by C. C. Wiley
Brigitte stared at Drem’s broad shoulders and back. She had only to drift into the crowd of soldiers, move toward the edge where rows of souls clung to life. And not one of them would notice her. She could disappear. Slip away
Her steps faltered.
But how would escaping improve her life?
Chapter 11
Brigitte resisted the urge to run. Even though the soldiers had not advanced against them, their curious stares made the back of her neck itch. She had enough practice remaining unseen. Being the center of their attention broke all the rules Alexandre had demanded they learn or bear the brunt of his cane.
Drem lifted the flap of the tent and motioned for them to enter. Anxious to get out of sight, she pushed past him. Her brows rose.
More than one cot filled the cramped space. Barely enough room to walk. She stepped over a trunk, its contents spilling onto the dirt floor. Chain mail draped over the row of armor resting against the tent. Were they expected to sleep like a pack of mongrels? And with whom?
For the last several years she had managed to avoid the role of whore and she did not intend on making her debut performance with the Englishman.
A white jupon stretched out over a chest to dry. The red cross of St. George was stitched on the front like a blaze of blood. Broadswords hung on hooks beside the heads of the cots. Plates of leg armor were piled on the floor next to knee-high boots and spurs. Brigitte swallowed, realization pressing into the base of her skull.
A week ago she had watched thousands of English soldiers ride under the king’s banner. But these were not just soldiers. They were knights. According to Alexandre, they took whatever they desired and destroyed the rest. They were not to be trusted.
Brigitte’s throat closed. It became dryer than a creek bed during a drought. Merde! Sleeping under a bush would be better than this. She spun on her heels, colliding with Drem’s thick chest. Her palms flattened against his leather jerkin. The beat of his heart matched her racing pulse.
Piers staggered in, eyes widened, accentuating the ridge of the cheekbones in his gaunt face. “Bee, did you see the knights and their armor?” He dodged Drem and Brigitte, making his way to kneel beside the metal plates. Scowling, he cocked his head. “Who’s been caring for these? They’re growing rust.”
The grip on Brigitte’s arms loosened but kept her in place. She did not dare look up at Drem. She was certain he sensed she meant to make an escape. His thumbs worked over her sleeve, traveling up to her shoulders.
He let out a breath. It ruffled her hair, tickling the sensitive nape of her neck. Piers prattled on. His words captured no one’s attention until he leaped up from his position by the armor.
“My father taught me how to care for it. Said one day I’d need to know.”
Brigitte brought her senses back to the tent. Had the lad a talent? ’Twas a good thing. The boy certainly had no skill in thievery.
“Where’d your father learn to care for armor?” Drem asked. “Was he a squire?”
The sparkle of excitement faded from Piers’s eyes. He shook his head. “No. My papa fought for the House of Burgundy.
Brigitte gasped. She’d never asked how he came to be in the Nest, just accepted that Alexandre had offered him the same protection he gave all the other lost children.
“Papa fell at Soissons,” Piers added.
“That battle was almost two years ago,” Brigitte said. “What of your family?”
Piers walked to the entrance of the tent. The flap of canvas caught a gust of wind, making the covering tremble against its force. He gripped the supporting pole until his knuckles turned white. Time stretched as the boy fought to gather his wits. “I do not know.”
His whisper slipped through Brigitte’s defenses, reminding her how brave he was for one so young and alone. There were so many questions she should have asked him and had not.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Piers pressed his lips together and shook his head.
“You were newly arrived in Harfleur when you came to the Nest. Where were you all that time?”
Drem caught her hand. Together, they surrounded Piers, offering him a wall to lean on.
“I know how it is to feel alone.” Drem lowered himself beside him and said, “To wonder if your family is out there looking for you too.” He knelt on one knee and offered his palm. Scars crisscrossed calluses and tender flesh. “If ’tis in my power, I shall find them for you.”
Piers searched his face. Doubt washed over him before he dropped his lids to shield himself from more lies.
