CHAPTER NINE

IF the assassins had followed LaBarque’s command immediately, Tristan would have been dead before he could even grasp the situation.

But they hesitated.

And Tristan, his reflexes still sharp from battle, seized the split-second of opportunity to act. He dove under the desk, toward LaBarque. He heard the twang of bowstrings, felt a stab of pain in his calf and another as he yanked his leg in under the desk. Tristan ploughed straight into LaBarque’s chair—and there was his one chance. He grabbed the front legs and yanked them up. The heavy chair crashed to the ground, taking the startled LaBarque with it. Struggling through the crowded space, Tristan lunged at the fallen man. His head bloomed into red pain as it crashed into the thick overhanging lip of the desk, momentarily blinding him. LaBarque cursed viciously, and Tristan scrabbled after his voice while the blackness receded.

Fighting his way clear of the furniture proved more difficult than fighting LaBarque. The man had managed to pull a knife on his way down, and Tristan’s sword was too long to manage in such a tight space. But LaBarque, though he knew his way around a blade, was no gutter-fighter, nor did he have Tristan’s strength. Tristan grabbed at LaBarque’s knife hand with both of his own and slammed it viciously against a chair leg—the weapon clattered to the floor. It was the work of a minute to haul the man to his feet with his own blade against his throat. Chest heaving, Tristan eyed his three assailants. They didn’t look like soldiers or even criminals. They still held their bows, but uncertainly, aiming at nothing in particular. Their faces registered identical expressions of shock. It was clear they had no idea what to do.

“Curse you for idiots, all of you!” snarled LaBarque, and the three men seemed to shrink and bristle at once, like dogs that had been beaten. “You will pay beyond the powers of your feeble minds to imagine, that I promise you!”

“It’s over, LaBarque,” said Tristan quietly. Was it madness that drove this man beyond all reason? Tristan wondered if he even recognized his own defeat. “It will not be you doling out punishments hereafter. You are charged with the attempted murder of a prince of Verdeau.”

“A lie,” returned LaBarque promptly. “You have no witnesses. And I have my men here to testify that I was attacked in my own home without provocation, by a spoiled royal darling who doesn’t want to share his toys.”

Tristan was barely listening. He was watching the change that had just swept over the men. Two had drained of color so rapidly he thought they might faint or be sick. One, too florid to ever be pale, flared even redder, his eyes bulging in rage or terror. While the first two let their bows slip unheeded to the ground, this one hurled his against the wall with a curse and rushed forward.

Was the man going to attack with his bare hands? Tristan thought of his sword, dropped under the table in the struggle. He had the blade under his foot, but had not yet managed to pick it up. And his leg was hurt; he didn’t yet know how badly, but he could feel the arrow hanging from his boot, stabbing into flesh with every movement. Could he defend himself and keep his hold on LaBarque?

As the man came around the table, Tristan swiveled to face him, using LaBarque as a shield. But the charge stopped short as suddenly as it had started.

“WHO ARE YOU?” the man shouted at him. It was the cry, Tristan realized, that comes from urgency so great there is no time for niceties. He overlooked the breach of etiquette and answered simply.

“I am Tristan DesChênes of Verdeau and your liege lord.”

The sandy-haired man in the corner groaned and sank his face into his hands. But Red, as Tristan was beginning to think of him, stepped up to LaBarque and spat square in his face.

“You told me we was to kill that murderin’ foreign pirate captain, him that sank my son’s ship! Not the son of our own king, what died in the war!”

LaBarque sneered at the man’s tirade. “Pirate, prince, what difference does it make? It’s not like you had a choice, now is it?” His words died into a gurgling grunt, as a large red fist smashed into his mouth.

Take control, warned a voice in Tristan’s head. Or you’ve lost it for good.

“Return to the others now, sir,” said Tristan, putting all the confidence and command he had into that one phrase.

But the fight had gone out of Red. He turned to Tristan. “I’d have fled the country, with my whole family too, before I would knowingly ‘ave hurt you, whatever his threats. May the dark gods take me if that en’t the truth.” And he walked meekly to his companions and sank to his knees.

What to do with these men? The more Tristan observed them, the more convinced he grew that they were neither conspirators nor thugs, but simple laborers who had somehow come under LaBarque’s thumb: not blameless, certainly, but not guilty of treason either. To what purpose would he have them arrested? Yet, as LaBarque had pointed out, he needed their witness. If they bolted now, he would lose them.

