Three Nights With the Princess

by Betina Krahn

  Years of eating scraps and wearing his brothers’ cast-off rags had left the penniless young duc with a fierce hunger for wealth, power, and position. He married quickly and ruthlessly, and was soon a widower with control of his dead wife’s generous dowry. He used his inheritance to hire mercenaries and secretly began to harry the mountain passes where caravans of merchants were most vulnerable.

  As his wealth increased, so had his ambitions, and his boyhood dream of a kingdom of his own came to life in his heart once more. He looked about for a place to make his own, and cast his eye upon Brittany. Sparsely populated, devoid of resources, and held by a duc who seldom troubled with the far reaches of the realm . . . it would afford his mercenaries access to trading roads and sea ports and eventually to the burgeoning cities of the Champagne . . which belonged to the king himself.

  Guile carved a humorless smile deeper into his handsome, clean-shaven features. His ambitions might find a quicker path if he could seize and marry a royal princess. “Scallion!” he roared, causing his captain to stiffen in expectation. “I must have her. Scour the whole cursed city. Find her if you have to take every wretched hovel in this district apart timber by timber!”

  * * *

  In a richly furnished chamber on the uppermost floor of the home of the Earl de Peloquin, beeswax candles shed both golden light and a sweet scent, driving out both the gloom and the noisome smells of the city below. Thera stepped out of a huge wooden tub of warm water onto a thick Moorish carpet and into a large, thirsty sheet of linen. Lillith brushed aside the hands of the earl’s maidservant, dismissing the girl, and proceeded to wrap her mistress in the cloth herself, while continuing her tale.

  “Well—I was so lost and so desperate to get help that I finally got up the courage to enter a tavern. Terrible places, Princess. The stench.” She shuddered. “I begged the tavernkeeper to guide me to the rue le Carreaux, and do you know—the ignoble brute—he required three silver deniers in payment! Troth, doesn’t anyone do anything out of charity or nobility these days?”

  “Apparently not,” Thera murmured, thinking of her own encounter and the price required of her. Unwittingly, she sent her fingers to her lips and traced them.

  Lillith saw that unconscious movement and the shiver that followed, and pursed the corner of her mouth. Thera’s summary of the terrifying events following her abduction had been terse: she had been rescued by a soldier, who then released her. But her comment just now left Lillith with the uneasy feeling that there was more to the story. She flicked a glance at the soiled and slashed gown which even now was being reduced to cinders in the hearth, and she halted in the midst of rubbing Thera’s hair between the linen.

  “Are you certain you are . . . all right?”

  “Of course. I’m fine now that I’ve rid myself of the filth of the streets,” Thera insisted, pulling both the sheeting and her self-possession tighter about her as she turned on her chair to avoid the sight of her favorite gown going up in flames.

  “Weren’t you frightened?” Lillith finally had to ask.

  Thera rubbed her shoulders, which were already reddened by Lillith’s vigorous scrubbing, as if ridding herself of the lingering taint of her experience. How could she answer? How could she admit that for a time, just before and just after her rescue, she had been frozen with terror, speechless and unable to move? Such feelings might be understood or even expected of a gently reared young noblewoman who found herself in similar straits. But she was not just any young woman; she was a crown princess—the ruler of a kingdom, the guardian of her people. The fact that she had been paralyzed by fear and helplessness shamed her to her very marrow.

  But as unsettling as those feelings were, there were others that troubled her as much. In the course of those two tumultuous hours, she had experienced sensations and emotions she had never known before: raw loathing, disgust, confusion, and flashes of physical pleasure. The range and depth of her feelings shocked her . . . as did her highly personal reaction to her barbaric rescuer and the wretched kiss he took from her. She stiffened and shoved that memory into the dimmest corner of her mind. It didn’t do to dwell on such things now. It was over and done. Past.

  “Nothing is ever gained by surrendering to hopelessness,” she said with a regal sniff. “I fought . . . as I expect my father would have fought if he had been overtaken by barbarians and thieves.”

