Читать книгу Bride Of The Tower - Sharon Schulze - Страница 11

Birkland Manor, Nottinghamshire

Sir Richard Belleville ignored the usual filth and noisy disorder that engulfed the bailey and made his way to the stable by a roundabout route guaranteed to afford him privacy. His irritation rose; the fact that he must skulk like a thief from one place to another in what was essentially his own keep grated mightily on his already-short temper.

Damn Rannulf FitzClifford anyway! Birkland was but a small part of the territory FitzClifford held for both himself and his wife. ’Twas a wonder he should recall ’twas his to command. But remember it he did, far too often for Richard’s peace of mind. The steadfast nobleman and his well-connected friends made Richard’s life a constant battle, as he sought to balance the commands and desires of Birkland’s owner against his own more profitable aspirations.

How could a man of wealth and power such as Lord Rannulf maintain his allegiance to a boy king, rather than take full advantage of the opportunity provided to put a true leader—one who would reward his friends well—in his place? The fact that Lord William Marshal, the vaunted Earl of Pembroke, stood as regent and advisor to young King Henry made little difference, so far as Richard could see. Pah, the man was ancient, a long way past his prime.

What did it matter that he’d been the most notable warrior in all England once, when that time had been decades ago? He was so old, ’twould be a miracle if he recognized his own vassals now. ’Twas a mystery why anyone would swear fealty to such a man and remain loyal to him and their weak king—and a misery for Richard, since his own loyalty rested wherever he could find the best prospect for personal gain.

And now to have one of FitzClifford’s lackeys nosing about…Generally Lord Rannulf sent orders by way of a messenger, not a trusted knight from his personal troop. Sir William Bowman had been a part of Lord Rannulf’s inner circle since before he’d won his spurs.

Something must have made FitzClifford suspicious about where Richard’s allegiance lay. What other reason could Bowman have had to break his journey at Birkland? To deliver a message from Lord Rannulf that said next to nothing, while affording Bowman the opportunity to pry into Richard’s affairs? It seemed impossible that word of his activities could have reached Fitz-Clifford, who dwelt in one of the most remote parts of the kingdom—and so swiftly, too—but he could think of no other reason for Bowman’s visit.

If the truth of Richard’s involvement in the plans to overthrow the young king came to light, the best he could hope for would be a swift death. No matter that he saw no sin in working to aid those with some power to gain it all; others would see his actions as treason.

He’d simply have to make certain he remained on the side that won.

He strode into the shadowy depths of the stable, shuddering at the sudden chill that skittered down his spine. The darkness brought to mind the torture, maiming and worse that had haunted his dreams in the two nights since Bowman had arrived at Birkland. A traitor’s reward—or the fears of a guilty man, mayhap—but also a powerful spur to goad him toward the successful completion of his plans.

Escorting Bowman on his way—into the maze-like depths of Sherwood, Richard reflected, giving a satisfied chuckle—had been a masterstroke. The man had even thanked him for his consideration! If the man found his way out of the wood, ’twould certainly delay his journey.

If he survived…

Yet Richard couldn’t quite rid himself of the sensation that he had an arrow aimed at his back as he stood on the battlements, poised and ready to help him lose his balance and propel to his doom.

Although he’d sent two of his own trusted men after Bowman later, to do whatever necessary to ensure that the man never left the infamous forest, his uneasiness had yet to diminish.

Perhaps the fact that he had heard nothing from the pair of worthless idiots since they’d gone out after Bowman accounted for his continuing apprehension.

He’d taken care of every detail, he was sure of it. He couldn’t hide the fact that Bowman had entered Birkland—unfortunately too many people had seen and spoken with him for that—but Richard stood ready, if necessary, to swear Bowman hadn’t delivered any messages from Lord Rannulf to him.

In the event Bowman’s effects should survive though he did not, the message from Lord Rannulf, slipped back into the pack while Bowman slept, had been resealed with wax so neatly, anyone examining the contents of Bowman’s pack would never realize it had already been opened.

If anyone should come looking for Bowman, Richard would claim he’d never read Fitz-Clifford’s missive before Bowman left Birkland. It should work; his ability to feign innocence had served him well all his life. He’d no reason to believe the skill would abandon him now.

After all, ’twas possible Bowman had forgotten to deliver the letter, was it not?

’Twas a shame he hadn’t dared to relieve Bowman of the other messages he’d carried. He’d like to have gotten his hands on them, since Bowman had been on his way to Pembroke’s camp at Lincoln. There was no telling what important missive he might have brought; perhaps something useful to Richard’s plans, or his associates’ goals. What a feat ’twould be if he could gain possession of important information to pass along to the leaders of their rebellion!

If his men had not only stopped Bowman, but brought back his pack…Hell, he cared little if they didn’t stop Bowman, if only they’d stolen the letters.

