The Mistress Of Normandy (35 page)

During the headlong ride, her mind worked at breakneck speed. Bois-Long lay forty miles to the south. Charbu, fleet and strong, could cover the distance in three hours. But that fact failed to allay her fears. Once she reached the château, she would have to subdue the dauphin’s knights, find Gervais, capture him, and bear him back to Agincourt.

And what of Aimery? She experienced a deep, shuddering dread that her son was yet in danger. Gervais had fastened his ambitions on Bois-Long; he would naturally want to eliminate the heir to the château. Lianna prayed her desperate letter to her uncle of Burgundy had borne fruit.

A pale moon rose. Beneath all her hideous thoughts lay a frantic sense of urgency. If she could not bring proof of Rand’s innocence by noontide tomorrow, her husband would die.

Through the shadows, she recognized the long woods and water meadows of Bois-Long. Like a warrior spurring his horse to a final charge, she nudged the percheron to an all-out gallop. They shot through the last stretch of forest and burst into the clearing north of the château. She reined the horse to a halt. Charbu stood quivering, blowing loudly as she dismounted and tethered him to a tree. Briefly she collapsed against this sweat-slick neck. She’d arrived. But the difficult part of her journey lay ahead.

She touched the dagger stuck in her belt and started cautiously across the clearing. A rising wind sent shadows rippling over the tall, damp grass. The movement terrified her; if Gervais had sent
hobelars
out to scour the area, the scouts would surely find her. Bowing low, she moved into the inky shadow cast by the walls and towers of the castle.

The river, diverted to form a moat around the north face, slipped past in menacing silence. Parting the winddried reeds, she craned her neck to study the causeway. Like half-fallen sentinels, the bridge supports stood parting the current, creating fathomless whorls in their wake. Closer in, the more sluggish moat was alive with water lilies and darting insects. The bridge was drawn up; the boat she’d used to leave Bois-Long was gone.

A deep eddy of resentment swirled within her. This was her home, the seat of her ancestors, yet like an unwanted guest she must seek entrance by stealth.

And between her and home lay a dark span of water.

Glancing up, she spied movement on the wall walk. With a sinking heart she realized that sentries patrolled. Only a short time ago they’d disdained security measure against the puny English army. Now, in the wake of Henry’s victory, the overconfident French finally perceived a real threat.

Lianna crouched, frozen, until the sentry moved on. If he followed the logical pattern of surveillance, his rounds would take him another quarter hour before he returned.

Drawing up all the nerve and courage she possessed, Lianna took off her sabots and slid down the bank to the muddy fringe of the moat. Her toes mere inches from the dark water, she hesitated. Although she battled a current of fear, she could not draw her mind from a sudden terrible vision of her drowned mother’s colorless, waterlogged face.

Like an animal shying from a fire, she drew back and thought, This I cannot do. I’d brave the flames of hell before I could bear this. But an image of Rand swam into her mind. Rand, noble, loving, betrayed...and doomed.

A vaillans coeurs riens impossible.
His motto roared in her ears. To valiant hearts nothing is impossible.

For love of Rand and Aimery she’d crossed the Narrow Sea.

But those voyages had not required her to immerse herself in inky, breath-stealing water.

She must cross. She must. Her fear of water was her private demon, to be slain by her devotion to Rand. Calling up all the love in her heart and all the determination of her will, she stepped into the moat.

Coldness seeped around her feet and ankles; terror flooded her belly. Damming the tide of fear, she stepped lower. The muddy shelf at the water’s edge gave way, and she lost her foothold. She bit back a scream.

Like death-cold fingers the water crept over her body, her face, her scalp. Choking, limbs flailing, she fought her way to the surface.

Cool air rushed over her. She had but time for a single, life-giving gulp before sinking again. A liquid shroud closed over her. Every instinct told her to turn back.

Yet some rational part of her mind stood away from the panic. She remembered seeing the boys of the castle swimming, their sleek, nude bodies darting effortlessly through the water.

Gaining the surface for another breath, she attempted to duplicate those movements. She kicked, parting the water with a stroke of her arms. Plants caught at her, dragged her down. As she struggled, the torrent of fear sluiced over her again.

But Rand’s life depended on her fording the moat. New power, born of love-given bravery, flowed into her limbs.
Rand.
Her mind shouted his name with every kick of her feet, every stroke of her arms.

