by C. C. Wiley
A few grim-faced boys looked him over, then turned their sights to their comrade before them.
Brigitte began to relax her hold around his waist. But her fingers continually moved, fidgeting with the edge of the cloak. Was this the way she had managed to leave him a trail? He glanced over his shoulder. Was she doing the same for someone else?
She stared at the men riding past. Her hands had stopped moving and were now pressed together in a desperate prayer. Lowering her head, she kept the hood pulled over her face and buried her hands into the folds of her skirt.
Who was his fearless thief afraid of? What made her as tense as a rabbit in springtime? Glancing over the men, he searched for faces he might recognize. If not now, when they came face to face on the battlefield.
A head of flaxen gold caught the sun. The man rode past them, his whining complaints heard by all, none of whom seemed to care for his plight. His pinched mouth revealed he was unhappy with life, more so when his partner snubbed him by riding away.
When the horse twitched its tail, Drem recognized it. He had spent enough time behind that arse to know it was the stolen cart horse.
Master Alexandre. Drem itched to unsheathe his sword and run it through the spineless creature. He looked down. Brigitte linked her fingers around his wrist and slowly shook her head.
When had he unstrapped the thong? His sword was ready to come out to play with the man’s innards.
The need to speak with Brigitte in private grew. Had she recognized the banners? Or was it just because she had seen the master of the Nest riding beside a man Drem was certain could not be her father? The Count of Nevers was too young. He would have had to sire her at the age of six.
The ribbon of soldiers marched around the river bend. They dropped into the valley below. ’Twas time for him to break from the pack.
“Bloody hell, woman,” he shouted loud enough for the men around him to hear. He spoke in French. “What’s that you say? Again?”
He glowered at the man on his right. “She thinks the world is her privy. Stop and piss every chance we get.”
“Oui.” The soldier nodded in sympathy. “Women are only good for a romp.” He rubbed the dirt-stained corners of his mouth. “Wouldn’t mind sharing her with me, would you?”
Drem touched the underside of Brigitte’s arm. She tensed but held her tongue.
“Mayhap later. When we have defeated the goddamn English, we will celebrate.”
“Heard they crossed over the Somme. Going north.” He grinned, revealing blackened teeth. His stench resembled the ditches in London. “We have them on the run. We are the hunters of the little English fox. Won’t be long now.”
The cloud laden skies opened, drenching them from head to toe. Rain streamed off the men. The sodden ground turned into mud.
Drem grimaced and saluted him. “Viva la France.”
Wheeling the destrier to the left, he kept the reins loose, his hand close to his sword. “Hold tight, my caru.”
The wooded grove stretched out before him. Aeron stepped over felled trees, dodged branches, their leaves heavy with rain. Drem stopped to see if anyone had noticed their hasty departure.
God had smiled on them. The French did not care about a single man riding away from the army. They kept their heads down and concentrated on putting one boot in front of the other.
The mire of mud had begun to slow their march to a boot-sucking crawl.
“This is how you move unnoticed?” she asked. Leaning into him, she added, “You would make a terrible thief.”
Drem snapped the reins. “Not everyone can have every skill.”
“And how many do you have, my knight?”
He grinned. The thrill of the hunt. The challenge of overcoming obstacles. His blood pumped, roaring, demanding more excitement. He moved a leg over the saddle bridge so he could see her lovely face.
“Too many to count.” Surprising her with a kiss, he reveled in the splendor of her lips. Her gasp pleased him, but not nearly as much as when she returned his passion.
Giving her one more peck on the cheek, he turned in the saddle. “Hold tight. You are about to experience my impressive riding skills. We must reach Henry before that massive army does.”
* * *
As promised, they rode in a northwesterly direction, toward Calais. Steep, hilly terrain slowed them down. Streams, swollen from the snow and rain, made crossing difficult. Bitter winds slapped the air from their lungs. Rest would come after they reached King Henry’s army.
