Читать книгу The Dumont Bride - Terri Brisbin, Terri Brisbin - Страница 10

Anjou Province, France

June 1194

Christian Dumont gnashed his teeth, hoping to block out the noises of the scurrying rats on the dank floor of his cell. In his months of imprisonment, he had become quite proficient at ignoring the sounds of rodents, screaming men and even the emanations of his own empty stomach. But the ever-weakening coughs of his younger brother Geoffrey he could not ignore.

He rushed to Geoff’s side and helped him sit up as the coughs wracked the boy’s body, a body which grew thinner and more fragile with each passing day. Patting his brother on his back seemed to help the spasms pass more quickly though the bouts came closer and closer together. Christian watched as Geoff’s entire body shuddered and then slowly the boy began to breathe without struggle.

“’Tis over, Chris. I am fine now,” his brother whispered, pushing him away.

Christian walked to the small pail that held their remaining water and dipped a battered cup to the bottom. ’Twould not last them much longer. He held out the cup, recognizing his brother’s humiliation in the slump of his frail shoulders as he accepted the cup.

“Is there more?” Geoff asked, not meeting his eyes.

“Aye. We will have water to drink for at least another day or two.” Christian knew the boy did not have the strength to walk to see the pail himself, so he felt comfortable in his lie. Why should Geoff worry when it would do nothing more than weaken him further? Christian pulled the boy’s blanket higher around his shoulders and helped him lean back once more.

Their coins had run out almost a sennight before and he knew there would be no more assistance from any of the guards. They were helpful only as long as the gold appeared in their palms, and the Dumonts’ supply of that was gone. During their time in this godforsaken place, Christian had sold all of his possessions, save their father’s signet ring, to keep food and water in good supply for his brother.

Turning away from Geoff, he touched the ring now hanging on a piece of twine around his neck. ’Twas all they had left of their father…their heritage…their wealth. Christian laughed roughly at how far the old and mighty Dumont family had fallen. And all due to his father’s reckless and dangerous efforts to back the wrong man.

Richard, Coeur de Lion, thankfully looked the other way when he inherited the throne from his father, ignoring most of the nobles who had supported Henry’s battle against his sons and wife. A king could be magnanimous in victory. But the king felt differently now that he had been released from his own imprisonment and was faced with the machinations of his brother. Years of John Lackland’s tightening control over the Plantagenet holdings in England and the loss of many on the continent had changed the face of his kingdom and Richard was determined to clean house. And the House of Dumont was one of his first targets.

Christian ran his hands over his face and sighed, careful not to let his brother see the signs of despair on his own face. He was out of ideas. They were out of money. And soon, if nothing changed, they would be out of time.

The loud yell of the guard’s voice woke him the following morning. Leaning over his brother, he watched the slow rise and fall of Geoff’s chest as the boy still slept on the low bench. Christian stood and stretched, trying to loosen muscles long unexercised. At the call of his name, he turned and faced the soldier making his way down the low corridor of cells.

“Aye, you, Dumont. You are to come with us.” The guard was joined by two more soldiers, while another stood nearer to the dungeon’s door.

Christian smiled at the thought of them needing four to take his one. In better days, mayhap, but certainly not now. The toll of not enough food, not enough rest and not enough practice was a stiff one. He looked over at Geoffrey and wondered if they were both called.

“Nay, not the whelp,” the guard answered before he could ask. “Only the elder son of the traitor is called now.”

Christian grimaced at the insulting reminder of his new position. A traitor. His father had dishonored all who bore the Dumont name before and after him by his treasonous acts. As one of the men took his arm to pull him along, he shook off the hand that grabbed him. It was replaced by two more that pulled him even more strongly and swiftly out of the cell and along the corridor.

The group moved quietly through the damp lower floor of the castle, then up two flights of steps to the main floor. Prisoners called out words of encouragement and words of insult as he passed them. Christian fought to keep up with the pace. He did not want to be dragged to his fate. He would face whatever awaited him like a man, like the warrior he had trained to be. He would uphold the shattered honor of his family in spite of his father’s failings.

The bright sunlight, pouring into the hall through high windows of glass, tortured his eyes. The darkness of the dungeon left him unready to face the full power of daylight. He tried to raise his hand to shield his eyes, but the guards would not let go of his arms. They moved farther into the cavernous room, the clip-clopping of their boots on the stone floor echoing ahead and behind them.

They came to a stop before the dais at the front of the room and tossed him to the ground. Unable to regain his balance, he sprawled on the cold stone floor for a moment, dazed and out of breath. A few muted snickers and whispers wafted through the room. Although he could not see clearly yet, he looked from side to side, searching for those who spoke. Pushing his matted hair from his eyes and rubbing them to clear them, Christian climbed shakily to his feet.

