Perfect Knave

by Kress, Alyssa

  Emile swallowed and planted his feet apart, readying, as Gawain lifted his head.

  Gawain looked at Emile. And looked. In fact, he stared.

  Emile set his hands on his hips. His audacity felt like a kind of nakedness as he tilted his head with a grin. "So?" he asked. "Where's Lucy?"

  Gawain leapt to his feet. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Then he attacked Emile.

  "Hey!" Emile twisted as Gawain grabbed hold of him. "What are you doing?"

  But Gawain's grasp was stronger than Emile could evade. "Lucy," the man whispered and began hauling Emile toward the door.

  "Hey! Oh, no." Emile hung onto the door frame as Gawain tried to pull him out of the tavern. "You're not going to keep me from her."

  With a strength Emile had always guessed Gawain possessed, the man pried Emile's fingers from the doorframe. "Lucy," Gawain repeated.

  Emile struggled, but he was no match for Gawain as the steward dragged him out the other courtyard door and into the street. In a heap, Emile was ignominiously dumped in the middle of the road.

  "Lucy!" Gawain pronounced and pointed a bony finger down the street. "Lucy!"

  Spitting dust, Emile glared up at the man, then squinted down the road in the direction Gawain pointed. Lucy, eh? There was a crowd, Emile now saw, crammed into the market square.

  And above the crowd rose the distinctive crossbar of a gallows.

  Emile's eyes widened. "Lucy!" Shock made his voice a mere croak. "Lucy!"

  ~~~

  The wagon stopped moving.

  Opening her eyes, Lucy looked down. Moll stood on the other side of the horse's head from the heavyset man. She grabbed hold of the bridle.

  Lucy's eyes went wide. "What are you doing?"

  "Stopping this." Moll swung around on the crowd. She waved one arm. "The better question is—what are you doing? What are the lot of you doing here?"

  There was a shuffling among the many feet standing about. An answer came from several rows back. "Hangin' a witch!"

  "Aye, that's what we're doing."

  "'Anging a witch!"

  "A witch!" Moll echoed. Her harsh voice silenced the cries. She pointed to a woman in a russet apron. "You had no trouble, Betty Baker, asking this witch to heal your hemorrhoids."

  Betty Baker closed her mouth.

  "Suffered for years," Moll elaborated. "And you." She pointed to a man in a crumpled felt hat. "Tom Cake—who would have hired your no-account, halfwit son but this black-hearted witch?"

  Tom pulled his hat down over his forehead.

  "And you, and you." Moll pointed to yet other faces in the crowd. "Got your wages, didn't you? Got a jump in your custom from the guests this terrible witch attracted to her inn. Didn't you?"

  There were no more calls from the crowd. They shifted glumly, uneasily. Guiltily? No, Lucy could not take the chance of believing that. "Step away," she called to Moll. "Let the horse go."

  "Mistress?"

  Lucy's gaze went over the silent crowd. These people were dangerous. "No use your hanging, too," she explained to her maid.

  "But mistress—"

  "There, ya see?" The heavyset man jerked the horse's head, taking the bridle out of Moll's hands. "Even the witch wants to be hung."

  "Over my dead body." Moll grabbed the bridle back.

  Frightened, the horse reared. The wagon rocked and Lucy shuffled madly to keep her balance. Yet from the corner of her eye she managed to see the crowd surge forward. She was sure they meant to finish the accident when a familiar voice could be heard above the chaos.

  "Lucy!" Emile called. "Lucy!"

  ~~~

  Emile scrambled to his feet. He did not stop to ask himself why on earth Lucy was about to be hung. It didn't matter. He only knew there wasn't a chance in heaven of saving the woman. Once a crowd got a hunger for a hanging, there was nothing anybody could do about it.

  He charged forward anyway.

  "Out of my way!" He threw himself at the hindmost row of bystanders. "Make way."

  The element of surprise was on Emile's side. Gasping over their shoulders, people moved out of his way.

  Emile had little hope the surprise would last and so pulled the knife from his belt. It was a puny thing, hardly as long as his hand, but Emile brandished it like a cutlass.

