Seize The Dawn (12 page)

She wet her lips. "Please ... this is a situation that you cannot win. If you hurt me ... kill me, Alain will kill you ... have you killed. You will die. He will hunt you down through all of France. Torture you. Help me. Help me get to him. He will reward you—" She broke off because her captor was turning away, ready to leave the room. Relief filled her. He didn't intend to ravage her. Relief flew from her heart as quickly as it had come. He didn't intend her harm
at that moment.
But he would come back.

"Wait, you don't understand. You really don't understand. You will die. Painfully. Horribly. Of course—" She broke off. If he was suffering from leprosy, as his mask suggested, he might be ready to face the swift death of a sword. And if he was suffering from leprosy, perhaps it would be best if she were to suffer a swift death now herself ... The door opened and closed. Her captor had left. She flew from the bed to the door, then hesitated, waiting. She was certain then that he stood right outside, waiting for her to try the door.

She waited. She was right. A few seconds later, she heard a bolt slide quietly into place. She backed away from the door. This was a room, just a room. Plain, simple. There was the rope bed on its frame, covered by the thick mattress and linen sheets. The sheets appeared clean enough, and the wooden floors were swept. There was a plain wooden chest with a pitcher of water. That was all.

But there was a window in the room. Shivering, the fur cast aside, she hurried to the window. To her delight, the shutters opened at her touch. She looked out and her heart sank. She had hoped for an alleyway, for a street with nearby buildings. She looked out on a field. This house they had come to was apparently on a little hill, far enough from the town of Calais to be surrounded by land. Still ...

She looked down. She seemed very far from the ground. But if she could escape the room, there were no walls that she could see surrounding the place. If she could escape, she could run. She was certain that they were on a rise, and that the busy town must lie just below.

As she looked out the window, she started, her heart slamming, as she heard the bolt sliding again and the door start to open. She jerked back into the room, closing the shutters, moving away from the window.

Her visitor was a woman. She was perhaps thirty, maybe she had been very pretty at one time in her life, but she had a lean and wary look about her now that gave a pinch to her features and a jaded appearance to her eyes. Those eyes and her hair were a rich, matching shade of sable brown; she wore her hair free, with no headdress of any kind, so it fell down her back in thick, dark waves. She assessed Eleanor, hard eyes running over the length of her with a surprising malice. "You will come," she told her with a sniff. Eleanor straightened. "I will come where?" she demanded. "To have a bath."

She stood her ground, miserable again in cold, clammy, salty clothing, but still loath to part with it—especially among this company. "I will stay here, I think." "You wish to remain wet and cold?" the woman inquired. "I wish to hear that I am to be brought to my fiancé, or that he is on his way to find me. I will wait until then." The woman's smile deepened with mockery. "You will wait then until you are old and gray."

"I will wait, nonetheless." "You will not wait. You will come with me." Eleanor estimated that she was at least the same size as the woman, and though she did not have a sword, she was capable of a good fight But the woman had no intention of tackling her. "You will come with me, or other arrangements will be made." That made her uneasy. And she was more uneasy when a second woman came behind the first. This one was a bit taller and broader. Actually, she was nearly a giant, blonde and blue- eyed, she might have been a Nordic goddess from Valhalla. She was a striking woman, and surely an equal in size—and power—to most men.

"There is difficulty?" she inquired, looking from the brown- haired woman to Eleanor. "She does not wish to shed her wet clothing." Now the blonde assessed her. "You must." She felt the thunder in her heart as she looked at the two accosting her. The blonde as well wore her hair free. They were both clad in linen, not rich clothing, but neither were they clad as the poor or beggars. There was something unusual about the clothing worn by the pair, and she reminded herself that she was in France now. But it still didn't seem quite right.

"Listen, please," she said, trying for control and reason, "I truly don't think you understand who I am—" "Oh, we know precisely who you are!" the brunette said. "I am worth a great deal of money!" she insisted. The two looked her over and started laughing. "Look—" "Please, come now. We are busy." Eleanor stiffened her back then walked toward them, thinking that she might step past the pair, make a mad dash for the stairs, out the door, and into the countryside. The idea was mad, indeed, but it seemed she had very little to lose.

