Chatelaine of Forez

by Vijaya Schartz

  "Artaud is receiving reinforcement? Hell and damnation!" Damn Artaud for being so well prepared... and informed. Damas shook with barely restrained fury, making his steed nervous. Someone had betrayed him.

  He pierced the Burgundy captain with his gaze. "Your weight in gold if you manage to keep them off our backs while I retreat with my knights. I'll keep the gate open for you."

  The captain grinned like a gray wolf and barked orders to the fresh troops set aside for when the castle gate would yield. A low horn vibrated through the air, telling the mercenaries to leave the walls and rally to the forest.

  Damas watched the fresh mercenary troops scattering eagerly among the bare trees, to meet the oncoming army. At least, their barbaric schemes of ambush and silent slaughter might give him an edge upon this conventional army accustomed to traditional warfare.

  The castle defenders must have heard their ally's horn as well. While the mercenaries scrambled away from the walls to retreat, the castle gate opened and launched upon them two scores of mounted knights, screaming blood-curdling battle cries.

  They trampled and slaughtered the retreating mercenaries, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake. Montarcher's foot soldiers charged behind their knights with fierce determination and spilled down the slope, hacking and killing every mercenary in their path with the heart and courage of those who fought for their loved ones.

  With the sound of battle approaching fast through the woods, and Artaud's knights galloping toward him from the castle, Damas had only one choice. He'd lost the battle, but he'd be damned if he let Artaud take him to his dungeon. Never again. He reined in his balking destrier and turned it around.

  "To Couzan!" Damas shouted to his mounted knights.

  Abelar and the other knights followed his lead as he galloped full speed along the river, then at a tangent toward Couzan, leaving the mercenaries behind, to be slaughtered between the two converging armies. Foot soldiers were expendable. Besides, better for him if they all died. It would save him the gold set aside for their pay.

  * * *

  Lyon, the same day

  Archbishop Bouchard sighed with satisfaction, leaning back further into the pillows of his stuffed armchair, beside the fireplace. Angelo, his favorite boy and aide, brought him a bowl of mulled spiced wine.

  "Here you go, Your Grace." The boy smiled languidly as he handed him the bowl, his brown eyes liquid in the candlelight. "Careful, Your Grace, ‘tis hot."

  Bouchard caressed the boy's smooth hand before wrapping his fingers around the warm bowl, enjoying the heat permeating his entire body. "This aroma is divine."

  "Any news from Lord Damas?" The lascivious youth draped himself across another chair, facing Bouchard, watching him suggestively, batting long eyelashes upon soft brown eyes. "The ferocious mercenaries your brother sold him must have conquered Montarcher by now."

  Bouchard nodded. "Soon, Forez will be under the control of Holy Mother Church... as it should."

  "But can you control Lord Damas?" Angelo's voice held a playful challenge.

  "Damas is my puppet." Bouchard chuckled. "His weakness is greed, and he has no sway without the support of the Church." Bouchard could also dispose of him if he proved unmanageable, but the innocent need not know that.

  Closing his eyes, Bouchard inhaled the aromatic steam from the warm ceramic bowl. "I smell sweet honey, almonds... and an unfamiliar spice." He glanced at the boy, his curiosity piqued. "What is it?"

  "‘Tis a surprise from Cook, Your Grace." Angelo's eyes gleamed, and an enigmatic smile curved his full lips as he stared at his master intently. "From the new spice shipment. Cook will want to know how much you like it."

  "Did you taste it?" The aroma called to him.

  "Not yet, Your Grace, but I hearsay ‘tis delicious."

  "Well, let's see..." Bouchard blew softly on the dark surface then took a small sip, making sure it wasn't too hot.

  "Do you like it, Your Grace?"

  "Perfect." Bouchard relished the sweet taste, but the spicy aftertaste intrigued him. He took a larger sip, then another. "What a delicious concoction."

  "So glad you like it. Drink up while it's warm, Your Grace, then I'll fetch you some more."

  What a devoted boy. Bouchard drank, enjoying each long swallow, licking his lips at the last drop. The mulled wine penetrated his entire body, warming him from the inside.

