Laden with enough for survival, she paused to pray—then turned to flee. She escaped the cabin quite easily enough. On deck, she smiled at the various seamen, or nodded gravely, whichever seemed most appropriate with the individual men, some of whom smiled and whistled and sang easily themselves, and some of whom seemed to be dour upon all occasions. When every one of them seemed exceptionally busy, she made a pretense of returning to the cabin, but when their backs were turned, she slipped over the side.
The distance from the deck to the water seemed great. Again, the water was fiercely cold. She plunged endlessly before gaining enough control in the deep, dark frigid water to stop her descent and crawl her way back to the surface. She broke it, gasping desperately for air. She breathed in raggedly, goose bumps rising on her flesh as the chill breeze struck her. She was instantly afraid that her flight had been noted, and she looked to the ship with fear. But there were no men shouting an alarm, and no one was coming after her.
So he watched his enemies, did he! she thought, and not without a certain sense of smugness. He had underestimated this enemy. Now, as he had once before. She shivered so that she almost put a tooth right through her lip; she hadn't meant, that day long ago at Falkirk, to murder. She'd seen enough blood that day to put the fear of injury and death into any man. Aye, he'd paused for her, and there was his downfall. Her escape today did him no harm. He should know what it was to demand freedom. She turned her back on the ship and swam.
The distance to shore was far greater than she had imagined, and seemed even more so, weighed down as she was with her money and jewels, in the severe cold. And the activity on the immediate docks gave her pause. Despite her freezing state and exhaustion, she forced herself to swim further southward, so that she would not need to arise where her reception might not be one offered with warmth and dignity. Having come this far, she meant to succeed, and to reach the French king without the company of her enemies. She also meant to survive whatever strangers she might encounter.
When she reached a spit of beach, she crawled onto it and fell flat, gasping and gulping air, so exhausted that she couldn't even curl into herself for warmth. She closed her eyes, fearful at first that she had killed herself—her heart was beating so rapidly it seemed ready to burst from her chest. She tried to breathe deeply, and as she did so, she felt the frantic pounding of her heart begin to slow. But just when she thought she had gained control of her life, she froze, feeling the touch of a blade at her throat. Her eyes flew open. Stunned, she looked up, then scrambled away from the point of the blade.
It was wielded by a strange cutthroat—a man with a sweeping, fur-trimmed cape over a tunic, fine leggings and soft leather boots. She could see little more of him, for his face was largely covered by the brim of a drooping, feathered hat, and a patch covered his one eye and a mask most of his face. As if he were a leper. She inhaled so sharply she nearly choked on her own breath. She started to cough—then backed away and scrambled to her feet, the point of the sword following her throat all the while. When she stood, he still hadn't spoken, and she began to defend herself with words. "I've done you no harm, why are you accosting me?" This was France, and he must surely be a Frenchman. He must understand her; as was customary among English aristocracy, she had learned the Norman French of the royal house of Plantagenet before the native English of her home, and the Gaelic Scots of her too close neighbors to the north.
He pulled the sword away, still without speaking, and walked around her. She turned, afraid to have him at her back. But as she followed his movement, she saw that he was not alone; two other men had come upon the rocky shore. They surrounded her. "All right, listen," she said slowly, her hands gripped into fists at her sides as she tried for a firm, authoritative, regal tone, and a bravado she was far from feeling. Courage was not easy when she stood there freezing and shaking, the taste of the ocean still on her lips, her clothing crusting to her with each frigid gust of the wind. "I am here to meet one of the most important men in all the realm of the king of France! If anything happens to me, he will hunt you down and hack you to pieces, bit by bit. Do you understand?"