And so she inched her head up and started past the two. She came to a wood-paneled hall, and saw the stairs. But the brunette had foreseen the reason for her compliance, and before she could start to flee, the woman was at her side, grabbing for her hair. "Stop!" Eleanor shrieked, grasping her hair, spinning, kicking out since she couldn't inflict a blow with her hands. The brunette screamed, hopping on one foot. The blonde stepped forward, capturing Eleanor with a grip to the arm that threatened to dislocate her shoulder.

At that point, the small Frenchman in finery came running up the stairs, the leper behind him. "What's going on here?" the Frenchman demanded. "She doesn't want a bath!" the brunette said sourly. The leper in the mask pushed irritably past the dapper Frenchman, and Eleanor started backing away in sheer panic. "No, no, I will—" Too late. He plucked her up by the waist, half hauling her, half dragging her, down the hallway to a room where a wooden tub filled with steaming water awaited. She was dropped and spun, and as she desperately tried to catch her breath, she heard the fabric of her tunic begin to tear. She tried to turn, but the strength of his arms pressed her back into place. She cried out, swore, and turned again, arms flailing. And still, though a grunt assured her she had gotten a blow in, she was really only aiding the destruction of the fabric about her. Torn and wet already, her shift and tunic fell despite the way she grasped at cloth and flailed at her attacker. And when it was gone, she screamed again as his hands ... his bare hands ... fell upon her waist, lifting her, then dropping her into the tub. The heat startled her for a moment; she threw her arms around her knees, drawing them to her chest.

He was gone. Her clothing lay in tatters, but he was gone. Relief filled her. But then the two women stepped into the room. The blonde approached her, laughing, dipping a deep curtsy. "Soap—m'lady." "A cloth. Countess!" said the brunette, tossing a linen cloth into the steaming water. Eleanor stared at them with a deep and rising hatred that kept her from bursting into tears of frustration. "And here, for your hair," the blonde said, producing a little vial. "Sit back, and I will tend to it for you." Don't touch me!" she grated out. The blonde looked at the brunette and started to laugh. She ran her tongue over her lips. "La! Anne-Marie! The countess is afraid of me!" Anne-Marie doubled over in laughter, approaching the tub, fingering a lock of Eleanor's hair. Eleanor flinched away, adding to her amusement. "Ah, countess You have no need to fear us— neither Helene nor I have a preference for women, eh, Helene?'' "Not unless the price is high—very, very high!" Helene agreed. Staring at the two, she realized at last that she had been brought to some wayside inn, a place indeed occupied by cutthroats—and prostitutes.

Her stunned amazement, her eyes wide on them, brought the pair to gales of laughter once again. But then, oddly enough, something in her sudden silence must have brought about a hint of sympathy, in Helene, at least. "We're not going to hurt you," she said, her voice low, without a hint of mockery.' 'You would have caught your death in that icy clothing. Indeed, what were you doing, in the midst of winter, tempting the icy water? Especially after—" "Helene!" Anne-Marie said sharply. There was a stool near the tub. Helene set the vial upon it. "For your hair," she said again. "We will leave you, but we are just outside. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly," Eleanor said. The two looked at one another, then stepped out. The door closed behind them. Eleanor lowered her head, trembling, and felt the heat of the water warm her stiff and frigid limbs. She leaned back, trying not to shake, praying for a bolt of lightning to bring the saving grace of a
plan
to her mind. She couldn't understand this; these people were rogues, whores, thieves—they must need the income she could provide! And yet they laughed at her offers of reward and ignored her threats.

They had really left her alone, she thought after a moment. And the water had warmed her, and the soap was clean-smelling and sweet, and it was good not to be cold, and to feel clean again. Yet, to what purpose? She started to shake again, thinking of the leper who had seized her, the man in the mask. The man with the sword, who spoke not at all, but seemed to be the leader of these wretches. Did any of it matter? If he was indeed diseased ... She sat up suddenly in the tub, remembering his hands.
His hands.
Bare of the gloves he had worn earlier. Touching her. She had glanced down at them, even in her fight, even in panic.

