Michel stepped behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, muttering words of praise. She squeezed closer to Dom.
Jean-Louis said, “Maybe we should have allowed you to sneak in last night with Dom. You’re more dangerous than I knew.”
“Michel taught me,” she squeaked with another shudder.
Michel kissed the top of her head. “I never wanted you to have to use what I taught you.”
“Or maybe next time we’ll leave her with a reliable guard,” said Henri from behind Dom.
Henri forced Emmanuel to his knees beside them. The boy clutched his ear and glared at Henri.
“Your sister,” said the baron from further out in the stable, “has more courage in her little finger than you do in your whole body. Following orders would not have made you a lesser man, son—it would have made you a hero.”
“Emmanuel was gone before Saint-Ange got here,” said Aurore. “He didn’t want to miss the action.”
Always loyal, always explaining away others’ faults, even when they harmed her. Dom was not so forgiving.
“The stable boy was supposed to hide her, and the guard was supposed to guard her,” said Emmanuel, his voice high and whiny.
“Saint-Ange came out only after Emmanuel had gone. He had already hit the guard when you ran off.” Aurore reached out a hand to touch Emmanuel’s hair, but pulled it away when she saw the blood soaking her sleeve. She began to shake in earnest.
Emmanuel said, “And maybe he would have killed me.”
“It’s all right, Manu. I was glad you ran away. He might have hurt you,” Aurore murmured.
Emmanuel looked up at her doubtfully, tears in his eyes.
“It was the right thing, mon amour,” whispered Dom, pulling her close again.
“The stable boy’s waking up,” said the baron. “His father’s come out of the château and wants to know what happened.”
“Alfred was everything brave and noble,” said Aurore. Her voice came stronger, but she still clung as hard to Dom as he did to her. “He jumped on Saint-Ange. Saint-Ange knocked him back with a shovel, and Alfred hit his head. He is all right, then, Papa?”
“He recognizes his father and asked if you were all right, ma fille,” said the baron. “With a big lump on his head like that, it might still be bad, but he seems to be recovering.”
Aurore shook harder. “And the guard?”
Jean-Louis crouched next to the fallen guard. “He is breathing.” He looked up at Aurore, sorrow on his face. “I am sorry, my sister. I should have left you with more men to defend you. I thought we had searched the stables thoroughly. I didn’t know the assault would be so easy and was worried about dividing our forces.”
Aurore sniffed. “You were right. I should have stayed at la Brosse.”
Dom shook his head, though she was right. But if she had stayed behind, he would probably already be on a horse to go back to check on her. And Saint-Ange would have got away. He loosened his grip only to pass his arm under her legs and lift her. She buried her head against his neck as he strode from the stables, to the worried exclamations of the villagers and fighters, who stepped back to make way. Aurore’s brothers told the crowd that it wasn’t her blood. Dom could only focus on keeping one foot in front of the other. His arms shook. It had been far too close. She could have died. This could have been her blood. Aurore could have died. He wanted to cry.
They were through the gates and nearly to the door of the castle when there was a scream behind them.
Dom raced up the wide steps and set Aurore against the wall before turning and drawing his sword, keeping her at his back. The man he had shot in the arm with an arrow came out of the shadows by the guardhouse, a long knife in his hand, his sleeve stained red from his own blood.
Dom stood his ground at the top of the steps. “Surrender.”
The man wobbled forward, his legs seeming too weak to carry him. He must have lost a lot of blood. Or he was pretending so that he could get close enough to attack. He stopped at the bottom of the steps, Michel and Henri a few feet behind him, swords drawn. A quick glance told Dom that Paul-Bénédicte was still in position above the gate and had an arrow pointed directly at the man’s back. He raised his eyebrows at his brothers-in-law and they glanced back and stepped to the sides, giving Paul-Bénédicte a clear shot.
“Captain of the guards,” Michel spat. “Mercenary.”
Dom growled. “Surrender.”
