by C. C. Wiley
He reached out, carefully swiping his hand through the air. He bounced into what was left of shutters and roofing. The large stones that held the wall in place had tumbled to the floor. Shelves had toppled over.
A massive beam cut across the room. It had been used as a tie to hold the roof up. Throat dry, he swallowed the dread that filled his mouth. Had it fallen down onto the vibrant, fierce woman he had only recently met?
He slid his hand between the timber and the floor. Splinters nipped at his palm until he bumped into the soft folds of a skirt. It stretched over a motionless limb and rounded hip. Heat radiated through the fabric, pulsing, penetrating the fear that she no longer lived.
“Drem,” she said. A moan dragged through his brain, carrying his name on her breath.
A flicker of light cut through the dust. Smoke curled and licked at the broken framework scattered around them. “Aye, ’tis I.”
He scooted close, building a façade of calm so she would not see his rising concern. Smoothing back her hair, grayed by the dust, he fought back the urge to kiss her face, the arched brow, the smooth cheek. As if it would somehow make things right.
“Piers?”
“Safe.” He cleared his throat. She searched his face for the truth. “For now,” he amended.
The townspeople’s threat continued to carry through the wall of rubble.
“We must not tarry,” he whispered. “Are you able to move?”
“Oui.” Brigitte pushed up and stopped, her body wedged between frame and stone. Frantic, she tugged on her skirt, trying to pull it out from under the weight of the beam. She paused, drawing in a breath through clenched teeth. “I cannot.”
He stilled her struggles with a finger to her lips and shook his head. Motioning for her to roll toward him, he braced his boots against the beam. Sweat popped out on his forehead. The wounds on his back screamed at him to let go. He dug in his heels, lifting until she was released from the beam’s hold. He took in the way she favored her leg as she dragged closer.
Arms wrapped tight, they held on to each other, breathing in the strength to do what they must. He gently ran his hands over her body, searching for injury, thankful for no obvious signs of broken bones. Smoothing the hair from her face, he sought the lips he ached for when he had thought he would never have that opportunity again. She stiffened, as if caught by surprise, then leaned in, welcoming his embrace. He sighed at the sweetness, absent since he’d been taken from his home.
An air-sucking whoosh ripped them apart and brought reality to his blood-starved brain. Flames took hold and jumped like a wild animal.
“Shite. If we don’t escape this place, it will soon be our funeral pyre,” he muttered.
Offering his shoulder for support, they crawled toward Piers. Drem’s injuries made the short distance feel like a long journey. He could only imagine how Brigitte managed it. By the time they reached the boy, smoke twisted its long talons into their lungs, squeezing the air from their bodies.
* * *
Brigitte held the hem of her skirt to her mouth to filter out the smoke and allow the rancid air in. A cough erupted from her lungs. Her vision began to blur. Eyes tearing, she moved as quickly as her aching body would allow. One thing she had learned while living on the streets and during her time at the Nest: one survives for oneself only. Yet here she was, alive for the moment, thanks to the man who should be her enemy.
With each lift of her good leg, she pressed on. The one that had been mashed by the beam lagged behind her. Again, if not for Drem, she would still be lying near the worst of the smoke, gasping for air. She allowed herself a glance in his direction. His mouth—that which had swept her away from her troubles more than once already—was firm and determined. Somehow, this man gave her strength.
A rasping cough tore her from her scattered thoughts.
“Here.” Drem wrapped his arm around her waist and propelled her forward. “Almost there.”
Piers lay still and quiet. Brigitte fell next to him.
“No. This cannot be.” She had failed.
A familiar pat on her shoulder lifted her from roaring despair. Piers, his small hand that had brought comfort and connection, now brought hope.
Renewed by her fighting spirit, Brigitte lifted her head. Everything may be at strange angles and in total disarray, but she knew this place.
They were in the butcher’s shop. If the bombardment had not closed off the tunnel, they should be able to escape both the fire and the townspeople. And she would be free from Alexandre’s control. “Follow me,” she said.
