by C. C. Wiley
Drem nodded. “Remind them to make haste. There is bound to be trouble soon enough. The few skirmishes we’ve had have been too small. They are patient and will outwait us.”
The hair on his neck prickled. Had it been only a rabbit? Or had the enemy directed Alexandre to the grotto? Parley or not, Drem intended on having a private meeting with the man.
“Henry is impatient,” Darrick said. “I fear this parley will not go well for any of us.”
“Aye. We are all ready for this siege to end.”
A cold breeze swept over the hillside, pushing the meadow grass, bending it to its will.
“’Twould be well that we are on the march before fall sets in.”
The crisp air bit into Drem’s skin. His stomach twisted. A bitter autumn would be here before anyone was prepared. “Will the one they call the Defender attend the meeting with our king? Or are we to waste our time with the master?”
“De Gaucourt refused and sent out his emissary.” Darrick snorted. “Mayhap he hopes we will do him the favor of killing Alexandre.”
“’Twould not be that difficult.” He shrugged. “Brigitte might even do it for us.” Her fury flashed in his mind, warning him that he had best clear the air regarding the broken bit of necklace he had taken from the master.
Darrick lifted the reins, tugging the beast’s head toward the archers. “Best catch up with them before Piers gets to him first.” He paused. “The boy tells an interesting tale of how he arrived at Harfleur. If I didn’t know better, I’d fear he’s been kept hidden.”
Drem scratched day-old whiskers. “To be ransomed? Who would pay it?”
“That is for us to discover.” Darrick waved a salute in Drem’s direction. “For now, know that the woman and boy are under our protection.”
Drem hastened after the small group of men and caught up with them in no time at all. Their pace hampered by Alexandre’s limp, they barely made it to the edge of the encampment.
His thoughts tumbling, he searched the people sitting outside the wall. Soldiers, women, those who were ill, afflicted with belly pain. He walked past those who had succumbed to the ravages of the sickness. Their tortured bodies were placed in a pit while the French waited for the rest of the English army to fall. He held his breath to keep from breathing in the stench and disease.
Where was she?
“Sir Drem,” Piers called out as he ran to meet him. He came to a sudden halt. Eyes rounded, he looked like a scared rabbit about to bolt for the brush.
Drem knew fear when he saw it. He jerked his head in the direction of the boy’s stare.
’Twas toward Alexandre. What was it he had kept exclaiming all the way down the hill? That he was not about to let a bitch steal one of his fledglings.
Drem tightened his grip on the sword’s hilt. He waved Piers close and draped his arm protectively over his shoulder. “You’re in good health. Have you seen our Brigitte?”
Alexandre’s color went from pale as gruel to a flushed red. The cane stayed in his hand, clutched in a death grip. Drem’s next step was to have that thing taken away, and he did not give a fig if the man toppled over like a stool with a broken leg without it.
“Aye. I saw her last talking to Sir Nathan. I’ll fetch her now.”
“Good lad. Have her meet me in our tent.”
Piers scampered off in search of his Bee. Drem smiled. Darrick’s watchful attention agreed with Piers.
Drem glanced at the glowering master of the Nest. He could roast a wild boar over the hatred flaring from Alexandre’s black looks.
The master flicked his fingers and flashed a coin, then made it disappear.
Drem scrubbed his jaw. The reflexive need to find Brigitte itched, like an unreachable rash.
Alexandre supplied a smile, full of bared teeth that never reached his cold eyes. Tilting his head in a nod, he shrugged and dusted his hands of invisible dirt.
Movement over the ridge caught Drem’s eye. A flash of sunlight. And then another, reflecting suits of armor, showing off a string of steel.
They thundered down the hill toward the group of archers.
“Sir Darrick,” Drem shouted. “To arms, men! To arms.”
His muscles flexed. It was too far to run to help them. He would never reach them in time. His broadsword was in the tent. No time to go for it now.
