Chapter Fourteen #2
Myles waved him off. “No harm done,” he said. “Except to that man. He won’t be attacking anyone else again.”
The man realized that his attacker was either dead or disabled by these fine knights. “You have my thanks,” he said, weaving around in his inebriated state. “My name is Duddington. Alaric Duddington. I serve the Earl of Sidbury. May… may I sit with you and buy you a drink?”
Myles looked at Brenton, who shrugged. They both reclaimed their seats as Brenton indicated an empty chair at their table.
“Sit,” he told Alaric. “We’ll take your drink with gratitude.”
“Good,” Alaric said, waving down a serving woman and telling her to bring the finest wine in the house. “The earl provided me with coinage to pay for food, so he is the one paying for your drink. He has paid for mine all day.”
That much was clear as Alaric struggled to stay upright in his chair. Brenton fought off a grin. “Thank him for us,” he said.
“I will,” Alaric said. “May I have your names, please?”
“Brenton de Royans,” Brenton said. “That blond beast next to me is a de Lohr. Myles de Lohr.”
Alaric looked at Myles with some awe. He was, indeed, big and blond and handsome, as most of the de Lohr men were. “De Lohr?” he said. “The Earl of Hereford and Worcester?”
“My father.”
“Then I am greatly honored,” Alaric said. “I had an uncle who served with your father in the Levant, under King Richard. He spoke very highly of him.”
Myles nodded his thanks. “My father has told stories about his time in the Levant,” he said. “Not a pleasant place, I think. Did your uncle survive?”
“Surprisingly, he did,” Alaric said. “He returned home to his wife, who had given birth to a child a few months earlier. Considering he had been gone for three years, it was not a pleasant surprise.”
Myles’ eyebrows lifted in understanding. “I would imagine not.”
Alaric shook his head. “I suppose the betrayal is worse when it is your wife,” he said. “With men, it is expected.”
The servant returned at that point, bringing a potent wine all the way from Tuscany.
She set it down on the table and Alaric picked up the pitcher, sloppily filling the cups.
Myles took his, and Brenton followed suit, both of them taking a healthy drink of the delicious wine.
Alaric poured himself a cup and held it aloft, in tribute to the men who had saved his life from a stranger with a dagger.
“Lord Sidbury will know of your help to his cause,” he said before gulping down about half of his cup. “If I did not complete this mission, a great deal would have been lost. There is much at stake, so your assistance is appreciated.”
Brenton sat back in his chair, cup in hand as he put his big, booted feet on the table. “You’re on a mission for the earl?” he said. “Where are you going?”
Alaric was so drunk that he didn’t think twice before answering. “To Westminster,” he said. “I must see the king. I have a message for him from Lord Sidbury.”
Myles shook his head. “He is not there,” he said. “He’s at Winchester at the moment.”
Alaric’s face fell. “That is terrible news,” he said. “This information is of the utmost importance. It must get to the king immediately!”
“Simply go to Winchester, then.”
Alaric shook his head. “I wish I’d known,” he said miserably. “I passed Winchester on my way here, from Devon. It will take me at least a week or more to reach Winchester now, going back the way I came.”
Myles put his feet up like Brenton had. “It should not take more than seven days with a swift horse,” he said. “Is your horse swift?”
Alaric nodded. “A Spanish Jennet,” he said, indicating a breed that was known for speed. “Still, it will take time. Lord Sidbury will be displeased because the matter is terribly urgent.”
“What is so important?” Brenton asked. “Or is it a secret?”
Alaric looked at him. Then he looked at Myles. He took another drink of wine and appeared to be contemplating the question.
“It is a secret,” he said, but he was looking at Myles. “I will tell you because you should tell your father. He is an important man and he should know who to trust. Everyone knows Hereford serves the king, so mayhap the king will ask him to do something about it.”
“Do something about what?”
Alaric leaned forward, lowering his voice. “The king has been betrayed.”
“By whom?”
Alaric looked around to make sure no one had heard him before reaching over to the table behind him and grabbing his satchel.
He put it on the table and opened it, digging around until he came to a carefully folded vellum envelope.
Drunk as he was, he didn’t even think to be careful about this.
