Knight Quests

by C. C. Wiley

  Each time they lay together brought them closer. ’Twas only the night before that he had bared his feelings. Told her some of his secrets. No wonder it had been easy for her to forgive. She never meant the words she spoke. He should have known she would run from him the first chance she got.

  Fool that he is, he thought they would never part. What could he do but give chase? The thief had stolen his heart.

  His heart ached until he thought he might lose the last crust of dried bread he had eaten.

  Aeron stumbled. Ice crusted underfoot. Pellets clanged against metal. No quiet, stealthy movement for this lonely soldier. If the enemy were about, he would be an easy target.

  The horse’s ever-alert ears twitched.

  “Stay strong, Aeron.” He smoothed his glove over the charger’s withers. Frost clung to its dark coat and mane.

  Drem glanced at the shrubs and trees. He prayed the rest of France was hunkered down by a hearth to stay warm until the storm passed. By the time they crawled out of their huts, he already would have joined the English army.

  A bit of gold caught his eye. It fluttered against a shrub. He caught it before the wind took it. The woolen thread slid over his leather gauntlet.

  Blood began to pound in his head. A war drum, thumping, challenging the weary to find the strength and courage to push on.

  Not far down the path, another thread clung to a tree branch. Drem nudge his mount to a gallop. The cadence of the drum increased. She’d left him a trail to find her. Why?

  Alert to ever-pressing dangers as he rode closer to the enemy, he searched for more signs. Tell me where you are.

  The trail stopped at the riverbank. He nudged Aeron toward the water. The horse’s ears twitched back in a warning.

  “Clever boy,” Drem said.

  He rode to another portion of the river. Though wider, he could tell it to be shallower. The water raced past the engorged banks. They would have to ride fast and hard to reach the other side.

  After ensuring his weapons were secure, he spurred the horse on. The destrier charged the river just like the Welsh god of battle Aeron had been named after. His hooves struck the rock. The impact jarred Drem’s teeth. He rose in the stirrups and leaned over the steed’s powerful neck.

  Relief rushed over Drem as they reached the other side. He leaped from the saddle and wiped the stallion dry. While inspecting Aeron’s hooves, he noticed imprints dug into the ice-crusted mud. Three sets. A smaller horse. And two made by humans. One quite diminutive compared to the larger one.

  He searched the edges of the clearing for signs of the direction in which they’d headed. A woman’s cloak hung in the shrubs, tangled by thorns and grasping branches. Drawing his sword, he hacked through the dense thicket until he could reach it.

  She would need the cloak when he found her. Hope and fear mingled until they swirled into a storm raging inside his head. He was on the correct trail. She was alive. But for how long without protection from the early winter? He had to reach her in time.

  Snow began to fall, coating the meadow that emerged from a grove of trees. Following his instincts, he rode the shadowy trail. It took him farther into the heart of France. But that was where Brigitte must be.

  Drem drew back on the reins.

  The bits of thread had stopped.

  * * *

  Brigitte had never felt so cold. Her teeth clattered, aching from the constant impact. Each muscle in her body burned from shivering violently. “P-p-please.”

  Her head bobbed against the horse’s shoulder. How could Alexandre be so cruel? He was a demon.

  He had stripped her of the cloak and slung her over the beast. At least her stomach had stopped aching. She no longer felt the pressure of the saddle’s bridge digging into her flesh. She pressed her cheek into the animal’s warmth.

  Sleep. Dreams of sitting by a hearth. Children, playing at her feet.

  “Drem,” she whispered. If only he would come for her. Find the bits she had left. If only. Was that his voice?

  She reached for him. Her body jerked as she began to tumble, falling into a dark cavern.

  * * *

  Alexandre looked down at the stupid woman lying across the horse. He braced his cane on her back, keeping a firm hold on her. The wench would not get away from him. He thanked God she had stopped struggling. All the chattering teeth had started to get on his nerves. Like dragging steel against a stone. The bitch had a powerful bite. His hand still ached from where she’d tried to take a chunk out of his flesh. Ah, to ride in peace and quiet.

