Knight Quests

by C. C. Wiley

  “Caru. It will soon be over.”

  “You ask a great deal from a knight, to go into battle unprotected,” the little priest said. He peered over Drem’s shoulder.

  Brigitte frowned. When had he entered? Had she seen him before? “Do I know you?”

  His gaze slipped as he rubbed a raw knuckle across his nose. “I think not. Unless you have been to my priory.”

  “In England? No. I have never been away from France.”

  “I see.” The priest cast a glance toward Drem. “’Tis time, brother.”

  Drem placed Brigitte’s hands on his heart. “We spoke of this once before. ’Tis been on my heart ever since. My caru. My love. Will you wed me, Brigitte de Marneir?”

  The horns blew again. She flinched. Her fingers curled. Why had he asked now?

  Too stunned to speak, she glanced at the holy man. “But I am no one. A thief.”

  “Not in the eyes of God.” He smiled and made the sign of the cross. “What better way to celebrate Saint Crispin and Crispinian on their feast day than with a wedding.”

  “I much prefer a wedding night to follow,” Drem said.

  Brigitte folded her arms across her chest and dared to hope she was correct in her opinion. “Then do not make me a widow on the same day. Do as I say and do not wear the rusted plates of armor. “

  He swept her into his arms. “As you wish, my caru.”

  The icy grasp of fear still chilled her to her soul, but she cupped his jaw and memorized every plane on his face, the fire in his eyes, the gentle promises in his smile. “Oui. I will be your wife.”

  Father Timothy cleared his throat. “We must hurry. There is little time.”

  * * *

  Brigitte stumbled to the surgeon’s tent alongside the little priest. She carried the jupon Drem had handed her before he left under her arm. Should the battle turn for the worse and overflow into the village, she was to don the shirt with the red cross so the English would not think her the enemy and kill her.

  Were they truly wed? What would the king say when he learned one of his knights had married without his knowledge? And if they lost this war against France, would anyone care? Their last few words together had been spoken in a rush. The agreement for husband and wife, to honor and cherish. He had called her his love. But had he said he loved her?

  Her shoe slipped in the mud. She could not recall whether she had said any words of love herself. Her heart ached with a pain that stole her breath and made her dizzy. Tears stung her eyes. She had never had a chance to tell him of her love for him.

  * * *

  The battle raged. Shouts. Screams. The ground shook under Brigitte’s feet. The whistle of a flock of arrows. Metal clanging with deathblows. The English horses had been kept away from the battlefield. The king had ordered everyone to fight on foot. Those too infirm or too young had been told to stay with the wagons and supplies.

  Everyone turned to look as horses cantered out of the melee. Their riders missing from their saddles. Blood coated their legs like stockings of red.

  The soldiers’ damaged bodies would soon arrive.

  Agatha and Mari huddled together as Brigitte paced the surgeon’s tent.

  “Where are the wounded?” she muttered. “Surely someone has news.”

  “Many nobles have fallen.” Father Timothy walked toward her, his wooden cross clutched in his fist. Heartache glazed his expression. “The tides are turning, my dear,” He kissed the holy cross. “I fear we are grievously outnumbered. Should we fail, do not don the jupon. Admit you are French.” His eyes darted to the flanks of the battlefield. “Though he has yet to appear, you must search for the duke of Burgundy.”

  She brushed the priest’s last comment away. The man believed to be her father did not enter into her thoughts. “I pray for all of them, Father.” One, in particular, came to mind. “Do not lose hope.”

  “Yes, my lady.” He squeezed her hand and then scurried back toward the battlefield to seek out the latest news.

  Soon the wounded would come. And she continued to pray.

  Brigitte looked up from the fire that she had kept going during the hours of battle. The priest returned. He ran with his gown hiked high above his knees.

  “’Tis a miracle,” he called. “The French are defeated. They are falling by the hundreds. Thousands. Never have I seen such bold and fearless Englishmen.”

  She caught his wrist. “Drem, Father Timothy. Did you see him?”

  Chapter 31

  For three hours the fighting continued.

