“Sergei,” said Damion in the calm, flat voice that all who served under him knew better than to ignore.
The boy scrambled up onto his bay palfrey. But before reaching for the leads of their spare horses, he paused long enough to make a quick sign of the cross.
Damion pursed his lips and blew out a short, exasperated breath. “All right. There's an abbey, not far out of our way. The village probably belongs to it. We can stop and tell the monks what has happened.”
Sergei nodded and kicked his horse forward, although his face remained troubled and strained long after they had left the ruined village behind.
Damion spurred his horse on ahead, his own thoughts already far away from the devastated clearing. At the age of twenty-seven, he had dealt in death and destruction for many years. Too many years spent as a knight-errant, driven by the demons of betrayal and guilt across the battlefields of Europe and beyond. Once, as a boy, he had cherished the kinds of dreams typical of younger sons, dreams of founding a dynasty on land of his own. Dreams that had been shattered in one dreadful night of lightning-split skies and hideous revelations and blood-drenched death.
Yet from the ruins of that boy's visions had emerged a man's ambitions and a man's hunger, not simply for land but for great titles and vast power, aspirations no longer noble and pure but cold and ruthless and utterly determined. Only a king could give Damion the kind of future he had resolved to make his, and so he had attached himself to the service of the most powerful king in Christendom, Henry II, King of England, Duke of Normandy, and lord of more French lands than the King of France himself.
In Henry's service, Damion had undertaken a dangerous four-month mission that had led him from Brittany to the farthest reaches of Ireland. He had learned the names of many of the powerful nobles now poised to join the revolt against Henry, and he had discovered some disturbing indications of just how far the king's youngest son, John, had been pulled into the conspiracy. Damion had even learned something—although not as much as he would wish—of the strange musical code Philip of France was using to communicate with the conspirators.
Now, on his way back to Henry, Damion was acutely conscious of the shortage of time, for the conference at La Ferté-Bernard would be beginning soon. There, Henry would be sitting down to talk peace with a sly French king allied to Henry's own proud, angry son, Richard. And if Damion didn't reach Henry's side in time, the Old King would be in for some nasty surprises.
But Damion had every intention of reaching La Ferté-Bernard in time. And then he would collect the reward Henry had promised him: the hand of the king's ward, a thirteen-year-old heiress named Rosamund, who would make her future husband the Earl of Carlyle.
Damion had seen Rosamund once. He had a faint memory of a petitely pretty, haughty little girl with blond hair and blue eyes. But it was his prospective bride's lands and titles, not her person, that attracted him. These were the things every knight-errant dreamed of, fought for, killed for: a title and land of his own.
Soon, Damion thought. Soon, he would have both.
The tracks of the routiers followed the river eastward, along a narrow path that probably led to some other hapless, isolated village. Damion headed southeast, toward the Abbey of Saint-Sevin, a Benedictine monastery nestled in a green valley surrounded by gently undulating hills densely wooded with oak and scattered chestnut and beech.
The sun rose higher in the sky, burning off the mist and driving away the chill that had kept Sergei wrapped in his cloak. Even with the detour to the abbey, Damion calculated, he ought to reach Loiron by nightfall. Another hard day's ride would see them to Vaiges, then Le Mans, and he'd be in La Ferté-Bernard by Wednesday. The conference—
The voice of an unseen man shouting roughly in anger somewhere up ahead shattered the calm and brought Dam-ion to instant, taut attention.
The woods grew thickly here, the undergrown, taller oaks and chestnuts tangled on either side of the steep, winding track with clumps of flowering hawthorn as impenetrable as a hedge. As Damion reined in, he heard the unmistakable hiss of a crossbow bolt, followed by the scream of a horse in pain.
“Christ.” Whirling, he yanked his kite-shaped shield and lance from the squire. “Guard my back,” he shouted to Sergei. Then he swung around again long enough to add, “But don't do anything stupid, do you hear?” before he spurred the Arab forward.
