by C. C. Wiley
It was only a matter of time before Alexandre discovered how much she was truly worth. Anyone’s soul to him meant only what he could steal from the highest bidder. He would play them like a child’s flute, then toss them in the rubbish heap, only to play them again. It was a thief and cutpurse’s way of the street. Although she had once thought of Alexandre’s Nest as a safe haven, she now knew this was not the case.
* * *
Drem retraced his steps until he was back at the entrance of the tunnel. King Henry and his men needed to know of the passageway into Harfleur. Mayhap this was where the miners would begin their task of bringing the French to bend their knee to their new king.
“You there,” the voice called out from the shadows.
Drem released the breath he had been holding. Nathan was not an enemy. Mayhap he even would support him when he made his report and gave his recommendation.
“Aye, Nathan.” Drem lifted his hands to reveal they were free of the weapons hanging at his waist. Though why he had not utilized them against the woman in the tunnel he could not explain. Either the sword or the dagger should have been enough to bring her to heel. Confronting her barehanded should have kept her still, frozen by fear. Instead, she’d slipped away as easily as you please, bruising his pride.
Memories from the times the English army had visited his family’s Welsh village returned to haunt him. His family hid, fearing retribution from the force of power that held their country in a stranglehold. The empty bellies of the elderly and children made one ignore the threat outside and find a way to provide for those who depended on you. His sister Terrwyn had been one who dared take that chance.
Drem shifted his shoulders as if picking up that burden. He would wait to tell Sir Nathan of the Frenchwoman. He had no proof she had done more than gather food for hungry mouths and empty bellies. However, being arrested as a spy for the enemy would aid no one.
No. He was indeed a hunter and he was the king’s man. He would watch. He would wait. And then he would snare his prey. There had to be a way to succeed on both sides of his predicament.
Nathan stood, arms folded across his chest, his hand not far from the dagger tucked in his belt, and waited beside the boulder on the southwest side of the garrison. The frown deepened as wary eyes followed Drem as he crossed the distance between them.
“Where have you been, young Drem?”
“Doing a bit of searching for habits and weaknesses. ’Tis like hunting.”
“And what did you find that no one else has discovered?”
“Another place for the miners to dig.”
“Miners have had little success. Our one dig forward has been replaced with their two full wheelbarrows in return.” The knight pushed off the stony ledge and motioned Drem to follow. Their long strides carried them toward the king’s tent. “I suppose you’ll want to report your find. Cannot blame you for that. But you may be too late. It appears there’s an informant from the city who shared some additional knowledge about where best to strike and draw blood.”
He motioned to the palisades and great guns. The pointed wooden stakes were burrowed into the ground, creating a deadly defensive line. The big guns, twelve in all, towered behind them. Three had been christened London, Messenger, and the King’s Daughter.
The first shots rang out. The bombardment of incendiary balls of iron flew over the moat, crashing into the walls and towers.
They turned their guns, angling to strike at the center of town and into the hearts of the people of Harfleur. He prayed that soon they would accept the truth: King Henry would never accept defeat. France was his.
Drem spun to stare as the artillery struck the church steeple. Where was the woman? Had she found a place to hide until this nightmare had ended?
* * *
Brigitte’s steps faltered at the sight of the butcher’s door standing ajar. A tinny taste coated her tongue. She had been certain to close it securely before going into the tunnel.
With a puff of air, she scattered the moths beating against her lungs. Praying Piers had found a safe place to hide, she slipped into the shop. Outside, flames flickered through the shutters, casting monsters across the floor.
Crouching behind the counter, she waited. Shouts erupted. The building to the left whooshed into flame. Great stones hit the butcher’s wall. The planks shuttering the windows clattered and fell to the floor. And still no one appeared from the shadows.
Brigitte stumbled toward the door as another shot bombarded the town square. Where was Piers? Still clutching the bundle of mushrooms and hard pears, she hurried to the alley where Claudette hung her laundry.
