by C. C. Wiley
Henry needed this town to garrison his army. He would not turn from it, defeated and ready to sail back to England. As if to prove that point, another English bombardment shot over the wall.
Drem crouched low. The missiles whistled through the air, slamming into buildings. Shards of stone needled toward whatever stood in the way.
It appeared King Henry’s patience had ceased. Now if only Harfleur’s defender, Raoul de Gaucourt, would concede defeat. Would the French admit they must surrender before the war machines destroyed the town?
While waiting in the crevice for the terror of the night to cease, Drem admired Brigitte’s selection of hiding spots. It gave him a clear view of the activity in the streets below. Unfortunately, it also put him in danger from being struck by his king’s weaponry. At least no one with any sense would think to come up here.
An ethereal silence followed after the series of bombardments. When it was over, a stream of townspeople poured out of doorways and corners of buildings. Then the cries of fear and heartache wove through the streets. Drem could feel their surprise, their disbelief at an actual attack behind the walls that always had offered a safe harbor from the enemy. Outrage began to boil over the cobblestones.
Drem watched it unfold, taking note of the numbers of wounded. He reminded himself that they were his enemy. Preparing his report for the king, he counted the building casualties that would require repair.
Time dripped like honey while he waited for escape. His blade spun, catching the air as time flowed past the edge. His hands stilled.
That woman. He could not get her out of his mind.
Why hadn’t she tied him up? Why not turn him in as the enemy he was? He could have been a bargaining piece.
Not that his king or the friends of the brotherhood would think him worth much. They would not be pleased by the distraction. But if he returned to them unscathed and brought back information for their cause, perhaps then the men would finally look beyond his father’s treason.
A string of torches caught his attention as it wove past. An angry crowd filed through the streets toward the imposing building at the center of the square. Some carried the injured while others simply lit the way.
They stopped at the steps, shouting, “Gaucourt. Show yourself!”
Caught in the drama unfolding below, he nearly missed the person standing at the edge of the crowd. He recognized the cloak and the wench trying to hide behind the folds of the hood. She had been his prey for most of the night. Retaliation would be his by daylight. Of this, he was certain.
* * *
Brigitte kept to the fringes of the crowd, blending between the shadows, rubbing elbows with the wounded. She did not worry about being recognized. Faces were covered in plaster and dirt stirred up by the bombardment. It had an uncanny way of making everyone look like strangers. She slipped away from the terrified group when they stopped at the mayor’s house and turned to go up the alley that led to the Nest.
At least that had worked for her.
So far, her plan to escape Harfleur and Alexandre had brought her in the opposite direction. She was now in the heart of the city. Once a safe haven, the Nest now felt like a trap, a toothy maw ready to devour her.
Voices behind her carried through the alleyway. Not because the men were shouting but because their anxious whispers cut through the battle-torn night. Recognizing the outraged male, she took a step back, working her way deeper into the shadows.
“I did not agree to this.” Alexandre swirled his hand in the air, pointing to the smoking horizon. “’Tis your pride that sees us as we are. If you had done as you were told, we would be sitting down to a fine meal now. I gave you the information to feed to the English.” He turned on the mayor. “Instead, we have to hide under the table until the English army decides to move on to a greater prize.”
“The French army will come. The Count of Nevers. Burgundy . . .”
“No. You are a fool to think the nobles will stir themselves from their fires.”
“But—”
“Oui, ’tis the truth. I have spoken to my . . . gatherers.”
“Our people want a scapegoat for their pain. They want to retaliate.” The mayor gripped Alexandre’s arm. “You promised me the best plan was to hold out.”
“You think to threaten me?” Despite the years of making others do his bidding, the master of the Nest was still capable of moving with the speed of a rat. The mayor’s throat constricted under his fingers. “I will not be your scapegoat.”
“Our reinforcements. Where are they? You promised they would arrive by now.” His accomplice stumbled back.
