The Last Knight

by Candice Proctor

  Blissot paused to look back, a bemused expression on his fine-boned, handsome face. “Why? Why persist? How could Henry possibly compensate you for what I will do to you?”

  Damion said nothing. Blissot shrugged and reached for the lantern. “I'll give you the rest of the night to reconsider.”

  He turned toward the door again, the light playing across his face. Damion said provocatively, “Get too close to a cat?”

  “My niece,” said Blissot, his fingertips going self-con-sciously to his scratched cheek. “I always thought Robert d'Alérion betrothed her to Fulk unwisely. Now I know it. That boy will never be able to handle her.”

  “Does she know you've turned traitor to your liege lord?”

  “What an ugly word that is, ‘traitor.’ ”Blissot smiled. “I prefer to say I've altered the direction of my loyalties.”

  “To Philip?”

  The smile hardened. “No. To Richard. He will be the next Duke of Normandy and King of England, you know.”

  “I know,” said Damion. “I simply have problems with his impatient attempts to hurry the process along, that's all.”

  “Indeed? I should think rather that you and he had much in common. But no—” He paused, as if struck by a thought. “It was your brother you killed, not your father, was it not? Or was it?”

  With a snarl, Damion lunged forward, to be pulled up by the fetters digging painfully into his wrists.

  He expected Renouf Blissot to smile again, but he didn't. He simply turned and left Damion there, with his memories of the past and his fears for the future.

  ∗    ∗    ∗

  The room to which Renouf escorted her turned out to be the last in a series of small chambers on the second floor of an old, disused timber dwelling that backed onto the curtain wall. It wasn't exactly a prison, but it was small and cold and meanly furnished, and it had obviously been only hastily and not very thoroughly cleaned. The door was stout and could be barred from the outside.

  “It won't be for long,” he said, his hand still on the door as she stood alone in the center of the bare floor, her gaze quietly surveying her surroundings.

  “Why, Uncle?” she asked, her brows drawing together as she turned to face him. She felt such an ache in her chest, the pressure of so many emotions—fear, betrayal, and a fierce, determined anger—that she wondered that her heart could contain them all without ripping apart. “Why have you joined the rebellion against Henry?”

  His jaw tightened. “Henry is old.”

  “Not so old.”

  “Too old to win against Richard. And I plan to be on the winning side, Attica.”

  “Is that what's important? Winning? What of honor?” Her voice cracked. “And loyalty?”

  “Honor and loyalty?” He smiled wryly. “They're words, child. Pretty words, beloved of troubadours and fresh-faced, eager young knights. But still only words.”

  She thought she caught a faint timbre of regret in his voice, a trace of the young man he had once been. “They were more than words to you once. They were part of the code by which you lived.”

  “Perhaps. When I was young.” His face looked strained, and she saw the lines left there by all the years that had passed since he had been that laughing young knight, bringing sugarplums and ribbons to the innocent little girl she once had been. “I'm not so young anymore, Attica. And in my experience, there is no honor. Anywhere. So that a man is wise if he is loyal only to himself.”

  The sentiment was bitter. Bitter and angry, and it so closely echoed something de Jarnac had said to her that she knew a swift rush of what she thought might be despair. She had the most peculiar sensation—as if her entire world, everything she believed in, was collapsing around her. “What kind of world would we live in, if all men thought thus?” she said scornfully.

  His head reared back, his nostrils quivering, his hand tightening on the edge of the door. “You're a woman, Attica. You should be seeing to your bride clothes and preparing to take your vows, rather than concerning yourself with these matters.”

  “Well, I should have plenty of time to meditate on my womanly obligations while I wait for you to release me from my prison, shouldn't I, Uncle?”

  The room shook as he slammed the door behind him.

  She stood quite still, listening to the grating of the bolt being drawn across the door and the brisk tramp of his receding footsteps. She forced herself to count very slowly to fifty before she eased the mace and poniard from her sleeves and went to hide them beneath the thin straw-filled mattress on the bed.

