by Susan Wiggs
A sentence of death would have caused Rand less despair. His honor was all he had left after Lianna’s betrayal. That his countrymen believed him a traitor would stain not only his reputation, but that of his blameless son.
He raked his fingers through his hair. “What is Henry’s plan?”
“He’ll march until he finds a place to cross the Somme. I ranged inland and found that most of the fords have been destroyed and littered by rocks and timber. The causeway at Voyennes still stands.”
“But that’s sixty miles upriver. They’re starving already. This will cost days.”
“Worse,” muttered Chiang.
“What?”
“The French army is gathered on the north bank. They’ll keep pace with the English and foil any attempt to cross.”
Rand stood numb and silent. Lajoye’s grandchildren frolicked in the hayloft. In the dooryard, Marie chased a scrawny rooster. Waves beat a relentless tattoo on the sea-bitten rocks.
“There is one thing we can do to help,” said Rand.
Jack’s jaw dropped. “Us? We’re but ten men—”
“Eleven,” said Chiang.
“—poorly armed,” Jack finished.
“No man with his longbow and a quiver of arrows is poorly armed. We’ll go after the French. Perhaps if we distract them with sallies and night forays, it’ll give Henry a chance to get across the river.”
Slowly his men gathered around them. Piers and Dylan waxed their bowstrings. Batsford crossed himself. Simon arrived, burdened with Rand’s armor. Peter Finch, Neville, Godfrey, and Giles emerged from the inn with sacks of foodstuffs supplied by Lajoye. Rand studied his men, each in turn. “I’ve been branded a traitor,” he said, his throat taut with pain. “If you choose not to follow me, none shall think ill of you.”
“We’re with you, my lord,” declared Jack. Murmurs of assent rose from the others.
“Very well. A force as small as ours should have no trouble swimming the horses across the Somme. The French army may be large, but even a giant can feel the sting of a bee. And then...” Rand’s voice lowered to a grim whisper. “I’ll deal with Mondragon...and my wife.”
Twenty-Two
A moonless midnight wrapped Lianna in a dark cloak of secrecy. A ceaseless hiss of autumn rain covered the sound of her footsteps. Unnoticed by the men-at-arms, who had indulged in extra rations of wine as a reward for their performance against the English, she crossed the rain-slick courtyard and stole through a low door leading to the water gate.
She wore a stableboy’s hooded tunic and breeches and carried her wooden sabots in her hand. The hilt of a dagger protruded from her belt. Carefully folded within the belt was a cache of gold and silver coin. In her other hand she held a sack of provisions, for her journey could take days.
Pressing her hand against the wall to keep from slipping on the steps, she slid her feet into the sabots and descended to the river’s edge. This was where she’d been forced to betray Rand; from this same place she intended to launch her quest to save his honor and his life.
Briefly she glanced up at the battlements. A naked pole rose against the dark sky. She turned away. Rand had raised the banner of lilies and leopards to proclaim himself lord of the keep; Gervais had ripped it down.
The rain-spattered river appeared inky, fathomless. Tremors of fear started in her belly and radiated out to her limbs. With clumsy movements she untied a small rowboat from its hidden mooring in the tall, plumed reeds. But fear of another sort steadied her resolve. Rand’s life was in danger, and for him she would brave the cold currents of the water.
Mud sucked at her feet. Stifling a groan of dread, she got into the boat and took up the oars. The bobbing motion set her teeth to chattering; determinedly she clenched her jaw.
The château had one “dead” wall, a spot that couldn’t be seen or defended from above. Her hands, slick with cold rain and the sweat of fear, gripped the oars. Keeping to the shadow of the dead wall and praying that the rain would keep the sentries inside the barbican, she began to row. Blisters rose on her palms, but the discomfort seemed minor, for each oar stroke, each lift of the boat, blew a rush of terror through her. These waters had claimed her mother’s life, but if she turned coward now, Rand would pay the price. Focusing on that thought, she plowed across the river.
