Claire Delacroix (16 page)

It was only fitting.

Yves slid his mother’s ring to the second knuckle of his smallest finger and looked at Quinn with newfound determination. “We have need of a plan,” he said firmly, “and must implement it quickly.”

Three days and nights of silence had reigned in the solar by the time the dressmakers came. The gates of Perricault were unassaulted and Gabrielle’s belly echoed hollowly. The trio of women smiled as Algernon let them through the heavy door, his bright glance pinning Gaston to a corner with an unvoiced threat.

That they brought hot food was an enticement Gabrielle did not even need. She knew full well what she had to do.

Gaston refused the food stoically, but Gabrielle frowned at him. “Come and eat,” she bade him sternly, sitting to do so herself. “You have need of a good meal in your belly.”

“But, my lady,” Gaston hissed, darting a glance toward the waiting women. “It could be
poisoned!
”

“At this point, a lack of sustenance may kill you just as quickly,” Gabrielle said matter-of-factly. She took a bite of rich rabbit stew and closed her eyes against her body’s response.

Gaston still hesitated, she noted.

“Gaston, do not fear the food,” Gabrielle urged quietly. “We are yet too useful to Philip for him to want us dead.”

And that was the simple truth. The argument evidently made some sense to the boy, for he sidled closer and accepted a bowl.

“We have brought the finest red samite for your wedding garb,” one of the women chirped, displaying the fine fabric for Gabrielle’s approval.

“And pearls to adorn it,” contributed another.

“Cloth of gold for your veil, and wondrous golden embroidery for the hems,” cooed a third.

“And look!” The first threw open a tiny chest filled with gleaming gems. “Our lord sends fine jewelry for your selection.”

Gabrielle waved a disinterested hand. “Do whatsoever you think fitting,” she said, and concentrated on eating her meal.

“Then you agree to be fitted for the nuptial gowns?” the first woman asked anxiously.

Gabrielle looked up to find all three of them, as well as Algernon, watching her avidly. From the corner of her eye, she saw Gaston freeze halfway to lifting a piece of bread to his mouth.

“Yes,” she said quietly, knowing there was nothing else she could do.

As difficult as it was going to be, wedding Philip was the only way that she could ensure Thomas’ safety. Even that was a tenuous proposition, but Gabrielle had no other choice. The rush of the river beneath the window was a haunting reminder of Philip’s threat. She had lain awake long into the first night, just listening to the water as she came to terms with what she must do.

It was clear that Philip meant what he said.

Gaston’s jaw dropped, as did his bowl of stew. The bowl clattered to the floor, and the women clucked in disapproval, but the squire rushed to clutch Gabrielle’s arm. “Surely, my lady, you are not considering wedding this cur?”

The three dressmakers inhaled simultaneously and Gabrielle shot the boy a quelling glance. “Mind your tongue, Gaston,” she said sternly. “Your opinions are not wisely shared here.”

The boy frowned, looked to the women, then leaned closer to Gabrielle to whisper, “But, my lady, I told you my lord would come to aid us.”

Gabrielle smiled mockingly, as much for the attentive dressmakers and Algernon as anything else. “And I know
you are wrong.” She added in a more gentle tone, “Eat your meal, for there may not be another for a while.”

Gaston, however, waved with indignation. “But this would be a travesty of a marriage! Have you not heard the minstrels sing of love between partners?”

This time Gabrielle’s wry smile was genuine. “Gaston, Gaston, such thinking has a place only in the troubadour’s chansons.”

The boy’s eyes widened in astonishment “But did you not love your husband?”

“Michel?” Gabrielle shook her head. “No, we had respect for each other and honesty between us. That is more than most can boast.” She noted the boy’s chagrin and chided him gently. “Gaston, ours was an arranged match and worked out better than most such marriages.”

“But he treated you with honor?”

Gabrielle nodded.

Gaston leaned closer, his gaze burning with conviction. “Then why can you not believe that my lord will do the same? Why do you insist that men follow their own advantage alone? Did your husband do as much?”

Indeed, Gabrielle could see why Yves had a difficult time in disciplining Gaston, for even when he exceeded the bounds of propriety, he did so with such genuine charm that she was tempted to answer.

“You are impertinent,” Gabrielle scolded, because she felt she should, and the boy’s ears heated to a dusky red.

But Gaston did not back down. “Did he?” he asked again, and Gabrielle could not help but smile at such persistence.

