Defiant

by Kennedy, Kris

  In the back room, they could hear the sounds of women moving softly, whispering and occasionally laughing.

  “And why do you want to know who was here?” Magda said curtly in response to Jamie’s query.

  “We have business with your man.”

  She gave a clipped bark of laughter. “Do you now? Does he know it?”

  Jamie looked at the door that led to the far room. “Who is in there?” he asked, moving toward the door, pulling out his sword silently.

  “That is not your concern,” Magda said, turning slowly, watching him with her sharp eyes, making no move to stop him.

  He put his hand on the latch. “Who?”

  The midwife’s lips were pursed tight enough to deepen the little lines that ran up and away from her lips. “A poor village girl. Someone rich decided to plow her fields, but her parents did not wish to reap them.”

  Jamie’s hand stilled. Another round of soft laughter drifted out. He inched open the door, looked inside, then shut it again.

  “He didn’t mention anyone like you coming around for him,” Magda said, eyeing Jamie with a look part suspicion, part curiosity.

  “So he was here.”

  “Aye, he was here.” She reached for a pile of clean, folded linens on the table. “And he’ll not be back.”

  “Did he have anyone with him? Was he traveling with anyone?”

  A sudden gasping cry from the back room drew everyone’s attention. Magda’s face compressed even further. “I’ve got to be about my business now.”

  “Mistress midwife, I shall not bore you with the whys and wherefores, but I must know where he is. I am not leaving until I do.”

  “You can stay all night if you’ve a mind. I do not know where he is.”

  “But you can find out.”

  The midwife regarded him with a look equal parts disdain and respect and a deep, desperate kind of longing. “I dunno who you are, sir, and I don’t want to know. No one who wants Guillaume is going to find him tonight.”

  He kept the midwife in his locked gaze, measuring how to proceed. Then, like a flittering of wings at the edge of his attention, he felt Eva’s touch, light on his arm.

  He shrugged it off. “I think he will be back. And I suspect you think so as well.” He laid a few coins on the table. The midwife looked at them, showing no response.

  Jamie felt a rising anger within him. Deeper than that. Fury. “You know who he was, in the past, midwife?”

  She gave a short snap of laughter. “To my misfortune, I know everything about the old dog.” She started folding the clean rags on the tables, slowly, tugging to get tight, clean lines on the folds. “They come to God the same way they come into this world, one at a time, a little at a time. Some simply take longer than others.”

  “Some never come through at all.”

  She set down the towel and met his eye. “When they’re my patients, they do.”

  He drew out a much larger handful of pennies and dumped them on the table. Everyone looked down at the sprawling mound of dirty silver disks.

  In the hot, dim room, dust motes spiraled up from the musty rushes like dancing amber bugs; then Eva stepped forward. She seemed to glow in the grimy brilliance of the room. “He was my foster father.”

  Magda looked up from the coins.

  “This man who was with your Guillaume, he is ailing, as you no doubt saw. I must see to him. You understand this, no?”

  A look passed over the midwife’s face. She quickly turned aside, but just as Jamie considered he might need to find other measures of inducement, and what they might be, she muttered, “Aye, the priest was here. He was ill.”

  Cold relief rolled through Jamie’s chest. “And now?”

  She shook her head. “With Mouldin.”

  “Where?” he demanded at the same moment Eva asked quietly, “How ill was he?”

  Magda’s gaze dropped to Eva’s hand, still resting carelessly on Jamie’s forearm. A look passed over her face then, perhaps relief, or hope. A decisive look. “I told them of a doctor, but I do not know if they will make use of him. The meeting is to take place in the morning, when the gates open. In the old vintner’s hall, by the market square.”

  The coldness of this relief raced down through Jamie’s limbs. “My thanks, midwife,” he said, but she’d already turned to Eva. She reached out and touched Eva’s hand.

  “I gave him a poultice. That was all I could do.”

  Jamie allowed Eva to squeeze the midwife’s hand before taking her by the elbow and backing them toward the door. Magda turned for the birthing room.

