by C. C. Wiley
Much of the wall had sustained damage from the bombardment of the king’s cannons.
“There is a space on the wall where he often took me. To show me. Warn me,” Brigitte said.
Drem nodded and unsheathed his sword. They climbed the stairway to the parapet.
“’Tis unsteady,” he warned. “I will lead the way, let you know if it is clear enough to pass.”
She found the location where she used to stand and remember her mother and the life they had before Monsieur le Faire disappeared from their lives. She looked out at the glittering harbor and the waves licking the shore, then to the valley below. The rolling meadow stretched out before her.
She stepped up to the wall. Her palms pressed into the stone as she leaned forward.
“Careful.” Drem put his arm around her waist, keeping her from harm.
She looked down again. ’Twas as she feared. Tears filled her eyes, freeing her from the sight of the broken body. A white apron fluttered in the rancid breeze. “Poor Claudette.”
She turned away, gritting her teeth until she thought her jaw would break.
“My love,” Drem whispered as he pressed her head into his chest. “My caru, I will not let him harm you. ’Tis my promise.”
Chapter 19
Brigitte trembled beside Drem. The visit to the Nest had brought them little information. But it had been enough to lead them to the outer wall. He worried the shock of finding her friend’s body would send her into another sickness.
Darrick sat with his injured leg stretched out before him, his foot propped on a stool. He watched and listened as they poured out their findings to him.
“Claudette played a role in the surrender.” Brigitte leaned forward, her hands splayed across the table. “You must find Master Alexandre. Make him pay for her murder.”
“’Tis said he has fled.” Darrick flicked a speck of mud from his hose. “’Tis nothing I can do about it.”
“She didn’t deserve to die,” Brigitte whispered. Her shoulders hunched, she pressed her hands into the top of her thighs.
“And now you understand why young Piers had to leave,” Drem said. “Before it was too late. He’s safe now.”
Darrick let his leg drop from the stool. “I’ll see what I can discover. With the loss of so many soldiers . . .” He shrugged and rose to help Brigitte from her chair. Pain etched a line from his mouth as he held her hand. “We have soldiers and men-at-arms who will guard the garrison. And Sir Nathan escorts Raoul to King Charles and the dauphin for their surrender. My hands are busy with many things in preparation for their march. But we will know to watch for the fledglings and the master of the Nest. Drem,” he added, “escort my lady Brigitte back to her chambers.”
“Aye.” Drem nodded. “We have much to discuss concerning the upcoming campaign.”
“A word,” Darrick said before they could escape. “With Drem,” he clarified.
Brigitte rose, gathering her skirts to keep her hems from dragging the damp floor. Pausing, she turned. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
Drem watched the sway of her hips. She no longer moved to be purposely unnoticed. He suppressed a smile that threatened to reveal what he knew. Brigitte was discovering she had more assets than just a thief’s light touch.
Darrick cleared his throat, drawing him from his appreciation of the curve in her lower back. “We’ve amassed all the provisions there are in Harfleur.” He threw down his quill pen. “For the sake of Henry’s desire to fulfill God’s will and carry out the campaign. There’ll be many more times the unhappy citizens will have to sacrifice.”
“They’re already an unhappy lot.”
“I’ve received word that Mistress Claudette is not the only one whose life has been threatened.”
“Brigitte?”
“There’s a price on her head.”
* * *
Brigitte watched Drem check each room of the house for intruders.
“Wouldn’t you prefer to lie down and rest?” Drem asked.
Brigitte shuddered at the thought of being alone. She clasped her elbows and winced. The bruises from the fledglings had bloomed. For now, though, her heart ached more than her body. The Nest sought a new leader. Their mood bled hatred, forcing out all forms of humanity from the unfortunate. If they refused to comply, there would be more than a few bruises. The King of England and Normandy would not allow them to stay in Harfleur. He would have them cast out. The homeless French living outside the wall would pounce on them. Rip them apart like carrion. ’Twas best to stay under the protection of the English king.
