Alone, she again glanced at the parchment she held, now slightly damp from her sweaty palm.
Just open it.
With a deep sigh, Elena cracked the seal with her nail and unrolled the parchment.
My Dearest Countess of Kent,
It is with great sadness I must report to you that your sister-by-marriage, has died in childbed. Your brother's child decided to enter this world before its time, and while Lady Alyssa was delivered of a son, he lived not more than few breaths.
Richard is serving the king's purpose in France, and has yet to learn the fate of his wife and child. Upon his return to Enniscorthy, Richard made mention of a visit to Kent. If you should see him, please relay this news to him, as I am not certain he will receive the missive I have sent abroad.
With honor,
Baron McCullough of Enniscorthy
Elena's heart fluttered and she quickly re-read the letter again. Oh, poor Richard! And his wife and babe…
She rolled the parchment and tucked it into her bodice, then hurried around the cloister, entering the small side door of the church where she wouldn't be seen by the monks. She edged along the sides to the back of the nave, where an altar had been set up, some candles lit already to pray for the dead.
Elena lit two more candles, then knelt to her knees and prayed for the souls of her lost sister-by-marriage and nephew, and for that of her brother. While still on her knees she prayed for Michael and for Thomas, that they would return soon, and safe.
The monk's voices rang out in prayer, and then there was nothing but the sounds of their shuffling feet.
"Are you well, my lady?" Abbot Hunsden stopped beside her, concern etched on his old weathered face.
Elena jolted, fearing he would berate her for having entered the church. But he only smiled reassuringly.
Elena stood. "I have heard news from my father, 'tis all. My sister-by-marriage passed while birthing my brother's son, and sadly the infant did not survive."
The abbot nodded as if the news were something he heard every day. "'Tis the way of things. They are with God now. You must trust in his divine plan."
Elena nodded her acceptance of what Abbot Hunsden said, but on the inside, she did not agree. Alyssa and Richard had surely been so excited to start a family, and her brother's wife had been so young. For certain, she had not wanted to pass from this earth, not yet. And now Richard, twice a widower.
"Come, I have heard that you and your ladies sewed shirts for the poor. This Saturday, we are opening our gates to the less fortunate. We will clothe them and give them food, and many will sleep the night in the chapel, praying for forgiveness of sins, so they might yet reach Heaven. I would see what stock you have prepared for us."
Elena led the way to her and her ladies' chamber where they had collectively sewn several dozen shirts in all sizes. She was grateful for the task, and for the Abbot who successfully averted her mind from her brother and his dead family.
Being caked in mud, sweat, blood and God knows what else was awfully disturbing. After a month without being able to clean himself, other than splashing water here and there, Michael felt thoroughly like he'd climbed inside the castle's garderobe and romped around in it until he was good and filthy.
Resting on his haunches and drawing strategies into the mud with his men, he lusted for a bath or a swim in the nearby river he could hear burbling and rushing over rocks just beyond their camp near Harfleur, France. Now late in August, their armor weighed heavily and hotly on their bodies, but the men were loath to be without it as an ambush was likely at any moment since they squatted on foreign lands—even if they had claimed it in the name of Henry V of England.
They were in the middle of a siege that at first appeared would be easy, but day after day, the army of Harfleur fought, and Michael suspected, they had help. From who he had no idea, but there must have been a secret entrance that food stuffs, provisions and medical supplies were being smuggled through.
"Devereux." The gruff voice of Alexander, Lord Hardwyck, who was in charge of the nearly thousand knights who camped with Michael and his own men, broke into his thoughts.
Michael stood, his legs protesting from being crouched for longer than he should have, and little rest.
"Hardwyck." Michael nodded at the fierce knight who held out his arm. Michael gripped his arm in a brief greeting.
"Why don't you and your men take a break? There is a river beyond the hill there. My men have just returned from bathing. 'Twas a nice relief from this infernal heat."
