Adventures of a Highlander

by Emilia Ferguson

  “I know, milady. Oh, poor Lady Claudine.”

  Claudine was surprised by the impatience she felt. She was not someone who needed pity!

  She was strong. Francis loved her. He wanted her as she was.

  She sat up.

  “I'm going to get to the bottom of this,” she said softly.

  “My lady?” Bernadette looked almost frightened. Claudine stared at her, feeling the room pulse in and out of her focus as she got to her feet. “What are you doing?” Bernadette asked worriedly.

  “I'm going,” Claudine said tightly, “to find my uncle. This has gone on long enough.” “My lady, what are you going to do? It's dangerous.”

  Claudine nodded. “I know it is. But I have to do something. Will you arrange my hair for me, please, Bernadette? Something striking. I want to look dignified.”“If you insist, milady.”

  Claudine chuckled, feeling some of her old humor restored to her. “I do.”“I can't refuse then, can I?”

  “No.”

  They were both smiling as Bernadette lit a taper on the dressing table and started to arrange her hair.

  Claudine allowed her mind to plan ahead. She was not going to put up with this. Her uncle was not even formally her guardian. That was still her father's prerogative.

  She snorted grimly. He had cast her off. But even he wouldn't want a physician who she was sure was incompetent at best to treat her.

  I need a new physician. And if Uncle will not allow me one, I will speak to Father.

  “My lady?” Bernadette asked. She was looking concernedly at Claudine in the mirror.

  “I'm well,” she said thinly .

  “Help me into my traveling cloak, Bernadette, and summon the coach.”

  “My lady! It's nine of the clock, and dark outside! Where are you...” she trailed off as Claudine pushed herself to her feet and, silent but vehemently, she faced her down.

  “We are going,” Claudine said thinly but distinctly, “To Pavot. To face my father.”

  She had let him forget about her for too long now.

  FLIGHT IN DARKNESS

  Francis woke when he heard the scream. It tore into his heart like a knife-thrust and set him sitting suddenly upright.

  He grabbed his tunic and trews and threw them on, then reached for the belt-knife he'd concealed under his monk's robe. It was only as he ran down the stairs that he realized he'd left the robe off. Now, for the first time in days, he was Francis, son of the count of Annecy. Red-haired, broad-shouldered, unmistakable.

  “Claudine!” he screamed, hearing the cry, louder now, echo again. Somehow, he recognized her voice. And knew she needed help.

  He ran blindly down the hallway and was met with chaos. He took in the scene in growing horror.

  Claudine was pinned to the wall, a wraith-like presence with a darker presence looming over her. He saw the presence draw a knife. Then he screamed in rage and anger and fell on it from behind.

  His own knife was in his hand and before he had thought it through he was stabbing the figure in the back.

  The man yelled and spun round and Francis felt the blade scrape against chain-mail. His adversary glared at him, eyes narrowed. He stared. It was the physician.

  The man's no more a priest than I am, he realized, horrified. At least, if he was, he was a priest who was wearing a jerkin of mail under his habit, and who carried a knife. And who knew how to use it.

  Francis watched with dream-like dissociation as the man rushed him. He knew at the last minute that he would never be able to move aside quickly enough. He felt himself resign himself to the swift, slow strike of the knife in his ribs. He knew he would soon feel the cold almost-pain of the impact and then, later on, the impossible pain of the strike. Then he would be dead.

  Claudine, he thought dully. I have to survive. To help her...

  He moved sluggishly, too slow. The man reached him and his knife touched his chest. Then abruptly he fell away.

  Francis stared, horrified, as the man in the robe gargled and yelled, and then fell to his knees, out cold.

  He stared at Bernadette, who stood behind him.

  “That took care of that,” she said thinly. She was holding a warming-pan, a grim coldness in her face.

  Francis wanted to cheer.

  Then he heard a gasp and he turned to see Claudine. She was leaning against the wall, her face ghost white.

  “Claudine!” he said, running to her. He caught her up into his arms and she leaned on him heavily. Under her nightgown, he could feel her heart beating. It was fast, thudding in her chest like a bellows.

