Knight Quests

by C. C. Wiley

  She flinched when the woman stopped to stare. Brigitte recognized her face. She had given chase, cleaver in hand, after one of the children who had thought to steal scraps of meat.

  The butcher’s wife’s eyes narrowed before turning away. “So ’tis true what they say. They harbor a thief and a whore while the rest of us sleep in the rubble they created.” She kicked a bucket, spilling the water onto the floor.

  Brigitte stepped out of the alcove. “Get out,” she ordered through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, I’ll leave, don’t you have a care about that.”

  Brigitte shoved her toward the door. “Out.” The fur dropped from her shoulders, revealing the diaphanous chemise.

  “I’ll be sure to share the bit of news with the one who seeks you out,” she said. Her eyes dropped to Brigitte’s exposed shoulders. “That one’ll pay me well indeed.”

  “Do not return,” Brigitte said. She glanced around the room until she found what she sought. Running to the table, she picked up the short dagger she used for cutting her food. “You’ll keep your silence or . . .” She pointed the tip of the blade in the woman’s direction.

  “You think to threaten me?” The butcher’s wife thrust her chin in the air. “Look you. Already heard about the chilly reception you received earlier today. There are many who want you dead. Step outside. See who greets you next time. You’d do best to leave and never come back.”

  Brigitte stared until the woman shifted uncomfortably. “Go,” she said, pointing her weapon at the door.

  It slammed behind her. The flames in the fireplace flickered and then rose. Silence followed, drowning out the drumming in Brigitte’s ears. She set the blade nearby and with shaking hands began the task of filling the tub.

  She rubbed at the flecks of mud clinging to her temple. The wretched woman was right. She no longer belonged to the family of the Nest. If she was to survive, she had to find a way to leave Harfleur without anyone being the wiser.

  She untied the ribbons that held the chemise in place and let it drop. It slid down her hips to pool at her feet. Firelight bounced off the crest of her breasts. She turned, letting the warmth penetrate her bare skin. What did Drem see when he looked at her? She tested the curve of her hip, her bottom and thigh. Did he see a thief?

  She shivered as she touched the places where Drem liked to nibble. At times, he was like a boy with a sweet. She would hate to leave him. But what would become of them once the king became bored with his new conquest?

  Steam swirled around her as she stepped into the tub. She hissed at the heat and lowered herself. Sighing, she used a scrap of linen to cleanse away the mud sticking to her limbs.

  Wind rattled the shutters covering the windows. The tapestries used to keep out the cold were drawn and offered the illusion that this was where she belonged. The storm raged outside. It slipped down the chimney, attempting to steal the flames. A chill rushed over the room. The candles flickered. The sound of ice hitting the roof, the shutters, stole the last bit of peace from Brigitte’s thoughts.

  She rose. Her breath created clouds of fog as she hurried to keep the fire going. Donning the chemise and fur, she brushed off her dress and cloak. Peeking through the crack between the shutters, she searched the streets. Soldiers walked the night, braving the winter storm that had come upon them.

  “Too soon,” she muttered. The winter had come too soon for everyone.

  Brigitte waited. The flames on the candlewick dimmed. The stack of firewood grew thin. And she waited for the man who gave her hope.

  * * *

  Dawn entered. Morning awakened, like the creaking of old joints. The water in the buckets had iced over. Brigitte stoked the fire and huddled in her bed. Afraid of asking for anything from anyone, she prayed Drem would remember she waited for him.

  Two days later, the storm continued to battle the building, demanding entrance.

  Restless, Brigitte finished polishing Drem’s armor and then settled on organizing the many pouches hidden in his bags and satchels. The purse she had lifted from him before lay in the pile. Picking it up, she weighed it in her palm, deciding whether to give in to her curiosity.

  Best to stay her hand at once. The habits of thievery came too easy to some. She tossed the purse on the table. A silver disc emblazoned with a swan cut into its surface rolled out onto the surface. She rocked in the chair and stared.