A heavy hand on his shoulder forced him to his knees. Christian looked up on the dais and saw the reason he knelt—he was in the presence of the king. Lowering his eyes, he swallowed and prepared to face his judgment. As the eldest son, he could accept death, not without question, but he would not lose control. His only thought was to somehow save Geoff from that same fate.

“Ah, the Count of Langier, though not of late it appears.”

The king began to laugh at his own wit and the others joined him. Christian looked at those surrounding Richard and recognized no one—no one who could speak a word or two of support in his cause.

“Rise, Dumont, I would look on your face as you speak.”

Christian struggled to his feet and tugged on the frayed edge of his sleeve. Standing in the presence of the king, who was splendidly attired, he felt ashamed of his appearance for the first time in his life. Magnificent fabrics and decorations had never mattered to him before, but his months of imprisonment had turned his mind to the simple things he never paid attention to in the past. He even dreamed of things such as clean, well-fitted clothes, food and water and fresh air and the sun’s light.

He faced the king and then realized that Richard and the others were eating at the high table. The aromas of well-cooked beef and hot bread and cheeses surrounded him and his mouth watered. Without thought, he licked his dry lips with his parched tongue and inhaled once more the luxurious smells.

“Come, Dumont, join us at table. I am certain that the fare below is not quite up to the Count of Langier’s high expectations.”

Although he knew Richard mocked him, the thought of hot food, freshly made and free of crawling vermin, was too much for him to resist. His feet moved forward to where the king pointed and he dropped onto the bench. Although his seat was at the far end of the table, several of those seated nearest to him slid away, wrinkling their noses and grimacing at his appearance. Only the king’s presence and invitation kept them from bolting completely.

A servant filled his cup with wine, placed a trencher of food before him and stepped away quickly, another sign of his putrid condition. Christian did not care—the food before him was the first like it in over two months and he would not be driven off by their sensitive noses. Startled by a young boy’s sudden appearance at his side, he sat dumbfounded until the boy lifted the laver of water closer to him.

Table manners were not required in the dungeon and he’d grown out of practice with even the simplest. After a hesitation, he dipped his hands into the scented water and took the drying cloth from the page. Humiliated even more by the filth he left behind in the bowl and on the towel, Christian turned his attention back to the food in front of him. Before a morsel passed his lips, he looked once more at his clothes for a way to wrap some of this food and take it back to Geoff. A chunk of bread and cheese would go quite far in their present situation, especially if he ate now and then did not need to share in what he took back with him.

Desperation filled him and his hands shook as he reached for the bread. Tearing off a piece, he lifted it to his mouth. Closing his eyes he savored the crisp crust and soft, chewy inside of the loaf. Too long, much too long since food of this quality had passed his lips.

“I have only seen such reverence for a piece of bread when it is consecrated in Communion. What do you think, Ely?” Richard’s mocking continued from his place at the center of the table.

The Bishop of Ely, Richard’s embattled chancellor, murmured words Christian could not and did not want to hear in response and the others laughed out their agreement. Refusing to look into their jeering faces, he swallowed the bread and reached for his cup. The bread sat as a lump in his throat and would not move. Only a mouthful of the wine helped it pass.

The pain in his gut was not only from his long hunger, but also from the realization that just a few short months ago, he would have gleefully participated in this game. And he would not have felt a moment of shame or compunction in taking part in shaming someone less in the royal favor. Many lessons had been brought home to him during his imprisonment and none of them had been easy to learn.

His hands shook less as he reached for another piece of bread. He chewed slowly, both to enjoy the taste and feel of the food and to keep his stomach from clenching while eating too fast. He fought a battle within himself not to grab and shovel the food into his mouth as he wanted and needed to do. Knowing that acting as the disgusting prisoner he now was would simply give those around him more to mock, he held himself under an iron band of willpower and forced his hand to take but one piece at a time. He would show them the dignity of the Dumonts of Langier.

A few minutes later, Richard signaled the end of the meal and, with a wave of his hand, dismissed their company from the table. Panicking, since he’d been unable to hide and save any of it for Geoffrey, Christian searched his shirt for a pocket or someplace that would hold a hidden cache of bread and cheese.

“Guillaume? Since the count was so lately called to table, make certain that his plate is delivered to his cell.”

The man standing at Richard’s elbow nodded and stepped toward him. Lifting the trencher from the table, the servant piled the small loaves of bread and cheese on top.

“And Guillaume? Make certain that it is delivered there immediately and as it is.”

Richard mocked even in his generosity. Christian would get on his knees and kiss Richard’s hands and feet if that was what it took to get this food to Geoffrey. The servant covered the food with a large linen napkin and carried it from the room. In another moment, he was alone with the king. Now he would discover the reason for this summons, and he knew that generosity had nothing to do with it.

