Chapter 18

La Tour Blanche

Cardin rolled up the blankets he’d slept on and packed them into his saddle, a numbing chill deep in his bones. Ever since they’d left le Chateau de Landuc four days ago, he, Gaultier, Xabi, and their knights had been sleeping on the cold, hard ground. They didn’t dare risk a fire for fear of attracting attention. So they shivered inside their metal armor, trying to keep warm with cloaks and blankets, eating barely palatable dried, salted food. His packing complete, Cardin joined Xabi and Gaultier near their horses as the group prepared to depart camp.

Xabi secured the satchel on his horse’s back. “Scouts report seeing Ibarra’s caravan approximately eight miles southwest. We’ll reach them by midmorning and approach with this banner.” He displayed a blue flag with a trio of gold fleur-de-lys emblems, symbol of the French monarchy. “They’ll know at once that we support King Philippe of Paris. And Ibarra’s guards will recognize the surcoats and heraldry of our knights from Montmarin.” Xabi folded the flag, tucked it into his satchel, and spoke to both Cardin and Gaultier. “We need to separate Ibarra from the caravan and get him quickly to la Tour Blanche. The two of you, take the knights from Landuc, get Ibarra to the Tower, and defend him from attack. I’ll take the knights from Montmarin and join Ibarra’s guards. We’ll defend the valuables inside the carriages as we make our way to the fortress.”

Cardin stroked his horse’s muzzle to calm the restless stallion. “We don’t know how many men Zilar sent. The tavern wench—Dolssa’s friend—didn’t overhear that detail.” He eyed his brother warily. “He might have sent a handful of assassins to le Chateau de Tours to await Ibarra’s arrival. Or he might have sent a small army. We won’t know until they attack.”

“My guess is he sent Gizon—his most trusted man—to kill Ibarra with your blade. And that bear, Urdin. They’re probably leading a group of Zilar’s henchmen, posing as travelers or merchants. Zilar might even have spies among Ibarra’s own men.” Gaultier’s expression was grim.

“Precisely why we need to separate him from the caravan and get him quickly to the Tower.” Xabi signaled the awaiting mounted knights, indicating his readiness to depart. As Cardin and Gaultier climbed into their saddles, he shouted, “Let’s move. Allons-y! ”

****

The winter sun was at its zenith when Cardin spotted Ibarra’s entourage winding slowly along the dirt road. Mounted knights displaying the blue-and-gold French flag of King Philippe le Bel led the procession. Outside each of the two ornately carved wooden carriages, four armored knights defended the caravan of royal gifts headed toward Paris. Behind the carriage transporting Comte Ibarra, eight additional knights defended the rear of the noble cortège.

Holding the royal French banner to identify themselves, Cardin—accompanied by Gaultier and six knights from le Chateau de Montmarin, with an extra horse for Ibarra to ride—rode up to the front of the procession, which had halted at their approach. Four knights from Biarritz rode up to greet them.

“ Egun on , Zubiri and Elizondo.” Cardin used the friendly Basque greeting to address two of the approaching knights whom he recognized, having served with them for six years at le Chateau de Montmarin . “We must take Comte Ibarra immediately to la Tour Blanche for his safety. We need to remove him from the caravan so he can leave with us—we’ve brought an additional horse for him to ride.” Cardin gestured to the saddled Friesian mount whose reins Gaultier held in his left hand. “Andoni Zilar has sent men to assassinate Ibarra, to prevent him from signing the Alliance with Aquitaine treaty. Xabi Vazquez and his men will help you defend the carriages in case you’re attacked on the way to the Tower. But Comte Ibarra needs to come with us at once.”

Zubiri, astride his gleaming black stallion, exchanged glances as he conferred quickly and silently with his companions. Ducking his chin in agreement, he took the reins of the extra horse from Gaultier’s outstretched hand. “I’ll fetch Ibarra and return at once. Elizondo and I will ride with you.”

Moments later, a harried and distraught Comte Ibarra rode up with Zubiri to join Cardin, Gaultier, and the knights from Montmarin .

“Quickly, sir. To la Tour Blanche !” Verifying that Ibarra was at his side, and that Gaultier, Zubiri, Elizondo, and the knights were close behind, Cardin galloped off, leading the way to Issoudun.