“I should know this house if I am to reside here for a time, oui?” In truth, she had been here before. The first night she had been delivered to Harfleur, before she was released to the streets. Alexandre had arrived, the avenging angel, bringing food and warmth. A wolf offering safety to an innocent lamb.
“As you wish, my lady.” He held out his hand. “But keep behind me.” He motioned to the sheathed sword hanging from his belt. “I’ll need my sword arm free.”
Drem’s eyes concealed the truth from her question. But she had seen that look before: when Alexandre wished to keep something from her.
Nodding, she had kept close to him but out of the way. She should have felt protected, but the hatred of the townspeople outweighed every other thought. The constant thump of construction drew her nerves tight. The bang of an ax made her jump.
Now, when she shut her eyes, she saw Claudette’s body, splayed out like a broken doll, lying on a dung heap. Her fluttering apron stained with blood.
Brigitte picked up a porcelain shepherdess that sat on the fireplace mantel in the solar. She rolled it in her hands.
Drem stood behind her. When he drew her to his chest, heat seeped into her. Protection.
“There is one similar in the bedchamber. Piers found it fascinating.” A tear slid down her cheek. “Mayhap it brought back memories.”
He nuzzled her neck, his lips tickling her skin. “Mayhap it reminded him of his home.”
She returned the figurine to the mantel. What would become of it when she left Harfleur? Who would take over the mayor’s house? The final room to inspect was Brigitte’s bedchamber. She shuddered, knowing that soon she would have to be alone.
Pounding erupted from the entrance. It echoed up the staircase. A runner stood below. He held out a missive clutched in his fist. “You are called, Sir Drem.”
Thanking the man-at-arms, he unrolled the parchment. He tensed, then carefully folded it and placed it inside his surcoat.
“I must return to Darrick.” He lifted her hair, his fingers digging into her scalp. “I fear there are no servants to see to your comfort.”
“’Tis of no consequence,” she said. “I know how to see to my own needs.”
His brow furrowed. Was he questioning her?
“Stay and rest. Lock the chamber door behind me.”
“’Tis safe,” she said with all the courage she could gather. “No one will think to harm me here.”
“All the same . . .” He kissed her forehead, his lips traveling to her temple. She leaned into the warmth of his caress. Tipping back her head, she allowed him to move lower. His teeth grazed her flesh, nipping her neck. A shiver raced down her spine. “Protect yourself, my caru.”
Brigitte swayed on her feet as his fingers feathered over her collarbone. A groan slipped past her lips. She slid her hands through his auburn hair.
Just steps away, the soft mattress called to her. Lured by the desire to be swept away from all the pain, she tugged him closer. She wanted fiery waves to flow through her again, crashing over her mind and body. A few stolen moments in his arms. She took the first step, nudging to the place of heaven waiting for them to take their pleasure.
Flecks of gold in his green eyes sparkled back at her. His quick breaths matching her own. He caught her hand, lifting it to his lips. “I shall return as soon as I am able. I—”
“Promise,” she finished for him. Tur
ning her hand, she placed her palm on his chest. “Your heart pounds. As if you have run a race.”
“I wish only to run to you, not leave you here.” He trailed his finger over the curve of her hip. “Waiting.”
“Wanting,” she added. Boldly, she stroked the smooth tunic under his surcoat, dropping her hand lower. His breath hitched as she tested the bulging need growing under his chausses. It gave her pleasure to know his heart beat for her. Wanting.
“The next time we make love, I vow to do it properly.”
Brigitte wrinkled her nose. “You are ashamed of what we did in the grotto? But I thought it . . . beautiful.”
“Ashamed?” He groaned again. “Never. Next time will be slow and sweet, without fear of exposure. We will love the night away. Awaken to the new day, celebrating in each other’s arms.” Awareness registered. “Wedded as man and wife.”