The stallion was too light for a proper warhorse, but Damion wore no armor and he was glad of the Arab's fleet-footed intelligence and unswerving courage. He galloped up the slope, the stallion's dainty hooves almost soundless in the deep, spongy humus of the forest track.
At the crest of the hill the undergrowth thinned. From there Damion could look down on a small clearing where some twelve to fifteen raggedly dressed routiers formed a shifting circle around a slim, dark-haired youth mounted on a showy, white-blazed chestnut palfrey.
The routiers had found a rich young bird for their plucking this time, Damion thought, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the lad's green wool tunic, his surcoat of deep blue velvet trimmed with thick green braid, the jewel that gleamed from the pommel of the short dagger he held clutched in his hand. A rich young bird indeed, and an easy mark, too, left so insufficiently guarded by his family, who should have known better.
Only one other horse stood nearby, a gray, riderless and quivering, its reins caught beneath a man who lay facedown and unmoving in the grass at the side of the road, a crossbow bolt fletched with peacock feathers sticking out of his blood-soaked back. More blood flowed freely from a deep slash on the gray's withers. As Damion watched, one of the routiers reached for the gray's reins. The horse spun about, ears pinned flat to its poll, hooves flashing out as it reared up, screaming. The routier jumped back.
“Stand out of our way and let us pass,” said the youth, his voice husky but surprisingly calm. Yet the chestnut must sense its rider's well-hidden fear, Damion thought as he watched the way it danced and sidled nervously, its powerfully muscled hindquarters swinging in an arc that kept the routiers, on foot and armed mainly with cudgels and coutels, at a safe distance.
“Merde, it's a haughty little lordling we have here, isn't it?” said one of the men, a thickset, stubbly-faced man with one ear missing. “Didn't even say please.”
The other men laughed.
“I'd say someone needs to teach his lordship here some manners, don't you think?” said another, and they all laughed again.
Only one man stood apart, unamused: an archer, who calmly fitted another bolt and lifted his bow.
“A moi, de Jarnac,” shouted Damion, touching his spurs to the Arab's flanks. It was his battle cry, and he shouted it now on the off chance that the routiers might think he had a troop of men thundering over the hill behind him— rather than just one overly sensitive, orphaned squire, late of Byzantium and Kiev.
Damion grinned at the thought, the smile freezing into grim determination as he saw the archer swing around. He was a tall, black-bearded man, better dressed than his companions, his crossbow well made and maintained. Damion's long lance caught him square in the chest, the force of the Arab's charge driving the point clean through the man's body and breaking the shaft.
Damion abandoned it. Jerking his sword from its scabbard, he wheeled toward the pack of routiers. “Ride, lad,” Damion shouted to the white-faced youth on the chestnut. “Get out of here.”
Damion had no time to see if the youth did what he was told. The routiers swarmed around the Arab, a horde of snarling, spitting, cursing, angry men. Raising his sword high, Damion brought it down, again and again. A man screamed and stumbled away, clutching a bloody sleeve; another crumpled. Damion swung back his blade, aiming for an exposed throat—and saw a cudgel coming at him from the left. Christ, he thought, instinctively raising his shield; what he wouldn't give for his armor right now.
Hardly had the thought crossed his mind than he felt the bite of a blade sinking into his right thigh. With a snarl, Damion caught the descending c
udgel blow on his shield and spun the Arab on its hocks. He saw the man who had slashed at him with a coutel raise the blade again, then let out a startled gurgle as a jeweled dagger flew through the air to imbed itself in the man's thick neck at the vulnerable point between helmet and jerkin. His eyes already glazing with death, the man went down beneath the charging weight and sharp hooves of the unknown lad's big chestnut.
Damion flung back his head, his gaze meeting the youth's wide-eyed stare. So the boy hadn't run away, Damion thought, and flashed him a quick grin.
Sergei whooped, “They're leaving!”
Limping and dripping blood, the routiers melted into the forest. They abandoned behind them four of their kind, lying dead or dying in the glade. Damion watched long enough to be certain they were actually leaving, then swung his head to look again at the white-faced youth who had refused to run when given the chance.