  “We have to go,” Bernadette said quickly. “The guards will be on us in a moment. Don't expect that they're our friends either.”

  “Right,” Francis said quickly. “Better run.”

  He lifted Claudine in his arms, feeling her head cradled against him. Then he turned and ran back down the hallway the way they'd come.

  Bernadette followed them. He could hear her shoes clicking on the stairs as he rushed blindly down, lungs heaving, arms straining at the shoulders. They were, all three of them, heading with desperate haste for the entrance to the fortress.

  He also heard another sound. He heard the guards, clattering and thronging down the stairs behind.

  “Run!” screamed Bernadette where she was behind him.

  Francis didn't need to be told. He ran to the door. When he reached it, he bulled his way toward the sentries.

  “Out of the way! By order of the count of Corron.”

  The men jumped aside on reflex, and Francis and Bernadette passed through. It was a few seconds later that they heard the yells of consternation.

  “After them!”

  “You dolts! You let them go!”

  “Stop!”

  Francis ran. With Claudine cradled to his chest, he ran like he had lost all sanity. Panting, heart straining, arms aching, he ran toward the stables.

  “Come on,” he called Bernadette. She was on their side. They couldn't leave her behind!

  “I'm...coming,” she hissed. He felt her reach him, clutching at his shoulder as she lost her footing.

  They reached the stables in a final burst of speed. Francis collapsed into the dark, hay-scented, warm interior.

  “Shut the door,” he panted. Bernadette did her best. She dropped the bolt in place on the inside just as the guardsmen reached it.

  She and Francis regarded each other in the space in silence.

  “How long before they get in?” Bernadette asked him gravely.

  Francis could hear the men-at-arms beating on the rear of the doo.

  “Five minutes at most,” Francis judged gloomily. He looked around. There were four horses, all watching them eagerly. They had no time to tack up two of them. What could they do?

  “The cart,” Claudine whispered, her voice light as a breeze. “Round the back. Two...horses.”

  Francis saw Bernadette's eyes glow with relief and wonder. “Yes!”

  He frowned.

  Confident once more, Bernadette beckoned to him.

  “Follow me.”

  They slipped quickly to the back of the stables. There they found the hay wagon.

  “Right,” Bernadette said. “Now, lay milady in the back. I'll get one horse, you get the other. Quick, now. We'll get them in the traces in no time.”

  Francis nodded. He rushed to do as she bid. He could hear men shouting and he saw the door buckle ominously inward as a heavier man ran against it. They were shouting now, eager and derisive. They would be in at any minute.

  “Here,” he said, leading one of two carthorses forward, copying Bernadette. “Now...” he bent to the traces, having no clear idea what he was doing. The horses were peaceable beasts, mercifully seemingly unperturbed by the shouts from outside, the thumps, the yells.

  “I'll do the other side,” Bernadette said quickly. “Here...”

  Francis was amazed by how deftly she buckled the traces. He stared at her with renewed respect as she r
an to the back door of the stable and threw it open, then jumped into the cart.

  “Now! You take the reins – I'm not strong enough. I'll guide. Hurry! We have no time.”

  Francis nodded and followed her example, vaulting up into the high seat. He took the reins and encouraged the horses forward just as the guards outside became aware the rear gate was open and rushed forward, yelling and jostling against the cart.

  “Whoa! Easy! Easy!”

  Francis made soothing noises as the horses reacted to the milling, gesturing, shouting men and they stilled, and then ran ahead. The path from the stables led gradually downhill toward the gate and Francis let the horses take it at a run, feeling his heart soar as they burst through the crowd.

  “Yah!”

  “The gate's not going to be unlocked,” Bernadette said levelly as they rolled quickly downhill. “No one's going to let us out. Not now.”

  Francis bit his lip. “True.” What could they do? “Is there a water gate? Any other entrance to the fort?”

  “The hay gate,” Bernadette said. “We could try. Go left at the bottom of this incline.”

