Awaken My Fire (9 page)

"Hungry? I've a notion of solving both my problems by getting off this horse and roasting him!"

Potiers laughed, for the lady's appetite was almost as famous as her gifts. Which was a problem with the poor foodstuffs of the castle and villages. They kept the horses at a walk as Potiers handed her an apple and a piece of cheese wrapped in bread, which she hungrily devoured. "A maid gave me these, saying 'twas the least she could do as her thanks."

"Aye," Roshelle said. "In all my years I've never seen such gratitude as tonight—"

She stopped in mid-sentence and reined the horse to a stop, turning him around. Instantly Potiers checked his mount as well, abruptly cautioned by the sound of riders coming up fast behind them. "Curse the heavens! A scouting party of the duke, I wager!" He withdrew his sword. "Quick, into the trees."

With heels to her horse, Roshelle went quickly through the trees. Tossing his head back for control, the startled horse raced up the hillside at a gallop, Potiers at her side. Too late.

"Halt, ye trespassers! Halt! In the name of the glorious and grand Duke of Suffolk!"

Neither Potiers nor Roshelle heard the ribald laughter that followed the command. All Potiers knew was that his horse was long spent; he'd never beat a chase. He brought his horse up sharp. Seeing this, not understanding, Roshelle, too, pulled on her reins with all her strength. The stallion neighed furiously, raising himself high in the air. Roshelle screamed as she flew through the air, landing hard on her back, the wind knocked out of her. Her hip hit a hard rock. Pain shot through her side, but she ignored it, scrambling up quickly. Potiers jumped off his horse, careful to keep his reins in hand as he came to her aid. "Get on my horse. Quick."

"Nay! You are outnumbered—"

"Get ye on my horse! I've seen worse odds in my day, but I have no chance if I have to defend ye as well! Now—" Five riders broke through the trees. With one hand holding the reins and his sword, Potiers reached down to lift her to her feet, throwing her over the horse and slapping it hard. "Go, milady, go!"

The horse leaped into a gallop.

"Catch the bastard! To the chase!" An anguished cry of distress sounded mute against the wind of her flight as she heard the furious clang of steel. She stole a glance back to see Potiers fighting two men while one circled the fight on horseback, laughing menacingly as he cost Potiers a safe retreat. Two men raced toward her, scaring her nervous horse senseless. The tired mount gave the chase his last legs, but in the wrong direction, the creature so frightened that he no longer responded to the bit in his mouth.

Roshelle cried out as the horse carried her west at wind speed—directly toward the full regiment of the Duke of Suffolk.

She didn't think, couldn't think how to save herself. Darkness sped past her, the wind whipped her face and tears raced down her cheeks. The spooked creature raced past the forked road where she had just waited for Potiers. She clung tightly to the wild beast's side, more afraid of falling off or treacherous rocks and gullies hidden in the dark landscape than she was of the quickly approaching riders. Breathing dangerously hard and fast, and lathered white, the horse suddenly broke into a fast trot.

A small cluster of four or five farmhouses appeared off the road ahead. Roshelle did not hesitate. She flew off the horse as it slowed more, her feet running before they touched the ground. She raced off the road, turning to see the riders speed past on the road. She ran up to the first small cottage, and practically into the door, pounding furiously to wake the occupants.

"Mercy! Mercy! In the name of God and by all that is holy, open the door!"

Several seconds passed before a kindling stick struck a tallow candle, then another. The door opened. With sinking dismay, Roshelle viewed the man she would ask to save her. "Wits, Roshelle, wits," Papillion once told her. "You have no strength, but wits pitted against strength wins time and again." As she watched the shadows dance behind the scared old man on crutches, she tried to find some small hope in the fact that Papillion was rarely wrong.

The fastest rider came up at a gallop to the now abandoned horse. Tattooed with the French word for "prince," his strong hand reached out and grabbed the reins even as he turned back around. "The little bastard must have sought shelter from those farmhouses back there!"