****

Built by King Richard the Lionheart in the twelfth century, la Tour Blanche was a cylindrical fortress made of pristine white stone with thick, impenetrable walls, arrow slit windows, and a roof equipped with a hourdage— a wooden gallery with corbelling and an overhang so that defenders could launch projectiles or pour boiling oil upon attackers. Originally an English fortification of the Plantagênet dynasty, la Tour Blanche had reverted to the French crown and was now a royal fortress of King Philippe le Bel.

As the hilltop tower came into sight, Cardin waved the French flag while Gaultier held the banner of le Chateau de Montmarin. The watchtower guards, recognizing the coat of arms of Comte Eztebe Ibarra, staunch ally of their sovereign, King Philippe of France, lowered the drawbridge at the base of the hill to allow entrance across the moat.

The hairs on the back of Cardin’s neck rose in sudden alert. As a volley of arrows whizzed by, he flew up the hill, jumped off his horse, and yanked Comte Ibarra from the saddle. Arrows rained down upon them as Cardin whisked Ibarra inside la Tour Blanche, handing him over to the guards of Pierre Chalamet, Lord of the White Tower. “Get archers to the parapets. We’re under attack!”

Metal screeched as swords clashed behind him. Cardin slammed the tower door shut and spun around to find Gaultier, Zubiri, Elizondo, and their knights engaged in heavy combat. Elizondo had fallen from his horse, blood oozing from his helmet as he battled a mounted knight. An archer from a rooftop parapet of the tower fired three arrows into Elizondo’s attacker, halting the enemy sword mid-arc from swooping down for the kill. Gaultier and Zubiri were each fighting two mounted opponents, and several of the knights from Montmarin were surrounded and outnumbered. With the watchtower guard killed, the drawbridge remained open, permitting more attackers to fly across the bridge and enter the fray.

Cardin’s longbow and quiver of arrows were still strapped to his horse’s saddle. Slashing with his sword, he fought his way across the bloody, mud-strewn courtyard, retrieved his longbow, and fired at the knights approaching the bridge. He slew four, who fell from their horses just outside the entrance gate. As he nocked another arrow, drew his bowstring and took aim, a pummeling force knocked him off his feet and flung him backward. Paralyzed by a searing, burning pain in his chest, Cardin succumbed to a thick, smothering blanket of darkness.

****

A horrorstruck Gaultier saw the crossbow bolt strike his brother in the chest, piercing the chain mail armor with sufficient force to lift him up into the air and knock him flat on his back. Bleeding heavily from the gaping wound, Cardin now lay sprawled across the muck and gore of the contained battlefield in front of la Tour Blanche . Yet before he could help his critically injured brother, Gaultier had to eliminate the two enemy knights he was currently battling. With a vicious slash to the upper thigh, he toppled one mounted combatant from his horse, impaling him with the lethal tip of his sword. Whirling around to parry the blow from the other, who had lunged forward to attack, he carried the momentum of his spin into a savage downward slice that disarmed his opponent.

Zubiri, who had slain two knights, beheaded Gaultier’s assailant from behind and bellowed to Elizondo. “Raise the drawbridge!”

Elizondo flew up the stairs into the wooden watchtower gate, cranked the winch, and raised the heavy bridge while Gaultier, Zubiri, and the knights from Montmarin slew the remaining attackers in the courtyard of la Tour Blanche .

Gaultier scanned the bloody terrain. Two dozen enemy corpses—many with severed limbs or bodies riddled with arrows from the fortress archers—littered the gruesome battlefield. Several of their own knights had been killed, and some seriously wounded. But none except Cardin had been impaled by a crossbow bolt. Wiping sweat and blood from his injured face, Gaultier yelled to Zubiri, who strode across the courtyard toward him. “Help me get Cardin inside.”

Gaultier shouted up to the rooftop archers. “Open the door! We have wounded men!”

A few moments later, the tower guards unbolted the front entrance, permitting Gaultier and Zubiri to carry the critically wounded Cardin inside while other knights brought in the injured men. Lord Chalamet quickly led them to a large stone chamber with a high ceiling, towering walls, and narrow slits for windows. Along one side of the cavernous room, beds were lined up against the massive stone wall.

Flustered and distraught, Comte Ibarra rushed toward them, eyeing the critically wounded Cardin. “I owe him my life. He got me inside the tower.” Gratitude and grief warred in his frantic, desperate gaze.

“Lay him here,” Chalamet said, indicating an available mattress. “The healer will assess his injury.” Dark hair streaked with grey, his thick brows furrowed in concern, the lord of la Tour Blanche gestured for an elderly robed man to approach as Gaultier and Zubiri settled an unconscious Cardin onto the straw palette.

