Heather Graham (10 page)

But then the Frenchman pressed forward with an aggressive attack, and his opponent so smoothly side-stepped him that the impetus of his movement sent him pitching forward, his blade catching deep into the earth. Unbalanced, he fell forward to the ground. He was a seasoned fighter, and quickly rolled in an effort to leap to his feet again, but too late.

The Englishman already stood above him, the capped point of his sword just above the Frenchman’s throat.

Everyone leapt up again.

The cheers and shouts were deafening, even more so when the young Englishman pulled his sword back, bowed in deference to his opponent, and reached out a gauntleted hand to help his enemy to his feet. Every bit as chivalric, the downed Frenchman accepted the assistance and the two rose, bowing deeply together. D’Elletente then returned to his horse and squire, while MacLachlan strode forward, sheathing his sword, unlatching his visor from his bascinet, then lifting the whole of his helmet from his face.

Danielle saw instantly why it seemed his eyes glittered so—they were gold, or as close to that color as eyes might truly be. Not brown, not green, but some color in between, as bright as a sun’s ray. He had a full, rich head of deep red-gold hair to complement his eyes and the fine strong features, hard and unlined. He came instantly to the queen, bowing to her first, and then to his king. Edward remained standing. “Remarkable, Milord MacLachlan. Remarkable! Name what prize you would have of your king!”

MacLachlan hesitated just a moment, then said, “Sire! I have been informed that David of Scotland raised an army, as commanded by Philip of France, and came against your barons in the north of England.”

“That’s true,” Edward said, eyes narrowing. “He was met by my barons at Neville’s Cross near Durham, and is even now my prisoner. If you would ask his freedom—” the king began, anger in his voice.

But MacLachlan spoke quickly, “Nay, my lord, I would not ask what you could not give. I merely ask that you offer him mercy as you keep him in prison and remember he is your sister’s husband, and beloved of the Scots.”

“All that is granted. You ask nothing for yourself?”

MacLachlan grinned. A handsome grin, with a devil’s own touch to it.

“The time will come, milord king.”

“Ah, but will you always be victorious?”

“Sire, it is my plan.”

Laughter arose.

“I suppose, my young lord, that your time will come!” the king said.

“My thanks, your grace,” MacLachlan said, lowering his head to the king once again before quitting the field—amidst another thunderous rise of cheers.

Danielle, deeply disappointed that the charming and talented Frenchman had not won, did not watch the victor quit the field. At first, she was only dimly aware of the conversation around her as men and ladies chatted about the daring young MacLachlan. “He defended the prince like a wildcat at Crécy!” Someone said.

“So young!” came another soft, feminine sigh.

“Rest assured, he has been brilliant from a very,
very
young age,” the queen supplied. “Edward told me that as a lad, MacLachlan was the military mind behind his siege of Aville, and that the castle fell because of the lad. Aville was taken, and returned to the fold of those loyal to the king!”

The castle at Aville …

Her castle!

She knew the story well enough. King Philip had needed to escape Edward. Danielle’s mother had defended Aville, allowing the English king to think that Philip remained within the walls, while the French king escaped. But despite her mother’s valiant efforts, the castle had fallen, and Lenore had become a prisoner.

And so, Danielle thought, I am here now—me king’s ward. His prisoner, she thought, just as her mother had been.

And now she knew why. MacLachlan! Her fingers curled into her palms as she sat. Her hands formed fists. Great knight indeed! And his intent was always to be victorious. What nerve! Every man paid the price of his actions.

As of that night, Danielle began to have sweet dreams in which she managed to take on the knight herself—and slice and dice him to ribbons. She wished desperately that she could challenge him on the field, but he was a knight, and she was not quite eleven years old.

One night, not long after the tournament, she saw pepper on the table. She stared at it, reminding herself that she hadn’t the strength, power, or position to challenge MacLachlan on the field. Battles had to be fought with what weapons were at hand.

