Chapter Two
A Strange Letter
Jubilation climbed the narrow, winding steps to the second floor carefully, balancing a small wooden tray in her hands as she navigated the early morning darkness of the stairwell. Barnaby, the innkeeper, had given her the number of the dark stranger's room, and once she got to the upper landing, she balanced the tray on one hip, smoothed the front of her muslin apron with a self-conscious gesture, then straightened her shoulders and marched the last few steps down the hall to stand before the man's door nervously.
There was no sound from the room. Jubilation looked back over her shoulder, biting her lip in sudden indecision, then she set her jaw bravely and lifted a hand to rap her knuckles on the door...but she never got the opportunity. In mid-knock, a low growl rumbled from inside the room, making her arms break out in gooseflesh at the sound.
"Don't bother," the man said brusquely. "Come in."
Jubilation's mouth dropped open a little in surprise, her hand frozen inches from the door's wooden surface...then she swallowed hard and lowered her fingers to the worn brass of the knob, slowly turning it and pushing the door inward. The room beyond was dim, lit with only the gray sort of winter light that spilled through the solitary window opposite the door, and as she poked her head cautiously inside, she saw the man standing before that same window, bare to the waist and with his hands clasped loosely behind his back as he looked out into the clear, snowbound morning. Jubilation stopped in her tracks again, her eyes growing a little rounder as she took in the sight of his perfectly muscled back, the lines of his physique as beautiful as any sculptor's craft, but she shook herself mentally and forced herself to address what, to her mind at least, was the more important question.
"How did you know I was there, m'lord?" she asked curiously. "I didn't knock."
"I heard you coming up the stairs," he replied gruffly.
Jubilation frowned a little. "You must have some awfully good hearing, m'lord, if I may say so."
He turned his head slightly in her direction, not really looking at her as he smiled briefly. "My hearing is better than most, I suppose," he said. "And don't call me that...I am not your lord." He turned back toward the window, and said so softly that Jubilation wasn't sure she heard: "I am lord of nothing," he murmured.
She looked around a trifle uncomfortably, then crossed to a small table beside the hearth and set her tray down on its surface. "I...I brought your breakfast up, m'lor...I mean, sir," she said lamely. He did not turn back or acknowledge her, and she paused, folding her hands together in front of her nervously.
"Thank you."
She dropped her eyes from his back. "And I...um, I wanted to thank you, sir."
"For what?"
"For defending me last night."
He turned his head again, the harsh lines of his profile illumined by the weak winter light from the window, and this time he did meet her eyes. "You're welcome," he said quietly.
Jubilation felt herself blushing, and she looked quickly at the soft, worn leather of her shoes, her cheeks burning with pleased embarrassment. Good time to leave, right? Yes? Yes, now, she thought quickly, ducking her head in a short curtsey as she begin to back quickly from the room...but then her eyes fell on the tray and she stopped again. "I almost forgot, sir!" she said, looking up with a nervous little smile. "A letter came for you this morning! It's on your breakfast tray."
The man's head came up again quickly, and his brow lowered as he searched her face. "A letter?" he asked. "For me?"
She nodded, and he turned and crossed the room quickly, leaving Jubilation with an unobstructed view of his front half...and it proved an even better picture than the rear. He shoved the stained napkin away from the wooden trencher, snatching up the letter with a frown and apparently not noticing the increased flush of the girl's cheeks as she goggled at his spectacular, lightly furred, and heavily muscled chest.
"I...I'll just be leaving now, sir," she said softly, tearing her eyes
away from him and ducking her head again. He only grunted in response,
and she turned quickly and scuttled from the room, closing the door behind
her with a respectful snick of the lock.
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Logan turned the envelope over and over in his hands, barely noticing as the girl gave her brief curtsey and exited the room, and his frown grew deeper as he ran his fingertips lightly over the smooth, expensive parchment of the envelope's surface. He studied the bold, yet messy hand that had scrawled a dubious sort of address across the front. To the Man With the Claws, it read...oh yes, that was subtle. It also intimated that whoever sent this letter did not know his real name...not that that was entirely surprising. Logan thought himself lucky to know his own name, so he would have been more surprised to find the letter actually addressed to him in that fashion.