For long, unnerving moments, no one spoke. Then the masked sword bearer stepped forward again. "I have money. I can pay you to leave me alone!" she shouted. To her relief, the man sheathed his sword. "You must help me. If you do, you will be rewarded. If you don't, you will be chopped up into little pieces." He understood, she thought. He was probably a thief and the worst cutthroat in Calais. But he understood money. "You understand?" she said. Apparently, he didn't. He reached for her. She cried out, stiffening, ready to fight, but his grip was firm; she was forced to him, her back to his chest, pinned there by the strength of his one arm. She shrieked along and began to struggle in earnest as she felt his hands on her clothing. She kicked, and squirmed, and was sure she did some harm, because she heard him grunt. But the way that he held her, like a constricting snake, she could scarcely breathe, she couldn't begin to use her arms. Indeed, it was as if he were crushing her, asphyxiating her ...
But his own left hand was free, foraging through her clothing. He found the pockets where she carried her money and her jewels. His men were coming forward. One, a short, slim little fellow dressed in a fine, fur-trimmed tunic, stood in front of her, grinning. "I think our friend has decided that he doesn't need you to give him money—not when he can take it." She still could barely move. The other two men, dressed in stolen finery, no doubt, came closer, helping her attacker to steal from the deep pockets of her clothing. She twisted and squirmed and kicked, all to no avail. Her feet were caught, wrapped in someone's belt, she was borne back down upon the sand, and her sodden clothing all but torn from her body. The masked wretch who might well have been sealing her doom with disease if she were to survive the attack suddenly straddled her prone form. She fought with such desperation that she nearly knocked the mask from his face, but he caught her hands, and bound her wrists with a strip of fabric torn from the hem of her dress. She cried out with ever-greater panic, but one of the thieves came forward with a fur blanket; it was thrown over her face. She next found herself being hoisted up, and minutes later, thrown over the haunches of a horse. A man mounted the animal as well.
He gave the horse a kick and it burst into a gallop. Not a bad gait for a large horse, if one were actually riding the animal! But she was flopped about, crashing into the moving, muscled shoulder of the horse, and then into the knee of the man, and into the horse again. It seemed they rode far. They must come to civilization! She thought. And refusing to accept her own most likely doom, she made plans to scream her loudest the second she heard activity around them. Someone would help her. Someone would understand when she said that she had come to meet Count Alain de Lacville. They would realize the jeopardy in which they had cast themselves!
In her heart, of course, she knew that Alain himself could never dash forward to her rescue; he was far too frail. But he would send dozens of men to avenge her, and these thieves now accosting her would hang from the highest post in France, if they were not cut down by the flashing steel of Alain's knights.
Yet, when at last they came to a halt, she heard no commotion around them. And when the rider dismounted and reached for her in the smothering folds of the fur blanket, she was shaking, and unable to stand, much less find the breath to scream. Her knees refused to straighten; she would have fallen. The leper picked her up; she shrank within the blanket, as if she could inch away from the touch of the man who held her. She was lightheaded; it was so difficult just to breathe that she prayed at that moment only to have the blanket removed from her face so that she might draw a clear cool breath freely from the air once again.
In a few moments, her prayer was answered. They entered a building; she heard the clump of boots against wooden flooring. There were stairs, she knew, because they were rising. Then she was tossed down on something decently soft; rope bedding with a feather mattress, she thought fleetingly. Then she tore at the fur covering on her fac
e, ripping it away.
Tousled and sodden and trembling still, she looked into the masked face of her oppressor, and could see nothing, not even the color of his eyes, for the brim of the hat he wore covered them. Fear singed through her like lightning bolts, for she had no idea of where she was, other than a barren room with wooden flooring and walls, somewhere near Calais, France. He stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at her. Her clothing was wet, torn, and plastered to her, and she gasped for breath with even greater desperation as she realized the extent of her peril. Death was one thing. But these men could make death a long and excruciating process. How many of them were there? Just what might they do to her? And even if Alain avenged all this, what good would it do her, abused, broken, lying in her coffin?
She wet her lips. "Please ... this is a situation that you cannot win. If you hurt me ... kill me, Alain will kill you ... have you killed. You will die. He will hunt you down through all of France. Torture you. Help me. Help me get to him. He will reward you—" She broke off because her captor was turning away, ready to leave the room. Relief filled her. He didn't intend to ravage her. Relief flew from her heart as quickly as it had come. He didn't intend her harm at that moment. But he would come back.