Drem tipped the lad’s chin, holding him in his gaze. “I offer this in earnest. ’Tis my vow I make to you. One that I wish had been made to me when I was not much older than you.”
Piers blinked, then nodded. “I’ll hold you to it, sir.”
Drem grinned. “Drem will do.”
The simple action lighted his face, creating stars at the corners of his eyes. It reminded Brigitte of the night when she had watched the knight from the shadows. She had guessed correctly. The man liked to smile.
He looked up, catching her in the act of watching the exchange. And his expression changed. His smile vanished. There was a shuttering of his soul, a blocking of her perusal. ’Twas like planks of wood covering the windows at night. She could almost hear it slam shut. It left her feeling alone, separated from him and their budding friendship.
A knock thumped against the side of the canvas. A boy several inches taller than Piers stood at the entrance. Although not much older, his chest was broad, his arms already bulky.
“Hello, young John. How goes the archery training?” Drem asked.
“Good, Sir Drem. You’ve been missed. I’m told to give you the message that you are to come by yourself.” He dropped a silver disc into Drem’s palm. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the cramped tent. “The woman is commanded to stay here until she is called.”
Drem nodded and rose. “Brigitte, there’s a pitcher of water in the corner. Clean yourself as best you can.”
“Piers . . .”
“May go with Young John.” He glanced at the boys. “The lady needs her privacy.”
“Oui.” The golden mop of curls bobbed in agreement.
“Young John, show Piers where he may wash off the soot. See that you keep out of trouble. There will be punishment if you don’t.”
“Punishment?” Piers squeaked. His feet took on the appearance of boat anchors, holding him to the spot. “What kind of punishment?”
A bloom of red spread over Young John’s freckled cheeks. “Don’t know about you, but I’ll have to dig another row of trenches.” He eyed the boy’s smaller stature. “Imagine since your arms are puny, you’ll be put to work gathering dead animals and such for the trebuchet.”
Piers searched the bustling encampment, and then lifted his chin. “’Tis all right, Bee?”
“Oui.” Brigitte kept watch over the boys as Young John led Piers away. She took in a breath and tasted the soot and smoke reeking from her person. It would take several scrubbings to get the skirt clean.
Drem bent to pick up a sword larger than the one he kept at his side. A muffled groan matched his stiff movements.
“Stop.” She touched his shoulder. “The English king can wait. Your injuries need tending.”
Drem shook off her hand. “’Tis not the way of things.”
The grimace that furrowed his brows made her insides ache. Instead of soothing him, she wanted to strike him and kiss the pain away. Somehow at the same time.
“So, is stupidity the way of things?” she snapped. “There is disease in this encampment. Do you want your wounds to fester?”
“What I want does not matter.” He thrust the sword into the sheath. “There are several who would not care that I am wounded or that I meet my final end, toes up, in a bloody battlefield. That is the way of things.”
Brigitte wet her lips. Although he stood in front of her, eyes snapping, hands on his narrow hips, she had
to plead her concern. “Then offer me a vow as easily as you did Piers.”
His slow groan let her know just how much it pained him saying more. “Go on.”
“Promise that when you are finished, you will allow me to tend your wounds.” She lifted her palm to silence his complaints. “In gratitude for helping me leave Harfleur.”
Drem caught her hands. The reddened flesh looked as if it had been scorched in a fire instead of marred by the rope on which she had slid earlier.
“Care for yourself first.” His voice thick and gravely, he cleared it before adding, “I promise to return as soon as I am allowed. Then we will talk more.”
“And . . .” Brigitte pressed.
He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her to his chest. Her neck curved, baring the tender space by her collarbone. Unable to resist the liquid moan that poured out in a sigh, she shivered as he brushed his lips over her skin.
He lifted his head. The gold flecks in his eyes sparkled down at her before his stern soldier’s countenance returned.