On the opposite shore she clambered out of the craft. Her breath rasped in short, uneven gasps. Her limbs gave way to the weakness of relief. She fell to her knees and felt the solid ground beneath her. Then, forcing herself to regain control, she rose and plunged into the dark, dripping forest toward the boggy headwaters of the Somme. New unease gripped her. How far had the English marched since being driven from the ford?
Ten miles or more, she gauged three hours later, when her rain-soaked feet and weary legs threatened to give way to fatigue. She located the mired path of the English army. War-horses and baggage tumbrils had plowed a road along the looping river, leading inland.
Lord, she thought, what manner of commander was Henry that he could drive his sick and starving men so far, so quickly?
The river ran wide, deep, and muddy, offering no ford. To draw her mind from discomfort, she concentrated on Rand. Pray God Chiang’s tinctures would detain him. She needed time to reach Henry, to explain that her husband was a victim of betrayal—by Gervais, by the Englishmen, and by his own wife.
The sound of masculine voices penetrated the hiss and spatter of rain. She stopped, pushed back her hood, and stood rooted, listening. A burst of laughter. The whinny of horses.
Yet the sounds seemed to be coming from the north bank. Had the English managed to cross?
Pulling her hood up again, she hurried on. She noticed flickers of light. Soon she recognized the shapes of tents and pavilions, glowing from within. There were so many. She’d not thought the English so numerous or well provisioned.
At closer range she heard the voices clearly and made out the devices on the tents.
French words, French devices.
The noisy, well-equipped army across the Somme was French. The forces of d’Albret and Boucicaut were shadowing the English, matching them mile for mile, waiting to slaughter them should Henry dare to ford the river.
Dizzy with fear, she continued on and found the English army just beyond the deserted town of Abbeville. In contrast to the rowdy and confident French forces, this army huddled in dismal quiet in the burned-out shelters of the wasted village.
She backed under the shadows of the dripping trees. Would Henry receive her? Aye, he must. Drawing a deep breath, she stepped onto the muddied road.
“Who goes there?” Oddly, the voice reminded her of Darby Green, who’d lost his head to a French blade. The speech was thick with the accents of England’s northern shires. A man appeared out of the gloom. “Who are you, boy?”
She glanced down at her stained breeches and wooden clogs and decided not to waste explanations on the sentry.
“I am no boy, but a woman, and I would speak to the king.”
“A woman, eh? He takes no whores on march.”
“I am no whore, either,” she said. “Where is the king?”
The man grasped her arm and pulled her toward the camp. “You’ll see the king when my master deems it right and proper.”
“And who is your master, sir?”
“His Grace, the Duke of York. And he’s abed.”
York. Her heart sank. Forcing a note of command into her voice, she said, “Then rouse him.”
The watchman yanked her toward a firelit shelter. Ducking beneath the stubble of half-burned thatch, he spoke briefly to a man stationed at the door. The man entered the dwelling.
“Christ,” grumbled a thick voice. “Food is rationed. Now sleep as well?”
Lianna was ushered inside and thrust before the corpulent and suspicious duke. Of all the ill luck, to find herself at the mercy of the man who blamed her for the burning of three ships at Southampton, the man who had been turned away from Bois-Long at the co
st of one of his men.
“For this,” grumbled Edward, rubbing the front of his wrinkled smock, “you rouse me from my sleep?” A smoky torch flicked shadows across his florid face.
Summoning all her courage, she let her hood fall back. “Your Grace, it’s Lianna, Baroness Longwood.”
He scrambled to his feet and wiped his eyes with his fist. “So it is,” he sneered. His darting glance fastened on her belt. “She’s armed, you idiot,” he said to the sentry. “I’ll see you flogged for your neglect.”
White-faced, the sentry scurried forward. Before he reached her, she yanked the dagger from her belt. “Here.” She handed it over. “I mean you no harm.” She held still, praying her cache of money was safe.
“What’s in the sack?” York demanded.
“Food, Your Grace.”
“I’ll have that as well.” Setting the items aside, he said, “You make bold to come here, after your husband has defied Henry and caused the death of a man from my household.”