“You, in the corner.” He spoke to the tow-head, a very picture of despair. The man’s head jerked up as though on a string.

“Me, Sir? My Lord? I mean, Sire?”

“You,” he confirmed. “Help me here, will you?” Astonished, the man came forward.

“I need you to search this man. He may well be carrying a second knife. You are not to hurt him, but be thorough. You understand?” Pressing his own knife more firmly against LaBarque’s skin, he murmured, “Arms in the air, My Lord. And not one threatening gesture, if you value your neck.”

Tentatively, Sandy began patting down his employer, finding nothing on his initial search.

“Check his legs, especially inside his boots.” Sure enough, Sandy discovered a second knife slipped into a pocket in the right-hand boot.

“Well done,” said Tristan, as though he were addressing a soldier in his command. “Now see if you can find something—heavy parchment or cloth—to wrap both blades in, and stick them in my belt.” Holding his breath, Tristan presented his back to a man who had been hired to kill him—and waited while the knives were gently tucked into place. It was a considered risk, to put the knife within their grasp—a demonstration of trust that, Tristan hoped, would align them on his side and against LaBarque. By the time it was done, the change in the room was palpable. The men were alert, their eyes trained upon him. They sensed they had been offered redemption and strained to grasp it.

“Now, you.” He pointed to the last man, who had been almost completely silent. He came forward eagerly and bowed. “I need rope, something to tie the prisoner’s hands.” In moments, the curtain cord was fastened tightly around LaBarque’s wrists. Now Tristan took time to glance at the arrow digging at his flesh. With relief he saw that the arrowhead had not even completely pierced his boot leather. At such a range, he might have been pinned to the floor, but his hasty dive had forced a hurried draw at an awkward angle, and he would have nothing worse than an angry surface injury. It was the work of a second to pull himself free.

“Isn’t there something I can do, Sire?” It was Red, positively eager.

Now Tristan allowed himself a small smile. “I think you have done quite enough already, don’t you?” The men exchanged glances, not daring to share the jest. Tristan relented. Red was his best hope for the last step. “Go to the front door, and tell the two guards posted there I have need of them. Tell them I have arrested LaBarque.” Fear jumped back into Red’s eyes, but Tristan held his gaze calmly.

A bitter laugh broke the spell. “You send the pig to fetch his own butcher!” crowed LaBarque. “Almost I begin to admire you, young princeling.” His lip curled in disdain. “You credulous fools! Prison looms before you, and you not only lack the wits to run, you leap to the aid of your jailer. You, not I, have attempted murder in this room. I strongly suggest you finish the job before it’s too late!”

“But I think you are mistaken, LaBarque,” said Tristan. “I heard you order these men to shoot me, yet they came to my aid. They have had, in fact, several opportunities to finish me off, and each has instead demonstrated his loyalty. That is a strange sort of murder, is it not?” He watched as Red wheeled and marched decisively through the door.

As LaBarque was frog-marched from his home under guard, Tristan, severe now, addressed his little trio. “I do not doubt you were misled about my identity, but the fact remains you were prepared to kill another man,” he said. “Pirate or not, this is against the law of Verdeau.” They could not meet his eyes, but Red stepped forward hesitantly.

“Sir... Sire. He threatened us. LaBarque, I mean. Our families, like.”

“Aye.” Tristan nodded. “I am not surprised to hear it. That is the way of men like him. But that is a kind of piracy too, and others must stand against it.

“Now LaBarque may name you as accomplices in his trial. And if he does, you will have to come forward and beg the mercy of the court. But for myself, I am content to have your witness to his crime. I want you to go with Normand there”—he gestured at the remaining guard—”and make your statements as to exactly what happened. He will write it down, to be presented as evidence. And then I suggest you leave by the back door, if there is one, and put a substantial distance between yourselves and this house.”

As the men filed past him, Red bent onto one knee and touched his fingers to his brow. “If you ever come back here, you won’t find stronger or more loyal supporters than us, My Lord. That’s a promise.”

Tristan regarded him. “You have seen, I think, what I am made of this day. One day there may be need for you to stand up and show what you are made of.”

At last he was alone in the study. He sprawled into a chair, letting the tension of the last hour seep away, and chuckled to himself.

“You had better support me,” he said aloud. “I just saved your arse.”