by Betina Krahn
It seemed to take forever to get past the horses. All the while Hugh’s eyes never left the deck of the boat where Chloe and the duke had been dropped in a heap atop a coil of rope. There was activity everywhere: boatsmen hauling anchor and rushing to the ropes to unfurl the sail. They were leaving—he had to get aboard that boat!
Still on horseback, Hugh charged straight into the water. His startled mount hesitated just long enough for the count’s men to close in on him. He parried blade blows and slashed at them, but they came at him on all sides. Suddenly one lunged at him from an unguarded angle, and he went toppling out of the saddle. His padded leather tunic and mail were enough to sink him, and he had to struggle to find his feet and break the surface to draw breath. They charged him again and he had to wield his blade desperately while clearing water from his eyes and scrambling for footing in the mud.
Fenster and Willum reached him moments later and with the odds suddenly changed, he was able to dispatch one of the count’s men and turn on another. A high-pitched scream from the deck penetrated the roar in his head, and when he looked up, he spotted the boat edging away from the shore. By the time he heard Chloe’s second scream, he had dealt his second opponent a bloodletting blow and was thrashing desperately through the water … desperate to reach the receding hull.
There were shouts in mingled English and French and frantic movement on the deck above him. Fighting the weight of his armor to keep his head above water, he began to plow the surface with his arms and after what seemed an eternity, reached the weathered wood of the boat’s hull. He clamped his blade between his teeth and kicked desperately, straining upward for a handhold in the planking.
“Weigh anchor! Leave them!” he heard an authoritative voice shout. “We have what we came for.”
He finally found purchase on the slippery wood and was drawn along with the boat, toward the main channel. Hand over hand, he pulled himself around the boat to a place where iron rungs formed a ladder on the side. Gritting his teeth and feeling the bite of the blade at the corners of his mouth, he hauled himself up as quietly as possible. He glanced back over his shoulder at the men he’d left behind on the bank. His only ally now was surprise.
Peering through the battered railing, he counted six armored men, one of whom stood with a shorter, stouter man over Chloe and the duke. They spoke in French, a bit too quickly for him to catch what they said at first. But the taller one’s laugh had a wicked sound, and the shorter one reached down to turn Chloe’s face to the moonlight.
“So it is you who has caused me such trouble, eh?” the Compte de Sabban declared in English as he studied her.
“You won’t get away with this,” Chloe said, her voice dry and strained.
“Oh, but I will. In fact”—the compte raised his hands, palms up—“I believe I already have.”
“Bastard!” the duke spat, struggling to roll enough to face his brother.
“So I am,” the compte said with a sudden murderous edge. “A fact that you and my accursed old father never let me forget. He took me into his household after my mother died and taunted me with the disgrace of my birth while heaping praise and favor on my younger but legitimate brother.”
Hugh saw that most of the men were focused on the drama unfolding at center deck and seized the opportunity to haul himself over the railing undetected. Sheathing his sword, he drew his dagger and crept toward the nearest soldier.
“The coronet that went to you should have been mine. I was first. And you”—he swept Chloe with a contemptuous hand—“with your wilting lily of a bride and your defiance of our father’s wishes—you appreciated nothing except your own desires. And still he insisted you inherit.” He dealt the duke a savage kick that forced a groan from him.
Hugh’s dagger stuck home beneath a set of ribs in the same moment. He lowered the body to the deck and crept around the cargo on deck toward another.
“My blood was tainted, impure because my mother was not pure. I swore you would pay.” The compte seemed to be enjoying his moment of power. “And pay you did. Bon Dieu how you sobbed.” His voice shifted into falsetto. “My love, my sweet Clarice … my poor dead babe … I don’t want to go on living.” His voice shifted back. “It was all I could do not to oblige you.”
There was a slash of motion on the coil of rope, and the count’s henchman staggered back with a yelp. Chloe had kicked out with her bound legs and caught him off guard. With no one to stop him, he lunged forward and brought a fist crashing down against the side of her head.
The sickening sound of her stifled cry cloaked the noise of the second soldier falling.