“Are you certain? Your injuries . . .” Drem said. The concern on his face clutched at her heart.
“Oui.” She motioned the others to follow. They mimicked her, holding garments to their mouth and nose, and keeping low, they crawled to the hidden doorway the butcher kept for deliveries.
Her pulse raced as the entrance loomed near. She struggled not to rush into the tunnel, but kept her choking breaths slow and regular. The door opened unhindered. An indescribable stench of rot and decay filled her nose and mouth.
Piers retched, gagging at the smell. He began moving backward.
“Oui, you must,” Brigitte said. She motioned them through and slammed the door shut. The air began to clear of smoke. She closed her eyes, focusing on what lay past this obstacle. Provided the tunnel had not caved in, they would soon be outside Harfleur’s walls.
Drem held out his hands, lifting her to her feet. She stood on wobbly legs.
“What do we do now?” He sent a cautious look toward the door. The fire they thought to escape began cutting through the thick panels.
He lifted her, cradling her in his arms. “Show us the way,” he urged.
Brigitte pointed down the stairway cut into the stone. The slick mossy steps should lead to the underground spring, but with all the devastation, she could only hope it had not caved in.
Without question, he motioned Piers to join them as they began their descent. They left behind the threat of choking on smoke and being burned to death. For this, they took the step toward disease and the chance they would be buried under the rubble of Harfleur.
Chapter 10
Brigitte squinted up at the light cutting through the vast darkness that had been a part of their world for hours. Many fingers of the stony path had been cut off by debris and were now unpassable or treacherous underfoot. Their underground journey was twisted, turning them back on their route. She had almost given up; ready to sit down and cover her head with her cloak.
Indefatigable, Drem refused to release her. Paying no attention to her pleas, he carried her in the directions she thought she recognized. Instead, they found themselves in an unfathomable maze. Ironically, it was the ever-present stench that finally led them to the break in the wall of earth.
Brigitte lifted her head. The debris had begun to clear as they drew nearer.
“Stop.” She smoothed her hand over the length of his sleeve.
His arm wrapped firm and strong around her waist as he set her on her feet. A wave of peace filled her, giving her the courage to look beyond the tunnel walls. She absorbed the heat of his body, letting his warmth seep into her muscles. His heart beat steadily under her palm. Solid. Sure.
Tilting her head, she breathed in the mixture of fetid water and fresh air. Just as she remembered, the fresh air seeped through the tunnel nearest the opening that led past the wall. Hope began to swell.
Squinting through tears that stung her eyelids, she searched past the pile of rubble.
“Drem, look.”
A beam of light split the stone, exposing the crevice. A thin stream of air cut through the haze of smoke showing them the way.
Drem directed Piers to stand back. Brigitte braced her hands beside Drem’s. Together, they strained to roll the boulder away. Sweat slid down her back. Her leg trembled. Bruises complained, pinching and biting at her flesh. Nearing the edge of exhaustion, she began to think again of giving up. So tired. Her lungs b
urned with every breath.
The stone shifted.
She looked down. Piers had joined them.
Drem counted. “One. Two. Three.”
They pushed and shoved at his order. Again and again. The boulder tipped, then gave way.
They tumbled out, rolling onto the damp earth. Brigitte and Drem lay on the ground. Gasping, laughing. Piers lay giggling beside them.
Cool, fresh air slid over Brigitte’s damp skin. Never in her life had she felt the relief of freedom she did at that moment.
The slide of metal, singing against leather sheaths sliced through their exhilaration. Brigitte’s joy caught in her throat. Drem slid his hand over hers, pumping a warning of caution. Piers stilled beside them.
She looked up into the clear blue sky, then shuttered her eyes at the threat that swung over their heads like the Sword of Damocles.
* * *
Drem squeezed Brigitte’s hand, willing her to remain calm. They may have escaped the Nest of Harfleur. Now they must survive the fires of King Henry’s Knights of the Swan.