“No,” she conceded, “but he was spared the curse that makes men beyond selfish.”

Gaston frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Michel was not a handsome man, indeed he was most plain, and therein lies the reason for his solicitude.”

Gaston considered this for a moment, then obviously realized that his lord was fair of countenance. “But—”

“Enough!” Gabrielle said, more curtly than she intended. “You have had more answers than was likely wise of me to confide.” She set her bowl aside and turned to the waiting women, taking note of the avid curiosity upon their faces. “I would bathe before you begin.”

“Yes, my lady.” The three curtsyed low and one was dispatched. Algernon locked the door behind her, and Gabrielle had little doubt that man stood resolutely in the corridor beyond.

“Did you trust your husband?” Gaston demanded in a low voice.

Gabrielle turned to the boy to find his conviction still burning brightly in his eyes. His idealism was so strong, it touched her heart, and she hated that she must be the one to destroy his illusions about the ways of men.

“I trusted him to see to his own best interest,” Gabrielle said gently, “as do all men.” Gaston held her gaze stubbornly, as though he would will her to continue. Gabrielle sighed. “Gaston, I should have wed your lord when I had the chance. Then, coming here would have been in his best interests. But I did not and it is not, and now I must bear the price of my own folly.”

“He will yet come,” the boy insisted in a low voice.

Gabrielle shook her head. “We have had this argument before.”

Gaston’s shoulders sagged with the disappointment of his failing to convince her. Gabrielle thought she saw tears glisten in his eyes before he turned away and folded his arms across his chest. He looked much younger from the back, his tabard rumbled and his hair disheveled.

He picked up his bowl with disinterest and morosely picked at its remaining contents. “He will come,” Gaston whispered as he hunkered over his meal, almost murmuring to himself. “He will come and you will see that not all handsome men think only of themselves.”

And Gabrielle, to her own dismay, ached with the hope
that the boy was right, though she dared give no sign of her foolishness.

A full week had passed by the time Yves and Quinn reached Perricault once more. The sky was sullen overhead when they reached the perimeter of the estate, and Yves feared what might have happened to Gabrielle in those seven days and nights.

In this moment, his own confidence in their plan faltered, and it no longer seemed as destined to succeed as it had within the firelit solar of Sayerne. All the same, he did his part, secreting himself within one of three wagons.

From the outside, the wagons appeared to be bearing gifts, instead of armed knights. One seemed to be piled high with spoils of the hunt, though in truth only the slain peacock and the stag at the peak were genuine. Beneath the festooned straw was a false bottom and knights hidden in the space below.

The two other wagons were similarly outfitted—one sporting a pair of tapestries and hints of many more below, one apparently piled high with trunks and chests. These were all false sides and tops, and Yves crept into the darkness beneath. The men were packed elbow-to-elbow, and the wood cart groaned with the addition of Yves’ weight.

Yves could never have imagined he and Quinn might have raised an army of such magnitude. Fully fifty knights were hidden in the cramped quarters within the carts and another fifty trailed behind. These would reinforce the attack, along with those men-at-arms and others who wanted to lend their support. Yves had glimpsed more than one face familiar from Gabrielle’s camp.

It warmed his heart to find so many supporting the cause of Gabrielle, and Yves shook hands with all the men in his own cart before it lurched into movement. They jostled and bumped against each other, silencing the clatter of their weaponry
with gloved hands, more than one murmuring a prayer for protection as they drew nearer to Perricault’s gates.

What seemed long hours later, words were exchanged outside, the cart halting, then moving forward once again. Its wheels rattled across wooden planks and the rushing of the river filled Yves’ ears. The men exchanged resolute glances in the tight space as the carts began to mount the incline to the gates themselves.

“Hail there! Who arrives at Perricault?”

At the gatekeeper’s call, the men within the wagon straightened silently.

“Lord Quinn de Sayerne,” Quinn replied without hesitation. “I came to parlay with Philip de Trevaine.”

“Does he expect your company, sir?”

Quinn chuckled easily. “I doubt as much, for I do come unannounced. I bring gifts for your lord, as proof of my true intent in welcoming him as my neighbor.”

Yves hoped full well that any irony he detected in his brother’s tone was due to his own imagination alone.

There was an indistinguishable murmur, then Yves’ heart pounded at the familiar sound of Perricault’s portcullis being raised.

“Welcome, Quinn de Sayerne!”