“Valoir!” the duke snarled, clearly trying to deflect the capitaine’s anger and turn it toward himself. “How like you to beat a defenseless woman. You always were a brute. And a dumb one at that. The fact that my brother pulled you into his sick schemes is proof.”
“That, brother, is all your doing,” the compte said, restraining Valoir. “If you hadn’t been so stupid as to banish him from your lands, he wouldn’t have found his way to mine. And I would not have had a strong right arm to accomplish my revenge.”
“Enough, Alfonse.” The duke’s anger made him reckless. “If you intend to kill me, do it now, and spare me more of your braying.”
“Don’t you want to hear the rest of my plans?” The count grabbed the duke by the hair and hauled him up by it so he could watch the duke’s face. “Don’t you want to hear how you will have died escaping the English king and heading back to France to gather a rebellion against English rule? Don’t you want to hear how I, a loving uncle to your son and heir, will be appointed his guardian? How, after a year or two, he will meet with one of those unfortunate accidents that plague ungainly young boys learning knightly skills?”
“You wouldn’t …”
He released the duke’s head, laughing at the horror in his brother’s eyes.
“Oh, but I will. And then I shall have murdered both of your children.” He pointed to Chloe and ordered Valoir, “Get her onto her feet.”
Valoir and another soldier hauled Chloe to her feet and dragged her toward the side of the boat. Hugh froze, then allowed his third victim to slide to the deck. He was suddenly out of time.
As he drew his sword the metal sang. Valoir, a battle-seasoned soldier, recognized the sound and came to attention, tensing, his hand hovering at the hilt of his blade as he scoured the deck for the source of it. Hugh lunged from behind a pair of barrels with a roar and managed to drive his steel deep into the soldier on the near side of Chloe. But before he could grab Chloe and pull her away from the edge, Valoir had drawn his blade and was bearing down on him with a murderous cry.
As Valoir slashed and hacked at him, he retreated, his attention divided between the fight and the fact that the count had grabbed Chloe and was wrestling her toward the edge. He saw her go down onto her knees and roll over onto the deck, trying to maneuver enough to kick at him. Then Valoir’s blade bit into his chest and the pain jerked his full attention back to his own peril.
The jolting clang and the flash of light from the blades narrowed Hugh’s concentration and pared away all but the most essential perceptions. All he saw were lines and angles, arcs and trajectories, and the subtle shifts of Valoir’s head that indicated where his blade might strike next.
“Hugh!” Chloe’s voice just penetrated the adamant cloak battle had drawn around his senses. Again he was out of time. He had to strike now. He watched for an opening, praying without words, and suddenly it was there. A hitch, a lapse of concentration on Valoir’s part … and Hugh lunged in with a roar and sank his blade between Valoir’s ribs and mail. He staggered slightly as he pulled his blade free of Valoir’s fallen body, and then he whirled and found himself facing the count holding Chloe against him … at the edge of the deck.
“Well, well. Quite a performance,” the count said icily. “Now the real decision comes.” Hugh glanced from him to the duke, who was struggling against his bonds, trying to free h
imself. Then he looked back at Chloe, bound hand and foot. Her eyes were huge with fear … that transformed suddenly into one last, unmistakable look of love.
“Which do you want more?” The count blithely demanded he choose. “To kill me or to save your precious little wife?”
He pushed Chloe over the edge.
Her scream touched off an explosion in Hugh. With intent of its own, his body lunged at the duke, gave the ropes binding him one savage slash of his blade, and then propelled him across the deck. He drew one last frantic breath and dived over the edge after her.
Chloe screamed until she smacked the water, and suddenly her mouth was full of water. She kicked her feet wildly, hoping to free them or to thrust herself to the surface so she could breathe. Panic gripped her as the darkness closed in and made it impossible to tell up from down. Still, she kicked … until it occurred to her that things often floated to the top of water and she stopped thrashing. Just as she felt herself beginning to rise, something bumped into her, and she panicked and began to kick again.
