by C. C. Wiley
Drem noted the priests were doing a brisk business in the Lord, hearing confessions as they all prepared for heaven. “They are asking the men to swear an oath for pilgrimage if they live to talk about this day.”
“Think I’ll place my trust in my sword instead,” Nathan said.
They waited, side by side, brothers in arms and Knights of the Swan. The gray skies continued to weep. Hours went by and the daylight faded.
“What are they waiting for?” Nathan grumbled.
“They know we have had little food to eat. Our supplies are low,” Drem said. “So they wait, watching to see who falls away first. Hunger is a cruel weapon. One that does not waste their bolts or tire their sword arms.”
“They think we will fall back and try to escape? Turn on our commander, the king?”
“Aye, ’tis a game pitting the mind against the body.”
“The longer we wait the more chance they will bring in more reinforcements. Look there.” Drem pointed. “Another army has arrived.”
Darrick cantered up on his destrier. The horse stamped its powerful hooves, its nostrils flaring in anticipation of battle. “Make it known we are to hold our position.”
“For how long?” Nathan scowled. “The men grow weary, standing in battle order.”
“Worse,” Drem added, “we’ll lose all light and won’t be able to see the enemy should they advance in a surprise attack.”
“Nonetheless, we stand strong.”
The French were so close Drem could hear their conversations. His archers stood rigid, barefoot in the mud, their shirts little more than rags.
Pride welled in his chest, for the men of England did not move when the smells of campfires drifted over. The French prepared their meals and settled into camp for the night.
When his men refused to shift their line, their enemy changed tactics by jeering.
“Order,” Drem hissed to his archers.
Henry strode between the ranks. “Silence. We do not want to give them an opportunity to strike in a surprise raid.”
“Your Majesty,” Darrick said, “there are lodgings in the village. ’Tis safe for the night.”
Henry acquiesced with a nod and waved him off. He finished exhorting the men-at-arms and rode his little gray horse toward Drem. “Take your woman to shelter. See that she is out of harm’s way.”
“My liege . . .”
“Do as you are told.” He reined in his mount, giving him a knowing look. “’Tis time you spoke with a priest. Prepare for your future. Your family.”
Drem could not ignore the call that had been at him all day. He turned, searching out Brigitte. She stood by the wagon. Watching him. Waiting.
Her soft smile tilted the corners of her sweet mouth. She raised her hand.
Despite the rain and bitter wind, Drem warmed from the inside out.
“Good. Good,” the king said. He slapped his gauntlet on his leg. “By God, this is good!” He waved Darrick over. “Set the prisoners from our march free. Whatever their rank.”
“My king . . .”
“We have precious few resources. I’ll not have them turn on us, attacking our flanks. Have them swear an oath they will return to me should I win. But if I should lose in this God-ordained battle—an unlikely thing if God is on your side, is it not?” He grinned. “Then they may consider themselves pardoned and at liberty to hie themselves back to their homes and families.
“Well, Drem? What are you waiting for? Settle your woman away from the battlefield. Mayhap she can be of use to the surgeons.” He twitched the reins. “I have a feeling we will keep them busy come the morrow.”
“The French will be busier.”
“God willing.” Henry narrowed his gaze, peering into the dark of night. “Would that they chose to lay down their weapons and release the crown that is mine.”
Drem bent low over Aeron’s withers. He bit his tongue and kept the questions to himself. To march this far with prisoners and let them go? Some who thought to line their pockets with ransom would not take the news well.
He waited for his king to move on to the men-at-arms before taking his leave. Poor weather had been their fiercest enemy thus far. The fletchers and bowyers were hard at work repairing the tattered army. The armorers scrubbed at the rust formed on steel plates. Others attempted to sharpen their dull swords.
Aeron nickered as they approached Brigitte. He chuckled. “Appears someone has lost his heart.”
She shoved damp tendrils from her pale face. Fatigue darkened the wells under her eyes.
“And what of you, Sir Drem?”
He held out his gauntlet-covered arm. “Take hold.” Two women stood their ground as if to protect her. “Orders from the king,” he said. Nothing more need be said.
She wrapped her fingers around his wrist. “This is Mari and Agatha. They need shelter as well.”
Too weary to argue, Drem grunted. “Come. We must ready for what comes in the morning.”
The women followed like meek lambs. He prayed they were prepared for the horrors that tomorrow would bring.
* * *
Drem bent low and caught Brigitte around the waist. Warmth seeped into her chilled body, bringing life back to her chilled bones. Would there ever be a time when she stopped dreading the cold?
“We have but a moment before I must return,” Drem whispered in her ear.
“’Tis a blessing. One that I am unwilling to release.”
They rode to a nearby village in silence while the women behind them chattered like magpies. The village was positioned far enough away to stay out of the battle line but close enough to aid those in need.
Too tired to speak, they settled in the comfort of each other’s company. Brigitte rested her cheek against his back. She wanted to tell him of her love for him, but to do so . . . what if he turned her away? His relationship with the king was closer than she had realized. Knights came to him for suggestions. The commanders of the brigade of archers searched out his thoughts.