The carts lunged forward again, the tired old mules Quinn had set to yoke straining against the weight Yves thought he felt the chill of the gates fall over them, then the wheels rattled on cobblestones. An eternity later, the portcullis creaked again.

They were inside Perricault.

“Quinn de Sayerne,” cried another voice. “Come! My lord will meet you within the hall.”

Footsteps echoed and faded. The men eyed each other as silence fell around the cart once more, and settled to the difficult business of waiting for their signal.

Yves gripped his own blade and heard Gabrielle’s prayers echo in his ears like an anthem. By all that was holy, he
thought grimly, if Philip de Trevaine had harmed a hair on that woman’s head, Yves would dispatch that man with his very own hand.

Would that he had the chance.

T
he sound of horses on the morning of the wedding sent Gaston running to the window. His dismay that the opening faced away from the bailey was immediately evident.

“You are wrong,” Gabrielle chided quietly, wishing the boy would face the simple truth that his lord would not come. One of the dressmakers clucked her tongue, turning Gabrielle to face her as she placed a last stitch in the hem of the lavish surcoat.

Gaston fired a glance to Gabrielle that spoke volumes, but before they could begin again the argument they had had a thousand times, a man laughed in the portal.

“Ha ha!” Philip himself swept into the solar, his smile more sunny than Gabrielle thought was warranted under the circumstances. A week without his company had certainly done little to improve his appeal.

He whistled through his teeth and circled Gabrielle, his gaze so hot upon her that she nearly fidgeted. “Are you not the most beautiful bride in all of Christendom?” he demanded gallantly, then bowed deeply to her.

Gabrielle folded her arms across her chest at this unwelcome display. “Good morning,” she said crisply.

Philip’s smile only widened, though he arched a brow as
he regarded her. “No smile from my fetching bride?” he taunted.

Gabrielle forced a facsimile of a smile, her patience stretched thin both by the fussing of the women and the sullen insistence of Gaston. Though the squire’s faith in Yves was touching, it had certainly proven to be unfounded as the days went by and the knight did not appear.

Gabrielle did not blame the boy for his poor reconciliation to the truth, for she was surprisingly disappointed herself. Not that she had
truly
believed Yves would come—oh no, nor even that it would have been reasonable to hope as much.

Gabrielle told herself that that could only be because the prospect of wedding Philip was not a welcome one, or because she was concerned for Thomas.

Sadly, neither of those reasons seemed adequate explanation for the full weight of her disappointment.

Surely she could not have come to care for the handsome knight who had taken her cause? Surely Gabrielle knew better than to even wonder whether a man could truly care for something beyond himself?

Suddenly she became aware that Philip was watching her avidly. Had he guessed the direction of her thoughts? Her heart skipped a beat and she uttered the first words that came to mind.

“You seem in a fine mood this morn.”

“And why not?” Philip swaggered across the room, dismissing the dressmakers with a sweep of his hand. They scattered like so many skittish birds. “On this very day, I shall wed the lady who has long held my heart,” he continued, a mocking note in his voice.

“Surely the situation does not demand such empty flattery,” Gabrielle replied, her tone more harsh than she intended.

Philip’s eyes narrowed and his smile faded. “As you wish,” he said flatly. “I am in a fine mood for I shall shortly
wed the lady who can secure my suzerainty over Perricault.” He arched a dark brow. “Better?”

Gabrielle shrugged. “It is at least honest.”

“Oh, it is that,” Philip mused. He examined his nails, and Gabrielle wondered what else was afoot.

“Did I hear someone arrive this morning?” she dared to ask.

Philip’s smile flashed anew. “That you did, my Gabrielle, that you did.” A glint lit his eye, making Gabrielle suddenly more distrustful. “Quinn de Sayerne has cleverly come to plead truce.”

Gabrielle had met the lord of Annossy and Sayerne only twice, but he struck her as a man of uncommon principle, not unlike Yves de Sant-Roux.

“Quinn de Sayerne would not! He has not!”

Philip fired a sharp glance her way. “He has indeed,” he insisted, with such confidence that Gabrielle could not doubt his word. “He has, in fact, done precisely what I expected him to do.”

“I do not understand.”

Philip laughed aloud at Gabrielle’s confusion. “And so you would not, my bride, because I have not told you the entire tale.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned nonchalantly against the wall, his lips quirking with self-delight “Indeed, this is the finest sign of my success thus far.”

“That Quinn de Sayerne comes to make a truce with you?”