Spurs set to mounts, the two riders raced back, stopping again when they met up with their two comrades who had fought that fool with the delusions of grandeur and the heroics of knights. Prince, the leader of the band, eyed Fort, who held the reins of the finest stallion he had seen inside of a year. "A fine piece of horseflesh."

"Worth his weight in gold, Prince, but lust not. He be mine!"

The dark-haired giant laughed. "Is he, now?" He dropped the reins of the other horse. A sword manifested in his hand and preferred a sudden, vicious strike. Fort cried out and grabbed his stomach. Blood quickly covered his arms as he fell unceremoniously to a heap on the ground, and the others only laughed as Prince grabbed the stallion's reins. "Now let's go get that little bastard and see what he has that's worth dying for. I mean besides his stallion."

"Hide thy hair!"

Deft fingers tied the string laces of an old woman's cotton patchwork gown—the kindly man's long-dead wife's peasant rag. The gown dropped to her knees—the length that separated the laboring class from merchant and noble. A strange light appeared briefly in the kindly old man's eyes as he viewed Roshelle in the painfully familiar rag, and he said, "Somehow I could not bear to part with her things."

Roshelle nodded her understanding, glad for the sentiment that might just save her yet, for the knights would be looking for a boy. No time to contemplate human feeling now, though, as with her heart hammering wildly, not daring to think of Potiers and his fate, she hurriedly unlaced her boots. Peasants were inevitably barefooted and she was now a peasant. She took the scarf to hide the white streak in her hair. The discovery of her identity would be the worst possible fate—they would no doubt use her to force her men to surrender. The man hid the boots with the rest of her clothes in back of a small cupboard in the buttery. He watched the lady dash up the ladder to the straw-covered loft where he used to sleep, before slowly making his way to his modest cot. With an effort, he sat down.

It was Lady Roshelle Marie St. Lille in his humble dwelling, and he still could hardly believe it. He wouldn't believe it if not for that white streak woven into her hair. He had seen her once before at her wedding-day parade, but 'twas from afar and in vastly different circumstances. The idea that Lady Roshelle would be dressed as a boy riding through the countryside to warn of the army's advance fit what he knew of her perfectly; after two, months in which the English had been held off at Reales, there wasn't a person in the whole of France who did not herald the name of Lady Roshelle.

Lady Roshelle sat up in his loft, his, the loft of humble Gilles of Brittany, and she depended on his aid to get her through the night alive, needing him to defend her person; he could hardly believe it. His gaze fell to his outstretched broken leg and he cursed it. He had just been making repairs on the roof when—

It did not matter. He would aid the lady or die in the trying. He might not be made of knightly stuff, but he was loyal to the French colors, to the noble lady and to the French cause, and he'd fight—

"Here they come, milady!"

Roshelle threw her head down in a pretense of sleep. Blood pounded furiously in her ears. If the duke's men had but an ounce of decency, they would inquire if there was a boy there, perhaps search the small place, then leave. Please to God keep the good old man safe; she murmured this prayer over and over until—

The sound of horses' hooves thundered up the road. Ribald laughter, curses and shouts came from outside. She held perfectly still, her fingers clutching the dagger, not daring a breath as boots came up to the door.

They did not knock.

The door fell with a solid kick and a loud clamor as it hit the floor. The sudden scent of perspiration, hot, unwashed bodies and foul wine rose from below. She blanched, her gaze flying wildly about the small space. Oh, God, oh, God—

"Where is the little bastard?"

She heard Gilles's pretense of outrage as he struggled up to meet the intruders, his broken leg sliding over the rush-covered earthen floor. “What goes here? In the name of God-"

A hard thawk sounded. Gilles's voice stopped in mid-sentence as he fell in a heap over the fallen door. Pale hands flew to her mouth to stop her scream just as drunken laughter sounded below.

"Strike a torch—I need to see.''

Did they kill him, dear God, did they murder for no cause? What had she been expecting? A pleasant chat to inquire if the good man of the house might not be hiding any outlaws?

