CAVE PERCUTIENS VIPERAE
(BEWARE THE STRIKE OF THE VIPER)
PROLOGUE
Year of Our Lord 1213 A.D.
The Pox Tavern, London
“The next oneis going to take him down. He cannot take another one.”
“How much do you wish to wager?”
“Whatever you wish. I know I am right.”
“You are wrong. This man is holding his own against Cai, who can drink a man into the ground. He’ll go at least one more round.”
“A pound says you’re wrong.”
The pair shook hands. In the noisy, crowded common room of a smelly tavern filled with the vomit of humanity, it was one wager in a night that had literally seen hundreds of them. Sir Bric MacRohan, a massive Irish knight and Sir Kevin de Lara, a powerful English knight, had just made the bet regarding oneof their comrades. Their faith in their brother-in-arms’ alcoholic abilities had them placing wagers against the man’s opponent.
Sir Caius d’Avignon was that man.
A mountain of male flesh with a vast and mysterious propensity towards holding his drink better than most, perhaps because of a hollow leg that everyone spoke of. Or perhaps it was just his great size that quickly dispersed whatever drink he managed to consume. Whatever the case, Caius was able to better hold his drink than most men in England, so if there was a wager to be made regarding such a thing, Caius was the man to bet on.
Which is exactly what Bric and Kevin had done.
Caius sat at a table with a warrior from the House of de Wrenville, with Bric and Kevin on one side of him and three more comrades on the other. Bric passed knowing glances across the table with Dashiell du Reims, heir to the Earldom of East Anglia, and Peter de Lohr, son of the Earl of Hereford and Worcester. They were cousins, each a powerful knight in his own right, but they, much like Bric and Kevin, were supervising not only the drinking game, but the two knights who were supplying the drink.
They were newer knights to the spy ring of William Marshal.
But their newer status did not diminish their skills in any way. Even the newer knights held an elite status that separated them from the rest of the rabble. They all served the House of Marshal– William Marshal to be precise. Caius, Bric, Kevin, Peter, Dashiell, and newcomers Morgan de Wolfe and Gareth de Llion were part of the stable of specialized knights, warriors, assassins, and spies for England’s greatest warrior and statesman, as were a few of the men standing on the other side of the table.
Morgan was the one who had started this whole thing. He was a de Wolfe, from one of the finest fighting families inEngland, and held the de Wolfe air of battle about him. He was nothing to be trifled with.I’ll wager your man cannot outdrink Caius, he’d said, and the next they realized, there was a drinking game between Caius and the de Wrenville knight.
But it wasn’t any knight. There were whispers that it was the de Wrenville heir himself. But it was of little matter. The man could drink and that was all anyone cared about. Since The Pox catered to the many nationalities of men coming in from the sea, they had a better selection than most of cheap to fine ales and wine from far and exotic places.
The drinking game had started because de Wolfe had purchased a bottle of Portuguese wine that had such a punch to it that within two cups of the stuff, he was fairly drunk. It was delicious wine, warm and strong, and everyone else who’d had it was also well on their way to being sotted except for Caius. He’d laughed at his fellow knights and their inability to hold their wine and de Wrenville men from a few tables away heard him. One thing led to another and the contest was on.
Four bottles of that powerful wine sat on the table between Caius and the de Wrenville heir and three of them were empty. They were starting on the fourth, but the de Wrenville heir was so drunk that he had to hold on to the table to keep from falling over while his men held the cup up to his lips.
Money was flying fast and furious that the next drink would topple him.
“You shall not win,” de Wrenville said, spittle dripping from his lips because in his inebriation, he forgot to swallow. “Have my men not told you that I can outdrink anyone? No man can defeat me.”
My men. That told Caius and the rest of them that the whispers of the man being the de Wrenville heir were more than likely true. He was young and strong, with pale eyes and pale hair, and he had a Nordic look about him.
He also had an entitled and arrogant manner.
Caius sensed that was nothing pleasant there.
“Is that so?” he said after a moment. “These are your men, are they?”
“They are.”
“Then introduce yourself.”
“Marius de Wrenville, son of Covington de Wrenville,” he said. “BaronDarliston. Surely you have heard of him.”