Drem spun on his heels. One of the wagon horses stood tethered to a cart. He grabbed the harness and leaped on the beast’s back. He bent low and slapped its rear. It jumped forward, nearly unseating him. Memories of his childhood in Wales flooded his racing heart. No need for a saddle. He and the horse would do it together.
In the time it took him to locate a mount, several of the other soldiers were riding alongside him, shouting at the French curs. He cut his glance to the grim-faced knight, matching his pace. Nathan leaned forward, his broadsword swinging from his hip. They drew their swords in unison. Light bounced off the metal, reflecting the sun.
The images of the men he had trained with, fought with, flashed in his mind as some of them went down. The fighting quarters were too close for the archers to get off shots. The French knights swarmed Darrick’s destrier. Their swords slashed and hacked at the men. As Drem drew closer, he saw that a few of the men carried cudgels and heavy maces. Some used the posts they had already cut from the elder trees.
“For England and King Henry,” he shouted, uniting his force with those around him.
His mount shied from the deafening clash of metal, the cries of pain. Drem took off, propelling his way into the melee.
All too soon, the skirmish was over. The French retreated, their damage done. Three archers had fallen from the cut of well-placed swords. Another had had his skull caved in from the blow of a mace.
“Darrick!”
The wounded knight leaned across his destrier. The horse bled from cuts, a gash running over his rump. Both bloodied, but they were still standing. Darrick ran a hand over the animal, cooing softly in its ear.
“Drem. ’Tis good to see you.” Nathan joined them and clasped their shoulders. “My thanks for leaving a few of them for me to send off.”
Drem shook his head. “I feared we would not arrive in time.”
Darrick grimaced. “Henry?”
“In his tent.” Nathan grinned. “Pax. He has his sword and knows how to wield it should the need arise.”
Drem watched over the men as they began the task of helping the injured and the dead or dying. They looked up as a cart rattled up the hill. Brigitte sat on the bench. Her mouth was set in grim determination as she pulled on the reins.
* * *
Brigitte gritted her teeth and fought the horses that would rather stay in the camp. They could smell death spread over the valley. So much destruction.
Piers had told her Drem’s orders were to meet him at the tent. But how did he expect her to sit and wait? She had tried, but the sounds of the battle ate at her stomach. Bile reached her throat. She had to do something. She knew ways to help heal the injured and could haul the men back to camp in the cart. It made sense for her to do more than hide inside a tent and wait for news. That last brought her to make the decision to steal the cart and go out to the battlefield. What if Drem needed her?
She searched the meadow. Silence bore down on the small band of men. Only the sound of sweet grasses as the breezes caught their bobbing heads and rubbed them together.
One man separated from the group and headed toward her. Broad shoulders swayed as he ate up the distance between them. Relief turned her legs to liquid. She tightened her fingers over the reins.
“Stop,” he shouted, motioning for her to stay.
The firm line of his mouth cut across his flushed face. His rigid back and marching pace urged Brigitte to obey his order. The cart horses bounced their great bodies into each other. Their ears twitching, they blew out nervous breaths and stamped their hooves.
Dark stains slashed across his chest. Sweat glistened on his forehead. Brigitte mad
e an inventory of his strong limbs. He did not limp. Nor did he brace his arms.
Her legs shook as she disembarked from the cart. Licking her lips, she untangled her skirts and tried to regain control of the tremor that threatened to shake her to her core. She ran to him, her arms outstretched, aching to hold this man she barely knew yet cared so much for. “Drem, I . . .”
“Brigitte, you shouldn’t be here.” He started to touch her and withdrew his red-stained hand. “Stay where you are.”
“I came to help.” Her arms dropped to her sides. “If you don’t need me, mayhap those who are injured do.”
Grimacing, he glanced over his shoulder. “Aye, but I would spare you the gore from the skirmish.”
“I’ve tended all matter of injuries at the Nest.” She touched the spot above his heart. The padded gambeson had a tear in it that ran from neck to breastbone. Her pulse fluttered. She examined the hole. A blade had come close to ending his life. No blood. She took a deep breath to clear her muddled brain and press her point. “I’ve seen enough to know that I won’t lose my nerve.” Turning back to the cart, she picked up the reins and led the beasts toward the men.