And she was naught but a thief with no family. Many feared she spied for the enemy. Her love would bring him down. She sealed away her secret love, protecting her heart until the battle was fought.
And what if he did not return? She refused to think on it.
Drem dismounted and helped her down. She wrapped her fingers around his arms. They were merely there to guide her, his strength enough to hold her longer than necessary. Lips pressed together, catching a kiss before everyone. Branding her as his woman.
Brigitte’s new friends leaned together, sighing when he released her.
“I must see to the men,” Drem said. “If I am able, I’ll return before battle.”
She smoothed her hand over his whiskered jaw. “See that you return to me healthy and whole.”
He brought his lips down. The crazed frenzy of the camp disappeared the moment they touched. Just the two of them. A man and a woman in need of reassurance, in hope that all would be well. Brigitte clung to him. How could she let him go?
Breaking away, he set her aside, gently leaving her with Agatha and Mari.
Brigitte watched him leap onto Aeron’s back. She could not look away. Strong thighs and arms. Back straight, his head held high, he rode into the storm.
“Ah, my lady,” Flanners hailed. “’Tis good to see you.”
The surgeon approached her. His leather apron already in place, he opened his arms.
She smiled and bit her lip, her eyes following past his shoulder to where Drem rode toward the battlefield. “Though I pray one day it will be away from this.”
“I have great news,” he said. “Wonderful news.”
Brigitte drew her attention away from the heartache. She must keep busy or go mad with fear. “And what blessed news has you bursting with joy?”
“The brew you and your Claudette gave me is working on the men with dysentery.” He grinned. “They grow strong.”
Brigitte wrinkled her nose.
Seeing her confusion, he add
ed, “’Twas told it is called the Four Thieves.” He waved in her direction. “And you . . .” He shrugged. His cheeks grew red.
“Oui.” She held out her hand. “And I am a reformed thief.”
He grasped her shoulders. “No. You are more than that. You are a lady to whom we owe our gratitude.”
Brigitte rose on tiptoe and kissed his bearded cheek. “Merci.”
Chapter 30
Drem rode through the village. The night was miserable, but his lot was better than most. His thoughts turned to Brigitte and how things would be between them once this battle was over. He would have her to warm him with her kiss. He could still taste her on his tongue.
He needed to find a way to protect her should he fall by sword or hammer. He allowed Aeron to have his head, the beast seeming to know of his worries, and led him to the place where he had thought he saw the priest from Dunstable.
The man stooping over in prayer had the same head of gray hair Drem recalled. Though thinner, more haggard, like the rest of the men who made up this tattered army. Solace came not from the man of the cloth, but from the woman he had left with the surgeon. There was still time to be with her.
Drem turned, feeling as if he was being watched. His skin prickled.
The old man straightened his back and stared at him.
Drem wheeled Aeron back to the surgeon’s tent. A woman walked toward him. Her pace quickened, splattering water from the mud puddles. She ran to him, her arms open wide.
His breath caught. Lungs squeezed his chest. ’Twas his Brigitte.
Aeron recognized his lady and trotted forward. His massive hooves pounding the earth.
Drem bent down, scooping her into his arms. Angled on his lap, she pressed her body close.
Nudging his mount, they sped across the village to the little hut that had been assigned to them for the night.
* * *
Brigitte wound her arms around his waist. Now that she had him alone, fear raised its head. She would show him, sharing with her body.
His fingers danced over her hips, sending waves of fire spiraling through her veins. Her core wept for his touch.
“Drem, I—”
“’Tis only stolen moments that we have.” He found her neck, nipping the tender skin, rendering her senseless. “We have until dawn. And then . . .”
Time rushed past her like a mighty swollen river, its waves ripping them apart.
“No.” She gripped his arms, holding on to what they had. “This is not good-bye. I refuse. I want more time with you.”
He picked her up, cradling her in his arms. Their kiss, deep and long, carried them to the bed.
They lay together. Touching. Tasting. Memorizing. Never letting go for fear it would be their last time.
* * *
Drem lifted his head, scowling at the incessant pounding on the door. He pulled up his chausses, tugged on his linen shirt.
A man stood silent in the doorway. He held out his palm. A metal disc, with the swan emblazoned on its surface, caught the firelight. “You are to come. Now.”
Brigitte rose from their makeshift bed, her hair a raven cloud surrounding her head. Her love-swollen lips trembled. “Drem?”
He pulled on his gambeson and heard her move about the cramped room. When he looked up, she stood with his jerkin.
“Let me help you,” she said. He bent for her as she lifted the stiff leather shirt over his head. She smoothed her hand over his heart.
Catching her fingers, he kissed them, wishing he had said more than how beautiful she was. “My caru,” he said, his voice deep with emotion. “I will return,” he promised once again.
She stood in the doorway, swathed in candlelight. Wind wound through the village, making her hair dance around her head. She caught the door before it flew off the hinges and doused the light.
Five other horsemen left the shadows and rode up beside him. “Good to see you’ve found a few moments of enjoyment,” Darrick said.
A flash of teeth told him his friend Nathan had joined them. Drem peered through the dark. The others he did not recognize.