  Memories filled Brigitte’s head. She had seen one like it before. Maman’s lover had placed it in her hand and told her to find him in Calais. ’Twas why, on her deathbed, her mother had sent her to the city by the sea.

  Brigitte rubbed her temple as she rolled the coin between her fingers. Alexandre had had her practice this exercise hour after hour until she could let it play over her fingers while blindfolded.

  There was another time she had seen the coin. She searched, recalling the events that had brought her to Harfleur. The men, passing something between them. And now Drem carried it. What did it mean?

  Alexandre knew who had brought her here and purposefully kept her away from Calais. She intended to find out what he knew.

  Something else was in the little leather purse. She shook it. Her breath caught in her throat as Maman’s necklace slithered into her palm. The ugly swan, broken in half, stared up at her with its unblinking emerald eye.

  The coin dropped through her fingers like a live eel diving for the comfortable shadows it knew best. The knight had a great deal to explain. What else had he kept from her?

  * * *

  Drem stumbled into the bedchamber. Icicles had formed over his dampened hair, crackled and fell from his shoulders. His neck muscles screamed. How many days had it been since he lay down his head and closed his eyes? He kicked the door shut with his heel and stumbled over discarded buckets. His boots slid over the frost-coated planked floor.

  “Shite! What in God’s creation . . .”

  “I’ve been waiting for your return,” Brigitte hissed. She grasped the small dining dagger as if it were a broadsword.

  He pushed back his admiration. She would not understand, and judging by the gleam in her eye, she had no intention of listening to his weak excuses for keeping away from her. The tone warned him to tread cautiously. ’Twas like a banner, waving to announce the enemy preparing for an attack.

  “Bastard,” she said. Her voice hitched with fear and anger.

  Drem edged close, feeling like a hunter of a brilliantly intelligent wolf. He had no chance of winning this battle.

  Choosing not to confront her, he turned and shook out the icicles formed on his cloak. “Can I please have a place to lay my head in peace before I ride out to meet the king’s army? Mayhap decent food that does not taste like dried death?” And this woman. Could she not welcome him instead of threatening to cut off his stones?

  “Caru . . .” he said.

  “Do not call me . . . that . . .”

  Searching for what was amiss. Drem glanced around the room. Empty buckets lay cast aside. Embers from a fire struggled to remain alive. Brigitte stood in front of him, her chemise offering glimpses of the curves and secret places he desired and dared him to cross the line of denied admittance.

  “Brigitte . . .”

  “Don’t talk to me of love . . . my sweet caru.”

  “What disturbs you?” He continued to search the chamber for signs to explain her disposition. “You’ve had to time to rest, have you not?”

  She cocked her head to the storm brewing outside. “They say I’m your whore.”

  “Who says these things?”

  “The butcher’s wife.” The knife in her hand cut through the air. “Everyone. They stand outside, yelling vile things.”

  Drem strode past and unlatched the shutter. The storm attacked, slamming into his weary body. Shadows slithered over the buildings. Was someone moving back into the alley?

  “At least when I was in the Nest, I still had my honor,” she said from behind him. “I’ve lost everything.” Her voiced hitched, bu
t she carried on with determination. “What more can I lose?”

  Drem could not help himself. Pride leaped in his heart for the warrior who now stood beside him. He slammed the shutters closed. More guards were needed outside the entrance. But their number were already stretched.

  “My love, hear me.” He stepped cautiously, closing the gap between them. He dragged his fingers through her hair, tilting her chin. “I must ride to the king’s army. They are in dire need of supplies.”

  “And I have had nothing to eat since you left.” She struck the air with her hand. “I must leave for Calais. Now.”

  He glanced at the empty table. No one had thought of her needs, himself included. “I will rectify your hunger, but ’tis not safe to travel alone.” Capturing her chin, he said, “We will eat and then ride together.”

  “It will take too long. Winter arrives early.”

  “’Tis too dangerous for you.” Brigitte started to pull away, but Drem tightened his embrace. He would not lose this moment. “We are not to be separated.”