  Francis nodded and they went abruptly left. He felt his heart thumping in his chest. What would they do if it wasn't open? He could just imagine the sentries firing on them from above. Would they risk that? They could just as easily shoot Lady Claudine!

  He realized with horror that Claudine's uncle wasn't intent on preserving her life. Far from it.

  “Onward!” he yelled to the horses. “Let's go! Faster.”

  Bernadette was clinging to the side of the cart as they ran straight for the gate.

  He bit his lip, wincing and waiting for the chaos when it didn't budge. He was taking a risk – if the gate was locked, his horses could die, breaking their neck in the charge.

  The gate shuddered and burst open. They ran through.

  “Hurray!” Francis whooped. He heard a wild cry of joy escape Bernadette's throat and, behind his right shoulder, caught a glimpse of shining eyes. Claudine! She was safe, for the moment at least.

  They were all shouting and whooping like people touched in the mind as they careened downhill, the horses steaming down the path from the fortress and into the woods.

  Francis felt his terror give way to amazement. They had done it! They were in the woods.

  “We're out,” Bernadette breathed.

  “Francis,” Claudine whispered.

  Francis felt his heart melt. He slowed the pace of the horses a little, not wanting to risk running them off the path and into a collision with one of the tall pines. He felt the pace slow to a trot and then, better yet, to a walk.

  We have to spare the horses. We could need to travel far.

  He sighed. Where were they going to go?

  The answer came to him without his even needing to think. They would go where any injured or ill person would go in these woods. They would go to the abbey of Bois.

  “Where are we?” Bernadette whispered. She had let go of the side of the cart and was sitting in the back beside her mistress, her arm round her protectively. Francis felt his heart sink. Claudine was deathly white, her soft face wide-eyed with fright. Her heart was thumping below the fabric of her white dress.

  “We're about twenty minutes' travel from Bois,” Francis said confidently. In truth, he was only vaguely aware of the direction they needed to take to the abbey. They should go straight and left. The abbey was a little east and south of here.

  “The abbey,” Bernadette breathed in wonder. “Of course. I should have thought of that.”

  Francis chuckled. “I owe you my life, Miss,” he said in some amazement. “I think you have done more than the call of duty now.”

  He heard the dark-haired woman give a soft huff of amused laughter. “It was nothing,” she said. “I did enjoy it...I never did like him.”

  Francis whistled in amazement. He realized a heartbeat later that he didn't even know who she was. He had never heard her name, and owed her his life.

  “Miss,” he said. “I should introduce myself. I'm Lord Francis, heir to the count of Annecy.”

  “And I'm Bernadette Fresnel,” she said. “I'm pleased to meet you. I'll be pleased to talk more later. But now, we have work to do.”

  “Indeed,” Francis chuckled dryly. “We need to find the abbey.”

  Just then they were both startled by Claudine, who sat up and cleared her throat.

  “Look at the stars,” she said. Her voice was a thready whisper, but they both heard her. Francis stared. Then he chuckled in amazement.

  “She's right,” he said wonderingly. “We know where it is! There's the polar star.”

  They followed the stars and went straight, then left, then followed the road left again. It took two hours, but the evening was warm and the sounds of pursuit had long ago died away. By the time the white, high walls of the Abbé de Bois appeared, they were all almost asleep.

  Francis stopped the wagon hastily and jumped down. Bernadette followed. He lifted Claudine gently, cradling her to his chest. Together they went inside.

  BACK TO HEALTH

  Claudine felt herself slip into unconsciousness. Her head swam and her heart ached. She let the black waters that flooded through her brain cover her.

  A light burned, slow and insistent and golden. She felt her eyelids flicker. She was warm. Somewhere, softly, she heard someone mumbling under their breath. She fought up through the dark and opened her eyes.

  “I don't know why they always send me. I'm getting too old for this. In all honesty...”

  “Hello?” Claudine whispered. She heard whoever was mumbling stop, and felt someone nearby grow stiffly tense.

  “Hello,” a voice said slowly. “Was that you?”