  She was surprised to see that whoever had cleaned the room had also brought her saddlebags from the ladies’ chamber. She tore them open, a smile touching her lips at the sight of the courtier's clothes carefully folded within.

  Setting them aside, she hurried to the room's single window. She pulled the pin from the shutters and gasped as the wind whistled through a rent in one of the old, oiled parchment windowpanes and practically whipped the wooden panels from her grasp.

  Biting her lower lip, she carefully braced back the shutter, then eased open the window, holding the frame tightly against the howl of the incoming storm. The room overlooked not the bailey itself but a narrow, noisome alley running between the timber building and another structure, made of stone, that she thought was probably the kitchen. The smell of roast meat and old woodsmoke hung heavy in the air, and she could hear a confusion of voices and the rattle of pots and pans in the big barrels used for washing. As she listened, someone began to sing a silly ditty about a lovesick pig, which made the knaves and pages laugh.

  The wind gusted again, bathing her face with fresh air and the smell of coming rain. She said a small prayer and looked down.

  The timber-framed building had been constructed over a stone undercroft, probably used for storage, so that the drop to the muddy path below was one of at least fifteen feet. She could never jump so far. She twisted around to look back at the bed. She couldn't jump, but dressed again in the courtier's clothes and with the aid of a rope, she could climb down. Later, after the castle had settled into sleep.

  Renouf would never have locked up a male prisoner so carelessly, she thought, refastening the window and shutters before turning to the task of ripping up her coarse, stout sheets. He considered her a mere woman, a mistake Damion de Jarnac would never have made.

  The thought brought a faint smile to her heart as she set to work.

  ∗    ∗    ∗

  Alone once more in his dark, cold prison, Damion leaned his head against the stone wall and squeezed his eyes shut.

  He found himself oddly aware of small things. The sharp links of the chains, digging into the palms of his hands as he clutched the fetters as if clinging to them for support. The rising roar of the storm, sweeping in on the city. The pounding of his own heart, beating loudly in his ears. He could not think of what was about to happen to him. He could not risk tapping into the dangerous well of emotions that lurked within him.

  It wasn't that he particularly feared death, although he had always hoped that his death, when it came, would be quick and painless. It was obvious, now, that it would be neither. But what bothered him more than anything was the sense of incompleteness, of unfulfillment. He was not ready to die.

  He thought of all the things he had wanted to accomplish in his life and now never would. The grand ambitions, the determination to win for himself both land and titles, to prove that he didn't need the birthright he'd discovered he never really had. But what cut him even more was the realization that his restless, futile search for relief would never end, that he would die still tortured by the all-consuming guilt and anger that had tormented him since that dark and deadly night fourteen years ago.…

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, a long, low reverberation that seemed to shake the very walls of the tower. Dam-ion smelled dust and the promise of rain upon the restless wind. He pulled the damp air into his chest and pushed it out again, aware of a sharp
er sense of regret as his thoughts turned to Attica. He knew he could never have had more with her than what they had shared together these past two days, and yet the sense of loss he felt when he thought of her was bitter and tragic. He wondered if she realized yet that her brother had most likely turned traitor to the king he served, and he thought with pain of how the disillusionment would shatter her, when she did learn the truth.

  Thunder boomed again, louder this time. So loud that for a moment it drowned out the sound of quick footfalls on the steps, a low voice, a thump.

  Damion's gaze flew to the small square of black sky that showed through the window, his breath coming shallow and rapid in his throat. It was too soon, surely? It couldn't possibly be dawn yet. Not yet. He heard the grating of the heavy bolt being drawn back, the creak of the door swinging inward, and he tightened his grip on his chains, his grip on himself.

  And then, out of the darkness, came a whisper. A woman's voice, cultured, husky with strain, saying, “Damion? Are you there? You must come away quickly.”

  Attica.

