Chapter 5

The Head of the Wolf

Andoni Zilar gazed at the turbulent ocean from the open window of the two-story building where he conducted a flourishing shipping business in the seaside village of Biarritz. He inhaled the briny breeze, methodically contemplating the intricate details of his ingenious plan.

Last night, he’d won fifty pounds of silver from the Basque Beast, Basati. Zilar had flagrantly cheated, knowing that Basati would realize he’d used a pair of altered dice. As expected, there’d been a scuffle, which had led to a brawl. And he’ d carved a jagged gash in Basati’s scowling lupine face.

Zilar had deliberately baited the hungry, angry wolf.

And tonight, he’d lure Basati into the awaiting trap.

Zilar had come up with the ideal means of eliminating the troublesome Comte Eztebe Ibarra, Lord of le Chateau de Montmarin.

A staunch supporter of both King Guillemin of Finistère and King Philippe of France, Ibarra opposed the English claims to Aquitaine and therefore stood in the way of Zilar’s profitable trade with King Edward Longshanks. Ibarra would soon depart for Paris, to formalize the Alliance with Aquitaine treaty which would give the Iron King Philippe control of all shipping from Aquitaine to England. As King of Navarra as well as France, Philippe le Bel would thus control the entire Atlantic seaboard from the northwest shores of Spain to the distant coast of Bretagne, all the way to the mouth of the Seine River flowing into Paris.

By removing Ibarra—the painful thorn in Longshanks’ side and crucial component of the Alliance with Aquitaine—Zilar would be handsomely rewarded by the powerful English monarch. King Edward Longshanks was also the Duke of Aquitaine. And—as an incentive for preventing the disastrous alliance with King Philippe of France—he’d promised to appoint Zilar as lord of the magnificent oceanfront castle.

Le Chateau de Montmarin .

From his superior stronghold on the strategic cliff of Biarritz, Zilar would then have complete command of trade in the Basque region of France as Aquitaine’s royal shipping merchant to England. He’d vastly increase his wealth with exclusive rights to transport expensive Bordeaux wines and other luxury goods to the affluent English king. With the financial support of the Spanish King of Aragón—an ally of Longshanks as well as the titled Count of Provence and Lord of Montpellier—Zilar would gain access to the lucrative shipping industry along the entire French Mediterranean coast.

Indeed, by eliminating Comte Eztebe Ibarra, Zilar would ensure his financial future as the most powerful and wealthy shipping merchant in all of France.

And the Basque wolf Basati would be blamed for the crime.

Zilar had selected Sir Cardin de Landuc—whose Basque nickname was Basati—after carefully researching his dubious past.

De Landuc was one of four dozen Breton knights sent by King Guillemin of Finistère—loyal vassal of the French king, Philippe le Bel—to the oceanfront castle of Montmarin.

For the past six years, Cardin de Landuc—Basati—and the royal French guards had squelched English uprisings in southwestern France, thereby solidifying King Philippe’s claims to the territory of Aquitaine, while simultaneously defending the oceanfront fortress of Comte Ibarra, staunch ally of the Iron King Philippe.

Zilar chuckled at his ingenious plan.

With Basati’s well-known weakness for wagering on dice and his staggering debt to the Basque Lord Itzal Baroja, he was the perfect victim.

Tonight, Basati would fall into the trap.

And Zilar would ensnare the Basque wolf from Bretagne.

****

Cardin stretched his arms overhead, wincing at the pain in his ribs. He sat idly on the side of his bed, staring out the open window, watching the ocean waves crash on the cliff far below the castle.

As promised, his brother Gaultier had sent a steaming platter of fresh seafood from the castle kitchen.

Cardin had eaten his fill of scallops, shrimp, and oysters.

He’d taken a long afternoon nap.

And now, he was restless, cranky, and bored.

He’d sworn to Gaultier that he would stay home tonight. That he would not drink ale or mead. He’d refrain from dicing. And above all, he would avoid the irresistible lure of the iniquitous Drunken Crow.