Each step brought them closer to Calais. Brigitte should have felt joy and excitement. To finally reach the city Maman had spoken of with a gleam in her eye. Was that not her plan all along?
The French armies were converging, outnumbering the starved and weary English. The chance Drem could be injured or worse terrified her. She wanted to curse and scream, to demand that they turn away from the madness. They were no one of importance. Why not disappear, make their luck where they found it?
Brigitte inhaled the familiar scent of the man riding in front of her. His back and shoulders strained forward, as if willing Aeron to fly. She tightened her hold around his waist as if to never let him go. No, we will not turn back; we will charge forward into the fray.
And they rode through the day and into the night. Through the stinging rain and bitter winds.
Brigitte’s arms ached. She feared her bones would shatter. Her bottom pounded into Aeron’s back until she realized she should move with the horse. The undulating motion brought memories of the night before. And the time before that.
The trail of destruction, the chevauchée, had diminished as the army marched toward Calais. The French were hot on their heels. Hunting them down like prey. The gathering had commenced.
They slowed down to collect information in one of the many hamlets. The ring of hammer against anvil brought their attention.
“I’ll see what I can find for us to eat. What news we may find,” Drem said.
He returned from the blacksmith. “A handful of grain for Aeron. A loaf of bread and a pheasant leg to share.” He looked up at her, touching her ankle. “Many have come this way.” His frown deepened. Rain streamed down his face as he scowled at the sky. “We are close. Less than a day’s ride.”
Rain continued to pour from the heavens. Aeron’s steps were sometimes unsure now.
Drem doggedly pushed through the mire. They moved faster than a caravan of knights in heavy armor.
They rode west, through villages smaller than the one from which Alexandre had kidnapped her.
Until finally, rounding a knoll, they saw before them a sea of humanity. Soaked to the skin, their clothes tattered and torn from the march. Many soldiers stood barefoot in the mud, sinking up to their shins.
The banners of the Blessed Virgin and St. George flew overhead, announcing to all to fear the wrath of God. Protected by God, the king of England marched through France and refused retreat.
Aeron wheeled toward the handful of tents. Wagons were gathered together as they waited out the rain that seemed to never stop.
Squires ran out to see what the commotion was about. They fled on foot, carrying news of their arrival. Before Drem could dismount they were surrounded, swords drawn.
“’Tis I, Sir Drem.”
Darrick and Nathan strode toward him. They nudged aside the men.
“Good to see you are here in time for the dance,” Nathan said. Green eyes like a feral cat’s stared at her. Waiting to pounce on his prey. “I see you brought your French thief with you.”
Darrick motioned to them. “Get down. We talk in my tent. Now.” He did not wait for Drem to acknowledge his order but marched to the far end of the camp.
“Do as he says,” Drem muttered under his breath. “Stay by my right side.”
Brigitte nodded and stepped on his boot as he set her down. Sir Nathan grabbed her as soon as her feet touched the ground.
“Let’s not misplace you this time,” he said.
“Unhand her,”
Drem called. He jumped from his destrier’s back. Aeron grunted as if to be relieved of the load.
Nathan replaced his arm with a small sword. He shrugged. “Apologies. There is much to discuss.”
Brigitte squeaked. Eyes wide, she blinked at him, waiting for him to respond. What could Drem do but comply?
“You there. ’Tis Young John?”
Drem recognized the emotions playing across the lad’s face. He knew firsthand that the boy had seen things done to other human beings no one should ever have to see.
“Please take care of Aeron.” He held out the reins. “He’s carried us a great distance. He requires food and drink. A good brushing too.”
“Aye, sir.” Wide-eyed, Young John led the towering destrier away.
“Sheath your sword, Nathan,” Drem said. He turned and hooked his arm for Brigitte to take hold. “My lady, shall we away?”
Soldiers kept guard over them as they walked through the rain-sodden camp. Mud stuck to their boots. Some had taken to wearing their leggings rolled up past their knees and wore no shoes at all.
The priests made their way through the soldiers, making the sign of the cross and offering prayers of protection.