Hemp ropes hung in a dizzying, tangled web, empty of the everyday life the people of Harfleur had managed to hold on to while under siege. Remnants of the daily wash smoldered, filling the air with a pungent, earthy scent.
She covered her mouth with her cloak to soak up the moan crawling up her throat. “No! No! No!”
Claudette’s home was blocked by a door torn off its hinges. It leaned against the frame like a drunken sailor. What had happened?
Brigitte stepped over the threshold. She let her hand graze over the split wood. Cool to the touch, it made her pause and examine it more closely. Ax marks.
Inside, the bar used to brace the door closed was broken. As if it had been kicked in. Not by the blast of the English but by someone else. A dirty boot heel tracked across the floor, scarring the dust powdered from the whitewashed ceiling.
Before leaving the safety of the doorway, she glanced at all four corners, searching, hoping to find someone still alive. To her relief, no bodies littered the floor. There was still the little side room where Claudette did most of her washing.
Brigitte braced for what she would find and cut a path across the room. Mindful to leave no sign that she had been there, she stepped carefully. Her hand hovered over the handle. Fingers tingled as she forced them to obey and open the door.
The room was dark, the tables and tubs turned over. Brigitte caught her foot on a chair leg. Steadying her palm on a bundle of forgotten wash, she heard a muffled moan. Claudette!
Her gaze shot around the little room. Where was Piers? She prayed he would signal he was safe. Her heart ached. The corners were silent and empty.
She knelt beside the woman she had thought strong enough to stand up to any threat. Lifting Claudette’s shoulders, she gently rolled her onto her back.
“Claudette? ’Tis me. Bee.”
A moan erupted. “Lord have mercy,” she whispered in a gargle of pain. Her hand shook as she lifted her arm. It dropped weakly to her chest.
“Where are you injured?” Brigitte asked.
“My shoulder.” She shifted as an explosion shook the room. White dust fell like snow. “What’s that noise?”
Brigitte draped her body over Claudette to protect her when another blast sounded outside the door.
When she could hear again, Brigitte responded. “The English are using their trebuchet.” Already knowing the answer, she asked anyway. “Was it that English king’s devilish machine that brought down your door?”
“No!” Claudette tried to push up from the floor. Her arms shook from the effort. “The boy.” Wide-eyed, she turned to Brigitte. “Not here?”
“No, please, that is what I need to know. Where is he?”
She dug her fingers into the woman’s stout shoulders. Years of washing other’s clothes had made them strong. She was not easily overcome. Or so Brigitte had thought. She felt desperate. Had the woman betrayed them to Alexandre? Her grasp tightened until Claudette gasped, pulling her from her fears. She released the woman, dropping her as if she were a hot coal from the hearth.
“What did you do?” she hissed.
Before the woman could come up with a bag of lies, Brigitte scrambled over the debris of the washroom until she came upon a carving knife. She rushed back, the weapon in her hand. Another blast from the siege machine whistled through the air, then struck the building. Pieces of the
roof rained down, covering the washroom. A wave of shards slammed into the wall. A cloud of dust followed behind it.
Brigitte crawled toward Claudette. The woman lay on the floor, her mouth open. She turned, her face a mask of white, her eyes wide in pain. “I’m sorry, Brigitte. I didn’t mean to lead them to him.” She gasped at the effort.
Brigitte searched her face for the truth. “Please.” She gripped the woman’s hand. “Piers.”
Claudette wagged her head slowly. “Don’t know.”
The tension in Brigitte’s back loosened its hold. Perhaps he had hid himself, tucked himself away from danger.
Claudette’s eyes shot up to hold Brigitte’s attention. She squeezed her hand. “Harfleur is falling and yet Alexandre has become more powerful. How is this so?” Her hand dropped. “Brigitte, he stopped for a visit right after you left. Said to tell you . . . he knows about your secret.”
