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Merry turned and called out, “Tupper, who first called it the Retribution?”
“The Black Demon,” Tup
per shouted. “When he sat atop that great destrier at the fore of his men, he announced he was here to carry out the Retribution unless we gave him his silver coins. Then he said he would spare us if Lord Arthur would come forward and give himself up for his crimes, but Lord Arthur was dead, now wasn’t he? But it seemed the Black Demon didn’t believe Elkins, Lord Arthur’s master-at-arms. Then Murlo laughed at him, all our soldiers joined in with him because they believed themselves safe and they believed him a puffed-up popinjay. All knew that even with Lord Arthur dead, we would hold against an enemy.”
“Rightfully so,” said Burnell. “Wareham is a stout keep. How did the Black Demon manage to get within the walls?”
The hall quieted. Everyone was listening.
Tupper said, “A traitor let in some of his soldiers through the hidden postern gate at the beach. While the Black Demon was threatening Murlo and our soldiers, all their attention focused on him and his men, the traitor led them in single file. When the Black Demon finished talking, there were enough of his soldiers already within to take Wareham.” Tupper bowed his head. “No one realized the Black Demon had divided up his men. ’Twas a black day, sir.”
Burnell called out, “Who knew to call this man the Black Demon?”
Tupper said, “He called himself the Black Demon, sir, said it was his name, said, he did, we would never forget him, if we lived to tell about it.”
Burnell sat silent a moment, stroking his chin. “Does anyone know who this man is?”
There was discussion. Finally, Bullic the cook shouted, “Nay, sir, no one knows. He never removed his helmet. He was garbed all in black and his destrier, a huge brute, was black as well.”
“What of his standard?”
There was the buzz of conversation throughout the great hall, but none could remember a standard.
Garron said, “I know nothing of the silver coins the Black Demon claimed Arthur stole from him.”
“I wonder how many coins there are?”
And Garron knew Burnell was thinking about the king’s share.
15
Garron escorted Burnell to the lord’s bedchamber, followed by his servant Dilkin, a thin old man with stooped shoulders and an air of great patience. Dilkin carried a pile of blankets in his frail arms. To Garron’s relief, but not surprise, he saw that Merry had cleaned the large room, which was now perfectly empty, causing their boots to echo on the stone. Sleeping on the floor would be nothing new for Dilkin, he always slept beside his master’s bed. Come to think of it, it appeared to Garron that both master and servant wore the same expression as they looked around the chamber.
When he returned to the great hall, Miggins sidled up to him, Tupper standing at her elbow. “Ye’re looking happy, my lord.”
“Aye, I suppose that I am.” Truth be told, he was seeing the great hall as it would look by Michaelmas. It would again be a nobleman’s hall—sweet-smelling rushes on the stone floor, a full complement of trestle tables and benches, even a carved chair for him. He heard grunts and snoring from those already asleep, and smiled.
He noticed that the old woman was fidgeting. “What is it, Miggins? Tupper? Why aren’t both of you sleeping? Is there a problem?”
Tupper gave Miggins a look. She nodded, drew in a deep breath. “Not long before his death, I overheard yer brother tell a visiting knight about ye, and how ye’d grabbed an assassin by his throat, clean lifted him off the ground, and snapped his neck before he could get within six feet of the king. Proud he was of ye, my lord, very proud indeed.”
How had Arthur heard of that? In that instant, Garron saw his brother at no more than twelve years old, and he was showing Garron, only six years old, how to wield a sword. “I did not know, Miggins. Thank you for telling me.”
She paused a moment. “Ye believe yer brother’s death was a tragedy, that he was struck down for no good reason. But Tupper and I don’t believe his heart jest stopped beating. It was so strange, Lord Arthur was laughing one minute, stroking Mordrid, his leman, and the next instant, he simply fell over his trencher my lord, dead.” Miggins sucked in a deep breath and spit it out. “We believe Lord Arthur was poisoned.”
Tupper said, “But the problem is, no one can prove he was poisoned.”
Garron’s world tilted. Poison? His brother was dead because someone poisoned him? He remembered tales of how the sheiks in the Holy Land feared poison more than being cleaved in two by their enemies. He felt his own heart, beating painfully slow, thudding inside his chest.
“But why?”
Tupper said, “Iffen he was poisoned, my lord, mayhap the one who kilt him knew of his silver coins and wanted them for hisself.”
Miggins laid her hand lightly on Garron’s shoulder. “There are others besides Tupper and me who believe he was poisoned, my lord. We jest wanted ye to know, mayhap keep more alert even here at Wareham, take more care of yer food and ale.”
Garron stared blindly down into his empty mug. Would someone try to poison him as well? But there could be no reason. He hadn’t even known about the silver coins.
Those damnable silver coins. Garron’s head ached. He looked up to see Merry watching him. Oh yes, they’d told her about this before they’d told him. Had she counseled them to tell him what they believed? In order to make him more careful, to protect him?