“I…” The captain swayed on his feet and wiped the sweat from his pale forehead. “I will. When I know that my Marie will not be punished for my actions. I swear, she did nothing wrong but to love me, monsieur.” His round vowels and rolled Rs placed him as from the south of France. Far from home.
“Marie? The kitchen maid?” asked Michel, turning to look at the crowd.
The captain—now former captain—fell gracelessly to one knee, still clutching his long knife. “When she came to me, she… I understood what we did was wrong. She loves your family, loves your wife. She tempered me. I swear I did all I could to protect the people.”
“Is this true?” asked Dom, glancing around at his people, his heart still racing.
Silence fell, broken only by shuffling feet and whispers.
“Is this true?” Dom shouted. “Where is Marie?”
“Monsieur?” whispered a voice from just inside the door. “We locked her up just before the attack.”
Dom glanced at the speaker, his late father’s steward, who had partially retired at his father’s death and now oversaw the kitchens. “Thank you, Mansard. Has she been released? Is this true?”
Mansard stood up straighter and stared at the captain of the guards, a flicker of unease crossing his large mouth. “He didn’t speak to any of us about it, but there have been some merciful acts. Unreported minor infractions that would have merited a beating. Some of the times we sneaked villagers out, the guards at the gate conveniently looked away. I believe there are fewer men in the dungeons than the bastards think.”
“Rotating them through,” gasped the captain. “I let some of the men go and had the guards whom I trusted sleep in the cells, just in case Poudrain came down to check.”
“Only some of the men?” asked Dom, regulating his breathing and starting to find all of this just slightly…funny.
“Well, there were some incidents, Monsieur, that were real crimes. Petty thievery. Drunkenness. Assault.” The captain sat back on his heel, sounding now like he was giving a report instead of begging for his mistress’ life.
Dom stared at the man for a moment, hiding his amusement. Disarm first, ask questions later. “Set your weapons aside.”
The man dropped his knife and didn’t react except to wince and grunt as Jean-Louis tied his hands and searched him for more weapons, taking a cursory look at the still-bleeding wound on his shoulder. He looked up. “Please, Monsieur. Marie.”
“Noooooo!” screamed a woman from deep inside the château.
There was shouting and a scuffle, then the woman—hardly more than a girl—was dragged out between two men, struggling against the hold they had on her upper arms. “Bernard!” she cried out as she saw the wounded captain. “Please, Monsieur le Comte. He tried to help. He did. He was always kind to us in the castle, even before I… And then he…he… We’ll go away, we’ll emigrate, but please, Monsieur…” The girl began to cry.
Dom didn’t want to make any premature promises. He had thought to turn over all of the mercenaries to the king for execution. He hedged. “We will investigate. He will be locked in the dungeon for the time being. Send Le Fèvre to treat his wounds, Mansard. Be careful with the girl, Joubet. Let her stay with him as much as she likes, outside his cell. Guard him carefully. I have a lot of questions for him.”
“Merci, Monsieur,” said Marie, dropping to her knees and bowing so low her head touched the stone of the steps.
There were some murmurs of speculation and nods from the crowd as Bernard was led away, his Marie trotting afte
r.
“Monsieur le Comte, we have secured the grounds and posted sentinels around the village,” announced Petit le Grand. Dom grinned in relief to see his own captain of the guard. “Two of the mercenary guards were killed in the assault, and some others injured. For our side, there were some injuries, but nothing serious, and no deaths reported. The man in the stables has awoken and is confused but speaking.”
Dom sagged slightly in relief. “Thank you, Petit. For everything. Please accept the position as the captain of my guard again. I will count on you and those who were forced to leave as well as those who stayed and helped. There will be a special reward for your son for staying with the comtesse in her travels.”
He looked over the crowd of villagers and guards and loyal friends from Paris. “Never again, as long as I live, will I permit such a thing to occur on my lands. I will negotiate with the king himself, if need be, to keep more of our crops for you this year, since the harvest might not be plentiful. To rebuild your homes and barns before winter. To feed and clothe all of you. No excuse is good enough to wipe away your suffering; I can only say that we did not have the king’s favor. I am sorry it took so long to return.”