It was only after he said it, that Michael noticed Alexander's skin was not covered in grime, his armor shined. He shook out his stiff legs. He was exhausted, and while the sound of a dunk in the river was enticing, he almost would rather take a nap—for twelve hours.
His men, who'd been watching him scratch battle plans into the ground, held expectant looks on their faces.
"My men will relieve you until the morrow, Devereux. Go, clean yourselves and get some much needed rest. The French will not attack tonight."
It was settled then. Michael turned fully to his men. "Round up the troops and tell them to go to the river for a wash. Afterwards, we shall eat and sleep."
Once at the river, Michael split the men up into two groups—bathers and guards. Although, Andrew didn't think the French would attack, he could never be too sure. Fletch helped him out of his armor and surcoat, but he stopped him when they wanted to undress him further. His underclothes needed a good scrubbing and he wasn't willing to clean his body and then redress in the flea infested, blood and sweat caked fabric.
Michael slipped into the water, surprised at how cool it was against his flesh, even with the humid weather. He sunk lower, dipping his head beneath and swiping his hands through his hair. Diving low, he scooped up some gravelly rocks from the bottom of the river and used them to scrape the film off of his skin.
Fletch tossed him from the bank a cake of lye soap, which he used to wash his hair, body and clothes, relishing in the refreshing feeling of being clean. God, he'd never wanted a bath so badly. Well, that wasn't particularly true, every time he'd been in battle, he'd wanted a chance to bathe, but typically, they had more men, more resources, and the danger was not as high. But in a siege situation, there was never a chance to take your eyes off the enemy.
He tossed the soap cake back to Fletch and sunk under the water again to rinse himself. When he resurfaced, he didn't want to get out. He knew he should. It was only fair to give Fletch the same assistance he had given him, but he wanted to take just a minute or two more. He looked over at the bank, feeling guilt riddle his gut, to see that Fletch was engaged in what appeared to be a humorous conversation with another guard. Good, his comrade wouldn't mind if he took a few more moments to relax in the cooling river.
Michael kicked his legs up, and floated on his back, eyes closed. He breathed deeply of the river air. She flashed in his mind.
Elena.
He hadn't thought of her—or tried not to think of her—the entire time he was gone. But he saw her now—as he'd seen her when he left her. Her beautiful face, large eyes gazing intently into his. Her lips slightly purple from the juice of a grape plucked off the abbey garden arbor.
Her lips parted in a smile, and he found now, his own lips parted, waiting to taste her kiss. Dear God, he missed her.
He grimaced, and opened his eyes to the blinding afternoon sun. Enough of this. He couldn't be thinking of her now, he had to think of way to complete their siege of Harfleur.
And then he saw it.
It wasn't much, just an odd angle of shrubbery. His senses perked up and he stood in the water, eyes riveted on the leafy vegetation beyond his guards. The shrubbery backed up to a rocky mountain wall, covered in lichen and moss.
Fletch must have seen Michael's attention and fierce gaze, as he called out, "What is it, Sir? On your guard, men!"
Michael exited the water, and walked, dripping to the odd shrubs, only to see they were more like b
rambles, which caught on the flesh of his finger, cutting into his skin with an itchy sting.
Fletch tossed him a sword, and Michael started to hack away at the vegetation, until the mountain wall was exposed—but here, behind the brambles, was not a mountain wall but a large stone overlap. A doorway.
He motioned with his hand, and Fletch and several other guards came by to help him move the stone, which was surprisingly very light, and could have been moved by one man alone, perhaps even a strong woman. So this was how they were holding out. The bastards! They were sneaking in and out the entire time, and right in their midst. He felt like a fool. He'd had his suspicions, and if he hadn't come to the river to bathe, he would have never known for sure. Indeed, he'd let himself get so exhausted, he hadn't the initiative to even investigate to begin with.
"Damn," he muttered. "Put the stone back."
"Sir?" Fletch asked, his brows furrowed in question.