The logs in the tiny hearth crackled with flame and a torch was struck from that—one that would surely bring the whole house down in flames. Then she heard, "Now find me the little wretch."

The demand came with the loud slap of boots on the hard wood ladder and grunts. Her blue eyes darted about the small space, riveting on the bucket left in the corner. She scrambled over and picked it up just as a bearded, ungainly face appeared at the top of the ladder. He took one look at her. "Mercy Madonna—"

Roshelle tossed the bucket with all her might. Luck made her hit his head, and hard. With a brief howl, he fell down the four steps into a dizzy heap on the floor. Her knife in hand, she edged quickly to the side of the ladder.

"A goddamn little wildcat up there—"

Yet he was laughing as he grabbed his head, the laughter more frightening than the curses. Another man started up and just as he reached the top, Roshelle thrust the dagger into his arm. He howled, grabbed his arm. Desperately, she tried to pull the dagger out. Flesh ripped viciously as the man fell back and Roshelle screamed. He landed five paces to the floor on his back, the dagger thrust into the thick, ripped muscle of his arm.

The nightmare began.

Roshelle's gaze flew frantically about the tiny space. Nothing left but a thin layer of straw over the hard wood! Her hands went clammy; she panicked some more. Quick as a wink, she scrambled to the far dark corner, but a mercilessly strong hand caught and held her bare foot and she screamed again. A hand wrapped tightly around the other foot, twisting it until she cried from the pain; then, with laughter, he pulled her toward him. Arms wrapped around her waist, squeezing. For a moment, she couldn't breathe and desperately she tried to pry his arm loose as he jumped to the ground.

She went wild. Nails raked his bearded face, drawing three neat, thin lines of blood, returning again as her feet pounded and thrashed against the hard muscles of his legs for all she was worth. The frightful giant laughed at this, her struggle putting fire in his loins. "Look at her! Ah, I like my wenches hot!" Abruptly the hands left her person. She stumbled two steps, drew a gasping breath, her heart hammering like a savage drum. She suffered the briefest moment's confusion before she leaped toward the door. Only to be caught by another, his laughter the devil's own as he threw her back to the giant named Prince.

The room spun with dark colors and shapes and shadows and nightmarish faces. Hot|, sweaty hands grabbed at her, pinched and hurt her amidst a noise made of howls and hoots, obscene words and laughter, the terrified screams of a young girl as they tossed her back and forth around a circle.

Her screams became a long, ceaseless cry. The hands, the terrible hands, the foul smell of stale wine and sweat and raunch, and the hands, get thine hands off me, make it stop, please to God make it stop . . .

Sick terror formed a desperate, loud and long NO in her mind. The bloodied arm pushed her back to the man Prince. His hands were like spiders crawling over her skin; she had to get them off her, to stop it, to make them stop. A knee lifted into a groin. An unnatural animal like cry sounded above the laughter. An open hand landed hard on her face. She was jolted against the wall, pain shooting from her neck and cheek. "Nooo" sounded weak as more hands came to her person, lifting her up and holding her with an arm against the hot, foul flesh of a body.

The spinning stopped. Terror seized her heart, she couldn't breathe, as her eyes beheld shadows dancing across the leering faces of four men. Prince caught her flailing arms, bringing them high on her shoulders until she threw her head back and arched in pain. Pale thin legs thrashed like a doomed and hung man. Pain in her arms shot through her body. She didn't know she still screamed until abruptly the sound stopped.

Stopped because the man rose, the one with the knife wound in his arm. Breathing hard and fast, she slowly shook her head as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, stepping to stand in front of her. The bloody weapon was put to her face. "You like to play with knives, little girl?"

The men laughed at the stark terror in her blue eyes, mounting, growing as the man, unmindful of the grotesque ripped flesh of his arm, ran the dagger lightly across a cheek, then her throat. She closed her eyes tight, bracing to feel the sting of the sharp blade, yet hearing uproarious laughter instead.