by C. C. Wiley
Before Drem could call out to the children, they disappeared down the stairs. Some were about the age he had been when Henry had con-scribed him into his royal archers.
Memories shivered through him. The graves of loss were tossed open, demanding him to examine the pain. He shook it off. Always best to keep the past buried, where it belonged.
Drem gripped Alexandre’s belt and recognized the leather pouch given to him by his sister, Terrwyn. There had been too many years between gifts. He was not about to lose this one. After stripping Alexandre of the coins, he felt for weapons. He did not need a dagger in the back.
A bit of silver glinted in the torchlight. Drem pried open Alexandre’s fingers and slipped the necklace into his belt before he took off down the stairs. Hearing the shuffling of feet, he turned back, wary of what might come from behind. Instead of coming after him, the children turned their attention to their master.
Drem raced down the stairs. Prepared to find Brigitte’s broken body, he dashed around the corner. The street was empty. He rubbed the back of his neck. How had she survived the fall? Where had she gone?
Why he cared he did not know. He had the leather purse, the coins returned. The weight of if felt familiar.
He looked up at the hazy sky. The smoke, stirred up by the bombardment and fires, covered the moon and stars. It might be nearing dawn. The time he had lost while lying unconscious left him unsure. How much longer until they started looking for him and questioning once again where his loyalties lay? God be with me, what am I doing?
The shutters overhead swung open, wooden planks clattering against stone. Rocks rained down, striking him on the back and shoulders. Shite! The little devils were intent on revenge.
Ducking for cover, he jumped over a short retaining wall that held back an untended garden. Once out of range of the children’s missiles, he cut through the brambles and weeds strangling the path. The farther away from the lights, the darker it became. He stumbled over rocks and roots, going down on one knee.
He pushed up from the ground and stopped. His palm scraped over something soft, rounded. “Brigitte.” He blinked in the darkness. Even to his ears, her name mingled with his breath sounded too much like a sigh.
The oddly warm feelings were immediately washed away by the cold blade, pressed to his throat.
“What are you about, Englishman?” she hissed.
Drem bent down, his face close to hers. He wrapped his hand over hers and nudged the blade away. She gave in much more easily than he’d anticipated. Her fingers, so much smaller than his, were encompassed by his large, ungainly hand. They trembled against his palm. He smoothed the ebony hair from her damp cheeks. Were those tears? That scared him more than he cared to admit.
“You’re alive,” he whispered. “I saw you go out the window. How did—”
She took a shuddering breath. “The rope slowed my fall.”
He did not have to look at her hands to know there were wounds. Drem had sailed enough with the king to know the damage a rope could do to tender flesh. It took long days and nights until the calluses had formed and he had learned to stay out of the way of those wielding punishment. He would rather ride a stout horse for a fortnight than sail one day on the king’s royal fleet.
“Here.” Drem cut a strip from the linen shirt under his leather jerkin and wrapped it around her palms. “I know, ’tis more to be tended. We can’t do it here.” He cocked his head. “Do you think you can stand?”
“Oui.”
The shouts coming from the streets began to grow. A crowd was forming.
Her eyes widened. The lush mouth he had admired earlier pressed firmly into a narrow line.
“Any thoughts on why he would not be overjoyed that you live?”
“No,” she spat out her response. “What are you about, Englishman? Why should you care what happens to me?”
“Call me Drem.”
She scrunched her nose. “’Tis not a common English name.”
“Aye. I’m Welsh through and through.” He squared his shoulders. “And I serve my king unto death.”
“Loyal unto death?” Her scowl deepened. “I had thought the same of Master Alexandre. But as you saw, he doesn’t have the same affection for me. Now does he?”
He could not see her clearly in the deep blackness before early morning’s light, but judging by her tone, she was already planning her revenge. If there was one thing Drem understood, women did not like to be mistreated. If it were his sister, bruised and lying on the ground, she would have had her arrows already nocked and prepared to impale Alexandre’s stones.