He’d never met Myles or Brenton before. He didn’t know what kind of men they were, but he was going on Myles’ surname.
De Lohr. Everyone knew they were honorable, that they served the Crown.
Perhaps telling Myles about the missive he carried was as good as telling the king.
Word would surely get back to the man. But it never occurred to him that Myles and Brenton could have been lying about everything. He simply took them at their word.
He put the envelope down in front of Myles.
“Look at that,” he said. “Look at the seal.”
Curious, Myles collected the envelope without taking his feet off the table.
He held it up, studying it for a moment, before his brow furrowed.
Then his feet came off the table and he sat forward, peering more closely at the seal because the light was better here. Finally, he lifted his gaze to Alaric.
“Ludovicus VIII, rex Franciae,” he said. “That is Louis’ seal. The King of France.”
Alaric nodded. “It is,” he said. “Read it.”
Now Brenton’s feet were off the table, too, and they both looked at the envelope as Myles noted that the seal was broken.
“Who broke this seal?” he asked.
“Lord Sidbury,” Alaric whispered loudly. “And it is a good thing he did. We have found a traitor in England, one who would see Henry destroyed.”
Myles still wasn’t any clearer, but he was starting to become concerned. “Be plain, man,” he said. “What is this about?”
Alaric pointed at the envelope. “I am taking that to Henry with an accompanying missive from Lord Sidbury,” he said. “That dispatch is from Louis, thanking The Blackchurch Guild for providing him with men and money to win the battle for Gascony against Henry.”
Myles blinked in surprise. Shock, actually. He ended up carefully unfolding the envelope and, with Brenton looking over his shoulder, read the following:
Mon ami de Saint-Denis,
C’est avec la plus grande gratitude que je vous remercie de votre soutien à ma cause gasconne. Sans vos hommes et votre argent, je n’aurais pu vaincre Henri, le grand prétendant. La Gascogne est de nouveau mienne grace à vous.
Que Dieu vous bénisse pour votre loyauté envers moi et envers la France.
My friend St. Denis,
It is with the utmost gratitude that I thank you for your support of my Gascon cause. Without your men or your coin, I would not have been victorious over Henry, the great pretender. Gascony is now mine again because of you.
God bless you for your loyalty to me and to France.
Myles had to read it three times. Brenton read it four times. Even when Myles was finished, Brenton took the envelope from him and stared at the words. Myles, however, was fixed on Alaric.
“Where did Lord Sidbury get this dispatch?” he asked.
Alaric had finished his cup of wine and was pouring himself another.
“A French ship dropped anchor at Sidmouth beach, and the dispatch was brought to St. Peter’s church,” he said.
“The messenger was looking for a priest who is a known supporter of Louis, but instead, he mistakenly gave it over to a priest loyal to Lord Sidbury. It was that priest who brought it to Lord Sidbury, and he opened it. When he saw that it was about Blackchurch, he thought Henry should know right away. Henry lost Gascony and now we know it was because of Blackchurch. They reinforced Louis’ ranks. ”
Myles was greatly confused. “But the Blackchurch Guild does not take sides in a conflict,” he said. “Almost two hundred years of precedence says that they remain neutral.”
Alaric dipped his head at the envelope. “They are not neutral any longer,” he said. “Henry must know.”
Brenton looked at Myles. The two of them stared at one another, silent words of shock and confusion and concern passing between them.
The missive made absolutely no sense because everyone knew that the Blackchurch Guild only trained warriors.
It did not supply armies to kings. It did not take sides.
That was how it had survived all of these years, free from conflict or wars, even when it had been begged for support.
But if this missive was true and it had finally taken sides, enough so that the English king lost his properties in France, then the consequences were unfathomable.
Blackchurch had sounded its death knell.
“I’m going to Westminster,” Brenton said. “I know the king personally. I shall put it right in his hand.”
Alaric hadn’t been expecting that offer and was caught off guard. “But… it is my duty,” he said. “Lord Sidbury will be displeased if I let anyone else complete my task.”
“I understand,” Brenton said patiently. “But I am a knight. I have taken an oath to the Crown. If you are certain you can get past Henry’s guards to deliver this missive to him, then you should go.
