Chapter Fourteen #2
“God’s Bones,” Gloucester exclaimed. “What would cause that idiot to hit you the way he did?”
Bastian still had Gisella in his grasp as he turned to Gloucester. “I want him banned from court,” he told him in a tone that dared not be disobeyed, “and I want him brought to me for justice.”
Gloucester could see how enraged Bastian was, which frankly surprised him. Rage like that was usually fed by emotion, of which Bastian evidently had a lot of where it pertained to his wife. Gloucester agreed because he was afraid of what Bastian would do if he did not.
“I will ban him from court, of course,” he said. “His actions against your wife and my niece are inexcusable. But you will let me handle the situation and deal with Suffolk. You are not to confront or contact the man.”
Bastian looked at him. “I said that I want de la Pole brought to me for justice.”
Gloucester tried not to let Bastian’s anger intimidate him. “I will find him,” he assured him. “But we must find out what caused his reaction. It does not excuse it but for Suffolk’s sake, we owe his brother that courtesy.”
Bastian’s jaw flexed angrily. “I owe him nothing except my sword to his belly,” he snarled. “The man struck my wife. He will pay. If Suffolk does not produce him, then I will track his brother down and do what I must to get to him.”
Gloucester sighed faintly, knowing that Bastian meant every word.
He would tear down half of England to find the man who had wronged his wife because that was how Bastian thought.
That kind of thinking had served them well in France, but now that he was home and in a different environment, they needed to be more careful and tactful about such things.
“Bastian,” he said quietly. “Let me mediate this. I cannot have my warlords attacking one other.”
Bastian didn’t say anything. He was too angry to carry on a rational conversation and his level of rage surprised him as well. He had nothing short of murder on his mind and surely would have killed Thomas had Gisella not intervened. Struggling to calm his fury, he focused on his wife.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice considerably softer. “Why did you strike him?”
Gisella met his gaze, trying to phrase her response carefully. “He was extremely offensive,” she said. “We will speak of it in private, please. At the moment, I am sure you are famished so let us return to our meal and forget this nonsense.”
Bastian wanted to force her to tell him why, exactly, she had hit the young lord, but he refrained.
It must have been rather personal and rather sordid if she did not wish to speak of it in public, so without another word, he escorted her and Henry back to the table, helping the king to sit before he helped his wife.
As Gloucester took a seat on Henry’s left, Bastian regained his seat between Henry and Gisella.
He was still on-edge over his conversation with Gloucester and then the subsequent event with Gisella, so he labored to calm his nerves and his mind.
But he would not forget de la Pole’s offense against Gisella.
As far as he was concerned, the man would pay and pay dearly no matter what Gloucester said.
No man would strike the Beast’s wife and get away with it.
The feast passed rather slowly from that point on.
Bastian, brooding, spent his time watching the room and making small talk with his wife, who was sporting a lovely bruise on her chin now.
Every time Bastian saw the mark, it enraged him a little more until by the time they were ready to depart, he’d built up a substantial burn.
He’d also made plans for de la Pole’s demise without even knowing the reasons behind his actions.
As far as Bastian was concerned, it didn’t matter.
De la Pole was a dead man and if Gloucester tried to stop him, then he would feel the Beast’s wrath, too.
The de Russe war machine would soon be called forth.
*
The Bird and Bucket Tavern
“They say that de Russe is in London now, in residence near the Tower,” said the barkeep to le Foix. “He must have business with Gloucester or with the king.”
Armand le Foix had spies all over London, trying to discover the whereabouts of Bastian de Russe, but it was the faithful barkeep who finally had the information he sought. Leaning back in his chair with a full cup of ale in hand, le Foix listened to the barkeep with great interest.
“Who says this?” he wanted to know. “Reliable sources?”
The barkeep shrugged, wiping at his hands with his dirty bar towel. “English soldiers have come in here and they have spoken of many things,” he said. “Yesterday, there were five or six of them, Gloucester’s men, who spoke of de Russe’s presence at the Tower.”