  Brigitte had not seen Drem since he had made her his wife and left for the battlefield. The wounded began to trickle in. As did prisoners of war. Those who had survived would be ransomed. Soon there would be more captured enemies then they could guard.

  A lanky man, with locks the color of straw, stumbled along the path. Alexandre? Never would he have willingly gone onto the battlefield.

  Suddenly Brigitte heard a voice she had been aching to hear. All thought of the strangeness of seeing Alexandre were replaced with the need to see Drem. To touch him. Ensure that he had returned, safe from all harm.

  Three men approached the surgeon’s tent staggering under the weight of the wounded. The one in the middle required help to walk. They had left the carnage behind them, a trail of gore in every tottering step.

  Where to start? Where to mend him?

  A deep cut to his shoulder bled, the blood seeping down his leather jerkin. A few more inches and they would have cleaved off his head. The torn jupon, stained, was held by a single strip of cloth. One of his beautiful moss green eyes was swollen. Bruises and cuts covered his body. But he was alive.

  “Drem,” she cried, running to his aid. She locked her arms around his waist until she heard his hiss of pain.

  “Come,” she said, leading the way to the cottage, where they had left his sewing kit.

  The men hesitated.

  “I am skilled in healing. I can clean him better there.”

  They nodded.

  Drem’s head bobbed in agreement. “She’s my wife,” he said. “The most beautiful woman in the land.”

  At that, he collapsed, sagging between his brothers. Brigitte applied pressure to his neck as they carried him to the cottage.

  She cleared the table. “Lay him here,” she commanded. Rummaging through his satchel, she found the tools she needed. “Ask Father Timothy to fetch some eggs.” When they didn’t move, she shouted, “Go.”

  Brigitte found the remnants of the bottle of wine they had shared days earlier. There was enough left to cleanse the blood and gore from the wound.

  “Sleep, my love,” she whispered, fighting back her fear and the need to rage at the carnage that mankind had wrought. After threading the bone needle, she began sewing up his wound. The blood ceased to flow.

  And still he slept the sleep of one who neared the veil between life and death.

  She looked up as footsteps approached their door, jumping when it slammed open. Darrick and Nathan stood in the entrance.

  “Dear God, are you injured as well?”

  Bewildered, they looked down at their bloodstained clothes.

  Darrick was the first to enter and speak. “Nothing that won’t heal. We heard of Drem’s injuries.”

  Nathan followed suit. “Here.” He held out an egg

  Brigitte clasped it in her hands. “’Tis a blessing. Merci.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed their cheeks. “Nothing more valuable than this.”

  Cracking the shell, she carefully spread the egg white over the wound, sealing it shut. She sat back, suddenly so weary she didn’t know whether she could lift a finger. The yolk she would cook to give him nourishment when he awakened.

  “We will return soon,” Darrick muttered.

  “Many prisoners.” Nathan glanced at Darrick. “Pray no one attempts to escape or attack us.”

  “Oui, bon ami.”

  Nathan held out his arms. “Welcome to our little family.”

  Bri
gitte entered his embrace. Cautious. Family? “The king?”

  “Victorious.” Darrick nudged Nathan aside. “Thanks to Drem, he is well.” He pointed to his neck. “’Twas intended for our king.” He grasped Nathan and shoved him to the door. “We shall return as soon as we are able.”

  Her eyes watered. Family. For so many years she had dreamed of a family. The Nest had been a twisted family, its branches unhealthy and dying. She placed her hand on Drem’s chest, felt the steady beat of his heart. But this one he offered was strong, healthy, built on honor and love.

  She lay her head near his shoulder, watching him breathe and waiting for him to return to her. Healthy and whole.

  This time, she would say the words.

  “Je t’aime, my caru,” she whispered.

  Long fingers caressed her scalp. She leaned into them like a cat wanting attention.

  Lifting her head, she smiled at the man who had captured her heart.

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “Je t’aime, my caru,” he croaked.

  They repeated the words together. His arms wrapped around her, drawing her closer.

  “I love you madly, Wife.”