“Then I think ’tis best we make our way to the wall. Appears your Alexandre has a plan to make you pay for disobeying his orders.”
A veil dropped as she grew still. Then, as if drawing energy from the earth, she pushed herself upright. Drem rose with her. Afraid there were more injuries, he gently propped her against his hip. He steadied her by touching her arm.
“My cloak,” she whispered. “They will know to look for it.”
Drem had his doubts. With the mixture of dust and what he feared might be drying blood, the cloak was hardly what he considered recognizable. Still, he turned his cloak inside out and draped it over her shoulders.
They began the slow walk to the wall, retracing their steps, minus the crevice where they had shared a kiss. And, do not forget, she stole from you. And she struck you.
Details, Drem argued back with the warning angel at his ear.
“I will lead you to the cave,” Brigitte said. “The townspeople: They won’t know to look for you there.”
Drem grunted in response. That might be her plan, but he had other thoughts. Mainly because he was not their prey. He glanced at his companion as she limped beside him.
Brigitte’s face was pale under the dust and dirt smudging her cheeks. If it would not call more attention to them, he would have picked her up and carried her. That is, if she had allowed him. He had the begrudging feeling she would have pulled her blade on him again at such an offer.
Their pace was torturously slow. The skin of Drem’s neck tingled with the feeling of being stalked. The promise of getting out of Harfleur relatively unscathed wavered as the wall came in sight.
And so did that uneasy sensation that they were not as safe as they told each other they were. As they drew near a row of shattered buildings, Brigitte’s pace slowed. Like sap dripping out of a tree in winter. It took great restraint to keep from tossing her over his shoulder and running after all.
“What is it, Brigitte?”
The air shook. The ground rippled under their feet as English bombardment rained down from the sky.
Chapter 8
The force of the explosion knocked Brigitte to her knees. Clutching her ears to silence the roar that pulsed in her skull, she blinked away dust from her watering eyes and stared at the destruction.
“What is your English king thinking?” She spat out the grit coating her throat. “Soon there’ll be nothing left of Harfleur.”
Now that her ears no longer thumped out the beating of her heart, the sounds of moaning and weeping began to swell.
Drem took his cloak from her, wrapped his arm around her shoulders and lifting her to her feet. His frown cut creases into the mask of dust caking on his face. “My king is responding to your representative. You mayor was to meet with the king’s men. We must assume that did not go well. If your people would agree and surrender, this would be over and done.”
“You blame the citizens of Harfleur? We did not bid you lay siege to our town. Did we?”
His heavy sigh ruffled her hair. “This did not have to be. If King Charles had negotiated with honor, we would have arrived peaceably. King Henry did not want to bring war to a land and people that are his by birthright.”
“No.” She gripped his forearm and led him away from what used to be the butcher’s doorway. “No, you cannot go this way. The tunnel will surely be destroyed. I’ll take you to the cave. ’Tis
on the other side, but we’ll be careful to remain unseen.”
Drem paused to look over his shoulder. His frown deepened. The air exploded with smoke, raining down on the carcasses of the dead and dying.
They huddled together, their bodies tensed, awaiting the next bombardment. Brigitte shivered in the autumn morning. Her breath caught as he shifted to offer her heat and protection.
“You must tell that monster we cannot take anymore.”
“There is little I can do. Perhaps de Gaucourt’s messenger will carry better news.”
“There is no time,” Brigitte urged. “Besides, I fear something is amiss with our mayor and his adviser.”
Drem’s silent frown deepened. The gold flecks in his moss green eyes reflected the light as the sun rose over the walled town.
What am I doing? He is the enemy! Brigitte compressed her lips, sealing off what she had overheard between Alexandre and the mayor. Who could she trust? No one. The boy Alexandre, the one to whom she had given her heart when he had taken her off the streets? That kindhearted person who had saved her from starvation, taught her to steal to provide for the fledglings, was gone. She had felt the change come over him. The angry moments now easily slipped into rage.