As Cardin reminded himself for the hundredth time that he would not leave the castle and would uphold his oath to his older brother, Xabi burst into the room, breathless with excitement.

“Basati—you have to come with me! Andoni Zilar is hosting a game of Hazard tonight at the Drunken Crow. But he’ll only play against you .” Xabi’s eagle eyes gleamed in the golden light of the setting sun. “Zilar has challenged you to wager one hundred pounds of silver. He’s giving you the chance to double what you lost last night! You can pay off your debt to Baroja. And—with side bets—I can win enough to buy Euri a wedding ring. Goazen, Basati. C’mon, let’s go!”

Cardin contemplated the wildly exuberant, heavily bearded face of his best friend. One of the intrepid knights of le Chateau de Montmarin who defended his sovereign lord Eztebe Ibarra, Xabi loved drinking and dicing as much as tilting in the lists.

Just like Cardin himself.

Remembering his vow to Gaultier, Cardin reluctantly lowered his eyes and shamefully shook his head. “I can’t. I promised to stay home tonight. No wagering. No ale. No drunken brawls in local taverns. Gaultier deserves an uninterrupted night with Dolssa. I owe him that.”

“You can get revenge on Zilar for carving up your face. Take all his bloody silver. Humiliate him in front of all his men. And win enough to get Baroja off your back.” Xabi’s lips curled up in a smug smirk. “Tonight—in honor of the high stakes in the game—the Drunken Crow is serving golden mead .”

Cardin’s mouth went dry and his palms became damp. He loved golden mead. Almost as much as dicing. And Hazard was the most thrilling game of all.

He could examine Zilar’s dice. There’d be no chance for him to cheat again.

I’ll win back the silver I lost last night. Settle my debt with Baroja. Give Xabi the chance to buy a wedding ring for Euri .

And get back to the castle before Gaultier returns.

Cardin’s bandaged, bloodied face broke into a wicked, wolfish grin. “I never could resist golden mead.”

****

The raucous revelry inside the noisy tavern was music to Cardin’s edgy ears.

In the rear of the cavernous room, beyond the mahogany bar which lined the right wall, lively tunes floated from fiddles, flutes and rebecs. Jubilant customers chatted boisterously at crowded tables, feasting on aromatic seafood as coquettish tavern wenches served abundant mugs of golden mead.

In the center of the inn, four tables had been placed together and covered with a white tablecloth, forming a long rectangular area for dicing. Eager participants were lined up on either side, silver coins clutched in their impatient hands, greedy grins upon their avid, anxious faces.

At the far end of the gaming table stood Andoni Zilar, a snide smirk upon his scarred, sneering visage. Tall and lanky, with dark eyes and greasy black hair that reached his broad shoulders, the wealthy shipping merchant with a penchant for gambling twirled his narrow mustache and snickered as Cardin strode up to the table. “Come to lose more silver, Basati? I’ll be happy to take your hundred pounds. Because that’s the wager. Do you accept the challenge? Or are your bollocks not big enough?”

Snickers and jeers floated around the table as Cardin held Zilar’s taunting stare. “I accept the challenge. Place your wager. But before you roll, I want to inspect the dice. Can’t have you cheating. Like last night .” Although it stretched and pulled the stitches in his mutilated face, Cardin ignored the burning pain as he grinned, holding out his calloused palm.

A collective hush swept across the suddenly silent room when the musicians abruptly stopped playing. Patrons of the inn quickly gathered around to watch as Zilar and Basati— the two most competitive gamblers in all of Biarritz—provided the evening’s exciting entertainment.

Zilar scoffed and tossed the dice to Cardin, who made a theatrical display of examining them before returning the ivory-colored bone cubes for the initial roll.

“Seven is the main.” Twirling his thin, dark mustache, Zilar gloated over the good fortune of his first throw. Seven gave him the best odds of nicking as the caster in the complicated rules of Hazard.

While the two adversaries glowered at each other with seething animosity and venomous rivalry, side wagers were quickly placed against Zilar’s next throw.

