“Me too,” Claudine agreed contentedly. It was true, now that she thought about it. She felt better than she had for weeks.
“Yes, it is,” Claudine agreed. She took a big sip, tasting it appreciatively. It had a rich, complex taste – the sweetness of the berries offset by a wild, forest taste; slightly musky and very appealing. “Uncle had it brought specially from the estate. I'm glad.”
“Mm. Me too,” Bernadette agreed.
As she finished the cordial, Claudine felt her head start to thump. Her heart skipped a beat and the horribly weak, lethargic feeling washed through her. She managed to pass the goblet to Bernadette just before she collapsed, moaning, back onto the bed.
“Oh, my lady,” Bernadette said, replacing the goblet on the tray. “Rest. Let me cover you with something...best if you stay warm.”
“I'm fine,” Claudine murmured hazily.
Then the world went dark and she collapsed, as she often did, into a deep, exhausted sleep.
A SUDDEN MEETING
Francis walked down the length of the solar, feeling restless. He paced to the window, looking out over the abundant summer landscape. It wasn't just the unseasonable rainfall and the fact that he was confined to the manor making him feel restless. It was his concerned mind.
“I can't stop thinking about her.”
“My lord?” Yves, walking in to lay the table for dinner, caught his remark on entering. Realizing he'd spoken aloud, Francis sighed, feeling impatient with himself.
“Sorry, Yves. Talking to myself. I need to go for a ride.”
“Well, if it has good effects, do inform me of it,” Yves said calmly. “I would love to know how to cure the uncomfortable habit of talking to yourself.”
Francis chuckled. “You know what I mean, Yves,” he sighed. “I need to clear my head. Before my own thoughts drive me quite mad.”
“It's been known to happen,” Yves said mildly. “I knew an old fellow, ever so mad he was...” He trailed off as Francis interrupted him a little crossly.
“Please, Yves. I don't require to know how perilous my sanity is. I just need to get out into the air.” “As you wish, milord.” He carried on calmly laying out the cutlery, no break in his tranquil mien.
Francis sighed. “I do.”
As he walked down the hallway to the entrance, he thought about his mother's comments about fresh air. Maybe she was right about it...it might be curative. Who knew? It might be worth telling Claudine that idea.
Feeling inspired to do that, Francis walked briskly down to the stables, throwing on his big brown woolen cloak as he went out. How would he, though? He didn't even know if Claudine was at the palace or if she was at her father's country estate by now.
Well, I'll think of something.
Once he was riding – he took Dusk Shadow, his own hunting horse, a gray dapple mare with immense stamina and a sweet nature – he finally found it possible to give his worries consideration.There was something undeniably sinister about her uncle. He dismissed the thought that he simply disliked the man because he was hostile to him. No, this was something more.
In all the time since he had met Claudine, he hadn't heard her uncle make a pleasant, encouraging comment in her direction. He seemed determined for her to be unwell. Almost like he wanted her to stay ill. Or to sicken to death.
“What nonsense, Francis,” he snorted at himself derisively.
He heard Dusk Shadow snort in response and he slowed the pace, letting them take a slow ride up the hill. The headed upward, heading over toward the ridge that overlooked the valley. Whenever he was up here, he found it was easier to think.
Impulsively, Francis decided to ride to the monastery. There was an old friar there – Father Matthias – who had always taken guardianship of the family's care. He was thoughtful and learned. If anyone knew anything about this sickness, it would be him. He passed his reins to a young lad who came up to take them as he rode into the abbey's yard.
“Tend my horse. I need to speak to Father Matthias. . Is he in?” he called out. “I will inquire. Go get inside, my lord. It's turbulent weather out there.”
Francis nodded.
“Lord Francis,” the abbot said when the novice ushered him quietly in. “A pleasure. What can I do for you?”