  “Others may come,” he said. “I suggest you inform them you have not seen Mouldin for years.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Until this morning, that was true.” She wore a smile that was bitter but not quite sad. “That is the way of it. They come at need.”

  Jamie swung the door open. “Aye, mistress. We’re a wretched lot, and that is all we know.”

  He shut the door behind them.

  All around were the sounds of the town closing down for the night. The crier was calling out that the gates were about to close, earlier than dark in these dark times. Everyone who wished to be inside the walls already was and would no doubt be lolling in piss-reeking alleys come morn. The shouts and laughter were already ringing forth from the plethora of taverns that would no doubt stay open illegally long during this fair night.

  “Now, Jakob Doctor,” Eva said firmly.

  “Why?”

  She looked over. “Magda is a caretaker. And that is what caretakers do.”

  “Send them to doctors.”

  “Make sure the people they care for are where they need to be. He is with Jakob Doctor.”

  They strode up the street. The peal of five churches’ bells rolled over the rooftops and into the open plain beyond, chiming out Vespers. “Do not cry me off when I am in the midst of questioning someone, Eva,” Jamie said as they walked up the darkening street. A ridiculous caution, seeing as she would not be beside him during any future questionings.

  “You were going to frighten her straight into silence,” Eva replied placidly. “You may not have noticed this, but when you frighten people, they cease talking. And then you must part with even more coin to induce them to talk again. If you smiled more at people, the way you every now and again smile at me, you would be a much richer man.”

  He stared at the roofs of the buildings, most thatched, a few slate, absorbing the dark blue sky light. After a moment, he said warily, “Is that so?”

  She nodded. Her hard boots hammered on the cobbles and her worn blue skirts blew around her legs.

  “In what manner do I smile at you?” he inquired flatly, although he did not want to hear her reply. So why pose the query?

  “In this way.” She stopped. He drew to a halt beside her, and people swirled down the street around them like water around a boulder. She stared reflectively into the near distance, composing herself, then shifted her gaze to him and did something he’d never seen a person do before: she transformed. Went dead-down seductive.

  Her whole body shifted in subtle, undisguisable ways. Her head tipped to the side, her eyes took on a knowing languidness. She smiled, her lips curving up just slightly, deeper on one side than the other. Her eyelids became heavy. One looked as if it were about to drop into a wink, and there was the exquisite, senseless tension of wondering, Will she do it, to me?

  Her hair fell over her shoulders in a dark cascade, and her bodice, ties still loosened, parted, hinting at the tempting valley of her cleavage below. One slim shoulder dipped a little, the other pushed slightly forward, her hips cocked ever so slightly. And then, God save him, she rested her palms on the small of her back and with confident sultriness deepened one side of her smile until her cheek dimpled.

  She had a dimple.

  A low, white roar filled his head. With nothing more than intent, she’d transformed into a creature of fluttering wings and sultry color. And he
went hard as a rock.

  “I have never in my life looked at anyone in such a way,” he announced through gritted teeth.

  She peered at him, the sultry Eva fading but not quite gone. “Perhaps not quite so much with the hips and hands, but in every other regard.” She squinted at him. “Nothing whatsoever like this look you are giving me now. This is worse than the other ones. I shall certainly require money to do anything you ask of me while you are looking at me in a such a manner.”

  “Let’s go,” he practically growled.

  “Two pence.” She held out her palm.

  Your body, he thought dimly, staring at her hand. If he offered her money, would she give him a few minutes with her generous body? The erotic images of last night were so potent he could almost feel her body pushing against his right now.

  He turned on his heel and started walking, grabbing the palm she’d extended, but he should have known he was not out of the woods, for even when she was beside him and he could have let go, he didn’t.

  Forty-four

  As they strode up the street, Jamie practically dragging Eva behind him, his eye fell on someone standing up ahead. The man was leaning back against a wall, one leg angled out, boot planted, the other bent, toe planted in the dirt.