  She cradled his jaw, dropping tears on his face. “And I love you too, my darling husband.”

  A shadow darkened his gaze. “I failed you. Can you forgive me?”

  “Failed me?” She shook her head in wonder. “No. You are here. Alive. ’Tis all I need.”

  “Your maman’s necklace. I did not find it.” His fingers curled around hers. “The proof that you are from the House of Valois has vanished.”

  Brigitte smiled, pushing back the auburn locks that always fascinated her. “’Tis of no consequence. As you say, we are wed. I carry your name now.” Her palm slid over her abdomen. She would keep the secret until she knew for certain. “We are all the family I desire.”

  “Aye. That we are. You have stolen my heart, caru. Promise you will never return it.”

  Drem led her lips to his. And there they united. France. England. They were one.

  Chapter 32

  Calais

  They finally arrived in Calais and settled into their new home. Drem sank into a chair beside the hearth and watched his wife move carefully around the room. The grace in her steps told the tale of her upbringing. She was at home on the grand property King Henry had given him for saving his life.

  Ah, but there was always a price to be paid. He was to stay and help hold the city.

  England had its victory, but at what cost? And for how long? Until another came and proclaimed God’s will that it was theirs. Only God knew His Divine plan.

  Drem touched the place where a sword had come near to taking off his head. The fear of never seeing Brigitte again, holding her in his arms, telling her every day that he loved her, had kept him on his feet in that field of death.

  Brigitte placed her hand on her belly. She had yet to tell him, but he knew her body. Her breasts were lush and full. Indeed, more so than he ever could have imagined. And she was fraught with emotion.

  “Sir Drem, you have visitors—” the servant began.

  They barely had been announced at the door when a young boy, taller than when they last had seen him, raced into the room. He barreled into Brigitte’s arms and hugged her tight.

  Drem leaned back in the great chair, smiling at the two people who gave him hope.

  “Piers, lad,” she cried. “’Tis good to see you.”

  “Terrwyn. James.” Drem stood to greet his sister and brother by marriage. His injuries ached from the cold winter weather that seemed to have no end.

  “Brother.” James pounded him on the back. “’Tis good to see you alive and well.”

  Terrwyn leaped into Drem’s arms, nearly taking him off his feet. “I thought never to see you again.” She held him away from herself, examining him. “I dreamed of you. So much blood and thundering terror.”

  “I’m in one piece, Terrwyn,” Drem said. “Thanks to my caru’s care.”

  He held out his hand for his beloved Brigitte, motioning her to join them. Piers followed like a puppy, trailing in her steps. “Come. ’Tis my sister Terrwyn and her husband, James.”

  “Ah, the beautiful and talented Brigitte,” Terrwyn said. She turned, enfolding her in her arms. “Forgive me if I am too bold in my affection. ’Tis a delight to finally meet the enchanting Bee.”

  Wide-eyed, Brigitte blushed prettily. “‘No, I—I am thrilled to meet Drem’s family.”

  Drem rescued her from his sister’s hold and tucked her by his side. Brigitte’s cold fingers tightened around his. Why had she trembled?

  Terrwyn waved her hand. “We are just the crust of the pie. Wait until you meet the rest of our family.” Her expression clouded. “Well, not all, mind you.”

  Drem tensed and caught James’s eye. “You’ve received word about our father?”

  “He still lives,” Terrwyn said. “He is said to have left France and now hides with Owain Glyndr.”

  “Though we have yet to discover the secret behind Piers’s past, he has told us many great tales,” James interjected.

  Drem ruffled the boy’s head of golden curls. “I intend to keep my promise, Piers, and find your family.”

  Terrwyn leaned in. “And he may stay with us until we do.”

  Drem vowed to thank James for this escape from thoughts of Dafydd ap Hew. He and Brigitte had much to overcome. He vowed they would succeed. Together. Without his father causing any more harm.

  James turned to Brigitte. “If you are willing, I would like to sketch your maman. Those who brought you to Harfleur.”

  “And the mysterious Monsieur le Faire,” Terrwyn added.