At last her knees sank into the mud at the opposite bank. Lianna burst from the water and scrambled to the base of the wall. She lay sodden, gasping and praying, weeping as fear ebbed into relief. She trembled, but forced her hands and feet to obey. She stood and glanced up at the wall walk. Oh, God, had the sentry heard the splashing?

Moving with unsteady caution, she crept below the drawn-up bridge and approached the steps to the water gate.

A man emerged from the reeds at the water’s edge.

Terrified, she shrank against the wall and stood frozen. She drew her dagger. The flash of steel brought the man to a halt. White teeth glinted as he grinned. In dread she recognized one of the dauphin’s knights.

“So you’re back, Baroness.” Almost casually his hand shot out and grasped her wrist, squeezed until the knife fell from her numb fingers.

“Please,” she said. “Please, in the name of mercy, sir—”

“I’ll have no mercy on an Englishman’s whore,” he growled. Pressing her against the wall, he pawed at her breasts. “A wet tunic suits your charms, my lady.” He leaned down and bit at her lips. He smelled of sweat, tasted of old wine. Revolted, Lianna jerked her head away and kicked at him.

He swore and shook her hard, rattling her teeth. “You’ll be sorry you did that, Baroness. Gervais had plans for you. He taunted his wife with them each night. He’s vowed to cast her aside, take you as his lady. But I believe I’ll be the first to sample you.” Groping hands and wet lips engulfed her.

Lianna screamed. Over his shoulder she saw still more men; a frantic tally revealed nine dark, ominous shapes. Oh, God, she thought, one I might survive, but nine... A whimper escaped her.

The knight spun around, wielding Lianna’s knife.

“Surely you’d not attack a man of the cloth,” said one of the men. A dull thud sounded; the knight crumpled.

Trailing mud and water, Lianna flung herself at him. “Father Batsford! Sweet Mary, I thought you were Gervais’s man.” The others surrounded her. Jack winced as she hugged him. “Oh, Jack, forgive me, I forgot you wound,” she said.

He waved his hand. “
Sir
Jack Cade, if you please. And I’ll not let a French pinprick stop me.”

“Lower your voice,” said Chiang. Lianna stared at her master gunner, loyal in secret to the English monarchy all these years. She could summon no anger at him. Urgently she motioned them up the steps. How they had come to be here did not matter; that she had their help meant everything.

Silent as shadows, they entered through a low door in the garden wall. “We must get to the armory first,” she said.

“We’re outnumbered at least three to one,” said Simon.

“So was King Henry,” Dylan whispered.

Jack muttered something to three of the others. They slipped along the wall, climbed to the upper battlement.

With cold, remorseless certainty Lianna knew the sentries were dead men. The blood price of Gervais’s treachery grew dearer by the moment.

“I’ll fetch Bonne,” said Jack, and moved toward the keep. “She’ll know what Gervais did with the tabard and seal.”

Crossing the bailey, they passed the kennels. One of the alaunt hounds whined and pawed at the gate. With a quiet command Lianna hushed the animal and thanked God her familiar voice forestalled a chorus of howling.

They entered the armory and moved through the silent gloom of weapons and armor. The smell of sulfur grew sharp as they neared the alcove where Chiang performed his alchemy. He struck flint and lit a candle. His narrow eyes made a quick assessment of the room. “Good,” he whispered. “They’ve left it untouched. We’ll need all the firepower we can concoct.”

“You’ve a plan?” asked Jack from the doorway. He and Bonne stepped into the room. Lianna rushed to hug her maid.

“My lady!” Bonne cried. “Oh, my lady, are you all right? You’re soaking wet. Here, I’ve brought you a dry smock and some shoes.” The maid wrung her hands. “Gervais swore you, Rand, and Aimery were dead. We’ve been all aggrieved.”

Lianna took the clean garment. “Save your worry for Rand.”

Bonne hung her head. “Jack told me. We’ll help you, my lady. By St. Wilgefort’s beard, we’ll help you.”

Jack had taken the men into the main room of the armory. Hurrying, Lianna shed her wet clothes and donned the ivory-colored smock. She fidgeted while Bonne scrubbed her hair dry with a towel. Then they both entered the armory.