He caught up with her and matched his paces with hers. “I’ll take the reins.”
Brigitte stared at his outstretched hands. Small nicks marred his tanned skin. He had gone to the aid of the other men without thinking of his own safety. “I’m well able.”
At her resistance, he added, “These horses aren’t battle ready. They’ll balk when they smell blood.”
“Here.” The burn of blisters from the reins pulsed over her fingers.
Adjusting her gaze, she knelt beside an English soldier. She rubbed damp palms over her thighs and began accessing his injuries. Men who could walk on their own had started the trek to camp. The fallen who would never return home to their families were being tended by their brothers in arms or being loaded in the cart.
A French soldier called out to her. She turned to the man. His lower limbs were bent.
“Brigitte,” Drem said softly. “Our men come first.” He gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “I’ll see to him.”
“Oui,” she said, glancing over at the injured man. The standard on his soiled jupon was a dancing lion. Like the one that had been emblazoned on the side of the carriage that had brought her to Harfleur and then abandoned her. She turned her back and wondered at the cold heart that would do such a thing to a child.
“Please.” A boy, not much older than Piers, trembled on the ground. His shallow breaths shuddered as he fought the pain. Blood spread down his arm. “Please,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I need me arm.”
“Young John, is it?” Her heart ached for him.
His brows beetled. “An archer, you see.”
She soothed him, her palm on his forehead. “Let’s get you to camp.”
Drem knelt beside him. “Young John, ’twas an honor to fight beside you. You fought like a bear.”
Sweat glistened on the boy’s pale cheeks. “Please, Sir Drem, don’t let them cut it off.”
Brigitte ripped off a strip of material from her skirt to staunch the flow of blood. Young John caught her fingers. “Promise me?”
Not wanting him to see anything but hope, she kept her gaze on his face. “I promise.” She swallowed, praying she could fulfill his request.
“As do I,” Drem said.
Tears scorching the back of her throat, Brigitte rose and wiped her bloodied hands on her skirts. “Let’s get back to camp.”
She flinched as they walked past the fallen banner. Her heart thundering against her ribs, she stared at the dancing lion and recalled a childhood memory of an outing with Maman and Monsieur le Faire.
Chapter 15
Drem held Young John’s hand until they reached the surgeon’s tent. Fury boiled under his skin. The time to negotiate with Harfleur had passed.
He ducked his head. It would take a miracle for them to survive unscathed. He clenched his fingers. The swan coin the French soldier had slipped into his hand as Drem bent over him now bit into his palm and his conscience. How did the swan fit with the one he had hidden from Brigitte and the other he’d hidden from his brothers? Torn at whom to trust and whom to turn to, he decided to keep his own council until he knew more.
“Remember your promise,” the boy said. He gave Drem a watery smile.
“Aye, lad. I’ll have a word with the surgeon.” He ruffled Young John’s hair. “You’re one of my finest archers. King Henry needs you to heal quickly.”
Without a word, the surgeon, Flanners, had the boy carried into the tent. Drem kept silent, biting his tongue. The surgeon would know what to do. Wouldn’t he?
“Brigitte.” He plunged a cup into a barrel of water. “Hold out your hands so we might wash.”
“Oui.” She shuddered from the chilled water as layers of dirt and God knew what else slid off.
’Twas always a relief to remove the remnants of a battle. He looked over her shoulder. Nathan and another soldier had braced their arms together and carried Darrick from the surgeon’s tent. In a foul mood, his leg bandaged, Darrick nodded his head, motioning for Drem to follow.
Drem tossed away the drying rag, stained by the use of others. “I apologize. I must . . .” He needed to follow orders, but to stand with Brigitte a moment longer, just until he knew she would be all right . . .
“Go,” she said, shaking off drops of water from her hands.
He hesitated, fearing she might fall over in exhaustion. Her fair skin, a stark contrast to her dark hair, was closer to the color of porridge. Shock registered in her wide eyes.