  Angelo's innocent smile widened as he stared at him. "Good, is it not?"

  Bouchard sighed with warm ease. "Heavenly so, sweet boy."

  "I'll get you more." Angelo rose and gently took the empty bowl from his hands, squeezed his shoulder in a lover's caress, then disappeared into the adjoining antechamber.

  The trip to the kitchen would take a few minutes.

  Bouchard congratulated himself on manipulating Damas. All he had to do now was send a missive to the pope, asking him to ratify the excommunication of Artaud and his Pagan bitch. Then he could get back his parcels of land in Forez, pressure the nobles into subsidizing his monasteries, reopen the old gold mines, and raise new taxes.

  As early as this coming spring, Bouchard would enjoy plundering the riches of Forez.

  A pang of crippling pain twisted his gut. Bouchard folded over, holding his ample belly. "By all the saints!"

  The blood roared past his ears. Sweat dripped along his face. Where was his favorite boy? On his way to the kitchen. Bouchard's heart beat a fierce, increasing tempo. His lungs labored for each breath.

  "Guards!" His voice waned. He could barely distinguish his own words above the roar filling his ears.

  No answer, no familiar boot steps in the antechamber. Where were the guards? Right, he'd sent them away so he could enjoy a few hours of lusty pleasures. By the holy relics of Sainte Blandine! Was he going to die here, alone?

  Angelo finally rushed into the room and came to kneel at the side of his chair. "How are you feeling, Your Grace?"

  Bouchard could not speak. His tongue seemed to have swollen to the size of a furry rat.

  Angelo smiled sweetly in the firelight. "Would you like me to fetch your healer?"

  Bouchard managed a weak nod, but Angelo remained at his side, observing with an intent gaze. Had his tone held sarcasm?

  "Well, I prefer to remain with you and make sure you die, old man."

  Bouchard could only stare, with the sensation that his eyes bulged out of their sockets. Why didn't Angelo call for help?

  "I'm the one who poisoned you, Your Grace." The innocent brown eyes now glinted with cold hatred.

  Tremors shook Bouchard's body. How could he have let this happen? Why hadn't he asked Angelo to taste the mulled wine first? Then he would have known not to drink it.

  "Do you want to know why I poisoned you, Your Grace?" That hard, uncaring tone, again.

  How could such a young boy be so diabolical? Bouchard glanced helplessly toward the antechamber, but no one would come. He'd made sure they wouldn't be disturbed.

  Angelo's lovely face came closer, the large brown eyes staring into his. "I poisoned you because you sent my lover to his death."

  The boy had another lover? He looked so innocent, so pure, so angelic. Bouchard realized help would not come. This angel had effectively wielded a lethal weapon, and the poison paralyzed him almost completely now.

  "Your favorite assassin, the one you sent to kill Lady Melusine..." Angelo's accusing eyes never blinked. "The man in black was my true lover. You were only a means to an end."

  How did the boy know of the secret mission? Had he spied on him all this time? Bouchard could not believe such a sweet child could hate him so. He could only stare, and grimace with each spasm.

  "Don't be so surprised, Your Grace. I learned from the very best." The boy laughed, and his laughter cut like shards of hard glass. "But I don't need you anymore. I found another protector, younger, handsome, and just as rich."

  Angelo rose and looked down upon Bouchard. "Now, you can die alone, Your Grace. And think upon your sins. I shall r
eturn tomorrow, to hear the news of your untimely death... with the appropriate tears in my eyes."

  With that, the boy turned and walked away, his soft steps echoing into the antechamber. Then the heavy door closed with a resounding metal click.

  Bouchard shuddered. His miserable end had come. Sudden fear chilled his entire being. His body shook, partly with the poison, partly with fright. He wasn't ready to meet his creator. What had he done with his life? He'd broken so many commandments, fallen to lust and greed.

  He'd counted on God to forgive his digressions on account of his more important achievement... ridding Forez of Pagans. But he had failed the Church as well. Now, he would never see Artaud and his Pagan bitch excommunicated by the pope. For that, he would burn in hell for all eternity.