  Astonishingly, the wall of people opened to make way. Perhaps it was the ferocity of his expression. Perhaps it was the sense that Emile would use the knife, slashing to ribbons the face of any who offered opposition. For whatever reason, the crowd parted.

  Like the Red Sea, the crowd parted, giving Emile a path straight to the wagon, the wagon with Lucy standing on it, wide-eyed, her hands bound before her and a loop of hemp around her neck.

  But Emile could not afford to gaze on Lucy, to assure himself she was still upright and alive. He needed his attention for the executioner, a big man, his leather-bound palms large enough to cuff Emile across the market square.

  Emile fit his knife directly against the man's intestines. His lifted his lips. "Step away."

  Dead silence fell upon the scene. The executioner looked down at Emile.

  Emile knew what he saw. A bug, an insect.

  Then the big man lifted his hands. He stepped away.

  Emile sleeved the sweat from his brow. It was truly amazing what the power of desperation could do. He stuck the knife into his belt and jumped onto the wagon.

  Lucy's jaw hung open.

  Emile dropped his hands upon her shoulders. Gazing into her eyes, he felt a terrific upwelling of emotion. For so long he'd anticipated this moment. And now— "No time," he muttered aloud, lifting his hands to the rope around her neck. "We have to get out of here before they return to their senses."

  But the crowd was already moving. A murmur went through them, rising in volume.

  Quickly, Emile worked the rope from Lucy's neck. The crowd might end up stoning or trampling them, but they were not going to hang her. He wouldn't let them.

  "It's not true!" One voice rose above the others.

  Emile whirled. The knife was back in his hand. He knew that voice.

  Orville stood at the head of the crowd. His face was flushed, and he half turned, addressing the people. "'Tis a vision—he's not real!"

  Several voices answered, angry, belligerent.

  Emile crouched, ready to spring, searching for the point of greatest threat. Then the actual words of the angry voices came clear.

  "He's alive."

  "He's not dead at all."

  "She did not kill him."

  Emile's knife slowly lowered. He saw people pointing at him, gesturing excitedly.

  "He's not dead."

  "There was no murder."

  Murder? Emile thought and came out of his crouch.

  "Look at that! He's alive."

  Alive? Emile touched his shirt, the wool cast-off Stone had given him. At the same time he remembered the gray-green doublet folded so neatly above the whirlpool.

  "You thought I was dead?" His voice was small above the murmurings of the crowd. Of course they'd thought he was dead. He had planned it so.

  "Murdered?" Emile asked, louder. He pointed to Lucy. "You thought she had murdered me?"

  Though he barely spoke above a whisper, the crowd went deathly silent.

  Emile sought out the face he knew. "You." His finger shook as he pointed it at Orville. "You told them so."

  Orville's face went from red to white. He looked around the crowd, then gestured toward Emile. "He's a phantom, can't you see? A mirage, created by that witch." Orville waved an arm in encouragement. "Hang them! Hang them both!"

  Eyes widening, Emile lunged. On the ground again, he grabbed Orville by the neck. "Oh, I'm real enough." His knife was small but sharp enough to spill blood as he stuck it under Orville's chin. "Real enough to gut you like a fish."

  Emile could see Orville swallow and the sweat pop out in beads on his forehead.

  "Tell them," Emile gritted. "Tell them you feel the bla
de. 'Tis real." He freed his hand to slap Orville's face. "Tell them you felt that. 'Tis real enough." Emile wanted to slap Orville's face again. He wanted to hit and strike until blood came.

  So much trouble he had gone to in order to stage his own death. So clever he had thought it.

  So that Orville could say Lucy had murdered him.

  Fury rose up Emile's gorge. The gray-green doublet folded neatly beside the river. So that Lucy could get herself hung.

  "Tell them." Emile pushed the side of the blade hard against Orville's neck. "Tell them I'm real, you shit-faced hog, and then I will send you straight to hell." A flick of his wrist was all it would take. The blood pounded in Emile's forehead with the desire to kill. She had nearly hung.

  "Stop," Lucy said.

  Emile froze. In that moment hers was the only voice with the power to control him.