“And when I return, you’ll have the grisly honor of seeing to my wounds,” he said.
Brigitte stood at the flap in the tent and watched him march off, his back as erect as the wall he attempted to build between them.
She worked to slow her breath and the rapid beat of her heart. ’Twould serve her well to remember to fortify her own wall.
* * *
Drem strode across the camp. Brigitte’s response to his attention aroused him like no other. He wanted to take his time, let their attraction unfurl, one kiss and one glorious touch at a time.
If not for the metal disc, formed into the shape of a swan no bigger than a coin, biting into his palm, he would have stayed. Even allowed her to see the many scars covering his body. But he had been summoned to a meeting of the brotherhood.
A warning rippled up his spine. Although new to the Knights of the Swan, he was a seasoned soldier of the king. Henry had not had the opportunity to give his blessing to his journey past the walls. There would be a price for his going off on his own. Not that Henry was vindictive toward his friends, nor did he use them bitterly. But he did like to be informed.
Were the rules different for him now than when he was an archer? As a Knight of the Swan, would he be allowed to venture off and follow the instincts groomed as a hunter? Serve the king in whatever way he desired. But above all protect the king. And that was what he intended to do.
Drem rapped on the tent. The flap whipped open. Air, thick with smoke from the tallow candles, crawled up his arms, filled his nostrils. The group of men standing around the table waved him entrance. Their narrow mouths were drawn into thin lines. An ominous foreboding whispered that he should run. Sweat trickled down his back, scoring his cuts and bruises.
Cheering came from the archers’ camp. Drem jerked his head. Piers. Was he safe? Brigitte. Would she be there when he returned?
“Sir Drem.” Darrick’s voice cut through the fog that had manacled Drem’s brain.
Drem shook himself free and dove farther into the cramped, dank tent. The man who he thought despised him the most held out his hand.
“Well?” Darrick asked. His eyes cut to his outstretched palm.
Drem allowed the knight to pull him into a back-slapping welcome. Salty liquid burned the corners of his lids as the men came up to him to offer brotherly punches to his bruised body. He made the turn in the tent until he came upon his friend and king. Although shorter than most, Henry carried his royalty and pride in his stance. The white scar near the bridge of his nose glistened under the candlelight.
“Welcome back, Sir Drem. ’Tis good to know the last bombardment from my great beauties did not drive you from this world.”
“Aye, Sire, though they nearly had me a time or two.”
“That would have been a shame. Would you not agree?” He rocked on his heels, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “I’ve decided. Given this is a time of war. That you have shown your loyalty for years. And . . .” He held up his hand. “Despite your father’s treachery, the rites of the Knights of the Swan will be performed tonight.”
He turned, casting his gaze over the knights who had marched with him against France. “I’m aware of some misgivings among a few of you, but this is God’s cause and we will fight side by side, not among ourselves.
“Sir Darrick, you may proceed.”
Drem knelt in front of his friend, his king, and winced. The wounds stuck to his linen shirt ripped open. Punishment had indeed come. Just not as he had anticipated.
Chapter 12
Drem walked beside Nathan and Darrick. He shook his head. The rite welcoming him into the brotherhood was brief. Vows and promises to keep the king safe were repeated. ’Twas nothing new. He had been fighting by the king’s side since he was the young Prince of Wales. How many years had he proven he could be trusted? For what? The inclusion into a family. A brotherhood. No land came with the honor. He was still a soldier who took his orders like the rest of them. But now he had been given the task to serve, protect, and gather information. And he had been given the status of knight. Not just any knight; now he truly was a Knight of the Swan. He could now be called Sir Drem ap Dafydd.
They had been pleased with his report on the conditions of Harfleur. Their interest in Brigitte was unnerving. They wanted more from her than just the number of dead or the state of the storehouses. He had given his promise to Brigitte to watch over her. He prayed it would not keep him from serving his king.
“Go back to the woman,” Nathan repeated. “Find out what you can from her. She knows more. ’Tis certain.”