He flipped it over again, studying the red wax seal over the envelope's fashionably ragged flap. The signet mark set into the wax seemed to bear the mark of a beast of some sort...Logan walked slowly back to the window, holding the envelope up as the soft gray light fell over the seal, and he saw that the beast in bas-relief was a mountain lion, or some large cat of that nature, standing rampant in a stylized pose. Logan's eyes narrowed again, a shadow of something passing over his face as he studied the seal closely. Perhaps it was familiar...and perhaps it was only his imagination, searching for anything that might be familiar in the long, ghostly void that made up his memories. With a bitter snort, he jammed his fingers under the flap and tore the seal free, unfolding the letter inside as he leaned closer to the window and its faint, cheerless light, his dark eyes scanning the rich vellum inside as he read the bold script therein:
Mortimer, by the gift of the High King, by appointment, Lord High Chancellor over the Principal Staff of His Most Glorious Majesty, Secretary in Chief and Treasurer of His Majesty's Estate, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the King's Brotherhood, to Him that, through Chance or Fortune, Bears the Claws of a Beast, Residing at the Sign of the Merry Minstrel, in the Shire of Westchester, Greeting. Logan lifted an eyebrow, snorting again at the florid style of the writing. All that just to tell him Mortimer says hello! Whoever Mortimer might be.
For to provide Amusement in Honor of His Most Royal Majesty, and for the Desired Opportunity of Bearing your Acquaintance upon His Illustrious Person, it is our pleasure to adventure this request on behalf of our Well-Beloved and Most Gracious Monarch...a Clean Wager of Battle, to prove upon your Honor as a Knight, and to win both by His Gift and by the Laws of the Tournament, a Purse of Five Hundred Gold Coins, as well as the Personal Esteem of Our Most Beneficent Liege.
Do so tender Your Reply this day before the Noon Watch.
Given at His Majesty's Palace, this XIII day in the Month Bitterfrost in the third year of King Victor I,
Your humble servant,
Mortimer of Toynbee, Lord High Chancellor of the Realm.
Logan's eyes narrowed a little, and he reread the letter again thoughtfully, leaning his bare shoulder against the window casing as he mulled over the missive's contents. An invitation to a tournament...and not just any minor lord's joust, either, but a royal tourney. He did not know much about the ruler of this small country...Logan was only passing through, on his way from nowhere to nowhere in particular, but he had at least heard of King Victor's name in passing, and from what he had picked up around the edges of the local's conversations, the least of the generous terms used in the letter to describe the king was a gross exaggeration. Popular talk denounced him as a despot and a tyrant...not that Logan cared very much. Five hundred gold pieces, after all, was five hundred gold pieces...and he would be a fool to turn it down.
Logan glanced down at the letter once more, than turned and tossed it
on the rumpled bed and walked back to where his breakfast waited. He lifted
the plate covering the trencher, sniffed the rapidly cooling broth or soup
or whatever it was that was slowly congealing there, and replaced the plate
without a change in expression. Breakfast could wait, he decided with an
inward grimace. Instead, he reached for the back of the chair beside the
table for the white cotton shirt that hung there, pulling it over his head
and beginning to lace the neck with practiced, distracted ease.
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The common room was still largely deserted when Jubilation came back down the stairs, pinning her thick black hair up in a loose bunch of curls on the top of her head as she crossed the floor with a light step. The room was deceptively warm in appearance, the faint light straggling in through the narrow, solitary window by the door barely stretching past the bar, so a pair of tall oil lamps had been set on either side of the long counter, combining with the soft crackle of the fresh fire on the stone hearth to give the room a glowing, cheery ambience, so different from the raucous din the night before (or any night, for that matter). Only two of the tables were occupied...one with a pair of silent, bleary-eyed farmers enjoying their coffee, and the other with a snoring merchant that had literally fallen asleep in his cups the night before, and had spent the subsequent hours snoozing contentedly away with his cheek pressed to the table and a long runner of spit depending from the corner of his open mouth.
