My Highland Rebel
Page 32
A more practical person may have considered a tactical retreat, but the French would fight for honor, and Gavin, being a Highlander, would fight the English any chance he got. Besides, if he led a charge now, he could prevent a rout.
Unfortunately, the French were honorable only to a point and fled as soon as it became clear their advance was a failure. Without order, the knights turned and ran for the protection of the forest, leaving their retreating flank unprotected. It was the worst thing they could have done. One noble continued the fight and was quickly surrounded, unable to flee.
“Hold the line!” cried Gavin to the retreating men. It was a pointless command. The soldiers could hear nothing above the din of their own panic.
Gavin pushed ahead to the surrounded noble. The man was still mounted and fighting hard, but it was a matter of seconds before he was captured or killed. One of the English soldiers grabbed the bridle of the French noble’s mount and forced it down. The end of the nobleman was near.
Gavin gave the howling war cry of the charging Highlander. It succeeded in momentarily arresting the attack of the English soldiers, who turned to see what demon was approaching them. Gavin charged forward, scattering the foot soldiers. He grabbed the gauntlet of the nobleman and in one bold move pulled the man onto his own horse.
Gavin spun and galloped back across the field of battle toward a large stand of trees, full of the dense green leaves of spring. The man behind him was leaning precariously and Gavin attempted to hold him with one arm as he urged his mount faster. They must reach the tree line before the English soldiers caught them.
He crashed through some low brush into the forest. The English pursued them into the trees, but here Gavin had prepared a surprise. Arrows rained down from the treetops and the English soldiers dropped and howled. The first wave of English soldiers turned and ran into their own charge, halting their advance.
Gavin smiled, though more in relief than from success. They had turned the English for the moment and prevented them from marching farther, but they were outnumbered and everyone knew it. Without reinforcements, their small force of French soldiers and volunteer Highland warriors would eventually fall.
The man behind him could hold on no longer. Gavin jumped off his horse just in time to catch the falling nobleman. He laid the man on the ground and removed his helmet. The nobleman appeared to be middle-aged, with a well-trimmed, dark beard in the style of the day.
The man gave him a wan smile. “You have saved me, Sir Knight. Pray tell me to whom I am indebted.”
“I am Sir Gavin Patrick, of the clan of MacLaren,” Gavin responded in French, a tongue he had learned well over the past few years he had spent in France.
“A Scot, are you?” The man’s smile grew. “Tonight, you will accept my hospitality. If I do not reward you richly, I do not deserve the name of duc de Bergerac.”
* * *
Lady Marie Colette, the only daughter of the duc de Bergerac, sat sedately in the ladies’ solar with her ladies-in-waiting. By tradition, her four ladies, Marie Claude, Marie Jeannette, Marie Agnes, and Marie Philippe, were there to tend to her needs, but they had been her mother’s ladies-in-waiting and had adopted an instructional role after her mother died. They were all old enough to be her mother or her grandmother, and had distinct opinions as to how a lady such as herself should behave.
Colette had hoped when a fifth lady had been added to her entourage, she would be more of a friend to her. Marie Suzanne was indeed young, but at twelve years of age, almost a decade her junior, Suzanne was hardly a bosom companion. The young girl spent most of her time staring wide-eyed about the room and agreeing with anything her elders said.
All the ladies were at work on their embroidery, one of the few useful arts acceptable for ladies of court. Colette gathered a large sheet of linen about her. She had chosen to embroider a bed linen due to its bulk. Surreptitiously, she pulled a leather-bound book from her workbag, placing it behind the gathered sheet, out of sight from her ladies.
Colette quietly opened her book, careful to take a stitch now and then so as not to raise suspicion. Her ladies would be most displeased if the illicit text were discovered. They did not approve of a lady being taught to read, for everyone knew books would overcome a lady’s delicate sensibilities. Colette’s educated mother had embraced a more expanded view and once Colette had been taught, nothing could stop her from reading everything in her father’s priceless book collection.
Pressed on by a sincere desire to read, Colette had become fluent in many languages. She read stories of glorious battles, myths from the Greeks, and of course, the Book of Hours, her prayer book, the only reading condoned by her ladies. Above all, her favorite stories were adventures of amazing courage and forbidden love.
She secretly turned the page of La Chanson de Roland. She had read the heroic adventure so many times she could almost recite it. She longed for her own adventure beyond the reaches of her strict nursemaids, but she had rarely traveled beyond the walls of the castle, and now that the dreaded English were causing havoc in their realm, she never left the castle at all.
