by C. C. Wiley
“’Tis why I’m placing my trust in you as well.” He tossed back the ale, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I vow to tread carefully and not lose my head.”
“Or your heart,” Darrick added.
Too late for that. Drem gulped the last of his ale and set the cup on the table. “If Henry intends to ride upon the dawn, there is much to prepare. And the very people Brigitte stood against when she opened those gates to save them . . .”
“. . . think us weak and ripe for the plucking once the king’s army has moved out of the gates.”
Drem took a deep breath. “Thus ring the notes of another late night.”
Chapter 20
The king and England’s army prepared to leave Harfleur early that morning. While the sun crept over the hills, Brigitte climbed the crumbling stairway to the parapet of the outer wall. She avoided the last place she had seen Claudette’s broken body and searched the mass of men. They marched in waves. Foot soldiers, archers, mounted knights, and supply wagons. The king and nobles. Their traveling caravan created a trail of dust behind them. Their destination, Calais.
She bit her lips and fought back tears of frustration. Calais. The safe haven where Maman had directed her to travel was as out of reach as the moon.
The shopkeepers the king had brought to Harfleur were determined to make their new home prosperous and pushed out the French stragglers. Outside the gate was no better. Word came that the roads were dangerous with robbers and worse.
She pressed her hand to her throat. And somewhere out there, Alexandre waited to extract his vengeance. The nightmares grew in strength.
She rubbed her damp palms over the butter-soft woolen gown Drem had delivered to her that morning. It took her several attempts to ignore its beauty. Amber threads ran through the weave of the forest green material. The garment reminded her of his eyes. Golden chips sparkling when heated with passion.
Stroking the soft wool, she held off the questions as long as she could. But they came to her again. Who had worn the dress before her? Why should she care? She was a thief. Once an instructor of the Nest.
Her hand stilled. Drem knew the gown would fit her because his hands had roamed her body, measured her curves. Unlike a purse filled with shiny coins lifted from an unsuspecting knight, a dress was personal. Was she like Maman? Receiving gifts for favors of love?
Brigitte felt the pull, tugging her attention to the valley and the army’s right flank. The king’s banner fluttered as the standard bearer nudged his mount. A knight sat upon his destrier, his broad shoulders stretching his leather jerkin. The rising sun glittered on the polished surface as he turned to speak to the king. ’Tis Drem. Her heart leaped in admiration and excitement. She pressed her stomach against the parapet and strained to hear what was being said. Fear swept through her. Please. Please. Do not take him away from me.
The powerfully built king clasped Drem’s forearm, then he whipped his mount around. He galloped toward the knights and soldiers waiting for him to join in their march.
Drem’s midnight steed, Aeron, did not move. He lifted his head, searching the wall until he found what he was looking for. Raising his gauntlet-covered hand, he saluted her. To her relief, he rode toward the gates instead of on the campaign.
His pale face was stern. Roses bloomed over skin stretched across high cheekbones. The wind tugged his auburn curls until he clapped his helmet on his head. Barking out orders as he walked past, his focus on those left behind.
Brigitte let go of the wall’s ledge and moved away on watery legs. Drem had not gone with the soldiers and he was displeased. How long until he showed himself to her again?
* * *
Days later, the weather had shifted over Harfleur and Drem had yet to seek her out.
Storms drove in from the harbor. Rain pounded the streets, washing the town’s destruction into the ditches. Mud coated the streets with a slick sheen, making footing unpredictable. A thin layer of ice shifted and crackled with her steps.
Wind whipped at Brigitte’s clothes, plastering the damp folds against her legs. She clapped a hand over the hood of her cloak to keep the driving rain from soaking through. Lifting her skirts, she tested the surface before climbing the steps to the Nest. She cast a furtive glance toward the alley, then the garden.
’Twas madness to venture out of the house. And she feared doing nothing of import would indeed turn her into a babbling fool.
