by C. C. Wiley
She did not think it possible, but the fledglings were thinner now than they had been when she last tucked them into their pallets on the Nest’s cold floor. Eyes sunken above sharp cheekbones. Pale skin stretched over thin bodies. Fear surrounded them, spurring them on.
Their relentless hunt kept her moving until she located the trader’s tunnel.
Alexandre kept it secret for fear they would use it to escape the Nest’s hold. Brigitte had followed him, using all the skills he had taught her. And then he had disappeared into the wall. Alexandre held no magique skills. There was an opening somewhere and she had vowed to find it.
The crevice, no bigger than a wedge cut into the stone, was usually underwater. With the flooding of the fields it now stood at eye level. If anyone happened to look up, she would be seen, a mouse hiding in its hole.
She watched the sun begin its slow, torturous decent. Time crawled. Like a creeping spider over her skin, it spun a web, trapping her with sticky threads of fear. Her bones ached from crouching in one position for so long. She eyed the shadows. They began to grow. Soon the joining of day into night would turn the evening sky purple.
If Piers had managed to get through the tunnel and reach Drem, he should have shared his message by now. The only way to know if he had succeeded was if they moved some of their army against the north wall and broke through the gates.
A chill seeped into the worn leather soles of her shoes. She moved back, her spine scraping the stone. The water level rose. The tide was coming in.
A light wavered against the wall overhead. Someone hovered over a broken parapet. The light winked off. Flashed on. Once. Twice. A third time. Claudette had fulfilled her mission.
’Tis now up to me. Courage swelled. ’Tis my time.
Brigitte lowered herself until the water caressed her chin with fingers cold as ice. She took a shuddering breath and filled her lungs. Letting go of the ledge, she began to sink below the surface. The murky water swirled around her, blurring her vision. It weighted her skirts, dragging her in an iron fist. Too fast. Out of control. Her lungs burned, pressing, threatening to break her rib cage.
Pulling herself along the wall, she felt for the locked gate.
The descent took longer than she had expected. Her mind blurred. What am I looking for?
Sharp metal bit her fingers, bending them back. She cried out in pain. Precious air escaped, bringing the error crashing down. A flash of light stung the back of her eyelids.
The water churned as the muffled sound of bombardment struck again. Brigitte’s mind cleared. ’Twas her only chance.
She gripped the iron handle and twisted. The gate swung open, dragging her out. Tumbling. Air ripped out of her lungs before she reached the surface.
Maman? Is that you?
Chapter 17
Drem knelt on the edge, marveling at the thick darkness of the water. He fisted his sword, preferring to do battle with a hundred men than wait for Brigitte to show herself. Where can she be?
“The parley has failed. The stubborn fools refuse us entrance. Harfleur must be taken by force.” Nathan clasped his shoulder. “Come. We’ve waited long enough. The king’s big gun is ready. We’ll blow it open.”
“Patience.” Drem cringed. “She won’t let us down.”
“She’s French. And a woman.”
“Nay. She is fierce.” His hand trembled as he wiped his mouth. He stared at the water’s surface, willing her to come up for breath.
“That she may be. But there are many who are against her. You know that.” He squeezed Drem’s shoulder, making him wince. “Accept it.”
“You saw the light. Just as Piers said. And this is where he told us to wait.” He glared at Nathan and jerked out of his hold. “We stand firm. We wait. We gave her our vow. Just as she gave us hers.”
“What is the plan after? Have you thought of that, young Drem?”
“She’ll tell us when she arrives.” Drem turned. “Please. Don’t order the miners to retreat. Not yet. Give her a few moments longer . . .”
A wavering movement caught his eye. What would a fish be doing in this brackish water? Curious, he bent down on all fours. His heart thundered in his chest. Could it be?
His fingers cramped as he searched the frigid water.
“What do you see?” Nathan said from behind.
“Brigitte.” Drem ignored the snort and reached out. Fabric slipped through his grasp. “’Tis her.”