“Your Grace, my husband did not defy his king,” she said quickly. “He meant to hold the causeway for the English army.”
“Think you I’m fool enough to credit that, when I saw Rand commanding French crossbowmen? Shall I believe him innocent when I held in my own hand the amulet Henry gave to Longwood?”
“That was a ruse enacted by Gervais Mondragon, who has garrisoned Bois-Long in the name of the Dauphin Louis.”
A shuffling sounded from without. A soldier burst into the room, saying, “The advance scouts have found a ford at Voyennes. If we cut across the loop of the river between Chaulnes and Nesle, we can beat the French to the—”
“Hold your damned tongue, varlet!” Edward bellowed. “You speak to freely, plague take you.” Chastened, the man-at-arms glanced at Lianna, then scuttled away.
Torchlight carved menacing shadows on York’s beefy face. “You’ve heard all. Know you what that means, Baroness?”
Lianna knew, but she held silent and still.
“I must make a prisoner of you.”
* * *
“Damn it, York, I’ll not have it, I say,” snapped King Henry. His features lighted by the heatless sun of early morn, the monarch glanced contemptuously at the manacles on Lianna’s wrists. “Remove those at once.”
“But, Your Grace, we cannot risk freeing her,” said Edward. “Her husband has turned traitor and is yet at large, and she overheard the plan to make our crossing at Voyennes.”
Battling the fatigue of a sleepless night, Lianna faced the king. “I would answer these untruthful charges.”
“And I would listen, my lady.”
With painful candor she related the dauphin’s secret visit, his urgent order, his veiled threat. She described how she and Chiang had lured Rand and others from the château.
“Then I blew up the causeway,” she finished bleakly.
York snorted in disbelief. Henry frowned at his cousin, then said to Lianna, “You blew up the causeway, Baroness?”
She nodded. “I set the charges myself. My household knights lit the fuses.” She swallowed hard. “Then the dauphin’s captain rode in.” Lowering her eyes, she said, “Before God, I’d never have done it had I known Louis’s threat to my son was a bluff, that Gervais was his captain.”
Henry’s face softened ever so slightly.
“Transparent lies, all of it,” muttered York. “One should expect as much from a woman of the House of Burgundy. Doubtless she was taught equivocation from the cradle.”
She clenched her hands. The cold iron of the manacles was but a passing discomfort compared to the bite of York’s insult. Burgundy would neither commit to an alliance Henry badly needed nor join the French in mounting their defense.
“Her story makes sense,” said Henry to the duke.
“You would take her word over mine, cousin?”
“I would seek the truth.”
“I have given you that, sire. I have also given you more than a thousand men at muster, two hundred men-at-arms, and seven hundred horse archers.”
“And I paid you handsomely, cousin,” snapped Henry.
Angry red suffused Edward’s cheeks. “Might I remind you, sire, of things that cannot be bought, such as the support of my vassals in the north? Yorkshire is more important to the Crown than a small barony in Picardy.”
“They are all important if I am to unite England and France.”
Wisely, York made no reply.
Her face a careful blank, Lianna looked up at King Henry. Deep in his eyes she read the uncertainty of a man whose dreams of glory had been shattered by privation and sickness, a man who knew well the sting of betrayal. How could she expect him to believe her, a Frenchwoman loyal to King Charles?
He asked, not unkindly, where Rand was.
She glanced quickly at York. Rand’s enemies grew in number day by day. “I do not know, sire.”
“He is at Bois-Long,” York insisted. “Did I not give you his amulet, which he sent as a token of his defiance?”
“Then why the devil would his wife be here?” Henry asked in exasperation.
“Obviously he realized our campaign would succeed, and sent her to save his neck with her lies.”
“The amulet fell into Gervais’s hands,” Lianna insisted.
Nearby, mounted men and foot soldiers formed up to resume the march. Henry said, “My lady, give me your parole that you won’t try to escape. Then I’ll have the shackles removed.”
She drew a long, unsteady breath. “I cannot. For were I not in chains, I’d be obliged to break my word of honor.”
