The Raveling by Tamara Leigh

Author:Tamara Leigh [Leigh, Tamara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Medieval
Published: 2018-06-18T18:00:00+00:00

DE MORVILLE. A name only distantly known to him ere this day when he learned of the family behind the face of the knight who made false about the aid given the godforsaken Becket.

But what a wondrous mystery! Neville of the family Sorrel loved each piece that moved him nearer finding favor with that grand duke upon whose brow rested a crown on the other side of the channel. Hopefully, he would be able to give Henry the slippery archbishop, but if De Morville and Becket had parted ways, the vassal who betrayed could be delivered unto him.

Providing Henry was in a vengeful mood—and after listening in on his envoys on the night past he was—England’s king would be indebted.

Lands of my own, Neville mused. Mayhap De Morville’s.

He wanted to laugh, but on so cool and clear a night the sound would carry across the faint scent of smoke to that barely perceptible glow.

He drew back, glanced at the men on either side of him. “Here we pass the night. You take first watch, Desmond…Raoul, second. If there is a third, it is mine.”

Desmond, the burly man-at-arms grumbled as he did when reminded he enjoyed a life of leisure only as long as he held favor with the knight whose mother gave Neville much by way of apology for birthing her beloved last of three sons—among her greatest gifts fostering with Count Philip of Flanders though her husband had wished Neville dedicated to the Church. Unfortunately, the count had not offered a position in his household to the one he had knighted.

His loss, as would be felt when Neville proved worthy in the eyes of one mightier than the count—Philip’s cousin, the King of England.

“I say we set upon them now,” hissed Raoul, also a man-at-arms. Fortunately, what he lacked in intelligence he made up for in sword skill and the throw of a fist.

“Patience,” Neville rasped. “First we see if they will lead us to Becket.”

“I tell you, the archbishop has gone to ground,” Raoul said. “Better we had searched the abbeys between Gravelines and Saint-Omer than—”

“You think those holy men would hand up one of their own?” Neville scorned. “Non, Becket or no, we have De Morville.”

“What proof of his duplicity, my lord? Pray, not merely the proof of gut.”

There was that, but more there was yestermorn. Having persuaded Saint-Omer’s lord to loan a falcon for a few hours of sport, Neville and his companions had departed the castle. It was on the road near Clairmarais he encountered soldiers come from Sandwich who told they were on the trail of seven or eight men who had taken a skiff and stolen away from the port King Henry had placed under watch to prevent the archbishop from seeking refuge in France. The only aid Neville had been able to give was to inform them the king’s envoys had arrived at Saint-Omer.

Now for the dozenth time, Neville cursed himself for not heeding the proof of gut when, a half hour later, he happened on Sir Elias’s party.

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