The earl gave Roland a brief nod and Roland knew he’d been weighed in those short minutes as well. “You have come in good time, thank the saints, de Tournay. Come and sit with me. We have much to discuss.”
Roland accepted a cup of ale and waited for his host to come to the point.
“I will pay you well,” Damon Le Mark said, and raised his own cup for a toast. Roland sent him a bland look and asked, “Whom do I have to kill?”
The earl laughed. “I do not seek to hire an assassin. Any enemy I have I will slay myself. I hire a man who’s known for his ingenuity, his ability with languages, and his skill at changing his appearance to suit any situation in which he finds himself. Is it not true that you were accepted in the company of Barbars himself in the Holy Land? That you passed yourself off as a Saracen for two years? That you masqueraded as a Muslim with such finesse even the most devout didn’t know you for what you were?”
“You are well-informed.” Roland wasn’t about to deny the earl’s recital. He wasn’t vain; nor was he foolishly modest. For the most part, it was true. Odd how the very attributes Roland held to be in his favor sounded vile on the earl’s lips. He waited, more interested now. The earl’s need must be great. The task must be beyond his own abilities, and it irked him.
Damon Le Mark knew he must suffer the arrogance and impertinence of the young man seated in front of him, a young man who, in addition to his reputation for boldness and cunning, was passing handsome, his lean face well sculpted, his black hair thick and gleaming, his dark eyes bright
with intelligence. But he was swarthy as a savage Irishman, and didn’t look to be a man of particular wealth or refinement. Damon Le Mark also reminded himself that this man was of no inborn worth at all despite his birth and his heritage. He held no title and, more important, no land. He was a man who made his way by playacting and deceit, and yet he, a man his superior in every way, must be gracious, and he must offer him a great deal of money. It was galling.
“I am always well-informed,” the earl said. “It took my couriers a good deal of time to locate you.”
“I received your message in Rouen. I was passing the winter there very pleasantly.”
“So I hear.” He’d been told by his own man that de Tournay had been living with a very pretty young widow in Rouen.
“Her name was Marie,” Roland said easily, and sipped at his ale. It was warm and dark and very smooth. “But do not mistake me. I was ready to come home, very nearly. As soon as the weather grew warmer.”
“To earn money by guile?”
“Yes, if need be, though I believe that wit is more to the point than guile. Would you not agree?”
The earl knew he’d been insulting when he shouldn’t have. He retrenched, shrugging. “Ah, it’s those other things that must interest me, de Tournay, for I wish you not to do them just yet. The reason I asked you here is vital. It concerns my beloved niece, Daria. I will be brief. She was kidnapped on her journey to Colchester, where she was to wed Ralph of Colchester. All twelve of the men in her train were butchered in an ambush. All the wagons carrying her wedding goods were stolen. I want you to rescue her and I will pay you very well.”
“Has a ransom been demanded?”
The earl’s eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth. “Oh, aye, the damnable impertinent whoreson. I would that you would kill him as well, but I suppose that the rescue of my dearest niece must take precedence.”
“Who stole her?”
“Edmond of Clare.”
“The Marcher Baron? How very odd.” Roland fell silent. It was more than odd. The Marcher Barons, their power and existence granted to them by the great Duke William himself nearly two hundred years before, had little reason to stray from their strongholds unless it was to press west to garner more Welsh land and butcher more Welsh outlaws. It was their responsibility to contain the Welsh, and this they did with endless vigor and impressive continuity. They were in effect little kings, holding immense power in their own feudal kingdoms. It galled King Edward no end, this power outside himself, and Roland knew he planned to curtail their immense influence by defeating the Welsh once and for all by building royal castles all along the borders of the country. “I’ll push the malignant little lordlings until they’re on bended knee to me, pleading with me to leave them something,” he’d said once, pounding a table with his fist and sending it in splinters to the floor. Roland continued after a moment, “Edmond of Clare’s stronghold is between Chepstow and Trefynwy, bordering the southeast corner of Wales. Why would he come across the width of England to kidnap your niece?”
The earl kept a stubborn silence. The impertinence of the knave, asking him these questions. He was furious but he contained himself. He couldn’t anger de Tournay, for the man wasn’t his to command. De Tournay could leave. Still, he refused to tell him the truth of the matter. He laid the matter on another’s shoulders, saying finally, “Clare despises the Earl of Colchester. He wanted revenge so he stole my niece. He wants nearly all her dowry as ransom or he will rape her until she is with child before he returns her to me.”
“What did Colchester do to Clare to merit such a chilling revenge?”
Damon Le Mark’s face paled and his hand shook. He wanted to thrash de Tournay for his infernal curiosity. He smiled and Roland felt the chill of that smile to his bones. This was not a man to guard your back. Damon shrugged. “I understand Colchester accidentally killed Clare’s brother some five years ago. I know none of the actual facts of the incident, and it was Colchester’s decision not to tell me more. Now, will you rescue my niece?”
This was doubtless a lie, but Roland let it go. Probably closer to the mark was that the Earl of Reymerstone had killed Edmond of Clare’s brother. “When was she stolen?”
“On March the third.”
A black eyebrow shot upward. “You wait a long time to reply to Clare’s demands.”
“I did not wait here doing nothing until my men had found you in that silly Frenchwoman’s bed.”
“On the contrary,” Roland said with no heat, “Marie wasn’t at all silly. What did you do?”
“I made two attempts, and both failed, or rather the men I sent to bring her back to me were fools and blundered. I discovered that my second attempt failed but two days ago. Clare returned one of my men alive with a new message and a new demand.”
Roland waited, knowing he wasn’t going to like hearing what Clare wanted now.
“The whoreson now wants to wed my niece. He still wants her dowry as well, of course. If I don’t send my own priest to him carrying all her dowry with him by the last day of May, he says he will rape her, then give her to his soldiers for their sport. Then, if she still lives, he will have her used until she is with child. Then he will throw her in a ditch.”