Drem would be infuriated when he learned she had come here without him. The preparations for the archers had kept him away for several days. Even though he had placed a guard at the door, she felt the tension of the townspeople rising. When she had awoken that morning, she had found a note by her bedside table. No doubt a fledgling had slipped into the house while she slept. It left her little choice. She had to speak with them. Explain her reasons.
They held her responsible for their plight. They threatened rebellion against the English soldiers. Brigitte had no desire to find her neck stretched by either faction.
Now that some of the supplies were reaching the harbor, the routines of the garrison had resumed. The king had ensured that shopkeepers were brought in from England. Fresh soldiers had arrived to protect the garrison and with them, coins for the taking.
She rested her hand on the trapdoor’s latch and listened. Morning had always been the quietest time in the Nest. Most of the older children slept off the previous night’s escapades. Soon the younger ones would be awake, distracting the burgesses while others lifted their wares.
’Twas her one opportunity to search for the treasures Alexandre had stolen from her.
A handful of mud struck Brigitte in the back. She spun as the next one splatted next to her head. Squaring her shoulders, she thrust out her jaw, determined to confront the rabble. “Stop. I’m one of you.”
“Traitor!” someone shouted. “Whore.”
“I had no choice.” She sought a tender face that would remember how she had cared for them. “Don’t you see? ’Tis Master Alexandre that brought us to this—”
She cried out as the mud clods pelted her body. The soft missiles became more painful as displaced shopkeepers and other adults joined the mob of fledglings. Intent on returning fire, Brigitte ducked down to retrieve her own weapons of mud and stone. She hissed as a rock cut her cheek. Stars appeared in front of her eyes, filling her head with a buzzing roar.
She staggered through the door, slamming the bolt home, before crashing onto the floor. Voices carried through the wooden panels as they shoved at the barred access.
Scrambling to her hands and knees, she crawled to the trap door. She would return to her old ways, what she knew. Become invisible to those who did not want to see.
* * *
Drem rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. Sleep had evaded him for several days and nights. The new archers were put through their paces. Those who had been with him since the beginning of the siege were given an hour or two of rest, but they, too, had to be ready. Their numbers had been decimated by sickness and disease. They had underestimated the timing and the tenacity of the French. The weather had turned. The days were shorter, the nights colder. And now the king had taken their warfare to the French enemy.
Rain pelted the thatched roof. Drem looked up at the ceiling as the pitch of the storm changed. His hand froze over the parchment. Horror tightened his grip on the quill pen, smearing the words he recently had written.
The door opened. Wind ripped it from Darrick’s hand, bouncing it against the wall.
“Christ’s bones,” Drem growled. He slapped his hands over the documents, trapping them before more damage was done. “Shut the damn thing.”
Darrick grunted, slamming it behind him. He unwrapped his great cloak and shook it out. Ice pellets flew.
Tilting his head, Drem listened to the drumming on the roof. “’Tis a bitter day.”
“Worse tonight.”
Drem threw down his pen. “At least we have a fire.”
Dar
rick curled his lip and tossed his cloak on a peg. His wound had healed, his limp less pronounced. The man was angry as a bear prowling a cave. Drem understood his mood. He, too, wanted to be riding in the storm, knowing the power of his destrier charging forward into battle. But orders were orders. Henry wanted them to keep the garrison under English rule.
“D’ you intend to speak with your woman?” Darrick asked.
Drem leaned back in his chair. He wished the knight had taken to disobeying orders and rode out of the garrison. The horse’s arse would not let go of what he thought needed to be done. Not that Drem didn’t want to . . . but Christ on the cross . . . being ordered to wed a woman took the heat out of the moment. There was also that little bit of information he had to share with Brigitte. Her mother’s brooch still weighed down his purse. Though why she wished to keep the broken bit of jewelry made no sense to him. He had kept it with him, hoping to learn the meaning of the piece from the priory and now this.
“Haven’t had the opportunity, as you well know, brother.”