Desperate for air but unable to find the surface, she sucked in water and then convulsed and struggled, trying to force it back out. Then mercifully everything began to fade … the cold of the water, the pressure in her lungs … the darkness all around her. It grew darker still and quiet. Her last, strangely peaceful thought was of Hugh’s face.
By the sheer grace of God, he located her in the water. As he touched bottom and then pushed off to shoot back to the surface, he bumped into her near the surface. Grabbing her, he pulled her up with him. But he had to let her go while he clawed at the ties of his doublet and ripped it from his chest. Lighter now, without the sodden padding, he reclaimed her now limp form and began the slow, arduous fight to drag her with him toward the bank. Every stroke of his arms was a blow dealt against death in a contest that was far from decided.
Again time stretched out, but this time distance was distorted with it. It seemed to take forever for the bank to get closer. He was not a good swimmer; it was only by sheer force of will and desperate effort that he managed to keep them both afloat and moving toward safety.
Noise, voices came from the near bank, and he looked up to see riders on horseback at the edge of the water. He shouted and tried to wave. His arm felt like lead and barely broke the water. His voice sounded as sodden and heavy as his garments.
It was his father’s graveled voice that responded, shouting orders, but to him it had the sweetness of Gabriel’s trumpet. Suddenly there were horses in the water and all around them, and they were being ferried to the shore.
He collapsed on the bank for a moment, gasping for air, but his main concern was Chloe. He dragged himself to her inert form, rolled her over and listened. She wasn’t breathing. Frantically he rolled her onto her side and gave her back a heavy thump, then another. He had seen that work once in France, where English armies had forged several rivers. Then his father shoved him aside and rolled her onto her stomach. He pushed on her back and lifted her arms several times.
Hugh put his face close to hers and called desperately to her.
“Chloe! Can you hear me? Breathe! Come on, Chloe, breathe!”
After some effort the earl sat back on his heels, looking at Chloe, and then lifted a look of pain and disbelief to Hugh.
“No!” Hugh grabbed her up into his arms and pushed the grass and leaves from her face. “No—don’t you do this! Don’t you dare die and leave me, Chloe of Guibray! Don’t you dare make me love you … turn my whole world upside down … then die on a riverbank before I even get the chance to tell you …”
He shook her.
“Chloe! Please, God—don’t let her—”
Something … the shaking, the pleading, the loving … penetrated the darkness in Chloe’s senses, and the pall of death began to lift. Her lungs went into a spasm, her chest contracted around them, and suddenly she was choking and coughing up water. She gasped and coughed, fighting to draw breath against whatever was wrapped so tightly around her. It took a few moments for the fog in her head to clear and for her to realize there were voices all around her, bright happy voices. The tightness around her was arms; someone was holding her.
When she heard her name and felt something touch her face, she opened her eyes and there was Hugh, nose to nose with her, and shortly, lips to lips with her. She wasn’t sure how she’d gotten here, but she wrapped her arms around him and refused to let go.
“Thank God. You’re alive,” he murmured into her ear as he held her tightly against him. “Don’t even think about leaving me again.” He set her back for a moment. “Ever!”
She looked around and realized she was lying on a riverbank dripping wet … she remembered more … being taken … brought to a boat … the count and Hugh … a fight …
“I don’t think leaving you was exactly my idea,” she said hoarsely. “Hugh, you’re hurt.” She touched the cut that had gone though his tunic and narrowly missed ripping into his throat.
“It’s not so bad. I think most of the bleeding’s already stopped.”
He laughed and helped her to sit up. Suddenly there were a number of faces peering down at her. Hugh’s father. Mattias. Withers. Fenster.
“Ye give us a right good scare, milady,” Withers said with a big smile.
“I told ye, if ye needed rescuin’, we’d be there,” Mattias said, jerking a thumb at the group behind him, who all nodded and agreed.
“The duke!” She struggled to rise. “Hugh, we have to do something—he’s my father, and the count is his brother and—”
“I know, I know,” Hugh declared, refusing to release her. “I heard. As soon as we get you to safety, I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing,” the earl insisted, taking charge. “You two are going back to Windsor, and you’re going to warm yourselves and get some rest.” He extended a hand to Hugh … who looked at it, smiled, and then accepted both the help and the promise of reconciliation it offered.