“Look who we have here,” Nathan barked. He wore his battle helmet. The bridge covered most of his face. Narrow eye slits allowed him to see out and gave him a menacing look. Anger seethed from his cutting gaze and clenched jaw. His blade swung close to Drem’s head. “You best speak fast.”
“Nathan . . .” Drem began.
“’Tis Sir Nathan to the likes of you.” The toe of his heavy boot made contact with Drem’s ribs.
He sucked in a breath, fighting his instinct to jump up and beat the man to death. The rhythmic pump of Brigitte’s hand, still clasped in his, pulled him from the cliff of stupidity. Nathan’s broadsword could swiftly cleave their heads from their bodies before Drem had a chance to crawl to his knees.
A new taste, that of fear, mingled with the smoke still coating his tongue. He understood the threat to himself, but an unarmed woman and a defenseless child did not deserve this, even if they were French. They had become his responsibility and he would protect them.
He glanced at Brigitte and caught her attention. Silently, he willed her to understand. Her eyes widened.
Drem ignored the little shake of her head and flipped to his knees. To his surprise, the motion was still smooth. His muscles and tired flesh obeyed his commands as he blocked Nathan’s sword with his body.
“You’ll have to stab me in the back to get to them. You know that.” He turned his head, locking eyes with the man who held his life in the steel of arm and blade. “But before you do, wouldn’t you want to know what I’ve learned?”
A wave of relief washed over him, then pulled back like the tide when Nathan shifted his attention to Brigitte and the boy.
“And what of them?” Nathan snarled. “Would you have me believe they mean no harm? We’ve laid siege to their home.” The sword dipped. “Ask yourself: Why would they? And there you have your answer. The bitch and her whelp would as soon tear out our throats.”
“Ugly English cur,” Brigitte hissed past Drem’s shoulder. “If I wanted to do so, I would have done it in the night while you slept in that row of tents.”
Drem gritted his teeth as she tried to push him off. There was no counting on common sense. Did he need to remind her that Nathan was the one with the sword?
“Hush,” Drem said.
The swell of her breasts met his chest as she drew in a huff of air. He looked into her face. How many bruises lay hidden under the layers of dirt and sweat? Dried blood creased the arch of her brow. Her stubborn mouth set in a firm line that did not bode well. There had to be a way to get them safely to his tent.
He nipped the corner of her mouth, tasting and branding the woman as his. He looked over his shoulder. A seasoned warrior would understand one thing. “She’s mine, Nathan. She’s my hostage. My prisoner. Mine to plunder if I wish.”
The knight grunted and let his sword drop. “Move on,” he said, motioning for the men-at-arms who stood at his flank. He sheathed his weapon and crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you intend to do with the two of them?”
Drem tilted his head and gave Brigitte a slow wink. The fury leaping from her gaze gave him pause. One step at a time, Drem, my boy.
“If it suits you, Sir Nathan, I’m arising now.” He lifted a hand, showing it empty of weaponry. “I would like to save my hide from any more abuse.”
Nathan swept off his helm, tucking it under the crook of his arm. He shoved his fingers through his auburn mane, ruffling the matted strands sticking to his head. “You have my leave.”
Drem pushed up, his aching bones arguing with the command. To his dismay, the stubborn knight did not move from where he stood. Nathan watched them, hawk-eyed, apparently holding his tongue until he could take a strip from his prey.
“Come, Brigitte.” Drem bent to offer his hand.
She rose gracefully and stood with a regal posture. Her chin tilted up. She looked like an exotic cat, her claws barely sheathed.
He raised a brow, questioning her ability to keep peace until he sorted things out.
Nathan wandered over to the child. “And what is your name?”
The lad hesitated. He glanced at Brigitte for advice. With a tilt of her chin, she gave him permission. “I’m called Piers.”
Bending at the waist, Nathan held out his gauntlet-covered forearms for Piers to grasp.
“Both hands,” the knight whispered. “Hold tight.”
He straightened, lifting Piers to hang on to him like an apple on the branch of a strong tree. The boy yelped as Nathan turned and set him down.
