The Duke's Pawn

Chapter 1: An Inn in Paris

Paris, March 1474

The metal sign bearing the name "Au Gay Companion" swayed silently in the night breeze. Right underneath it, wrapped in a long coppe, face hidden in a deep hood, a man leaned against the whitewashed wall. His chest was heaving from his desperate run, the muscles in his legs burning as if he were already in Hell. It was worth it; being caught by King Louis' henchmen would be far worse a fate.

He peered into the darkness surrounding the inn's lanterns, and found no sign of his pursuer. Letting out a sigh of relief, he ventured into the building, cautiously stopping at the door to survey the large common room.

Tendrils of smoke swirled around the dark beams of the low ceiling, above the customers' heads. Close to the roaring fire, a group of merchants were caught in a heated discussion, bargaining over the price of ballots of English wool.

The man smirked. It would take more than the war between France and England to stop the traders. Their loud voices reached him, encouraged by the contents of a large pot of ale placed between them. Two craftsmen ate their dinner silently beside them.

His gaze stopped on the large guest table in the center, occupied by armed men and a couple of women, a noble Dame and her maid. The Dame was young and amiable, smiling to her escort and devising politely with them. Her clothing betrayed her rank with modesty, her wimple long enough to cover her shoulders, otherwise exposed by a deep blue dress with large sleeves narrowing at the wrist. An appropriate outfit for travelling in this cold, damp weather.

He smiled. He was in the right place.

Striding hastily across the room, he stepped around the seated guards and bumped clumsily into her. The bulky soldier at her side rose at once, hand reaching for the hilt of his sword, but was stopped in his tracks with one look from his Mistress.

The newcomer bowed humbly and offered an apology. "I am sorry belle Dame, the fire in your eyes made my knees turn to water."

"You are forgiven Messire, I am too down to earth to deny you when you nearly flew in the air..." She presented her hand to him and he took it, bending low over it. He then turned swiftly and scurried away, reaching the back door and slipping outside as the front door flew open.

In the doorway stood a tall monk with his cowl up. His brutal intrusion drew the attention of the customers, who stared at him curiously. Such a dramatic entrance was unusual for a member of the Holy Orders.

The lady used the distraction to slip the tightly rolled parchment inside her sleeve, before turning her interest to the monk. She couldn't see his eyes, but she was certain he was watching her.

Not bothering to close the wooden panel, the monk followed the previous man's tracks to the other side of the inn and ran along the pitch-black alley up to the street, mumbling curses. He had lost the spy again; he'd better find something useful to report to the King or face the consequences. He retraced his steps and went to sit at an empty table beside the hearth.

A wench shuffled towards him, ready to take his order.

"I'll have what they are having," he uttered, pointing at the armed party.

"Chicken and soup, mon Frère?"

"You heard me, woman, now begone!"

Pouting at him, the girl shuffled away.

The henchman's eyes scrutinized the patrons, eventually resting back on the lady, who was being fussed over by her overgrown guard. He strained his ears to catch a few scraps of their conversation.

"Dame Alienor, are you hurt? You should have let me correct that brute earlier."

"I am fine, thank you, Captain. It is nothing really, the man apologized. Let's forget about it, shall we?"

The eavesdropper furrowed his eyebrows; they spoke the Burgundy dialect. What were Duke Charles' subjects doing in Paris? He beckoned the innkeeper to him, showing a glimpse of the gold coin between his fingers.

The heavy man moved in haste. "What can I do for you, mon Frère?"

"Who are these travellers and where are they going?"

Eyes fixed on the gold, the innkeeper tattled his limited knowledge. "It is a Noble Dame from Burgundy, going to meet her husband in the North, I know no more."

The monk threw him the coin and waved the owner away, his mind working fast. Where in the North? He needed to find out. The English spy he had lost stopped in this inn too long to have simply crossed it. He must have met his contact, and these people were the most likely suspects, considering the Duke's alliance with the enemy.

The wench came back with his food, roasted chicken on a trencher of stale bread and a steaming wooden bowl. He picked his knife and ate, keeping an eye on his prey.

Alienor was shivering, despite the comfortable heat dispensed by the chimney and the candles. She could feel the gaze of the fake monk on her. He was no man of the Church, of that she was certain. His body was lean and muscular and his stance was that of a swordsman. She had practiced enough with her brother to recognize it. He had been chasing her contact. He had to be one of the King's men, the Spider's minion. She was terrified, but couldn't let it show. Finishing her food, she stood and apologized graciously, retiring for the night with her maid in tow.

The monk watched her leave and sneered. He would know soon enough. From now on, he was going to shadow them. Whatever it was they were hiding, he was sure to find out.

***

Alienor lay in bed in her chemise, her maid fast asleep on the pallet on the floor. Too scared to close her eyes, she stared at the ceiling in the candlelight, her mind churning over the unusual chain of events that had landed her in this dreadful situation.