“Johanna—” Jaufre said.
The count laughed. “Too little, too late, boy. Your lady friend appears eager to go to her death.” He drew back his sword to strike with an almost lazy gesture. Johanna dodged the edge of the blade, just, tumbling forward to come perilously close to the destrier’s front hooves. She screamed. She screamed very loudly and very impressively. The destrier, uneasy, began to dance. A hoof struck and pain flashed up her arm. She screamed again, this time in good earnest, and kept rolling forward so that she was directly beneath the black war horse. She kicked out at his legs, connecting about half the time. The destrier stumbled and Ambroise cursed. Johanna kept screaming.
North Wind had had a trying few months. He had been force marched over the Alps from Milano to Lyon with no chance to stretch his legs in a race. In Lyon he had been imprisoned on a farm, where, to add insult to injury, when a mare came into season no one had availed themselves of his superior services. His human had gone away and left him for an unconscionable amount of time, the longest they had been separated since leaving Cambaluc. Behind a fence even he couldn’t break down and it wasn’t for lack of trying.
He’d just got her back, and now she was screaming. He’d just gotten her back and someone or something was trying to hurt her.
Enough.
Before Florian or the spearmen or the boys or Ambroise himself could react, North Wind yanked up his picket, which had been knocked only loosely into the ground to begin with, and sounded a thunderous challenge. Anyone who had ever seen him race would have recognized the standing start that was his signature. One moment he was standing still, looking half asleep, and the next he was charging forward at full speed. He roared a challenge that could have been heard back in Lyon, terrifying the rest of the horses, theirs and Ambroise’s alike. It didn’t help that none of Ambroise’s men, or indeed Ambroise himself expected any resistance from a bunch of money-grubbing traders. This was supposed to be a simple slaughter and a reclaiming of property.
Instead the horses plunged, reared, plunged, neighed, and plunged again, bucking and twisting, their instinctive desire to get away, to get right away right now, as far as they could get as fast as they could go. Two of the boys fell off. One of the spearmen nearly did. Two of the spearmen’s mounts got their bits firmly between their teeth, yanked the reins from their riders’ hands and crashed through the trees to disappear. The rest of them were fully occupied in trying to bring their terrorized mounts under control.
Johanna waited until the very last moment, trading a few more kicks with the destrier, and scrambled from beneath the destrier’s belly and rolled clear. The others of her company were following suit with promptness and agility. North Wind thundered down on Ambroise, who raised his totally inadequate sword in a pitiful semblance of defense before the great white stallion slammed into the black destrier and knocked him completely off his feet. He fell heavily on his side with a thump that shook the ground and set a few branches swaying. He lay there, wheezing his astonishment.
Ambroise barely got his leg up out of the way in time and stagger to his feet. He raised his sword to the great white stallion rearing before him. North Wind treated this puny defiance with the contempt it deserved, and broke Ambroise’s sword arm with his left front hoof and cracked Ambroise’s breastbone with his right front hoof. Ambroise’s sword fell from a suddenly numb hand. Ambroise fell on top of it.
North Wind dropped to all fours and did something Johanna had seen him do only once before, in a little campsite south of Talikan when two men had thought to take advantage of three unarmed women. He hopped. He hopped straight up into the air and came down on all four feet, landing directly on Ambroise. One hoof missed altogether, one sheared off an ear, the remaining two landed directly on his chest. The sound of cracking ribs echoed around the clearing.
North Wind hopped again, bellowing his outrage. This time his rear hooves landed on Ambroise’s pelvis. Ambroise screamed, louder even than Johanna had.
Possibly affronted by a noise made by someone else other than himself, North Wind hopped a third time. Both front hooves landed on Ambroise’s face. There was a crack and a sort of a splash and his skull split and his brains and blood splattered across the grass, to lay glistening red and gray in the morning sun.
The lord of L’Arête’s screams stopped.