Drem slowed.
A tall, thin man with snowy white hair wore the robes of the church. He bent over an archer. A large wooden cross swung away from his robe. Was that the priest from Dunstable? Father Timothy?
Drem stopped to stare, but the man of the cloth had turned away. The priests worked their way through the camp like crows, waiting to pick up refuse.
One of the boys waved his hand in a salute. The commander of the ditchdiggers swatted the back of his head. Shouting an order, he pointed him back to work.
Drem unfurled his fists. The provisions had reached the soldiers in time. “The boy and Godwin? How do they fare?”
Nathan followed his gaze. “Erick will be fine. He’s strengthening his muscles.” He clapped his hand on Drem’s shoulder. Stepping over a puddle, he motioned for them to follow. “’Twas good of you to send the men on ahead of you.”
They stopped at what was little more than canvas stretched over branches. Nathan stripped off his cloak and threw it on the back of a chair. He shook out his hair like a shaggy dog. Water sprayed, hitting everything in its way. He grinned. “Home and hearth never felt so good.”
“Where are the others?”
A chestnut-colored brow arched. “They’ll be here soon enough.” Folding his arms across his chest, he braced his body in the doorway, closing off all means of escape. “What news have you?”
“I share it with the king or not at all.”
“You leave us little choice but to arrest you.”
“You need every sword arm you can get.”
A thick man, clothed in burlap, stood at the entrance. “God is with us.” He spoke quietly, his voice deep and strong.
Drem knew him by his stature. He would not give up his pretense until his king said otherwise. “Sir, I have seen them.” He pointed to Brigitte. “She has seen them.”
“’Tis true,” she added. “Their numbers are vast.”
“We have overcome obstacles greater than a few men waiting to bash in our heads. God will send us victory.”
“There is one who comes this way. The Count of Nevers and his army are behind us. They are but one of many we have passed.”
“We have seen nothing of the French nobles,” Nathan scoffed. “They are soft and sit on their arses. Sucking on their mother’s tits.”
“My lord.” Brigitte stepped away and left Drem’s side.
Nathan and Drem lunged to catch her, but they were stopped by the king’s hand.
“Let her speak,” Henry said.
She knelt before the king of England. “’Tis true. We have ridden hard to tell you. They are but a day away. Maybe two, if this rain continues. Their wheels are sinking in the mud, but they will come.”
“Aye,” Henry said. He reached out to place his palm over her head. “The ground is not fit. Rise.” Rubbing his chin, he studied her face. “Eyes the color of warm chestnuts. Midnight hair.” His searching gaze dropped to her body. “’Tis a pretty French bird you’ve captured, Drem.” He nodded. “Best not give her reason to fly.”
Drem warred with trusting his king. What mood was his liege in this day? Word had come that they had hanged a boy for stealing a church relic. What would he do with a horse thief and pickpocket? Drem prayed his king remembered his vow of chastity on this quest for France.
“You remind me of someone.” Henry continued, tapping his lips. “I love a puzzle to untangle. Don’t I, Drem?”
“Aye, my king.” His stomach twisted in worry.
Darrick ducked into the shelter. “We’ve received word from our patrols. The scouts report the French have amassed, many thousands strong. They are but three miles across the river.”
Drem let go the breath he’d been holding.
“Give the orders to break camp. We must cross the river,” Henry said.” Drem, Darrick, and Nathan, take three other knights with you. Find where ’tis unguarded and safe to cross.”
Chapter 29
Brigitte listened to the men bark out orders. Chaos reigned until the shouts to mount up echoed down the lines. They sat atop their horses and wagons. The archers and foot soldiers lifted their weapons. All ages, boys to old men. Maces, pikes, axes, and arrows were piled in the wagons. Archers carried poles on their shoulders. They waited. Tension grew.
She put her hands to work, loading their meager supplies, wrapping armor, steel plates, and swords in blankets.