  He pulled his cloak close and hoped he was right. His fingers were cold. He needed to find shelter before the sun set.

  “That’s a good birdie,” he crooned. “We’ll find the army soon.”

  Getting no response, he nudged her shoulder. A layer of snow fell away. Her dress, stiff and unyielding, stuck to the saddle. Icicles had formed in her hair. He brushed it from her face. “Merde.” Her lips were purple.

  He halted and dragged Brigitte off the horse. “Merde, Bee, you’re no help. No help a’tall.” He released her, and she fell...

  Alexandre could do nothing but stare at her. She had long been a pain in the arse. And once again she’d stolen from him. One of those spoiled nobles would have paid good coin for her.

  He rubbed his mouth. Think. Damn you.

  That ugly broken necklace. People paid for information just as easily as for a body. Always a good commodity to have. Easier too. No mouths to feed. No one to whine and complain. Bitch and moan. And bite.

  After searching her bodice, he lifted her stiff skirt. A little pouch, sewn into the lining, bulged with treasure. He tore it away, then rolled Brigitte’s body under a bush.

  Dusting off his hands, he remounted. Taking a deep breath, Alexandre began to count the money he would make.

  Sadness tried to raise its head. Should he have buried her? He looked over his shoulder.

  “Bee.”

  After tipping his cane at her in a salute, the regret vanished like early morning dew. No one would notice one more dead soul.

  Chapter 26

  Drem led Aeron to the river and let him drink. Then he brushed the snow off the horse’s thick neck.

  He held out a handful of oats. “Not much, I know.”

  The destrier nickered, blowing clouds from his velvet nose and ate greedily.

  Daylight was fading. Soon Drem would have to decide when to find his king and abandon the hunt for Brigitte. But not yet.

  He swung up into the saddle to return to the trail. After a time, the argument in his head became too much. Going back to the inn made little sense. Earlier, he had seen the signs of smoke. The men were marching to the south. If he crossed over, cut to the southwest, he would intersect with them. Something called to him, urging him on.

  Drem nudged the destrier. The beast needed no further encouragement and leaped into a gallop. He’d never had the talent like his sister: night visions. They said she dreamed of him and would never give up until she found him. A determined, courageous woman. He had thought the same of Brigitte when he first saw her outside Harfleur’s wall. Their hearts came from a place of pride and passion. The two women in his life would be good friends when they met.

  Aeron’s ears twitched, listening to the sounds of nature. The beast tensed, muscles bunching.

  Drem watched him. The battle-trained stallion did not know fear. They entered a thick grove of trees. He nearly missed it. An imprint of hooves had cut into the dirt. Recently. The snow had yet to cover the indentation.

  He prayed those sounds were not from the French army. Alone and exposed, he might not last through a skirmish, but he vowed to take down as many as God gave him. The protection of his sword arm was meant for Brigitte and his king.

  Shadows grew longer and deeper. They covered the dirt road. Bits of debris from the storm skipped across his path. Something buried under the bushes, fluttered, throwing light and darkness. The trail had disappeared.

  He reca
lled the stories he had heard from his mother and sisters, of the wee people in the woods. Faeries and elves, wood sprites and trolls. Sorcery. His frozen brain brought him things to see that were not there. He shook his head free of the thought.

  Aeron balked as they trotted past.

  “Steady, my friend,” Drem murmured.

  He unsheathed his sword. He swiped off the crystals covering his lashes. Was it another cloak? Caught on a bramble, it flapped against the branches. A good thing to wrap around his freezing bones. Unless there was a dead body attached to it. He had already ridden past many a dead soul and did not have the stomach for another.

  Dismounting, he crept toward the still form. Snow iced the golden material with a coating of pure white.

  His heart twisted. “No.”

  ’Twas a woman with dark hair the color of midnight, lit by a million stars. He had found her. But he was too late.

  “Brigitte.” He sank to his knees.