Six riders in all. Their destriers announced they were knights. They held out their gloved hands. Each held a swan coin. The last to join them was the gray-haired priest.
“Henry desires us to scout the battlefield,” Darrick said.
Drem looked up at the darkened sky. The drizzle had returned. “Best to do so while the moon is still with us.”
They rode to the field where the battle would take place. As they moved closer, their ride became more hazardous. Their horses’ hooves were sucked into the mud. One of the knights had to get down and lead his mount out of the mire. The heavy rains that had made their lives miserable for days may have turned the tides. They would find a way to utilize God’s gift to their advantage.
Father Timothy lifted his face to the sky. “Thank you, Lord above,” he whispered to the heavens.
This time Drem agreed. They turned to report what they had seen.
“A word,” the priest said.
“What is it?” Drem watched the other knights ride off. He wanted to be there when they gave the king their news. And yet he needed to know why the priest was there. Had the man recognized him from the priory? How many men had been knocked unconscious under his watchful eye?
The priest motioned for him to follow. They rode quietly together. “Did you discover the owner of the brooch?”
“Aye,” he growled. “And now ’twas stolen by the man they call Master Alexandre.”
His gray brows rose. “Why would someone want to steal it?”
“Mayhap you can tell me. Alexandre, the man who stole it, is a thief.” Drem’s palm itched to take the chance of going to hell and unseating the little man. “Perhaps to sell it. He gains power by selling information.”
The priest ignored his plea and asked, “And have you determined the girl’s sire?”
“Alexandre told Brigitte her sire is Philip, Count of Nevers.”
The priest slapped his knee. His shoulders jiggled under the heavy layers of his cloak. He shook his head. “No. That one would have been but a boy still in the nursery when she was born. Her mother may have been many things, but desiring little boys was not one of them.”
“You knew her mother?”
“Only upon times of confession. ’Twas many years ago. Before the old duke of Burgundy passed away.”
“The old man, Philip the Bold? He was her father?”
“Who knows for certain?” He tapped his nose. “I had my suspicions. And when those of the House of Valois began asking questions instead of remaining set on the task of discussing alliances . . . we thought it best to find her.”
Drem caught the front of the priest’s garment. He fisted the material and prayed to God for control. He did not wish to ask forgiveness just as he set foot on the battlefield. “If you knew these things, why send me on this wild chase?”
“A quest is a test, is it not?”
“I should run you through for leaving her in the hands of Alexandre.”
He jerked out of Drem’s hold. “We had need of information. To find the girl.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “You were ready for the challenge. Two birds. One Stone. You are a hunter.” He straightened his clothing. “Knew you could do it too.”
“The other half of the brooch?”
“Tucked away. Safe in God’s hands.”
“Shite.” He stared at the man. “What manner of man are you?”
“One who serves both king and God.” The infuriating toad of a man continued, “As such, I must encourage you to wed the woman.” He held out his hand to stop the flow of curses. “Handfast her if you must. In the eyes of God, be her protector. Put a jupon on her. Give her a kiss for good measure.”
“I’m being ordered to marry her?” Could it be as easy as that? “The king has given his blessing?”
“What if she already carries your child? Do you wish illegitimacy for your children? Marry her. Pro
tect her with your name.”
“I have nothing but my horse and armor.”
“You have your good name. Your strong arm.” Father Timothy held out his palm. The swan coin winked between them in the amber light of dawn. “And the Knights of the Swan to watch your back. What more do you need?”
The horns blew.
“’Tis time,” Drem said. He glanced toward the building where he and Brigitte had last made love. Thoughts of a life after the battle tempted the fates. But to ignore what his heart and head whispered? That he could no longer do.
“Come with me, Father.”
* * *
Brigitte paced the little cottage. How could she sleep when Drem was soon to go into battle? Possibly in danger at this moment? Had the knights intended to attack him in the middle of the night?
She stubbed her toe against his armor. Dragging it out of the canvas bag, she pulled out plates of steel and began polishing his chest plate. Stroking the metal, she imagined how it would protect his heart. She frowned. No matter how hard she rubbed, the stains would not come off. Rust had formed over the many days and nights of damp weather. The demon, eating away at the metal, weakened it. She needed sand, but there was none to be found in the little peasant’s cottage. Throughout the night, she worked on the armor and fretted that it would not be able to keep Drem safe. Despite her efforts, many of the joints were frozen. Those that she did unstick were slow and would be unwieldy in battle.
She tossed her rag to the floor, dropping her head into her hands.
The sound of rain had ceased. The tearing winds had calmed and no longer rattled the door and shutters.
Horns cut through the quiet morning. Blowing out the candles, she opened the shutter and peeked out. Scurrying footsteps approached.
The door swung open. Drem paused, staring at the pieces of armor scattered over the floor. His brows arched and rose. “We go to battle.” His frown deepened. “I must hurry.”
“The armor,” she said, rushing into his arms. “Do not wear the armor. The helm and your chain mail? Oui. The heavy plates of armor over your body? No.” She gripped his sleeve. “Drem, ’tis fresh-tilled earth. The rains have soaked the field. Please listen. The clay in the battlefield will claim you if you wear your armor.”