Claire Delacroix (13 page)

The beast screamed. Gabrielle gasped.

Yves swore and swung hastily about, snatching Gabrielle in midair and slinging her across the front of his saddle. He never missed a stroke, though Gabrielle’s head spun with the speed of his response.

It seemed all the breath had left her lungs.

But Yves took all in stride.

“Leon!” he raged.

That man was beside his lord in a heartbeat, his own blade swinging with a deadly rhythm against their foes.

“Take her!” Yves muttered, evidently unwilling to name Gabrielle in the present company. “Flee this place!”

“But, my lord—”

“Do it!” Yves parried a particularly vicious swipe before firing a significant glance at the other knight. “And do it
now.
” He gave Gabrielle’s rump a smack more fittingly delivered to an errant squire. “Go!”

Leon glared at Gabrielle when she hesitated, but she could see the wisdom of Yves’ thinking.

And she
had
pledged to follow his dictate, as much as that recollection burned.

The horses bumped alongside each other and Gabrielle managed to clamber onto the back of Leon’s saddle. That knight pivoted smartly, even as she struggled to sit behind him, and his destrier stepped away.

Gabrielle looked back, but Yves was deeply engaged with the leader of Philip’s troops. It was not Philip himself, for the knight did not wear the colors of Trevaine, but still his skill was deadly, and Gabrielle feared for Yves’ survival.

To her dismay, a shadow lunged into the gatehouse even as Leon headed in that direction. The gate creaked anew and began its descent once more.

“No!” She clutched at Leon’s shoulder. “Yves cannot be left trapped inside!”

“My lady! He knows full well what he does.”

“We must warn him!”

“There is no time!” Leon gave his steed his spurs.

Gabrielle looked back, wishing desperately that she could alert Yves to the danger, but now two knights engaged him simultaneously in battle.

Unfair!
Gabrielle wanted to cry, but then she heard a sound that stopped her heart.

Somewhere, far above her, a child was crying.

Thomas!

T
homas!

Gabrielle could not think any further than that. She slipped from the back of Leon’s horse before they rode through the gates, determined to reach her frightened child. She fell heavily to her knees in the bailey of Perricault.

Mercifully, no one seemed to notice her move. Leon rode on, blissfully unaware that he did so alone. His shadow galloped beneath the falling portcullis and he was gone.

Thomas cried with renewed vigor and Gabrielle knew she could not afford to linger. He would be in the solar, if he had his choice, in the southern corner where the sun’s rays played in the morning.

A lump rose in Gabrielle’s throat as she pictured her son trying to grasp a fistful of sunlight in days long before these troubled times. Her cheerful Thomas, always ready with a smile.

Now he wept, as he never had then. She blinked back her tears and shoved Yves’ blade into her stolen chausses.

Her son needed her.

Gabrielle gritted her teeth and crawled through the melee toward the nearest wall. Stallions stomped on all sides, men slid limply from their saddles and blood fell like rain.

And one who listened closely would have heard Gabrielle
whispering the prayers that had become a part of her life, the prayers she had taught Yves to recite just the night before.

When she gained the wall and stood to sidle around its perimeter, Gabrielle was too focused on her goal to note that another pair of footsteps echoed stealthily behind her own.

Deceived, deceived, deceived!

The word echoed in Yves’ mind like a litany and resonated with every fall of his blade. He could not believe his own fool hardiness, but at least the lady was clear of this place.

Regardless of what befell Yves within these walls, he could not have countenanced a failure to see Gabrielle safe.

The gate creaked behind him once more and Yves’ lifted his head to find the portcullis descending again. His opponent dealt a blow to his shoulder that bit despite his chain mail.

Curse them! Another gatekeeper sought to imprison the rest of his troops within the walls. Yves thrust with renewed vigor and saw the knight who had wounded him fall in the dirt.

He spun Merlin adroitly and took stock of the situation. Only five men were left to his hand within the bailey, at least that he could see. Great numbers had fallen and lay still.

Yves grimaced, his heart sinking when he did not spy Seymour. That man had paid dearly for his bravery in sliding through the gates alone.

And where was Gaston? Yves scanned the bailey once more. The boy would turn him gray before his time. Imagine! Taking the gatehouse singlehandedly! The combination of bravery and impetuousness was dizzying.

But Gaston was nowhere in sight. A sick feeling rose in Yves’ throat, but the portcullis was descending with relentless speed. He could only pray that Gaston had already left the bailey, for there was nothing Yves could do. He had to try to lead these remaining knights back to the camp.

Otherwise they all would perish.

“Retreat!” he roared. Those knights who could clustered their steeds about him.

Yves reached down and hauled a lamed man into his saddle before him as he passed, several of the other knights following suit He waved the knights onward, scanning the fallen while the man he had rescued murmured relieved prayers.