The lad's skin shone pale and clammy with shock, and he was panting, his chest rising and falling visibly with each quickly indrawn breath. But his head was up, his eyes clear. “You saved my life,” he said to Damion. “I don't know how to thank you.” Urging his horse forward, he held out his hand. “I am …” The hesitation was brief, but there.“… Atticus.”
Damion tossed his shield to Sergei. “Go get my lance point out of that damned archer,” he told the squire, and shifted his bloody sword to his left hand so he could return the lad's salute. “Damion de Jarnac.”
The hand Damion took felt surprisingly soft and fragile beneath its fine glove, and it trembled noticeably in his grip when Damion said his name. The lad was still very young, Damion decided, looking at him again. He might sit uncommonly tall in the saddle, but his undeveloped shoulders and smooth face betrayed his youth, as did his guilelessly wide brown eyes, lashed thick like a girl's. His mouth was almost feminine, too. If it weren't for his strong, cleft chin, the lad would look hopelessly effete.
Damion's gaze fell to the thick gold chain that hung around the youth's neck and the jewels that studded his belt. Lordling, indeed. Only the lad's hair struck an odd note. A dull, lifeless black, it hung raggedly against his collar, as if it had recently been inexpertly cut.
And dyed.
At any other time, Damion might have been intrigued. But at the moment, all his thoughts were on the conference at La Ferté-Bernard. Christ. He couldn't afford this second delay. Dismounting, he wiped his blade on the ragged tunic of one of the dead routiers and slipped the sword back into its scabbard. He was tying a torn strip of cloth around his bleeding leg when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the lad Atticus slide off his horse and sink to his knees beside his fallen companion.
“Walter,” the youth whispered, and Damion was surprised to hear his voice crack with emotion.
Damion gathered the Arab's reins.
The youth reached out a trembling hand to touch the bolt protruding from the groom's shoulder, then drew back when the man unexpectedly groaned.
Damion heard the groan and paused. He reached for his stirrup, stopped again, and threw an exasperated glance at Sergei, who had just ridden up. “I suppose you think I ought to help him, don't you?”
Sergei only stared back, his eyes dark and expectant.
“This isn't a verse out of some troubadour's maudlin romance,” said Damion tersely. “And I am not a fool knight in shining armor with nothing better to do than gallop around the countryside succoring the weak and unfortunate, and rescuing damsels and lordlings in distress. I am on a mission for a king. Everything I've worked for my entire life depends on its success.”
Sergei said nothing.
“Sweet Infant Jesus.” Damion slammed his open palm against the high cantle of his saddle and swung back toward the clearing. “At this rate, it'll be Midsummer's Eve before I get to La Ferté-Bernard.”
I will not be sick, Attica told herself as she knelt in the grass beside Walter Brie's big, bloodied body. I will not.
The smell of blood hung thick in the air. Beside her lay a cudgel, lost in the battle, its thick end dark with old stains. She forced herself to ignore it, the same way she ignored the hacked and bloodied bodies of the routiers that lay sprawled about the trampled grass of what had once been a gentle glade. It was not the blood that sickened her, or even the sight of death, but the taste of her own fear, raw in her throat.
She rested her hand on Walter's broad, familiar shoulder. He felt so warm and solid beneath her touch, she could not believe he might die. She did not know what to do. She should know, she thought vaguely. She had brought him to this. Somehow, she was going to have to find someone to take care of him and continue on her way alone. But her mind felt numb. She could not think.
A shadow darkened the grass beside her, and she looked up to find herself staring into Damion de Jarnac's vivid green eyes and harshly planed face. Mother of God, she thought. Damion de Jarnac …
Even without a hauberk or helm, this big, dark-haired, brutally powerful man could never be mistaken for anything as peaceful and nonthreatening as a cleric or merchant. He stood well above average height, a battle-hardened knight with broad shoulders and leanly muscled limbs. Years spent beneath the Eastern sun had etched his features sharp and left him with skin burned as dark as any Saracen's.
