Gautier’s legs pumped madly under him, despite the heavy wool garments. His habit flapped angrily about his legs. He had to get there first.
A startled partridge thrummed into flight. He paused to listen for any sign of either the woman or the knight. Swearing under his breath, Gautier leaped into a mad rush again. He had to be close. She was not as fast as he was, neither was the knight.
The river twinkled to his left. Perhaps she had crossed it and taken a different route back home? She was a clever woman, she must have thought of it. He veered off and scrambled down the bank.
A blood-curdling scream sliced the air. He skidded to a halt, the rope falling to the ground. A woman’s voice.
“Charlotte!”
Chapter Nine
Rain made everything slippery, treacherous. Charlotte slid and floundered in many places but managed to keep her legs pumping. Dirt splattered her hose and hands from her many near falls. She had discarded her cape a while back for it caught in branches and slowed her advance.
Lussier’s shocked face flashed back in her mind. Was he still alive, she wondered? Had she only wounded him or worse? He deserved it. The memory of his hands on her waist as he tried to kiss her nearly made her topple down the riverbank. Pig.
The river.
If she crossed it, she might stand a chance of losing her pursuer. Or pursuers. She still was not sure about Gautier. And right now was not the time to ponder the man’s motivation.
A low-hanging branch scraped her head. She cringed and held her brow as she scrambled down the embankment. Loosened rocks rolled under her feet. She fell. With a small yelp of fright, she managed to put her hands under her as she skidded the last few feet before the water. Sand and pebbles crunched as she sprinted into the river. With water up to her knees, she was looking for an easy spot to cross when a small sound caught her ears.
Looking back, she spotted Guilabert barging out of the woods barely thirty paces behind her. His grimace of rage was visible despite the distance.
Charlotte renewed her mad charge across the river. When she had water up to her thighs, the sound of bouncing and rolling rocks alerted her the knight had entered the river. His silence was worse than anything else. Fear gnawed at her. Sweat slicked her back and hands, flattened her bangs to her brow.
As she was chancing a quick peek back to assess the man’s progress, Charlotte yelped.
His hand closed on the back of her tunic and he pulled her back. Because of the momentum, she flailed and collided hard against him, sending both tumbling into the cold water.
Water sloshed into her mouth. Her brow burned when she snorted water up her nose. Gagging, she struggled to stand but was dragged down again. Guilabert stood behind her and kicked at her feet so she would not find purchase. Thrashing, clawing at his hands, Charlotte began to fear she would die this way, with Guilabert drowning her. Waterlogged clothes pulled at her limbs. Her feet felt like two boulders with knee-high boots filled with water and catching on rocks and debris.
He hoisted her head above water, only to close a merciless hand over her throat and plunge her down again…however, the short respite had allowed her to twist one leg under her. Through strength born of sheer terror, she heaved herself out of the water and clutched his hair in a death grip. If he pushed her down again, he would be coming with her. Or at least parts of him would.
Guilabert must have understood her intention for he hoisted her up against his chest and dragged her back toward shore. There, he cast her down against the ground, straddled her middle and put a rough hand to her throat.
The demented light in his eyes froze her to the bones. Gone was the devilishly handsome man. A twisted mask of flesh now bent over her. His hair clung to his face in thick strands. Water glistened over his skin. He pinned her arms on either side with his knees. She rebelled but only ended up scraping her head and back against keen rocks.
“Can’t you tell when you’ve lost?” he snarled close to her face.
She would have bitten him had he not hurriedly retreated. He slapped her back and forth several times. The metallic tang of blood seeped out on her lips.
“Do you think you can win? You lost a long time ago. I was still in Jerusalem when you lost. You just didn’t know it.”
The man had lost his mind. Charlotte had long suspected he had returned from the crusade a different—a perverted—man, but this meant no sense at all. “You’ve gone mad, Guilabert. Listen to yourself.”
“Have I?”
He leaned over her face again, but this time, clutching a fistful of hair to keep her against the ground. “You wouldn’t believe what men do to one another—for coins, for religion, for the color of one’s skin. But I think it only makes us keener in the end. Like me.” He pushed a strand of his hair out of the way. “I was naïve, a fool, really. But a few years in the Holy Land showed me what I could do, showed me how to win.”
Charlotte listened to the tirade but still tried to free at least one hand. She would have one chance, so she best make it a good one. “Win what? You’ve won naught. You’ve cheated and lied.”
When he cocked a fist meant for her face, she gave one mighty buck that sent him rolling over her. She punched him in the groin as hard as she could. Before she could crawl out from underneath him, he squeezed his legs together and hoisted her back up.
Descending over her, he grinned savagely. “I knew you wouldn’t be easy to beat. I expected it. It must be in your blood.”
Charlotte stopped struggling. There was something in the way he said it that felt like a punch to the stomach. The mad glow in his eyes accentuated. A tic tugged at the corner of his eyelid.
“You’re ill, Guilabert. Your mind is ill.”
“Don’t try to convince me you care. It’s too late now. I was going to tell you later, right before I did it. But I’ll tell you now.” Guilabert leaned in and murmured, “I’m going to kill you, Charlotte. I don’t want you anymore. You’ll just be another notch on my way to fortune and notoriety.”