Francis looked about. The office of the abbot was monastically simple – the big desk, a single wide window, the table laden with books, an unadorned hearth where a fire would burn in winter. There were two chairs – one behind the desk and one in front. Francis breathed in the scents of old parchments, new ink and settled dust and took a seat opposite the old monk. He felt himself relax somewhat.He inquired about Father Matthias. The abbot shook his head.
“I regret to say he's in seclusion, young man,” the old abbot frowned. “If I could pass on a message for you?”
Francis shook his head. “I don't think so, Father. Though mayhap you can answer my question also?”
Father Samuel pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I could try, Son,” he said. “I regret having less knowledge of matters medical than our learned friend. Tell me your question and I'll endeavor to answer it myself with my limited knowledge. ”
Francis sighed. “I wanted to ask him if he'd heard of a malady. A sort of creeping sickness that makes a person tired and steals their strength, making it difficult to walk, ride, or dance. Something that makes the person out of breath and weary. ” He frowned, trying to recall if Lady Claudine had mentioned any other clues as to her illness.
Father Samuel frowned. “There are many such sicknesses, Son. It would depend on more information. Is the person able to stand? Does the sickness come on all at once, or is it progressive? What is the pallor of their skin? The rate of the pulses. There is much we do not know.”
Francis nodded, feeling wretched. He should have realized he didn't know enough.
“Sorry, Father. I do not know. All I can say is that the person involved has suffered this way for several years. Since her earlier adulthood.”
“Ah,” the priest raised a bow, eyes widening. “So the person suffering is a lady, yes?”
Francis looked at his hands shyly. “Yes, Father. I made her acquaintance at court...” he trailed off, breathing out a sigh. Of all the things Father Samuel required to know, the history of his tentative progress in courting the Lady Claudine was not one of them.
“Ah,” Father Samuel mused. “Well, I trust she has adequate care there. The court has physicians who would make me feel a child compared to their learning. Though, I think,” he added warmly, “our own Father Matthias would come close to their abilities.”
Francis nodded. “Assuredly, Father. Well,” he sighed. “I suppose I have taken up enough time of yours for one day, Father. .”
He trailed off as the old holy man looked into his eyes. His own were a sort of hazel brown, opaque and almost colorless with age, wrinkles around them testimony to long hours spent in reading or at prayers. Looking into them made Francis feel suddenly peaceful.
“I am glad to help, my son,” he said gently. “And if there is anything that troubles you further, please tell me. ”
Francis sighed. “I wish I could tell you more, but it's hard trying to explain what I don't understand myself.”
“I am always listening.”
Francis gave a long exhale. “It's the lady, Father Samuel. She is ill and...and her uncle seems hostile. I can't explain it. I sense a threat to her safety, though I could not say from whence it comes.”
The priest rested his long fingers on his lips, making a steeple of them while he frowned in thought. He cleared his throat.
“It seems there is some need for action. And I think that is what you feel as well. You wish to save the lady from whatever harms her. And I think it is a goodly aim. Nevertheless, you must gather information. Then act. That is all we can do. That, and trust in the Lord Almighty,” he added.
Francis nodded respectfully. “Yes, Father. And...Thank you.”
The old priest smile
d. “Not at all, young man. Now, if I am not very mistaken, that is the sound of thunder. I think it would be no bad thing if you stayed with us this night. It would be safer to depart in the morning, when threat of being struck is somewhat lessened.”
Francis inclined his head. “I could not agree more with you, Father.”
He chuckled. “Good. Well, we'll have a room made up. We will sit down to supper in the refectory at eight of the clock, an hour before the evening service of Compline. You are welcome to join us.”
“Thank you,” Francis headed out to leave the old priest to his work.
He found his footsteps led him to the garden, where he took a seat on one of the stone benches. Out here, he could smell the scent of fresh herbs and the smell of rain. The crackle of lighting was almost a scent in the air, a thrumming crinkle that should smell like smoke.
Francis breathed out wearily. He had learned little on his journey, but he had received good advice.
Gather more information.