  An easeful pose, completely at odds with how ready one was in such a stance. He could twist either way at a moment’s notice, nothing could come up behind, and the hand tucked in his belt was certes closed around the hilt of a blade. His watchful eyes scanned the crowd. He looked just like Jamie.

  Perhaps that was because he was just like Jamie, one of the inner core of King John’s lieutenants.

  Their eyes met and the man pushed off the wall. Joining the river of people moving through the street, he started making his way toward Jamie.

  Jamie turned to Eva. “Wait here,” he instructed, pointing down.

  “More bad men?” she asked coldly.

  “Exceedingly.”

  She scowled, which was not a very daunting thing, because on her pale, graceful face, it looked like a flower crumpling.

  “Trust in me, Eva, staying here is better.”

  “Oh, yes, to avoid meeting more of your ilk, I am happy to wait here.”

  He turned and walked down the street and met up with the weather-beaten man who looked a lot like him. They stepped to the edge of the stream of evensong traffic.

  Jamie shifted around to keep Eva in view. She might try to bolt. Not that it would matter. She’d make it two steps, maybe three. Then she’d have not only Jamie on her tail but Engelard Cigogné as well, and while Cigogné would have no notion why Jamie was chasing her, he would join the hunt, run her to ground, then eat her up like the wolf he was.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Cigogné said without preamble.

  “You found me.”

  “You are wanted.”

  Jamie shook his head. “I’m on a task.”

  Cigogné’s eyes slid to Eva.

  Jamie stepped in front of him. “For him. Hunting someone down.”

  Cigogné’s gaze came back. “I am aware of your mission. We need to talk.”

  “So talk.”

  Cigogné paused, an ingrained response in these dark times. But this was more than a wise caution for secrecy. The king was renowned for his paranoia, and he’d instilled it in his men. He sent coded messages all the time now, codes he himself oft-times forgot and then needed revealed to him, which defeated the purpose entirely.

  But lest anyone think John a fool, he had henchmen and bankrupt baronies and hostages swinging from gibbets to remind people he was not a fool in every way. He knew how to lance fear and terror straight through the hearts of his followers, both those willing and those unwilling.

  Cig’s eyes flickered back. “People don’t often get away from you. How did the priest?”

  “An error.”

  “Whose?”

  “Yours, if you keep questioning me. “

  A faint tenseness ripped along Cigogné’s jaw. “You err if you think this is me questioning you, Jamie. The king wants to know. He’s pissing royal fury. The war is about to burst open.”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  “What you perhaps do not know is that ’twas Mouldin who took the priest from under your nose.”

  The proper thing to do here, Jamie reflected, was to inform Cig he had just visited Mouldin’s mistress, and was now on his way to a doctor, who might be able to lead them to the priest, thus negating the need to engage in the negotiations he’d just learned were to take place in Old Vintner’s Hall come morn.

  He said nothing.

  “Mouldin has the priest,” Cigogné said. “And he’s selling him to the highest bidder. FitzWalter will be sending someone, no doubt.”

  Yes, now was certainly the time to speak up.

  Cig went on. “I am here to help you get the priest before that auction takes place.”

  Jamie nodded, using the movement to gain a few seconds. He ought to be rejoicing at the assistance. He ought to feel relieved to have the help.

  What he knew was a strong and sudden resistance to the notion that Cigogné would have keeping of Father Peter, for even a moment.

  Perhaps it was the look deep in Cig’s eye, the undertone in every syllable uttered thus far, that bespoke suspicion and double-dealing. Jamie had marched too long to this beat; he could hear it coming a mile off. And each hammer of Jamie’s heart told him it was so: deception, lies, duplicity.

  So Jamie returned Cig’s appraising look in cold silence, keeping telltale flickers of any emotion but disdain off his face. One did best around men such as Cig, whom one did disdain, to show nothing but the truth.

  Cig glanced at the people hurrying by. “The king thinks the heirs might be close by as well. ‘Whither goest the priest, so goeth the heirs.’”

