Prologue
London
The Pox tavern
He didn’t like the look of him.
In fact, he’d seen him before, and although he couldn’t immediately place the slovenly man with the enormous scar across his chin, he knew one thing—wherever that man appeared, death happened.
Then it occurred to him.
They had to get out of there.
But it was easier said than done, unfortunately.
The Pox, perhaps the most notorious tavern in all of England, was full on this night because several merchant cogs had rolled down the Thames and anchored near the tavern, which sat right on the smelly, littered banks of the dirty river.
The clientele in the tavern looked as if God himself had put all of mankind’s rejects into one establishment, and they commiserated in their similar filth.
But it wasn’t simply the dregs of society that came to The Pox.
Kings had come there, too.
So had earls and nobles.
That was because The Pox was notorious for its wealth of gambling opportunities.
Men could gamble on literally anything, and there was good money to be made and excitement to be had.
The food was also good, strangely enough, and the alcohol was some of the best around.
Shipments came straight off the cogs that anchored along the Thames and straight into the storerooms of The Pox.
That made it quite popular.
But it had also been known to have murderers and thieves within the old walls.
That gave the place a real element of danger, so when Alexander de Sherrington realized that he was seeing one of the deadlier assassins from King John’s arsenal lingering in the shadows and pretending not to notice who was coming and going, he knew there was going to be trouble.
Where there was one assassin, there were usually others.
“Come,” he said, urging his companions toward the door. “The Marshal has sent Tristan and I to fetch your filthy hides, and you will do as you are told. Get out now or you will pay the price.”
Since no one moved immediately, he grabbed a younger knight by the neck and practically lifted him out of his chair, but the companion he’d mentioned, Sir Tristan de Royans, wasn’t so subtle.
He wasn’t a tall man, but he was quite muscular and built like a bull.
He was also mean. So very mean. He was a knight’s knight, born and bred to fight, and it was never more evident on anyone than it was on Tristan.
That meant he didn’t disobey orders, including the one just given by Alexander, whom he considered his superior officer even though they were technically equal in rank.
He grabbed the nearest knights, yanking them up by anything he could grab.
Heads.
Hair.
Anything.
“Out with you, lads,” he said, still holding on to the hapless young knights, who happened to be new additions to William Marshal’s household guard.
“The Marshal told you not to come here, but you did not listen. You thought you knew better than the Earl of Pembroke. That was not wise on your part.”
With that, he shoved them through the entry door, out onto the dirt walkway.
Unfortunately for them, the walkway was about six feet wide before it started sloping down to the river itself, so one of them was propelled across the walkway and began stumbling down the slope.
Only quick thinking from his companion stopped him from ending up in the river.
Tristan stood at the entry door, ham-sized fists resting on his narrow hips, shaking his head at the clumsy young knights. But Alexander was chuckling.
“You do not know your own strength, Pat,” he said, a glimmer of mirth in his eyes. “I think they could have walked out under their own power. They did not need to be tossed.”
Pat. That was an affectionate nickname Tristan had earned over the years because his birth name was Philip Alexander Tristan—P.A.T.
His close friends called him that, but his commanders and subordinates called him by the name he’d always gone by—Sir Tristan or just plain Tristan.
He was quite formal, even with men who had commanded him for years.
No one grew close to Tristan de Royans.
It was rare when he let anyone in.
But he’d let Alexander in years ago. Sherry, as he was called, was married to the Earl of Hereford and Worcester’s daughter, and they had a growing brood.
Hereford, a man also known as Christopher de Lohr, was in town this night, in fact, and in residence at Farringdon House, William Marshal’s townhome.
Christopher and the Marshal worked closely together, both of them commanding great armies and strongly allied in the fight of the welfare of England.
No one knew why Christopher had come to London on this particular night, but that wasn’t unusual.
He came and went sometimes and no one really knew why, but the Marshal did.
In fact, he was recalling his knights to Farringdon House, having sent Alexander and Tristan, among others, to trawl the city for the younger knights who had fanned out to enjoy a brief respite.
