will shake the political foundations of Wales.

Sample: The Good Knight

Chapter One

August, 1143 AD

Gwynedd (North Wales)

“
L
ook at you, girl.”

Gwen’s father, Meilyr, tsked under his breath and brought his borrowed horse closer to her side of the path. He’d been out of sorts since early morning when he’d found his horse lame and King Anarawd and his company of soldiers had left the castle without them, refusing to wait for Meilyr to find a replacement mount. Anarawd’s men-at-arms would have provided Meilyr with the fine escort he coveted.

“You’ll have no cause for complaint once we reach Owain Gwynedd’s court.” A breeze wafted over Gwen’s face and she closed her eyes, letting her pony find his own way for a moment. “I won’t embarrass you at the wedding.”

“If you cared more for your appearance, you would have been married yourself years ago and given me grandchildren long since.”

Gwen opened her eyes, her forehead wrinkling in annoyance. “And whose fault is it that I’m unmarried?” Her fingers flexed about the reins but she forced herself to relax. Her present appearance was her own doing, even if her father found it intolerable. In her bag, she had fine clothes and ribbons to weave through her hair, but saw no point in sullying any of them on the long journey to Aber Castle.

King Owain Gwynedd’s daughter was due to marry King Anarawd in three days’ time. Owain Gwynedd had invited Gwen, her father, and her almost twelve-year-old brother, Gwalchmai, to furnish the entertainment for the event, provided King Owain and her father could bridge the six years of animosity and silence that separated them. Meilyr had sung for King Owain’s father, Gruffydd; he’d practically raised King Owain’s son, Hywel. But six years was six years. No wonder her father’s temper was short.

Even so, she couldn’t let her father’s comments go. Responsibility for the fact that she had no husband rested firmly on his shoulders. “Who refused the contract?”

“Rhys was a rapscallion and a laze-about,” Meilyr said.

And you weren’t about to give up your housekeeper, maidservant, cook, and child-minder to just anyone, were you?

But instead of speaking, Gwen bit her tongue and kept her thoughts to herself. She’d said it once and received a slap to her face. Many nights she’d lain quiet beside her younger brother, regretting that she hadn’t defied her father and stayed with Rhys. They could have eloped; in seven years, their marriage would have been as legal as any other. But her father was right and Gwen wasn’t too proud to admit it: Rhys
had
been a laze-about. She wouldn’t have been happy with him. Rhys’ father had almost cried when Meilyr had refused Rhys’ offer. It wasn’t only daughters who were sometimes hard to sell.

“Father!” Gwalchmai brought their cart to a halt. “Come look at this!”

“What now?” Meilyr said. “We’ll have to spend the night at Caerhun at present rate. You know how important it is not to keep King Owain waiting.”

“But Father!” Gwalchmai leapt from the cart and ran forward.

“He’s serious.” Gwen urged her pony after him, passing the cart, and then abruptly reined in beside her brother. “
Mary, Mother of God
…”

A slight rise and sudden dip in the path ahead had hidden the carnage until they were upon it. Twenty men and an equal number of horses lay dead in the road, their bodies contorted and their blood soaking the brown earth. Gwalchmai bent forward and retched into the grass beside the road. Gwen’s stomach threatened to undo her too, but she fought the bile down and dismounted to wrap her arms around her brother.