by Leda Swann
The rider on his right gave an ugly laugh. “There’s no cause for you to fear us,” he said, his voice cold with cultured menace. “We don’t want aught from you. We’re here to assist you. We’ve been sent to dispatch the boy for you once you find him.”
They were worse than brigands - they were hired killers, put on a horse and sent to murder his wife. He would not share his road or his mission with the pair of them. “Then you may go your own way again. I need no help.”
“The King begs to differ,” said the cold-voiced stranger on his right. “He repented that he had sent a Musketeer to catch his fellow, and thought you might not have the stomach to do the deed yourself. He sent the pair of us after you, to make sure, as it were, that there was no trouble with his orders.”
The man’s words sent shivers down Lamotte’s spine. “The King wanted the boy stopped, not murdered.”
“You won’t have to soil your pretty white hands, my fine gentleman,” the rough-voiced man sneered. “You find him, and leave the rest to us.”
He could take on the pair of them here and now, he thought, but it might not be the wisest move. If they were to overcome him with a knave’s trick, Sophie would be left defenseless, not even knowing of her danger until she lay dead with their knives in her belly.
He would draw them into the open and warn Sophie of the new danger she faced. A couple of brigands should be no match for a pair of Musketeers when the time came. If by some mischance one of them escaped his vengeance, Sophie would at least be able to flee in greater safety, knowing the face of her enemy.
On he rode in silence, saving his horse’s breath as much as he could. He may well need her speed before the day was done.
Every step he took drew him and his unwelcome companions closer to Sophie. His one consolation for the knowledge that he was putting her in danger was his determination to just as quickly snatch her out of it again.
The hired killers would be forced to taste of their own medicine before either of them so much as laid a finger on his wife.
Chapter 7
Sophie was in the midst of a troubling dream when the clatter of hooves in the courtyard outside woke her. She sat bolt upright with a start. Miriame gave a sleepy grumble at being disturbed and Courtney tossed and turned over without waking.
Travelers like themselves, Sophie thought to herself, and nothing to worry about. Still, the sun was bright overhead and it was time for them to be leaving. Her conscience told her she had chosen the path of honor, but she still wanted to get well away from Paris, and from the King she had betrayed, as soon as she could.
The casement window was open, letting in a welcome breeze of autumn air redolent with the rich scent of ripening apples. She lay down again, just for a moment, and breathed deeply of the fresh, country air. Ah – how good it felt to be out of the noise and stench of Paris. She had not realized how much she missed the country until she back among the comforting familiarity of wide, open spaces, the greenness of the land around her, the lowing of cattle at pasture, and the song of the birds at dawn and dusk.
Despite her resolve to be on her way again, she was on the point of drifting back to sleep again when through the open window she heard a guttural voice rap on the door and cry out. “Open up in the name of the King.”
Travelers with a purpose, she presumed. She would have to enjoy the autumn air from the back of her horse once more. She would lay a wager that the King had found out about their mission and was not pleased. Whether they were looking for her or no, she was not about to stay in her chamber to be caught like a rat in a trap. She nudged the other two awake with her elbows. “Wake up,” she hissed at them. “I suspect we may have visitors.”
There was a start from Courtney and another sleepy grumble from Miriame. At the sound of the second knock on the tavern door, they were both as wide awake as a watching hawk.
Sophie stood at the window as she pulled on her boots. She knew one of the horses there - it belonged to her husband. Had he betrayed her mission to the King and been sent after her to bring her back again? She did not want to think him guilty of such base treachery. “Three of them, I’d say,” she whispered. “One of them must be Lamotte. The other two I don’t know.”
Courtney cursed under her breath as she thrust her arms into her jacket. “Three of us against three of them would be a fair enough match, if one of them was not the Count and the best swordsman in Christendom. We could hold them off well enough from in here, but we will never break free of our chamber. The bastards can hole us up in here until we starve.”
Miriame poked her nose out of the casement in time to catch a glimpse of one of them. She paled. “I mislike the company your husband keeps,” she said to Sophie.
Sophie did not like Miriame’s tone. “How so?”
“I know one of them of old. A sneak thief and bully from way back, turned informer and assassin for whoever will hire his arm. He likes the taste of blood better than the best Burgundian wine. Whoever has sent him after us means for us not to return.”
“I shall take all three of them on in a fair fight,” Courtney offered. “I’ll hold the door so the pair of you can escape and make your way to England.”
Sophie did not like the thought of leaving her friend in such danger, but the mission should not be jeopardized. Whatever Miriame said about his companions, she could not believe that Lamotte wished her and her companions evil. Courtney would be safe enough could she but hole herself up in the chamber until they tired of beating on the door. “But how shall we get out without them seeing us?”
Miriame spoke up with unusual determination. “That one I spoke of won’t fight fair, you can be sure of that. He means to kill us all. Besides,” she added, with an evil glint in her eye, “I have an old score to settle with him. I shall take him on, gutter rat to gutter rat, and may the smartest one win.”
