CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
AFRAID HIS EMOTIONS would get the better of him if he opened his hand, Alex curled his fingers tightly around the token Elayne had given him. He turned to ask his brother to ascend to the battlements, but Romain was already halfway up the steps. Word would be brought as soon as the hostages entered the enemy camp. If he watched the sad procession he might be tempted to hurl himself to the ground far below in an effort to end the pain piercing his heart.
There was work to do. Dugald might have lied. He was capable of much worse. There was no guarantee Geoffrey wasn’t in the camp, prepared to attack as soon as the hostages were secured.
He clenched both fists, almost hoping the Angevin would launch an offensive. They were ready, more than ready, and the upstart would rue the day he tangled with the Montbryces.
His broken heart urged him to his chamber. He wanted to collapse on his bed, open his fist and weep. But madness lay that way, and Elayne would still be gone when he emerged.
Instead he summoned Brodeur to the Chart Room to go over every aspect of their defenses and capabilities. Before his Captain arrived he braced his legs, holding on to the mantel with one hand, and uncurled his cramped fingers.
The enormity of his loss struck him at the sight of the tightly braided token that lay like a red ribbon in his palm. Elayne had used her own hair to leave a piece of herself with him. Each end of the delicate plait was secured by a tiny bow made of a strand of red hair. Gritting his teeth, he tucked it into his gambeson, next to his erratically beating heart.
He pondered his next move. Dugald had let slip from his garrulous tongue that the numbers in the enemy camp were not substantial, and composed mainly of mercenaries. He’d ridiculed their ineptitude at almost destroying their own tents. Perhaps there was a possibility of attacking instead of waiting for Geoffrey to act. But how to do so without endangering the lives of three people he loved?
~~~
ELAYNE HAD TO GRUDGINGLY ADMIT that Dugald held some sway in the enemy camp. In fact, there didn’t seem to be any apparent leader of the soldiers gathered outside Montbryce Castle. Her husband had been telling the truth about Geoffrey’s absence. She wished there was some means of letting Alex know how few men were actually laying siege. Many of the tents appeared to be unoccupied.
To a man the scruffy soldiers were jubilant about the new supplies of ale, swarming over the cart like bees in the hive. They were intent on their task and no one argued with Dugald when he informed them he would keep an eye on the hostages in his own tent, which turned out to be a spacious pavilion, though it reeked of smoke. “You’ll be safe from the men here,” he assured her. “Sometimes they get ideas in their heads when they’ve drunk too much.”
The knot in her innards tightened, but she acknowledged their escape depended on Dugald getting his comrades drunk, or drunker than they already appeared to be.
She and the children were given coarse black bread, hard cheese, and apples, evidently picked before the fire. Her throat closed with anger at the enormity of Alex’s loss.
“Get some sleep now,” Dugald ordered after they’d eaten, huddled together on the packed dirt floor.
“It’s not even dark yet,” Henry answered back.
Dugald scowled at Elayne. “The boy has your sharp tongue. With any luck we’ll be traveling far from here this night, so sleep now.”
“My throat hurts. I want a bed,” Claricia complained, her bottom lip pouting.
Dugald hunkered down beside her, wagging his finger. “Don’t whine, daughter. You’ll sleep on the cold hard ground and like it.”
She cowered back against Elayne, a tear trickling down her cheek. “Oui, Papa,” she murmured.
He straightened. “And none of that Norman talk. Speak like a Scot,” he shouted in Gaelic.
Elayne put her arms around both children, gathering them closer. “No need to shout. They’re tired and afraid.”
Dugald snorted, but left them alone. Relief washed over her. She’d feared he would insist on his husbandly rights.
Henry and Claricia cuddled into her, eventually falling asleep. Faol stretched out with his back to Henry. She dozed fitfully, disturbed by the raucous voices of men whose boasting and bravado grew louder as they imbibed more ale. After an hour, or perhaps two, the voices trailed off, then stopped.
Darkness fell. She waited, straining in the pitch black to hear any sound at all. Would Dugald deem this the right time to flee?
