by Blake Ferre
“Stop!” More guards entered the room, pistols raised with shaking hands.
As hoped, when the guards attempted to fire their rounds, nothing happened.
“I am the Scarlet Crest!” Echoing shouts erupted as a group of five people donning crimson capes descended upon the startled guards. Perrin almost felt sorry for them.
“Move!” Lemaire grabbed Perrin’s arm and guided him and Philippe into a small open-air courtyard. “His cell is this way.”
He opened an iron gate that had been left cracked open and pointed to the other side of a long room with several stone pillars. The stench of rot and piss seemed all the more pungent due to the lack of windows. “Through that door, you’ll find a ladder to the dungeon cells. He’s being held on his own, awaiting his appointment with the Tribunal.”
In the distance, the Scarlet Crest proclamations rang like a battle song.
After opening the door, Perrin stretched his neck, taking in the extreme height of the ladder. “Seems an absurd method of reaching a prisoner,” he whispered.
Lemaire offered a solemn nod. “The overcrowding has led to desperate measures. It certainly makes him difficult to free.”
“How will we get him out?” Philippe asked as he peered over Perrin’s shoulder.
Glancing back at Lemaire, Perrin wasn’t horribly convinced that they’d prevail.
Lemaire twisted his lips to the side. “You’re going to have to be careful.” There was little conviction in his voice.
Perrin cursed. Splendid. With advice like that, they were sure to succeed.
…
Henri woke in a fog, his mind hazy, his skin damp and warm. He tried to turn onto his side, but the staggering pain in his chest cruelly reminded him of his captors’ rough handling and the prison cell he’d been tossed into. He rolled onto his back, and the cursed straw beneath him stabbed at his skin.
Memories flooded his mind. Perrin’s face… He couldn’t forget that final, shattered expression of betrayal.
“I am the Scarlet Crest.”
He thought he heard calls from above, a chant growing louder. Were the guards coming for him? To put an end to his miserable existence? Non. First, he’d have to face the Tribunal. Or perhaps they’d already tried him, though he couldn’t recall.
He attempted to concentrate on pleasant things. The one proud moment of his life, racing through the prison halls. All for Perrin. The moment Luc had realized Henri had been working against him.
“I am the Scarlet Crest!”
The bars to his cell clanked. Henri blinked, vaguely spotting the shadows of figures racing into his cell. When Henri saw a familiar face, his heart sped into a gallop.
Impossible. His mind surely was playing tricks on him.
A warm hand grazed his shoulder, soft like satin in contrast to the irritating straw beneath him.
“Steady.” A soothing voice spoke over him. Non, it was a mere trick of the mind. A hopeful illusion that Perrin had come for him—a foolish notion.
Again, the warm hand gently touched him, softly working its way over his injuries. “Sorry. So sorry.” The voice cracked.
Non, it can’t be.
Henri willed it to be true. What he wouldn’t give for one last image of Perrin. If an illusion was all he’d get, he’d take it.
“Perrin,” he whispered. He willed his eyes to focus and saw once more Perrin’s lovely face. Though dark circles drooped under his eyes, he was the image of perfection. Je suis désolé. He silently prayed Perrin would forgive him. As the vision grew clearer, his heart longed for him to be real. If only he could reach out and touch those soft cheeks. “I never wanted to hurt you,” Henri wheezed.
“Henri. Don’t be foolish,” Perrin snapped. Though Henri’s heart filled with humor, his ribs were too sore for laughter. “What have they done to you?”
“N-nothing…I d-didn’t…deserve.” Each breath was a struggle to his weary body. “I failed you.”
“No one’s failed anyone.” His beautiful Perrin stepped nearer and crouched beside him. “Come, now; try to be strong for me. I can’t lift you on my own. I’m going to need you to climb a very steep ladder. Do you think you can manage?”
With a great deal of effort, given that he’d been sleeping on straw and stone, Henri managed to sit upright. “Give me a m-moment.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have a moment to lose.” Perrin scooted behind him and wrapped his arms around Henri’s chest. “Up we go.”