  Her dress had frozen to the unforgiving ground. He pulled her into his lap. Cradling her to his body, he wrapped his cloak around them, sharing his heat.

  “My love,” he whispered. His hand trembled as he smoothed her hair from her face. Her lips were blue against the pallor of her skin. Drem rubbed his hands over her body, her arms and legs. Heat radiated from his palms as he lay them on her neck. He held her, refusing to let her go. “I’ve found you,” he chanted as he rocked her, kissing her face, her mouth. So cold.

  Aeron stood beside them, as if knowing to block the wind with his body. He nuzzled Brigitte’s neck, lipping her hair, warming her with his breath.

  Drem could not give up. He would not. Not now. Not ever.

  Pressing his ear to her chest, he listened for a heartbeat. A breath. Please. Was something there?

  The grove of trees stood like soldiers, watching in silence. Aeron stamped his hooves.

  Frustration and fear began to boil inside. Another test?

  “She doesn’t deserve to be punished so cruelly.”

  Drem closed his eyes. He could not look upon her broken body, devoid of passion and pride. He pressed his lips over hers.

  Were they warmer? He rubbed his hands over her limbs again. Resting her slender neck in his palms, he caressed her skin and felt for signs of life.

  A faint pulse beat against his fingers.

  “Brigitte.” Grasping her arms, he shook with hope. “Wake up. My love. Breathe. Open your eyes.”

  Wrapping the cloak closer, he continued to cradle her. Then he heard the most wonderful gasp and felt her chest press into his body.

  Dark lashes fluttered over pale cheeks. And then she opened her eyes. Though glazed, they were the most luscious sable brown he had ever seen.

  “Drem.” Her teeth began to clack together. Muscles contracted as the rest of her body awakened from the deep sleep of the dead.

  He rose, holding her tight. “Aye, ’tis me.” He rained kisses over her and let the tears fall.

  She rested her palm to his jaw. Pain filled her gaze. “Merci. But you should not have come for me.”

  Drem blinked. Was she not pleased that he had found her? “’Tis nothing a good knight wouldn’t do.” His jaw clenched, fighting the hurt that followed the betrayal. “I thought to have the king’s horse returned.”

  Her chin rose. Pride warred with a broken spirit. He had to learn what had made her run from him. Why had she cared so little about herself and so much for Calais?

  He set her on Aeron’s back and fetched her cloak. It had thawed and would offer one more layer of protection from the elements. He mounted behind her. Wrapping his arms around her, he shielded her from whatever might come from the shadows. In time, her back rested against his chest. He listened to her breathe, finding reassurance that she still lived under his care.

  The wind swirled the snow over them, relentlessly sticking to their clothes as they rode out of the meadow. The darkest of nights fell. A moonless sky. Clouds covered the stars. The temperature dropped.

  Drem searched for winking lights, signs of life. He shivered in tandem with Brigitte. If he did not find shelter soon, they would both be dead by morning.

  They rode past a low stone wall. Encouraged, he directed Aeron to carry them closer. There had to be an opening. Shadowy structures stood out from the trees. No light. No smoke spiraling into the night sky. But there would be a barrier between them and the elements.

  “Stay with me,” he said. “God has led us to safety for the night.”

  “Oui.” Her body shook and she grasped his gauntlet. “We must talk.”

  “Aye. When we are warm, there will be time to talk.”

  * * *

  Brigitte sat near the hearth in the center of the room and warmed by the fire Drem lit earlier She listened to rustling below the floor. The timbre of Drem’s voice as he murmured to Aeron, settling the beast in for the rest of the night.

  It had been a peasant’s humble home. A place for animals to stay warm during the winter months. Their earthy scent still lingered. A bed and rough-cut table and chairs stood in the corner, close to the fire. The thatched roof shuddered against the wind.

  They were safe. Unless Alexandre was nearby. Or they found themselves caught between the warring armies.

  Tremors shook her until her muscles ached clear to her bones. Would she ever be warm again?