Courtney started to protest, but Miriame hushed her. “This is my fight – I shall not let you say me nay.” She gestured to the high-set window. “Climb out there, the pair of you. I’ll keep them busy for as long as I can. Our horses are rested and theirs blown, so they will be hard put to it to catch you again, once you get away.”
Sophie looked down from the window, feeling sick to her stomach. The casement was not impossibly high, but to jump might well mean a broken ankle, which would spell disaster for her mission. A guttering ran around the edge of the roof, though. If she were to hang on to that and swing herself over to the roof of the stables, she might just make it. “Follow me,” she said to Courtney. “If I am hurt or taken, grab the nearest horse and ride for your life to England. Lamotte will see that I do not come to any harm.” She wished she could be as sure of that in her heart as her words made her seem to be.
Courtney nodded in understanding. “And you must do the same for me.”
With one leg over the windowsill, Sophie turned back to Miriame, whose face was aglow with mischief. “Be careful of yourself. Keep the door locked and do not open it to them on any pretext. You shall be safe enough with the door locked – they cannot come at you then.”
She looked down from the window, and then turned back again. “If it should come to a fight, do not hurt the Count,” she begged. Whether Lamotte had betrayed her or no, she could not bear have him hurt. He was her husband, after all, and her brother had loved him well. “He has suffered enough on my account already.”
Miriame nodded. “I will delay him if I can, but I will take care not hurt him unless I cannot help it. My quarrel is with his companion.”
Sophie had to be content with that. “Until we meet again in Paris.”
Courtney jammed her hat down over her ears. “Au revoir, Madame thief. Until Paris.”
Miriame grinned at the solemn farewell. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll come to no harm with the thought of all those golden pistoles waiting for me to claim my share of.”
The way below was clear. Sophie swallowed hard as she looked down, summoning all her courage to make the
leap. A bang on the chamber door behind her gave her the impetus she needed. She crossed herself hurriedly and swung out before she lost the moment, climbing hand over hand along the guttering. The roof creaked and groaned under her weight, but it did not break. Behind her she heard banging and cursing, but she didn’t dare look back for fear of losing her grip and falling to the ground.
The guttering seemed endless, but at last, with a soft thud, she let go and landed on the gently-pitched roof of the stables. She grabbed for a handhold, but her hands clutched at the empty air. Flailing wildly, she rolled off the roof, landing in a heap in the mud in the doorway. At least the mud was soft enough. She rose to her feet a trifle unsteadily and dusted herself down. Nothing seemed to be broken. So far, so good.
Courtney, following behind her, had better luck. She leaped down lightly and had the stable door open before Sophie had picked herself up off the ground.
There was no time to re-saddle their mounts. Sophie grabbed her bridle and threw it over Seafoam’s neck before leaping on to her bareback and tossing a couple of saddlebags in front of her. Courtney, her face pinched and white, did the same.
With a clatter of hooves on the stones of the courtyard, the pair of them rode out of the courtyard and on to the road to Calais, and to England.
Lamotte pulled up his horse at the inn by the road. It was the first one he had seen for miles. He would lay a bet that Sophie had stopped there to rest. She was no different from other women in that she liked a warm feather bed better than a cold piece of ground under a tree any day.
He signaled to the stable boy who was lazily shoveling mucky straw out into the roadside. “Hey, boy. Have you had any strangers pass through your tavern this morning?”
The boy scratched his head. “We’ve got three fine horses in the stables. One of the soldiers told me to feed ‘em good corn or he’d wrap my guts around the point of his sword, so I gave ‘em the best I had.”
“Three soldiers?”
“Aye. Fine soldiers dressed just like you.”
The hired ruffians muttered together uneasily at this piece of news. “No one told me there was three of them,” the rough-voiced one grumbled. “I thought we was just to deal to the boy and be home again in time for supper.”
“Afraid, are you?” the cultured voice sneered.
“I aint afraid of no man,” the first man said belligerently, his hand closing threateningly on the hilt of his dagger. “Fair’s fair is all - and I aint been paid to deal to three.”
His companion drew his dagger, shut one eye, and squinted critically at the edge of the blade with the other as he tested its sharpness with the ball of his thumb. “Shut your mouth and deal with the boy as you’ve been paid to do, and leave the others to better men than you.”
Lamotte watched their squabbling with only half his attention. His wife had evidently obtained reinforcements from her fellow Musketeers. All the more reason for him to stop her from carrying out this mad mission. Surely she could not hope to keep her sex hidden from the others in her party on such a long journey. Were they ever to find out she was a woman, he hated to think what her fate would be.
Whatever the reasons for which they had wed, she was his wife now and she owed him more duty than to go gallivanting around the countryside with two of her comrades. When he had hauled her back to Paris, he would re-negotiate the terms of their deal and insist that she was a proper wife to him. He could not live with such a runaway wife as she had proven to be.
The gruff-voiced killer turned his back on his companion and strode up to the door and bashed on it with his fist. “Open up in the name of the King.”
The other man sneered as the landlord opened the door, his face looking like a frightened rabbit. “So much for taking our quarry unawares, you fool.”