When they managed to stand, Henri’s knees wobbled, and he leaned a little too hard against Perrin.
“Philippe, stop laughing and help.”
“We could hoist him over your shoulder, my lord.” The laughter continued, but Philippe came forward and offered Henri his hands.
“He’s too heavy,” Perrin complained.
“Weak aristo.” Henri made another attempt to walk, this time managing to take a few steps forward. “Learn to d-do a little…m-manual labor.” Though his muscles and joints complained, Henri released Philippe’s hands. “You don’t have to hold me.” He turned to Perrin, who was clearly struggling.
Perrin carefully stepped away, though he remained close as they moved forward. “That’s it. Very good.”
“You don’t have to coddle me. I can manage.” But when Henri reached the ladder, he rested his arms on the nearest rung and huffed a few breaths.
“Ah. Not so easy, is it? I wonder how you possibly managed to march in battle,” Perrin taunted in that frustrating manner that ignited desire and need within Henri. Not that Henri deserved him.
“I fainted in battle.” Henri huffed a laugh. “I don’t p-pretend to be useful.”
“Oh, you’re plenty useful.” Perrin’s voice held a taunting flirtation that sprang hope inside Henri’s heart that Perrin might one day forgive him.
“My lord, we could use some of that rope to tie him.”
After Philippe and Perrin discussed the best manner of climbing the ladder, Perrin knelt in front of Henri.
“I like this plan.” Henri couldn’t help himself, given that Perrin’s head was in a scandalous position.
“Remind me never to save your behind again,” Perrin grumbled as he positioned his shoulder against Henri’s legs. “This might be uncomfortable.”
With a heavy grunt, Perrin hoisted Henri over his shoulder. Philippe worked a rope around his legs, securing them to Perrin’s chest.
“Did I tell you how much I’m enjoying this plan?” Henri laughed.
Perrin groaned. But Henri only laughed again, in spite of the ache in his ribs. If this was to be the last time Henri was in Perrin’s arms, he wanted to enjoy it.
The trek up the ladder was slow and labored. Perrin’s muscles strained from the effort, and he took a great many rests along the way.
“Steady, my lord. You’re almost there.” Philippe encouraged them from below.
When they finally reached the top, Philippe untied the rope and helped Perrin set Henri down. Perrin raised a finger and breathed heavily. “I need a moment.”
Philippe carried a foul-smelling sack toward him and laid it upon the floor. “I’m sorry we’ve got to cover you in this. It’s from the butcher’s wrappings. Lie down.”
Shouts came from afar.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to hurry,” Philippe urged.
Begrudgingly, Henri settled onto the disgusting sack and held his nose. The coppery scent of blood and meat stabbed his senses. His only solace was having Perrin with him. For now.
Perrin and Philippe covered him with the wrappings, and Henri was soon lifted awkwardly into the air.
He closed his eyes, clinging to the hope that this was real. That Perrin was really there.
…
Perrin’s heart beat so quickly he couldn’t tell if it was actually pumping or if it was just one
steady flutter. The swell of urgency drove him forward. Saving Henri was as necessary an act as breathing.
As they pushed toward the kitchen’s staff entrance, angry shouts rang from the other side of the prison. Perrin and Philippe whistled three times as loud as they could. Soon enough, their signal echoed over the shouts.
He glanced into the larger hall, where the Scarlet Crest’s makeshift troop raced toward the prison’s entrance, drawing the remaining guards well away from Perrin and his companions. The prisoners in their cells clanged on the bars and cheered. Perrin couldn’t explain the emotions that poured through him while he and Philippe carried his lover out of the prison.
After they reached the backside of the prison, near the river, the butcher’s assistants dashed toward them, aiding with their precious cargo. Once Henri was onboard, Perrin turned to Philippe. “Will you come with us?”
The lines over Philippe’s brow deepened. “No, my lord. I must meet the others at the front of the prison and guide them to the church.”
Perrin’s throat tightened, realizing the risk his dearest friend had taken. “Don’t do something idiotic and die on me. Don’t act before thinking and all that.” Perrin refused to say goodbye.