  “Why?” she cried. “You have many to choose from. They think me a traitor. A whore and a thief. Why would you care for someone such as I?”

  “Because you steal my breath. You make me desire to be a better man.” He kissed her forehead. “To believe there is more to my life than fighting by my king’s side.”

  She turned to walk away. Doubt had shuttered and clouded her eyes.

  He gathered her close, fearing if he let go he would lose her. “We can defeat those who are corrupt, those who wish you ill.”

  Her passion had dissipated, scaring him to his core. Her face was set in stone. He shook her, fighting against her desire to ignore what he said.

  “You deserve better. You deserve to be treated with honor. Today. This very day. We ride to Calais.” His heart broke, knowing something had happened to dampen her spirit. Where was his lady thief? “We ride to save the king.” He pressed his lips against her cold, unresponsive form. “We ride to save us all.”

  * * *

  The storm gave no sign of abating. A layer of frost already coated the backs of the horses. The cart, loaded with supplies, complained against the cold and the weight of its cargo. The wind bit and ice crystals formed over beards and eyelashes.

  Brigitte tugged the cloak closer. She nodded her thanks when Drem tucked the fur around her legs. Exhilaration swept through her as they passed under Harfleur’s gates. Freedom, the likes of which she had never known, beckoned her.

  “The storm looms over our king and his soldiers,” Drem said.

  “’Tis why we travel at this godforsaken time,” Brigitte grumbled, her arms shielding her chest. “Is it not?”

  “The weather. The timing . . .” He offered an appealing smile. “People are dying.”

  Brigitte fought down her sympathy. He had lied to her and would continue to lie until he explained why he had her mother’s brooch. Her hands fisted of their own volition. She forced them open. A chant to never be noticed echoed in her head. She would use this man and, broken heart or not, cut him loose and sail on to her new life. She forced an understanding smile. “You are the knight. I am but a maiden.” Her eyelashes fluttered with determined precision. “We go where you will.”

  “And we ride to . . .”

  “Calais.” She announced loudly. And to seek out Alexandre. She cast a glance to the sides of the road. Who followed them, only time would tell.

  Chapter 22

  Brigitte glanced up at the roiling clouds. Black spirals sliced into the gray skies. The dark, acrid scent of smoke covered her tongue. “Chevauchée,” she whispered under her breath. The English army’s trail was an easy one to follow. Her throat tightened. They had burned the fields, driving out everyone in their path.

  The harassing Frenchmen drove the king’s men deeper into the belly of France and farther away from Calais. The silence between Drem and Brigitte grew heavy and brittle with each passing village. The people stared after them, their eyes haunted by the atrocities that had befallen them.

  They passed barren land, stripped of life. The French had also burned villages and fields before King Henry and his soldiers could replenish their provisions. And they had destroyed all manner of protection from the weather, forcing both French and English to sleep on the frozen ground and battle the elements.

  Bitter air cut her throat. She coughed into the shawl wrapped around her neck and wished for a hearth to warm her fingers and toes.

  Although snow had refused to fall, winter’s stepdaughter had appeared in its place. The frigid autumn storm bent what was left of the brittle leaves, tearing them from the trees. She crushed life under her heel.

  Brigitte shuddered as their cart rolled past bodies frozen on the ground. Ice cracked and strong men broke while waiting for Drem and Brigitte to save them.

  Drem kept casting glances toward Brigitte. He knew. There was something amiss, but the foolish man did not understand they both had crossed the line of trust. Brigitte did not know how to rebuild that bridge. But reach Calais? She would find a way. Her mother’s broken brooch cut into her palm, demanding that she loosen her grip.

  Drem nudged her shoulder with his as he maneuvered the cart horses over the ravine. “And what shall you ask the king when we are through?”

  “For truth. Justice.” She shrugged. “’Tis certain it matters little.”

  Drem drew up the horses. “We spoke of talking freely. Do you recall?”

  She flicked a clot of dirt clinging to her skirt. “Oui, but then you were but a soldier. Now I discover you are a knight. One who shares the king’s private thoughts.”