He jumped into the rushing stream and struck out toward the swirling material. He caught it. A skirt. Relief flooded him as, hand over hand, he reeled it in.
“Nay,” he cried, his voice hoarse with emotion. He threw the empty skirt to the shore and clambered after it.
Panting, he lay on the rocky ledge.
“Sorry, Drem,” Nathan whispered before abandoning their position.
The emptiness Drem felt matched only one other time. When he was a lad and a fortnight had passed since he had been taken from his family. He had felt all was lost.
And then, soon after, he had realized life had just begun.
Drem pushed up. His arms shook. His knees ground into the stone. “I’m here! Brigitte, I’m here!”
A shadow moved. It sent sheets of water raining over the tunnel floor.
The beauty rose up. Brigitte’s gasp broke the silence like shattered ice. Then she sank.
“Brigitte.” Drem dove in. He caught her, dragging her body to his chest. Stripped of all warmth, she was rigid and unyielding. Together they fell from the water.
He shoved her hair from her face. A ring of gray surrounded her purple lips. A bruise formed on her forehead as blood trickled into the arch of her brow
Drem knelt beside her and wept. Tears for her courage. Tears for her stupidity. Why hadn’t she trusted him? They could have found another way.
He lay beside her. Too far away. He could not let her go so soon. Cradling her, he whispered, “Caru. Come back to me.”
* * *
The tumbling had stopped. The burning lungs. The stinging eyes. Even her head no longer ached. She cursed the hunger for air that pushed her to rise too soon. She and the low ceiling of the underground tunnel had crashed into each other. Stars in a cold, moonless sky.
Brigitte floated after the light. Maman?
Do not let them win.
I’m so tired.
’Tis no time. Take off your skirt. Now.
Brigitte flinched at the order. She fumbled with the strings holding up the skirt. It drew away from her as easily as it had when she and Maman had servants to help them undress.
Free of the weight, she rose out of the water. Freedom slapped her awake long enough to gasp for breath. And then she sank deeper into the midnight depths.
’Tis right. ’Tis good. You are no longer alone.
Maman’s tender croon rocked her as she floated across the sky. Up. Away from the struggle. Away from hunger. Away from the fight.
No! You are not finished.
“Caru.”
There was a handsome man who called her his love. She struggled to sit up, but the heaviness on her chest stilled her movement. Drem?
Her so-cold heart began to warm. It began to thump out a rhythm. Drem. Drem. Drem.
“Cariad! Beloved, come back to me!”
No longer wanted, the peace she had thought she craved felt like a trap. Brigitte swam through the murky darkness. Searching for the man who called out her name.
Heat beckoned her. A fire in the darkness. Having a target to aim toward, she pushed against the wavering veil and shot through.
Brigitte gasped. She filled her lungs with dank air and did not care.
The man clasping her close had his head buried in her neck. The warmth of his body drew her to his flame. A living light surrounded him.
She coughed, leaving her body weakened but completely free from the tunnel’s grasp.
He drew away, taking the warmth with him.
Drem pressed his forehead to hers. “You�
�re alive,” he croaked.
Smoothing the hair from her face, he rained fiery kisses on her mouth, her cheeks. Her chin. And with each kiss, each touch, another part of Brigitte returned from Maman and the midnight sky.
Her hand floated up to his jaw. “Oui.” Her voice was deep, like a riverbed. Rough and gravelly. “We are not finished. Not yet.” She pointed to the gate she had opened nearly at the cost of her life. “’Tis the way in. Tell them . . . to hurry. Before we are found out.”
* * *
Drem kicked out, swimming deeper into the cold, murky water. He led the way to the gate Brigitte said she had unlocked. The portal would allow them to enter Harfleur.
The guide rope tied around his waist kept Nathan and a soldier-at-arms from swimming astray in the murky water. Another soldier fed them the rope, giving them a path should they need reinforcements.