She was seated far down from the king and his knights—the fighting men taking the seats of precedence—and she thought long and hard about what she intended to do. Pepper was a prized and valuable spice, but a bit too much of it could cause discomfort. She looked down at MacLachlan, whose handsome face was fixed in a smile as he laughed at something said by the queen. For all the damage he had done, he found far too much humor in life. Perhaps a bit of pepper could make him quit laughing.

She slipped from her seat and around the high table, and pretended to speak with the queen herself. While doing so, she casually filled his wine chalice with a generous supply of the pepper.

She bowed humbly to her godfather, the king, aware that Edward’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and that the nobleman by the king asked questions regarding her, commenting on the luster of her hair.

She sat down with the king’s young son, John, just barely her senior, at her side. She liked John. She knew he considered himself superior as the king’s son, but he was also proud of his older brother, the prince, quick to smile, wonderfully dignified, and always ready to help her. His eyes, light blue and yet penetrating, were upon her.

“Are you angry, Danielle?”

“Angry?”

He leaned closer. “I was watching you last week at the tournament when my lady mother was talking about the siege of Aville. Your face went white, like parchment. I thought you’d dig holes in your own flesh. Aville was taken before you were born—you mustn’t let what happened then upset you.”

“I’m not angry,” Danielle said, stabbing a piece of meat from the dish set between them. But just then, there was a strangled, choking sound, followed by tremendous coughing. Danielle didn’t look up.

“Why, it’s Adrien MacLachlan!” John said.

She looked up then. MacLachlan’s face was blood red. He reached for a fellow’s wine and drank it down, stilling the spate of coughing that had seized him.

“My God, Adrien, what ails you?” cried the king.

It took the man just a moment to speak. “Nothing, sire. Nothing, I think. Just a cup of—bad wine. Seasoned wine,” he added after a moment. “Nothing more.”

Danielle looked quickly back to her food, eating rapidly. She felt John’s eyes upon her, but he said nothing more. In time, she dared to look up at the high table again. MacLachlan had regained his normal color. His eyes moved around the room.

And remained puzzled, she was quite certain.

Those gold eyes fell on her then, and for a moment, she froze. Just the touch of his gaze made her tremble and feel warm inside. Afraid.

He wanted people to be afraid! she thought. The brave warrior, the man who tore down French castles and bested French knights.

She wanted to tear her eyes from his; she didn’t seem able to do so. But his gaze moved on and she realized, to her vast relief, he would have no suspicion that one of the king’s wards might have any reason to wish him harm.

The siege of Calais went on eternally, or so it seemed to Adrien. As to strategy, the king had determined to starve the people into submission.

Calais, standing at the point where the Channel was the narrowest, was a difficult place to take, for it was defended by a double wall with towers and ditches.

In the end, Calais fell. The people had been starved into submission; the last rat had been eaten. Edward sent men in to negotiate with the governor of the town. The messengers came back to King Edward, and as the French had charged them, they begged King Edward to spare Calais. Adrien was there when Edward’s chief negotiator, Walter Manny, told the king that the people of Calais would hand over the tower and town, everything, if only they were allowed to leave.

“There’s not the slightest prayer!” the king bellowed. Of all places, none had seemed to infuriate him quite like Calais. He had lost many men to pirates from the town—of that, Adrien was well aware. And Calais had held out for a very long time. Adrien feared the king’s wrath against the people, because it was so unreasoning.

“Sire!” Adrien said, “I beg your pardon, but think on this! You are a noble king. You should not have to look back on this great battle as if it were murder!”

“Murder?” Edward said, eyes narrowing.

Walter Manny quickly stepped into the conversation again. “My lord Edward, what if you were to send us to defend some stronghold! How much more happily we would go, knowing that you showed mercy to others, and so, if all else should fail, mercy might befall us as well!”

The argument went on. In the end, Edward somewhat broke down, lifting a hand to the lot of them. “This is it! Six of the most important men in the town are to come to me. Heads and feet bare, ropes around their necks, and the keys to the castle and the town in their hands! The rest of the town will have my clemency. These six men will be mine to do with what I will!”

The message was brought back to Calais. Adrien walked before the walls of the town, heartsick as he heard the wailing inside.