Released as suddenly as he had been ensnared, Alexandre caught the stuttering man, purposefully straightening his sleeves. “Trust me.” He leaned in, his lips precariously close. “I have a plan.”
“You have the boy?”
“Our power will not be stolen from us.”
Brigitte trembled at the hidden threat. Whatever he plotted, it was possible it involved the children of the Nest. She could not leave them behind to act out his play for power and control. She had endured his controlling authority long enough.
Despite the English siege, the ear-splitting bombardment that shook every bone in her body, she would hold to her original plan: retrieve her hidden cache and then snatch Piers before Master Alexandre dug his claws further into him.
After looping the shawl around her face and neck, she trailed after the two men. Her footsteps silent, just as she had been taught. A shiver scraped over her skin, warning her of the dangers lurking all around.
Chapter 7
Brigitte took the quickest route to the Nest. The flickering lantern in the window signaled that the master had yet to return. She waited, watching for his minions. The town may be under siege, but that would not change the schedule. Alexandre not only gathered coins from others, he also gathered secrets and used them to gain whatever he desired.
As she expected, the wraithlike shadows flittered over the alley walls as they poured out into the night. Even though he had yet to return, they left on a mission for their protector. Only the youngest would remain behind. This offered the best opportunity for her to slip in and out before anyone sounded the alarm.
Familiar smells of the place she once had thought of as home greeted her at the door. For a time she had found protection here. But now, something had shifted within Alexandre. She had seen it in his eyes. He had information he intended to use. Perhaps even against her.
Her mother’s jewelry called to her from the secret spot. Anxious to gather her things, Brigitte kept to the shadows of the old building as she made her way to the cache of coins she had dared to keep from Alexandre.
Kneeling on the rough planks, she pried up the board. The wood bit under her nails. The loose board creaked before giving way. Unaided by a candle, she felt blindly inside the hole. She touched all the edges. Searching. It had to be there. Nothing. She blinked away the dawning dread. The hole was empty. Alexandre! Bastard!
Her empty stomach roiled, threatening to toss up bile. Tears burned her lids. It was worse than first she had thought. The coins she had planned on using to help her travel to Calais could be replaced, but her mother’s brooch . . . that was irreplaceable.
She blinked, refusing to be beaten. The threat she had overheard earlier crept up her spine. She did not know how, but if he planned on making her the scapegoat for the villagers’ wrath, she would take her pound of flesh first.
Excited voices flooded up the stairway. The door flew open. Children tumbled in like a pack of puppies. The bombardment of English missiles over the town of Harfleur must have garnered them heavy pockets. Not that Alexandre would allow them to keep any of it, but it might give them another night off the streets. They deposited their booty into the chest beside his great chair. Their chatter ceased the moment the master stalked through the doorway.
Brigitte slipped the boards over the empty cache. It behooved her to have an offering ready to give t
o the man who held firm control of the Nest. She hid her hands, wiping them under the folds of her skirt. Her future already wobbled as if she stood on scaffolding, awaiting the noose. Damp, guilt-ridden hands would tighten the rope. If Alexandre had the opportunity to test her pulse, feel her palms, he would be the first to kick out the block and watch her swing.
The room grew heavy. The children had scattered before his cane found their backs. Brigitte steeled her shoulders and released the fear that choked her throat.
“Alexandre.” She rushed over to him. “Thank the saints you are safe.”
He brushed by her and jerked off his cloak. Dropping into his chair, he swung a leg over the arm. His body, relaxed, showed no sign of agitation. But Brigitte knew the telling signs of his mood. There was a slight twitch near his left eye. One hand fisted, knuckles whitening until he forced his palm open. He watched her, reminding her of a snake, waiting to strike if she moved too quickly.
“Where have you been, Bee? The child you cosset was found with the washwoman. Why is that?”
“Piers?” She glanced at the children. Their nervous faces let her know they feared his mood. More so than the siege the English had lain upon them. “Where is he? I saw the building. Claudette.” She swallowed the fear. “Is he safe?”