  The relief he felt was so total that for one intense moment, it obliterated all thought. Then he gave a hoarse laugh that came out almost like a groan and said, “Unless you have the keys to these fetters, my valiant little lord-ling, I'm afraid I'm not going anywhere.”

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Attica breathed in the dank, foul air of the tower room and felt her stomach roil. The curving walls of the room seemed to close in on her, blanketing her with a mindless, primeval fear of dark, close places. She could see nothing.

  “Fetters?” she said, the words echoing hollowly in the stony emptiness. “You are chained?”

  His voice came to her from out of the storm-blackened void, along with the clank of metal, as if he had given his shackles an angry yank. “To the wall. A time-honored and highly effective means of preventing prisoners from wandering off into the night.”

  A flash of lightning sliced through the darkness to show her a bare prison room with dirty rushes on the floor and a man hanging in chains against the damp stone wall. Blood matted his head and trickled down one side of his face, while his clothes hung in tatters on his leanly muscled frame.

  “Mon Dieu,” she whispered as thunder rumbled in the distance. She went to him, close enough that she could have touched him, although she did not. “Are you badly hurt?”

  Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the blackness of the room. She could see a square of wind-tossed sky through the high, barred window, and the quirk of Damion's swollen lips that might have been a smile. “Bruised and battered, but whole. So far. Your uncle plans to start carving up bits of me in the morning.”

  The thought of what had been done to him—of what would be done to him if she couldn't get him away from here, tore savagely at her heart. She heard herself make a strange sound, almost like a whimper, deep in her throat. And then she was touching him, her fingertips coursing lightly over his forehead, his cheeks, hovering over his mouth for one intense moment.

  “I'm all right. Truly,” he said softly, pressing his lips to her palm.

  Trembling, she let her hands slide along his arms to where the irons bit into his wrists. “How can I get you out of these?”

  He pressed his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her cheek. “It won't be easy without the key. And unless the guard has it, it's with your uncle.”

  She took a quick step back. “The guard? Of course.” Whirling about, she stumbled across the uneven floor. From the base of the tower, a tight spiral of worn stone steps curved up toward a glimmer of light and a fresh gust of night wind. She ran up the stairs to where a bunch of keys lay on the stone lintel of the doorway, beside the curving, still hand of the guard. She snatched up the ring without looking at the man's face, or at the dark patch of blood she'd left on the back of his head. Her heart pounding in her chest, she raced back down the steps and hurried across the cell.

  “I hope these are the right ones,” she said, reaching to try one of the keys in the fetters.

  It didn't fit.

  Stifling a small gasp of dismay, she shifted to try another key. Her breasts pressed against Damion's chest as she leaned into him, the heat of his body rising up to her, close and intimate.

  She heard the swift, hissing intake of his breath, and for a moment, she froze. “I'm sorry,” she said, her voice unusually husky as she moved again to struggle with the lock. “I can't reach otherwise.”

  He murmured something incoherent that sounded halfway between a laugh and a groan. Then the key clicked home, and the iron band at his wrist sprang open.

  He lowered his free arm, his teeth clenching against the pain as blood rushed back into his numb hand. She reached quickly to unlock his other wrist. “Where is Sergei? How can I find him?”

  “You needn't worry about Sergei.” He winced as his second wrist came free. “He's already on his way to La Ferté-Bernard.”

  He bent forward, rubbing his sore wrists, so that he didn't see her hand coming until her open palm caught his cheek with a sharp crack that sent his head jerking sideways under the impact. “Sweet Infant Jesus, Attica! What was that for?” he demanded, his hair tumbling over his eyes as he stared at her.

  “For not telling me about you and Henry.”

  He straightened. Then, to her surprise, he laughed. “Let's get out of here,” he said, and grabbed her hand.

  The air was fresher in the stairwell. He paused at the foot of the steps, his back to the curved wall, his hand still in hers as he sucked in great, gasping breaths. “Is there a guard?” he asked, his left arm pressed to his ribs as if they hurt.