  “And the one who rescued you?” Lillith asked, trying to contain her burning curiosity.

  “I have already said,” Thera answered curtly. “He was a soldier of sorts. Quick with a blade.”

  “And noble of spirit,” Lillith offered, watching her keenly. “To have rescued a princess in distress . . . surely such chivalry deserves a reward.”

  “A truly noble spirit does not seek rewards . . . except those laid up in Heaven,” Thera’s face reddened as she turned on Lillith with narrowed eyes. “He did not know I was a princess, of course. No one in all of Nantes, save Henri de Peloquin, knows of me or Mercia. Do you think I would be so reckless as to tell a—” She seized a brush from the open chest near her feel, thrusting it into Lillith’s hands, a not-so-subtle indication of her irritation with the topic. “I demanded my freedom in no uncertain terms, and, of course, the fellow realized he was outranked and outmatched . . . and released me.”

  A scratching came at the door and Thera called out over Lillith’s voice, admitting a servant bringing word that the earl wished to speak with her as soon as possible. It was a perfect excuse to bury herself in the task of dressing and avoid Lillith’s prying.

  An hour later, she left her chamber intending to join her host in his hall. But she found the dapper earl waiting on the stairs just outside her door with a harried expression. At the sight of her, obviously in glowing health, he quickly made a deep obeisance.

  “Princess!” He took the hand she extended him and pressed his forehead to it in homage. “I died a thousand deaths in the time you were missing! Thanks be to Heaven that you were restored to us hale and well.” But he looked as if his words gave him precious little comfort as he swept a hand toward the stairs. “You must come with me, Princess, I have something you must see.”

  Thera soon found herself standing with Henri and Lillith in the shadows of an arched stone gallery two stories above the street. As they watched the murky street below, a teeming knot of figures separated and began swaggering up and down, calling out drunkenly to the householders behind the barred doors that lined the street. Between their shouts could be heard the clank of metal on metal and the dull thuds of blade hilts and boots slammed against doors.

  In the distance, Henri pointed to a column of smoke rising out of a sickening yellow glow which could only mean one thing: fire. As the wind changed, sounds of horses and shouting and confusion were borne toward them, and they suddenly spotted slashes of yellow flame at the end of the rue le Carreaux. They searched the darkness with their hearts in their mouths, fearing those flickering lights might be spreading flames. But sound added dimension to the shapes moving about those flames and they took form . . . men on horseback, bearing torches and shields and spears, riding recklessly through the streets.

  “An armed force from the east arrived outside the city earlier in the day, Princess. They demanded access to the city, but the Earl de Burgaud refused to admit them, thinking they were naught but a band of mercenaries. But their number swelled as more and more soldiers arrived—some knights, some hired soldiers on horseback, and some foul, bestial barbarians from the east. They made camp in the fields just outside the city, along the Paris road. Then, as we banqueted tonight, word came that the city gates had been taken by force and that bands of these mounted soldiers had entered the city and were marauding the districts nearest the bay.”

  “Soldiers,” Thera murmured, recalling what she and Lillith had seen earlier in the darkened streets. It had been the beginning of an invasion and they had walked straight out of the earl’s house and into the middle of it . . . without a clue to what w
as happening around them. “Barbarians and mercenaries. They were wrecking a market square when . . .” When she foolishly pitted herself against a half dozen of them at once, she realized.

  A chill went through her shoulders as she looked out over the predatory bands prowling the streets below and recalled the wanton fury of the destruction she had witnessed firsthand. She moved to the stone railing, shrugging off Lillith’s plea that she keep to the shadows, and stared at the ugly yellow pall spreading over the sky . . . sensing the almost palpable waves of fear spreading from house to house throughout the city.

  “It is a full army, Princess . . . bent on taking vengeance—and whatever else it wants from the city,” Henri declared, moving to the railing beside her. “The Earl de Burgaud’s brother has led most of the earl’s garrison to the east to render service to the king. The city is all but defenseless.”