“Answer me, Brigitte.” His glacier gaze nearly made her shiver.
Warning number two. Brigitte ignored the shiver sliding down her back. He had used her full name, not the one he had given her the night he had found her on the streets. She took little pleasure in knowing that the skills she had learned over the years had prepared her for this confrontation. If she got through this unscathed, it would be her best performance to date.
She moved closer to Alexandre, gliding near his knees but keeping out of reach.
“I was looking for ways to feed us. Obviously, gathering from the carts and wagons has become more difficult.”
She held out the pouch she had lifted from the English soldier. She had thought to persuade her conscience that leaving him with a few coins was a benevolent act of goodness. Guilt bit at her conscience. She blinked at the unexpected pain. Unlike Alexandre’s thin-lipped scowl, the stranger’s mouth had been warm, compassionate. Shaking off the memory, she was surprised to care whether the soldier was safe and had found his way back to the other side of the wall. “But I did manage to find a bit of something to bring a smile to your handsome face,” she offered.
The pouch of coins swung between them like a pendulum. The smile lifted the corners of his mouth, enhancing the frigidity of his glacial stare. He snatched it from her fingers, striking with the speed of the rats that infested the alleys of Harfleur. The leather pouch rested in his palm before he tucked it inside his surcoat.
“What else are you keeping from me, sweet Brigitte?”
She started to shake her head but caught herself. No fast movements. If she kept her balance, Harfleur would soon be out of sight, the Nest a bad memory. But first, she had to get back her mother’s jewelry. It would require patience and some sleight of hand.
“What? I haven’t kept secrets from you.”
“Really?” He swung out his cane, catching her behind her knees. Brigitte fell to the floor, her face close to his foot. It tapped his impatience into the air. Should he choose it, his boot could kick out most of her teeth. The tick by his eye jumped once. She tensed as he grabbed her head.
“I think you lie,” he said.
Bending forward, he pulled out a chain from under his jerkin. The silver filigree chain caught the glow of the firelight. The broken brooch, attached to the chain, swung out.
My mother’s. Brigitte lunged. Her forehead collided with his face. The cool metal chain slid through her fingers as he jerked it out of reach.
“Bitch,” he cried. “You will pay for this.” Blood streamed from his nose and mouth. His hands fisted at his sides. “Greatly,” he whispered.
Fury replaced the ice in his soulless eyes. The cries of the children mingled with the ringing in her ears. Shaking the stars from her vision, she scrambled to her feet and kicked his beloved cane to the corner of the room.
“Give it to me,” Brigitte said. The building panic joined the pounding in her chest. “Hand over what is mine.”
“You lie to me.”
The chain still clutched in his fist caught the torchlight. She tore her focus from its call. The only thing left of Maman did Brigitte little good if he chose to beat her and leave her for dead.
She lunged again. A loop of chain slid farther out of his palm.
“You steal from me,” he hissed.
He pushed her toward the great window. It faced the outer walls of the town. Brigitte glanced over her shoulder. Fire from the bombardment flickered outside. She stumbled over the threadbare rug. Pay attention.
“Eat. My. Food.” He let the words drip between them.
She glanced down. The rubble-scattered street below was two stories down. Keep calm. Stay on your feet. Something will come to you.
A large shadow loomed across the street. It rushed to the building. The Englishman? She shook her head. Alexandre’s punishing blow must have been worse than she’d thought.
The children moved closer, pushing and shoving, alight with gruesome anticipation. Alexandre had succeeded where she had not. He had their loyalty. All but one.
Bile rose in Brigitte’s throat as she searched the chambers. Where was Piers? Why hadn’t she seen him?
So focused on the execution of his “Dear Bee,” Alexandre did not notice the advancing force coming through the doorway. “. . . take what I have offered. Thrown it back in my face.”
