by C. C. Wiley
Chapter 24
Brigitte’s limbs quaked under the woolen skirt. Their night of love had left her weary and sore. She trudged up the hill, stepping past bodies, frozen, abandoned by their comrades. Their empty eyes followed her on this fool’s errand.
Frost covered the desolate fields and trees, their bark branded by the fires. The French and then the English army’s chevauchée had left them wasted and barren.
Regret trailed beside her. Drem had given her all he had to offer. Much more than she could give in return. She had no family. No money. No maidenhead. And, apparently, she had no soul. How else could she manage to leave the man who had stolen her thief’s heart?
Drem was a knight of the king. And she had nothing of value. She bit her lip and tasted blood where the cold had already wreaked its havoc. ’Twas best for Drem’s future with King Henry.
One day her broken heart would mend. Until then, she must ignore the pain and press on to keep her vow to Maman.
Madame Bastion’s note had said the caravan headed to Calais hid nearby in the village. She must make all speed if she planned to join them.
Wind caught the cloak, flapping it against her legs. Grasping it between her hands, she pressed it to her chest. Her knuckles, red with cold, cracked. Ice formed on her lashes, making it difficult to blink. Why did leaving a man who kept so many secrets make her feel as if she left behind a part of her soul?
She tried to warm her heart with the promise to provide Drem with information about the brooch. He was right; it was an ugly piece of jewelry. She had always questioned why Maman treasured it.
She crested the hill. Smoke spiraled from the chimney of a small thatched building. Cautiously, she kept to the edge of the trees and watched for movement coming from the little house.
Ice cracked under foot, scattering a covey of quail. “Hello, little bird,” Alexandre said.
Brigitte turned, gasping, as the cane struck.
* * *
Alexandre paced the hut. This peasant’s home was little more than a pigsty. He sniffed. The pomander did nothing to quell the odor. Tossing it to the table, he bent over his naughty little fledgling. He clenched his fists. She’d brought him to this . . . this hell.
He kicked her chair. “Wake up,” he shouted. Pleasure welled when she jumped. Good little bird. Obedient little bird. “You’ve lost your touch, Bee. I knew you were coming.” A wave of loss washed over him. “Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”
She blinked, eyes wide, and drew back until she noticed the ropes tied around her wrists. “What have you done?”
He dangled the necklace with the broken brooch. When he was through with her, he would sell it. The swan’s emerald eye winked at him. He chuckled, enjoying the thought that the ugly beast shared a secret with him. “Happy to have it back where it belongs: in my purse,” he snarled, his amusement vanishing. “But not enough to pay me back for my hospitality at the Nest.” He dropped it into the pouch hanging from his waist. “Stand up.” He threw her cloak to her. “Our journey is just beginning.”
Brigitte caught it and struggled to put it on despite the binding around her wrists. “Let me go. You no longer have need of me.”
“Ah, but that is where you are mistaken.” He grabbed her by the back of her neck. ’Twas a mystery why God fashioned such frail bones to hold up one’s head. The laundress, Claudette: hers had snapped with one good blow. It angered him to know he had been driven so low. If only others would do as they were told. “See that you obey my orders this time.”
Brigitte stumbled as he shoved her over the threshold. The wind pushed them as if to warn them to turn back. Alexandre narrowed his eyes against the cold, peering into the storm. “Come, dear Bee, we are away to Calais. Just as you desired.”
* * *
Drem sank down on the mattress. Brigitte’s cloak was missing from the peg. It should have been hanging near the hearth, warming before they left to find the king’s army. Had she gotten up to use the privy?
Heat flared up his neck as he thought of their passion throughout the night. Warmth filled his muscles. Their night of love had left him rested and relaxed. He smiled. Perhaps she needed a moment to collect herself.
The sun began to burrow through the cracks between the shutters. The time of waiting out the storm was over. The well-rested horses would need feeding and then they must be on their way. He had a duty to perform.
In haste, he drew on his leggings and shoved his feet into his boots. After donning his shirt, he added the padded gambeson for warmth and protection. Then the leather jerkin.
