could move, though, the lead outlaw lost patience and lunged at the newcomer. Rico had never seen anyone move as fast as the other man did. In one unbroken motion, he thrust the lantern into the bandit’s face and stepped in as the outlaw recoiled from the flames. For the length of a breath, the two seemed frozen in an odd embrace, and then the brigand staggered back, sinking to his knees with a guttural cry. It was only then that they saw the bloodied dagger in the stranger’s hand.
The stricken man’s companions gaped at him as if they could not believe the evidence of their own eyes. They were no strangers to killings, but had never seen one done so swiftly, smoothly, and economically as this, and they hesitated, That brief instant of uncertainty was to prove decisive, for their new foe did not share it. He flung his dagger at the nearest of the men and then drew his sword while it was still in the air. The thrown knife missed its target, but not by much, and the man spun around, fled into the darkness. That was enough for the other outlaws; they, too, took to their heels.
Rico and Andre had yet to move, transfixed by the ease of the stranger’s victory. They were not easily impressed by prowess, for they’d seen Richard on the battlefield, fought at his side as they’d grown to manhood. But as they looked at each other now, the same thought was in both their minds. This man was a master of the art of death. Then he moved within recognition range and they understood.
Mercadier and his band of routiers had been hired by Richard the past autumn, and he’d quickly earned the young duke’s favor, for he was as fearless as Richard himself. Not all men were comfortable with him, though, for there was something unsettling about his very presence. He had the dark hair of a son of the south, but his eyes were so light they were almost colorless and utterly opaque, impossible to read. A jagged scar angled from the corner of one eye to his chin, leaving a bare patch of skin where his beard could not grow, and men accustomed to battle disfigurements nonetheless found themselves unwilling to look too long at Mercadier’s sinister scar or those odd, pale eyes.
Andre and Rico felt awkward now that they knew the identity of their benefactor. Nevertheless, they could not deny they were now deeply in his debt, and lucky indeed that he’d happened to be passing by. When Rico said as much, he thought he caught the trace of a smile, but it was hard to tell for sure; the corner of Mercadier’s mouth had been twisted awry as that fearsome facial wound had healed.
“I was not just ‘passing by,’” he said. “I’d been looking for you both since Compline. You are wanted back at the palace, for the duke has need of you.”
“Why? What happened?” Andre said warily, for neither he nor Rico could envision Mercadier as the bearer of good tidings. “What is wrong?”
“The duke got a message from his father. He has been ordered to surrender Aquitaine at once to its rightful ruler, the Duchess Eleanor, and if he balks, the old king threatens to send her into Poitou with an army, ravaging the land with fire and sword until he yields up the duchy to her.”
They stared at him, dumbstruck. Andre was the first one to recover, lashing out bitterly against Richard’s father, declaring that Henry Fitz Empress was truly the spawn of Satan. Rico was loath to say so aloud, for the same blood flowed in their veins, but he found himself in hearty agreement with Andre’s emotional outburst. The old king was too clever by half, for how could Richard take up arms against his mother?
“How…how did the duke react?” he asked, and Mercadier’s shoulders twitched in a half shrug.
“His face flamed, then he went white as chalk, and withdrew to his own chamber. It was his seneschal who sent me to find you, saying ‘Go fetch his cousins,’ hoping you two might be able to help. How, I do not know,” Mercadier said candidly.
Rico and Andre did not know either. But they had to try, and when Mercadier turned to go, they were about to follow when a groan drew their attention back to the wounded bandit. Blood was soaking his tunic, and Rico flinched when he realized that it was coming from the man’s groin. Sweet Jesus, no wonder the poor sod shrieked like a gutted weasel. “What about him?”
Mercadier glanced back over his shoulder. “Leave him. If he’s lucky, his friends might come back for him. If not, there are plenty of stray dogs roaming the town, on the lookout for a meal.”
That was not an image the young knights cared to dwell upon for long, and they hastened to catch up with Mercadier, leaving the outlaw sprawled in the ancient arena where so many others had fought and died.
