CHAPTER TWO
London
The Crowned Lion Inn
South of the Thames in Southwark
The fist came flying at Gart but, with his cat-like agility, he was able to dodge it. Instead, it hit the man behind him, who went sailing back onto the railing of the staircase. Rickety old wood that had seen far too much use and not enough maintenance creaked, groaned, and finally gave way under the weight. Everything splintered and the hapless tavern patron fell back in a heap of rotted wood and embarrassment.
Gart didn’t stop to help the man because fists, and weapons, were now coming forth at his expense. They were after him and his three companions, one of which had the propensity of getting fights like this started. Battles were never far off when Achilles de Dere was around because, inevitably, the sometimes tactless and always bold knight would say or do something that triggered an explosion of aggression.
Like now.
Now, they were in the thick of it.
“Behind you!” Gart shouted to Achilles.
The enormous knight was wise enough to throw himself forward, down and away from whatever Forbes was warning him about. It turned out to be a man with a broadsword who sliced it over Achilles’s head, barely missing the man.
Infuriated, Achilles regained his footing and lashed out a big boot, catching his attacker in the belly. With a grunt, the man fell backwards and Achilles went after him, all fists and fury. Gart shoved away another accoster by the face, nearly breaking the man’s neck, as a big blond knight ended up beside him.
“Now what?” Kress de Rhydian asked, elbowing a man in the nose who came too close to him. “How in the hell did this get started? My back was turned on a game of chance and suddenly Achilles is standing up, throwing a man across the room.”
Gart grunted, unhappy, as he watched Achilles pound a big, well-dressed merchant in the face. “He was speaking with that man’s daughter,” he said, pointing to Achilles and his victim.
Kress scowled at the pair. “The man currently being beaten with in an inch of his life?”
“Aye, the same.”
Kress shook his head, exasperated. “Was he foolish enough to throw a punch at Achilles?”
Gart sighed. “He ordered one of his men to do it,” he replied, “and the rest is as you see. Utter chaos.”
Kress’ jaw ticked as he watched Achilles kick the half-conscious merchant aside when one of the man’s guards hit him across the shoulders with a chair. The chair splintered but Achilles did not; it simply made him madder. It was like pulling the tail of the bull.
“Christ,” Kress hissed. “We must remove him from this place before the entire tavern is turned on-end. You know how he can be.”
“Aye, I know how he can be.”
“He will destroy everything in his path.”
“He will, indeed.”
Kress began looking around for the fourth man in their party, spying him over near the hearth in what appeared to be an oddly peaceful conversation with an older man, perhaps a traveler or merchant of some kind. In the midst of the chaotic room, the quiet conversation seemed out of place.
“Look at Max,” Kress said, pointing to their companion at the other end of the rumbling room. “He does not have a care in this world.”
Gart spied their companion as well. “He certainly is not afraid of conversation,” he replied. “He has done this ever since we left Baux, speaking with strangers in taverns, on the road, in churches… I have never known Maxton of Loxbeare to be so interested in the rabble of the world. Now, instead of helping Achilles, he is casually conversing.”
Kress’s blue-eyed gaze lingered on Maxton as the man lifted his hands to emphasize a point, chatting away. Kress opened his mouth to reply but another victim of Achilles’s rage stumbled past him, almost bashing into him, and Kress angrily pushed the man away, right back into Achilles’s orbit, where he was subsequently pummeled to the ground. Kress then continued his conversation with Forbes as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.
“Max was oddly quiet during our time in captivity,” he told Gart. “Do you recall that I mentioned this to you? He rarely spoke and when he did, it was oddly philosophical, as if the man was reliving his life and trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. Do you see these people he speaks with? Merchants, holy men, anyone who seems intelligent or well-read. Somehow, someway, Max is re-thinking the sins of his life. It is my opinion that now that we are freed, he believes he has a second chance to right the wrongs he has committed.”
Gart’s focus was also lingering on Maxton off in the corner of the smelly, smoky, and noisy room. “He cannot change his life,” he said. “He cannot erase the past and the man is known for the strength of his sins as well as the strength of his accomplishments. The Marshal has a task for the three of you and Max is an important part of that equation. Has he mentioned to you that he does not wish to agree to The Marshal’s terms?”