When Yves was certain they had claimed all who still breathed, he headed for the gate. Too late, he saw that he was the last of the party and the portcullis was falling with dangerous speed.

Yves spurred Merlin, but the beast needed no urging for the task. Yves’ heart rose in his throat as the gate creaked downward and Merlin lunged forward.

They would not make it!

The man before him moaned in fear. Yves lay across his saddle, certain they would be impaled. Merlin hunkered low and ran.

Cloth tore as Yves’ cloak was snagged by the wicked spikes. Then he saw the lighter indigo of the night sky beyond the gatehouse and dared to breath a sigh of relief.

And the gate clanged home behind him, barely missing Merlin’s heels. The pursuing troops roared in protest at the obstacle, but Yves spurred his destrier onward.

Far across the river, he glimpsed a rider that must be Leon riding with all haste, his cloak billowing out behind him and obscuring the lady Yves knew rode to safety there. Relief flooded through Yves at the sight. A flurry of battle greeted their eruption from the gates, but the knights who had closed the path behind them seemed more content to let them retreat than risk further injury.

Yves could not yet begin to think of the men they had lost.

Yves had not counted upon the orange flicker of flames shining through the night shadows of the forest. He stood in his stirrups, incredulous as the smell of burning assaulted his nostrils.

“The camp burns!” muttered heavy set Franz, his tone echoing Yves’ disbelief.

But who would do such a thing? Surely they had left all of Philip’s troops behind?

And what was the fate of those they had left in the camp?

Fear clutched Yves and he urged the tired destrier onward at all speed They reached the gates, which had been wreathed in greenery just hours past, only to find them ripped open and cast in flame. Their skeletal remains framed the raging fire that burned recklessly in the camp.

In the midst of it all stood Leon, his helmet tossed aside. The knight looked bewildered, though he held the reins of both his destrier and silver Methuselah.

Methuselah. With lightning speed, Yves made the connection he had missed thus far. He had heard
one
horse flee the confusion of the attack. Yves slowed Merlin to a canter as the men following him did the same

“Wait here. Something is sorely amiss.”

Yves waved the men back as he dismounted. He surveyed the vestiges of the walls, the hungry flames and the surrounding woods, but could see no one other than Leon. Now he saw that Leon had been divested of his weapons. Yves took a deep breath, fully certain of who he would find within but seeing no other way to resolve matters.

He stepped through the burning gates alone.

“My lord, welcome home.” Seymour greeted him with a cocky bow.

Just as Yves had suspected! It was Seymour who had purportedly overheard Philip’s plan. He had slipped back here during the confusion of the attack, having known full well that Yves was destined to lose.

Seymour was Philip’s spy.

“It was you,” Yves declared, sick at his own gullibility. “You laid Philip’s trap, both this time and the last.”

Seymour pulled his sword from its scabbard and the menacing blade reflected the orange light of the flames. “He sent me to Perricault to learn its weaknesses.”

“The lady was right about there being someone inside.”

Seymour smiled coldly and shrugged. “It can matter little to admit the truth now.”

Yves’ gaze flew to Leon, only to belatedly note that the lady was not present. Where was Gabrielle?

“Leon?” he demanded, and the knight looked shamefaced.

“Thrice made a fool in one night, my lord. Once by Philip, once by the lady, who slipped from my steed at some point, and once by this upstart, who surprised me here.”

Seymour smiled. “No doubt she is being adequately entertained at Perricault,” he murmured. “Philip has an inexplicable fancy for her charms.”

No!
Rage burst within Yves. It was unthinkable that Gabrielle should be so poorly used! This man was the one whose deception had put Gabrielle at risk. A cold desire to see this wrong avenged settled around Yves’ heart, and he knew Seymour would not leave this place alive.

“You granted your pledge to me, and earlier to Michel de Perricault,” Yves said, hearing the low thrum of anger in his voice. “Is your word worth nothing?”

Seymour laughed. “Words are but words, Chevalier, and easily uttered. You are a fool if you put stock in a man’s pledge alone.”

“An honorable fool, then.”

“Ah, and where does that honor see you in the end? No less dead than otherwise.”

Clearly Seymour was one of those whose loyalty could be bought in hard coin alone.

Yves stepped farther into the camp, his heart sinking at the extent of the willful damage. What had happened to those women and children left here, supposedly in safety? Oh, he had failed Lady Gabrielle, and more spectacularly than his worst nightmare.

A clash of steel upon steel rang from the other side of the gates and men cried out in surprise. Yves pivoted at the sounds of swordplay, then turned back on Seymour.

That man’s smile broadened. “A small reception for your
compatriots,” he purred, and Yves hated that yet again he had stepped into this man’s trap.