  “Not anymore.”

  A faint, wavering patch of moonlight broke through the wind-blown clouds to reveal the dark bulk of her uncle's man-at-arms sprawled half on the entry landing, half on the steps that continued up into the darkness of the tower. “Is he dead?” de Jarnac asked in wonder, inching carefully up the stairs with Attica behind him.

  “I do sincerely hope not. Although I fear I hit him hard.”

  “Exactly what did you hit him with?”

  “A mace. I borrowed it from my uncle's collection.”

  He grunted, turning to study the yard beyond the narrow doorway. “How well do you know this castle?”

  “There's a sally port between the stables and the armory. It has but one guard.”

  He brought his still, intense gaze back to her face. “Do you come with me?”

  “Yes,” she said simply, holding his gaze. “I can't trust my uncle. He may be my kinsman, but that didn't stop him from imprisoning me tonight. I don't know what he would do to me for helping you escape.”

  She thought, for a moment, he meant to say something. Instead, he swung abruptly away, his head falling back as he cast an appraising glance up at the sky.

  The rain still held off, but dark clouds hung low overhead, massive and thick and turbulent above the jagged crenellations of pale sandstone towers and walls. The darkness of the night rendered the details of the castle indistinct, the various buildings ringing the yard showing only hazy, muted shades of charcoal and lead and ash. Then the wind gusted up, scouring the bailey, sending dried leaves and a scared, white-tailed cat scuttling across the hard-baked ground as boot heels clicked on the wall walk above.

  De Jarnac's hand tightened on her arm, drawing her further back into the shadows as the helmet of a guard appeared, silhouetted against a flash of lightning as he moved along the wall walk. The castle might be asleep, but it was still guarded. And escaping from the castle itself would only be the beginning, Attica thought. Once they were clear of the castle, they would still need to traverse the city and find some way through its high walls and locked gates.

  She watched Damion reach instinctively to put his hand on his dagger, then heard him swear softly, because the guards had of course taken it from him before flinging him into the tower. “Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “What I wouldn't give for a sword r
ight now.”

  She slipped the poniard from her sleeve and held it out to him. “I brought you this.”

  His teeth flashed in a smile. “More of Uncle Renouf 's collection?” he asked, strapping the dagger to his belt.

  She caught his arm, drawing him around to face her when he would have moved. “I would ask that you avoid using it, if at all possible.”

  He grunted. “Do you bring your mace?”

  “No.”

  His gaze lifted once more to the guard approaching on the wall walk.

  She held on to his arm. “Promise me?”

  He let his breath out in a long sigh. “I'll try.” He took her hand in a tight grip and leaned forward until his lips almost touched her ear. They watched the guard above pause, then swing about. “Now,” De Jarnac whispered, and darted through the doorway.

  They kept to the shadows of the wooden buildings that lined the castle wall, their movements smooth and wraithlike, their soft boots noiseless on hard earth and rounded cobbles, on straw and soft, squishy things neither of them cared to identify. In the darkness of the night, they navigated mainly by sense of smell, recognizing the fermenty tang of the alehouse, the lingering scents of charcoal and raw metal that marked the blacksmith's, until at last they came to the mingling odors of warm horseflesh and hay and manure that told them they had reached the stables.

  Damion could see the sally port now, a small arched opening set at the base of a square tower, its heavy, iron-banded oak door barred fast against the night. A flambeau thrust into a nearby bracket on the wall smoked badly, its dancing yellow light revealing a man-at-arms, his helmeted head tilted back as he anxiously surveyed the jumbled clouds above.

  Reaching out, Damion put his hand on Attica's shoulder and whispered softly in her ear. “Walk up to the guard and talk to him.”

  She jerked her head around to stare at him. “Me?”

  He threw her a reckless grin. “Simply act as if you have a right to be where you are. I'll take him from behind.”