Chapter Eight
It was before sunrise, the time right before dawn when the world was still and magical.
The town of Thetford was quiet for the most part; the only movements on the streets or in homes were the merchants preparing for the day or the farmers getting ready to head to the fields.
But in the barn behind the inn known as the Swan, there was a faint light glimmering in one of the stalls.
Several enormous chargers were tethered within the building, their bright black eyes blinking at the activity now filtering into the barn.
Men the horses recognized were congregating and the beasts snorted as familiar scents filled their velvety nostrils.
They knew that their day was about to begin and they began to grow excited.
It was relatively quiet as the de Winter knights began to prepare for the day.
They milled about, grooming the chargers, unwilling to let local grooms tend their expensive and vicious war beasts.
Edmund was sitting on the ground next to his black and white steed, yawning as he cleaned out the animal’s hooves.
The charger nibbled at his dark hair and he irritably swatted at it.
Andrew was in the stall next to his brother, snorting at the young knight as he wrestled with a charger that was more like a pet.
Andrew was busy currying his own hairy horse that still hadn’t lost his winter coat.
Philip and Nik were across the aisle, in various stages of charger preparation while Hugh grumbled and complained at the end of the building with an animal that kept banging on him with his massive head.
The preparations early this morning were in anticipation of leaving for London.
They were all anxious to return to the living, breathing heart of England, each for his own different reason.
Davyss entered the barn, checking to make sure all of his men were up and moving.
He had just left Devereux sleeping in a warm bed, his mind still on his bride even though his attention was on his men.
Something had happened to him yesterday although he wasn’t sure what it was; all he knew was that his new wife had gone from a pressing thought to an overwhelming need.
He couldn’t seem to think of anything else but her, even in this dawn of a new day.
But this particular day was important and he struggled to focus.
Lollardly entered the barn right behind him.
The old priest with the hairy eyebrows watched Davyss as the man inspected his knights.
Davyss was meticulous in his command, always making sure his men were properly attired, alert and ready at a moment’s notice.
When Davyss was satisfied with his inspection, Lollardly caught his attention and motioned to him.
Davyss followed the priest out into the growing dawn and they paused somewhere in the middle of the quiet, dirty yard.
Lollardly spoke. “I have just come from the abbey,” he murmured quickly. “The Brother had a message for you.”
Davyss suddenly looked displeased and taut. He gazed steadily at Lollardly for a moment before responding. “What is the message?”
“Simon requests you meet him when you arrive in London,” Lollardly’s voice was a whisper. “He must speak with you.”
Davyss’ eyebrows rose. “Simon is in London?” he repeated, incredulous. “God’s Blood, the man takes risks. What in the hell is de Montfort doing there?”
Lollardly shook his head. “I would not know,” he muttered. “But he is apparently desperate to see you.”
“Henry is in London.”
“I know. Will you meet Simon, then?”
Davyss scratched his head, pondering the deeper implications of such a meeting. He’d been pondering the deeper meaning of these clandestine meetings ever since he’d been knighted. After a moment, he emitted a heavy sigh. “I do not know if I can.”
Lollardly nodded his head. “Aye, you can,” he grumbled. “Davyss, you and Simon have known each other too long for you to avoid him now. Perhaps he needs something. Perhaps he wants to….”
Davyss held up a sharp hand. “Cease your prattle,” he growled. “You do not have to tell me of Simon de Montfort, for I have known him since the day I was born. He and my father were the best of friends. Our families were close; we lived together and fought together until….”
Lollardly smiled faintly, clapping Davyss on a massive shoulder as the man trailed off.
He knew how Davyss felt about his father’s oldest, and dearest, friend.
It was a dark secret he carried; the champion of the king and the leader of the baron’s rebellion were still life-long and deep friends.
Henry knew of the de Winter relationship to de Montfort, of course, but he assumed like everyone else that the link died when Grayson de Winter had.
But the link remained. It was a secret that, if discovered, could mean Davyss’ death.
“You do not need to tell me of your relationship to Simon,” the old priest protested.