After what seemed like an eternity, he stomped into the tent, carrying a torch. Faol came quickly to his feet, growling. “Muzzle that hound,” he whispered hoarsely, his hand on the hilt of the dagger in a leather sheath buckled around his waist. “I’ll slit his throat if he gives us away.”
Elayne struggled to stand on numbed legs. She pulled Faol away from her husband. Henry clamped a hand over the dog’s jaws.
Claricia slept on. Dugald scooped her up. “I’ll take her on my mount. Henry can ride with you.”
“I have no horse,” she protested.
He grinned. “You do now.”
The prospect of riding a strange horse in the darkness filled her with dread. “But I’m not a good rider.”
He was already half out of the tent. “Time to learn, then.”
She had no choice but to gather up her bag and urge Henry and Faol to follow her out into the night.
To her relief there was no one in sight. “Are there no sentries?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Aye! Passed out at their posts. There’ll be a reckoning on the morrow.”
He doused the torch, plunging them into blackness, and mounted with Claricia. He pointed with the hand that still held the reins of another horse. “Use that stump over there, and don’t dawdle. Henry, help your mother.”
Nearby, someone retched. They stood stock still, until Dugald motioned them to hurry once all fell quiet again. By the time she and her son had struggled onto the nervous beast, her heart was beating too fast and she was sweating and breathless, despite the chill in the air. She praised the saints that Faol had kept quiet during the fiasco, as if he knew his life depended on it. “Hold tight,” she whispered to Henry, mounted behind her. “I’m not good at this.”
He stretched his arms as far as he could around her waist. “I trust you, Maman. All shall be well.”
She wished she had her son’s confidence as they stole away from the camp en route to Caen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ALEX TOSSED AND TURNED, wondering why he’d bothered to go to his chamber where Elayne’s lingering scent taunted him.
Resigned to a sleepless night, he got out of bed, dressed quickly and went where his feet led him—up to the battlements—grimacing at the fine grey ash that seemed to have settled everywhere, coating the castle.
Heavy clouds obscured the half moon and there was barely a breeze to stir the air. He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the enemy tents. It puzzled him that there was no movement in the camp. He’d expected to hear loud carousing.
At first he thought the faint sound in the distance was the croaking of frogs, but then decided it was a nightjar, chunnering about the lack of mice now the orchards were gone.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he scanned the thin wisps of smoke hanging in the air over the camp.
He counted; then counted again.
Six.
He beckoned a sentry from his post nearby. “Have you been watching since nightfall, Gaston?”
“Oui, milord Comte.”
“Has it been this quiet all night?”
“Non, milord Comte. Earlier there was shouting and what sounded to me like a lot of drinking going on. Then it fell quiet.”
Alex stroked his chin. Perhaps Dugald’s plan had worked. “And earlier, when they were drinking, were there more fires?”
The sentry scanned the horizon for a minute or two. “Non, milord. Same as now.”
“Tell me, Gaston, when you’ve been in a camp with other soldiers, how
many men usually gather around one fire?”
Gaston was pensive. “Bien, milord, on a chilly night like this, I’d say six, maybe seven.”
Alex peered out into the night again, excitement bubbling in his chest. His earlier suspicion had been correct. There were nigh on five score tents, which one might assume meant in the range of six hundred men. But there were only six campfires. It didn’t add up.
He inhaled the crisp night air. There was still the problem of protecting Elayne and her children if he launched an attack. It would have to be done stealthily, leaving no time for enemy soldiers to harm their hostages.
He tilted his chin and looked to the sky. Had the wind picked up slightly? As he watched, the clouds parted briefly. Moonlight bathed the enemy camp and the devastated orchards beyond. It was an eerie sight.
Suddenly he sensed rather than saw movement. “There,” he said to Gaston, pointing. “On the edge of the orchards. What do you see?”
The sentry peered out. The clouds rolled back, smothering the moon.
Gaston scratched his beard. “Not sure, milord. Mayhap a horse, or a wolf?”