Richard stood and walked to the end of the table where he still sat. Christian started to rise, but Richard motioned with his hand for him to stay seated. He did so. Feeling a growing sense of dread, he reached for his cup of wine and drank it down in several mouthfuls. He sat in shocked silence as Richard lifted a pitcher and refilled his drink and then sat down on a bench next to the one where he sat.

“Your father is dead and your lands and fortune are in my control,” Richard began. “Only you and your brother remain, and it will take only a lack of action on my part to see to the end of the Dumont family forever.”

Christian could do nothing but nod in agreement at the king’s words. He knew how precarious his and Geoff’s situation was; this was simply a reminder from Richard about who held the power.

“I find that I am in need of a service that you are suited to provide.”

“A service, sire?” Christian fought to stifle even the smallest of hopes at Richard’s words.

“Aye, my mother has asked that I send you to her in England so that you may prove yourself free of the taint of your father’s sins.”

“England? Is there no way for me to prove my loyalty to you here or at Chateau d’Azure?” Christian ached to return to his family’s lands, to the place of his birth.

“Do not worry, your lands have been cared for during your imprisonment, unlike some others.” The reference to John’s raping of Richard’s English estates was not lost on him.

“What must I do in England?” Christian wanted to get this out into the open—discover why Richard seemed willing to let him live and what task he faced.

“My mother asks only that I send you and, in her own inimitable fashion, has declined to give me an explanation.” Richard chuckled as he spoke. “I learned long ago that my mother explains herself to no man unless she chooses to. My father complained of this fault of hers many, many times.”

Richard stood, walked down from the dais and crossed to a door on one side of the hall. He motioned someone inside, and a priest carrying a thick pile of parchments followed him back to the table. The cleric spread out the documents into several small piles. Once he was done his organizing, he sat with his hands folded before him and waited on Richard. Christian waited as well.

“Here is the deed for your properties in Poitou and an accounting of your wealth. And this,” Richard said, lifting another scroll and holding it before Christian, “is my decree reestablishing the title of Count of Langier and bequeathing it to you and your heirs. All here, all ready to be signed by me, if you agree to perform any service which my mother requests of you once you arrive in England.”

Christian could not make the words come from his mouth. Everything within him that desired, nay craved, a restoration of his name, his wealth, his properties, his honor, fought to scream the words of agreement. But a small part of his being held back.

“And the task which I must carry out?”

Richard’s hand slammed down on the table and parchments flew in all directions. The priest simply blinked several times as though familiar with these outbursts from the king.

“I offer you all you hold dear and you dare to question my orders to you? I could throw you in that dungeon and no one would ever hear the name of Dumont again. Is that what you wish? To die the son of a traitor? The sons of a traitor?”

Christian swallowed deeply, trying to lessen the terror that gripped him as the king reminded him quite clearly of the results if he refused to perform this unnamed service for the king. Rising, he bowed his head to Richard.

“Nay, sire.”

“Then give the word and I will set all of this in motion—your estates back in your control, your name cleared of any taint of treason and your brother freed from his prison.”

Christian hesitated for only a moment longer before giving the king what he wanted. He’d only dreamed that this would happen. He’d prayed continuously for a way out of this terrible turn of events facing him and Geoff and now the king presented him with exactly that. He must not lose this opportunity to regain his very honor.

“I am your man, sire.” Christian knelt down before Richard and offered his hands in homage to the king.

Richard took Christian’s hands in his and then lay one hand on Christian’s head. “Then you are now once again the Count of Langier and my liegeman. The estates and wealth of the family Dumont are now restored to you, but will be held in trust by the Crown’s chancellor until your service is completed.”

Christian raised his head to look at Richard. His but not his? Richard was not finished yet.

“You have one week until you must leave for England—use it well. You may take your brother back to Chateau d’Azure and then be at my disposal here on Tuesday next.”

Christian rose and stepped back from the king. He was saved! His brother would live! And his honor would once more be restored. And all in exchange for some task for Queen Eleanor.

Some task for the queen. Another wave of foreboding passed through him. What if the price was too high? What if he could not complete this mystery task? Nay, he could not fail…he could not afford to fail…the family Dumont, all past and future bearers of the title of Langier and most of all his brother, were depending on him.

Richard then leaned over the documents and scrawled his signature on the many sheets. Christian added his own, as directed by the priest. After giving more instructions to the priest and nodding to Christian, the king walked down the steps and through the hall. Just as he reached the doorway, he turned back.

“Langier.” Richard used his newly restored title to address him now. “Report to me when you discover my brother’s involvement in all of this. I smell his foul odor even from across the Channel and in spite of his claims of innocence.”

Christian nodded to Richard, agreeing to this additional term.

“Directly to me and to no one else.”

The king left without hearing his response, leaving him in astonished confusion.