  Remembering the terrors she had experienced and seeing them now repeated on a broad scale, all over the city, Thera experienced a violent paroxysm of the very foundation of her thinking. With appalling clarity, she suddenly saw that her world and her understanding of it, despite her learning, had been little larger than Mercia itself . . . a place where order, safety, and the rule of reason were taken for granted . . . where armies, sieges, famine, and outlawry were the stuff of fireside tales. From her isolated realm, the troubles and upheaval of the burgeoning cities and great kingdoms had seemed distant and unreal.

  But now she was plunged into the midst of it all . . . the diversity and disorder, the violence, dirt, and confusion. And as the underpinnings of her world were forcibly stretched, her thoughts were for her people and her home. Her mind filled with visions of their trusting faces, their simple ways and loyal hearts. This madness and mayhem must never be allowed to touch them . . . must never spread to her beloved realm. Never.

  “Princess.” Henri’s voice brought her back to the present, and she found him regarding her with a look of abject misery. “I fear I can no longer guarantee your safety. I entreat you, my lady . . .” He put out a hand to touch her, then halted and drew back, abashed at his own boldness. “Depart for Mercia as quickly as possible. We may still secret you from the city . . . if you leave before dawn, by the old High Gate.”

  A distant roar, the sound of a collapsing structure, intruded. As the firelit horizon brightened briefly, Thera gave a somber nod.

  “We have much to do if we are to leave before dawn,” she said. Then, aching inside at the thought of what lay ahead for the city and for her loyal subject, she reached for Henri’s hands and squeezed them. “And may Heaven protect you and your house, my good Henri.”

  Chapter Four

  Loud voices drifted up through cracks in the floor of the upper room of the tavern where Saxxe Rouen and Gasquar LeBruit had spent the night. Saxxe shot up on one arm, his hand going for the long blade at his side as he slid a glance over the drink-weighted shapes of the other soldiers and knights for hire who shared those rough lodgings with him.

  These were hard times for hire-soldiers, unpledged knights, and landless younger sons in France. The fifth Crusade had ended in defeat and disarray some years before, leaving a whole cadre of men bred and trained for the glory of battle without a worthy cause in which to ply their skills and gain their livelihood. Lacking both income and land, and unable to marry without one or the other, many were forced to sell their fighting prowess wherever they could to earn their living. And after years of rolling from battle to battle and conflict to conflict, a number of them had come to lodge in this wretched tavern in the bustling port of Nantes . . . waiting for the next feud between nobles or nations to break out.

  Saxxe rolled onto his haunches and gave Gasquar a prod to awaken him. A jerk of his head toward the door was all that was needed; Gasquar came to his feet, snatched up his helm and sword, and followed Saxxe into the sour-smelling passage. Down a rickety set of back stairs, they found a barrel of water and a well-used gutter. Then, with their hair and beards still dripping, they reentered the tavern.

  A dozen rough-clad soldiers occupied the ale room, some sprawled over tables and benches and others pillaging through the shelves behind the row of barrels topped with planking that formed a serving board. Like the city itself, the tavern had just fallen victim to invasion, and the tavernkeeper and his servants had apparently fled.

  Saxxe and Gasquar helped themselves to a tankard of ale and snatched loaves of bread from the basket of day-old bread in the kitchen. As they propped themselves on a bench and made quick work of the food, they could feel the invaders eyeing them. Finally, their burly captain strode over with a tankard in his hand and planted himself before them, openly assessing their odd garments and fine weaponry—and the calluses on their hands that spoke of the frequent use of blades.

  “You are fighting men, I see,” he said in a graveled voice that bore the accent of the provinces of northern Spain. When Saxxe nodded curtly, the man’s gaze dropped to the elaborate hilt and scabbard of Saxxe’s sword. His brows rose. “Damascus steel?” When Saxxe’s hand slid possessively to his blade, the bull-like Spaniard laughed, acknowledging that protective impulse. “From the looks of you, you each have dealt your share of deathblows.” He scratched his grizzled chin. “Join us. We have more battles ahead and could use strong fighters. The pay is good and each man keeps a share of the spoils he takes.”

