Awaken My Fire (7 page)

So occasionally when a farmer stopped to wipe his brow and catch his breath, he looked across the hard-worked soil to where the Englishmen of the army wasted their time, idling away their afternoon hours on full stomachs-full stomachs bought by their ceaseless labor. When he returned to his labor, it was with a resentment nearly as consuming as his hatred.

A slight breeze rippled the grass-covered hills rising behind the castle, as well as the black-and-orange colors flying from the towers. A small group of guards stood at the base of the castle and, having little to do, they used the flag for target practice. The English were famous for their skill with the bow, and bets were placed on how many shots would be fired before a strike. To the wild cheers of the men, an older veteran soon hit the flag, ripping a good-size hole in its center before the arrow fell with an audible clang somewhere inside. More guards joined in the game, a vent for their frustration at the two long months spent looking at nothing but the closed walls of the impenetrable fortress.

A messenger rode at a gallop into the camp outside Castle Reales, reining his horse in at the front of the English captain's tent: A servant heralded the arrival with loud shouts that brought the commanding knights running, as well as a host of foot soldiers, grooms and pages. Hearing the call, the captain, John of Suffolk, pushed away his plate of venison, stewed peas and potatoes, and after a swallow of his wine—the only blessed good in the entire wretched country was its wine, sweeter than a whore, he oft thought—the swarthy, stout knight rushed into the late afternoon sunshine to get the long-awaited news.

The rider handed down the scrolled message. "From Rodez Valois, the Duke of Burgundy, in the court of Flanders, sir."

The captain snatched the scrolled paper from the Frenchman's hands and growled, "Better be good this time, or I'm liable to mount my horse and ride to Burgundy to oust the bastard from his velvet-lined seat meself!"

He tore the ridiculous ribbon off the scrolled roll and, neither knowing nor caring a whit how to read, handed the message to the young lieutenant at his side. As a number of men gathered around, the younger man commenced reading the carefully scripted paper:

"To John of Suffolk, the good and noble captain of guards of his most exalted and majestic—"

"Damn ye," the captain said, more vexed than angry, "I do not have till sunset! Skip the man's groveling and get ye on with it."

"Aye, aye." The anxious young man scanned the lengthy address to get to the text of the letter:

"My good Captain, I sleep easy knowing you are in full control of the most regrettable situation at my Castle Reales. Lo to my incorrigible young dependent! What madness hath struck Lady Roshelle I cannot hope to understand—the workings of a woman's mind stray forever from a man's grasp. Tell the lady to stop her folly and desist at once! I command thus! Tell her to open those gates to our English friends today, the very moment she hears these carefully penned words from her faithful guardian and lord. Knowing Lady Roshelle rather well, I have little doubt concerning her compliance.'

"I hasten to assure you, my good Captain, should these rumors regarding my dearest dependent be true-that her small, slight hand struck Lord Edward a death blow—you can believe that I fully intend to deal her a most harsh and just punishment when I at last lay eyes upon her. So, I ask you, my fine and noble friend, to provide Lady Roshelle with four of the most capable and worthy knights to escort her at once to Burgundy, where she shall see a severe punishment for this fabulous farce of hers. I ask that you provide these four good and noble men with the livery and colors of Reales, including the necessary provisions for overnight stays at the inns of Rouen, Alencon, Angers. The four knights need not be put up in rooms, though provisions should be extended for their meals and—"

"Stop!" At this point the captain's face appeared beet red as he clenched his fist and stamped his booted foot, brimming with fury. "Doth the bastard think me daft?

Doth he think this be some child's game we play here? Good God!" he cursed, his hand splaying on his forehead as he fought for some control. "Dispense with his nonsense about the lady's travel plans—does he tell me where these damn passageways are?"

The nervous young man scanned the long paragraphs made of travel ideas, these a slap in their face, as after a two-month-long siege it was abundantly clear the lady had no intention of responding to her guardian's directives; the captain's messages to the Duke of Burgundy at the Flanders court had emphasized this the first week of the siege. Three weeks later, one full month into the siege, the captain had abandoned all hope that the Duke of Burgundy would arrive to end the siege, and why should he when messages like this made it perfectly clear the Burgundian court viewed the Reales siege with bountiful amusement? No doubt the bastards laughed themselves silly over the fools Lady Roshelle was making of the English garrison.

The rebellion spread throughout Brittany as well. Skirmishes sprang up in nearly all the townships flying King Henry's colors, the peasants and common folk gaining courage from the lady's bold, unprecedented move. So far, the English managed to suppress these small though significant rebellions, but with each passing day the situation became more volatile. Now the common folk began to express the belief that Lady Roshelle—marked by the famed white streak and cursed to chastity—was aided by God, that He sent an army of angels to further her cause. How else to explain that the necessary foodstuffs to maintain all fifty or so people inside the castle walls miraculously appeared in the courtyard each sunrise—much like Christ and the wine and bread? Even some of the levelheaded English had begun to believe supernatural powers aided the lady's cause, though not by the powers from above. All the captain knew was that somehow, some way, the lady managed to sneak foodstuffs inside. Of course, Castle Reales had once been wealthy in food substances and grain storage, but Edward had long since dispensed these reserves to his army. So the pressing question was: How did the girl get these provisions inside those wretched walls?

"Ah, here 'tis, Captain. I read as follows: 'I really do not know how they eat at Castle Reales these days. Unlike most other castles built at the turn of the century, this one does not have any secret passageways in or out of the walls—these were cemented and boarded by the Count de la Nevers's maternal grandfather, Count Basil de Reales, some many years past, under the wise premise that if one could get out, then one's enemies could get in. At least this is my understanding. I knew Roshelle was a clever girl the day I married her to her poor late husband, but she must be very clever indeed to fool the entire English garrison, think you not?'