Hugh insisted on carrying Chloe to a horse himself and was reluctant to part with her even long enough to mount and make a place for her on the saddle in front of him. Mattias and Withers wrapped her in a blanket and boosted her up to Hugh’s arms. Moments later they were on their way back to Windsor, with Mattias and Withers as escort, while the earl and the rest of the men headed downstream to help Graham, Simon, and Jax intercept the boat.
Feeling Hugh’s arms and warmth around her, Chloe sighed and felt her shivering subside. “You saved me,” she said, looking up at him in wonder.
“You say that as if you weren’t certain I would. Shows a dismal lack of faith in your husband, milady.”
“But the last time I saw you—”
“I had just learned how great an ass I’ve been for most of my life, and that kind of revelation takes a bit of getting used to. Then, when I reached the hall and saw you standing there before the king and court, looking as if your heart was breaking … God, I could have strangled Edward with my bare hands!”
“Shhh.” She put her fingertips to his lips. “Don’t say that too loudly. I hear there’s a foul plot afoot, and the king sees traitors under every rock.”
“I’d shout it from the housetops, if need be,” he said, his arms relaxing around her. He nuzzled her cheek. “But I’d much rather shout that I love my wife Chloe with all my heart.”
“You would? You do?” Chloe sat straighter and wiggled a hand out of the blanket to touch his face. “Are you certain? I mean, I know you never wanted to—”
“With all my heart,” he repeated. “And with all my mind, and—given the chance—with all my body, too.”
“Oooh.” She grabbed the front of his waterlogged tunic. “This is new. The last time this subject came up, you fled to the monastery.”
“No, the last time this subject came up, I fled from a monastery.” He caught her gaze in his. “I came back to you. Only you weren’t there.”
“You really came back to me?” She seized his face between her hands. �
��You decided not to renounce me and become a monk?”
“Not that it was ever really much of a contest. You had already ruined me for hair shirts and cold porridge and getting up three times a night to pray … but, yes, I came back. I’ve done a lot of thinking, Chloe. When I got to Saint Barnard’s, it wasn’t the same. At least, that’s what I thought at first. Then I realized: it was the same. I was the one who had changed. For the better. And I knew exactly who and what was responsible. I couldn’t bear even the thought of living in that suffocating stone pile for the rest of my days. Without you.” His eyes began to glisten in the moonlight.
“I thought I’d die when I arrived at Sennet and learned you’d been arrested. What the hell could Edward have been thinking—sending an armed escort to arrest you? I’m going to have a talk with our exalted and august sovereign—”
“No, you’re not,” she said, grabbing the tops of his shoulders, grinning at him through the moisture rising in her eyes.
“Oh, yes, I am.” He said stubbornly.
“Oh, no, you’re not. We’re going to explain everything that’s happened and throw ourselves on his mercy and accept our royal pats on the head and tiptoe home like good little subjects to make babies and grow old together.”
“Are not. I intend to have my say about a few things.”
“Okay, then, I agree. Are not.”
Confused, he tried counting backward with a finger on the air, trying to decide just where that put the argument. “I … I …”
“You love me.” She provided the perfect conclusion. “And I love you.”
He surrendered to that logic and pulled her closer. “You’ll get no argument from me on that.”
It was nearly dawn when the search parties returned to Windsor with an injured duke and a defeated and bound Compte de Sabban. Hugh and Chloe, who had arrived some time earlier and had a chance to put on dry garments and warm themselves with wine and a fire in the hearth of the great hall, rushed outside to meet them. The king joined them on the steps and ordered the compte taken straight to the dungeon. Having heard Hugh and Chloe’s brief summary, he personally conducted the duke into the hall, where he called for a physician to tend the duke’s injured arm, and provided them with blankets and mulled wine. Afterward, the king listened intently to the duke’s explanations … a sordid tale of young love and great loss, of family rivalry and bitter vengeance.