"I must speak with Lord Warwick and Lord Hardwyck. Now we know how these fools are surviving. A plan must be hatched. Come now, you must clean yourself up."
Carefully grasping the bramble branches they'd cut away, Michael tried to replace them, so as not to draw attention to the French if any of them should use the passageway before he and Alexander had a chance to make good on a plan.
Once he felt satisfied that the secret entrance looked almost the same as it had before, he assigned a couple of men to guard it and then turned back to Fletch to help him disrobe.
"Get on with it, the water is lush," he said with a wave of his hand.
Fall was fast approaching.
Until now, the Wolf had been too afraid to attack. But he realized it hadn't been folly that held his urges at bay. No indeed, it had been smarts. His brain was working mighty fine, it was.
They were all comfortable now. Feeling safe.
And it was about time he broke that shield of ease and calm.
He smiled cruelly and watched as Lady Elena and her women picked apples in the grove. How fortunate for him to have gotten an injury just the day before the men were to depart for France. He'd been among the list to leave. But after his accident—which indeed was no accident at all—he'd had the good fortune to be left behind.
He scraped his teeth with a bit of straw, relishing the sting as it cut against his gums.
Wouldn't be long now.
The clatter of wood on wood startled Elena awake. She blinked her eyes, trying to adjust them to the dusky room. She'd taken to her bed after the nooning with a fiery headache, and now it must be close to evening. No candles were lit, only an orange grey light shimmered through the cracks of the closed shutters.
The nap had dulled the pain in her head, but it was bound to come back as it always did when seasons changed. Something with the drastic temperature change, as if her body once used to warmth rebelled when fall turned the air crisp. Her migraines were fierce from temple to temple. Light seared her eyes. Sounds were too much. She even vomited, emptying every morsel she'd taken in.
Luckily, the worst of it appeared to be over. Again a scraping sound and hushed voices.
She pushed up to her elbows and glanced toward where the sound came from.
Beth stood by the door, whispering, her arms moving frantically to whomever she spoke to in the hall.
"Beth, who is there?" Elena smoothed her hair and moved to put her feet on the ground, but Beth's gaze stopped her.
The maid looked frightened as she flicked her widened eyes in Elena's direction and then turned back toward the door.
Elena would not let harm come to her maid, even if it appeared only to be the sort that came with the mind.
She pushed her feet into her slippers and stood to approach the door.
"My lady—"
But Beth was cut off. A wooden crutch jabbed into the door and pushed it further open, creaking loudly on its hinges. Elena would have to talk with Friar Gyles about having it oiled. The door was extremely loud, and she feared whenever she came in she'd wake any person who deigned to sleep.
"My lady, I see you have woken," Jon, Michael's squire said, from the doorway. His hair was disheveled, as were his clothes, and while his lips curled into a smile, it did not reach his eyes.
"Indeed, I have. You woke me." There was no bite to her tone, but she did wish him to know she did not think his appearance at her door while she slept was appropriate. "What is it you need?"
"I had thought to escort you to dinner." His eyes narrowed slightly, and she had the distinct feeling he was irritated at her reaction.
"You are feeling well enough to attend?" Elena smoothed the wrinkles from her skirts and folded her hands in front of her hips as she often did. Not only did the stiff stance give her confidence, it always seemed to appease anyone whom she was speaking with—who happened to show the slightest bit of unease. And Jon, at that moment was making her feel very uneasy. There was a tightly wound chain inside him that looked ready to snap and she could not fathom why.
"I am. My thanks for your inquiry. 'Twas an unfortunate accident, but one that shall not hinder me from my duties."
"I daresay Sir Michael would not give you duties while you recover from a broken leg, Jon." Elena smiled reassuringly. "You won't find me banging down your door. Beth is perfectly capable of providing escort, we are after all quite isolated here."
"Isolated, aye." His voice had grown darker, and a stroke of cold fear swiped Elena's insides. What in heavens was wrong with the man? He was normally aloof, polite. It seemed almost as if someone else possessed him entirely.