  Paralyzing cold gripped his entire body. Dark spots danced upon his vision. The room grew dark and foggy, then black. The floor opened under him and he fell into a dark, bottomless pit. He cringed and struggled to open his mouth, but no one heard his silent scream of terror. No one cared about the damned.

  Chapter Twenty

  "How goes the battle?" Melusine panted between contractions. She'd forgotten how difficult giving birth could be, and the twins stubbornly refused to come out smoothly.

  The young maid wiped her clammy forehead with a cool cloth. "Lord Artaud is winning, m'lady. With the troops from his other castles, he's wiped out most of the enemy army."

  "Don't worry about that." The midwife, at the foot of the bed, offered a strained smile. "Now, please, m'lady... push."

  Melusine braced herself and bore down with all her might, screaming her frustration as she did, reeling with the effort. Yet, it never seemed to be enough. The ladies fussing around her, including the healer and the midwife, exchanged furtive glances, their faces tight with worry.

  Of course any birth was an ordeal, and one should always be prepared for the worst. Melusine suspected these twins would challenge her pain threshold. If the Goddess wanted her to give Artaud heirs with Fae blood, however, Melusine must rise to the task.

  She was strong, and any birthing damage to her body could be healed later... Tuesday night, when she transformed into an Ondine. The beast of her curse held powerful healing magic, and would erase all traces of fatigue or physical tear.

  Steeling herself as she felt her next contraction coming, Melusine gathered her declining strength and pushed again.

  * * *

  Artaud halted his mount and grasped his mid-section as he whooshed a sudden breath. By the horns of Mithras, he'd not expected to share Melusine's birthing pains. How could it hurt so much? He hoped Melusine could weather such an intense ordeal.

  He lifted his helmet to wipe a dripping forehead with the hem of his bloody surcoat. As he glanced all around in the pale midday sun, all he could see from the woods to the walls of Montarcher was a sloping meadow of bodies, dead or dying. Mostly enemies.

  Flocks of griffon vultures dove to feast on the fresh kills. More of the large carrion birds circled above. Others alighted and perched upon high, naked boughs along the tree line, like dark harbingers of death, waiting for the knights to leave.

  Ida rode her steed toward him. She had fought as fiercely as any knight this day. "Our riders are chasing the last enemy soldiers fleeing through the woods. Our victory seems complete."

  Artaud grunted. He should rejoice. None would remain to attack him again. He set his helmet back on his head. "We still haven't found Damas. As long as he is out there, we shall never be safe."

  "Guilli sent a message from the keep," Ida added quickly. "He saw a group of enemy riders leaving the battlefield along the river... toward Couzan."

  "Damas and his knights." Artaud grunted. The knave feared his dungeon, and for good reason. "The coward fled to the safety of his fortress."

  Ida nodded. "‘Twill be challenging to get Damas out of there."

  Artaud refused to let him escape, yet again. "We must force him out, press on, and retake the fortress of Couzan."

  Ida pinched her lips together, thinking hard. "We have plenty of fresh troops, and Damas only has a handful of soldiers left to defend his castle."

  "Good point. Mayhap, we can swarm his barbican for a change." Artaud liked his odds. "If we can get inside, they don't stand a chance."

  Ida smiled wide. "Should I rally the men?"

  "Aye. Knights and foot soldiers."

  Ida turned her mount and rode away. Soon the horn sounded the gathering.

  Artaud flinched as another stabbing pain pierced his middle. Hang in there, my love.

  No response from Melusine.

  Ida returned with the knights, who rallied around Artaud. Behind them, the standard bearer brought up ranks of foot soldiers, three abreast along the dirt road.

  Without waiting for everyone, Artaud spurred his black stallion's flanks and rode upon the rutted dirt road, kicking clods of mud and grass in his wake. He followed the river toward his enemy's castle. Taking strength from the knights riding hard alongside him, Artaud felt confident he could retake the lofty fortress of Couzan.

  He worried about the repeated pains stabbing his mid section, although they now seemed to fade. Are you well, my love?

  Still no response from Melusine. He couldn't hear her in his head anymore. Was she too weak to maintain their link, or simply saving her strength? He dared hope for the latter.