Jubilation hugged herself, rubbing her upper arms lightly in the chill air seeping through the cracks around the front door, and she walked past the end of the bar. Suddenly there was a step behind her, and a pair of strong arms wrapped themselves about her waist and squeezed tightly, provoking a startled shriek from her lips.
"Hush, now, chère," a husky voice chuckled in her ear. "Is jus' Remy."
"Damn you, LeBeau!" she retorted, wriggling around in his grasp in an effort to crane up at his face. He looked down into her upturned eyes, grinning broadly and squeezing once more for good measure before releasing her and leaning back against the bar, his elbows propped on the counter as he crossed his legs at the ankle casually.
"So?" he asked. "You took de letter to him, non? What did he say?"
Jubilation looked over her shoulder at the other occupants of the room, but they weren't paying any attention. "He didn't say anything, really," she answered with a shrug, brushing a stray black curl away from her eyes. "He just picked it up and started looking it over, so I left."
Remy lifted an eyebrow. "You couldn't find some excuse to stay until he read it?"
She made a face. "It wasn't any of my business, LeBeau," she snapped. "And, well..." She shrugged again and stepped past Remy, lifting the hinged counter top as she slipped behind the bar. "Let's just say he's a little more...intimidating...in close quarters, okay?"
Remy turned around to face her, leaning his crossed arms on the bar. "Remy would so love to find out more about dat fellow," he said, shaking his head thoughtfully. "Did he say anyt'ing else?"
Jubilation snorted, shuffling through the previous night's ledgers on the small shelf beneath the bar surface. "Look, LeBeau...if you're so damn interested, why don't you go ask him, huh?"
"I tried las' night, remember?"
"And what makes you think that I would have more luck than you?" she retorted. She looked up at him, her black eyes snapping with irritation. "Honestly, LeBeau...I don't see why you're being so damn curious about this guy. He's just a drifter, or worse...a mercenary."
"Oui, chère, but he a mercenary, perhaps, dat came to your defense las' night, non?" Remy remarked slyly.
"Well, yes," Jubilation said, a soft blush staining her cheeks again as she looked back down at the ledgers. "And I thanked him for it, too."
"You did?"
"Yes. And now, if you'll excuse me..." She stacked the ledgers together neatly and turned away from the bar with a flounce, effectively dismissing Remy as she walked toward the swinging door that opened onto the kitchen.
"Hey, chère?" Remy called after her.
She paused, looking back over her shoulder without meeting his eyes. "What, LeBeau?" she sighed.
The grin in Remy's voice was unmistakable. "Dat mercenary of yours," he said casually. "He's a handsome brute, non?"
Jubilation's cheeks burned a bright red once more, and she turned away
quickly, stomping through the door into the kitchen with the light sound
of Remy's laughter following her.
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Less than half an hour later, the stairs creaked slightly as Logan descended to the first floor. He entered the common room quietly, pausing just inside the door to look around, then he advanced to the bar as he pulled on the fine black leather of his gloves.
Remy looked up from where he sat at the bar, nodding to the dark man as their eyes met, but Logan barely acknowledged his presence. Logan was quite an awesome sight, though, in that quiet inn on such a morning...a tall, powerfully built figure in black, high-top boots, black breeches, and his black cloak, this time fastened only at the throat with the rest of it flung back over his shoulders and clearly revealing the bright steel of the mail shirt he wore beneath. Remy sucked his teeth silently, pleased that his reckoning of the worth of that chain armor seemed to be right on the money, so to speak...even with the small glimpse he had caught the night before, it was obvious that the man's armor was of the highest quality.
Where you come from, mon ami? Remy thought, watching from beneath half-lidded eyes as Logan advanced to the bar. Even wit'out de claws beneat' your knuckles, you're a mystery...you dress like a lord but you have no retinue. Is your name even Logan, I wonder?
The door to the kitchens swung open, and Jubilation bustled through, stopping in her tracks when she looked up and saw Logan standing on the other side of the bar. "Yes, sir?" she said quickly, hoping her flush wasn't as obvious as it felt. "What can I get you this morning?"
"Information," Logan said gruffly. "The man who delivered that letter you gave me...where can I find him?"
