Knight Quests

by C. C. Wiley

  “Am I to always carry that burden? I gave my life. I could have chosen freedom, walked away from England. Washed my hands of it.” He held out his palms. “But I chose the king.”

  “And we chose you.”

  “Then trust me to carry my portion. I deserve it.”

  Nathan nodded. “I can say for myself ’tis done. But I cannot speak for the others.” His great hand rested on Drem’s shoulder. “My thanks for the information. I’ll carry it to the proper ears.”

  Nathan left him to stand alone. Much as he had always been. To his astonishment, his heart burned with the need to return to his family in Wales. It chewed on his nerves until he gripped the hilt of his sword, digging into his skin.

  With each breath, a part of his soul bled into the loneliness. Fear erupted from the depths in which he had buried it long ago. Mam was long gone into the grave. He had missed the opportunity to see her one last time. But there was a baby brother yet to meet and sisters who needed their older brother to see they were properly wed. He needed to survive and care for his family. To what lengths would he be willing to go?

  Nathan motioned for everyone to gather round. “You, too, young Drem.” He unrolled the map for everyone to see. “I hear our men are in need of food and are anxious to claim France for Henry. We need to rebuild our stores before we move. What better motivation for our men than to gather what we need? I’ll take one group of men into the forest. Sir Darrick shall stay here and ensure that the good people of Harfleur don’t think they can escape.”

  “We’ve held them under siege for weeks. ’Tis certain a few have found a way in and out. How else could they have held out this long?”

  “If you will,” Drem said, “I’ve been studying the tunnels surrounding the walls. I would like to find their way in and out.”

  “Take some men with you,” Sir Darrick ordered.

  “No. ’Tis best if I go alone.”

  “Why you?” Sir Darrick demanded. “Why alone?”

  “’Twould be too obvious otherwise. We’d make too much noise. You think no one would notice a band of haggard soldiers milling about?” He turned. “I want this done just as much as the next man. I came to take France for the crown. I did not come to sit on my haunches in Harfleur and wait for the fekkin’ rain to stop.”

  Sir Darrick’s stiffened shoulders, making his opinion clear.

  Drem had had enough. If King Henry could trust him, the other men would have to accept him eventually. Mayhap today was the day. “If you don’t want to trust me, ’tis your choice. But I don’t intend to sit here on my thumbs, and I surely don’t intend on wasting my life and the lives I take with me. And that is what I’ll do if I bring others.”

  He swept up his leather gloves. “I’m going after dusk. Before the moon rises over the trees.”

  “Drem . . .” Nathan barked.

  “Aye?” He paused at the entrance, hesitant to turn and see what the man intended.

  “We’ll expect a report upon your return.”

  Drem clipped a nod and strode out. They’d taken a chance on him. Now he had to prove they were right in doing so.

  Chapter 4

  Brigitte leaned against the brothel’s red door and watched from the alleyway. Thanks to the siege, L’Assumption de Marie had come and gone without adding anything to their pockets or their stomachs. The pickings were slim. The market square was empty of all the wagons. The siege had depleted the fresh wares and everyone guarded their property with extra care.

  “Piers, stay out of sight for a while.”

  “The Nest—”

  “No! Master Alexandre must not see you.”

  His eyes welled up with tears. His thin face became blotched as he tried to keep from crying.

  Brigitte held Piers’s hand, consoling him with an awkward pat on the back. “It’s all right. I did not mean to snap.”

  She worked her jaw. How had she become mother to this orphan? That had not been her intention.

  “You’ll keep us safe.” His thumb caught the escaping tear. “Won’t you, Bee?”

  Brigitte’s heart squeezed. She could not let them go back to the Nest. But how would they survive without coin or food? A tunnel led through the butcher’s smokehouse. They brought the meat from slaughter through it so that the mayor did not have to smell it. He had complained the smell offended him. What did he think of the smells now that they had been under siege for weeks on end? Nothing came in to refill the storehouses, but things did not move out. The waste in the city of Harfleur was deep and decaying. There were whispers that sickness had arrived.