They paused outside the tent as Piers and Young John strode up. Blood streamed from their noses.
Several boys followed behind them. Their faces lit with outrage. They stuttered to a halt when they realized three knights watched them. Guilt spread through the crowd and they began to disperse like a morning mist over the bogs.
“I see the woman’s boy is quick to make friends,” Nathan said. He clapped them on the shoulders and left them as quickly as he could. “Believe I have an appointment with a comely wench who found her way into camp.” He wiggled his rust-colored brows. “I’ll leave you to your tasks.”
Drem shook his head. How did that man slip in and out so easily? If not for his strength and skill with weaponry, Nathan would be worthless. Though he suspected Darrick felt the same, he kept his opinions close to his chest. “Aye. Appears the boy has another talent.”
Darrick turned his scowl on Drem. “Talents?”
“The boy comes from Soissons. His father taught him about armor.” Their gazes fell on the two boys, whose pace had slowed to that of those who were condemned to the gallows. “Says—”
“Have the woman mend your wounds.” Darrick’s attention remained on Piers. “I’d like to speak with the boy.”
He turned at Drem’s speechless response. “You think no one noticed you are injured but don’t use your brain to see the surgeon? Christ on the cross. Next time deal with the wounds at once, before they worsen.” He wrinkled his nose. “And mayhap add bathwater before you meet with the king.”
* * *
Brigitte jumped back from the tent entrance as she tugged her bodice over her breasts. A shuddering breath made the front laces sway away from her chest. She slapped a hand over the gaping material. Warmth crept up her neck, heating her ears. They would soon burst into flames; she was sure of it.
Drem ducked to enter the tent. His broad shoulders consumed the knights’ quarters. He let his gaze sweep over her, traveling from head to toe, then back to her breasts. “You’re still here. I half-expected you to run.” He stepped toward her. “I’m relieved you didn’t.”
Flames licked her skin. Trying to ignore the desire ignited in the tight space between their bodies, she plucked at the bodice. It loosened its hold on her pebbling nipples. Cool air blew over her skin, like a lover’s kiss. What has come over me?
She tested her forehead for fe
ver. ’Twas not as if men had never looked her way. But after a few days on the streets, she had learned to become invisible. Aided by Master Alexandre’s tutelage, she could slip in and out, unnoticed. Why did Drem seem to know what she was thinking? How did he see past the walls she had built years ago?
Turning, she picked up the refolded jupon, clutching it to her stomach like a shield. The slash of a red cross reminded her of the sick and wounded they had walked past to reach his tent.
“Here.” She shoved the jupon into his chest.
His fingers, long and strong, covered her hand, trapping her. The beating of his heart pierced through his leather jerkin and into her palm. He looked down at the wad of clothing. “You found the bar of soap and water.”
Brigitte released the jupon. She took a step back, slipping her hand out of his grasp. Callused fingertips released her, caressing her skin. A tingle started at the base of her spine. She shivered.
His nose wrinkled. “The pungent smell of a meat house lingers on your person.”
An ice flow slammed into the rush of gentle pleasure. Stars twirled in front of her face, flashing a warning to hold her tongue. She had just begun to consider her limited options when he had approached the tent. How could she undress with all the English soldiers milling outside? Their shadows and voices penetrated the canvas walls.
To no avail, she sputtered, “Where did you think I would find enough time to bathe properly? Besides, the pitiful amount of water provided barely allowed me to wash my face and hands. Why must you use a pot when there is a place where water is so sweet it must come from heaven?”
“My apologies.” He stepped back, allowing the distance between them to grow. “I didn’t have time to think about such things.” He shoved his fingers through his unruly mane, raking through the chestnut waves coated with soot and sweat.
Brigitte busied her hands, smoothing her palm down the tattered skirt. “Your meeting with the king took less time than I anticipated. Mayhap later you will stand guard so that I might finish?”