Respect crossed Henry’s face. “You could have lied.”
She shot a resentful look at York. “I have never lied to you, sire.”
Trumpets blared. Looking distracted, Henry said, “If you will not tell me where Rand is, then I cannot help you.” He eyed her regretfully. “Until I discover the truth, we must detain you. You’ll ride under guard with the baggage train.”
Miserable, manacled, and despairing, Lianna traveled with the English army, past Amiens, Crouy, Piquigny. The men subsisted on hazelnuts and berries gathered as they plodded through the misty woods. Between fitful naps snatched in the cart, she pondered escape. Chains restricted her movements and made stealth impossible. York himself held the key and guarded it as carefully as he guarded the king’s chancery seal. And if she were to get away, where would she go? The man she hated and feared occupied her home. The man she loved and trusted was lost to her forever. Grimly she conceded that she had no choice but to stay with the English army.
A few men, northerners from the House of York and friends of the soldier killed at Bois-Long, sidled close to leer.
“I smell a traitor’s whore,” one of them sneered.
“Aye, but we’ll soon bring Longwood as low as she.”
Rodney, the carter, cursed and waved them away. It was a measure of Henry’s discipline that overall she was treated with deference by the baggage guards, chaplains, musicians, and lads who rode on occasion with her.
The mighty French army rode apace, yelling insults across the river, promising to capture Henry and parade him through the streets of Paris. They said they were painting a special tumbril to transport him on a march of shame.
She felt no kinship with the Frenchmen who mocked her captors. Those haughty lords, she conceded reluctantly, would not treat a female prisoner with the deference the English extended.
Each evening, as Henry made his rounds to encourage the men and laud them for their tenacity, he paused with a word for Lianna.
“I sent a scout to Bois-Long, my lady,” he said one night when they stopped in the empty town of Boves.
“He’ll not find Rand there.”
The king offered her a handful of hazelnuts. Glancing at the carter, his face carved gaunt by hunger, she said, “Give them to Rodney, Your Grace. I’ve eaten.”
Henry’s eyes told her he knew better. Smiling slightly, he gave the food to the carter.
“
How different you are from the nobles of France,” she said.
“How so, Baroness?”
“You dress as a commoner, while the French knights sport feathered panaches and glittering martial colors.”
Henry grinned. “I do have the means and the mien to glitter like Polaris when the occasion calls for royal pomp. You may be sure that, when the time comes, the French will see my colors, and bow down to them.”
His confidence disarmed her. How could he believe his ragged and spiritless army still had a chance against the overwhelming numbers of Frenchmen?
“At present,” the king continued, “I must concern myself with preserving my armor from rusting in this accursed rain.” He squinted through the mist. “The circumstances of my birth do not entitle me to empty vanity. I would have it said that Henry Fifth earned the right to rule.” He stared at her thoughtfully. “Are you having doubts about the French nobles?”
Her eyes hardened. She glanced down at her iron-bound wrists. “Not about the rightness of their cause, Your Grace. Only about their arrogance.” She paused, recalling the French armed parties that rushed in from time to time to harry the English army. The disorganized écorcheurs did little harm. Had they but adequate leadership, the invaders would now be but a bloodstain seeping into the chalky terrain of Picardy.
She tossed the thought aside and said, “The French nobles doubtless consider your army unworthy of a fight.”
“Your countrymen will be happily mistaken in treating my campaign so lightly.”
She agreed. As would the bickering lords if they but knew the skill and determination of the intrepid English king.
Turning the subject, she asked, “Your Grace, how can you still doubt my husband? Was he not the man who spared you and your brothers by denouncing the Lollard plot to murder you?”
“Henry Scrope served me well, too. Yet he turned on me.”
And was executed for it, she recalled with a shiver. “But Scrope was a weakling seduced by promises of wealth, of higher station, greater influence—”
“Your husband,” Henry snapped, suddenly angry, “was seduced by a more powerful force than that. The young fool loves you, Baroness. And you are loyal to France.”