Kress shook his head. “He has not mentioned anything to me,” he replied. “But, then again, we do not know all of it. Mayhap when we do, he shall voice his resistance.”
“If he does, then William Marshal will send him back to the Lords of Baux, not to mention what Eleanor will do to him when she discovers her money has been wasted.”
“I would fear Eleanor more than William.”
“As would I.”
Achilles, now bored with his fight because every man involved in it was now either unconscious or fleeing, rubbed at his bruised knuckles as he made his way back over to Kress and Gart. There were at least a dozen men picking themselves off of the tavern’s dirt floor but when Achilles de Dere was involved in a fight, that was the normal aftermath. Achilles had no problem single-handedly taking on more men than he could count on his fingers and toes, or at least he boasted that fact. He was mostly right and no one had the courage to argue with him. A fight with Achilles de Dere was a difficult fight to win.
“Foolish whelp,” Achilles muttered as he came to stand with Kress and Gart. “No man will accuse me of sullying his daughter when all I was doing was talking to the girl. And she was not all that attractive to begin with.”
Kress simply shook his head, resigned, as Gart spoke. “You have made a mess out of the place,” he observed, watching as the merchant was being helped to his feet by his plain-featured daughter. “Mayhap it would be wiser for us to wait outside for The Marshal. I do not want him to see the state of this room and think we are men without control.”
Achilles looked puzzled as Gart and Kress turned away from him, heading back to their table to collect their possessions. “What do you mean without control?” the big knight wanted to know, trailing behind them through the up-turned tables. “I have perfect control. Moreover, we have not eaten yet and I am starving. I am not leaving before I have been fed.”
Gart was collecting his saddlebags. “We will eat somewhere else,” he said. “The tavern keeper will more than likely poison our food and wait until we are dead to steal from us to pay back the damage you have done to his tavern. I will not be robbed by a vengeful innkeeper.”
Achilles was frowning greatly, but in a way, he understood. He, too, began to collect his bags.
“I would not die easily,” he insisted. “It would take a lot of poison to kill me.”
Kress snorted. “Do you care to test that theory?”
“I do not.”
“Then pick up your bags and let us move on.”
“But what about Marshal?”
“I shall have to send word to him that we have moved to another tavern. He can find us there.”
Achilles slung his saddlebags over his broad shoulder, well-used and repaired bags that had been purchased second-hand from an old French smithy when they had left Baux-de-Provence. He didn’t like them, but he didn’t have the money, as of yet, to purchase finer. All of his possessions, including his fine horses and weapons, had been confiscated by forces loyal to the pope when they had been arrested last year. Achilles, much like Kress and Maxton, hoped to one day be outfitted to reflect their quality and status once again. Right now, all three of them looked like paupers.
“Max,” Kress hissed to his friend in the corner. “Let us depart.”
Maxton of Loxbeare was what most women would call deliciously formed. With dark hair and deep blue eyes, he was square-jawed and handsome. He was also aloof for the most part, at least towards women, and could be aloof towards men as well, which was why his sudden change in nature over the past several months had seemed so strange to his friends. Maxton was a complex man at best, but he was also extremely brilliant and an infallible commander, which made him something of an odd character. When the man heard Kress’ call, he turned to look at him with a complete lack of concern.
“Why?” he asked. “My business is not yet complete here.”
Kress grunted, displeased with the denial, as he looked to Gart for support. Forbes fixed on of Loxbeare.
“Your business is our business, and our business is outside of this tavern,” he told the man in a tone that was not meant to be contested. “Gather your things, Loxbeare. We must depart.”
Maxton eyed Gart a moment, simply to convey that he was not so easily ordered about, before finally rising from his chair and moving back to their table where his worn saddle bags lay across the wooden surface. Gart and Kress were already moving for the tavern door, a warped panel that was barely able to close. They were nearly to the door when it abruptly pushed back and blinding white light from late afternoon filtered in. Gart actually staggered back, momentarily blinded, as a well-armed man entered the tavern.
For the Executioner Knights, their moment of destiny had finally arrived.