At first she had ignored it, made excuses for him until even those did not make sense. In the end, her plans to leave Alexandre and the safety of the Nest had been made too late. Where could she go? She recalled the time when she and Maman felt loved. Calais reached out to her, leading her to flee Harfleur. And then the English king and his army had sealed off her escape. Once again, she was trapped.
“What?” Drem shook her arm. “What did you overhear?”
Brigitte shrugged, plastering a mask of calm on her face. It was a replica of the one Maman wore when her paramour had abandoned them. “’Tis nothing.” She waved off his attention. “’Tis babbling. Like a little brook. From the shock of the night.”
Feeling the weight of his scrutiny, she added, “The fall. The bombardments from your army.” The squeezing in her lungs came with as much surprise as the tears that threatened to blur her vision.
Drem leaned in, wiping her cheek with his thumb. “I recall there was also a kiss.”
Brigitte ached to have him closer. To feel protected without being trussed up, snared by pretty strings. She must tread carefully. This, too, could be a trap. “And a club,” she reminded him.
Drem grimaced and rubbed his head. “I’d rather remember the kiss.” Desire smoldered in his gaze. His lips called for her to kiss him once again.
Heat stole up her neck. She cut off the guilt nipping at her heels before it could take hold. He was an English soldier. There was nothing he could do to help. He took orders from his master, King Henry V. Just as she took her orders from the master of the Nest. The punishment for rebellion against Alexandre would be harsh.
Aching for the comfort and protection she had known as a child, she closed her eyes and willed the memories to warm her.
“Brigitte,” he whispered.
She let Drem pull her into his arms. Just this once.
He grazed over her skin, nibbling, tasting. The steady thumping of his heart gave her the luxury of resting with him. They stood together, each supporting the other in silence.
Brigitte felt his muscles tense. Then his pulse shifted its beat. She lifted her head to look out onto the streets. The townspeople were drawing near. She could not make out their faces but could hear the cadence of their raised voices. Who were they cursing? Did they think to fight the English soldier?
Movement to the side caught her attention. A tawny head of curls draped around a gaunt pale face popped up from a barrel lying on its side. Piers? What was he doing? Before she could warn Drem, the boy began crawling toward them.
“Piers.” She waved him over with the flick of her fingers. “Hurry. Before you are seen.”
Drem stepped over to allow them access to the shop. He eyed them. “I’ve seen you before. You were in the Nest.”
Scowling, Piers nodded. “Oui.” He tugged on her skirt and tilted his head. “I thought I lost you, Bee.”
Brigitte folded over, bundling the boy into her arms. She held him, never wanting to let go for fear it would be their last time together.
Piers patted her shoulder. “I can’t breathe.”
Brigitte looked up. How had she ever thought she could escape?
“Do you know of a way out that hasn’t been blocked or destroyed?” Drem asked.
She bit her lip. Was the stairway through the butcher’s shop still intact? The ground rippled under her feet. The telling of a trebuchet being set up. She tensed. Another bombardment to rip apart their lives.
“Whore!”
“Traitors!” the townspeople screamed.
A rock struck the doorframe near Brigitte’s head.
She turned. Alexandre led the angry crowd. Ropes swung in their hands as they marched closer. Drem nudged them out of view. His hand inched closer to his sword.
“That is the one,” Alexandre shouted.
The children, whose scrapes and bruises Brigitte had tended, joined in, cursing the traitorous bitch. They picked up rocks and pelted them at her. Alexandre spread his arms, controlling the mob until he chose the right moment to set them loose. His chest rose. A tic jumped at the corner of his eye. The baritone voice, which he had practiced in his youth to use as a tool in his mastery of others, rose above the muttering behind him.
“Good people of Harfleur. Look at her. We took her into our bosom. And how does she show her gratitude? She cavorts with the devil’s own. Treachery. She sells us to the enemy. Man. Woman. And . . .” He hesitated, letting the impact of his speech stir the townspeople even more. “And the children. She sacrifices your children, for what? To defeat us.” Alexandre pointed at Drem. “To feed them to that English soldier.”