  “I’m but his friend. Nothing more.”

  Brigitte turned. She dug into the pocket hidden in her traveling skirt. “Then perhaps if you do not have the answers, you’ll ask him to explain why you’ve hidden the fact that you’ve had my mother’s jewelry all this time.”

  The cart horses came to a halt. The reins hung loose between Drem’s hands. Her heart sank as she noted the redness creeping up his neck. The tick in his jaw.

  Brigitte let the chain slide through her fingers, dangling it between them. “I would have liked to know I could trust you with my life. . . .” Her throat clenched as she wound the chain in her palm. “And with my heart.”

  * * *

  Drem stared at the ugly little bird. Darrick had warned him time and time again to speak to her about the brooch. Return it before she learned of his duplicity. “I’m sorry, my caru.”

  “Stop.” She fisted her hands, whitening her knuckles around the necklace. “You may not call me that. Ever again.”

  “You can trust me.” He swallowed the lump that pressed into his throat. His tongue felt thick and heavy. How would he repair this?

  “Merde.” She shifted her seat until they no longer touched. The wind whipped, cutting through their clothes. She huddled deeper into the fur. “I think not.”

  One of the men-at-arms who rode ahead to scout out the enemy returned on his destrier. He cast a wary glance at Brigitte, then turned his attention to Drem. “A village not far from here.”

  “Aye?” Drem asked. He had had enough reports of destruction. “Pray ’tis fit to stay there and warm ourselves until daylight returns.”

  “Up until this point it has been untouched. There is an inn of sorts.”

  Drem shook out the reins. “Then we go.” He glanced at the tight lines that angled away from Brigitte’s mouth. “There will be time for us to settle this.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and glared in response. “We are headed away from Calais. At this rate, if we are not killed before, it will take weeks instead of days to reach the shore.” She watched the sun begin its descent. “There are bound to be refugees who are headed to Calais. Mayhap this is where we part ways.”

  Drem gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. He took a deep breath. The woman was maddening. He kept his silence, searching for the words to keep her by his side. Or a rope to bind her and
keep her out of their enemy’s arms.

  Their little caravan of wagons and soldiers stopped in the center of the village. The windows were shuttered. No one came out to greet them. Groaning, stiff from the achingly bitter cold, Drem climbed down and held out his hand for Brigitte to take.

  With two words, the men-at-arms began to circle and set posts around the valuable provisions.

  They waited while Drem pounded on the barred door. He would not give up and threatened to break the planks with his fist.

  Brigitte turned. “Mayhap we should sleep in the barn with the wagons and horses.”

  “No. You are a lady of position. Are you not?” He watched the color leave her wind-rubbed cheeks and knew that she did indeed keep her own secrets. He plowed his shoulder into the door. It creaked as someone on the other side lifted the bar.

  Clasping her hand in his, he led her into the warmth of the inn.

  The short, rotund Frenchman rubbed his hands together. Behind him stood a haggard woman, strands of gray hanging loose from the twist of hair atop her head.

  “You’ll find nothing of value here,” he said.

  “We seek nothing but a place to warm ourselves. To hide from the storm until daylight. Then we are away.”

  “How do we know you mean no harm?”

  Brigitte stepped forward. “Please, monsieur, madame.” She dipped a slight curtsy. “We ask only for a respite.” She sniffed the air with appreciation. “’Tis that the scent of fresh bread that fills the air?”

  “Oui.” The woman’s response gained her a reproving glare from the innkeeper.

  “’Tis a heavenly aroma. A miracle.” Brigitte breathed deeply again. “Oh, and sausages.” She licked her lips.

  Drem hungered for those lips to touch his with as much enthusiasm. Her eyes sparkled with amusement.

  “Come. Come,” the innkeeper said, waving them in.

  “We haven’t enough to sell,” his wife said.

  Ignoring her, he continued, “The sausage is my own recipe. Passed down through generations.”

  “Then how ’tis yours, husband?” his wife muttered.