Straw rustled deep in the far corner of the large building, distracting Richard from his musings. “There ye are, milord.” Johan spoke from the gloom. “I been waitin’ for ye a long time. Beginnin’ to think ye mightn’t o’got my message.”

His eyes still adjusting to the dim light, Richard crossed to where the leader of his small, private troop of mercenaries leaned against the door of a narrow stall tucked behind the hay crib. As always, insolence lent the man’s pox-scarred face a leering appearance that made Richard wonder how far Johan could be trusted.

Thus far he’d obeyed Richard’s directives. He’d proven he could be relied upon—indeed, that he was highly skilled—in carrying out any task, including murder, abduction and questioning obstinate prisoners. So long as his price was met. Richard had had no cause for complaint.

Thus far.

“Your message said you’d something important to show me, something to do with Bowman,” he said, low-voiced. “I didn’t intend to await you in the bailey to see it, along with everyone else out there.” He peered into the stall, then spun round to Johan and, using both hands, hauled him up by the front of his tunic and shook him. “You lack-wit,” he ground out. “You called me to the stable to see a horse?”

Johan’s feet skimmed the dirt floor; he grabbed hold of Richard’s hands, wrenched them from his tunic and thrust them away from him. He stumbled, caught his balance and lunged back into Richard’s face. “Ye better watch yerself, milord,” he snarled. “Don’t want to push me too far. Could be my price’ll go up, to account for yer ill manners. Or mayhap I’ll find me another master, one who’ll treat me better.” He jerked his tunic and belt into position, his right hand lingering on the long dirk sheathed at his waist. “Then where’d ye be, eh, milord Richard?” Johan’s ugly face twisted into a sneer. “You’d not find another could take the place o’ me so easy.”

His foul breath gusted over Richard’s face, nigh strong enough to overpower the usual stable stench. Muttering a curse at the unfortunate truth of Johan’s threat, Richard turned away and stared into the stall again.

“Tell me about this horse,” Richard demanded. He unlatched the door and entered the stall to take a closer look at the sturdy black gelding. “’Tis a fine enough animal, but I see nothing remarkable about it.”

Johan leaned against the doorframe and nodded. “Aye. It ain’t nothin’ special, ’cept when ye know who it belongs to.” He grinned. “Or belonged to, mayhap. This be Sir William’s mount, milord, what he rode into the wood. We found no sign o’ Bowman, but his horse, still wearin’ his saddle and all his gear, we found wanderin’ out near the border wi’ the Tower.”

“Christ’s bones!” Richard slammed his hand against the wall. The pain provided an adequate substitute for the urge to roar his frustration. “What about the men I sent after Bowman? Why didn’t they have the beast? And Bowman’s body, for that matter.” He took a calming breath. “I don’t imagine you found any signs of a struggle, something to show they found him, at least?”

“No one’s seen ’em since they set out after him yesterday afternoon.” Johan shrugged. “Could Bowman have killed ’em, d’ye think?” he added, his repulsive features slanting into a curious smile. “If he had, we’d ha’ found ’em out there, most like. I’d wonder if they took their pay and run off, ’cept they only got a part o’ it.” He slipped his knife free, used the point to pick at his teeth and spat. “Besides, they know what I’d do to ’em if I caught ’em at that.” He sheathed the dirk. “It’s bad for business.”

Calmer now, Richard reached out and stroked the gelding. The beast shied away, nearly crushing Johan against the doorframe before he could leap aside. “Nasty bastard, he is,” Johan muttered from a safe distance away. “He gave us nothin’ but trouble most o’ the way back here. Miserable bastard! Never did care much for horses.” He turned and dug through the hay piled near the stall and dragged out a saddle and several packs. “Here’s all we found,” he said.

Ignoring the saddle, Richard grabbed the packs and began to paw through them. Naught but clothing and some supplies…Not a sign of what he sought, however. Disgusted, he shoved the packs aside. “Was there a small leather pouch tied to the saddle? About so big—” he gestured with his hands “—with a strap long enough to sling it over your shoulder.”

Johan shook his head. “This is everythin’. Maybe Bowman was wearin’ it, or dropped it someplace.”

“Then we need Bowman. Send someone out into the forest again, and tell them to look more carefully this time! Sherwood’s got hiding places aplenty—far too many for there to have been a thorough search so soon.” He knelt beside the packs and rummaged through the contents once more. Nothing! He stuffed everything back inside them and held them out to Johan. “Take these with you—the horse, too. I don’t want anyone asking questions about Bowman. ’Tis best if it looks as if he disappeared far from here, so no one suspects we had anything to do with it.”

Richard stood. “Keep looking.” Turning, he began to walk away, then paused and looked back, giving the mercenary his most menacing glare. “The next time I see you, you’d better have something valuable for me.”