“Whatever it is, it’s following the line of the orchards towards the road north. Keep your eyes peeled in the event the clouds clear again.”
They stared into the blackness for so long, Alex’s eyes ached. Then the moon peeked out from behind a cloud. He slapped Gaston on the back as elation filled his heart. “Not a wolf, my friend. That’s Faol. Dugald has got them away.”
He looked back quickly towards the camp. There was no cry of alarm, no pursuit. He gritted his teeth as relief turned to determination. There was no need to delay the attack now.
“Rouse Brodeur,” he commanded. “Tell him to meet me in the Chart Room. We’ve waited long enough to send these dogs packing.”
Gaston rushed off, whistling.
Alex looked back out into the blackness that had swallowed those he loved. He put his hand over where the braided token lay hidden. “Au revoir,” he whispered to the night sky. “Until we meet again.”
~~~
ALEX SCOWLED HALF HEARTEDLY at his giddy soldiers, his forefinger tapping his lips. If their laughter got any louder they’d waken the score or so of drunken sots who’d snored on while the Montbryce men had struck most of the empty tents in the enemy camp.
They’d deemed it advisable for Romain to remain in command of the soldiers who’d stayed in the castle. No sense two Montbryces risking their lives. But his brother would be peeved when he found out what he’d missed.
He understood their glee, indeed could barely restrain his own urge to chuckle. A man embarking on military action never knew if he’d be dead or alive at the end of it. Not a single life had been lost in this farcical raid, on either side.
Just before dawn, they’d crept stealthily to the enemy camp, on edge, weapons at the ready, not knowing what to expect. Not only had they encountered no opposition, there were even fewer men in the besieging “army” than he’d thought.
It irked. Geoffrey had successfully pinned him down in his own castle with a ragtag collection of men who’d proven themselves idiots with the near destruction of their own carefully constructed ruse.
It made him wonder just how much support Geoffrey and Maud had truly gathered in their frantic journeys back and forth across Normandie. As far as he could see, there appeared to be no obvious leader among the sleeping mercenaries.
Suddenly, one man rolled onto his back, bending his knees. He sat up quickly, reaching for the helmet at his side. Scrambling to his feet, he jammed the helmet on his head with a groan.
A loud guffaw sounded from the Montbryce ranks lined up to watch.
The mercenary looked about in confusion, eyes narrowed. His mouth fell open when he espied his enemies arrayed around him. He drew his sword, but the action tipped him off balance. He staggered to one side, and fell over.
Peals of laughter ensued, waking the other mercenaries, most of whom couldn’t even get to their feet, apparently struck dumb.
Brodeur chuckled beside Alex. “In this dim light, they mayhap think it’s the devil’s army surrounding them.”
Alex turned to him. “I trust you can manage to disarm this lot and escort them to the cells?”
Brodeur grinned. “Oui, milord. I’ll organize a contingent to take down the rest of the tents. I reckon Montbryce is richer by a hundred good quality war tents and pavilions. I’ll wager the Angevin won’t be happy.”
Alex nodded towards the prisoners. “Why not get them to dismantle the tents? Seems only fair.”
Brodeur’s grin widened. “You’re right, as always, milord.”
Alex strode purposefully through the piles of canvas. It was indeed a rich hoard. They’d be hard pressed to find a storage place with all the extra provisions Bonhomme had gathered, and every tent would have to be reopened and allowed to dry. Folding them while they were damp with dew hadn’t been easy or pleasant.
While these thoughts tumbled through his head, his eyes remained fixed on the desolation beyond. He slowed his pace as he entered the ruined orchard, pierced to the heart at the sight of the blackened stumps. The once rich brown soil was powdered grey dust. The eerie silence was deafening. Not a creature stirred in this wilderness.
Generations of Montbryces had strolled through these trees, picked the apples, listened to the chirping of birds, watched the leaves turn golden and fall, then savored the fragrant spring blossoms. As a boy he’d run with his brothers and sisters, kicking up mounds of crisp brown leaves. He closed his eyes, recalling the rustling, the laughter. Had his father been with them?