  A taut smile bloomed on Saxxe’s face as he clamped a restraining hand on Gasquar’s arm, below the tabletop, to keep him from accepting. “Nay, we have all the work we need,” he said, adding “my friend.” The fellow scowled, considered Saxxe’s matter-of-fact tone and expression, then shrugged and turned back to his men. When Saxxe and Gasquar stepped out into the smoke-tainted air of the street a short while later, Gasquar was glowering.

  “And just where is this work we have so much of, mon ami?” When Saxxe strode stubbornly on, he stopped and cupped his ear. “Eh? I cannot hear you. . . .”

  “They’re with the invaders,” Saxxe said, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder. Then he realized Gasquar had halted and turned to face him.

  “So?”

  “They fight with those cursed Mongol-Slavs . . . and you know how I hate Mongol-Slavs. Like ravening wolves, they plunder and pillage and raze and rape—I’ll have no part of that.”

  “You will have no part of bread or ale or meat, either,” Gasquar declared irritably, “if we do not hire into some lord’s garrison soon. The coin . . . it is all but gone.”

  There was a cry and a rumble from nearby, and both wheeled to witness a shopkeeper trying to prevent three mercenary soldiers from ripping the shutters and hinged wares shelf from the front of his shop. Farther down the street they spotted more soldiers taking goods from other shops and shoving aside the people who tried to prevent them. And among the rooftops, they spotted the blackened ribs of several smoldering houses and stalls.

  “Look around you,” Saxxe said in disgust, waving at the destruction in progress. “This is their work.” Turning on his heel, he started for the stable near the city gates where they had left their mounts. “They ride under no colors. They slink into cities in the dead of night, thieving and torching and terrorizing—” He halted and took a deep breath. “I have no desire to sit around in a stagnant pisshole of a tavern watching a city being ripped apart around me. I say we quit Nantes and try our luck elsewhere.”

  Saxxe set off with a determined stride, and Gasquar fell in beside him, unable to dispute his friend’s conclusions. “Besides, it is time we moved on.” Saxxe gestured toward the beleaguered city walls and beyond. “Somewhere out there is a kingdom just waiting for me.” He frowned. “Or a castle.” His frown deepened. “Or a landholding . . . at least a meadow, an orchard, and a stream.”

  “Or a prime, plump widow, plagued with full coffers and an empty bed,” Gasquar added. Saxxe laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Yea, a plump widow would suit me well, too . . . provided her purse was fat enough.”

 
Gasquar chuckled and pointed to a side street which would allow them to avoid an overturned cart and a milling crowd obstructing the street ahead. But they hadn’t gone fifty yards along the narrow, deserted lane when a scuffle broke out ahead, blocking that thoroughfare, too. Growling annoyance, Gasquar turned back to seek yet another route to the stables, but Saxxe stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the scene.

  “Unhand me, you wretch! Let me go, I say!”

  Those words, that voice . . . a distinctive white gown and a flash of burnished hair . . . Saxxe halted and stood speechless for a moment. Then he jolted backward and snagged Gasquar’s arm, dragging him into a doorway.

  “Sacre Bleu, what has got—”

  “It’s her,” Saxxe whispered, gesturing to the flurry of limbs and cloaks and shying horses down the street. “The demoiselle we rescued last night. They’ve taken her again.” Something in his chest gave a lurch, then seemed to settle into place at this visual proof that the past night’s unusual encounter had not been just an ale-spawned dream.

  Together they watched as soldiers—black-clad soldiers in unmarked mail—struggled to subdue and bind a struggling female form clad in a stark white gown. Saxxe’s mouth quirked up at one corner as he watched his haughty demoiselle kick and claw like a cornered cat. “Look—four of them, fully armed, and still they have trouble holding her.”

  “Sacre Mere—she fights like the badger gone to ground,” Gasquar said, giving a low whistle.

  “Last night six Mongol-Slavs barely took her,” Saxxe declared.