“Another notch?” she asked, surprised at the gentle tone of her voice.
Silence settled between them. Rain began to fall again. Ticks of raindrops fell against his armor, made glistening rivulets along his breastplate. The hawk on his family crest looked as though it were crying.
He nodded. “Your death will be just another drop of Bourbon-Condé blood on my hands. But it washes away, blood. People say it doesn’t, but it does.”
Charlotte’s awareness of her body dulled, sounds became muffled as if they reached her through a thick hood. Her vision narrowed to a sliver that contained only Guilabert’s face. The demented eyes, the cruel mouth.
She knew. As surely as if she had been there when it happened.
He had killed Jean-Louis.
“What a canny girl,” he whispered, wrapping both hands over her throat. “I’m the one who let the enemy into St. Augustine’s. I made sure there were no survivors when the Saracens were done. It’s ironic that you’d finish the same way your brother did—with my hands about your throat.”
Stars popped behind her eyelids when he pressed hard against her throat. Her legs were of lead, her hands heavier still. Death would be bliss compared to the raw pain slashing at her heart. He had betrayed Jean-Louis, her family, her.
He had killed Jean-Louis.
A tremor shook the ground underneath her. No, not a tremor, she told her numb brain, she was the one shaking. Great spasms threw her limbs hard against the ground. Through the narrowing slit of her sight, she saw Guilabert flinch against the violent convulsions shaking her. With strength born of pain and pure white rage, she reared with enough violence to project him clear off her chest. She sat straight up as if pulled by some hidden strings.
He had killed her brother.
A scream that must have begun in the bowels of the earth roared over her wounded soul, ripped its way up her throat then out her mouth. The sheer power frightened her. No human throat should produce such a sound.
The man had killed Jean-Louis, her brother, her best friend.
Charlotte forgot everything else but his face. She dove for it.
* * * * *
The sound tore through Gautier. His heart twitched in on itself like a wounded beast in the throes of death. Then another shriek followed the first, this one harsher, more guttural. This time it was a man’s voice.
Gautier began to run.
Trees flew past, flickers of gray and green and brown. Rain made everything slimy, unsound. Thunder rumbled overhead. Gautier slipped and fell to his knees. Using trees as support, he floundered back to his feet and rushed on.
His heart skipped a beat again, not from exertion but from the memory of the scream. Charlotte. He had never heard such a terrible sound coming from a human throat. What was Guilabert doing to her?
The sharp, piercing cry stirred memories he thought locked away forever—the sound of despair, of pain…raw, soul-shredding pain. He recognized the sound well for it had torn through his throat often enough. His year at the hands of the enemy flashed back in pitiless clarity. The thought filled his head with torment, his ears with the sound of his own screaming. He could think of nothing else…
Gautier looked over the dirt mound at the horde of Saracen warriors massed at the ramparts. The Christians had once held the fortress. No more. They had to get it back.
Gautier checked behind at the sunburned faces of his men—”his” only since earlier that morning following their knight banneret’s untimely death. Untimely deaths were getting increasingly more frequent. With his half-noble status, he’d been hurriedly thrust into the dead man’s place, despite having held the title of knight long before—his father’s parting gift. But a full-blooded knight had precedence over a half-blooded one, regardless of abilities. Unless they found themselves in the present situation…basically the only one left. Then a lowborn was good enough. If only their banneret would have had more martial skills instead of birthrights, perhaps they would not have lost so many men.
Armor no one should wear in such arid weather gleamed against the dusty surrounding. They made quite nice targets. He motioned for his scouts to go on ahead. They slinked past without sound, not even raising sand.
He watched their meticulous advance with growing apprehension. The Saracens operating the tower had not moved in a while. Only their colorful burnooses stirred with the dusty desert breeze.
Sweat stung his eyes as he squinted. The two scouts crawled closer to the fortress, trying to determine if the portcullis could be tampered with or not. They knew so little about this place! Gautier cursed.
A small scent caught Gautier’s nostrils. Quite pleasant in fact. Like cloves and saffron. He recognized it right away. His heart sank.
“Jésus,” he groaned.
He peeked over the boulder just in time to spot four Saracen warriors coming out of hiding places in the ground. In the ground! They swarmed his two scouts.
“RETREAT!” Gautier roared. He jumped to his feet, his skin burning under the armor. “RETREAT!”
It had been a trap. The Saracens had known all along and had let them come.
His men turned as one and fled down the hill to the main position. So many were still lagging behind, hurriedly trying to maneuver their sweat-drenched bodies inside the heavy metal plates of their armors and shields and helmets. What on God’s good Earth are we doing wearing these?
Windmilling his sword at arm’s length, he yelled his command repeatedly as he made sure stragglers got a fair chance while he spared a quick mental prayer for the two scouts he had unknowingly sent to their deaths.
Anvil-hard sun made him squint as he shoved the last man down the incline in front of him. One stumbled.
“Damn it, man, come on!” Gautier snarled, tugging and pushing and cursing. Finally, his man jumped across the narrow ravine and into the safety of his comrades.