The chill seeped into his bones. He had decided to replace his leather tunic with a linen one. His chausses offered little protection but the idea was stealth, not surprising the townspeople with his naked arse. The small sword he kept for close combat was strapped to his calf. He would have found comfort in having his broadsword, but Brigitte was adamant there was no room. She feared for his safety, that he would be caught by his beloved weapon, and had refused to be taken to the surgeon’s tent until he promised to return unharmed.
His lungs began to burn as he searched for the gate. How had Brigitte managed through this liquid hell? An urgent need to breathe squeezed his heart, making it pulse in his ears.
How did she fare? Nearly losing her had shaken him deeply. He had been through many a battle, but the thought of her head injury made him queasy. Though he wanted to be by her side, he was avowed to serve his king. He took comfort in knowing that Darrick had promised to keep her in his care until Drem’s return.
He made contact with the gate’s iron bars. Relief rushed through him and he kicked forward.
A tug on the line yanked him backward, reminding him to slow down. The two behind him carried the weapons they would need once they breached the wall.
Drem’s ears began to ring. He made it through the gate and waited for Nathan to pass. The soldier behind him began to sink under the weight of the swords. Drem grabbed the boy by the back of his tunic. He took the lead again, dragging the arms bearer with him.
They broke through the surface and clambered out. How long had they been underwater? A minute? And yet it felt like years since Drem had gazed upon Brigitte’s face. The sky was still dark. They still had time before the townspeople awakened from this nightmare.
Drem snapped the rope twice, then one long tug. A faint response vibrated in return. Trusting that the message had been received, he tied off the line so that no one would see it.
Nathan nudged his shoulder and pointed.
Drem acknowledged that he saw the lights. “No time to waste.”
Keeping low to the ground and against the wall, they hurried into position. Nathan and the soldier were to guard Drem as he raised the north portcullis. ’Twas a mad plan.
A bombardment from one of Henry’s great cannons hit the north wall. Then another, the second striking the south wall. Then another to the north. The ground shook from the impact. Forcing the citizens to the south would reduce the casualties and give them time to regain their senses and convince Raoul de Gaucourt to surrender the town.
Drem and Nathan grinned at each other. The message had indeed gotten through to the king. The only step left to breaking the siege was to raise the portcullis; the soldiers would follow.
* * *
Brigitte awoke with a start. A gentle breeze caressed her cheek, lifting strands of hair to tickle her. She opened her eyes and blinked at the unfamiliar light. Sunbeams stretched across the floor. Tilting her head, she watched half-naked cherubs cavorting from cloud to cloud across the ornate ceiling. The mattress on which she lay eased with the slightest movement. It was worthy of nobility. How odd that it reminded her of home. Of Maman.
“Drem?” Her mouth was dry, her tongue thick. Had he succeeded? Was he safe? Tears slid down her face, trailing beside her ears. Her head throbbed from thinking.
A snuffling rustle caught her attention. Piers sat beside her, his legs curled beneath him. He rested his head on his arm, his fist pressed to his chest as if to ward off intruders.
“Piers,” she said, her voice so raspy she hardly recognized it.
The heel of his boot hit the floor. He grunted as he straightened in the hard chair. “Bee!” he squealed, jumping to his feet. The bed shook under his weight as he bounced on the mattress. He peered at her, his grin stretched wide “You’re back.”
She swallowed past the raw patch in her throat. “Where’s Drem?”
“Serving the king.”
“The siege . . .”A cough rattled her chest.
“’Tis over.” He ducked his head so that all she could see was the crown of his golden curls. She had seen this look before. One that foretold more to his story.
Brigitte pushed her body up on weakened arms. They shook under her weight. “And . . . ?” She plucked at his sleeve. “What aren’t you telling me, lad?”
“Drink.” He handed her a cup. “The surgeon Flanners said ’twould help with the pain.”
Brigitte eyed the liquid and sniffed. “Watered wine would serve me better.” Relief flooded her when he nodded and reached for the pitcher and a fresh cup. “Merci.” She watched the boy as she sipped the liquid, letting it trickle down her raw throat. “Have you seen Drem?”