“Best get on with it. I’ve heard reports of grumbling among the people.” Darrick glanced up. “The joining of you and the Frenchwoman might bring peace to the garrison.”
“Or a rebellion.”
* * *
Brigitte hid in the shadowed alley while the early autumn storm pelted her bruised body. She dared not step out until the crowd of angry citizens gave up the chase. Pressed against the stone wall, she watched the townspeople run past. They pushed and shoved until they were in the middle of the square.
Soldiers moved in to restore order. Men-at-arms made their presence known, grabbing at some of the fledglings. Muddy and wet, the children slipped through their gauntlet-covered fingers.
She shivered. Rain seeped through her cloak and trickled down her back. Weary and heartsick, she waited, watching for a moment to climb the steps in safety.
Covered in mud, the taller boy, Tobes, stalked the streets. He stopped and stared up at the mayor’s house. He pointed at Brigitte’s bedroom window and shouted, “You don’t belong here no more.”
The message delivered, they slowly began to disperse like the wraiths Alexandre and Brigitte had taught them to be.
She walked cautiously toward the building. Her legs trembled as if she had run through the city. Flashes of her past. The many times she had faced the chance of being caught and branded a thief. They burst through her thoughts. How had she allowed Alexandre to coerce her to thievery when he cared so little for anyone but himself?
The guard presented his pikestaff. It clicked against the stone. The sword at his hip caught the street lanterns’ light.
“Bugger off, street trash,” he growled.
One of the English boys, a squire she had seen with Sir Darrick, stepped up to her. “What do you want here?”
He seemed taller than the last time she had seen him running with Piers. His arm looked healed from the skirmish weeks before.
Her hand trembled over her mouth. “Please. ’Tis I, Brigitte.”
Doubt pulled his brow into a scowl.
“I’m Piers’s friend,” she added before a shiver took over.
Recognition lit his face. “Let her pass, Godfred,” he said.
Relieved, she lifted her sodden skirt and stumbled up the steps before they had a change of heart. She paused, her foot on the last step of the stairs. “Merci, Young John.”
Blushing, he ducked his head and bent in an awkward bow. “I must away.” He turned. “Godfred, don’t let anyone pass through those doors.”
The soldier grunted at the boy’s audacity, giving him an order, and planted his staff over the door.
Brigitte took a shuddering deep breath, climbed the formidable stairs, and stepped into her bedchamber. Her steps faltered. When had she come to think of this house as hers? She shook her head at her madness. Indeed, she could no longer stay in Harfleur. Her heart broke at the thought of leaving Drem. Tears streamed until she could no longer control them. Her chest heaved with silent sobs as she slid her back down the closed door. It took too much effort to strip off her clothes or make a fire. Instead, she sat on the floor, still in her mud-coated cloak and dress, and wept.
* * *
Drem’s chest constricted at the sight of mud streaked across the floor. He stormed up the stairs, taking two steps at a time in his wide stride. Fear struck him. He had promised to keep her safe. ’Twas a mace to his heart. She had been accosted while under his protection. Why had she returned to the Nest?
Young John followed close on his heels. The boy panted like a hunting dog after a fox. “Shite,” he muttered. A horrified look made him glance toward the chamber door. “’Tis that her weeping?” He stopped with his knuckles white against the hilt of his small sword.
“Aye.” Drem bit his lip. He willed the courage to take the next steps. To knock on the door. Feeling the boy’s pain, he added, “Run along, lad. Tell Cook I order them to serve you an extra trencher tonight. And John?”
“Sir Drem?”
“Have someone bring up buckets of hot water for bathing.”
Young John’s eyes rounded, but he did not waste any time. He raced down the stairs as if a pack of wolves were on his tail.
Drem waited and listened to the tone of the wailing. It had shifted and now came in starts and stops. He gripped the handle. No greater battle had he faced than the one that awaited him on the other side. He opened the door.
Brigitte lay on the floor. A puddle of mud and rainwater pooled around her feet. He knelt beside her and gently lifted her raven hair from her neck. Dirt streaked across her face.