But soon after, the men came, six of the most important and influential citizens.

King Edward came from his quarters to the field directly outside his hall. He was surrounded by his barons, his family, and then by everyone in the near vicinity who saw what was happening.

Adrien edged his way through the crowd, already praying that some way might be found for the king to be merciful to even these, the chosen citizens of Calais. The poor men were all but corpses already, shirtless, ribs showing through thin skin.

All six men fell to their knees before the king. One spoke for them, and did so eloquently, telling Edward that they had come so that the people of Calais, who had already suffered grievously, might be spared. They put their lives into Edward’s hands and prayed for his mercy.

There was not a sound to be heard. Then the jagged note of a lady crying sounded on the breeze. The six brave men of Calais had moved many a heart, so it seemed.

But not the king’s.

“I have had mercy!” Edward roared. “By God, I tell you I will not be swayed in this!”

Adrien started forward, as did Walter Manny, Ralph Basset, and many others.

“My king—” Adrien began, but Edward was quick to cut him off.

“Laird MacLachlan,” Edward said, a taunting note of the Scot’s accent to his voice, “I would grant you much, but in this, I warn you leave me be! And you as well, Walter. These six are mine. You will send for the executioner! Their heads will be struck off immediately!”

At that moment the crowd suddenly gave way. The queen, heavily swollen with another child, came before her husband. She fell down to her knees before him in a gesture of humility that again brought a hush to the crowd.

She looked to Edward, tears straining her face. She was more beautiful than Adrien had ever seen her.

“My lord, my husband!” she cried out. “I have followed you into many a campaign at peril to myself, and to your children. I have travelled rough waters, rugged lands. I have never asked anything of you. I do now. I beg you, through the blood of Jesus Christ, that you give these men unto me, and unto mercy.”

“Sweet Jesu, lady, but I wish that you were home now, anywhere but here! I would not deny you—”

The king broke off for a moment. Adrien saw that he was looking over the queen’s head, past the bowed heads of the condemned men of Calais. Frowning, he tried to determine just where the king looked.

He was staring at the children. John, a handsome lad, and another. Robert of Oxford’s daughter.

Adrien felt a strange sensation as he watched her. She was so much like her mother. Tall for her age, and very beautiful with her raven-black hair and bright green eyes. He always felt a touch of poignancy remembering Lenore; they had defeated her, but every man among them—even the very young ones such as himself—had fallen a little bit in love with her.

Still, it seemed strange that the king might be looking at her daughter now.

But he turned back to the queen then, grasping her hands. “My lady, I grant you that I owe you much, and that you have asked for nothing. No one else could have swayed me here. I cannot refuse you, no matter what the right of my fury!”

He turned. A wave of cheers arose and people called out the queen’s name, blessing her.

The queen rose, shaking, amazed that she had managed to change the king’s mind.

The two executioners, hooded for their craft, turned away.

“Rise, rise!” Philippa entreated the men of Calais. They were shaking too hard to do so.

“Help me …” Philippa said. Her eyes touched upon Adrien’s. “Adrien, please …”

He hadn’t realized that he had been standing as if frozen in place, still looking toward the place where Robert of Oxford’s daughter had stood.

He gave himself a quick shake and rushed forward, helping the queen with the shaking men who were all blessing her then, trying to kiss her hands, weeping.

Others stepped forward then. The ropes were taken from the men’s necks and Philippa assured them gently that they must come to her chambers, where they would be clothed and fed.

The men were walked away, the crowd dispersed. Adrien found himself still standing in the field before the king’s quarters. He stared back toward Calais, aware that they would enter it now, then looked back toward the king’s residence.

She was suddenly there again. Her emerald eyes were on him like twin green daggers, ready to slice into his heart.

“Milady?” he inquired, and bowed—somewhat in jest.

She didn’t reply. She spun about as if she were the most regal lass in all the world.

He found himself laughing softly as he turned to walk away. It had been a good day. Mercy had at last been wrought from the king; Calais had fallen. He was young, and the very world lay at his feet.