The task ahead of him was daunting. It would take years to reestablish the orchard to its former glory. Other changes would have to be made. Montbryce had never come under attack before; no one had dared challenge one of the most powerful families in Normandie. But they had relied on the castle’s elevated position to discourage potential enemies. This had left the orchards vulnerable. Montbryce’s defense perimeter would have to be widened, a rampart put in place.
Despite the challenges he faced, a weight lifted from his shoulders. He was confident he could successfully manage all of it. Being the Comte was his destiny.
If only he had Elayne as his Comtesse. With her at his side he could have moved mountains.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ELAYNE’S BACKSIDE WAS RAW. She’d eventually mastered the spooked horse, but not before several hours of bone jarring travel on uneven terrain in the dark. Henry hadn’t uttered a word of complaint and she suspected he’d fallen asleep hunched against her back. She’d pressed her arms against his to make sure he didn’t fall off. Now she could barely move her stiff shoulders. Her hands were numb after gripping the reins, her jaw permanently clenched.
Shortly after dawn, Dugald called a halt deep in a wood of conifer trees. “We’ll camp here and continue into Caen at dusk. Too dangerous to travel in daylight. I’ll go in search of water for the horses. Don’t take out the salt pork until I return. No use attracting animals. May be wolves in these forests.”
She slid awkwardly from the horse, but her feet failed her and she collapsed in a heap. Henry jumped from the beast as if he hadn’t just ridden for hours in the dark and helped her rise.
Dugald toted the iron trunk to the middle of the clearing, then pulled the horses to a tree and tethered the reins to a low hanging branch. She was taken aback when he unbuckled the sheath of his dagger and handed it to her after peeling off his padded gambeson. “Here, just in case. And you’ve the dog with you.”
For the first time in her married life, she was dismayed to watch Dugald swagger away, a water skin slung over his shoulder. Despite the early morning chill, the hilt of the weapon grew slick in her sweaty palm as she and her children huddled beneath a tree as far from the stink of the horses as possible. Claricia traced a fingertip over the pattern tooled on the leather sheath.
Faol paced back and forth, uncharacteristically alert.
The horses s
hifted, sniffing the air, twitching their tails.
Birds chirped and trilled, welcoming the day. She leaned her head back against the tree and closed her eyes.
“Sing for us, Maman,” Henry whispered.
She gritted her teeth. It had been a long time since she’d sung for her children, something that had come naturally before whenever their lives were clouded with uncertainty. She cleared her throat, hoping her voice would produce sounds that resembled music.
Gu robh neart na cruinne leat, 'S neart na grèine.
“May you indeed have the strength of the universe, and the strength of the sun, my angels,” she crooned softly.
Henry grinned, trying hard to hide his fear. “That’s my favorite.”
Faol paused to study them for a moment as she sang, then resumed his march back and forth, ears erect.
Claricia cuddled into her. “Even the birds stopped to listen to you, Maman.”
Elayne smiled, but an icy dread crept into her belly when she realized the birds had indeed stopped singing. Faol stood stock still, long tail rigid, ears alert, looking out in the direction Dugald had taken.
It was eerily silent, except for the stomping hooves of the wild-eyed horses as they strained at their tethers.
Not a breath of wind stirred the trees.
A screeching wail shattered the silence. The hairs on her nape stood on end. No human could make such a noise.
Then there was grunting, scuffling, cries of distress—it could only be Dugald.
Claricia screamed.
Elayne clamped her hand over her daughter’s mouth as they all scrambled to their feet. “Hush.”
Faol took a step forward, one paw raised.
The horses jostled each other, clearly panicked.
Henry held out a hand. “Give me the dagger, Maman.”
She shook her head, but he insisted, his young eyes narrowed. “You and Faol take care of Claricia. I’ll be ready for the wolf.”
The wolfhound glanced back at her as if he’d understood. Trembling, she handed the knife to her courageous son just as the wailing stopped. No one breathed.
Fatal Truths (The Anarchy Medieval Romance) Page 14