"I...I'm not sure, sir," Jubilation replied, casting a nervous glance at Remy without realizing it. "He said he would wait for your reply, but then he left the bar when I came up to deliver the message."
Logan dropped his eyes with a frown, reaching up and pulling his cloak close about him thoughtfully. "Very well, then," he said at last. "I'll be leaving. If he returns, tell him that I took the western road. Perhaps he may overtake with me there."
Jubilation bobbed a curtsey. "Yes, sir. Of course."
"Is my account settled here?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"Then I thank you for your hospitality," Logan said. He glanced over at Remy and nodded briefly. "Farewell, thief."
Remy was startled, surprised that the dark man had deigned to acknowledge him. "See you around, mon ami," he replied quickly.
Logan turned back to Jubilation, shocking her even more than Remy when he gave her a stiff, courtly bow. "Take care of yourself, m'lady," he said, and when he straightened up, his lips were quirked in a small smile. He then turned on his booted heel and walked quickly across the room, pushing open the front door and disappearing into the chilly winter's morning.
Remy watched the door close, then he jumped up from his stool, grabbing his wine cup and draining it in one quick swallow. He wiped his arm across his mouth hurriedly, then lifted the hinged section of the bar and brushed past Jubilation, ignoring her squawk of indignation as he began to head for the kitchen door.
"Where are you going, LeBeau?!" She grabbed at his shirt sleeve, trying to yank him back. "You can't go back there! Barnaby will have a bird!"
"I'm goin' out de back way, to see where he is goin'," Remy answered, wriggling out of Jubilation's grasp. "Don' worry, chère," he added, giving her a salacious wink. "Remy won' leave wit'out tellin' you."
"He told us where he was going! The western road!"
"Dat's just where he said he was goin'."
She stomped her foot angrily, watching helplessly as Remy scooted through
the steam-filled kitchen toward the back door of the inn. "Remy LeBeau!
Damn your eyes!" she hollered, her hands on her hips as he laughed and
disappeared through the door into the snow.
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Logan's boots crunched through the thin, icy crust on top of the snow, the wind blowing through his hair and making it even wilder and more unruly than before. The sun was shining weakly through the low clouds overhead, bearing the forbidding promise of more snow to come, but Logan ignored them and continued on his way to the stables, his cloak billowing out from behind him as his long strides took him to the stable door.
He stepped into the dusky, relative warmth of the building, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dimness, then he heard a welcoming nicker from the stalls to his left, his eyes finding the dark shape of Lockheed's head as he leaned over the slats and tossed his head in greeting.
"Hello, old friend...sleep well?" Logan asked, smiling and coming closer to rub his gloved hand over the horse's nose.
"Good morning, m'lord!" the hostler said from behind him, and Logan turned to glance at him briefly as he came up from the back of the stables, the stable keeper smiling broadly and bobbing up and down in a semblance of a bow as he wiped his ham-sized hands on his leather apron. "I took care of your beast personally, I did, just as I said."
Logan turned back to Lockheed, looking over the horse and his stall with an expert eye. "And an excellent job you did, hostler. My trust in you was well-placed."
"Yes, sir," the hostler said, beaming.
Logan patted the horse's broad flank. "Saddle him and bring him out front when you're finished," he said softly, then he turned and left the stable once more, the hostler not even waiting to watch him go before scurrying to do as he had requested.
Logan stepped back out into the snow, pulling the hood of his cloak up over his head...and then he turned his head sharply, sniffing the air as an unfamiliar scent caught his attention. Less than a full moment after he detected the new presence, however, the scent's owner stepped from the shadows of the inn and came forward slowly.
"Good morning, sir," the approaching man said. He was short, squat, and thick with ropy muscle, although the effect was spoiled somewhat by the prodigious hump marring the man's back. He hunched forward in a grotesque, hopping gait, his powerful arms nearly touching the ground as he turned his head and peered up at Logan in the mockery of a grin. Logan's nose wrinkled involuntarily as he watched the man approach, noting the funny, greenish pallor of his skin and wondering what sort of disease could make a man look like that.
The man paused, clearly waiting for an answer, and Logan's frown deepened. "Do I know you?" he growled.