The white-haired healer bent over the prone body to examine Cardin’s gruesome chest wound. Crusted with drying blood, the wooden shaft of the crossbow bolt protruded several inches from the punctured chain mail armor. “The metal tip of the arrow penetrated the muscle in his chest.” When the healer rose to his full stooped height, the grim regard in his bleak eyes confirmed the bitter truth that Gaultier already knew. Cardin has little chance of survival. “I dare not remove the bolt, for he will bleed to death very quickly. Yet if the quarrel remains embedded, the wound will fester. And he will die slowly…in agony.”

Gaultier gazed mournfully at his brother’s pallid face, his heart clenching at the tragic irony. Basati finally bonded with his abandoned son. The Basque Wolf of Biarritz found love once again. And now—just when he finds happiness after drowning in so much sorrow—his life hangs by a mere thread, I’ve got to get him back to Brocéliande. To Ulla. She’s an exceptional healer. She loves him with all her heart. If anyone can save him, she will. He raised his bowed head to meet Lord Chalamet’s concerned gaze. “Do you have a wagon I could borrow to transport him?”

“Yes, there’s a supply wagon you may use. But my archers report more armored knights are fast approaching the Tower. How can you leave when we’re still under attack?” Chalamet regarded Gaultier with stunned incredulity.

“We’ll get up to the roof. Fire at the enemy. See how many of Zilar’s men remain.” Gaultier turned away from Chalamet and spoke reassuringly to a still shaken Comte Ibarra. “Xabi Vazquez and the knights from Montmarin are defending your royal carriages. We sent a message to King Philippe in le Palais-Royal several days ago, informing him of the assassination plot and requesting reinforcements to escort you to Paris. With the king’s royal guards, we’ll ensure that you arrive in time to sign the Yuletide treaty.” With a respectful nod to each nobleman, Gaultier retreated from Comte Ibarra and Lord Chalamet. Summoning Zubiri, Elizondo, and the uninjured knights with a swoop of his arm, he raced toward the stairwell at the rear of the room. “ To the parapets !”

The winding, circular steps led up to the flat rooftop of the one-hundred-foot-tall tower, where archers with longbows defended the fortress between openings of the crenellated embrasure. As Gaultier and his men arrived on the scene, they quickly assumed positions behind the raised merlon sections of the defensive wall where they nocked their arrows and fired down upon the enemy from strategic gaps in the battlements.

From this height above the treetops, Gaultier observed Xabi and the knights of Montmarin battling attackers and defending the two heavily laden carriages from within the protective circle they had formed around the valuable cargo. As he watched his brother’s closest friend valiantly defend Comte Ibarra’s royal gifts for the King of France, arrows from longbowmen atop the Tower eliminated several of Zilar’s mounted henchmen. Gaultier fired several times in rapid succession, but without the extended reach of a superior longbow, his arrows fell far short of their intended marks.

Just as the winter sun began its early evening descent, the thunderous pounding of hooves announced the fortuitous arrival of a bevy of armored knights. Clad in blue surcoats bearing the three golden fleur-de-lys emblems of King Philippe le Bel of France, the royal soldiers swiftly and efficiently dispatched the remainder of Andoni Zilar’s attackers. Triumphant and glorious, the Parisian knights joined Xabi and his men as the royal procession continued proudly along the cobblestone road toward the entrance to la Tour Blanche d’ Issoudun.

The defenders of the Tower lowered their longbows and cheered in victory. One of Lord Chalamet’s archers hollered down to the watchtower guard, “Lower the drawbridge!”

His scarred, sweaty face aglow in the golden light, Zubiri grinned from ear to ear as the royal French guards led the cavalcade of knights and two carriages across the moat and into the courtyard in front of the Tower. “Let’s go congratulate Xabi. This calls for a celebration!” As if suddenly remembering Cardin’s grievous injury, Zubiri’s jubilant expression became grim. “You must leave at once. Even a brief delay could mean the difference between life and death for your brother.”

Gaultier nodded solemnly as Elizondo walked up to join them. “I’ll take my father’s knights and depart tonight for le Chateau de Landuc . Cardin’s—Basati’s—betrothed is a gifted healer. So is our mother. I pray the two of them can cure my brother.”