  Twenty years of experience in hiding all emotions came into play as Cig watched him. Jamie watched Cig back, and no one said anything. Cig finally gave a twisted grin. “Or did you not know about the heirs?”

  Jamie let the silence extend, taking the opportunity to shift slightly to examine the alley Cig had emerged from. No lurking shadows could be detected; his men weren’t hiding down that warren. Cig must have put them back farther, out of sight. Perhaps stabling horses, as Jamie’s were. The dull bronze of the pin affixing Cig’s cape slowly brightened, until it gleamed as the rays of the setting sun hit it on its way down.

  Cig’s eyes hardened as the silence extended. “And the king has called for you, Jamie. When we’re done here, he wants you. At Everoot.”

  Jamie controlled his start. “Everoot? The king is at Windsor.”

  Cig shook his head. “This matter was important enough to bring him riding north. Where are you staying?”

  “Ry is securing our lodgings,” Jamie said evenly. “I am to meet up with him.”

  “Where?”

  Jamie hesitated, for perhaps a second too long, he reflected later. The mercenary’s eyes slid back to Eva. “That good? She’s a pretty piece.” He gave a crude grin. “I shall not tell the king you were distracted.”

  “I do not care if you do or if you don’t,” Jamie said coldly.

  “As you will, Jamie. You are lead. As always.”

  “Where is the auction to take place?”

  Cig smiled shrewdly. “Where are you staying?”

  They stared at each other. Cig’s eyes drifted back to Eva. “Mayhap we can share her.”

  The sounds of the busy street faded to a low drone. Jamie thrust out his arm, indicating the alley. “There are but two more things.” They stepped into the narrow passage.

  Cig turned to him. “Aye?”

  “You have a foul mouth,” Jamie said, and punched him in the face. “And I do not share.”

  The mercenary staggered backward, his feet slipping out from beneath him on the rounded cobbles. Jamie swung again, and there was a crack of bone. It felt good to swing and punch. No wonder Ry grew weary of the fights; they
were Jamie’s way of making the blood surge through his body, of releasing pent-up energy so it was not all pooled inside him, dammed by reason and good cause. For twenty years, the answer to when? was always Later.

  A slight to Eva meant this answer became now.

  Cig hit the cobbles with a thud. Blood poured out of his nose and perhaps his mouth too; it was hard to tell where it was all coming from. Vagrants and stray dogs in the alley scurried away. Gushing blood and cursing, Cig scrabbled for his sword.

  Jamie kicked the blade away, catching Cig on the underside of his chin, making the back of his head smash against the ground. He dropped to a knee and hauled Cig’s shoulders up. His head was lolling and his eyes kept shutting; then they rolled back in his head entirely and he went limp.

  Jamie bent close and listened; Cig was still breathing. Glancing up, he saw a boy scurrying by. The urchin looked at him, then Cig, and turned to bolt. Just before he spun, Jamie pinched a coin between his thumb and forefinger and held it up in the air. It glinted in the sunset light, the way Cig’s surcoat had. The boy froze, midturn.

  “Bring the constable,” Jamie said quietly. “This man was wild. Too much drink.”

  The boy hesitated, pitched his shoulders forward, and sniffed the air in an exaggerated way. “He don’t smell like it.”

  “He will,” Jamie said grimly, getting to his feet.

  The boy squinted one eye suspiciously. “Is he a bad sort?”

  “The worst,” Jamie replied gravely. “He claims for the king.”

  The edge of the boy’s lips curled in derision. Jamie extended the coin. “Is your word good?”

  Something warred in his dirty, pinched face. Then he nodded, snatched the coin, and dashed off. “I’ll bring ’em, milord!” he shouted over his shoulder. “The ’ole Watch. It’s the blacksmythe’s night, milord!” he added in what could only be considered a tone of glee.

  “Do not call me that,” Jamie muttered. He purchased a small beaker of ale from a tavern, poured it all over Cig, then turned out of the alley and walked back to Eva.