A gasp washed over the crowd. Brigitte fought down the urge to roll her eyes. Alexandre was in rare form this morning.
“She is not one of us. She means to turn Harfleur over to the English mongrel.” He shouted to be heard over their outrage. “What say you? What shall we do with her? With the English vermin?”
“Hang her! Hang him! Life for life!”
Brigitte blinked. The pain of betrayal cut her open, wounding her bruised heart. Piers tightened his hold on her skirt. Drem moved, closing in their flanks. His palm rested confidently on her shoulder. He moved the pad of his thumb, rubbing the tension in her muscles. She was not alone in her stand. She locked eyes with Alexandre.
“What proof has he against me?” she shouted to the crowd, letting her gaze burrow into the faces she knew. She spotted Claudette’s pale face. Tears flowed down the laundress’s cheeks. “Ask where our mayor has hidden himself. Where is Raoul de Gaucourt, our defender? And then ask yourself how Master Alexandre has survived all these years. Think you that he lives only off the backs of the small children of the Nest?” She locked eyes with Alexandre and curled her lip. “No. You who stand so close, you’ll want to see to your pockets,” she warned. “And then the mayor’s. Who profits to sell you? As for me, I am leaving this infested town.”
Brigitte took a deep breath. Either the bovine-minded people would take the time to question their actions or they would make plans to measure her neck against a length of rope. The ground trembled under her feet again.
“Don’t let her make a fool of you. Grab her!”
Someone Alexandre had no doubt planted in the crowd shouted, “String them up, lads!”
Alexandre dropped his arms and the townspeople rushed toward the butcher’s shop. The air vibrated with thundering feet and the whistle of the largest bombardment the English had yet to let loose. Roofs collapsed under the weight of the boulders falling from the sky. Screams ripped through the crowd.
Brigitte spun, throwing her body into her little group of supporters, pushing Drem and Piers deeper into the shop. The walls shook before toppling over like a pile of kindling.
The building f
ell into itself. Stone striking timber, shale tiles collapsing in an ear-splitting crescendo. And then there was silence.
Chapter 9
Drem braced his body over the child as the building collapsed. His shoulders ached from the impact of flying stone and mortar. The skin along his back stung. He must have been struck. The palms of his hands were scraped and bruised, but for the moment they held strong. Muscles trembling, he pushed to his knees. Splinters of wood shredded over his back in a waterfall. The ceiling offered barely enough room for them to crawl under.
He ran his hand down the lad’s neck, where his pulse raced. He touched Piers’s cheeks. His eyelids fluttered, as if he was afraid to see the worst, then snapped open. Wide-eyed, the boy gazed up at him. Drem finally felt as if he could take a breath. They were alive.
The boy’s lip began to quiver. A tear leaked out, frightening Drem more than a score of bombardments.
“Brigitte,” Drem called.
The townspeople’s muffled voices broke through the rubble. Whether they had had a change of heart or were still intent on stringing them up as sacrificial goats, he could not take the chance of trusting them.
“Brigitte.” He hissed out her name.
Had she been struck by one of the beams? She had rushed toward them, pushing and shoving them back. He doused the rising panic leaping in his chest. No, she was in the building. Hale and hearty.
She had to be. He needed to find her.
Piers wrapped his hand around Drem’s wrist, keeping him from leaving his side. Blues eyes searched his. “Bee.”
Drem nodded. “I’ll find her.” He ducked as a shower of rubble rained down. Keeping low, he shrugged out of his cloak and handed it to the boy. “Here, keep safe the best you can. I won’t be far.” He paused again, the need to give hope rising out of the rubble of their lives. “She’ll be fine.”
Crouched low, Drem crawled through the debris. Because of the destruction, everything looked out of focus, as if he stood in two different towns. They needed Brigitte to lead them out. Despite the siege, she had escaped the wall. She would know the way.