“Father Ignatius might yet be in the keep,” Anna reminded to Bartholomew. “He went in search of the reliquary. We cannot abandon him.”
“And we will not,” he said, placing her crossbow on the back of the wagon, where she could readily grab it. “Once inside, all of you will contrive to steal the other wagon and get clear of the keep as soon as possible. Anna will fetch Father Ignatius from the chapel if we do not see him. Duncan and I will climb to Royce’s chamber, as if to report on our mission, and not leave without the reliquary.”
Anna was more than ready to see this matter resolved.
Chapter Fourteen
Royce was rather proud of himself.
His scheme was so brilliant that it could not fail to succeed. The first cart, loaded with trunks of rocks, had to be reaching the most treacherous part of the road through his abode. The rebels in the forest would attack, but they would be the ones to be surprised.
And pay the price of their treachery. He would be rid of them all by sunset!
Boys ran up and down the stairs of the tower, carrying the chests of silver pennies to the second cart in the bailey, then racing to retrieve more from his treasury. Royce supervised the efforts in his chamber, ensuring that they took the right trunks.
There would still be a measure of coin left for his own comfort. It was only three small trunks, but one was filled with gold coin. This was a clever choice on his part, for the fewer the villeins and the less trade within his borders, the lower the taxes. Goods for his table were less readily confiscated from the peasants or taxed out of them in these times. Indeed, the castellan had confided that they would have to buy flour in York by the spring to make bread in the hall.
What need had he of peasants too lazy to till the fields?
Nay, he was better without them, and this measure of coin would ensure his comfort for a good while, even with the king receiving his due. Let them all die. He would survive on venison and other game.
Who knew what good fortune might come to him from his plan? The gift of the reliquary might so impress the king that he might give Royce a fine gift.
Another holding, perhaps.
A richer one.
Royce nigh rubbed his hands together in glee.
He heard his wife weeping noisily in her chambers below his own and rolled his eyes at the fuss she had made over a dead maid. It was one less mouth to feed, as far as Royce was concerned.
Marie wailed in anguish and he gritted his teeth. Even his wife began to be a burden. She had never given him a son. He had long ago bored of her charms, and she had dared to tryst with the knight who aspired to replace him. If she could not be trusted, why should he feed her?
Did she mourn her maid, or the man who hung from the parapet, dead as he deserved?
Royce believed he knew the truth, and it gave him great pleasure.
It also fed his resolve to be rid of Marie.
First matters first, though. The last of the trunks were carried from the chamber and he realized what had been missed. “Gaultier!” he bellowed, believing that the Captain of the Guard must have taken the reliquary into his care. Gaultier knew he was to command the second cart, to ensure that the taxes arrived safely at the king’s court. They had arranged all the previous afternoon.
Royce strode out of the chamber and shouted again from the top of the stairs. “Gaultier!”
There was no reply. Where was the man? He had never known Gaultier to be as vexing as he had been this day, and it was not even noon.
Royce marched down a flight of stairs, catching the sleeve of a passing squire. “Where is Gaultier? Have you seen him this morn?”
“Not since daybreak, my lord, when he could not be roused from sleep.”
What was this? Royce had seen him in the bailey, when the priest had arrived. He hammered on the door of Marie’s chambers, entering without awaiting an invitation. She was packing bundles and froze at the sight of him. “I would give the possessions of Agnes to the poor,” she said with a proud lift of her chin.
Royce continued into the chamber with a frown. There were far too many bundles and trunks, to his view. “Agnes did not own so much as this,” he protested. He lifted a kirtle from one bag. “And this is the kirtle I gave to you two years ago, at Easter.”
“I gave it to Agnes.”
“You did not. You would depart yourself! And without my permission.”
Marie’s eyes narrowed. “I do not need your permission,” she began and he struck her hard, across the face.