“ Zorte on . Good luck. I hope they can save Basati.” Empathy exuding from his seasoned warrior gaze, Zubiri gripped Gaultier’s shoulders in an encouraging fraternal embrace. “Come. Let’s go downstairs and greet Xabi. We’ll help you load your brother into the carriage for the trip home.”

Gaultier, Zubiri, Elizondo, and the fortress archers descended the spiraling stairs to a raucous commotion in the wide entry foyer. Knights filed into the Tower through the enormous entrance door, crossing the antechamber into the large ceremonial hall, la Salle d’Honneur. Harried servants ushered the injured to available beds, bandaging wounds and offering mugs of ale along the wall where a still unconscious Cardin lay upon a straw pallet. Outside the entrance door, Gaultier glimpsed stable hands leading the horse-drawn royal carriages from the drawbridge into the safety of the inner courtyard. Tower guards and knights retrieved the bodies of their fallen, strapped atop riderless horses, gathering lifeless victims strewn across the bloodstained courtyard in preparation for honorable burial. Enemy corpses were unceremoniously tossed into a heap for subsequent burning.

Xabi dismounted from his horse, handed the reins to a stable hand, and headed toward Gaultier, his bearded face beaming with triumph. “The royal guards arrived just in time. I didn’t know how much longer we would last.” He shook hands with Zubiri and Elizondo, accepting their congratulatory enthusiasm, all the while scanning the perimeter of the entry foyer, obviously looking for his closest friend. “Where’s Basati?”

Gaultier indicated la Salle d’ Honneur with a toss of his head. “In here.” He led Xabi through the high, arched entryway into the cavernous chamber where two roaring fires blazed in stone hearths and the pitiful moans of the wounded pierced the wintry air. When they arrived at Cardin’s bedside, Xabi groaned and dropped to one knee. “He was hit by a crossbow bolt. The healer can’t remove it—he lacks the skill to perform the necessary surgery. I have to get him back to Brocéliande. His betrothed Ulla is a guérisseuse— a gifted Priestess of Dana, like my mother. I must leave tonight.”

Lord Chalamet, who had been directing attendants to serve food and drinks to the uninjured, crossed the ceremonial hall and approached Cardin’s bed as Xabi rose to his feet. Chalamet’s deep, calm voice conveyed compassion and concern as he addressed Gaultier. “My men are harnessing the horses and loading supplies into the wagon. It will be ready for your departure in half an hour.” From the thick folds of his black velvet robe, he extended a welcoming arm and gestured toward a trestle table near the inviting warmth of the fireplace. “You must eat a hearty meal before you leave. It will sustain you on your journey.” He smiled graciously as Comte Ibarra and the captain of the royal Parisian guards joined their small group.

“My lord,” Xabi said, lowering his head respectfully to address Comte Ibarra. “My men and I rode hard from Biarritz to intercept you en route before you reached le Chateau de Tours , where Zilar planned your assassination. When flooding forced you east to la Tour Blanche , we knew his men would attack you here—to stop you from reaching Paris and signing the Yuletide treaty.” Xabi scanned the famished knights at the tables in la Salle d’ Honneur who were devouring platters of cold meats and imbibing mugs of ale. “Which one of your men is named Uribe? He’s an English spy, loyal to Edward Longshanks. He was ordered to allow Zilar’s assassin to enter your private chambers to commit the crime.” Xabi removed a knife from the sheath at his waist and displayed the unique, ornately carved wolf head dagger with the dazzling emerald eye. “With this weapon— Basati’s blade. ” He indicated the critically injured Cardin with a nod of his head. “You were right,” he said as he handed the knife to Gaultier. “Zilar sent Gizon to commit the crime. By using this wolf head dagger, they knew Basati would take the blame. Zilar would stop the Alliance with Aquitaine and be appointed the new Lord of Montmarin.”

A stunned Ibarra responded to Xabi’s question. “That man is Uribe,” he said, indicating one of his own knights with a long nose and pointed beard. He turned toward Lord Chalamet. “Is there a prison here in the Tower?”

Chalamet nodded. “Underground. We store supplies in the cellar, on the first level below. But beneath that, we have a holding cell for prisoners. You can lock him up there.”

Ibarra addressed the captain of the royal Parisian guards standing at his side. “Arrest Uribe. Take him underground to the prison cell. We’ll bring him with us when we leave for Paris in the morning. King Philippe will decide his fate.”

The blond-haired captain’s blue eyes blazed in the firelight. “The Iron King has no tolerance for treason. Uribe will be executed as an English spy.”