But it was a respite no more.
Something was in the air.
Having collected their four knights from The Pox, Tristan eyed Alexander as they headed back the way they’d come.
“I’ve never known a man yet at The Pox who would willingly leave under his own power, you included,” he said. “It’s better the young knights know we mean business. They’ll be quicker to obey an order next time.”
“Or avoid The Pox altogether.”
“I doubt that is going to happen. We do not even avoid The Pox.”
They looked at each other, smirking. “That is true,” Alexander said. “But I will admit that my wife does not like me to visit. I will not let her go, so she says that I cannot go, either.”
Tristan snorted. “Your wife is a unique woman,” he said. “Married only a year, is it?”
Alexander nodded. “A year,” he said. “One glorious year.”
“I heard you saved her from the king’s lust last year.”
Alexander shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “She saved herself. Trust me on this. But you were not with us last year, were you?”
“I was at Bowes Castle, with my father,” Tristan said. “Pembroke recalled me to London about six months ago, if you recall. He and my father decided that I would evidently make a good spy, so here I am.”
Alexander grinned. William Marshal was the commander of a group of seasoned warriors known as the Executioner Knights, a collection of some of the deadliest and most talented men in the known world.
They were spies, as Tristan said, but they were so much more.
Assassins, bodyguards, and any number of roles that they were skilled enough to assume.
They worked in secret, and usually had a cover story that was quite plausible, but the truth was that the Marshal used them to suit his own agenda, which was almost always along the lines of ensuring England’s survival.
To be an Executioner Knight meant a man was the very best at what he did.
Even Tristan knew that.
“You performed flawlessly with the matter at Westminster a few months ago,” Alexander said. “Were it not for your sword, we might not have been successful.”
Tristan lifted a wry eyebrow. “I am a knight, Sherry,” he said. “If anything involves a sword, I will be successful. But the Executioner Knights… it involves things I am not particularly familiar with.”
“Like what?”
“Like being sly and secretive,” he said, almost agitated in manner. “I am a forthright man. If I have something to say, I will say it. If there is something I must do, I will do it. I will not sneak around.”
Alexander was starting to chuckle. “That is true,” he said. “I’ve never met a man as brutally honest and forthright as you are.”
“It is a gift.”
Tristan said it with a smile, as if it was the sweetest virtue he had. That brought more laughter from Alexander.
“I believe that it is,” he said. “I also think you frighten the hell out of people because you are genuinely fearless in everything you do. There could be a thousand men with a thousand daggers running right at you and you would stand there and challenge them.”
“Another gift.”
Alexander conceded the point. “Very true,” he said. “But the Marshal thinks those gifts would be extraordinarily valuable to the Executioner Knights. You will make a great one.”
For the first time, Tristan’s air of confidence wavered a little. He wasn’t entirely sure he was cut out for life as a spy, but his father wanted it for him, and it was a great honor. The knight’s knight would add something more to his arsenal of skills.
He would become an agent for the Executioner Knights.
“Mayhap,” he said quietly, watching the four young knights walking ahead of them, just out of earshot. “I… I simply do not wish to disappoint anyone, least of all myself.”
“You will not.”
Alexander said it with confidence as they entered one of the darker avenues leading north, a street lined with brothels that were still lively even at this time of night.
They could hear the laughter and music as the ladies entertained their clientele.
The avenue was lit by flames from great iron bowls, fueled with peat, on stone pedestals.
Those fires would light up the streets until midnight, when half would be doused.
On this particular street, the bowls of flaming peat were well kept, paid for by the brothels to light the way for those last-minute customers.
But Alexander and Tristan weren’t paying attention to the buildings or even the fires along the street.
They were watching for any threats from the shadows, the mode of hunter versus prey, which was completely normal for them.
Given their line of work, one didn’t live long if one wasn’t vigilant, so they maintained their awareness even though Farringdon House wasn’t far away.
They still had to make it there through the darkened streets of London.