Chapter Nine
“Victor!” the man wept. “He is dead! My son is dead!”
Having just entered the grand tent of the Earl of Salisbury, staked in the middle a cluster of tents on the outskirts of Longcross, Victor was met by William Longespee, Earl of Salisbury, as the man sat on his bed in his luxurious tent and sobbed.
“My God!” Victor hissed. “Who, William? Which son?”
The earl was distraught, but Victor had a very good reason for asking.
In fact, his entire life hinged on the man’s reply.
For over a year, Victor and William’s heir, Roger, Viscount Twyford, had been lovers.
The viscount had been in Paris for the past two months and, at last missive, was on his way back home.
William had three other sons but Victor didn’t care about them, he was only concerned with one.
Reaching out, he grabbed William by the arms and shook him.
“Which son?” he demanded, frantic.
William, a man who was usually much more in control of himself, was clearly devastated. “Roger,” he cried. “Roger is dead! Murdered!”
Victor felt as if he had been slammed in the chest. He stumbled back, tripping on his own feet, and ended up on his arse on the floor of the tent.
He could scarcely breathe, struggling to accept the fact that his lover, the man he’d loved for over a year now, was gone.
William knew nothing of it, of course; no one ever knew of Victor’s trysts.
He paid people well to forget what they knew or what they saw, and servants or soldiers who had spoken in whispers of his tastes had met with unfortunate accidents.
Nay, no one knew of his loves. He was determined to keep it that way. Sweat popped out on his brow.
“Nay,” he said hoarsely. “It cannot be. This cannot be! Surely this information is false!”
William wiped at his wet, mucus-smeared face. “It is not wrong,” he said. “His body has been brought to me. It is here.”
Victor was stricken with horror. “Here?” he repeated. “How is he here? William, what happened?”
William struggled to gain some semblance of composure. He was usually a regal man, tall and strong, and he had come from a family of tall and strong men. He wasn’t given to fits of fury or sorrow, even-tempered as far as men went, but the death of his heir had him reeling.
“He was murdered in Dover,” William said, wiping at his face again.
“He was returning home from Paris, you know. I sent him there on the event of his twenty-fifth birthday. He had four well-armed men with him as escort and they were attacked in a tavern in Dover. One of the soldiers survived long enough to speak of returning Roger home. Those returning my son to Salisbury heard that I was here, in Longcross, and they brought him here to me. He is therefore here… I do not know what I am going to tell his mother.”
Victor listened to William with increasing horror.
When the man was finished speaking, he simply sat there and put his head in his hands.
He was grief-stricken beyond measure, made worse by the fact that he could not pay proper respect to Roger’s body.
He wanted to hold it and hug it and kiss it, but he knew he could not.
He could not demonstrate the love he felt for the man.
Whatever they had between them could not be made public and that knowledge cut Victor to the core.
“Dear… God,” he finally breathed. “Roger is gone.”
William, seeing Victor collapsed in grief, stumbled off his bed and made his way to the man, falling to his knees beside him.
“You are a good and true friend to grieve the loss of my son so,” he said, his hand on Victor’s head.
“I know he was your friend. He spoke often of you. You were good to him.”
Victor’s head came up, his somewhat shocked gaze on William. He spoke often of you. He was curious to know what, exactly, Roger had said of him.
“He… he was a fine lad,” he finally said, fearful of saying too much. “We shared the same love of fine horses. He… he made me laugh.”
William hugged him, pulling him close. “That is not all he did to you,” he whispered into Victor’s ear before releasing him and struggling to his feet.
He continued on as if he had not just whispered something quite scandalous.
“He was a light in my dark life, Victor. I do not know what I shall do without him.”
Victor was still on the ground, deeply shocked by William’s words.
He knows! Victor thought in panic. But he would not acknowledge William’s comments in any way.
He’d spent his entire life hiding his true self and had no idea how to confirm such a thing.
It was not something he’d ever spoken of or ever would. Confusion as well as grief filled him.
“Who did this to him?” Victor demanded, rising to his knees and struggling to move the subject away from the intimacy William had inferred. “Tell me who murdered your son and I will send a hundred men to seek vengeance upon him and his family!”