Bending to pick up his sword, he noted a bit of parchment between the mattress and ropes.
The scrawled message urged her to leave at once if she was to meet with the caravan.
Drem paused. He looked for signs of what he had missed before. The small knife she used for her meals no longer lay upon the table. The ugly broken swan brooch and swan coins were missing as well. He felt for his purse. Hounds of hell! His money was gone too.
How much distance had she already put between them? On horseback? On foot? The only way to know was to interrogate the innkeeper’s wife.
He raced down the stairs. His hobnailed boots struck the steps rapidly. The main hall in the inn was bare of life. Drem checked the rooms. They were empty, abandoned. Apparently, his fine Welsh blood and French currency had not been enough to keep them there.
His chilled breath released puffs of fog into the air. The door stood open, letting in the cold. A skim of ice had formed over a bucket.
They had done their work well. The kitchen was empty. They had poured water into the hearth, dousing the fire and leaving it in ruins. It would seem they were several hours ahead of him. But which direction had they taken? And had Brigitte traveled with them of her own free will?
He ran out to the barn and kicked open the door. His men grumbled as the light streamed in. “Erick. Godwin. Why are you not about?”
Erick, newly arrived from England’s farming country, sat up. Bits of straw clung to his dark brown hair. Looking confused, he scratched his head. “Don’t remember much after Monsieur Bastion served us a meal. Said you sent over those fine sausages.” He made a face. “Only ate half of mine. Had an odd taste, if you ask me.” He turned to look at the man beside him. “But him . . .”
Godwin, the man-at-arms, had recently returned to duty after a bout with dysentery. His skin had turned a sickly green before he bent over and retched into the straw. Shaken, eyes wide, he wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. “Poison?”
“Aye.” Drem could not look at them. They could have died while he made love to the thief in his bed.
“Fart-licking bastards,” Godwin muttered as he tried to put his clothes to rights.
“Can you ride?”
“Well enough.” Godwin paused. “We don’t mean to make ’em pay?”
“Too late for that. They’ve flown for the hills like the black-hearted French crows they are.”
“Sir Drem?” Erick pointed to one of the empty stalls. “They’ve stolen one of the mounts.”
“Just one?” His heart sank. Did Brigitte think nothing of stealing the cart horse? “See what else is missing.”
As daylight broke through the heavy gray clouds, a new spiral of smoke billowed on the horizon. The sun winked over the crust of ice, melting it like an avenging force. Henry’s army burned the fields and buildings as they marched across France.
Drem swore under his breath. “Bloody hell, they are going deeper into the beast.”
“Think the French have pushed them back?” Erick asked.
“’Fraid so,” Drem said over his shoulder. He examined three paths in the melting frost. One separated from the two.
“Nothing missing to tell of,” Godwin reported.
“Think you well enough to take the carts and search out our men?”
“’Tis only my gut, Sir Drem.” He drew back his shoulders. “I serve our king and England. Erick and I will m
anage.”
“Good.” Drem nodded, keeping his eyes on the vanishing trail. “Head for our men.”
He glanced up. The men watched him. Did they question him? “Horses are too valuable to lose. I’m going after the horse thief.”
* * *
Alexandre pushed Brigitte toward the horse. The pathetic animal barely looked strong enough to carry them. Too bad he was unable to bring out the knight’s destrier. Steal his horse as well as the woman? That would have taken the stupid man’s pride down to the level where it belonged. He had heard the rumors. The knight’s father was a traitor. Alexandre found it amusing and snorted. No wonder the English king nearly had lost the siege at Harfleur. He glanced at his protégée’s pinched face.
She did not know it . . . yet . . . but he had many plans for her. He’d use her for ransom. There was money to be made. There were people in power willing to pay him to keep their secrets. He liked that idea: a reward to keep her hidden or a reward for finding her. It all depended on the Count of Nevers and his brother, the Duke of Burgundy. He intended to meet with them. An idea sprouted. What better way than to stop them as they rode to the battlefield? He had seen their numbers, vastly outmanning the English army. The victorious brothers would have full pockets after killing off the English. Ransoms would be paid. The thought of so much gold made his mouth water.