  As Artaud rode, tendrils of fear chilled him all over. Although not versed in childbearing, he'd heard enough to know that sometimes, women died in childbirth due to exhaustion, before expelling the child. Even long-lived Fae like Melusine could die in such an ordeal.

  How could he live without her? May the Goddess protect her... as She'd promised. Unfortunately, in his experience, gods and goddesses did not always feel obligated to keep their word.

  Unable to help his beloved, Artaud decided to focus on the task at hand.

  The sun still peaked at its zenith when he and his mounted knights reached the bottom of the rocky escarpment upon which stood the imposing fortress of Couzan. The walls stood too high and the steep, rugged slopes forbade the climb to the sparsely manned ramparts.

  The barbican seemed the only possible way inside, defended by a few archers and a handful of soldiers.

  Ida brought her steed next to his. "With so few archers, they cannot prevent a swarm."

  Artaud controlled his black stallion with a firm hand on the reins and motioned to a few knights. "We'll need ladders to take the main gate."

  The knights dismounted, pulled axes out of their belts and walked through the bare woods in search of straight saplings. They made quick work of assembling long poles and notched rungs with hemp twine.

  By the time the foot soldiers arrived, a few completed ladders lay in the grass at the tree line.

  Artaud dismounted, then climbed upon a tall rock and addressed his men. "They only have a few archers, but archers are dangerous nevertheless. Keep your shields up at all times. We'll make sure to keep their knights and soldiers cowering behind the battlements, with a steady volley of flaming arrows."

  The men nodded and murmured their enthusiasm at the prospect of easy victory.

  Ida joined Artaud on his rocky pedestal. "Beware. They will pour whatever nasty burning pitch, lead or hot oil from the barbican above the gate. Do not let your guard down."

  Facing the fortress, Artaud raised his sword and shouted, "For Montarcher and for Forez! Attack!"

  Artaud's archers ran ahead to shooting distance, then stopped in a loose line and lit their flaming arrows. They shot them at the top of the wall. The host of foot soldiers emitted a rumbling cry and charged ahead through the archers' line. Some of them carried the ladders upon the wide rocky path leading to the castle gate.

  Couzan's defenders launched a thin volley, but their arrows could not quell the horde of soldiers charging toward their gate. Once Artaud's soldiers reached the gate and set up the ladders, no hot oil or burning pitch could stop them. Aware of their overwhelming num
bers, they rushed the barbican in record time. Then the gate opened, allowing Artaud's men into the outer bailey.

  Artaud and his knights galloped up the path and inside the castle of Couzan. A few more knights defended the second wall to the inner bailey, but once the Montarcher soldiers swarmed the second gate, they'd won the battle.

  It wasn't enough, however. Artaud needed to find Damas. As long as that traitor ran free, there would be no peace in Forez. Leaving Ida and the knights to fight the last enemy soldiers in the inner bailey, Artaud dismounted in front of the keep, kicked open the heavy door and marched inside.

  The deserted hall contained no soldiers or servants... not even women tending to the wounded. Casks of lamp oil sat near the entrance. A fire roared in the giant fireplace. Its crackling echoed through the vault, to the giant beams holding the ceiling. Dismantled trestle tables stood flat against the stone wall.

  Since Damas wasn't on the ramparts or in the great hall, would he be in his chambers? Artaud raced up the narrow stairs. He found the door to the private chambers open. "Damas, show yourself. For once in your life, face me like an honorable man."

  No response.

  A quick assessment of the richly adorned apartments found them empty. No one behind the tapestries or the heavy bed curtains. The chests lay open, most of them empty.

  Had the coward fled in view of his desperate situation? Where? This castle like any of its kind would have secret tunnels, secret rooms and chambers, probably underground.

  Racing down the stairs of the keep, Caliburn in hand, Artaud didn't care if his armor rattled. Melusine was probably dying, and he would avenge her.

  As he reached the great hall again, thick smoke filled the high vaults. Tall flames leapt at the edge of his field of vision, but he remained focused on his quest. Where was Damas? Artaud could not stand the idea of letting him escape. This war had to end, here and now. Spotting another down-spiraling stairwell at the end of the hall, near an inferno of burning oil barrels, he followed his instinct.