They had been healthy hands, the flesh unblemished, unbroken. So he was not a leper; he hid his face for another reason. Was he horribly scarred, or an outlaw wanted by the crown of France with such ardor that he dared not show his features anywhere? As she reflected on the possibilities, the door opened. She hugged her knees to her chest once again, looking around, instantly defensive. It was the blonde, Helene. "You have finished, m'lady? Ah, you haven't started on your hair. I'll help." "No. I will do my own hair." "As you wish." Anne-Marie entered, coming to Helene, whispering. Eleanor could make out almost nothing, but then she heard, "... bargain for her." Helene turned back to her. "There is a towel, there, beyond the stool. And clothing. Not what you are accustomed to ... but, better than what you had, eh, m'lady?" Helene left the room. Anne-Marie started after her, but paused, bending down to the tub to whisper at the back of her neck, "Do your hair well, m'lady.
He
likes the sweet smell of clean hair and perfumed flesh!" Eleanor gripped the tub. "I do not care in the least what
he
likes." "But you should. Because if you don't... well, we'll have to see that you do. Do you understand,
English?"

Anne-Marie left the room without awaiting her reply. Eleanor braced herself, wishing for the power to slap Anne-Marie silly. But aware that the woman would return—and hopeful that someone was indeed out there bargaining for her, she sank into the water, washed her hair, and forced herself to enjoy the warmth. But then, suddenly, the tub seemed as cold as her future. She glanced to the door, afraid it would open. It did not. She jumped up, found the towel, and dried quickly. She had been left an unbleached linen shift, and a pale blue woolen tunic to slip over it. She dressed, glad of the clothing—even if it did belong to the despicable Anne-Marie. She had barely smoothed the fabric when the door did open, and the woman in question came for her.

"You must return to your room. Quickly. You have a visitor." "Who?" she asked, swallowing hard. She tried to control her shaking, hoping that they didn't mean the "he" who liked his women with clean hair. "Move!" Anne-Marie said. On simple principle, she stood her ground. Anne-Marie cocked her head to the side. "Shall I call for help?" "Move to where?" she asked. "Back to the room." "I will do so," she said regally, preceding Anne-Marie from the room, aware that the woman was right behind her. She glanced longingly for the stairs, but she didn't want to chance another encounter with the French cutthroat who had brought her here, not when she was being returned to the room with the window that just might promise freedom, and not when the overheard words "bargain for her" kept hope flowing in her heart.

She stepped into the room. The door slammed shut behind her. She hurried to the window, opening the shutters, looking out again. The hope she had felt began to wane. There were no trees near the window. The ground was a sheer drop that seemed very far away. How far would she get if she leaped out—and broke a leg? She heard the bolt sliding and once again closed the shutters and spun around, stepping away from the window. The door flew open. She gasped, stunned. It was Brendan who had come. A mile high, filling the doorway, his tartan around his waist and cast over his shoulder. He was very much the Scotsman in this land of the French, and in all her life, she had never even begun to imagine that she might be glad of a Scotsman.

"Brendan!" she whispered his name, and without thought, went flying across the 500m, throwing her arms around him. Startled, he caught her, lowering her slowly against him, lifting her chin, meeting her eyes. "You don't know!" she told him. "Thank God, you've come. You don't know how bad these people are!" "Worse than Scots?" he inquired, appalled. She stepped back, aware of his mockery, her cheeks flaming as she realized the way in which she had greeted him.' 'Brendan, have you come to get me out of here? I loathe your murdering countrymen, yes, and I was convinced life was far worse when you first came upon the pirate's vessel, but... Alain will reward you if you have come to help me. Surely, you have ... ?"

He stepped completely into the room, closing the door behind him. "This is a very grave situation, grave indeed. We are not Frenchmen, we are not an army, we are rather at the mercy of the thieves here." "But, surely, there is some kind of law, and you can send to Paris, and—" "Ah, yes, well, we can send to Paris, but that will take time. And I'm sure you've realized just what kind of place this is for wayfaring ... sailors. And travelers." "You mean murderers and thieves!" "Well, yes." "But, Brendan, you've come—" "I came as soon as I could, knowing you were here," he assured her. "I was stunned, of course. What happened? When you were so close to reaching your beloved fianc6 and the French king? Did you fall overboard?" he asked, and she didn't know if he was concerned, or mocking her.