“Mount up,” he snapped, dragging her forward. “You first . . . my lady.” The title of respect made his stomach turn. Mayhap he would decide whether to explain to her who had abandoned her in the ditches of Harfleur. If not for his interference, she would have been drowned in a river, like an unwanted cur. “Calais awaits.”
* * *
She cradled her hands to ease the pressure. The rope twisted around her wrists, making her skin raw. Blood pulsed into her fingers. Too tight. Too tight.
“You intend to make me ride into Calais like a captured thief?” Brigitte snagged the horse’s mane with her fingertips and tried to pull her body into the saddle. If she moved swiftly, she could escape. Pull up. Keep your skirts out of reach. Grab the reins.
Alexandre sighed and cupped his hands. He motioned for her to mount the horse.
She fumbled to keep her balance as she placed her foot in his palms. Face close. Kick it. Then ride. Hard.
Alexandre guessed her intention and grabbed her leg. He shook his head. “You’ve lost your talent, little bird.” He tossed her up. Tightening the rope to the saddle, he picked up the reins.
He hooked his foot in the saddle and swung up on the old horse. The beast’s back sagged under his weight. “Never fear,” he said, catching her with the edge of his cane. “I’ll make sure you remember everything I taught you.”
She turned her palms, wiggling her fingers, slipping them under the folds of her skirt. They were still as nimble as when she had been lifting coin purses off the traveling merchants. She picked at the material, pulling until the woolen thread began to loosen. One of Alexandre’s many rules: Get the target talking, distracted by the weight of their own importance.
“We’ll have another Nest in Calais?”
He rode behind her. The cane pressed deeper into her stomach.
“We are going to Calais, are we not?” she asked.
“I have bigger plans for you.” He chuckled, ruffling the hair on the back of her neck.
Her stomach twisted. The madness had overtaken the master once again. “We are not going to Calais, are we?”
“Oui. Soon enough. First, though, we ride to your sire and uncle.”
Chapter 25
Brigitte turned to stare at Alexandre. She studied him, looking for signs that revealed his lies. “What sire and uncle? You know I have no family.”
“Ah, but that is where you are misinformed.”
His smirk made her shiver. Something was not right. Arrogance replaced his anger. Emotion shimmered under the surface.
“My maman is dead.”
“Oui.” He shrugged.
“I think someone has played you for a fool, my dear Alexandre.”
“Your sire is nearby. I shall take you to him.”
Eyes narrowed, she watched his jaw clench. “Merci, but I go to Calais. Maman always spoke of it so fondly.”
She eyed the distance to the ground. Jump. Leap. Run.
“Mayhap he will give me a reward,” he continued. “Sit still. You do not wish to fly.”
She scanned the countryside. Black smoke billowed across the gray, blustery sky. “This is not the way to Calais. You’ve made a wrong turn. We must go to the west.”
The cane tightened against her stomach.
“Or your uncle, the duke, will pay me handsomely to keep you away. He’s done it before.” He nuzzled her neck. “And he has a very, very deep purse.”
“You’re mad,” she muttered. The loose thread in her skirt was now wound around her finger. She broke it off, letting it flutter to the ground. “Maman was many things, but married to nobility was not one of them.”
His bark of laughter reverberated against her ear. “Don’t be a stupid cow. Of course she was never married. The Count of Nevers has many paramours. And many bastards. As does most of the nobility.” He gripped her chin, bringing her head to face him.
Her neck ached until she thought he meant to break it. A vision of sweet Claudette’s broken body made her fight against his hand. She plucked another thread from her skirt and released it. The bit of color fluttered and tangled in a bush.
“Attend me. I am more than the master of the Nest. I am a master of gathered information to be sold to the highest bidder.”
“You are mad.”