Dom looked around at the people in front of him—his tenants, his friends, and most importantly, his family. “Aurore?” He turned to where he had left her against the wall.
She stepped out through the doorway, still pale and shaky, but now wearing a bright green cloak and clean, rough homespun. She had washed her hands and face and her hair had been brushed and pulled back from her face. She looked impossibly young, and her pale face glowed with beauty.
“Come, my comtesse,” Dom said, holding out his hand.
It was only as a murmur rose from the assembled people that he noticed she had left off the odd cap and her pink and puckered scars glinted in the morning sun. Dom knelt before her and kissed her hand. “Welcome home, my love, my heart, my soul.”
She bent down and kissed him softly on the lips while the crowd cheered. When she pulled away, tears trickled down her cheeks. “Welcome home, my love, my heart, my soul,” she repeated.
“Vive le Comte et la Comtesse de Bures!” shouted Petit le Grand, and the assembled people cheered and laughed. Dom saw that Aurore was sinking into a curtsy, and he stood hastily to bow deeply to his own people.
She rose and held up a hand for quiet. “I am sorry. Sorry that this happened. Also sorry because it was my fault that it took more than two months for us to return.”
There was a murmur in the crowd, and Jean-Louis shook his head.
“In my own pain and fear, I ran and hid. I was selfish in my panic. I kept moving instead of letting the comte know that I was well. My own family, everyone except my half-brother, Michel…”
Here, she had to pause as someone said, “I told you so,” while others exclaimed in surprise.
“My own family didn’t know where I was. I delayed the recovery of the château and of the lands. I delayed the comte’s return. I will do what I can to make reparations to all of you.”
She curtsied deeply again, and Dom pulled her up and wiped the tears from her eyes, humbled by his wife’s humility. “I couldn’t have returned without you.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Dom could see people whispering.
Rebuilding their trust wasn’t going to be easy, but they could see the marks on Aurore, visible signs of how she had suffered. With Aurore at his side, he would have a good chance of winning their hearts.
Chapter Twelve
“Straight to the king,” Henri repeated, frowning at his sister, not believing his ears.
“Oui! He will want our news.” Aurore’s face was regal. Or blank. Her eyes were wider than usual and not really focusing. Some of the maids had taken charge of her, and she was wearing her own clothing, which hung on her thin frame. He hadn’t realized how much of her roundness she had lost in her ordeals. She looked older, and not just because her hands were shaking slightly.
Henri rolled his eyes, masking his discomfort behind insolence. “I’ve never actually spoken to Son Altesse, you know.”
She finally focused on him, her eyes no longer wandering past his shoulder. “Then today you will. Or tomorrow. When you get there. Bearing good news, so it will be an excellent opportunity for you.” Aurore bit her lips, and her eyes sparkled. Henri knew she was hiding a smile. “Would you like to practice your bow before you go?”
His discomfort was an easy price to pay for a smile from her. She had been solemn and jumpy since she had killed a man that morning. Not that he thought she should be laughing and happy yet. An action like that, a sin even though she had been defending herself, tore at the soul. Henri knew about soul-tearing sins, even though his were those of pleasure of the flesh. Aurore would never be the same.
He had volunteered to carry the news of their success to the Palace of Vincennes in the east of Paris. He had not volunteered to speak directly to Louis. He’d figured he’d deliver a letter to some secretary to an assistant to the council and go to his father’s house in the city or home to his quarters near the Louvre.
Paul-Bénédicte snorted a laugh, and Henri’s heart clenched.
He had not volunteered to ride there with his former lover. He was supposed to chat amiably with Paul-Bénédicte for the whole journey? For two days? All he wanted to do was rage at the man.