One of Alexandre’s minions shoved the shutters wide. Tobes. An evil grin stretched his mouth, reminding her of the gargoyle watching over the mayor’s home. He handed the master his cane. Her heart ached at the loss of the boy’s childhood. How had she thought anyone could escape this madman’s Nest?
The door creaked open. One by one, the children began to scatter. Brigitte schooled her expression to show no recognition of the man propelling his body and sword in their direction. My soldier!
“You want what is yours?” Alexandre swung his cane.
She ducked. Then arched backward as he came at her again. Maman’s brooch shot out on the chain. Her concentration slipped. The heel of her shoe caught as she stumbled back. Tobes stood beside her. Close enough to grab. Pull her to safety. Shrugging, he stepped out of the way. Her fingers sliced through the air. The chorus of shouts and cries mingled with hers as she fell out the window.
Brigitte pinwheeled in the abyss as time seemed to hold its breath. The rope and pulley system used to haul up supplies swayed within reach. Her fingers caught the hemp as she flew past, then her grip tightened. A burning trail cut across her palm as she slid down the length of braided rope. Arms yanked from their moorings. Her feet caught the knots and slowed her descent long enough for her to take control. Her hands gave out and she dropped to the ground. Rocks and bits of wood, already chewed up by the English bombardments, cut into her body as the landing knocked the air from her lungs.
But she was alive. For now.
* * *
After following the woman who called herself Brigitte to the two-story building, Drem was certain he’d found the place she called the Nest. The throbbing in his head kept time to his footsteps. The crescendo came with each additional bombardment from the trebuchet. The king’s beloved cannons. It would not be long until the people of Harfleur scattered and England claimed it as its own. He would be glad when he returned to the other side of the wall.
But first, he intended to retrieve his money from the wench.
Drem looked up as the shutters opened, illuminating a figure in the bay window. The wind caught a trail of smoke rising from the rubble below. A hood was thrown back, revealing a dark mane of hair. She turned, and firelight washed over her face.
His innards tightened. Brigitte.
He should gather his money and be gone. Back to the En
glish army. Back to his brothers in arms. But he had to speak with her. That was his reason for following her in the first place.
Saints. Someone advanced toward her, threatening to strike her.
Head down, the hood of his cloak kept low, Drem ran across the street. He slipped through the door unheeded. Chaos erupted from the floor above. Dread inched up his spine as he climbed the rickety stairs.
Mindful of the danger in which he put himself with the enemy, he pushed through the doorway. A crowd of children, varying in age and size, pressed toward the tall man leading the charge against Brigitte. Some were alight with mischief. A few were wide-eyed, tears streaking their dirty faces.
Torches ensconced along the wall, wrapping the room in a yellow glow. The flames flickered and caught the azure highlights in Brigitte’s hair. The tall man came after her, swinging his cane, striking and cursing.
To Drem’s horror, she fell backward, crying out into the dark abyss. The children started to rush to the window until the man beat them back with the damn stick.
Drem charged, pushing and shoving his way to the man. The hilt of his sword slammed into the creature’s face, knocking him from the window. He toppled over, hitting the floor like a felled tree. The whites of his eyes rolled back into his head.
“You’ve killed Master Alexandre,” cried a lad too young to be a squire in training.
“He’ll live,” Drem muttered to the children. He had no concern for the monster, but the children didn’t need to witness a murder. It was the woman he worried for.
Steeling himself, Drem looked down at the street. Brigitte was gone.
He spun on his heel and planted a foot into Alexandre’s chest. The children, their faces sunken from hunger, no longer crowded around their leader. Instead, they hung back, pressed against the walls and into the corners. All but one looked at him with terror. Guilt nipped at him, reminding him that a siege damaged more than buildings.
The sobbing brave lad, with a mop of curls, ran toward his master and kicked him in the ribs. He grabbed the cane and tossed it out the window. Drem recognized the resignation in the boy’s eyes. It was an emotion he knew all too well. The boy shuffled backward toward the door.