Piers set the pitcher down. Shadows and sunlight played across his face, battling for control. His lip quivered before he caught it between his teeth. The bloom of his youth had faded while she slept. Determination now squared his shoulders. “He’ll be along once he has dispatched the citizens who do not wish to bend their knee to their new king.”
“Dispatched?” She saw something in the boy’s eyes. A shadowed glance away before she could look deeper.
“The women and children?” A gnawing fear began to grow. Had she misplaced her trust in Drem to do what was right? She crushed the bed linen under her fingers. What have I done?
They turned at the sound of hobnailed boots striking the stairway. The door swung open. Light streamed in. The breeze rushed through the window and hall, as if to escape the room.
“Brigitte . . . my caru,” Drem whispered from the doorway.
Damp waves of auburn clung to his collar. He rushed to her side and tenderly embraced her shoulders. His breath warmed her neck. He ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. The touch of his mouth to hers sent heat racing through her limbs. He smelled fresh, of soap and mint.
Her strength was renewed. The beat of her heart sped at the touch of his hand, the caress of his gaze.
Piers moved away from the bed. He picked up a porcelain statue, rolling it in his hands. “Aye. The fledglings have been forced to fly. To leave the Nest.” He set the figurine down on the table. “Isn’t that the right of it, Sir Drem?”
“Aye, lad,” he said, clapping his hand over Piers’s shoulder. “You know ’tis the way of it . . . for now.”
Brigitte watched the looks they exchanged. Shadows filled their eyes.
“Oui.” Piers nodded, pulling away. “I’m to find Sir Darrick once you’re awake.” He squinted up at Drem, looking like an archer preparing for a shot. “You’ll stay with her?”
“Nothing could move me from her side,” Drem vowed.
Piers snorted and glanced toward Brigitte. There was something he wished to say, but he stopped short and snorted again before leaving them. The slow patter of his feet carried down the hall until it was nothing more than a whisper.
Brigitte lifted her face to Drem. He had secrets of his own. She would know what he guarded, what pained him. She ran her palm over the backs of his hands. Cuts and bruises marred his knuckles. Were there more, hidden beneath his tunic? She slid her hands over his rib cage, pausing when she felt the intake of his breath.
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“Are you injured?”
“Your touch does but distract me.” He lifted her hand and nibbled the pads of her fingers. Mischief glittered in his eyes. “’Tis a pleasant distraction. One that I never want to lose.”
Brigitte could not let it go. “Then what darkens your eyes?”
He turned, glancing away to hide his secrets.
She tightened her fingers. “What does Piers mean? The children from the Nest?”
He frowned, his brow furrowing as he took a deep breath and started to turn away again.
“Where is Alexandre?” She searched the room, out the window, trying to recognize the location. She had been here before. Years ago. The night the men brought her to Harfleur.
“Drem, whose home are we in?” She arose from the bed, refusing to let him retreat. Her legs wobbled on unused muscles. Panic constricted her throat. “How long have I slept? Tell me.”
“We feared for you.” His voice was gravelly with pain. “You’ve been asleep for over a week. Your head . . .” His palm hovered over her forehead. “And then the fever. The cough.” He snatched his hand away, smothering his mouth. Tears glittered from eyes as deep green as a forest.
She pressed her hands to his lips. “I’m awake now.”
Nodding, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She rested her cheek against his chest. His heart drummed faster and faster. He drew her closer, providing protection.
“We’ve watched over you. Made sure no one but your friend Claudette entered to care for you.” He cleared the emotion from his throat and kissed the top of Brigitte’s head. “Everything went as planned. You brought the siege to an end.”
She lifted her head. “I did it to save the children from starvation. To stop the suffering.”
“This I know.” His arms flinched, as if he relived the scene. “The delay in opening the gates brought more fighting. There were casualties. From the siege or after.” He shrugged. “Who can tell?”