"Quite. Why do you not go and rest then, Jon? I'm sure I will be in need of your service again soon. I bid you good evening."
Elena nodded to Beth who attempted to close the door, but again Jon's wooden crutch crunched against the surface.
"I fear, my lady, that would be quite impossible."
Elena narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips together. "Sir, I find your actions and words to be quite impudent. I have dismissed you. We may be at the abbey, but you are still in service to Kent, and I am the Countess."
He pushed the door further open and hobbled inside. His entire left leg was encased in thick bandages, the bottoms of two wooden slats seen near his ankles. His foot was covered in a woolen sock and a boot, half unlaced.
"You are indeed, the Countess," he hissed. His voice was low and menacing and he hobbled closer so that he stood between Elena and Beth. "A woman tossed aside by a husband who abhors her. A woman who has whored herself to a knight in her husband's own household. Will you play the whore for me?"
Beth gasped in outrage. "You speak out of turn to your mistress! You will be punished for this!"
Without speaking, Jon spun around and struck Beth on the side of the head with his crutch. The resounding crack sickened Elena, and she felt like collapsing as Beth's eyes rolled. Her maid opened her mouth to speak, but he hit her again. She crumpled to the floor in a heap of skirts.
Using his crutch, Jon pushed the door closed.
"As I was saying…" His words were issued through grinding teeth.
"You need not repeat the vile words you have spoken." She kept her head high, shoulders squared, and forced her voice to carry authority.
Jon's head fell back and he laughed. Elena wanted to snatch his crutch from his hands and pummel it over his head, just as he had assaulted her innocent maid.
"You will be punished for having attacked my maid. I suggest you leave."
"Your suggestion has been duly noted, but unfortunately, I do not take advice from women or whores."
"Who do you think you are? Have you no respect for your master, Sir Michael?"
"My master? The man I should be looking up to? He has broken his own rules."
Elena had to keep Jon talking. If she kept him talking then one of her other maids would come in search of her for dinner and she could make her run for help before Jon had time to hobble toward the door to shut the maid up as he had Beth. Elena thanked God Jon had not had the
wit to lock the door. She kept her eyes steady on him, watching his every move like a hawk.
"What rule?"
"He has ill-used a woman. A woman who does not belong to him."
"Of whom do you speak?"
He snickered. "Surely you jest, my lady." His voice was mocking, and his use of the words my lady sounded derogatory.
"I assure you, Jon, I do not jest." She would never admit to having an affair with Michael, only to put his life in danger.
At this, he only laughed harder, thumping his wooden crutch against the floor. Elena watched as it struck the floor four times. With hope, the noise it made would alert someone below stairs to come and see what was happening.
His laughter suddenly stopped and his eyes, feral, mouth curved into a snarl, he reminded her of a wild beast. He was mad with rage, and just plain insanity. "You are not an imbecile, Lady Elena. Why act as such? You know of what I speak. You know so very well."
"I find your words insulting." She looked down her nose at him, hoping he would take her demeanor for disgust, but she had no such luck.
His arm whipped out with lightning speed and he gripped her around the throat, hauling her toward him. His fingertips bit painfully into her skin, and she sucked in trying to breathe, but only gurgled.
His face came within an inch of hers, his breath foul like onions and ale. "Have you no shame? I watched him enter your room. I heard the moans, the slapping of flesh. I know how he feels about you. He told all of his men how he'd had you. How he loved you."
Had he? Would Michael really divulge their secrets? Could she believe this man who choked the life from her?
She desperately scraped at his fingers clutching her neck, shook her head, trying anything to catch a breath. His grip lessoned, but he did not let go. She greedily sucked in what little air his hold allowed.
Jon's breath was ragged, his lids drooping slightly. With one hand around her neck, he had to lean heavily on his cane with the other. But he did not seem to care so much about the pain in his leg. Instead his eyes darkened and he licked his lips.
Knights of Valor Page 21