Philippe squeezed Perrin’s shoulder. “I love you, my lord. And between you and me, sometimes acting in haste and trusting instincts is the right thing to do.” He turned and hurried along the perimeter of the prison.
“You there! Stop!”
Perrin glanced over his shoulder and spotted a haggard Luc ambling toward their cart with a pistol raised directly at Perrin. “You bastards have ruined me! Where is he? Where is that traitorous rogue?”
“Leave now!” Perrin turned to the butcher’s cart and waved them off. Though it shattered his heart not to be by Henri’s side, he’d not allow Luc to ruin this for him.
A shot cracked, and Perrin’s muscles stiffened as he awaited the strike. But Luc had missed. Perrin noticed his staggering steps and haunted expression. The man was drunk.
“Y-you stole f-from…m-me. Y-you d-damned…aristo!” Luc tried to fire his weapon again, apparently forgetting it needed to be reloaded. He roared and threw the pistol at Perrin, but once again he missed.
“I stole nothing, you fool. Your rage—your hatred—has brought you to this.” Perrin crouched into a defensive stance with his arms raised.
“Liar.” With a great deal of effort, Luc drew his saber free. But the blade wavered in his unsteady grip.
Still, Luc was armed, and Perrin had nothing but his bare hands. Henri had been right about him—Perrin wasn’t used to physical labor; he wasn’t a warrior of any sort. Some fencing lessons from ages past seemed of little use at the moment. But Perrin had the advantage when it came to wits. “If the Republic is so great, why are the citizens starving? You promised them bread, yet there is too little of it. Fear? Terror? Bloodshed? Is that the future your leaders promised? You’ve failed the people.”
“How dare you!” Luc lunged for him, the blade coming too near to Perrin’s side for comfort.
With a growl, Luc came at him again, arm raised. But he’d left an opening for Perrin. Crouching farther into his knees, Perrin angled his shoulder toward Luc’s stomach and launched himself into his target. The gleam of the blade flashed in the sunlight, and Perrin thought for a moment he’d made a terrible mistake. But his shoulder collided with Luc’s chest, and Luc flew in the opposite direction, landing on his backside with arms and legs sprawled.
The sword dropped onto the street beside him with a metallic clank. Perrin made his move, grabbing hold of the hilt.
Wide-eyed, Luc gaped at him. “P-please…d-don’t h-hurt me.”
Perrin raised the blade and pointed it at Luc’s throat. “You think me so vile? So uncaring? Well, here’s the difference between us, scoundrel: I have compassion for others. You would easily drive this blade through my heart.”
Tears poured down Luc’s flushed cheeks. How easily he’d turned from a cruel barking brute to this pathetic display.
“My lord!” Philippe raced toward them with several of the caped recruits trailing behind him. “Use this!” He tossed a red cloak at Perrin’s feet.
Perrin grinned a roguish smile, for he knew exactly what to do with it. Still aiming the weapon at Luc, Perrin picked up the cloak and flung it over Luc’s head.
In an instant, Philippe and the others grabbed hold of Luc, restraining him.
“Where should we put him?” one of the men asked.
“Leave him here to dwell on his wrongdoings.” Perrin handed the sword to Philippe. “Come. I’m tired and am in dire need of a bath.”
“Curse you, aristo,” Luc sobbed from within his confines.
“Consider whether you’ve sided with the right people. I bid you farewell.” Perrin bowed theatrically, though it was more for his own pleasure, given that Luc couldn’t see him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Exhausted and battle worn, Perrin and Philippe entered through the back entrance of Crimson Rose. Guillaume hurried to them and assured that a doctor was already on the premises, tending to Henri.
Perrin hurried up the steps and followed Guillaume into Henri’s room. The doctor was already packing his jars and supplies into a box. “He’s all right. Some bruising, but it’s minor.”
On the bed, Henri snored softly. Safe, albeit noisy.