Brigitte gasped and shook her head. “I’m French,” she said. “Your king will never allow it.”
“He will. I will make certain he does.”
“We barely know each other.” Her hands shook as she smoothed damp palms over her skirt.
His glance moved to the bed. Amusement twinkled back at her. “I believe we know each other well enough.” He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I want to know you even more.”
His kiss made her head spin, stealing her thoughts and leaving her with desire for more. Tears slid past her lashes, trailing down her cheeks.
He sighed over her mouth. Brigitte prepared to feel the onslaught of loneliness whenever they were apart. Sir Darrick would wait only so long. They had tested his patience long enough.
Drem surprised her by lifting her off the floor. He cradled her in his arms and marched toward the bed.
Her breath caught. “Drem. What about . . .”
“Hush.” He nipped the corner of her mouth. “We have much to celebrate.”
Brigitte drew back to see if he was serious. “I have not agreed to wed you.”
Drem grinned down at her as he lay her on the bed. “Then I shall have to persuade you.”
* * *
Provisions were coming through the harbor and required Drem’s attention. The people who had promised their allegiance complied with the orders, but there was so much to rebuild. A cold wind whipped through the room Darrick had claimed as his command post. The newly thatched roof rattled at the onslaught of the change in weather.
And sitting across from Darrick, knowing that he expected him to leave Brigitte behind, made his skin crawl with worry.
“I return to commanding the rebuilding of the garrison,” Darrick said.
“You do not ride with Henry?”
“He has enough in the contingent to protect him. As he says, God is with him.” Darrick cracked the skim of ice forming over the pitcher. He rinsed his hand in the frigid water and shook off the droplets.
“So we march despite the failing weather?”
“Fresh men-at-arms are sailing into the harbor today. They will be ready to fight for their king and country.”
“We lost many good men. Archers, men-at-arms.”
“Noblemen. Clergy,” Darrick finished. “Death does not care a whit for station.”
“What of provisions?”
“Take what we can as it comes in.” Darrick dropped a ladle into a pot of stew that simmered over the hearth and limped back to the oaken table.
“The people . . .”
“Will find a way.” He grimaced. “They have a hearth to huddle around. Whereas our men do not.”
Drem thought of the archers. Most came from humble families. Farmers’ sons who were forced by life’s hand to learn to shoot an arrow or starve. Those who survived the skirmishes and the waiting time of the siege would know more suffering before this campaign was over.
“How long will it take to march to Calais?” Drem sniffed the aromatic flavors coming from the pot.
“If the weather holds? And the French do not wish to leave the warmth of their hearths?”
“Aye.”
“Eight days.”
“If all goes well.”
Darrick nodded. He set another bowl of fish stew on the table. The savory scent of seafood and sage wafted into the room.
Drem’s stomach rumbled. The sleeping dragon of hunger had awakened.
“If not?” he asked.
“Only God knows the answer to that.”
The need to see Brigitte, to hold her and ensure her safety rushed into him. His quest to find the answers to the clues given to him at Dunstable Priory faded in importance. His duty to king warred with his love for the strong woman who had captured his heart when he was not looking.
“Brigitte . . .”
“Not to fear.” Darrick waved him off. “You are to stay here. Continue with the rebuilding of the garrison.”
Drem paused. The crust of bread used to sop up the juices in the trencher hovered near his mouth. “By whose order?”
Never had he been kept from the battlefield. His archers needed him. How had his life changed this much? A knighthood for the brotherhood was to give him more . . . reason for surviving battles and sieges. Being a Knight of the Swan should carry him into the battlefield. To fight by his king’s side. Damn it. My friend’s side. Not to stay back with the infirm.
“Henry desires it.” Darrick held his gaze over the bowl of stew. It hovered near his mouth before he tilted it to slurp from the edge. He nudged the other bowl to Drem. “’Tis time we talk of your woman.”
Drem’s stomach soured. The stew no longer held the same appeal. “Aye?”