That was a sound first step. He didn't know much about Claudine's health besides what she looked like. She was certainly pale and breathless.
He trailed off, feeling his cheeks burning as he found his thoughts turning to descriptions of her body – her pearly skin, her curvy figure, her high breasts. This is a monastery, Francis! Imagine if they could read your thoughts – Father Matthias and Samuel would be shocked.
He jumped when he heard voices in the colonnade.
“Young Dennis said he saw a coach stuck on the road south. We should send aid.” a monk said, voice tensed.
The other monk sounded less concerned. “Is it heading to Evreux? Surely someone will have come to its aid by now.”
“Maybe,” the first monk said hesitantly. “But you know the Duc du Pavot. He keeps the verderers busy in the woods. The maintenance of safety on the road bothers him less.”“Well, he'll surely look out for the coach. If it's his kinfolk, he'll keep an eye out for them. He'll send help.”
“You're right, of course, Frederic.”
“I think so. Now...we need to finish with collecting those herbs. What was it Brother Dominic said he needed?”
As the two men drifted off, the soft impact of their sandals on the stone path muted by distance and the crackle of thunder, Francis froze.
The Duc du Pavot held landholdings at Evreux? Of course he did! That was, he knew, one of thee states of Claudine's uncle – the count of Corron. There was also a coach stuck on the road?
Claudine!
What was he thinking of, sitting here so calmly when she was close by? Mayhap in grave danger as well?
There was no reason to assume the coach held the family of the Duc du Pavot, save that the two monks also thought that, evidently. And if it did, and it was stuck out here...? Francis stopped thinking and felt himself tense, worried. The nights on the road were not as safe as they should be – despite his father's efforts, and those of other local lords, there were still vagabonds and outlaws on the roads, desperate men who would plunder a coach brought to halt without a second thought.
He had to go and find out more, and soon.He knew it might seem foolish – he had a sense of urgency that could not be denied.
Also, he decided, , he had an excellent chance to follow the abbot's sound advice.
He could gather information.And he might get to see Claudine again.
Even if I cannot speak with her, which seems unlikely. Seeing her from afar is good enough.
It would have to be.
As he hurried into the dark tranquil space of the monastery he felt his heart fill with excitement. As well as a bright flame of hope.
He hurried to the stables, heart thumping in his chest. He knew it was dangerous to be abroad in a summer thunderstorm. That didn't matter – the danger to Lady Claudine could be far worse. He had to go and assure himself that she was safe.
“Brother Philippe? Where is my horse? I need to head off quickly.”
As soon as his horse was ready he mounted up and sped off, heading into the hills. To find a coach and the ladies who might be traveling within it. Before it was too late.
DANGER AND DARKNESS
The coach jerked to a halt. Claudine woke up. She opened her eyes on the dark leather-lined interior of the coach and Bernadette's distressed face.
“My lady?” Bernadette whispered. “Are we..?”
She trailed off as, outside, the coachman alighted with a thump of boots on the hard-packed earth. The sound of his disgruntled mood came, muffled, through the side of the coach as he muttered to himself under his breath. There was silence, then, followed by the distant roll of a storm. It was coming close.
Claudine looked at Bernadette with dismay. Bernadette nodded tightly.
“It's the wheel, milady. These roads...with the rain they're so slippery! We're stuck in a rut.”
Claudine raised her fingers to her lips nervously. “Now? With dusk coming on. Oh, Bernadette. What if..?”
“Your uncle will send someone soon,” Bernadette said reassuringly. “You see if he doesn't. His own niece, stuck on the road to Evreux? Of course he'll send out woodsmen to look for the coach. Of course he will.”
Claudine nodded. “You're right, of course,” she agreed softly. All the same, her heart thumped with fear. She could hear the storm growing overhead. In the confined space of the carriage, every small murmur of thunder seemed so menacing.
Given the propensity of lightning to strike tall objects, we're in deep danger here.