“Yes!” Philip’s eyes gleamed. “Because I dispatched Seymour de Crecy to win precisely this truce—”

“Seymour de Crecy!” Gabrielle gasped. “Seymour de Crecy was pledged to you?”

“Seymour de Crecy
is
pledged to me,” Philip corrected coldly.

“But he was the one who told Yves of your departure!”

“A lie, artfully planted, would you not say?” Philip asked mildly.

Gabrielle was outraged by this news. “He bent his knee to Yves de Sant-Roux! He pledged to our cause!”

“He lied,” Philip concluded crisply, then shook his head bemusedly. “Indeed, my Gabrielle, you have some fetching ideas about the worth of a man’s word.”

Too late, it all became clear. Seymour was the reason why Philip had known of their attack, and Seymour had been the weak link in Yves’ receipt of news. Gabrielle felt sickened that she had not insisted that Yves accept her instinctive distrust of the man, and felt doubly responsible for all that had gone awry.

“And what is yours worth to Quinn de Sayerne?” she demanded bitterly.

Philip smiled anew. “Precious little, I am afraid,” he admitted readily. “But I shall accept his gifts and play along with this game of truce for as long as it suits me.”

His callousness appalled Gabrielle. “You will deceive him as well!”

“But of course. It is only a matter of time before all of Tulley comes under the weight of my hand.” Philip watched as Gabrielle struggled to hide her response to this revelation. She thought she might have been successful until he spoke.

“Please do not tell me that you have changed your mind about our nuptials, my Gabrielle,” he murmured in a dangerously low voice. “Or shall I have Algernon fetch your son? He might enjoy a swim on such a day.”

“No!” Gabrielle cried, her tears threatening to choke her. “No, do not hurt Thomas!”

Philip smiled and offered her his elbow as though nothing was amiss. “Then come, and let our new ally witness our nuptials. We have, after all, a great deal to celebrate this day.”

With a supreme effort, Gabrielle swallowed the lump in her throat, stepped forward and took Philip’s elbow.

For Thomas’ sake, she had no other choice.

Philip turned as his other hand locked over hers, and he
stared into her eyes. “You see,” he hissed, “Seymour, was bidden to go to Sayerne only after he saw Yves de Sant-Roux dead.”

Gabrielle felt the blood drain from her face. Her mouth dropped open and she could not utter a sound, though Gaston gave a strangled cry behind her. Gabrielle stared into the cold light of conviction in Philip’s eyes and felt the world had suddenly stopped.

Yves was dead.

“You had no need to do such a thing,” she whispered unevenly. “He had already retreated from Perncault.”

“A man in my position can take no chances,” Philip asserted smoothly. “Indeed, one can never be certain what lengths a man of honor might follow to fulfill his word. They are a most curious breed.”

“He would have come!” Gaston cried from behind them.

Gabrielle closed her eyes against the heartbreak echoing in the boy’s voice. A warm tear broke free of her lashes and spilled over her cheek. It could not be that that knight was dead, and only because she had persuaded him to take her cause.

“He would have come, I know it!” Gaston insisted, his voice rising boyishly high.

“Shut up!” Philip snapped. “Or Algernon shall toss
you
from the window!”

He hauled Gabrielle from the solar, and she felt the brooding presence of Algernon before she saw him in the shadows of the corridor. The door to the solar was slammed behind them, Gaston trapped behind with his disappointment.

“Down to the hall,” Philip commanded, emphasizing his words with a shove to Gabrielle’s shoulders. She stumbled slightly until Philip’s gloved grip landed securely on the back of her neck.

“And there will be no nonsense from the likes of you on this day,” he hissed.

Gabrielle glanced over her shoulder, only to find his gaze
even more chilling than it had been before. Her heart went cold.

“Do we understand each other?” he demanded, and Gabrielle could only nod silently.

Philip gave her another shove toward the stairs. There would be no respite for her now, Gabrielle understood, for she would shortly become the wife of an uncommonly cruel man.

Would Yves have come if he had not been ruthlessly killed? she wondered. Now she would never know.

She stumbled along the hall, feeling that some spark within her had died with Philip’s news. It mattered markedly less to Gabrielle what her own fate would be, but she hoped that her submission would win some concession for her son.

Otherwise Yves would have died for nothing, and Gabrielle could not bear the thought of that.

The owl call did not come nearly soon enough for Yves’ taste.