“You’ll need to watch him overnight to ensure his condition doesn’t worsen.” The doctor was an older man with a tiny nose and a neat black suit. His powdered wig was situated a little too high on his forehead, and Perrin could see that his hairline had thinned quite a bit. The man’s spectacles sat low on the bridge of his nose. He carried his medicine box to an end table.
“Thank you,” Perrin said. “I owe you a great debt.”
“You owe me nothing. We each play a role. Mine is here, tending to those in need of my services. To Stand and Shield.” The doctor bowed his head before exiting the room.
Perrin sat on the edge of the bed, and his eyes grew weary.
“When was the last time you ate or slept?” Quill tapped a finger along Perrin’s nose like he was a child.
“I’ve no stomach for food.” He’d barely eaten. In fact, he’d hardly taken a moment to relax since the rescue started. His already-aching limbs cried out for attention.
“Come and sit for a moment. I’ll fetch you something from the kitchen.”
Perrin leaned against the bedpost, not minding the sharp edge of the carved wood. His mind swam with images from the prison, mixed in with memories of Julien.
Perched on the armoire, the rolled artwork from Duclos caught his eye. He strolled over and picked it up. He’d avoided this for long enough.
As he unrolled the parchment, his mouth felt unbearably dry, like he’d swallowed sand. He laid the drawings across the floor and dropped to his knees. Julien.
Seeing him in these poses, Perrin realized his former lover was like a stranger to him. His cheeks still heated over the memories, and an old flame still burned in his heart upon the sight of Julien’s beauty, but his response wasn’t as painful as he’d feared it would be. Now the man holding his heart lay in the bed above him. Perrin’s new lover harbored a darkness that somehow soothed him. A battered past that matched his own. Damnation. He loved Henri.
“Beautiful, wasn’t he?”
Perrin turned to find Duclos clutching the doorframe. “Duclos? You’re up? I thought…” Perrin pushed off his knees and hurried to his old friend.
“I’ve been better, but I’ve also been worse. I heard the doctor speaking with you, and I wanted to see you.” Duclos had aged dramatically since that first evening he’d pulled them into that backroom at Crimson Rose, not so many nights ago. Gone was the wild wig, his hair shorn in ragged cuts. His cheeks hallowed and the skin sagging. Perrin placed a hand on his shoulder, wishing the man weren’
t so frail.
“Julien loved you so much.” Duclos sighed. “I was both happy and relieved when he found you. That boy needed some more kindness in his life. And affection.”
Perrin bit his lip, fighting the tears and failing miserably.
“Time both brings us love and snatches it from us.” Duclos hummed.
Perrin pressed his hand to his chest, right over his heart. “Seems cruel.” He wished love didn’t have to hurt so damned much.
“Or perhaps kind. Sometimes we’re shaped and molded, like clay, to fit another’s heart. From what I hear, you and this revolutionary of yours fit together in spite of the differences.” Duclos’s smile lessened the tension over Perrin’s heart.
“It feels wrong.”
Duclos offered a softened smile. “I think the bigger problem is that it feels right, hmm?”
Blast, but the riddling man made perfect sense. “I never had a chance to thank you—for recruiting me, for bringing me out of my personal exile.” Perrin wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
“I should be thanking you for helping to rescue me.” Duclos winked. “Forgive me. My legs are tired, and I can hear Ashford coming up the stairs. You know how actors can be… So dramatic.” He rolled his eyes when Ashford’s voice called out.
“Duclos? You’re awake…and walking?!”
Perrin laughed at the comfort of his friends’ presence. Knowing that they were safe, to hear their banter like old days—it was a gift he’d not take for granted again.
Looking to the bed, he gazed at the man who’d done everything to grant Perrin this moment. It was beyond reason to think how Henri’s destiny had intertwined with Perrin’s long before they’d crossed paths. With it had come more pain than Perrin had ever thought possible to endure. But watching Henri’s every breath was a greater gift than any treasure. For it offered hope that they might see the end of this together.
…
After a restless night of watching over Henri, Perrin stood outside his room, hand clutching the doorknob as he recited the conversation that needed to happen. But each time he imagined begging Henri for forgiveness, he found himself unable to slice open that particular wound.