“Lest you forget, your father, Simon and I fostered together. I watched Grayson and Simon grow into strong men and with strong ideals. I was there the day you were born and Simon was there to bless you. It was a difficult day when Grayson and Simon split; Grayson with dreams of serving the king and Simon with dreams of a different England. But that bond that Simon shares with you, as his best friend’s son, has never been severed. ”
Davyss watched Lollardly through guarded eyes. “He risks my life every time he contacts me.”
“And you risk his.”
Davyss sighed sharply and crossed his enormous arms. “So what do you want me to do? Talk to him?”
“He will meet you at the Temple Church in Blackfriars,” Lollardly told him. “I will tell my brother to get word to Simon that you will meet him at sundown upon the morrow.”
Davyss was staring at his feet. It was a long and pensive pause.
But eventually he nodded, barely, and Lollardly took it as a sign.
The old priest disappeared, heading back towards the abbey that had given the town its name as Davyss continued to stand there and wonder what tomorrow’s meeting would bring.
He hadn’t seen Simon in some time and no matter what their politics, he missed his father’s friend.
He wished again, as he had wished daily for many years, that things were different; that Simon wasn’t a rebel and he wasn’t the king’s champion.
He wished they were on the same side.
*
Devereux had been to London, once, with her father when he had traveled there on business.
She had been eleven years old at the time and nine years later, it was bigger than she had remembered.
As Davyss’ group entered the outskirts of London from the northwest, a massive settlement emerged with the blue ribbon of the River Thames running through it.
The de Winter war machine had brought six knights, including Davyss, one priest, three hundred men-at-arms and five wagons.
It was a large group that traveled through the outskirts of London and people turned out to watch.
Little boys stood by the side of the road, thrilled to see the knights, while women tried to garner the favor of the men who passed by.
In a covered wagon with a fully armed escort, Devereux watched the little boys and loose women, waving at the children when they waved at her first.
One little girl with a few wilted flowers in her hand ran out in the road.
She was holding the flowers aloft as she headed towards the carriage but almost got run over by Sir Philip’s charger.
The child stumbled, fell to the road, and began wailing.
Devereux leapt off the wagon before anyone could stop her and rushed to the child’s side.
The wilted flowers were scattered all over the dirt as Devereux knelt beside the little girl. She picked the child up from the road.
“There, there, sweetheart,” she crooned. “You are all right. Everything is all right.”
The child sobbed and held up her scraped elbow. Devereux smiled gently and pretended to take a good look.
“’Tis not too bad,” she assured the little girl. Then she began looking around for someone to help her. Her gaze fell on Philip, now off his charger and standing next to her. “I need some wine or ale and a strip of cloth; any cloth will do. Can you please bring me these things?”
Philip was in motion, snapping orders to a few men around them.
The entire column had come to a halt and Davyss was making his way back from the head of the group, bellowing his frustration that they had stopped as he went.
But Devereux was only focused on the child at the moment, not three hundred men who had come to a dead stop because of her.
Lollardly arrived at the scene before Davyss, watching the situation with curious eyes. Lady de Winter was so unlike any woman he had ever known that he paused just to watch her tend the child, her gentle manner and her sweet words.
The more time he spent watching her, the more he was coming to like her.
His first impression of her as a rebellious wench had not been her true nature; it had been the fear that had caused her to act like an animal.
What he was seeing before him and what he had seen the day before, he suspected, was this woman’s true character. She was special.
When Davyss arrived and bailed from his charger, Lollardly put his hands on the man’s chest to stop his advance.
“What goes on?” Davyss demanded, flipping up his visor. “Why have we stopped?”
Lollardly pointed to Devereux, several feet away, cleaning the scrape of a peasant child. “Your wife is helping this child.”
By this time, Hugh had come upon them, watching the scene with impatience. “It is simply a peasant,” he grumbled. “She should not be wasting her time or ours.”
Lollardly shushed him. “Jesus tended lepers,” he reminded him. “Do you not see the noble self-sacrifice of Lady de Winter?”