“I don’t—”
“It matters not to me. Find the little one. Escape before he makes good on his promise to bleed you dry.”
* * *
Drem ducked from another volley of stone and questioned his decision to explore the tunnel on his own. The ground shook, nearly taking his feet out from under him. The stench of smoke and fear burned his nostrils. The cries of those in pain echoed over the alleyway until another volley from the trebuchet overcame everything in its path.
The building the woman had slipped into had taken a direct hit. His gut tightened, squeezing his innards until he thought they would burst. He wiped away the stinging smoke and dirt from his eyes.
Moments later, he blinked through the swirling haze and saw her.
She was joined in the doorway by a gray-haired woman who leaned into the frame for support. She hugged her arm close to keep from jarring a wounded limb.
“Be safe,” she called out as his prey took leave. “Bring him back to me. I promise to keep him safe.” When she did not receive a response, she called out again. “Do you hear me, Brigitte?”
Brigitte paused, then with a slight tip of her hand, she left.
The old lady kept her gaze on Brigitte until she could no longer be seen.
Brigitte. Drem smiled. Now he had a name to go with the pretty face. He patted his small sword and renewed his efforts. He would not lose her this time.
The woman moved with a grace that was mesmerizing. Tracking her proved difficult and required his full attention. Not an easy task with all the chaos. Entranced and curious as to her purpose, he followed her circuitous path, which kept her out of sight of everyone but him.
Once she paused, her head cocked, as if listening to the sounds within the sounds of the attack on Harfleur. She turned, searching. If she saw him, she did not flinch or run; she just kept on her way. The journey nearly made him dizzy.
The weight of his sword hung at his hip. It felt as comforting as a warm blanket during a snowstorm. However, because he had chosen to leave his bow and arrows at camp, his back and shoulder had a naked feel to it. He had no choice but to leave it. If he happened to disappear, those he called close would know something was amiss.
Drem shrugged his shoulders. A shiver trailed up his spine. It would be good to return to his tent and strap on a weapon that never failed him.
Wait! He paused, his foot raised in midstride. Hell’s hounds! Where did she go?
Chapter 6
Drem could not believe his stupidity. The woman, Brigitte, was pressing something very pointy into the back of his neck. How in Christ’s shattered bones had she gotten behind him without his knowing? He did not care whether it was a blade from the Orient or a sliver of wood from one of the buildings. It dug into his skin, and he did not like the feeling of it. Worse, though, was that she had known he had been following her. And now she was ready to let him know she was fully aware of his pursuit with that damned thing digging into the tender base of his skull.
He had followed her long enough to know she was a small sprite. No wonder he had thought she was a faerie that night. And he’d held her body long enough to recognize her womanly shape. He felt her strength and her weakness. She was a petite thing. Easy enough to overpower if necessary.
And she was slippery as an eel. He had lost her once before. This made the second time. Her pulling the knife on him from behind? That boiled his stones, plain and simple.
“Well,” he groused, “what do you want to do about this situation in which we find ourselves?”
“You don’t belong here.” She pecked at him with her weapon. “You’re making things more difficult.” She pushed his back. “Go. He’ll see you.”
“Who?” Drem looked over his shoulder. Her head barely came up to his chest. “Don’t you think whoever he is, he’s hiding under his cot, waiting for the attack to end?”
“No.” Her eyes, laced with a dose of fear, snapped with anger. “It doesn’t matter to him. He will find a way to survive. His will is strong. Like one of the rats that litter Harfleur. He has his Nest and those who serve him. In truth, he knows where you are right now.”
Drem spun, trapping the knife in his hands. Her gasp of surprise warmed the cockles of his manly pride. “No.” Her breath brushed his skin. “Now we change tactics.” With one hand, he yanked her to his chest and felt along her thighs. “What other weapons are you carrying?”
His balls tightened. ’Twas more than his pride that warmed at the feel of her pressed against his stomach. He shook free from the faerie’s hold.