  “Oui.” Brigitte blanched and nodded. “I shall do my best. But ’twas many years ago.”

  “Have no fear.” Terrwyn tipped her head and whispered, “’Tis James’s gift. He is the king’s most talented artist.”

  Brigitte caught her lip between pearly teeth. “I may not recall . . .”

  She leaned into Drem’s embrace, claiming the spot where she belonged.

  “Is there word of Master Alexandre? Did he survive the battle in Agincourt?” James asked.

  “’Tis reported he was never seen after the battle.” Drem said.

  Brigitte’s gaze never left his. Worry creased her brow. The same worry that woke him in the middle of the night. The one they whispered to each other. What if irrefutable proof that she was Philip the Bold’s illegitimate daughter was discovered? Would she once again become a pawn in the game of power? He thanked God that Father Timothy had vowed to return the other half of the swan brooch to the Dunstable Priory for safekeeping.

  Drem fisted his hands. Never would he allow her to be taken from his side.

  He looked down as Brigitte caressed his knuckles, helping him to unfurl his fingers and release the anger. “Perhaps. One day the details will come back to her,” he said. “Who is to say when?”

  “Oui. Who is to say?” She shrugged. “Mayhap never.”

  Terrwyn tucked her hand into her husband’s, smiled that radiant smile Drem had come to recognize in his lady wife. “’Tis time,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling like a sun-kissed ocean.

  “Yes, my sweet.” Frowning, James dragged his attention from Drem’s sister. “Brother, new Sister. We are ordered to deliver a message from our king.” He withdrew a rolled parchment from the folds of his surcoat.

  “Aye?” Drem began to itch under their perusal. Their countenances had become stern. He searched for Brigitte’s hand. “I will not let her go,” he growled.

  Piers carried a tray with silver pitcher and cups into the room. Smiling at the boy, Terrwyn urged him to come closer. She filled and passed out the cups as James ceremoniously unrolled the document.

  “Terrwyn—” Drem said. The itch had become unnerving. “What are you about?”

  Ignoring his plea, his stubborn sister smirked and lifted her cup, touching it to James’s. Together, they said, “This comes from our fri
end. Words of wisdom to carry you through life.”

  James cleared his throat and began to read, “ ‘May there be someone to hold ’til the wee hours of the morn.’ ”

  Terrwyn stepped closer, entwining her arm through James’s, and added, “‘ Someone to love us despite our faults.’”

  James raised his voice and cup higher. “ ‘Someone to care whether we live or die.’”

  Together, they finished the words. “ ‘And may that someone be ours to love throughout eternity.’”

  “Does that mean what I think it does?” Brigitte whispered in Drem’s ear. Tears glittered before sliding down her cheeks.

  “Aye.” Shaking with relief, Drem caught his beloved, drawing her close. “’Tis Henry’s blessing.” He caught her mouth, tasting the salt on her lips. He lifted his head. “We are safe. Our king has given us his blessing.”

  “James, we nearly forgot the rest. Tell him the news.” Terrwyn bounced on her feet like a child, reminding Drem of a Michaelmas long ago.

  James tilted his head. He straightened, his blue-gray eyes snapping with life. “You are to return to Wales in the late spring,” he said. “To your family’s holdings. They are returned to you. There you will serve until you are called again.”

  Drem could hardly take it in. Spring. Brigitte would be round with their child. Their growing family would once again be on Welsh soil. His vows to Brigitte and his king would be fulfilled. Indeed, he would protect them with his life.

  Brigitte rose up to cup the back of his head, drawing him down until their lips touched.

  “I love you, my caru,” he said, nibbling on the spot behind her ear, which drove her wild with passion. His palm slid over hers as they cradled the new life growing within.

  Smiling a sweet, contented smile, she tilted her head, turning to catch his mouth. “And I love you. Forevermore. Forevermore.”

  Please turn the page for a thrilling sneak peek of

  C.C. Wiley’s next book in

  her exciting KNIGHTS OF THE SWAN series

  KNIGHT TREASURES

  Coming in November 2017.

  It is Sir Darrick of Lockwood’s romance!