North Wind snorted and turned to find Johanna. Finding her, he sniffed her all over. She smelled like herself, although she was pulling rather hard at his mane to hold herself up. No matter. She was well, which meant all was well in North Wind’s world. He raised his head and bugled his triumph, terrifying all the other horses a second time. Satisfied, he dropped his head and nudged Johanna to scratch behind his ears. She did so, noticing in some dazed part of her mind that her hand was shaking. She did not look down at his hooves. She looked up instead, to see Tiphaine peering from behind the trunk of a tree at the edge of the clearing, her dark eyes enormous. Johanna fought to bring a smile to her lips but they were trembling, too.
Ambroise’s men got their horses back under control and stared at the broken mess that had been their leader with white faces. “You—you did that on purpose,” one of them said.
Jaufre, like Firas and Alaric back on his feet, sword at the ready, said baldly, “Yes.” He recognized the man as Florian, Ambroise’s lieutenant.
“We will kill you all,” Florian said.
“You can,” Firas said, stepping forward. “But we won’t go easily.”
“And we’ll be sure to take some of you with us,” Hayat said. She was flanked by Alma and by Johanna, who stepped around North Wind to stand with them, all three with swords drawn. L’Arête’s men looked at them askance. They were only women, of course, but one similarly trained couldn’t help but notice the easy assurance with which they held their weapons. They appeared, incredibly, to have had some past experience, and if there was one thing a soldier disliked, it was unknowns in battle. It was the unknowns that would get you killed. These women looked like they knew how.
“But why should it come to that?” Hari said soothingly, coming forward and smiling his warm smile at the lieutenant. “You’re Florian, aren’t you?”
Such was Ambroise’s reputation that Florian had not seen this much naked steel arrayed against him in a long time. He had forgotten how the edges gleamed in the sun. He felt the sudden uncertainty in the men at his back. “Yes,” he said.
“You were the lord’s second in command?”
“Yes?”
“And…” When Florian said nothing Hari tut-tutted, and said kindly, as one explaining something to a child, “And there is no one left in L’Arête above you in rank?”
Realization dawned on Florian’s face. “No,” he said. “No. There isn’t.” He hesitated, and looked at Félicien.
“You must press your claim without me,” she said. “I will never return to L’Arête. In this company, before these witnesses, I renounce all claims to L’Arête and its attendant properties.” The finality in her voice convinced them all, even Florian. “One thing, however.”
“What?”
“What happened to Laloun, my maid? She put herself in my place so that I could escape.”
“She is locked in the dungeon, awaiting my lord’s return.”
Félicien gave a thin smile. “There will be no flying lessons for her, Florian. Let her go.”
He stared at her.
“That is my price,” she said. “Let her go, and you will never see me again. I will never contest with you for the title of L’Arête. It is yours. Do with it what you will. All I ask is that you let Laloun go.”
He wavered visibly. Hari pressed Félicien’s words home, even walking forward to stand within weapon’s reach and staring up into the lieutenant’s face, his expression calm and serene and wholly without fear. “Go directly back to L’Arête and see things secure there. Then go to the Pope and demand title by right of conquest. If you go to him first, he can then give it away to anyone he wa
nts, so don’t give him the opportunity. Take L’Arête and hold it for yourself, and then ask for his blessing.”
There was a brief silence where no one moved.
“If you’re going to do so, you’d better do it now,” Jaufre said.
“Indeed,” Firas said, and went so far as to sheathe his scimitar and tuck his thumbs into his belt. “Who knows what has happened in L’Arête in your absence? Another man could be thinking the same thing.” He glanced at the pages. “There are those with motive enough.”
Florian followed his gaze to the boys, and his mouth set in a grim line.
“Let Laloun go,” Félicien said again. “Give her a horse and money and tell her to make for Lyon and Sieur Imbert.” She hesitated. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
Florian gave a short laugh. “There was no need. He told us everything we wanted to know almost without our asking.”
“As we told him to do,” Jaufre said, determined that the Blade’s men understand that this morning had been a trap into which they had ridden all unknowing.