"Forgive me, sir. Allow me to introduce myself," the strange little man said soothingly. "My name is Mortimer of Toynbee. I am Lord High Chancellor to His Majesty, King Victor."
Logan relaxed. "You sent the letter," he said, nodding briefly. "I was inquiring about you inside the inn."
"Yes, quite."
"I hope you'll forgive me for saying so," Logan continued, the dark smile on his face suggesting that he really didn't care if Mortimer forgave him or not. "But is it not a bit unusual for the Lord High whatever to be visiting inns in the middle of nowhere, without an escort?"
Mortimer grinned, exposing a curiously even row of small white teeth. "Not in Westchester, my good friend. This may be the middle of nowhere, as you so quaintly put it, but the might of His Majesty is felt even here, and..." He licked his lips with a startling long tongue. "No one would dare interfere with those His Majesty favors."
"I see." Logan's face was carefully impassive.
"Did you read the letter, then?"
"Yes."
"And?"
Logan studied the toad-like man a moment before answering. "I've decided to accept, conditionally, of course. I would like to meet His Majesty, first."
Mortimer's muddy eyes glittered as his grin widened. "Oh, I can assure you, His Majesty wishes to make your acquaintance as well."
A pause fell between them, and Logan studied the smaller man for a moment. "You were in the common room of the inn last night," he said suddenly. "I remember you now."
"Yes, and that was where I saw your...interesting...talents," Mortimer laughed.
"What happened with the barmaid, you mean."
"I saw what happened, yes," Mortimer replied, squinting up at him in the weak sunlight.
"You brought me to the attention of the king?"
"I did...he was most interested, and he is always interested in those that may prove fitting combatants in his tourneys," Mortimer said.
"Then perhaps it was a stroke of luck for both of us," Logan said briefly. He turned as the sound of horse hoofs clopping on the wooden floor of the stable reached his ears, and saw the hostler leading Lockheed out by the bridle, the horse's black coat gleaming beautifully in stark contrast to the glittering white of the snow.
Mortimer sucked in his breath behind Logan. "Is that yours?" he asked.
"He is."
"What a magnificent animal," Mortimer said.
"Yes." Logan took the proffered bridle from the hostler's hand, then reached inside his cloak and withdrew some coins, pressing them into the stable keeper's palm. "For your trouble," he said softly.
The hostler opened his fingers, his blue eyes goggling when he saw the two gold coins shining on his sweaty palm. "Oh! I...oh!" He seemed incapable of saying anything further...he hadn't dared to hope that the strange, dark man would make good on his promise of a gold coin just for him, and now he had two??!! The hostler looked up at Logan in open gratitude...he scarcely made that much in a year.
"Stop gaping and fetch my horse as well," Mortimer snapped. The hostler looked at him, blinked, then mumbled a hasty, breathless thank you to Logan before bowing clumsily and scurrying back into the stable. Mortimer watched him go, then turned back to Logan with a scowl where his unctuous grin had been moments before. "Well?" he asked truculently, seemingly put-out by Logan's generosity. "Will you accompany me back to His Majesty's castle?"
"Yes." Logan checked the lacings on his saddlebags, then placed his boot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. He took the reins up in his hand lightly, resting them across each other on the pommel of his saddle as he looked down at Mortimer with what appeared to be amusement. "Ready whenever you are, Lord Chancellor."
Mortimer looked slightly nonplussed, and as he trounced through the snow toward the stable opening, bawling for the hostler to hurry up, Logan patted Lockheed's neck, staring out over the snowy landscape patiently. The wind changed slightly, whispering against his face and blowing his hood back a little, and he sniffed the crisp, cold air deeply, letting it fill his lungs...as he slowly turned his head in the direction of a new scent.
There, by the wood pile stacked close to the back door of the inn. Logan lifted an eyebrow, slightly amused that the thief thought he was well-hidden. Ah, well, let him eavesdrop...there was nothing of interest to be learned here, and Logan was certain that even the young thief would not be so stupid as to attempt to rob the Chancellor.
Lockheed snorted, and Logan gently wheeled him around, the huge horse's
breath coming out in puffs of steam as he pawed the ground, anxious to
begin this new journey.