Claudine shuddered. She had heard and seen of enough strikes here in the southern part of the country to know that the taller a building – or tree, as well – the more likely it was to be struck. In the rolling summer fields, their coach was the highest object for miles around.
We're in danger.
And it wasn't just the storm. She looked at Bernadette, whose eyes were tense at the corners. She knew that, despite the reassuring smile and the soft touch on her hand, Bernadette was as concerned as she. It was the danger of vagabonds and outlaws. Claudine shuddered. Their coach was a prime target.
She gripped Bernadette's hand and tried to slow her breath. She sought calm and found it.
Uncle will send someone. The storm will recede. The rain will come and the thunder will end.
She breathed out slowly. They would be safe. She just had an overactive imagination. That was all.
Just then, she heard the coachman shouting to the outrider.
“Hey! Francois. What's that there?”
“A horse?”
“It's not Benedict. Must be someone else. Go and see.”
Claudine breathed in sharply.
A fugitive or vagabond might steal a horse as easily as they'd steal our coach now.
She clutched the fingers where Bernadette's hand rested in hers as if they were a lifeline. Bernadette gripped back.
The two women closed their eyes and started to pray.
Claudine felt a strange restlessness overcome her. As she heard the men shouting, and the sound of more hoof beats, she felt a need to get out of this carriage and investigate.
“Bernadette,” she said, “I've got to get out. I can't just sit here.”
“My lady,” Bernadette pleaded. “No. It's dangerous.”
Claudine shook her head. She had to get out of this coach. The inactivity and faceless threat would drive her mad. She had to know.
“I'll only be a moment, Bernadette,” she insisted.
She didn't stay to listen. She opened the door and slid out.
Outside, the world was gray and blue and dark, shot through with the eerie ripple of lightning. Claudine looked around, slitting her eyes against the darkness. A warm breeze blew, flattening the grass of the vast fields. She looked to her left and caught a movement there about thirty paces from the coach.
There! A horseman, barley within sight.
Claudine felt her hand cover her mouth in fright as she searched again, locating the shadowy horseman in the mass of grays and
blues and charcoal shadows. He was keeping to the foreground of the woods where they approached the road narrowly, the darkness making him blend with the dark of tree trunks, a thing of shadow and fitful illumination and motion.
She watched as their two guards rode steadfastly towards the shadowed man.
As she watched, eyes stretched tight with horror, she saw one of the guards ride forward to engage the man with his sword. Light flashed on metal as he drew it, shivering silver down the blade.
She could not hear the clash if swords as the horseman answered his strike. She only saw the shimmer of light on polished metal as the blade clashed with his own. The sounds of the storm drowned out all other noise.
“Help!” Claudine breathed out, an appeal to the highest powers that be. She watched the swordsman fight with immense skill. Suddenly, her mind was transported back.
She was sitting on the terrace, overlooking the courtyard. At the palace, on a heavily aired summer afternoon. She saw the sunshine glint on steel and felt her heart rise to her mouth. She watched the amazing skill of the swordsman she admired for so many other reasons other than his sword-craft.
Francis!
The mounted man reminded her of him.
She shook her head. There was no reason for her mind to associate the two, other than wild fancy. Or was there?
With the way he wielded that sword, this man could not be a simple vagabond. He was far too adept, far too skilled. Whoever this was had access to a nobleman's training, of that she had absolutely no reason to doubt.With the swordsman who seemed like Francis winning, her guardsmen did their best to tackle him. All at once, the Francis-like mounted man retreated sharply. She saw his horse ride away into the woodlands, blending almost at once with the treeline. She sighed.
Whoever he was, he was skilled. He is gone now. Be thankful, now, Claudine! At least you're safe.Why did she feel so sorrowful?
I suppose, she thought, shaking her head ruefully, I was pleased to see someone who made me imagine he was here. Francis. That swordsman could have been him from some angles. And when he rode away, especially so.
Adventures of a Highlander Page 52