The Wife Test (33 page)

In exactly a quarter of an hour three search parties left Windsor at a gallop, one crossing the river, one riding the near side, and one fanning out to scour the countryside for evidence of several riders moving fast. Hugh rode the river route at the head of a party composed mostly of men who had returned with him from France … including Mattias, Withers, Fenster, and Willum.

He bent to his horse’s neck, scouring the moonlit countryside, hearing only the frantic drumming of hoofbeats in his head and feeling only the searing heat of urgency in his blood. A curious distortion of time overtook him. Each moment elongated and every sensation slowed for examination. It felt like he had all the time in the world … he would find her … hold her in his arms … finally tell her that he loved her … and prove to her that his heart was no longer divided.

Chloe. Dear God. If only he hadn’t been such a stiff-necked ass about everything. If only he hadn’t insisted he had all of the answers.

If only—his regrets quickly became prayers—if only God would allow him to find her and save her and love her all the days of his life … Could I love You any less? he asked God. Could I not love You more for all the joy and pleasure and faith she gives me? Would I not be a better man for thinking of another above myself?

In the distance, heading over a low hill, he spotted something that caught his attention then vanished from sight. Motioning to Mattias and Withers and the others, he pointed to the ridge, and they raced along after him, scouring the night-silvered fields of grain that moved like sea waves in response to their passing.

As they spurred their horses and raced faster, they spotted what appeared to be a group of riders disappearing into a small wood off to the left, a path that, if continued, would lead them down to the river’s bank. Both they and their mounts labored for breath, but they pushed on, fixed on that dark line of trees.

They had to slow to negotiate the treacherous path as they entered the darkened woods, and their only consolation was that the count’s men must have had to do the same. They picked their way along the narrow, branch-cluttered path, and used the slower pace to catch their breath. Then ahead of them they could see that the trees ended, and the moonlight once again seemed as bright as day. Something about that meeting of darkness and light spoke caution to Hugh, and he drew his blade as they rode a bit faster. The others, copying his example, drew their swords and tightened the grip of their knees on their horses.

Just as they emerged into the moonlight, they were attacked from both sides. Horses reared, blades clanged, and several of the men rolled off their mounts to take on the enemy hand to hand.

“We’ve got them!” Mattias bellowed at Hugh, who was still mounted. “Go on!”

With only a moment to decide, Hugh accepted the old campaigner’s assessment, shouted for the still-mounted Fenster and Willum the Axeman to follow him, and spurred his mount across the field that led down to the river.

Cresting a rise, they caught sight of a horse and rider disappearing into a shallow swayle, but not reappearing on the other side. Alarm shot thought Hugh. They were taking to the river! By the time they reached that same spot, it was clear, the count’s men had charged down a shallow ravine that led down to the river’s edge. There, they could see a sizable boat with a sail anchored not far off the bank.

They charged down the ravine, toward the boat, counting perhaps a dozen men visible … some on the boat deck, others struggling through the water with what appeared to be trussed figures, and still others stationed on the bank with blades drawn and glinting in the moonlight. The rear guard spotted them and, with blows and shouts, drove some of the horses back up the ravine to block their way. Hugh tried to squeeze his mount through the horses scrambling up the narrow chute for open ground.

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 himself. 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.