There were only a few times when Eleanor’s anger with Henry had burned so hotly that it had been indistinguishable from hatred. There was the afternoon she’d stood in the great hall at Limoges Castle and watched as the Count of Toulouse did homage to Hal. There were days of despairing rage in the early months of her captivity and the Michaelmas eve when he’d demanded that Richard yield Aquitaine to John. But this latest clash of wills was different. Nothing he’d ever done was as demeaning and unfair as this-using her as a weapon against her own son. Never had she felt as helpless as she had on that night at Bayeux, listening in stunned silence as he told her what he meant to do, utterly oblivious to the damage that might be done to her relationship with Richard. No, she could forgive him for making her his prisoner, but never his pawn.
Once she’d calmed down, though, she could see that there actually might be some benefits to his scheme. This was proof that he’d abandoned any hope of replacing Richard with John, for he knew she’d never agree to disinherit Richard. Richard would still be the heir to the duchy. Moreover, the transfer of authority would not be as hollow as Henry undoubtedly hoped. She had no illusions, knew he’d never trust her with real power. But the acknowledgment of her suzerainty was significant in and of itself. By recognizing her legal rights, he was bringing her from the shadows back into the light, restoring her identity in the eyes of the world. He’d not find it so easy to make her disappear again. And after eleven years of invisibility, she was eager for any taste of freedom, however circumscribed it might be.
The Duchess of Aquitaine had resources that a disgraced wife did not. She would be better able to protect herself, for she was a vassal of the French king. Most important of all, she’d be able to protect Richard’s inheritance. As long as she drew breath, his succession was assured. And since she was sure her husband had considered that, too, she could only conclude it did not matter to him, further proof that he now knew he’d never coax or bully Richard into submission. It was enough for him to have the semblance of victory, to appear to have prevailed over his rebellious son. And if this man seemed utterly unlike the one she’d married, there was no surprise in that realization and only a little regret.
Her greatest fear was that Richard would not understand, that he’d be too outraged to see this Devil’s deal was not such a one-sided bargain after all. What if he defied his father? If it came to war? If he blamed her, too, if he saw her as Harry’s accomplice? In the days that followed, she told herself repeatedly that she was being foolish, that Richard knew she’d never put her own interests above his. But the truth was that she could not be sure. She’d been separated from her sons for so long, just as they came to manhood. She loved Richard dearly. But how well did she really know him?
Although it would have given Eleanor little consolation, Henry shared her unease as they awaited Richard’s response. He thought he’d come up with a face-saving solution to an increasingly dangerous problem. He could not allow Richard to defy him so openly; no king could. By offering Richard a way to back down while still salvaging his pride, Henry hoped to resolve the impasse and restore peace to his family and realm. But he’d been bluffing, for he never had any intention of sending an army into Aquitaine. As a father, he found that prospect abhorrent, and as a king, sheer lunacy. So as time passed without word from Richard, he found himself confronting an unpleasant truth. Bluffing was an invaluable part of a ruler’s arsenal, an integral aspect of statecraft, with one great flaw. If the bluff failed, what then?
Richard gave no advance warning, arrived in Rouen with a large retinue of knights and clerics. He shared his brother Hal’s sense of drama, and as he rode through the streets of the Norman city, people turned out in large numbers to watch, enjoying the visual spectacle that royalty was expected to provide; it was a source of disappointment to many that their duke had so little taste for pageantry and pomp. As they cheered his son-so handsome and splendidly attired, mounted on a magnificent white stallion-they agreed that Duke Richard was a worthy successor to his brother of blessed memory, the young king laid to rest in their great cathedral.
In addition to Richard’s own imposing entourage, the king’s court was filled to capacity with highborn visitors and vassals, so hundreds of avid eyes were upon him as he strode into the castle’s great hall and approached his parents upon the dais. “My lord king,” he said with flawless formality, kneeling gracefully before Henry, his respectful demeanor that of subject to sovereign. Having greeted his father, he turned then to acknowledge his