Lamotte stepped up, shoving the others aside with little ceremony. “We are looking for a Musketeer by the name of Gerard Delamanse. Have you seen him?”
The landlord nodded, his face clearing with relief that they were not looking for him. “Yes, sir. Three of them stopped by early this morning for a meal and a bed. I’m sure I heard one of them call the other Gerard, if I’m not mistaken, sir. I gave them a good meal, too, sir. Roasted rabbit and a good haunch of beef. Would you care to try some yourselves, sirs?”
The sneering killer fixed the landlord with a cold eye. “Where is the boy now?”
The landlord shuddered and made the sign of the cross. “Upstairs in his chamber.”
“Show me.”
The landlord led the way up the stairs and pointed to a door at the top. “That is their chamber, if it please you, sir.”
The gruff-voiced killer shouldered the landlord aside and banged on the door. “Open up in there.”
There was the sound of a scuffle inside and then a voice came through the door. “Who might you be that I should open my door for you?”
It was not Sophie who spoke, but the voice of a man. Lamotte saw red to think of his wife closeted in a bedchamber with another soldier. “It doesn’t matter who I am. Open the door or I’ll break you into pieces,” he growled.
The man on the other side of the door laughed. “Temper, temper. Surely you gentlemen will not mind waiting until I put on my boots.”
Lamotte waited, his soul bursting with impatience for what seemed long enough for someone to put on their boots five times over.
“Ah, that’s better,” the voice on the other side of the door finally said, stomping around the room in noisy satisfaction. “Now just let me put on my jacket.”
The gruff-faced man banged furiously on the door. “Open up in the name of the King, you fool.”
“You do like saying that, don’t you. Does it make you feel big and important? I suppose a gutter rat like you must needs have something to make him feel that his life has meaning. Still, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until I have attended to my hair before I let you in. A gentleman must never been seen, even by gutter rats, without his hair dressed.”
The gruff-voiced man growled with fury as being insulted and drew out his dagger. “I shall kill you for that, you little weasel.”
“You’ll have to wait just a moment longer, I’m afraid, for the killing to start. Just let me button up my breeches, and I shall be right with you.”
This last was too much for Lamotte. He rushed at the door, intending to batter it down and plant his fist straight into the face of the man who mocked him so.
The key turned in the lock and a pretty-faced youth with dark curls tied up at his neck and a wicked-looking knife in his hand opened the door just as he reached it. Driven on by the force of his rage, he fell through it all in a heap. The gruff-faced man, swearing and cursing behind him, tripped over him and they fell on the floor together.
A dull thud marked the arrival of the third of their party.
Lamotte scrambled to his feet to see the door closing behind him and the sound of the key being turned in the lock from the outside. He knew the man that had caught them so neatly like rats in a trap – he would swear he had seen that face somewhere before.
Still, he had no time to worry about the identity of the stranger – the instant the door was locked behind him, his attention was grabbed by the bloody, violent death that lay before him.
On the floor in a rapidly widening pool of blood lay the body of sneering hired killer with the cultured voice, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, his bare, white throat slit from ear to ear.
They were caught in the most obvious of traps. Had he kept a cool head, it would have seen right through it. He had allowed the youth to rile him into forgetting all caution, and now one of his companions was dead. He was not sorry for the death, only for the manner of it. No man deserved to die like that. He hammered at the door in a fury. “Let me out.”
“Can you not make up your mind?” came a taunting voice from the corridor. “When you were outside you begged to be let in. Now that you are in, you beg to be let out. I have no more time to play silly gam
es with you.”
The gruff-voiced man was shaking as he looked down at the body of his comrade. “Let me out, by God, or I will slit your throat as you have slit André’s.”
“I rather think I will do all the slitting of throats that is called for around here. I hope you were not over fond of your companion – he has received only what he has deserved for years.
“Au revoir, Monsieur le Comte,” the youth continued. “And may I say, that your wife is an exceptionally pleasant woman to share a chamber with. What a pity you came by too late to find all three of us a-bed together.”
By all that was holy, what had he done to Sophie? Lamotte gave another roar of rage and shook the door until the hinges rattled. “I will kill you for that.”
“You will have to find me first.” The youth gave a merry giggle and clattered off down the stairs. “I doubt you will find it easy.”
The large oaken door was stronger than it looked, and the heavy iron bolts held it together strongly. It took the best part of an hour before the two of them managed to break open the door.
“Ah,” the landlord said with a jovial grin as Lamotte stomped down the stairs. “You have won the wager, I see.”
He looked blankly at the landlord’s smile. “The wager?”
“The wager you made with the merry young gentleman that you would be able to get out of the locked chamber within the hour. The hourglass I set has not yet run out. You’ll find him in the stables seeing to his horse, if you want to collect your winnings.”
Lamotte clenched his fists in frustration. There would be no point in chewing off the landlord’s ears for not unlocking the door. He had been outfoxed well and truly. He turned his head towards the stables. First he would find Sophie and drag her home with him, and then he would deal to the youth who had so abused him.
The landlord stayed him with an outstretched hand. “My money for the door?”
“Your money?”