Gaultier watched as the captain of the royal guards summoned four of his fellow knights. Together, they stormed across la Salle d’ Honneur , seized the seated Uribe, and hauled him to his feet. While two guards pinned him in place with the tips of their swords pointed at his neck, two others shackled his wrists with manacles and chains. Dragging the prisoner from the ceremonial hall toward the stairwell at the back of the room, they descended the steps leading underground and disappeared from view.

“Tomorrow, at first light, we’ll bury our fallen and burn the bodies of the enemy. The knights of Montmarin will join the Parisian guards in escorting you safely to Paris, my lord. We’ll join your entourage and accompany you back to Biarritz after the signing of the Yuletide treaty.” Zuribi removed his chain mail coif and bowed his head respectfully to Comte Ibarra.

“Excellent. Now please allow me to offer you my hospitality. Come, enjoy a hearty meal as my honored guests.” Lord Chalamet proudly led their group to his own private table upon a raised dais, summoning attentive servants with a gesture of his commanding hand.

While Xabi, Elizondo, and Zuribi eagerly dug into the salted roast boar, tangy ripe cheese, and thick hearty bread, Gaultier forced down the tasteless food, anxious to be on the road home to Brocéliande. He closed his eyes and silently prayed for his grievously wounded brother. Please let Cardin survive the journey. And please let Ulla heal him.

“Once we deliver Comte Ibarrra to Paris and the Yuletide treaty is signed, I’ll ride to Brocéliande with your brother Bastien and King Guillemin of Finistère to join you at le Chateau de Landuc .” A glimmer of hope flickered amidst the grief in Xabi’s dark eyes. “For Basati’s Twelfth Night wedding.” He raised his goblet, prompting Gaultier to do the same. “To Ulla. May she heal his body as she did his broken heart.”

His throat clenching, Gaultier swallowed his sorrow with a great gulp of ale.

Lord Chalamet, having seated and served his guests, returned to Gaultier’s side. “I’m providing torches to light your way. You can cover fifty miles tonight before you must stop to rest the horses. At that rate, you’ll reach Brocéliande in three or four days.”

While Gaultier finished the salted boar and drained his mug of ale, two Tower guards approached Lord Chalamet and reported that the wagon to transport Cardin was loaded and ready.

Gaultier rose to his feet, wiping froth from his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. He nodded to Padrig, one of his father’s most trusted knights and the leader of the group who would accompany him back to le Chateau de Landuc . “Have the men saddle the horses and prepare to depart. I’ll get my brother settled into the wagon.”

Padrig rounded up the knights from Landuc, who hastily finished their meal, rose from the table, and filed out the front door of la Tour Blanche.

Comte Ibarra and Lord Chalamet accompanied Gaultier and Xabi into the Salle d’ Honneur where a still unconscious Cardin lay on his straw pallet. Two of Lord Chalamet’s men stood beside the bed, holding a wooden stretcher.

“Use this to carry him out to the wagon. Secure him with blankets and ropes to keep him stable during the voyage.” Chalamet nodded to his two men. “My guards will assist you.”

The white-haired healer approached Gaultier as they settled Cardin onto the litter. “He was restless about an hour ago and drank a few swallows of water. If he regains consciousness again, have him drink as much as possible. Good luck. I pray your healer has more skill than I.”

Two dozen mounted knights from le Chateau de Landuc awaited Gaultier in front of the Tower as he and Xabi carried the stretcher across the bloodstained courtyard, past the pile of enemy corpses and the bodies of their own fallen knights. Xabi and Lord Chalamet’s two guards helped him settle Cardin’s stretcher in the back of the wagon among the supplies for the four-day journey.

Dark eyes glimmering in the flickering torchlight, white teeth gleaming in his thick, bushy beard, Xabi gripped Gaultier’s arms in a tight, fraternal embrace. “Travel safely to Brocéliande. I’ll join you at le Chateau de Landuc before the Winter Solstice. I plan on being the best man at Basati’s Twelfth Night wedding.”

Gaultier bid farewell to Comte Ibarra, Lord Chalamet, and the royal Parisian guards. He waved goodbye to Xabi, Zubiri, Elizondo, and the knights of Montmarin. Mounting his magnificent Friesian stallion, he rode in front of the wagon transporting his wounded brother. And, with a nod to the two drivers and the commanding knight Padrig, he set off in the cold, black winter night for the Forest of Brocéliande.