When they were working out the details of their plan, Firas had said, “Ambroise will not consider us a threat. We will use that arrogance to our advantage.” They had waited to be sure that Ambroise had had enough time in Lyon to track down Sieur Ambert, who had instructions to give them up as soon as he was asked. Firas and Alaric had scouted ahead to find the most suitable place to be ambushed in, and had withdrawn back to the farm, there to wait another night so that Ambroise and his men could set their trap, all unknowing that a different trap had already been set, for them.
“What if they decide to take us at the farm?” Johanna said.
Firas had shaken his head. “This isn’t his territory. Remember Sant’ Alberto. He chose to ambush Félicien somewhere without witnesses. He will do the same here.”
“I don’t want Glaude and his family hurt,” she said.
“They won’t be,” Alaric said. “Firas is right, Ambroise will wish to draw as little attention as possible to the fact that he lost his wife a second time.” He looked at Johanna. “Are you sure North Wind will react as you say?”
Johanna, Firas, Alma and Hayat had only smiled.
Now, Florian flushed darkly, and Jaufre was satisfied. “Then let us go our separate ways in peace.”
Florian hesitated for a moment longer, but only a moment. “Audouard! Retrieve Ambroise’s body and find something to wrap it in.”
What was left of L’Arête was rolled into in one of the spearmen’s bedroll and tied across this saddle. Bits and pieces persisted in falling off until they tied both ends of the bedroll with strips of hide. The lieutenant tied the reins of the destrier to his saddle and, with a long, last look at the members of Wu Company, Hari smiling benignly, the rest grim and determined, moved out. The two unhorsed boys scrambled back on their mounts and kicked them into a trot. The last Johanna saw of them as they disappeared into the trees was Guilham’s astonished face as he twisted round in his seat behind.
“What happens to them?” she said.
“If Florian really wishes to hold L’Arête, he’ll send them back to their parents,” Alaric said. “Otherwise he will have in his keeping four excellent excuses for sieges. Especially if their parents are at all ambitious.”
“I expect they’ll be glad to go,” Johanna said.
His gaze was somber. “I expect so.”
13
Chartres, Winter, 1325–1326
The fine weather broke the next day. The heavens opened up and it rained day and night. Their clothes were wet, their bedrolls were wet, their horses were so wet they steamed. Every inn they came to was already packed to the rafters with people seeking shelter and they slept outside more often than not. They all had colds, and Félicien was still sick all day every day and throughout most of her nights.
The terrain was easy enough and the road well marked for a change, but the hundred leagues to Chartres felt like a thousand. They were twelve days in transit, and of course the rain started to taper off their last day en route. The next morning dawned, if not clear then at least with high clouds and blessedly no rain. The forest had given way to rolling fields of stubbled grain. At noon Shasha said, “What’s that?” and they followed her pointing finger to the massive stone spires rising up from the horizon, as if to knock at the very doors of heaven itself.
“That would be the cathedral,” Alaric said, spurring up from the rear. Firas returned from scouting ahead to confirm that they had, indeed, reached their destination. A feeling of mild exhilaration swept over the company, even Jaufre, who had spent the journey with his chin on his shoulder, could relax a little. He didn’t trust Florian to keep his word. Félicien was too great a prize.
“Are we Wu Company again,” Tiphaine said, “or are we still Jerome’s Jongleurs?”
“Wu Company, I beg you,” Alaric said in a tone so dry it surprised a laugh out of the rest of them. The farther north they traveled, the lighter of heart Alaric seemed to become. It was a pleasant change.
Chartres was a small, prosperous town clustered around its crowning glory, the cathedral, an immense and awe-inspiring edifice of stone surrounded by flying buttresses and surmounted with two towers in two different styles. The town around it bustled with inns and taverns, and shops selling everything from cockleshells to shards of the True Cross. One busy agent was organizing pilgrimages north to Notre Dame in Paris and south to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, with a sideline in same to Jerusalem, via Venice.
“I feel right at home,” Johanna said.
