Free Sword of Justice (White Knight Series) by Jude Chapman Page B

the live man or the dead man or the members of the posse comitatús ?”
    “If that’s the way you see it, as you say, so be it.”
    “You haven’t mentioned my brother’s part.”
    His mouth formed a crooked smile. “Why ruin your voyage of discovery?” Baldric reached over and refilled his goblet. “Brothers can be treacherous partners in Hell, don’t you know. Being so far as that goes, I well remember some inconsistencies that point to your innocence though I saw with my own eyes your hand gripping the killing sword.” Baldric’s thirst hid an uncommon mind.
    “Someone else murdered Maynard. Someone with a vicious kick.”
    “Tell me more.”
    “The sword that did in Maynard was not my sword. You saw it.”
    “Not much to see. Most of it was inside Maynard.”
    “Not the haft.”
    “That I saw, aye,” said Baldric. “Not much different from most.”
    “I was carrying the sword King Richard gave me. There’s not another like it in the land, the haft gilt of pure silver and gold.” He touched Stephen’s sword, damascened with a rampant lion. “Identical to this, but with a dragon.”
    Baldric turned the evidence over in his mind. “‘Twas the only unclaimed sword about.”
    “Think about it,” Drake coaxed him.
    “The killer. Aye. Has a shiny new sword, so he has. Bound to show it off sometime or other.”
    By now, Drake had made a fifth sweep of the four walls and espied neither a valuable sword nor a suitable place to hide one. “Now that you know, you had better keep a sharp lookout.” He replenished his goblet. Fermented cow dung was growing on him.
    “From the likes of you, pleasingly woven tale or no.”
    Not appreciating the imputation, Drake raised an eyebrow. “You saw for yourself. I left Rufus and Seward alive when making my escape. Not to mention intact.”
    “True enough. But who’s to say you didn’t go back later?” His muddy eyes took hold of Drake’s. “Or Stephen?”
    “Or you?” Drake watched the knight’s face for any change, any glimmer that would give him away, but the hard-chiseled features remained unbroken.
    Baldric opined, “De Lacy then?”
    “Graham de Lacy lacks sufficient courage for a hanging much less getting his hands dirty with blades, blood, and body parts.”
    “At a stalemate, we are.”
    “Seems so.” Drake pondered his goblet. “Who took my ring?”
    “That bauble, that trinket, that blinding article of nobility?” His eyelids drooped to near closing. “Ask Graham.”
    He was no more asleep than Drake, but the subsequent snore roared like a gale, his way of bidding goodnight.
    * * *
    The sky was gray with the coming light of dawn. The palfrey, waiting patiently for his master’s twin to return, whinnied, the kind of whinny that warned of danger.
    Drake swung around and instinctively reached for Stephen’s sword. Two goons swiftly closed in on him and twisted his arms back. His bellow of pain was cut off with a wallop to the midsection deftly delivered by a third goon. A black patch covering his left eye, he cranked Drake’s head to his seeing eye and said, “Pay up what you owe Yacob the moneylender, Stephen fitzAlan, or you’ll soon find yourself in a dark underground hole.”
    To send home the threat, the Devil’s guardians tightened their grip while the pirate punched him with a methodical set of leather-padded fists. Drake grunted with each punishing blow, saw blood soak into the straw at his feet, and felt parts of himself break apart and slide around. Black-patch could have drawn out the punishment indefinitely. Drake had limitations, even with the kind assistance of the Devil’s own.
    Outside the open doorway, a blind man tapped by, cloak concealing his face and a dirty rag, his eyes. A dark strand of hair strayed out from under the hood. Nighttime or daytime held no meaning for him, nor did the sounds of a faceless stranger receiving a thrashing inside an abandoned livery.
    Somewhere in a world outside knuckles and fists,