  "Stop, Emile." Her voice was soft, gentle as an angel's. "Fate will take care of him." Lucy laughed, a sound rippling with light and humor. "The way fate took care of me."

  It was one of the most difficult things Emile had ever had to do, but he stepped back from Orville. He lowered his knife.

  Immediately, three men from the crowd seized hold of the tavernkeep. "Liar," one said. "False witness," muttered another.

  Emile stood where he was as the three men hauled Orville away. There was no way he could turn around. No way he could face the woman he'd nearly killed. It was not actually Orville, but he, who had put her in such straits.

  "Emile." Lucy's voice was soft and sweet. "Won't you unbind my hands?"

  Emile shuddered. Touch her? He could not. Catching the eye of Brad Baker, he motioned toward the wagon.

  The gray-green doublet folded by the side of the river—the wrong thing to do, the worst act he could have done to her.

  But he should have known that. He always did the wrong thing. Didn't he?

  Poison. He was pure poison, causing nothing but harm to the ones he loved. He was a pox walking the earth.

  Emile stared unseeing into the crowd that now moved to touch, to make sure. He was a deadly contagion. But even so, he would protect Lucy. Aye, if it were the last thing he did, Emile would make sure Lucy never again suffered on his account. Never again.

  ~~~

  Lucy could not take her eyes off of him.

  The sun streaming through her bedchamber window caressed his handsome features and struck off the hair of his beard in glints of gold while he stood there staring out, unaware of his own beauty.

  Emile. He had come. Just when she needed him, he had come.

  "Lift your arms, mistress."

  Still staring, Lucy lifted her arms. Moll worked off the heavy black gown.

  "I'll burn it," Moll muttered.

  At the window, Emile grunted. "Good idea."

  Lucy stood in her chemise, grateful he did not turn around quite yet. She just wanted to look at him, so straight, so strong. Her hero.

  "Here, mistress. Put your hand in the sleeve."

  Lucy felt the material of her dressing gown. She put her hand through, allowed Moll to tie the sash around her waist, and then heard the door close as the maid went out.

  As soon as Moll left, Emile turned from the window. His gaze hit Lucy's, then abruptly dropped to the level of her neck. He stalked forward. "Are you all right? Injured in any way?"

  Lucy suddenly worried there was a blot or disfigurement showing on her neck. She touched her fingers there, though of course her fingers could not see. "I am fine. Not even a scratch, thanks to you."

  She trembled, waiting for him to reach forward, to embrace her.

  Instead, he spun on his heel. A growling sound came out of his throat. "Thanks to me." He came to a halt facing the wardrobe. "It was thanks to me you were nearly hung in the first place."

  It finally dawned on Lucy that all was not right with her husband. His shoulders were high, his voice a low snarl.

  "It was not your fault," she said, frowning.

  "Wasn't it?" Emile turned from the wardrobe. He paced.

  "You do not know what I did," Lucy rushed to explain. "The foolish things. I provoked Orville deliberately. And you had warned me that was dangerous."

  Emile stopped. He turned to give Lucy an incredulous look. "The foolish things you did? What about the foolish, the idiotic—the reprehensible—action I took? Manufacturing my own death." He made a low, animal noise. "That was my idea, all my own."

  Lucy stared at him. She forgot his misplaced guilt in the face of this admission. He had staged his own death. Of course, she'd always known that he'd done so, but it was another thing entirely to hear it declared out loud.

  He paced to the window and tapped a thumb against the frame. "And what a lot of trouble I went to, in sooth, in order to effect it."

  Yes, of course he had. The ground she'd been standing on since Emile had burst on the scene began to crumble from beneath her feet. "You wanted to make sure it would be believed," Lucy murmured.

  "And it certainly was!"

  "You were thinking of me." She was dropping now into a sea of sadness. "Perhaps you could not live with me, but you thought of my position. You did your best to leave me as free as you were making yourself."

  Emile stopped tapping the window frame. His jaw tensed.

  Lucy drew in a little breath. "If you wanted to leave, that was the considerate thing to do."

  Emile remained still a moment and then turned his head. The look he sent Lucy was strange. "I wanted to leave," he repeated.

  "You warned me," Lucy was quick to remind herself. "I was not surprised."

  "I warned you—?"