By the corner of his eyes, he saw two of his archers leveling their crossbows at him then letting fly. Quarrels flew past an inch from his face and shoulders. Were they mad!
“What—”
Then he understood.
“Go,” he yelled at them. “Leave!”
A sudden flash of pain erupted behind his head, blinded him with a thousand little suns. The ground flew up at him, scraped his cheek and chin. Metal plates pinched his skin under his arm when he fell. That foolish armor!
Dazed and lying on his stomach, Gautier reached at his hip for the hilt of his sword and weakly tugged with deadened fingers. Something wet dribbled down his brow and into his eyes. A crimson veil shrouded his vision.
Something hooked his shoulder plate and rolled him onto his back. So striking was the azure sky that Gautier nearly forgot where he was, nearly forgot he had been hit and would be dead within a few breaths. Thankfully, he heard his men’s general retreat and knew he had at least saved a handful. He thought he saw a few token quarrels zip past overhead. Perhaps he was just hoping.
Pain in his head made him grimace. Sand crunched between his teeth. A man wearing a brilliant turquoise burnoose bent over him. With a grin of dazzling ivory-colored teeth against the bronzed leather of his skin, he cocked his arm back.
Gautier could only cringe as the mace came down for his head.
* * * * *
He woke screaming.
Pain radiated through his whole torso. Gautier tried to open his eyes but discovered one could not. His brain would not answer his command. A groan escaped him.
A sound like thunderclap ripped through his consciousness then a fresh surge of pain tore across his chest. Someone was whipping him? Now that some clarity had finally drifted into his numb brain, he realized he was standing with his back against something hard, both arms bent back and bound at the elbows. His armor and garments were gone.
“What you do?” a man asked in broken French.
“I’m a carpenter,” Gautier heard his voice reply. Did he always sound so discordant?
The man chuckled. “Hard head. Me too.”
CLACK.
Another ripping sound. Fire licked his chest. Gautier snarled in pain. The rancid smell of urine floated up to him, shaming. With his good eye, he looked down at himself and wished he had not. Skin was blistered in bloody ribbons all over his chest and belly.
The man with the whip was too far back in shadows to be seen but another stood much closer. The striking blue-green garment made Gautier want to stare. Dark eyes surmounted an aquiline nose and no hatred blazed behind the black orbs but a terrible resolve, which made the whole face resemble stone.
“What you do?” the man asked again.
Gautier knew he meant “what were your duties?” But he would walk to hell and back before he gave the enemy anything! He would not become a traitor.
“Carpenter… I build things.”
This time, his reply elicited anger. The one with the turquoise burnoose spat on the ground. A long string of insults hissed out of his tight lips.
Though Gautier’s Arabic was not fluent, he could well guess the gist of it. Something to do with his mother and a goat. A chuckle rumbled in his raw throat. How easily insults could transcend languages. He cringed when the whip wielder raised his arm for another lash but he froze when what Gautier guessed was the leader shook his head. He then said a word that made Gautier tense against the ropes. He had heard of the word, knew what it meant.
Some men he had not known were there came closer. He thrashed as they roughly unbound him. Chanting “ukra, ukra” low in their throats, they dragged him, kicking, screaming, begging, down some poorly lit corridor which smelled of feces and sweat and death. Trapdoors lined both walls. One gaped like a silent scream.
Fear doubled Gautier’s efforts to break free. He was hoisted off his feet but struggled so much those carrying him banged against one another and the walls. He fell to the stone floor and bit his tongue. The coppery taste of blood filled his
mouth.
God, he would vomit!
Hands came for him again. He fought them off with all he had left. He felt as though the opening to his right was sucking the energy out of him. Hell would have been better.
Finally, the one with the turquoise headdress seemed to have had enough for he came forward and kicked Gautier in the stomach.
Bile gurgled up his throat. There was naught he could do as they heaved him off the floor again, swung once then hurled him through the opening. He rolled over to lie flat on his face. The trapdoor slammed behind him. Everything went black.
Ukra. The hole.
* * * * *
A young sapling took Gautier down when he ran full force into it. He floundered to his feet again, staggered a few steps before getting his bearings back. How could he have lost touch with reality this way? Now was not the time for reminiscing.
How long had it been since the awful night when he had been thrown into the rat hole that would be his home for the following thirteen months? Nightmares had plagued his sleep for a full year after his escape. And now it had hit him in plain daylight. Charlotte’s scream must have dredged the terrible memories back up from the depths of his soul. Poor woman. God knew what the man was doing to her.
The thought alone had the effect of a February bath. Ice-cold anger bubbled up his chest and throat. He had to get there before Guilabert did something Gautier would regret.
Why had he not seen earlier what this knight was up to?
Oh but he had! Only pride had clouded his judgment. He knew from the very first time he had met her—well, the second time, actually, since the first did not really count—hers was the nobler cause. Despite his instincts, he had refused to see, had chosen to ignore the sick feeling every time he thought about what he might have to do. God, he had even considered it. For a moment, but still! Charlotte did not deserve what Guilabert, even himself, had done to her. He had married her against her will to a man he knew to be corrupt at best. What did it make of him?
“A fool,” he snarled under his breath. A fool in love.
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