  Claudine felt nervous. It was a woman's voice, but it was bewildered, mistrusting, and not safe-sounding.

  “Yes,” she said cautiously.

  “Ah!”

  The woman's voice was suddenly brisk and firm. “Good. Now. I need you to sit up and take some of this tea. Ah. It's alright, dear. I don't know what anyone's done to you, but you're safe with me. I'm Sister Adelaide and I won't hurt you.”

  Claudine let her vision clear and found herself looking at a woman in a dark robe. She was a gaunt, bony woman with dark eyes and she didn't look entirely clean or welcoming. All the same, her dark eyes glittered with something like compassion and Claudine found herself trusting her.

  “What are you giving me to drink?” she whispered.

  “Parsley,” the woman said firmly. “It's a diuretic. That means it'll make you have an urge to relieve yourself. A lot. But whatever is in you will pass out with the water. You'll feel better for it. Trust me.”

  Claudine frowned. “That's all it is?” she asked. Her head felt a little clearer, and she was reluctant to take any drink of which she didn't explicitly know the contents.

  “Goodness, what have they done to you?” the old nun asked. She shook her head. The brown eyes looked troubled. “Parsley it is, my lady. No more.”

  Claudine nodded. Again, she had the sense that she could trust this strange, disheveled old nun. She took the cup and drank, slowly.

  The taste was not unpleasant – she knew parsley well as a seasoning – and strangely it did settle her stomach somewhat. She leaned back against a bolster, closing her eyes. She was suddenly desperately weary. It was a good feeling, though, not the instant, drowsing lethargy that followed the medicine she was expecting.

  A thought occurred to her an unpleasant one. Her medicine always made her feel worse.

  Why had she never noticed it before? It was uncanny! Every time she drank it, she went almost immediately to sleep. It was a fact that had eluded her so long.

  “Sister?” she murmured.

  “Yes, my dear?” the woman's voice asked fondly.

  “I...” Claudine paused. She was tired. So tired. The words of the question formed in her head and diffused, slowly, not quite coming together to a query. She sighed and leaned ba
ck on her pillows.

  Soon she was fast asleep.

  She dreamed of Francis. The feeling of her head resting on his shoulder, the sweet sensation of his strong arms holding her. The wonder of his lips on hers. In the dream she was on his bed and they were embracing. She couldn't remember much else about it except that, when he touched her, she melted with bliss.

  When she woke she was still smiling.

  “Breakfast,” a voice said over her head.

  She smiled and nodded. With the help of another nun, a younger woman with blue eyes and round rosy cheeks, she walked to the door and into the refectory. There, she met up with Bernadette.

  “Bernadette!” her heart sang. It was so good to see her! “Are you well?”

  The woman's appearance alarmed her – with bruising around her eyes from lack of sleep, haggard and grayish, Bernadette looked more worse-for-wear than she'd ever seen her. She looked more worse-for-wear than she felt.

  “I'll manage, my lady. How are you feeling?”

  Claudine blinked. It was only now that she was asked of it, that she realized something wonderful. She felt well. She was tired, bruised and wearied. However, she didn't feel a headache, or nausea and her joints didn't ache. She wasn't bone-achingly weary and she didn't feel that stab in her head that could almost drive her wild if she tried to so much as open her eyes sometimes. Much less stand upright!

  “I am well.”

  Bernadette grinned at her. “My lady. That's wonderful. Now,” she added, her smile broadening as she looked at the table. “To breakfast.”

  They ate. The nuns had already broken their fast some hours earlier, Claudine guessed, for they were alone in the room at the long, wooden boards, the benches cold under them, gray hall echoing but not cold.

  “This is good,” Claudine murmured. There was bread, cheese and some gruel. She felt it warm her, seeming to sink into her bones in a way the food at court had not.

  “I agree,” Bernadette grinned. “Best baked bread I ever ate.”

  Claudine nodded. With the lethargy gone, she felt hungry like she hadn't for years. She could eat again and it seemed her body was determined to make up for lost time. She finished at least twice as much as she would usually eat, and then leaned back with a sigh.