Le Foix sighed, mulling over the information.
It was late, the night dark and cold, but the tavern was oddly empty.
He looked over the crowd that was there; merchants and travelers only.
There was even an old drunk at the table nearby, his head on the tabletop.
Perhaps he was asleep, perhaps not. There were no soldiers or knights about, in any case. He looked back to the barkeep.
“So we know he is there,” he said. “But I cannot get into the Tower.”
The barkeep was thoughtful. “If it is de Russe you seek, mayhap we can bring him here,” he said helpfully. “We can bribe him somehow to come here. Do you want to kill him?”
Le Foix shook his head. “Nay, I do not,” he said.
“De Russe is much more valuable to me alive than dead. I think… I think, mayhap, he may understand our cause. He was close to the Maid and if what the English soldier said was true, then mayhap he was closer than we think. I do not wish to kill the man – I only wish to speak with him to know if he indeed has a relic from the Maid. It is the relic I truly want.”
“But why?”
Le Foix looked at the man as if he were completely daft.
“Think on it, Arneau,” he said. “Think on the supporters that would rally to a true relic from Joan of Orleans. Her cause would not be lost nor would the cause of France. It would renew the faith of the weary and convince them to continue the fight.”
It seemed logical enough, passionate words spoken by a passionate man. The barkeep studied the dark French knight for a moment.
“Did you know the Maid, le Foix?” he asked.
Le Foix drew in a long, thoughtful breath and his eyes took on a distant look.
“I was with her when we marched on Auxerre,” he said softly.
“I remained with her when we marched on Troyes and eventually to Reims. I had never seen anything like it in my life, Arneau – the armies that surrendered in her path, the people who would fall at her feet… it was like Christ returning to Jerusalem. She represented more than God’s favor.
She represented the heart of France. If I have this relic that de Russe has, then the heart beats again. ”
Arneau the barkeep had never seen le Foix express such sentiment. True, the man was deeply loyal to France, but in speaking of the Maid, there was something more to his expression. There was love there, but not for the Maid. It was for what she represented.
“Then we will have men watch for de Russe and we will follow his movements,” Arneau said. “Mayhap you will be able to speak with him.”
Le Foix nodded. “Possibly,” he said. “If I only knew where his possessions were and where he slept at night, his habits in general, mayhap I would not need to speak with him at all. It is the relic I want, after all. Whether or not de Russe agrees to give it to me, I will have it.”
Arneau looked up as two weary men wandered into his bar. He watched them take a seat at a table away from the door before returning his attention to le Foix.
“But you must confirm that he has it,” he said. “The soldier could have been lying.”
Le Foix nodded. “I realize that,” he said. “But the man seemed very sure. The only way I will know for certain, I suppose, is to ask de Russe or to find where he keeps his possessions.”
“But what if he will not give it to you?” Arneau wanted to know. “What if he wants to keep it for himself? If he took it, surely that was his intention.”
Le Foix looked up at him, serious meanings on his dark features. “It is more valuable to the people of France than it is to him,” he said quietly. “If he will not give it to me, then I will kill him and take it.”
Arneau lifted an eyebrow. “You are speaking of the Beast,” he reminded him. “If you truly intend to kill him, it will not be easy.”
Le Foix didn’t seem particularly concerned. “How do you catch a beast, Arneau?”
The barkeep shrugged his shoulders. “Poison?”
Le Foix shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “A trap.”
Arneau didn’t say what he was thinking. It would take a very big trap to snare this particular beast. He headed back to his bar duties while le Foix drained what was in his cup and left the tavern, heading off into the night. For now, their conversation was finished.
On the table nearby, the man they believed to be a drunk sleeping off his alcohol lifted his head. He hadn’t been asleep at all. He had heard every word spoken.
Perhaps the information might be worth a bottle of wine to the right people.