  "About your nature. That you longed to be free." Lucy met his eyes directly. She would not flinch from the truth. "You only came back to save me. Didn't you?"

  Emile did not say a word. But his eyes shone like new gold, speaking more clearly than words.

  It was Lucy's turn to look away. A spike had driven straight through her new-found happiness. But she managed to smile as she patted the bedpost. "No wonder you waited until the last moment to return."

  "For the world, I would not hurt you, Lucy."

  Still smiling, she smoothed her hand down the bedpost. She could hear the sincerity in his voice. He meant it. "But...you did not come back to stay."

  By the window, Emile shifted weight.

  Of course he had not come back to stay. How could she have dreamed as much? "That is all right." Gripping the bedpost, Lucy hastened to reassure him, the man who'd risked his fondest desire in order to save her life. "It is all right with me for you to leave again. It is not in your nature to stay in one place, to have ties."

  "Ah— You understand." His voice was a broken whisper.

  Lucy nodded at the bedpost. She did understand, and she saw now—so clearly. She had needed him all along. She had been fierce in her need, clutching with nail and talon. "I do. I do understand, Emile." Lucy bit her lips. They seemed to want to turn down, and she could not have that. She could not have him see her terrible need. Not when he had needs of his own. "You cannot change your nature."

  "No." Emile sounded determined. "I cannot change my nature." She heard him draw in a breath. "It is not your fault, Lucy. Please understand that. You are a beautiful woman, desirable in body and soul. It is just—" He stopped and opened his fist. "It is just...something in me."

  Lucy nodded again. Perhaps it was something in him. Perhaps it was not her fault at all. It did not really matter. The fact, either way, was that there was nothing she could do about it. This was not a bargain at market that she could manage to her advantage. There was no way to hold him even if she wanted to.

  She did not want to. She wanted him happy. She knew what she had to do, despite her need, despite the cascade of it that crashed through her, urging the exact opposite course of action. "You have done what you came for, saved me from the jaws of death." She forced herself to look him in the eye. "So— Good-bye."

  Emile blinked. It seemed to take him forever to under
stand her. Then he swallowed. "You are sure you are all right? Not injured at all?"

  "Not injured at all." A bare-faced lie. She was breaking in two. "I want you to be happy," Lucy whispered.

  His eyes were bright. "And I want the same for you."

  Then stay with me. Do not ever leave me. But Lucy's face expressed none of this selfish wish. She dipped her forehead.

  He moved.

  At first, Lucy thought he meant to embrace her. Her whole body went stiff. She would shatter into a thousand pieces if he touched her.

  But he did not come close. He moved straight toward the door. "Good-bye," he said.

  The door closed behind him with a click.

  Lucy stood there like a statue. She had done the right thing. She knew she had done the right thing, the only thing she could have done if she really, truly loved him.

  But she was still standing there, dumb, when the sound of galloping horses grew too loud to ignore. The horses poured into the yard.

  Guests? Lucy thought, feeling tired. She wanted to crawl into bed. She wanted to stay there a thousand years.

  Then a familiar voice boomed over the sound of the animals and the men rushing to take care of them. "Where is she?" Latham bellowed. "Where is my daughter?"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Latham's men were everywhere, running in, running out, bearing dispatches, carrying orders. Carrying on, in Moll's opinion, an expensively fruitless search for Emile. History had proven that if the man did not want to be found, he would not be.

  Three days after Latham arrived, Moll threw up her hands and fled upstairs for respite.

  At least, she told herself she was looking for respite even if it was the stairs to the men's quarters she climbed.

  The tall man with the long jaw did not even pause in his writing as Moll opened the door. It gave her the opportunity to glance around the room. It was a barren place, though cleanswept. The bed was neatly made.

  Gawain's quill finally stopped. For a long moment he stared at the page in the open book before him. Then his head turned.

  Moll felt her heart jump. Apologies had never come easy for her. An apology to this man was going to come more difficult yet. So she clasped her hands and asked, "What are you writing?"