Henri glanced at his former valet, stomach roiling. He didn’t think he could forgive the man who had nastily told him that their years-long affair was a product of youthful stupidity. Henri had taken bitter pleasure in learning that the woman Paul-Bénédicte had thought to wed had left him to be a whore to someone richer.
But Paul-Bénédicte had stepped forward and volunteered at the same moment as Henri. Perhaps they were meant to speak. Perhaps his former friend had stepped forward only to have a chance to talk to him.
Aurore held out two letters, sealed with the blue wax that the Comte de Bures always used. “My letter to the king is folded in with Dom’s. The other one is for Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc. You’ve met her, so it won’t be very awkward. Bring me news of her. Her baby is expected in October, she said, and it’s only August, but you will have to tell me how she is and tell her I hope to see her in a few weeks when we’ve sorted out things here. I mean, sorted them out as much as we can before we go and report to the king ourselves. And make sure you see Jean-Louis’ cousin Hélène and invite her to bring Ondine to us here. We’ll have to send Poudrain”—she shuddered and scowled for only a moment—“to Paris immediately to stand trial.” She shuddered again and closed her eyes.
Perfect Dom pulled her tight against his chest, and she hid her face against him. “If you wish us to send someone else, Henri, just say so.” Dom’s eyes flicked toward Paul-Bénédicte and back: the largest display of sensitivity Henri had ever witnessed from his brother-in-law.
Henri breathed deeply as the question hung in the air. Paul-Bénédicte didn’t back out. Henri could be stoic if his former lover could. He could hide his nerves and anger. Or maybe they would speak on the long journey. Even if he could never forgive, or if Paul-Bénédicte couldn’t promise to be faithful, they would have spoken.
He cleared his throat and took the letters from Aurore. “You can count on me, of course.”
****
Dom followed Aurore to the front door to wave Henri on his way. Henri and Paul-Bénédicte ignored each other studiously, but neither had been willing to cede the task of riding to Paris to the other. Dom couldn’t bring himself to consider the future between the two of them. Even Aurore hadn’t told him anything about why Paul-Bénédicte had left, but Dom figured it was a lover’s quarrel of some sort. A fundamental difference of opinion could keep them apart forever, especially if one of them held a grudge, as Henri was wont to do. He could only shudder at the thought of Aurore and Henri’s mother, the baronesse, who could hold a grudge forever.
Aurore took his arm as they re-entered the château, where they were besieged by
the upper servants asking questions about the feast they had requested for that evening. About half the upper servants had escaped to Aurore’s family or returned to their families’ farm plots, so some of the remaining ones were doing work they were not familiar with. Dom stood back and watched as Aurore worked out details with each of them and sent them away smiling.
When she turned to Dom, though, her mouth was grim and her eyes wild again.
He held out a hand. “Come.”
She shook her head. “We need to know the stores of honey so we know what cakes to make.”
Dom waved over a maid who didn’t look particularly busy and told her to carry a message to the head of the kitchens; he and the cook should decide what cakes to bake based on the stores of honey.
When he finished, he found Aurore’s smile had returned and it was turned on him.
“Come,” he repeated.
She took his hand and he led her into his office. He immediately regretted it when he remembered that the books and papers were in complete disarray. Saint-Ange and Poudrain had apparently helped themselves to whatever they wanted and left everything strewn about. Dom was only glad they had never discovered the safe that held his most important papers and Aurore’s best jewelry.
“Oh…” Aurore sighed in dismay. “Your father’s maps.”
Dom looked over to see the formerly neat rolls of paper spread across a small table, twisted and torn, ink spilled across the top one. He shook his head. “Not now. Right now, I want you to sit, Aurore. We’ve barely stopped moving since we entered the château.” He hadn’t let her out of his sight in that time, but he didn’t know who was propping up whom.
She killed a man. Dom had never killed anyone, in spite of all his training. He had gravely injured a highway robber once, but never killed. She protected herself when I could not.
He pulled out his father’s large armchair and moved books from it to the desk, then sat and pulled Aurore onto his lap.
The Indispensable Wife Page 18