  She feared if they were forced to stay much longer they all would succumb to either the English king’s sword or the bloody flux. With food to fill their bellies, they would have the strength to fight both man and disease.

  She looked down. Piers’s trusting gaze penetrated the icy places that had become numb over the years of hiding and thieving. She smoothed the golden ringlets cascading naturally over his shoulders. “Oui. You are correct.” She bumped his arm. “As usual.”

  He smothered his smile.

  “If we are to survive I must forage outside the wall.”

  “You cannot leave us.” Piers’s voice rose in panic. “I shall go with you.”

  Brigitte looked up from the satchel she had made from an old shawl found hanging out to dry. “No. I’ll have none of that. You will be safe with Claudette.”

  “She is only the laundress and washes the filth from stranger’s clothing.” He folded his arms across his chest, a frown furrowing his brows. “I wager she’ll sell us to Master Alexandre for a few coins.”

  Brigitte bit her lip. The boy had a point. She took a chance entrusting him into Claudette’s care. But she had to. The danger was worse if he came with her. “You’re a clever lad. Keep a wary eye open until I return. If you get that itch, the one that catches you between the shoulder blades and scampers up your neck, rabbit off to a place where no one will find you.”

  She snatched a double hug. “When I return, I will bring back enough food that we shall feast while the others starve. Won’t that be wonderful?”

  He nodded, his little head bobbing in agreement.

  “Piers,” she warned, “I refuse to return to the Nest to fetch you. Do not do anything foolish while I am away.” She held his gaze in a grip laced with unspoken warnings. “Swear it.”

  “I swear,” he mumbled, hitching his shoulder to hide his face.

  Praying she never had to act on those threats of punishment, she ignored the sheen of tears in his ice-blue eyes. “Listen to what Claudette tells you. Make certain to listen carefully.”

  The little boy sniffed and jerked his head.

  “Go now. I’ll watch until you find your way to her shop. She’s expecting you.” Brigitte bent down and tilted Piers’s chin so she could meet his eyes. “I’ll be back before the sun rises over the battlements. To this very spot.”

  “Be careful.” His voice quivered as he squared his shoulders and slipped deep into the alley filled with drying laundry.

  Brigitte followed until she could no longer see his form. She listened to the silence until the rats took up their foraging. How she would find Piers when she returned she did not know. But she would return. She had to, even though every fiber in her being told her to run as soon as she left the wall. And yet, something deep inside her knew she could not leave him behind. Besides, Alexandre had her money. She had worked too hard, taken too many chances to leave it behind. Mayhap she would barter with Alexandre for some of the food she brought back. That would require a plan too. She’d learned all too early in life that whatever she had, he would steal it from her. Her friend had become brutally ruthless. It was something that made her want to run even more.

  Brigitte picked the lock on the butcher’s store. She waited, listening. The shop was eerily quiet. The everyday thwak-thwak of the butcher’s cleaver was silent. No reason to come to work if they were without meat to chop. No sausage to grind. No cust
omers to buy.

  Stale blood, soured from days gone by, filled the shop. The stench drew her to the door she was certain led to her escape.

  Even though the place appeared vacant, she glided across the room, brushing out the trail of footprints. The door heading to the floor below was locked. She took out her bits of metal and ticked the lock open. The sour smell of blood leaked up the stairway. Her stomach roiled like a sailboat on a storm-tossed sea. The butcher should be punished for his abuse of their fresh water source. Sickness waited, ready to pounce.

  Taking a deep breath, she slipped through the doorway.

  * * *

  After days of rain, the downpour trickled into an incessant drip-drip-drip through the tent. It was enough to drive Drem out of his mind. He waited for sunset and then dove out of cover. Once it was dark, he would explore Harfleur’s walls without drawing attention.

  Earlier, he had noted the narrow canal leading into the crevice. He walked closer. The bodies of dead animals polluted the water. He stumbled back. If this was considered normal, the people of Harfleur were a filthy lot. Was it any wonder the soldiers grew sicker by the day?