William shook his head, collapsing onto his bed. “I do not know,” he muttered. “The men that brought my son to me said that three knights attacked my son and his soldiers and killed them all. They fled after the deed. That is all I know.”
That wasn’t good enough for Victor. He stood up, unsteadily. “Three knights,” he hissed. “And no one saw who they were? No one followed them?”
William sighed heavily. His tears had subsided, leaving a great hollowness in their wake. “Nay,” he said. “Who would follow armed knights? They would only get themselves killed.”
Victor’s mind was working furiously, thinking on how to catch and punish this murderer who had destroyed his love. He was almost wild with the need to punish. “Where are the men who brought your son home?” he demanded. “Where are they that I might question them?”
William waved a weary hand. “I sent them home,” he said. “I paid them well for bringing Roger to me and sent them away.”
“How long ago did they leave?”
“Hours,” William whispered. “It has been hours. My son was brought to me this morning.”
Victor thought on the men, more than likely nameless peasants, who had returned Roger to the earl for the money they knew it would bring them.
Perhaps they did not even see what had happened.
Perhaps they knew nothing at all. But Victor could not accept that; someone had to see something.
If Roger was killed in a tavern, then surely there were people around to witness it.
He wanted answers and he wanted satisfaction, and his thoughts turned in the direction of achieving such things.
He knew of a man who could discover what had happened and punish those responsible. Victor began to feel hope.
“Roger’s death shall be avenged, William,” he said, steadier now. “My cousin has gifted me with the greatest assassin the world has ever seen. He has only just returned from the Levant and now he is now sworn to me. I will have this man track down Roger’s killers and punish them, I swear it.”
William looked at him, his face swollen and his eyes red from weeping. “Who is this man?”
Victor looked at him with great confidence. “They call him the Scorpion,” he said with confidence. “He will avenge Roger’s death, William. Have no doubt. He will be here soon and we will speak to him about such things.”
William was interested, at least as much as he could be under the circumstances. “Is this so?” he said. “The king has gifted you with such a man?”
Victor nodded. “It was part of a bargain he struck with me.”
William was curious. “What bargain?”
William was a friend so Victor was comfortable divulging the information. “My cousin wished for me to marry,” he said. “He wanted me to wed a Welsh princess and promised to gift me with a reputable knight if I did, so I agreed.”
“The Scorpion?”
“Aye.”
William lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise. “You are not the marrying kind, Victor.”
There was much more to that statement than met the eye; Victor could sense it. After what William had said earlier, he suspected what the man meant.
“Mayhap that is true,” he mumbled. “But I have a wife nonetheless. You will meet her, as she will be arriving when the Scorpion does. They are traveling together.”
William’s brow furrowed. “Most peculiar, Victor,” he said. “Why are they traveling together?”
Because I told Hage to bed the woman and clothe her, Victor thought. Because I did not want to be bothered with her. But he would not go so far as to tell William that because he suspected that his friend would not approve. Most moral men wouldn’t. Instead, Victor smiled weakly.
“Errands for the new duchess,” he said vaguely.
Swiftly, he shifted the subject back to his need to avenge Roger’s death.
It was the most important thing on his mind, certainly more important than discussing his useless wife.
“Rest assured, William. We will have Hage seek out those who killed Roger and punish them. His death will not go unanswered, I promise you.”
“Hage?”
“The Scorpion,” Victor clarified. “The man’s name is Sir Kevin Hage. His father served William de Wolfe many years ago. Surely you know of de Wolfe.”
William lifted his eyebrows, a weary gesture. “Everyone knows of de Wolfe,” he said. Then, his red eyes began to swim with tears again as his thoughts turned back to his son and heir now lying cold and stiff in a nearby tent. “Thank you, Victor. For discovering who did this… I thank you.”
His eyes spilled over again and he lowered his head, wiping away tears.
Victor’s gaze lingered on the man a moment, feeling his pain right along with him, but for Victor, it was a different pain.
The pain of losing someone he loved very much, someone he had touched and tasted.
Roger had meant a good deal to him, but now that was over.
Victor still couldn’t believe it. His heart hurt in more ways than he could comprehend.