She often lost herself completely in a book, but today the story of Roland dying bravely against the onslaught of foreign soldiers caused a ripple of fear to flow through her. Several weeks ago, her father had marched out with his knights to repel the English. He was late in returning. Colette did not wish to consider losing the only parent left her.
A clarion trumpet call gave the signal that the soldiers’ return had been seen in the distance. Was her father among them? Colette swooped her book up with the linen sheet and stuffed them both into her workbag, hidden until next time.
“My father, he has returned,” she announced, rushing to the door. “Come, let us greet him on the castle walk.”
“A lady does not rush about like a common servant,” chastised Marie Claude. Stalwart in stature, she was as old as the lines on her face were long. As the eldest of her ladies, Marie Claude’s word was law in these chambers.
“And you must wear your headdress and your cloak, my lady,” said Marie Jeannette with a scandalized gasp. Her life’s work was perfecting the physical appearance of her lady, no matter what Colette’s preference might be. Colette was heralded as the most beautiful lady in court, and Marie Jeannette lived on such praise.
“But I am already wearing a veil. Surely I do not need a headdress to stand upon the ramparts. It is a warm day, so a cloak, it will not be necessary,” reasoned Colette.
Her ladies stopped her with their shocked expressions. “My lady!” they protested.
Colette sighed. They were right, of course. Everyone in the castle looked to Marie Colette to dress and act in a particular manner. If she should be seen running about the castle in anything less than rigid decorum, it would no doubt cause pandemonium.
“Vexing, forward child, always thinking for herself,” muttered Marie Agnes, whose purpose in life was to ensure Colette never forgot her shortcomings.
“Let us pray His Grace has returned safely to us,” said Marie Philippe, the only one to grasp what was truly important, at least to Colette, and thus the one who received looks of censor from the other ladies.
Colette relented, allowing them to weigh her down further. “Make haste, if you please.” She submitted herself to be further dressed, though she was already warm in a formfitting blue silk kirtle and a brocade sleeveless surcoat, with rich embroidery of golden thread. To show her status, it had no less than a two-foot train, the minimum her maids would allow for everyday use. To this, her maids added a large velvet cloak, lined in ermine.
Colette tried to be patient as her maids pinned on her ornate headdress, a jeweled fillet over the silk barbet, which circled her hair. Her maids were even more chaste, wearing pristine white wimples that encased their heads and wrapped around their chins. Despite the current fashion that allowed unmarried ladies to let their hair flow loose or in two
braids, her maids would not allow her hair to be seen in public.
The gown and robe alone were a load to drag around, particularly while keeping her posture rigidly straight, but the ornate golden headdress weighed enough to crush any rebellion from her spirit. It was so heavy it never ceased to give her a pounding headache before it was finally removed. She had to move carefully not to tip out of balance and stagger under its weight.
Finally, she was deemed acceptable to walk sedately along the corridors to the castle walls. Even if she wanted to move faster, she was forced to walk slowly, carefully picking up each foot correctly so as not to trip over her fashionable, pointy-toed shoes. It would have been easier to lift the hem of her skirts, but her maids would have been scandalized if she’d accidently revealed (heaven forbid!) an ankle to the public. Thus encumbered, it took great effort to walk down the castle corridor, her five nursemaids trailing along behind her.
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Author’s Note
Our modern-day divisions of the scriptures into chapters is commonly attributed to Stephen Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury, who completed his work early in the thirteenth century. The further breakdown of the chapters into verses did not come along until the sixteenth century. In the fourteenth century, the only version of the scriptures approved by the Church was the Latin, thus when Brother Luke quotes scripture, he does so in Latin. Here are the verses Luke shared in English (King James Version), just in case your Latin-English translator is on the fritz.
A false witness shall not be unpunished, and he that speaketh lies shall not escape. ~Proverbs 19:5
Whoso loveth instruction loveth knowledge: but he that hateth reproof is brutish. ~Proverbs 12:1
In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world. ~John 16:33
When Jesus heard it, he saith unto them, “They that are whole have no need of the physician, but they that are sick: I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.” ~Mark 2:17
Acknowledgments
I could not have written this book without considerable support from my husband and my children, who have learned to ask me, “Mom, shouldn’t you be writing now?” Thanks to my beta reader, Laurie Maus, who has the nicest way of telling me to try again. Thanks also to my editor, Deb Werksman, and my agent, Barbara Poelle, who continue to support and encourage my growth as a writer.
About the Author
Amanda Forester enjoys writing historical romance and divides her time between the rugged Highlands of medieval Scotland and the decadent ballrooms of Regency England. She enjoys researching history almost as much as writing, and attempts to provide the reader with a glimpse of the historical reality, without the fleas. Amanda lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest. You can visit her at www.amandaforester.com
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