All manner of fears darted through his mind, a thousand uncertainties raised their heads and countless foul possibilities that he and Quinn had never considered came to mind in the silent shadows of the cart.

Then the owl hoot sounded as clearly as a bell.

Yves was on his feet and out of the wagon in a heartbeat, his helmet slammed on his head, his blade swinging. The other knights followed with singular speed, and in a dizzying instant, the bailey of Perricault was once more filled with the clash of steel upon steel.

Yves dispatched three sentries, ensured that the gate was taken and the reinforcements on their way up the hill before he dove through the portal of the château. Twenty knights followed close at his heels. Yves blinked twice at the relative darkness, then plunged onward, following the sounds of swordplay to the hall.

Quinn struck down a mercenary with a savage blow just
as Yves burst into the room. His brother was sorely outnumbered here, for the hall was filled with Philip’s men.

Torches smoked from sconces on the wall, painting the fighting men in flickering orange light. The table had been set for grand festivities, though when Yves roared a battle cry, his men lunged forward to engage the enemy, disregarding the spread of fine linens and candles.

A steely eyed mercenary came after Yves, but he had only to think of Gabrielle, and Thomas and Gaston, to see the man dead in a trio of quick strokes. Truly, Yves had never burned for vengeance as he did this day.

“No!” a familiar feminine voice cried.

Yves pivoted in time to see a slight but finely garbed man haul a crimson-clad woman toward the stairs on the far side of the room. She was tall and slender, though her features were obscured by a fine veil.

Could this be Gabrielle? Yves pushed his way closer, his heart leaping in recognition as the lady bit her assailant with a force that made that man bellow aloud.

Gabrielle, no doubt, he concluded with pride.

“Bitch!” the man that must be Philip de Trevaine cried out. He backhanded Gabrielle and she fell against the stairs with a gasp that wrenched Yves’ heart. Her veil fell away, revealing the pallor of her skin and the bright red imprint of Philip’s knuckles on her soft cheek.

The desire for retribution burned with the vigor of a newly kindled flame within Yves. Nothing could have kept him from Philip de Trevaine. He cut. down one warrior after another, his stroke sure and lethal, even as Philip virtually dragged Gabrielle up the stairs.

The pair had disappeared into the shadows lurking above by the time Yves reached the foot of the stairs, but he plunged into the darkness all the same.

Silence greeted his ears from the upper floor and Yves instinctively slowed his pace. Silence seemed to be a warning
sign from this Philip, for such a silence had greeted their attack upon Perricault’s gates.

A woman fought to catch her breath, the sound cut short so quickly that Yves knew she had not fallen quiet willingly.

The sounds of battle faded behind him as he focused on the shadows ahead and strained for a sound that would reveal what awaited him.

Nothing carried to his ears.

Yves’ pulse thundered with such vigor he was certain all would hear it. He tightened his grip upon the hilt of his blade and took another step.

And another.

And yet another.

Only four steps remained to the summit, then a yawning blackness stretched beyond. How long was the corridor? How many openings?

Where was Lady Gabrielle? A woman gasped and Yves braced himself for he knew not what. Trusting the lady, he lifted his blade, then cautiously stepped forward again.

Light flashed with sudden brilliance, blinding him with its intensity. He barely glimpsed a shadow coming for him. A blow landed so heavily against his sword that Yves almost fell to his knees. It would have killed him had he not been prepared.

But he had been warned.

A mere heartbeat after taking that near-fatal step, Yves was dodging a wicked blade. The newly lit torch illuminated a terrifying giant of an opponent, bald and bearded, who swung a great blade at Yves with savage accuracy.

Indeed, the expressionless giant never seemed to take a breath, his blade falling with steady regularity again and again

Twice, three times, Yves evaded the weight of the sword, his mind working like quicksilver. Behind his opponent huddled a pair of shadows, undoubtedly the lady and Philip himself.

But before he could aid Gabrielle, Yves had to dispatch Philip’s guardian. It occurred to him that the man, despite his obvious determination to see Yves minced, did not appear to be the sharpest blade in the armory.

Yves thrust at his opponent, checking his response, and earned a bone-shattering blow against his own blade. He faltered slightly, aware of the lady’s gasp, and took a step down with apparent unwillingness.

The giant grinned and gave chase.

Yves thrust again and his opponent parried the blow with tremendous force. To Yves’ delight, though, he noted that the much larger man leaned out over the stairs to make his play.