  A shower of loose stones struck the ground. He dropped to a crouch and rolled to his side. Positioned behind a thorny bush, he waited to see who or what had caused the fall of rock. His muscles coiled in anticipation. It did not take long for the wavering shadow to appear.

  A woman slipped through the crack. She bent to untie the knot keeping her skirt dry. Standing abruptly, like a hart by a brook, she scanned her surroundings, sensing the danger lurking nearby. He could not see her face, but her shape, silhouetted by the moon, gave him full view of her thin figure. She stood, like one of the statues presented at King Henry’s court.

  Drem tore his thoughts from what was hidden under her clothing and focused on the fact that she had begun to move toward the encampment. He surged forward, prepared to stop her.

  The woman made a sharp left, veering away from the wagons holding supplies. He frowned. What did she intend if not to pilfer from the English? She paused. Her head tilted. The moon caught her fair complexion, her sharp cheekbones. Her dark hair, drawn into a long braid, glistened under the night sky.

  He waited. What was she after? He inched forward, unable to stay back and watch her kill the men.

  A plan to follow her return into Harfleur began to form. Once inside, he would blend in, gather information and deliver it to Sir Darrick. Surely that would force the knight to trust him fully. Drem warmed to the plan, even though it was not what they had discussed earlier.

  The woman began to move again with stealth. She kept to the shadows, blending into the brush, her surroundings. Was this the faerie he’d thought he saw weeks earlier? Had he not seen her exit the crevice, he would never have believed she existed. Staying off the path, she worked her way back to the encampment and alongside the wagons. Fear and outrage gripped his insides when she turned, her arms empty. Did she think to poison the men?

  Never stopping, she glided past the supplies and then entered the pear orchard. The fruit was inedible; this he knew because some of the soldiers had eaten it and become ill. Her hood dropped, revealing hair the color of midnight. It glistened under the winking stars that had begun to make their appearance. She bent, burrowing in the ground, moving the leaves until she found what she sought. Then, just as silently, she arranged her cloak and retraced her steps.

  He stepped out to confront her. He blinked, adjusting his eyes. How had he lost her? She must have slipped into the shadows. Catching a slip of movement in the moonlight, he found her before she escaped his watch. He stepped warily, following her to the entrance hidden in the wall.

  He grinned. His pretty prey was trapped.

  * * *

  Brigitte tossed the canvas bag down the hole and scrambled after it. Darkness surrounded her. She held her breath and listened to the footfall. Her head buzzed with the need for air. Her hands trembled against her empty stomach. Lack of food had weakened her, making her vulnerable. Stars flashed behind her eyelids.

  The movement outside stopped. She inhaled deeply, gasping for air. The earth and moss covering the tunnel filled her nose. The rustle of clothing, the thump of metal scraping the earth broke the silence. Pebbles slid down the face of the wall, rolling past her shoes.

  Her blood pulsed in her ears as she slowly took in a breath. Standing with her back pressed against the damp stone, she willed the soldier to piss and move on. All the time she had been on the other side of the wall, she had felt the presence of another. Had she taken too much of a chance?

  She curled her fingers, tightening her grasp on the satchel of food she had hidden under her skirt. Mushrooms and pears. The fruit would need time to ripen, but it would help tide them over until the foul English soldiers left them for another target. The mushrooms they could eat right away. It did not sound like a feast, but to those who had not eaten for days it would make the difference between starvation and life. The price of freedom from Alexandre was still being paid.

  The sound of rocks crushed under a boot echoed through the tunnel. Her insides turned to liquid. Brigitte shielded her eyes to keep from being spotted by the lantern light. Very large boots stood so close to the entrance that she swore she could make out the soles. His feet shifted. As long as he stayed outside and did not discover her hidey-hole, she was safe. The people of Harfleur were safe from the English soldiers.

  Had she sold the citizens of Harfleur for a handful of food?

