“Why not?” Emelisse said. “If you want to go with your friends, then go. I will probably be conversing with Alice all night, anyway, so you may as well go and enjoy yourself. I do not mind.”
He was greatly tempted, but as he looked at her, he felt the need to be completely honest. “Sweetheart, The Pox isn’t simply a tavern,” he said. “The filth of society goes there. The gambling games are… unique. Sometimes dangerous.”
“Do you at least have a good time?”
“Always.”
“Then you should go,” she said. “I suspect you do not see your friends very often. You should enjoy the time you have.”
Caius didn’t know what to do, but Maxton stepped in, giving him a shove towards the chamber door.
“Cai, are you mad?” he hissed. “She is giving you permission. My own wife will not give me permission to go to The Pox, so take this great gift from her.Go.”
Caius let Maxton push him to the door, lifting his hands apologetically to Emelisse, who was laughing softly at him as he was shoved out the door. Kevin followed close behind, grinning at her, while William slipped by her politely and ran after them.
He wasn’t going to miss this for the world.
It was an evening to remember for all concerned.
Much later that night, as Emelisse slept soundly in the borrowed chamber in William Marshal’s townhouse, Caius returned to her very drunk and very happy, having won a beautiful new warhorse from his squire, who had been foolish enough to test him in a drinking game.
William de Wolfe had learned the hard way, as Marius de Wrenville had also once learned, that men who compete against Caius d’Avignon seldom win.
In any arena.
The Britannia Viper was now, and forever, a champion for all seasons.
EPILOGUE
August, 1219 A.D.
Hawk Mountain
It was rainingat Hawk Mountain, not an unusual occurrence, but the silence surrounding the rock formations was. Considering his wife and children were up here, Caius didn’t like the silence at all. He was fairly certain they hadn’t moved on to other areas; he would have heard them.
Coming up the path from Hawkstone Castle, he followed the rocky trail that led to a rock formation known as The Gatehouse. His eldest son had given the rocks that name, even though they didn’t look much like a gatehouse at all, but Rupert d’Avignon thought they did.
Caius was happy to let his child think so.
As the mist gently fell, Caius left the path and crossed through The Gatehouse and into a cluster of rocks that his children called The Castle. It was really just a big area of rocks to climb on, and having three boys, they climbed on them regularly.
This was their magical domain.
It was lush with growth and trees, a perfect place for children to play. His smile broadened when a black-eyed boy with a big stick in his hand suddenly appeared before him. Caius opened his mouth to speak but the lad cut him off.
“Halt!” the boy demanded. “Who goes there?”
“Your father.” Caius came to a halt as the boy pointed the stick at him. “Where is your mother?”
The boy jabbed the stick at him. “You will call me Sir Rupert.”
“As you wish.” Caius’ black eyes glimmered with humor. “Sir Rupert, where is your mother?”
Rupert Edward d’Avignon was a brilliant boy with his father’s good looks and imposing size. At five years of age, he was already big and strong, but his personality was purely his mother’s. He was strong-willed and opinionated, but sweet and imaginative. Caius had never been able to bring himself to discipline the boy, even when he threw his father’s boot down the garderobe chute, or put an old bucket on his younger brother’s head in an attempt to make a great helm. That wasn’t bad in and of itself, but he’d secured it with leather strips he’d tied so tightly that he nearly choked little Atticus before his father could use his dagger to cut the strips.
Rupert had always been their bold, brave boy.
Cheeky, too.