"Wait, you don't understand. You really don't understand. You will die. Painfully. Horribly. Of course—" She broke off. If he was suffering from leprosy, as his mask suggested, he might be ready to face the swift death of a sword. And if he was suffering from leprosy, perhaps it would be best if she were to suffer a swift death now herself ... The door opened and closed. Her captor had left. She flew from the bed to the door, then hesitated, waiting. She was certain then that he stood right outside, waiting for her to try the door.
She waited. She was right. A few seconds later, she heard a bolt slide quietly into place. She backed away from the door. This was a room, just a room. Plain, simple. There was the rope bed on its frame, covered by the thick mattress and linen sheets. The sheets appeared clean enough, and the wooden floors were swept. There was a plain wooden chest with a pitcher of water. That was all.
But there was a window in the room. Shivering, the fur cast aside, she hurried to the window. To her delight, the shutters opened at her touch. She looked out and her heart sank. She had hoped for an alleyway, for a street with nearby buildings. She looked out on a field. This house they had come to was apparently on a little hill, far enough from the town of Calais to be surrounded by land. Still ...
She looked down. She seemed very far from the ground. But if she could escape the room, there were no walls that she could see surrounding the place. If she could escape, she could run. She was certain that they were on a rise, and that the busy town must lie just below.
As she looked out the window, she started, her heart slamming, as she heard the bolt sliding again and the door start to open. She jerked back into the room, closing the shutters, moving away from the window.
Her visitor was a woman. She was perhaps thirty, maybe she had been very pretty at one time in her life, but she had a lean and wary look about her now that gave a pinch to her features and a jaded appearance to her eyes. Those eyes and her hair were a rich, matching shade of sable brown; she wore her hair free, with no headdress of any kind, so it fell down her back in thick, dark waves. She assessed Eleanor, hard eyes running over the length of her with a surprising malice. "You will come," she told her with a sniff. Eleanor straightened. "I will come where?" she demanded. "To have a bath."
She stood her ground, miserable again in cold, clammy, salty clothing, but still loath to part with it—especially among this company. "I will stay here, I think." "You wish to remain wet and cold?" the woman inquired. "I wish to hear that I am to be brought to my fiancé, or that he is on his way to find me. I will wait until then." The woman's smile deepened with mockery. "You will wait then until you are old and gray."
"I will wait, nonetheless." "You will not wait. You will come with me." Eleanor estimated that she was at least the same size as the woman, and though she did not have a sword, she was capable of a good fight But the woman had no intention of tackling her. "You will come with me, or other arrangements will be made." That made her uneasy. And she was more uneasy when a second woman came behind the first. This one was a bit taller and broader. Actually, she was nearly a giant, blonde and blue- eyed, she might have been a Nordic goddess from Valhalla. She was a striking woman, and surely an equal in size—and power—to most men.
"There is difficulty?" she inquired, looking from the brown- haired woman to Eleanor. "She does not wish to shed her wet clothing." Now the blonde assessed her. "You must." She felt the thunder in her heart as she looked at the two accosting her. The blonde as well wore her hair free. They were both clad in linen, not rich clothing, but neither were they clad as the poor or beggars. There was something unusual about the clothing worn by the pair, and she reminded herself that she was in France now. But it still didn't seem quite right.
"Listen, please," she said, trying for control and reason, "I truly don't think you understand who I am—" "Oh, we know precisely who you are!" the brunette said. "I am worth a great deal of money!" she insisted. The two looked her over and started laughing. "Look—" "Please, come now. We are busy." Eleanor stiffened her back then walked toward them, thinking that she might step past the pair, make a mad dash for the stairs, out the door, and into the countryside. The idea was mad, indeed, but it seemed she had very little to lose.