  A shower of dirt rained down on her upturned face. Her nose itched. Her eyes began to water.

  Merde! She dared not sneeze.

  Brigitte bent slowly. The bag gripped in one hand, she touched the dirt wall with the other and blindly worked her way through the tunnel. The pads of her fingers scraped against the rough stone, sharp edges biting the tender flesh. Her lungs burned, hungry for a full breath. She halted at the point where this tunnel intersected with another. Tonight she would take a different route. Her decision made, she turned and ran into a wall of human flesh.

  * * *

  The woman did not scream. Instead, her gasp was barely a whisper in the tunnel. This one knew of stealth, of keeping hidden from the enemy. Intrigued, Drem wrapped his arms around his prisoner, trapping her to his chest. After so many days confined with sweating men, he could not help noticing a pleasant floral scent when she moved. She must wear it on her skin. What else did she wear next to her delicate flesh?

  He grunted when her foot connected with his shin. A lump of something dropped to the floor as she focused her attack on his body. He caught her wrists before her nails could do damage and spun her around. Mindful not to stomp on the bag, he kept his legs out of reach and pinned her arms, binding her wrists with a leather thong. “God’s bones! Cease this fight you cannot win.”

  Fueled by his order, she renewed her struggle until he feared her arms would be dislodged from her shoulders.

  “Do you want to bring the rest of the English army to us? Is that what you want?” He bent over her, using his weight to press her down to the earthen floor. “Stubborn wench, I don’t mean to harm you.”

  Her knees buckled under his weight. Only the sound of their breath broke through the quiet in the tunnel. They stared at each other, panting, chests rising and falling, dragging in the damp air.

  “Stay where you are,” he warned. “Don’t move.” Cache. Assuming she wouldn’t know Welsh, he searched for the French words he had been taught. “Merde!”

  How had her nearness made everything escape his brain? Hands shaking, he turned to pick up the lantern he had placed safely out of reach. He held it out, swinging it from side to side.

  Damn his bones. The wench had vanished without a sound. She moved like a wraith in the dark. Had he imagined her?

  Drem wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, torn between giving chase to an imaginary woman or returning to the camp to report what he saw. But he had held her. Smelled her scent. Felt the heat of her body aga
inst his chest.

  Oh, she was real, but also more talented in the art of deception and slipping away unnoticed. In truth, he had misjudged her. ’Twas his fault she had escaped him. But by Christ’s blood, ’twould be the last time.

  Chapter 5

  Brigitte pressed her back against the wall and kept to the shadows. She twisted her arms to free them from the leather binding. The soldier had assumed it was tied tight. Alexandre’s trick of positioning the wrists at the correct angle had worked. The leather had loosened, allowing her to slip from its grasp.

  Breath hissed between her teeth as she took a step toward freedom from the tunnel. Vibrations from the attack upon the city shook the ground under her feet, nearly bringing her to her knees. Her heart skipped and skidded, racing like a colt in springtime.

  Her arms burned where the soldier had touched her. She glanced at them, expecting to see her sleeves branded with his mark. It was him. The large one who had crossed her path when she stole from the wagon. She touched her lips. They had stood close, touching, chest to chest. Near enough to kiss.

  Why had he hesitated and allowed her to slip away? ’Tis madness to think such things.

  Scrabbling over the stone, she searched for the crevice marking the butcher’s doorway. Air fluttered in her lungs like trapped moths. There had to be a way out.

  Not just out of the tunnel. Out of the Nest. The family. Harfleur. There might be danger outside the city walls, but the danger on the inside was just as great.

  Who had betrayed the city’s weaknesses? The many tunnels?

  There were two who knew them. One who would do it for a hefty price. Her pockets were piteously light, so she had a good notion that dear Alexandre had sold his city and the people he claimed as family. Ever the one with an eye for the coin to be made, he would have ensured his pockets were plump and left the others to fend for themselves. Just as he had when he built the Nest. His power grew off the back of one scared soul at a time.