“You wanted me and I am here,” Yves said. “Release the others.”

Seymour shook his head and turned his blade in the firelight. “No one will leave this place who is not pledged to Philip de Trevaine. Those are my orders.”

It was outrageous to see men slaughtered for no good reason, but Yves controlled his temper with an effort “This fire is of your design, as well?” he asked, forcing his tone to remain even.

Seymour nodded acquiescence. “An assignment from my true liege lord, and sadly for you, not the last.” Seymour hefted the weight of his blade and eyed Yves assessingly. “You see, Yves de Sant-Roux, I have been commissioned to ensure that you in particular do not live to see the dawn.”

Yves unsheathed his own blade, more than ready to duel this snake to the death. “And is your sworn word worth as little to Philip de Trevaine as it was to me?” he taunted.

The mercenary laughed. “That we shall have to see.” He swung his blade and stepped closer. “
En garde,
Chevalier.”

The hall of Perricault was abandoned, only the remnants of a meal scattered on the boards. The place looked as though men had risen quickly to take to arms and left all as it stood. A fire reduced to embers glowed on the hearth, and despite the roar of warfare coming from the bailey, the sound of the child’s weeping echoed more loudly here.

Gabrielle carefully looked to either side. There was no sign of another living soul. Even the dogs were absent. She crept up the stairs to the solar on silent feet, hesitating in the long shadows at the summit.

Again, nothing moved but the flickering flames of the torches. The corridor ran straight to the solar itself, though that door was closed.

And the sound of tears came from behind it.

It could be another trap of Philip’s design, but it was one artfully baited. Gabrielle could not leave Thomas alone.

She looked about herself once more, then darted down the corridor. A great oak bar had been mounted across the width of the door like a drop latch, so that the door could no longer be opened from the inside.

Gabrielle struggled to lift its weight, well aware that Thomas’ weeping had stopped at the sounds of her struggle. Had he learned to dread any arrival? Gabrielle’s heart wrenched, but she did not dare to whisper reassurances to him lest she be overheard.

Thomas sniffled uncertainly.

With herculean effort, Gabrielle lifted the bar and flung open the door. She swept into the room and immediately saw the small boy huddled beneath the window, where she had guessed he would be.

He shrank back, as though he would disappear into the very wall, and Gabrielle froze in place.

There was no candle in the room, but moonlight fanned through the window above Thomas, painting his fair hair silver. The solar brooded in silence, the dust thick on every surface. The braziers were gone; the stone walls radiated cold. This was a far cry from the warm and inviting room Gabrielle had maintained here.

Thomas eyed her uncertainly.

Gabrielle feared suddenly that her son might not remember her. Six months was an eternity for one his age. She ached to check his fingers and toes, ensure that he was not injured, marvel over how much he had grown, stare into the dark eyes he had inherited from Michel, and discover what he had endured.

But she must not frighten him more than he already was.

“Thomas,” Gabrielle whispered, creeping carefully into the solar as she spoke. “It is
Maman.
”

Silence greeted her confession. She saw the shadow of
Thomas’ fist rise to his mouth. He had chewed his fist as a babe and still did so in those rare times of great duress.

“
Maman?
” Disbelief echoed in Thomas’ words, but he straightened slightly with curiosity. Gabrielle could feel his gaze upon her as she cautiously continued.

What had the poor child suffered in her absence?

“I have come for you,” she whispered, her voice reassuring and low. “And only regret that it has taken so very long.”

The moonlight painted a panel of light on the floor, and Gabrielle, intent on her son’s response, did not realize when she stepped into its ethereal light.

“
Maman!
” Thomas cried when he spied her face.

He hurled himself suddenly toward her, arms outstretched and legs running as fast as they could carry him. Gabrielle noted fleetingly that his hair had darkened to a tawny gold, before she snatched him up in her arms and held him close against her pounding heart.

Thomas buried his face in her tunic and locked his arms around her neck. “
Maman,
” he whispered against her throat and his tears soaked Gabrielle’s garb.

“Thomas! Oh, Thomas!” She rocked his precious weight in her arms and murmured reassuringly to him. He was too heavy for her to carry now, but she did not care.

Gabrielle felt her own tears slip down her cheeks. She cuddled Thomas close as she led him to his window, nestling him in her lap as she sat down in the moonlight.

Her child.

He was whole and, as far as she could discern, unscathed, though he was more slender than he had been before. Thomas had grown a little taller, for Gabrielle could see that his sleeves had become short.

When she checked behind his ears, then tweaked them with a click of her tongue—as she always did when he was sorely in need of a bath—Thomas smiled through his tears for the first time. The moonlight showed the wet spikes of his lashes
as he looked up at her, and the pair smiled at each other for a long moment.