She turned to address the men in a quiet voice. “We need Gervais, the
cotte d’armes,
and the chancery seal he stole.”

“He’s abed,” said Bonne. “The things are in his chamber.”

Jack reeled slightly; she hurried to his side to support him. “We’ll get Mondragon, my lady,” Jack promised.

Lianna put a finger to her chin. “But we cannot leave the way we came, not bearing a prisoner. It’s too risky, too slow.”

“No matter what we do,” said Piers, “the French knights will likely be down around our ears.”

“If we’re to meet the enemy, then let it be on our own terms.” Lianna paused; she had just referred to French soldiers as the enemy. So they were, as was any man who impeded her rescue of Rand.

Turning to the men, she sketched out her plan.

* * *

Dawn had come, and Lianna had not. Rand stared at the gray half-light that filtered through a grate high above.

He tried to understand why she had not allowed herself to be brought to him. Batsford had promised. But Rand had spent the night alone, with hostile guards outside.

Perhaps they hadn’t let her come. He sank deeper into despair. Perhaps Lianna had stayed away because she did not want to stain herself with a man looked upon as a traitor. God, was her love so thin, so shallow?

Would that he could shrug off his own love like an outgrown shirt. But he couldn’t hate her. He’d come to understand that she’d been as powerless as he in the struggle between their warring nations.

Incensed, he forced his mind to other matters. What would happen to his land, his rank? Would his title, not two years old, be attainted? Would his barony fall to Gervais, or would Henry send yet another Englishman to wed Lianna? Oh, Christ, he thought, and what of Aimery? Rand would never see his son grow into the flower of manhood. But perhaps that was a blessing, for all Rand had to leave him was a legacy of treason. He prayed Aimery would one day learn the truth and forgive his father.

His men... Rand wondered what had become of them. They’d followed him from England, conquered a castle with him, and fought by his side. Yet now, in his hour of greatest need, they’d forsaken him. Even Robert Batsford had not returned.

Regrets poured over Rand. He thought of Darby Green, dead in Rand’s service, his head on a French pikestaff. He thought of all the men he’d killed in his bloody career, men he’d snatched from families that needed them, all for the sake of a young knight’s ambitions. Jack had given his hand and perhaps his life; Chiang, a king’s secret son, had given his loyalty; and now Rand was about to give his head. And all the glory would go to the greedy Yorkists. Chivalry
was
an empty spectacle. Lianna had told him so once. He should have listened.

But today he would make the ultimate sacrifice to the ideals of knighthood. He squeezed his eyes shut and recalled a beheading he’d witnessed at Anjou. The axman had missed the victim’s neck and cut into the skull. The victim had whispered, “Sweet God have mercy,” before two more blows finally severed the head. Even then, tenacious sinew had still bound head to body. Sawing with his blade, the axman had cut it.

Rand shivered. God, don’t let the axman be some butcher. And please God, let me die well.

His head fell back against the wall. Through the hiss of fear in his ears he imagined Lianna singing, her voice like an angel’s. Most men, when faced with imminent death, remembered all the women they had held in their arms and loved.

But for Rand there had been only one.

* * *

The gray ghosts of dawn haunted the horizon by the time all was in readiness. As a cock crowed, Lianna stood by the well in the center of the bailey. Glancing about, she saw her comrades lying in wait for the signal. None, and she least of all, knew whether the signal would herald victory or death.

High on the wall, two men stood ready at each main gun—only instead of being turned toward the outlying fields, each cannon faced inward, pointed at the spot where Lianna stood. Chiang ran from gun to gun, checking charges and angles of aim.

She turned toward the keep and fastened her eyes on a cruciform arrow slit in a stairwell. Hurry, she thought. Please hurry. Just as the first weak light appeared, so did the signal. Robert Batsford’s knotted scourge dangled from the arrow slit.

So. Jack and Batsford had managed to subdue Gervais. Now all that remained was to flush out the French knights.

Gulping a deep, fearful breath, she lowered her gunner’s torch. The slow match smoked, fizzled, and died. Cursing under her breath, she tried again. The flame failed to catch. Frightened now, she bit her lip in concentration. If the knights were alerted too soon, they’d stop her. Hands shaking, she touched the torch to the fuse a third time. At last the match caught and burned toward the monstrous concoction of charges.