They found a comfortable, commodious inn with excellent stabling and settled in with a sense of relief. Jaufre investigated the state of his trouser hem and went off to find a gem dealer who might be interested in purchasing a ruby, since Chartres was too busy a town for cheap lodgings. Shasha disappeared for the entire day and returned that evening with an elderly woman with a severely curved spine who walked with the assistance of two sticks. She had wise eyes and a quiet, calm manner. They vanished upstairs for an hour and then the old woman came down alone and left, the sound of her sticks on stones tapping off into the distance.
Johanna went softly up the stairs and down the hall and knocked on the door. “Shasha? It’s Johanna.”
“Come in.” Félicien turned her head on the pillow and gave a weak smile. Shasha was lifting a covered chamber pot in preparation for emptying it outside. “I’ll be right back,” she said with a smile. As she brushed by Johanna, she murmured, “See if you can get her to talk.”
Johanna shut the door behind her and brought a stool next to the bed. Sitting down, she said lightly, “I won’t ask how you’re feeling.”
“Please. Don’t.”
There was a touch of ruefulness in the reply that sounded more like the old Félicien. Encouraged, Johanna smiled. “What do you want? Peace? I can go away again.”
Félicien reached for her hand. “No. No, please stay.” Her eyes were sunken, her face white and drawn. The skin of her hand felt hot and dry to the touch.
Johanna looked at the tray of food on the table next to the bed. “Haven’t managed to eat anything?”
“I can’t keep it down. Most annoying.”
“I would imagine.”
They sat in silence for a few moments. Félicien kept hold of Johanna’s hand. “I can’t believe you came for me.” For the first time in speaking of it, her voice held wonder and gratitude.
“It was Jaufre,” Johanna said. “He knew the right thing to do from the beginning.”
“I was—fond of him, you know.”
Johanna blinked. “Jaufre?”
A faint smile. “Yes, Jaufre. The man so in love with you that other women might as well not exist.” She shifted and winced a little. “Especially women dressed as men.”
“I thought—”
“What, that I didn’t like men? Well, I didn’t, then. Until I met him. He is just as all the songs say. ‘A parfit gentil knight.’”
Johanna
had thought of Jaufre in many ways but as a knight was not one of them. “I didn’t know.”
“No, and nor does he, and don’t tell him.” The bed creaked as she shifted again. A drumming began on the roof. “Rain, again. I’m glad we’re inside and dry.”
“So am I,” Johanna said with feeling.
“You have a lovely singing voice, Johanna.”
“Thank you. So do you.” She hesitated. “When we were asking after you, we heard you had a nickname.”
Félicien smiled. “L’Alouette du Sud,” she said.
“Yes.”
“My father said I was born singing. My mother died when I was born, and I was all he had, and my voice pleased him very much. He hired many teachers for me, from Avignon, Lyon, Nice, one all the way from Paris. And when I was growing up, every troubadour and jongleur and minstrel and poet passing within a hundred leagues of L’Arête knew they could find a meal and a bed there. All my father asked was that they sing for me, and to let me sing with them.” Her eyes closed and she swallowed hard and breathed deeply several times. “One of them gave me that name.”
“It…sounds like a good childhood.”
“The best.” Félicien sighed and opened her eyes again, the nausea passing for the moment. “And then I grew up, and my father decided I must marry.”
“Why Ambroise?”
“He was strong enough to keep me safe, or so my father thought.” A soundless laugh. “He was looking forward to grandchildren. And then he died, and I tried to break the betrothal. Ambroise showed up with his troop, forced me in front of a priest. I ran.” She was silent for a moment. “At least he’s dead. He won’t hurt anyone ever again.”
She looked at Johanna. “You know what I’d like?”
“What?”
“For you to find a lute or a gitar for me. I’d like to teach you some songs.”
Their eyes met.
“All right,” Johanna said in a low voice.
She met Shasha on the landing, and it was a good thing she did because her eyes were filled with tears and she tripped on the top step. Her foster sister caught her before she fell down the stairs. “Johanna! Be careful! I don’t want to have two patients on my hands.” She took a closer look at Johanna’s face and put down the chamber pot. “What is it?”
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