“Perhaps. But I will be rewarded.” He silenced her with a hard pinch. “Quiet. I must decide who will pay the most for you to disappear. Your uncle prefers biddable brothers who do as he commands. Your sire oddly prefers to care for the product of his spilled seed.”
“Unlike your sire?” She regretted the words instantly.
His knuckles whitened. The gray of his eyes became like ice. She shivered despite her efforts to disguise her fear.
Closing her eyes, she focused on the threads. They were looser, easier to tug on and break off. Please Drem. Do not give up on us. Follow me. Please.
“Oui,” he said. He grabbed her hair, forcing her eyes open. “My sire tossed me on the dung heap as soon as he could. But who needs a whore and a thief for parents? I got what I needed from both of them. They taught me to survive. And I beat them at their own game.” His teeth flashed. “’Tis true. Revenge tastes like nectar.” He leaned close. His breath brushed her face. “You become a god. Choosing who lives and who rots in the ground.”
They stopped at the swollen river, its banks overflowing with debris. The bridge that would have carried them across had been destroyed. By whose hand? English or French, it did not matter.
He let her go, nearly unseating her.
Brigitte scratched for a handhold to keep from falling. The thread she had been about to set loose spun to the ground. She watched it, fearing what she would see when she looked up at Alexandre.
“My decision is made. We follow the armies. ’Tis certain your father and uncle will attend the battle. Most nobles like to watch the rest of us die for them, fighting their ridiculous wars.”
They followed the river until they came to a narrow passage. Brigitte tensed as he directed their mount to enter. “It looks deep.” She glanced over her shoulder.
His mouth was set in a firm line. His jaw cracked as he ground his teeth together. He kicked the horse’s sagging belly and the beast leaped into the rushing water.
Brigitte opened her mouth to scream. Frigid water ripped the breath from her lungs.
She held on to the beast’s neck as it dropped into the depths. Her cloak dragged her down, deeper and deeper, until she thought they could go no farther. It was so cold.
A jolt shook her. Alert, she recognized the cadence. The horse struggled to plow its way to shore. Its hooves struck again . . . again . .
. again.
“Wake up,” Alexandre roared.
He stood over her, dripping water on her face. Brigitte squinted up at him. The sun, weakened and fading, struggled against the increasing clouds.
She tried to move. Her limbs were numb. The words came out garbled as she attempted to explain.
“Thought I almost lost you.” He rolled her out of the cloak and shook it.
Did he care? Had the boy who had befriended her years before returned?
“’Twould be a pity to lose my treasure.” He wrung out the water. Squatting beside her, he examined the hole she had been working. “Where’d this come from?” A worried frown formed. He glanced toward the bank where they had entered the river.
Brigitte slid her hands to the hilt of his small sword. The smooth metal felt like fire against her frozen hands. Too late.
He stood. His jaw hardened. His hand curled into a fist and beat out an annoyed rhythm on his thigh.
“You think to betray me? To flee?” He pulled her up by the front of her dress. “To steal the money owed to me? I’ve earned every gold coin by harboring you in my Nest. And you and the bastard knight ruined it for me.”
“Alexandre—” Shivering, she stumbled on numb legs.
“Another storm is coming.” His cruel mouth twisted before he released her and bent to retrieve her cloak. It dangled between them.
“Merci,” she said through gritted teeth.
“See if you feel bold enough to run away from me now,” he said, tossing the cloak in the bushes.
* * *
Drem drew his cloak tight against his body and pulled the hood over his head. His shoulders slumped, taking the brunt of the wind. The trail disappeared soon after he found an abandoned cottage. He had failed in his mission to prove his loyalty to the king and the brotherhood, and that he could be trusted.
Instead, here he was, riding into a storm away from the king and his brothers. They were in need of his service and he had failed them. He had lost much more than a mission.
He tried to shake off the hopelessness. Why did the tests continue to come?
The woman had stolen his king’s horse. Didn’t she know what would have to be done? Severe punishment would be expected. But even so, he could not bring himself to set his hand against her. In truth, he did not give a damn about the cart horse. He needed to find her. They had more to say to each other.