"One more note before I sign off, Captain. We at the grand court of Burgundy have heard it said the eminent and legendary, exalted King Henry is most displeased with the whole unfortunate affair at Reales, the famous Duke of Suffolk even more so. We have further heard the goodly knights of Suffolk shall soon be seeing that exalted personage in the flesh at Reales soon—"

"What be that?" The captain interrupted to demand in a subdued voice, afraid he had heard wrong. "Did he say the duke . . . coming . . .to Reales?"

The young man read the words again, a grin spreading over his face as the glad news brought a loud and long cheer from the men gathered around them. Tension left the captain's face upon confirmation of those words: for the captain's last correspondence with the House of Suffolk had been with Bogo le Wyse, the duke's steward, who simply reported the news had been a blow of incalculable magnitude to the duke, that arrangements were being made to remedy the situation posthaste. Justice, the letter said, would soon be done. The captain never dared to hope that the duke himself would condescend to appear in this wretched hellhole, though God knew, in truth, 'twas a dangerous situation. Henry stood to lose everything if the rebellion kept spreading.

The duke was coming, thank the blessed powers that be! Let those far worthier shoulders carry the growing burden of Reales; he had traveled far, far past his wit's end. At last, the wild, rebellious young lady of Castle Reales would meet her demise. No doubt, 'twould be painful indeed.

He slapped the young lieutenant on the back and laughed. "Huh! Fifty guldens say the duke fells the castle inside of a fortnight!"

The wager was not popular, for all those who had fought with the duke in earlier campaigns knew it would not take Vincent de la Eresman half that long.

*****

Chapter 2

The full moon shone brightly behind an arch of smooth gray clouds, providing enough light to toss shadows of old ash and oak trees along the side of the road where two riders rode at a gallop. A terrifying scene emerged vividly in the younger rider's mind: arrows lit aflame, flying through the night to ignite the humble cottages of the country folk, the frantic occupants rushing outdoors, confused, screaming for mercy as they clutched their modest belongings tightly against their hearts. Mercy the English never gave as they viciously murdered, raped and pillaged. This was a scene so common in Brittany as to make it the devil's very playground, a living hell on earth.

"Dear God, let the people be saved!" the rider prayed, spurring the horse to even greater speed.

An old church bell tolled in the far distance, warning the sleepy village of Greve of the riders' fast approach. One by one, men cautiously emerged from their cottages, their pounding hearts chasing any last remnant of sleep from their faces. A number of men ran down from the cottages built against the hillside to join their fellows against this potential threat. Callused, work-torn hands gripped sickles, hammers and butcher knives, any weapon they could grab as they watched the riders swiftly approach the edge of the village. Scrawny dogs barked wildly. Roosters awoke with crows. Hushing the children, women cautiously poked their heads out from the doorways.

The riders drew back the reins, and with startled neighs, the stallions lifted into the still night air. Hooves crashed to the ground; then the mounts danced in circles before the small crowd. Barking dogs scattered as the tall rider expertly checked his mount's nervous dance. He was an aging man of arms with a weathered face that bore the stern look of a man with a mission. Long graying hair brushed his wide shoulders, and he wore the orange-and-white colors of Orleans.

Surely a member of the Reales French guard!

The men eased their grips on their poor weapons and turned their gazes to the younger rider. The boy appeared small for a man of arms and young, no more than six and ten. He wore a plain and poor hooded mantle that covered his head, thick cotton leggings and worn suede boots, noticeably lacking knightly spurs and protective chain mail. A saber hung from a thick black belt—this tight around a mercilessly thin waist.

Two men came with lit torches and the torchlight mixed with the faint light of the moon behind clouds to illuminate the boy's remarkable face: remarkable because delicate lines drew a face far too comely for a young man. There seemed something angelic about the features, especially the large, widely spaced eyes, dark by night but still able to convey a haunting sadness. "Like Mary holding the Christ child," one of the women whispered in awe to her mother as they peered from a doorway.

The boy's strange impression registered strongly, yet the urgency of their message swept it into the background as his companion called into the stilled and quiet night, ''Hear ye, good people of Greve!'' His dark eyes searched the sea of frightened faces. "I ride with a warning from nearby Reales!"

"A warning from Reales?" The men looked confused, while Simone, the youngest among them, asked, "Then ye are with the French guard and the rebellion at the castle?"

"Aye! I am of the French guard of Castle Reales, in service to the lady."

"Lady Roshelle Marie?"

Urgency came with the question. All the countryside awaited news from Reales about the famous Lady Roshelle Marie. For she, blessed and cursed by God and aided by an army of angels, was turning the long tide of history and championing the Dauphin's cause. The boy king had no one left in these dark times: Papillion was gone, tortured, tried and killed for false crimes—the sorcery at the lady's first wedding, and even Louis, the Duke of Orleans, the very last champion of the Dauphin's cause, had been captured and now lived in the Tower of London, hopeless that his poor, frail nephew would ever be able to pay the ransom from a bankrupted treasury. Rodez, the Duke of Burgundy, had turned traitor—belly up like a whelped bitch, the people said—and now he, too, swore fealty to the King of England.

It was said God Himself ordained and protected Lady Roshelle Marie's chastity with a curse on men. Most believed it was true: the curse had left the saintly Roshelle Marie in purity, so that she might be used by God to set the land ablaze with rebellion.

"The lady is well indeed," the elderly knight informed them. "And with God's blessing, she shall keep her courage to continue the Dauphin's fight until every last godless Englishman is dead or pushed back to his wretched island homeland!"