“Ah, my caru,” he crooned. “Hush.” Sitting on the floor, he drew her into his lap.
A hiccup erupted and shook her body. She buried her face into his chest and wept harder. Confused at what to do, he patted her shoulder. “There now. You’ll make yourself sick. We don’t want that, do we?”
Her shoulders stiffened under his palm. At a loss as to whether she was injured or angry, he cast a glance around the room. Why had she disobeyed his order and left the chamber?
“Can you let me see you?”
“No,” she said. Her mouth moved against his leather jerkin. “I never cry.” She sniffed. “Never.”
“I have,” he said, adding, “a time or two. Although ’tis usually when a maiden tells me no.”
The tears had eased. Relieved, Drem ran his fingers through the tangled mess of her hair. Bits of dried mud fell to the floor. “Let me help you,” he whispered.
Brigitte gave a halfhearted nod, but it was enough to encourage him to press on. He rose with her cradled in his arms and carried her to the chair by the hearth and set her on her feet. She stood still, her head down, as he began to peel away her clothes.
“You’ll let me?” he asked.
“Oui,” she whispered.
His heart clenched. Where was his strong lady thief? Sweeping the fur from the bed, he spread it before the hearth. He tugged on the ribbons holding her cloak together. The ties slid apart. Removing the sodden, heavy cloak from her shoulders, he hung it on a peg by the fire. Lifting her mane, the color of a starless night, he let the dampened strands flow through his fingers.
Freed from the weight, she took a shuddering deep breath. But still she kept her face hidden from him.
He kissed the crown of her head. Wanting to have her gaze upon him, Drem knelt before her. He took one clenched fist and uncurled her fingers. And then the other. Dirt coated her skin, and under the dirt were cuts and scrapes. He held her as if he were holding a bird in his palm.
Tears slid down her cheeks and landed on their clasped hands. He thumbed the tear, lifting it away. Kissed the damp spot until it erased the sign of sorrow.
“Lift your foot. Place it on my knee.”
She complied, steadying herself on his shoulder.
Progress. Drem hid his smile. First one and then the other, the shoes were removed. She stood in her woolen stockings and let him slide his hands
under her skirt. He unrolled the damp wool, peeling it from her slender calves. Her toes curled into the fur he had placed to warm the floor.
“Your gown is drenched clear through?”
“Oui,” she said.
Rising, he gently turned her so that she presented her back. Tugging on the ties, he freed her from the gown. She shivered. The gossamer chemise enhanced her charms instead of hiding them from view.
Yanking the blanket from the bed, he wrapped it around her until she was once again covered. Darrick was correct. He had many questions to ask her. But for now . . . Drem wanted to stare at her beauty forever. He wanted to hear laughter in her voice, her eyes alight with passion.
They jumped at the knock at the door.
Seeing Brigitte’s distress, he pointed to the small alcove. She nodded silently.
He hesitated before letting in the servants. Two boys carried in a large oaken tub. A buxom woman followed behind with buckets of water. Steam curled from the rim. She bent low, smiling as she set the buckets down.
“Is there anything more you desire?” Hovering, waiting, she allowed him a view of her wares hidden under her bodice. “’Tis my desire to please you.”
Drem glanced at the shadow hiding in the corner. When would his passionate lady return?
He waved off the eager servant. “Aye, bring in more water.”
“My caru.” After waiting until they were alone again, he closed the space between them, speaking low so as not to bring attention. “I must return to my duties. Linger in the tub. Wash away the pain of the day.”
She nodded her head.
“There are many things we must speak of.” A long pause hung between them until he stepped closer.
“I will wait for you,” she whispered.
Chapter 21
Brigitte watched the servant continue to carry the buckets into the bedchamber. Where had they come from? She had asked days before for heated water for a bath and been informed she must make do with the pitcher that stood on the bedside table. Why had Drem felt the need to leave? If only he had stayed until they were finished with their task. Nothing was safe anymore.