The dirty man shook his head. “I have not heard, my lord. The hope is to move them through Liverpool, far to the north and away from Richard’s ever-present eyes. Their destination is Bolton Castle and the prince’s supporter there.”
Bertram knew that, but the Irish mercenaries were not his concern. Neither were the Teutonic. His direct concern was a mass of French mercenaries due to arrive at Great Yarmouth sometime before the month was out. Weather was unusually turbulent this spring, making crossing the channel difficult. Time frames for the prince’s paid armies had been sorely distorted by it, making future plans difficult to calculate.
Bertram stood up, clasping his hands behind his back. In the shadows, Lon and Alger listened intently; they were the only family members allowed to witness the exchange. They had known when they saw the spy ride into the ward earlier that evening that something was afoot. Alberic always brought with him information, bugs, gossip and intrigue.
“So we wait,” Bertram said slowly. “The Irish at Bolton, the Teutonic in Nottingham, and the French at Framlingham. Other castles will house more mercenaries when the time comes and when we slip the noose around England’s midsection, we will divide Richard’s country. If all proceeds as it should, John should have the throne by Christmas.”
“Nothing except Richard’s armies,” Lon rumbled. “You speak as if his supporters sleep while we amass. You know as well as I do that if we have spies, then so does he.”
“I have been in the prince’s service since the days he rebelled against his father,” Alberic scratched his cheek where an insect bit at him. “There is an entire community of those who secretly serve the prince and his brother. We are asshadows, flitting between sunrise and sunset, ghosts that appear and then disappear just as quickly. We are fleeting figments of the imaginations, as deadly as a viper if one draws too close. Sometimes I believe our task is more difficult than the knights who fight with weapons and fire.”
“I cannot disagree,” Bertram said. He watched more bugs leap onto his floor. “If there is nothing else, then I say you should leave. ’Tis unwise for you to remain here for any length of time.”
Alberic stood up, stiffly, feeling his age this night. It was cold outside, threatening rain, but he dare not ask for shelter from de Rosa. They both well understood his role, and he was clearly not a guest. Slipping from the solar without another word, he made his way out of the tower and into the bailey. The gates were still open, even in the night, and his worn mule was tethered outside the walls. As he hurried across the ward, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible, something caught his attention over by the western tower.
Alberic paused, dipping into the shadow of the wall as he was so used to doing. Hiding was second nature to him. He watched a large figure cross from the large western tower and into the stable block. Puzzled, he tried to follow but stopped short of the wooden steps into the structure. He could not risk entering the stables and being cornered. He stood there a moment, unsure what to do, unsure of what he had seen. But he knew he must seek Bertram.
Bertram and Alger were still in the solar, deep in discussion. Lon had since vanished. Alberic paused at the solar door and removed the soiled cape that covered his head.
“My lord?” he said.
Bertram looked up from his conversation with his brother, somewhat annoyed to see the dirty spy standing in the doorway.
“I told you to leave.”
“I was, my lord,” Alberic took a hesitant step into the room. “But… I saw something….”
“Well, what is it, man, and be quick about it.”
The spy wasn’t sure where to begin. “As I was leaving, I saw a man come from the western tower and enter the stables.”
“What man?”
“He was large, quite large. Young and strong, with light-colored hair.”
Lon looked at his brother. “He must mean le Mon. If he has left Derica’s side, then she must be doing well enough.”
“Now is our chance to see to her ourselves.”
“Agreed. The man was as unmoving as a guard dog.”
“My lord?”
The spy was demanding attention, interrupting their conversation. Bertram snapped at him impatiently. “So you have seen my daughter’s intended. What of him?”
Alberic appeared taken aback. “He is to marry your daughter?”
“Yes, what of it?”
The spy would not be intimidated; he was, in fact, growing suspicious and disturbed. “I know that man, my lord.”
Bertram’s temper took a strange, cooling twist. “You do?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Where do you know him from?”
Alberic thought carefully on his reply. “As you know, my lord, I have been in the service of the prince for many years. I have seen many things, and many people. Those of us who covertly serve our masters tend to hear of one another, if only by reputation. It is wise to know one’s enemies. Sometimes, however, we are fortunate enough to put a face to the name or reputation.”