He had won his spurs unusually young, they said, in the blood-soaked sands of the Syrian desert. The younger son of a powerful Poitou nobleman, he had left France for the Holy Land at the age of thirteen, cut off from his family after a night of such dark and terrible happenings that it was spoken of only in hushed tones and with furtive, sideways glances. They said his merciless ruthlessness in battle was matched only by his brilliance and cunning, so that in Outremer, he had become known as El Sa'eeka— Deathlightning. Some said the Saracens’ name had inspired his device—a black shield emblazoned only with a jagged bolt of fiery lightning. But others said he had adopted the shield before, in memory of the storm that had ripped open the skies the night he killed his own brother.
Attica stared up into his darkly handsome face and knew a fear that hollowed out her belly and robbed her of her breath. He may have saved her from the routiers, but Damion de Jarnac was little better than a mercenary and brigand himself. A knight-errant, he wandered the battlefields and tournaments of Europe and Outremer, living off ransoms and plunder. He was a law unto himself, his sword for sale to the highest bidder. And in his case, the bids were always high, for a man like this was far more dangerous than any band of simple routiers.
She stared up at him, speechless, and saw his dark brows lower in a frown. She had the oddest impression that the encounter with the routiers hadn't so much endangered his life as inconvenienced him—annoyed him, even. And now she was delaying him even longer.
“Here, let me look at your man,” he said, his manner brisk and impatient. He sank to his haunches beside her and stripped off his gloves. She found his nearness so intimidating, it was all she could do to keep from drawing back. Yet his powerful, strongly boned hands were unexpectedly gentle as he subjected Walter to a brief, professional assessment.
“He is your groom?” de Jarnac asked, casually wiping his bloodied hands on the grass.
Attica nodded. “Will he live?”
The knight shrugged and pulled on his gloves again. “He might. But the bolt has gone deep. Better to leave it in him now and tie him to his horse while he's still in a faint. There's an abbey just up the road. They'll know what to do with him.”
De Jarnac stood in one lithe, athletic motion and turned away, as if he had already dismissed her from his mind. She thought about being left here, in this meadow full of dead routiers, to cope with Walter Brie by herself. She thought about the routiers coming back—or about others like them waiting on the road ahead. She thought about what had been done to the women of that burned village. And she realized suddenly that no matter how sinister Damion de Jarnac's reputation or how disconcerting she might find him, his presence was infinitely preferable to his absence.
She bounded to
her feet. “Monsieur—”
At the sound of her voice, his head swiveled. His gaze focused on her slowly, as if he had been thinking of something else and only now remembered her presence. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if—if you go beyond the abbey? To Laval, or perhaps Le Mans? And if so, if I might ride with you?”
She saw his eyes narrow as he studied her. Something in his expression altered, and she knew a swift stab of panic. If he suspected the truth—
“How old are you?” he demanded suddenly.
She stared at him. “Wh-what?”
“I said, how old are you?”
She hesitated an instant too long. “Sixteen,” she said, and knew it for a mistake.
She did not like the light that glinted in the depths of his fierce green eyes. “Liar,” he said, his lips curling into something that was not a smile.
It had been a lie, of course, only not in the way de Jarnac thought. Attica was nineteen.
“Fifteen,” she amended.
The knight's big hand cupped her chin, jerking it up to the sun. He studied her face in the light, and she trembled. “Huh. Fourteen is more like it.”
She wasn't about to dispute it. She stood, trying desperately to remain motionless within his grip and terrified of what he might see. But Stephen had once told her that most people see only what they expect to see. It seemed true. De Jarnac stared at her a moment longer, then shook her hard enough to rattle her teeth. “I don't like to be lied to, little lordling. Remember that.” He let her go.
He swung away to catch Walter Brie's horse. The gray jerked its head, its flaring nostrils flecked with foam and blood, its eyes wild with fear and pain. “Easy, boy,” de Jarnac crooned in a voice so calm and soothing, Attica could only stare. The gelding snorted but stood still while the knight ran a practiced hand down its neck and withers. Attica had the sensation, once again, that she had been dismissed.
The Last Knight Page 3