Two of the camp followers came to join her by the supplies. A young woman, rosy-cheeked and fair of face, offered Brigitte a shy smile. “Name’s Agatha.” She tossed the fawn-colored braid over her shoulder as she bent to pick up a lance. “My man is an archer. Over there.” She gestured. “Can shoot a squirrel out of a tree. Dead shot aim. One arrow.”
“I’m Brigitte.” She paused long enough to press the small of her back.
The women looked at each other as they set worked.
“We know who you are,” the other woman said. “You’re Sir Drem’s woman. ’Tis a fine specimen of a man.”
Brigitte felt her face flame, her neck turn hot. When she realized they had not come to judge her, she smiled back at them. She recalled the claim Drem had placed on her during the night. “Oui. He is mine.”
At first glance, the other woman looked older than her friend. “I’m called Mari,” she said, her face, haggard from long marches, little food, and unrelenting weather. Then she smiled and the years fell away. “Mam always said busy hands make calm minds.”
“And a happy man.” Agatha grinned.
They tittered together, nervous laughter spreading like wildfire.
Sweat dripped down Brigitte’s spine. She did not know if that was true. Her mind was as busy as her hands.
Peace was out of reach. What if Drem was captured? Or worse? She stood, once again pressing her hands to her lower back.
The soldiers were watching. Their heavy glances let her know they had yet to think of her as one of them. If the tides turned, they would consider her an enemy.
Drem and the other knights returned with alacrity. Their destriers pounded out a path, cutting through mud and ankle-deep puddles.
The bridge at Blangy was clear. The caravan of soldiers and followers, women and surgeons and men of God, moved in a wave, the sound of their drums pounding out the warning that the righteous were coming.
Her skin prickled. How did they know they were God’s anointed? Did not the French think the same?
She watched for signs of Drem. To offer a smile, perhaps steal a kiss. She hungered for his arms wrapped around her, shielding her from harm.
His warhorse’s shining black coat merged with the other destriers. ’Twas a sea of white jupons, the red cross marked upon the knights’ backs. Sacrificial doves.
They crossed over the river without incident. Alexandre’s constant exp
lanations of why one should blend in echoed in her mind. She looked over her shoulder, wary of an attack from behind.
Instead of stealth, they marched with riotous excitement. Finally, they would come up against the French, defeat them, and then go home to their blessed England. Ignoring the rain flooding the ruts in the road, they marched on. The horses, men, and wagons negotiated the steep hill.
They mounted the crest, the English king in the lead. A hush fell over the men. The drummer’s incessant pounding on his war drum stilled. The English army flowed out over the plateau, spilling over the hill.
Brigitte gasped. A whisper of curses filled the air from those who feared this was to be their last view.
The French army flowed into the valley to their right. Pennons flying, the soldiers took their positions. Their defensive posts paralleled the road to Calais. This was not the small army she and Drem had outraced. Their numbers were greater than Brigitte could imagine. Thousands upon thousands stood in the field. They had answered the call to arms, prepared to defend and die.
She stood in the wagon, searching for Drem. The wind whipped her hair, plastering it against her damp cheeks. Where are you?
* * *
Drem wheeled Aeron around. Rain dripped off his helm and ran under his chain mail. The sodden wool gambeson prickled his skin. All the archers had taken off their boots and hung them over their shoulders. They protected the tools of their trade, their bows, and arrows, by any means possible. Blankets, old shirts taken from the dead. Anything to keep the arrows’ fletches dry. A wet fletch was an untrustworthy piece of weaponry. Like a cannon without stones.
French warriors stood parallel to the road. Their numbers, too great to count, covered the narrow valley below. The newly turned soil a dark strip, a line drawn in the field. The measure of their force too much to contemplate. ’Twas simple: The English were outmanned. Each house of nobility waved their standard high. Drem had yet to locate the Count of Nevers. Nor the Duke of Burgundy. That meant there were more on the way.
Nathan sat beside him. His face grim, he leaned his forearm on the saddle. “The king wishes to speak to the men, encourage them to stand strong.”