Cheers and shouts from the wildly exuberant audience reverberated across the tavern when Zilar rolled a two, thereby losing the round.

A grinning Cardin collected twenty pounds of his slimy opponent’s silver.

Dark eyes gleaming with glee, Xabi greedily scooped up the coins from his winning side bet and slid them into the black velvet pouch belted at his waist.

Zilar threw the dice again, winning the next round with a main of six and a nick of twelve. But when he lost the next two consecutive rolls, it was Cardin’s turn as caster.

Eyeing the cocky opponent who toyed with the dark hair above his sneering lip, Cardin took a long pull of mead, savoring the sweet honey flavor as much as the thrill of winning Zilar’s silver. He’d won sixty pounds so far, and with luck would win forty more. Enough to clear his stifling debt with Baroja. And get the notorious Basque moneylender off his back.

Cardin cast the dice, rolling a five for the main, and side bets were placed on whether he would nick, out, or chance. He rolled another five to nick the round and win another twenty pounds.

Xabi guffawed with gusty approval, sliding more silver coins into his black velvet pouch.

As he guzzled his goblet of mead, Cardin considered his good fortune.

He’d easily won eighty pounds of Zilar’s silver.

Too easily.

Something wasn’t right.

But while doubt niggled at the back of his mind, the lure of the game was irresistible.

Cardin cupped the dice in his fists. Raised them to his lips. And blew on them for luck. Rattling the ivory cubes by rubbing them loudly between his palms, he hurled the dice onto the table, rolling an eight for the main.

And nicked with a twelve for the win.

Xabi leapt into the air, hooting and hollering with joy.

Several of the Breton knights who had won side bets gripped Cardin’s shoulder with gratitude and vigorously shook his hand. The jovial innkeeper—thankful that Cardin had not caused a destructive brawl and had instead attracted a thirsty crowd—heartily congratulated him on the win and rewarded him with a pitcher of golden mead.

A scowling Zilar—closely followed by his dozen loyal henchmen and a few disgruntled losers—stormed from the inn, muttering expletives and cursing Cardin’s incredible luck.

Musicians resumed their lively play. Patrons began to dance. And Cardin, securing his silver in two sturdy bags to carry back to the castle, exited the noisy inn with Xabi.

“You took all his silver. Got your revenge. And now, you can settle your debt with Baroja. And I’ll buy the wedding ring for Euri. God’s bones, Basati! You won a bloody hundred pounds!” Xabi’s white teeth gleamed in the moonlight as the two men strode up the cobblestoned path toward the towering Chateau de Montmarin at the top of the oceanfront cliff.

The hairs on the back of Cardin’s neck stiffened in sudden warning. But, hindered by the weight of the bags of silver, he was unable to draw his dagger as a dozen henchmen emerged from the shadows.

With a sickening thud, the back of his head exploded in blinding, debilitating pain.

And Cardin succumbed into darkness.

****

Andoni Zilar sat at his oval table, savoring the rich Basque wine, patiently awaiting the return of his reliable, impeccable men.

The closing and latching sounds of the heavy front door announced their arrival.

“We seized the silver, my lord.” The coins clinked and jingled as Urdin—his bearded face partially concealed by the dark woolen cloak—hoisted the two heavy bags onto the wooden table.

Zilar eyed the black velvet sacks, caring little for the contents. The staged theft of the silver masked the real reason for the robbery. Pulse pounding in his parched, tight throat, he leaned forward in breathless anticipation. “And the knife?”

“ Hemen, nagusi. Here it is, boss.” Gizon—Zilar’s most skilled thief—proudly laid the prized dagger before his exigent, exacting lord.

Zilar tilted the treasured weapon in his hand, admiring the exquisite details in the glowing candlelight.

The sleek, sharp, lethal blade.

The curved bone handle with the glittering emerald eye.

And—carved into the hilt—the distinctive feature that every citizen in Biarritz would recognize.

The damning evidence which would implicate Basati in Ibarra’s assassination.

The massive head of a snarling, savage wolf.