  Drem climbed up the ladder, squeezing his broad shoulders through the opening. He tossed his satchel to the floor, then glanced around the room, his gaze stopping when he caught her staring at him. His hair stuck out at wild angles. Auburn brows arched as he crawled farther into the loft. He ducked his head to keep from hitting the low rafters.

  Heat flamed up her neck. She couldn’t help smiling at him. Never had she seen a more welcoming sight than when she’d awoken to his handsome face.

  “’Tis a small space.” He tugged on his leather jerkin to drag it over his head.

  Brigitte pushed up to help. “Let me,” she said.

  Their hands touched as they fought for purchase. Lightning seemed to pass between their fingertips. They did not move, just touched, connected by the tips of their fingers.

  Drem released his hold and bent, letting the thick leather slide off his back. Then the padded gambeson. Brigitte hung it on a hook near the fire. She turned as he drew his linen shirt over his head.

  Tiny gasps of air slipped through her lips as she admired the muscles playing over his rib cage. The waist of his leggings had settled low on his hips. She recalled the feel of his skin. Like an ermine fur her mother had coveted until Monsieur le Faire had given in to her pleas. She licked her lips. The taste of his skin, the strong, supple muscles. She had missed him the moment she climbed out of the bed at the inn.

  His hand hovered over the ties holding up his leggings. He tipped his chin in her direction. “When you’re done ogling, you’ll want to take off your own sodden bits so they can dry.”

  “I am not ogling.”

  His brows arched higher.

  “I am merely ensuring that you . . .” She fluttered her hand toward his groin. She blinked. Had she seen Maman do that? “That you were not injured in your . . . um, ride.”

  He toed off his boots and stood in nothing but his leggings. Rocking on the balls of his feet, he braced his hands on his strong hips and waited. The green of his eyes glittered back at her, challenging her to ignore his orders.

  “No, sweetness. My stones are hale and hearty. As well as the rest of me.” He glanced down. “See for yourself.”

  Brigitte tried not to accept his baited challenge. But she clearly recalled how she had admired his male . . . appendage, which grew under her gaze.

  “’Tis my heart you damaged.”

  The velvet of his voice slid over her. Slicing into her consciousness. If only she could find the words to tell him how she felt. Explain her actions. Would he want to listen?

  “’Twas not my intention.” Did he truly care for her? Her mind was raw from the damage Alexandre had w
rought. Her body ached as warmth returned.

  “The French and English armies are converging. We ride to them.” He strode toward her and lifted her hair from her shoulders. “You’ll want dry clothes to keep you warm.”

  Nodding, she fumbled with the ties at her sides. Tears came unbidden.

  He brushed her hands out of the way. The ribbons fell away, freeing her from the damp woolen bodice. She clasped it to her chest.

  He brought her around until she was facing him. A scowl drew his brows together as he focused on his task of releasing the skirt.

  She stared at his hands. Strong fingers plucked at the knot. The hair on the back of his hand glistened like fine threads of gold. Those same hands once had brought her a pleasure she never knew existed. She shifted, hungering to be touched again with passion and tenderness.

  Taking the blanket from his satchel, he held it out to her. “We leave before dawn.”

  “A moment. I have something that is yours.” Brigitte searched her skirt. Her hand came away empty. “Merde.”

  She spun on her heel. Rage thrummed through her veins, melting any ice the vermin had tried to put there. “I will kill him,” she vowed. “The next time I see him, I will run him through with his damned cane.”

  Drem took a step back. “Your friend? Alexandre?”

  “He is no friend of mine.” She threw the skirt over the back of the chair. “He took my purse and left me for dead.”

  When he didn’t respond, she added, to clarify her outrage, “It held my mother’s necklace.” She waved the air. “Yes, the ugly one.”

  “Your word, sweetheart. Not mine.”

  “A person would have to be blind not to notice just how misshapen and ugly the piece is. But it was my property.”

  “I’m sorry. I cannot promise you we will find another just like it. Mayhap you can let it go?”

  “Oui? Really? And would you suggest that if you knew what else was in that little purse?” She waited, grinding her teeth.