But if there is any doubt that you might not be successful, you must let me take it.
I can get past his guards and make sure he reads this personally. Will you let me do this?”
Alaric was hesitant. “I… I do not know if…”
“It is too important to be left to chance. You know this.”
Alaric looked between Brenton and Myles before finally shaking his head. “Nay,” he said. “I cannot. It is my duty. Though I am grateful that you defended me against that madman, the truth is that I do not know either of you. I cannot give this over to you.”
Brenton stood up, grasping Alaric by the arm and pulling him to his feet. “Come,” he said. “You and I are going to go outside to discuss this where no one can hear us. Come along.”
Alaric didn’t have a choice. Brenton was a big man, and he was quite strong, and Alaric was pulled out of the tavern as Myles sat there with the dispatch on the table in front of him. He wasn’t quite sure what Brenton’s game was, but all would be revealed in good time. He knew the man had a reason.
Pouring himself more wine, he waited.
Several minutes later, Brenton returned to the tavern. But he was alone. Myles watched curiously as Brenton returned to the table, collected his half-empty cup, and drained it. Then he poured himself another.
“Where is Alaric?” Myles finally asked.
Brenton wouldn’t look at him. “That dispatch is from Louis,” he muttered. “It is to St. Denis de Bottreaux, the Earl of Exmoor and the leader of the Blackchurch Guild. Why in the hell would Louis be sending Lord Exmoor a dispatch thanking him for his support?”
“I do not know,” Myles said. “But it is a coincidence that we were just speaking of Blackchurch earlier, is it not?”
Brenton took another drink of wine, staring off into the common room as the noise and laughter and stench went on around them.
“Something’s not right,” he finally said. “Is Blackchurch actually betraying England? Have they finally decided to take sides?”
“It is a mystery.”
Brenton didn’t like that answer. Something inside him was building into a rage.
“If they are taking sides, then my cousin is part of it,” he said.
“If he is part of it, all of the House of de Royans will be blamed. My father will be blamed. I will be blamed. And I’ve worked too hard to be branded a traitor by association. ”
“What are you going to do?”
Brenton looked at him then. “Go to Blackchurch,” he said simply. “Talk to my cousin and find out what he knows. Let me find out if that dispatch is authentic before we decide to do anything about it.”
“I take it you’re not going home to see your father now.”
Brenton shook his head. “And I am not going to Farringdon House to see Peter,” he said. “I’m going to Devon to get to the bottom of this.”
Myles understood completely. “If my opinion matters, I do not think it is legitimate,” he said. “Blackchurch is many things, but a traitor is not among them. I would be willing to stake my life on it.”
That seemed to bring Brenton some relief. “As would I,” he admitted. “But this dispatch in the wrong hands would be devastating. Will you come to Devon with me?”
Myles nodded. “I think I’d better,” he said. “I want to see how right I am about Blackchurch.”
“Hopefully, you are completely right.”
Myles couldn’t disagree with him. “But until we know for sure, you must tread very carefully,” he said.
“If Blackchurch has turned, and your cousin knows about it, then your life might be in danger for asking questions. They may want to silence you, and we are talking about Blackchurch trainers. They can silence you twenty different ways, and you would never see it coming, so be cautious. Your father does not need a dead son, nor does mine.”
That was the truth. The methods that Blackchurch taught would give even Executioner Knights nightmares. “I’ll be careful,” Brenton said. “But if the dispatch is a forgery, why? Who would do this to discredit Blackchurch?”
Myles shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “They’ve accumulated their share of enemies over the years, so it could be anyone. I might start by questioning Lord Sidbury. He’s the one who produced the missive, or so Alaric said. Where is Alaric, by the way?”
“In the river with the friend who attacked him.”
“That was wise. We don’t need that foolish man running his mouth off about this.”
“My thinking exactly.”
After downing the rest of the wine in short order, Myles and Brenton were out of the tavern and heading to the livery. Within the hour, they were on the road to Devon with the alleged royal dispatch from Louis VIII of France safely tucked into Brenton’s saddlebag.
He was going to get to the bottom of this.
Or else.