And so she inched her head up and started past the two. She came to a wood-paneled hall, and saw the stairs. But the brunette had foreseen the reason for her compliance, and before she could start to flee, the woman was at her side, grabbing for her hair. "Stop!" Eleanor shrieked, grasping her hair, spinning, kicking out since she couldn't inflict a blow with her hands. The brunette screamed, hopping on one foot. The blonde stepped forward, capturing Eleanor with a grip to the arm that threatened to dislocate her shoulder.
At that point, the small Frenchman in finery came running up the stairs, the leper behind him. "What's going on here?" the Frenchman demanded. "She doesn't want a bath!" the brunette said sourly. The leper in the mask pushed irritably past the dapper Frenchman, and Eleanor started backing away in sheer panic. "No, no, I will—" Too late. He plucked her up by the waist, half hauling her, half dragging her, down the hallway to a room where a wooden tub filled with steaming water awaited. She was dropped and spun, and as she desperately tried to catch her breath, she heard the fabric of her tunic begin to tear. She tried to turn, but the strength of his arms pressed her back into place. She cried out, swore, and turned again, arms flailing. And still, though a grunt assured her she had gotten a blow in, she was really only aiding the destruction of the fabric about her. Torn and wet already, her shift and tunic fell despite the way she grasped at cloth and flailed at her attacker. And when it was gone, she screamed again as his hands ... his bare hands ... fell upon her waist, lifting her, then dropping her into the tub. The heat startled her for a moment; she threw her arms around her knees, drawing them to her chest.
He was gone. Her clothing lay in tatters, but he was gone. Relief filled her. But then the two women stepped into the room. The blonde approached her, laughing, dipping a deep curtsy. "Soap—m'lady." "A cloth. Countess!" said the brunette, tossing a linen cloth into the steaming water. Eleanor stared at them with a deep and rising hatred that kept her from bursting into tears of frustration. "And here, for your hair," the blonde said, producing a little vial. "Sit back, and I will tend to it for you." Don't touch me!" she grated out. The blonde looked at the brunette and started to laugh. She ran her tongue over her lips. "La! Anne-Marie! The countess is afraid of me!" Anne-Marie doubled over in laughter, approaching the tub, fingering a lock of Eleanor's hair. Eleanor flinched away, adding to her amusement. "Ah, countess You have no need to fear us— neither Helene nor I have a preference for women, eh, Helene?'' "Not unless the price is high—very, very high!" Helene agreed. Staring at the two, she realized at last that she ha
d been brought to some wayside inn, a place indeed occupied by cutthroats—and prostitutes.
Her stunned amazement, her eyes wide on them, brought the pair to gales of laughter once again. But then, oddly enough, something in her sudden silence must have brought about a hint of sympathy, in Helene, at least. "We're not going to hurt you," she said, her voice low, without a hint of mockery.' 'You would have caught your death in that icy clothing. Indeed, what were you doing, in the midst of winter, tempting the icy water? Especially after—" "Helene!" Anne-Marie said sharply. There was a stool near the tub. Helene set the vial upon it. "For your hair," she said again. "We will leave you, but we are just outside. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly," Eleanor said. The two looked at one another, then stepped out. The door closed behind them. Eleanor lowered her head, trembling, and felt the heat of the water warm her stiff and frigid limbs. She leaned back, trying not to shake, praying for a bolt of lightning to bring the saving grace of a plan to her mind. She couldn't understand this; these people were rogues, whores, thieves—they must need the income she could provide! And yet they laughed at her offers of reward and ignored her threats.
They had really left her alone, she thought after a moment. And the water had warmed her, and the soap was clean-smelling and sweet, and it was good not to be cold, and to feel clean again. Yet, to what purpose? She started to shake again, thinking of the leper who had seized her, the man in the mask. The man with the sword, who spoke not at all, but seemed to be the leader of these wretches. Did any of it matter? If he was indeed diseased ... She sat up suddenly in the tub, remembering his hands. His hands. Bare of the gloves he had worn earlier. Touching her. She had glanced down at them, even in her fight, even in panic.
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