“Merde!” She struggled to free her wrists. “You must go. Now. Before I decide to bring you to him. To offer a bargain.”
Drem could not help himself. Her full lips were too lush and intriguing. He had to taste her. Cupping the back of her head, he touched his mouth to hers. Ebony lashes lowered over flushed cheeks. Her mouth became pliable, tentative and cautious. He deepened the kiss, sinking into the luxury, tasting her until she responded with a hesitant lick of her tongue. A swell of passion washed over him. He let his eyes drift shut and he inhaled the flowery scent that swirled around his head.
An explosion shook the ground under his feet, sending shivers through his body. His blood heated until Drem thought he felt the flames licking at his clothes. King Henry may keep the soldiers busy through the night, but here, in the corner of town, was heaven.
“Forgive me,” she whispered into his mouth.
Drem wrapped his arms around her waist. He leaned into her, wanting to envelop her, to shield them both from prying eyes. Somewhere another explosion rendered the night into submission. And then the explosion became personal as his head received a blow that knocked him to his knees.
* * *
Brigitte could not believe her misfortune. Nor how the English soldier had managed to follow her. His tenacious attention had cost her time she did not have to waste. She still had to get her things and escape from Harfleur.
Merde! Her first true kiss and it came from the enemy. The heat from his mouth, his tongue. It had turned her insides warm. It made her forget. The dangers. Everything.
The need to protect Piers floated into her thoughts like loose flower petals in a storm. She had to find him. Whether she should take him to Claudette or both take their chances outside Harfleur’s walls she did not know. But they would not place their fate in the arms of this soldier.
Brigitte looked down at his unconscious form. The man was huge and heavy. Especially when he was unable to move his limbs. It took great effort to move him into the cache hole she had used when she worked for Alexandre.
Her shoulders twitched from fatigue. She should have left him on the street and let his own men kill him with their trebuchets and great guns.
She rubbed her lips with her knuckles. Damn him. He had cradled her as if she was an infant. Protected. No one had done that in years. But when he had touched his mouth to hers, gently, as if she mattered . . . Merde! She could not leave him to be pummeled by the English death machines. At least here, he wouldn’t be hurt. He might have a pain in his head he woul
d not like when he awoke, but he would be alive. And she would be long gone.
Brigitte leaned over his prone body. After adjusting his position, she brushed back his dark auburn hair and placed a kiss to the lump forming on the side of his head. She picked up the club she had used to strike him and put it in one of the many hidden pockets in her skirt. Patting the weapon like an old friend, she left the alcove.
Her only regret, before she left him, was that she did not know his name. It would have been nice to whisper to him when she dreamed of his kiss, for she knew she would the next time she lay down to sleep.
* * *
Drem awoke with a blistering ache behind his eyes. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. He must have bitten it on the way down to the unforgiving earth. The tinny taste of blood curdled his stomach in a wave of nausea.
His head pulsed in syncopation with his heart. He didn’t need to feel around to know there was another goose egg left by one pain in the arse Frenchwoman. Brigitte. A name he would not soon forget.
Damn his head. It had taken another blow. Three times in several months. He’d only just been able to settle his helm on his head without wincing.
The pain was annoying. He was man enough to admit it hurt. But knowing she had fooled him so soon after he found her made his manhood shrivel. He had not even had time to gloat at his tracking skills.
Drem paused in his struggle to sit upright. His brows rose. If that did not surprise the rooster before sunrise, he did not know what would. Someone had folded his cloak to pillow his head. He patted his belt. The purse was gone, but a handful of coins were piled beside his cloak.
What kind of thief had he been following?
He rested his back against the crevice and listened to the quiet. The king must have decided to give the people of Harfleur time to reconsider their negotiation skills. Henry could be a patient man if he had a mind to be.
Drem had seen the man they had sent out from the safety of the wall to negotiate with King Henry and his men. They had laughed off his refusal to relinquish control of Harfleur.