Nathan’s smile faded as he turned his attention back to Drem and Brigitte. “This camp isn’t a place for innocent children. The boy is too young for an archer apprentice. What madness makes you think he will better survive out here instead of inside Harfleur’s wall?”
“He’d starve if left on his own,” Brigitte said.
Piers walked up, putting his hand into hers. His eyes sparkled over pale cheeks as he watched the knight in awe. “Master Alexandre will beat me, ’tis certain.”
Nathan shook his head. “The others will have more to say. But as for me, mayhap we can find some use for him.”
Brigitte placed a protective hand on Piers’s shoulder. “We will make our way. Alone.”
Nathan grunted in an unhappy response. “Keep them close, Drem.” He squinted over the camp. “The sickness has spread.”
“Since I’ve been gone?” There had been dysentery in the days before he followed Brigitte. That had been one of the reasons he had taken it upon himself to track her down. If she had poisoned the men, it should have stopped the moment it left their bodies.
Brigitte stepped closer, her arms wrapped around Piers. Worry beetled her brow. “What kind of sickness?”
“Bellyaches. Fever.” Drem glanced at her. “Bowel issues.”
“’Tis the bloody flux?” Brigitte asked.
Nathan caught Drem’s attention with one raised brow. He knew what he silently was reminding him. She was the enemy. They would not share the state of the men. Their weakness.
“Oui,” she said. “’Tis what happens when the water is fouled. The food goes bad. Tell me, Sir Nathan, what have your soldiers been eating?”
“We shall deal with our men. On our own,” Drem warned.
What could she do? Why would she help? He knew what it meant to be a prisoner. He had dreamed of finding ways to rid himself of his capturers. Every day he had plotted ways to kill them one by one.
Then, one day, he had awoken and realized that at some point he and Henry had learned to respect each other. Their youth, spent in battles, had forged a friendship.
“This is ridiculous! For years, I have nursed the children of the Nest. ’Tis certain I can help.”
Nathan rubbed his chin. Coming to a decision, he pointed to the boy. “See that you keep him under your control. Drem, take them to your tent. Get them settled. Then meet us in the command tent.” He began to stride away, then paus
ed. “Bring the woman with you.”
* * *
Brigitte watched the redheaded soldier walk away. The breath she did not realize she was holding exploded from her chest. She busied her hands to keep the trembling from showing and smoothed the folds of her skirt. The fabric had taken the brunt of her escape. Most of the holes would require needle and thread to mend. She stuck her fingers into the burned material and wiggled them.
’Twas unlikely the soldiers would have a spare dress for her. Mayhap the English had a miracle for repairs of something of this magnitude.
“Bee,” Piers called. “Hurry.”
Brigitte took a step to bring up the rear of their little group and winced. Her wounds needed tending before her clothing was repaired. As she limped along, she noticed Drem carried himself differently. He turned, his movements cautious and stiff.
She recalled the building falling in on itself. The crash of timber, stone, and plaster. He had protected them more than once, shielding them from danger. She squinted at his tunic. The thick leather was ripped and stained. Her stomach tightened. What lay beneath?
Alexandre had always commented on her light touch. It bode well in lifting a heavy purse or pinching a loaf of bread. The children called for her when they were ill or injured. Would her skills be enough to bargain with? She began making a list of the ingredients she would need to broker her usefulness.
The path took them deeper into the encampment. The stench filled her nostrils. ’Twas worse than when she had slipped through to gather the pears. How long ago was that? It felt like ages since she slept or had a decent meal.
Thoughts of Maman pushed the wretchedness away. The life Brigitte knew as a little girl, cossetted by the man her mother spoke of as Monsieur le Faire, was out of reach. It glimmered like the emerald in Maman’s brooch. A worthless, broken memory. But for Brigitte, it was what kept her believing that somewhere beyond her present state of existence was a life worth having.
Ever since that first night out on the streets of Harfleur, that had been her vow. To find a better life. On her own terms. Better than the one she left behind.