Darrick pulled out a pouch. He unfolded a piece of material and smoothed out the torn badge. His fingers pressed the embroidery onto the table. “The lad recognized this. Do you?”
“Aye,” Drem said. He licked his cracked lips, wondering at the game Darrick played. “’Tis like the badge I saw when I visited Dunstable Priory.”
“Nathan presented it to me before he left to escort de Gaucourt to deliver Henry’s challenge to the mad King Charles. Said Raoul gave it to him.” He circled the design. “Showed it to Piers.” His gray eyes glittered with excitement. “The lad recognized it. Appears the boy’s family will be willing to pay the ransom.”
Drem examined the badge. “The House of Burgundy?”
“According to de Gaucourt, someone wanted to keep the boy hidden, secreted away until they needed him.”
“Alexandre?”
Darrick shrugged. “What better way to hide the boy but in a nest of orphaned thieves and pickpockets?”
“Terrwyn will convince the boy to tell her what happened to him.”
“And James will finish the rest by sketching the faces of whoever kidnapped Piers.” Darrick looked up. “’Tis possible the Duke of Burgundy had a hand in this. If so . . .”
“We must tread cautiously when he offers his help.”
Darrick dropped into a chair. “Go to Brigitte. Speak with her. Henry mentioned it again. He worries that she may lead you astray.”
“She is but a pawn in this game of power.”
“May I remind you of her background? ’Tis little we know of her except that she is French.” He held up his hand for silence. “She taught the fledglings of that damn nest to steal. Who was she to Alexandre? There is word he seeks her. Is willing to pay any price for her.”
Drem bristled. “Christ’s bloody wounds.”
“You still keep that ugly necklace from her. Why? Who are you protecting?” Darrick spread his hands over the wooden table. “What is your gut telling you? Mine says she hides a secret.”
“I’m not my father.” Drem clenched his fists.
“Never said you were like that treasonous bastard. If I thought you were, your head would be dancing on a pike.”
“When will you trust that I know what I’m doing?”
“When you pull your head out of your arse and remember who you serve.” Darrick winced as he pushed to stand. “Henry needs the informati
on we gather. Our protection.”
“He is my king and my friend.” Drem fought to keep from lunging over the table.
“And she is a beautiful woman. How do you know what she plans? Who she puts first?”
“She helped us end the damn siege.” Drem flared his nostrils, doing his best not to bloody Darrick’s face.
“I’ll give you that.” Darrick pointedly stared at Drem’s fists. “I must put the question to you. To her. Now. Why did she turn on the master of the Nest?”
“She could not stand for the injustice. The waste of life.” Drem uncurled his fingers and paced the cramped room.
“’Tis a wise Knight of the Swan who questions the motives of everyone.”
“’Tis a lonely existence,” Drem muttered.
“And the reason why I have not let any woman lure me in, snare me with her charms.” Darrick stepped closer. He clasped Drem’s shoulder. “We are knights. And soon we’ll ride into battle. Mayhap never to return. Leaving the woman with empty arms. Is that the end you want for your life? For hers?”
Drem shrugged him off. His heart ached with questions pressing into his soul. Did he want to end his moments with Brigitte? He did not know if he could. She had become a part of his heart the moment she slipped into his life. Like a faerie, casting her spell, she had captured his heart. Their stolen kiss. Her dark eyes, and the way they flared and sparkled with desire, filled his thoughts. Her sighs as she washed over passion’s edge, carrying him with her. Had she been following Alexandre’s orders, pursuing him for information? Drem shook free of the doubt. Their moments of passion in the grotto. They were real. Her courage, swimming to him, opening the gate . . . that was real. Aye, she might have secrets and sadness in her past, but together they would fight the shadows.
Darrick poured ale from the pitcher and held out the cup. “Henry trusts you with his life. What more can a king ask?”
“No more than any other man. Upon my honor as a Knight of the Swan, I won’t disappoint him.”