“I’ll stay with the young archer.” She waved off his assistance and squared her shoulders.
“A moment.” Drem cupped her jaw. Tilting her head, he placed a tender kiss on her mouth. Despite the horrors of the last hour, she responded to his touch. Her lips softened, trembling against his.
She slipped her hand over his. “Come for me as soon as you are able,” she whispered.
He withdrew and suddenly ached from her absence. “Stay alert.”
“And stay safe,” Brigitte said as she scrubbed her hands against her arms. “Drem . . .”
“Aye?” Guilt washed over him. He could swear her mother’s damned brooch with the ugly swan was pecking at him.
She narrowed her eyes, her hand cupped over her brow, searching the grounds. “Where’s Alexandre?”
“Perhaps he is still trying to negotiate with my king.”
“I don’t like it.” She stood, rooted to the entrance of the tent. “’Tis unlike him to be so visible.”
“Trust that all is well, caru,” he reassured her. As soon as he said the words, he felt the gnawing beast of doubt.
Brigitte nodded. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the flap. A haunted shadow passed over her gaze. The stench of sweat, blood, and the refuse from sickened men wafted through the air.
“I’ll come for you. I promise.”
The corner of her mouth tugged into a crooked smile and she waved him on.
Drem tramped toward the tent where he would meet his brothers. He prayed they would speak quickly and that there would be no prying questions. Shite. Am I expecting miracles?
He ducked his head to gain entrance. Shadows danced across the canvas walls. Men he had never noticed before were in attendance. He scanned the tent. Darrick lay on a cot, his leg bandaged from thigh to below the knee. A red stain bloomed on the bandage. His exertion to join the others must have jarred the wound.
The men crowded around the cot as they gave their report.
“Three injured.”
“Four dead.”
“Pits and trenches are dug.”
“Posts cut and sharpened.”
“Welsh miners are digging as fast as they can.
“Sabotage.”
“Sit down,” Darrick said.
They gathered stools or benches wherever they found them.
“Sir Drem, where’s that shite
-spreading Master Alexandre?”
“Left him with the soldiers when I ran to your aid, Sir Darrick.” Drem cringed under the heavy silence. “They had their orders to bring him to camp. To stand guard over him until told otherwise.”
Sir Nathan folded his arms over his chest. Dark stains marred his leather gambeson. “The fart-licking weasel must have known the skirmish didn’t go his way. He gave the men the slip.” His nostrils flared. “What does the woman and boy have to do with this?”
“Let it go, Nathan,” Darrick said. “That boy, Piers, is a good lad who should never have been brought here. Says he comes from Burgundy.”
“You’ve said enough.” Nathan rose and waved a few of the men out of the tent. As soon as they were gone, he brought out his Knights of the Swan talisman. One by one, the others added their rings. The emblazoned swan was a reminder that some things were better left unsaid.
Drem let his roll out into his palm. He watched the swan wink back, mocking him for his stupidity. He should have said something about the messages someone was trying to get to him.
“We don’t know what game the duke of Burgundy is playing,” Nathan said. “There is infighting. His brothers . . .”
“The struggle between Armagnac and Burgundy continues.”
Without taking his eyes off his brothers, Drem searched blindly for the leather pouch. His fingers came back empty. ’Twas gone. How could he explain what he had seen? What he had been given? Worse, he had lost the keepsake on which Brigitte had sworn vengeance on Alexandre.
“Too busy handling their illegitimate progeny.” Darrick ran a shaking hand over his pale forehead. “The Duke of Burgundy was an ally at one time. I don’t believe he will come to King Charles’s aid this time. Orleans has too much control over the mad king.”
“Where is Piers?” the outraged voice said from behind.
All but Darrick spun around to block the intruder.
Brigitte stood in the doorway. The short blade she carried gave everyone pause. Blood coated an old blanket she used as an apron to cover her damaged gown. Legs braced, hands on her hips, she looked like an avenging warrior priestess.