Authors: Jennifer Horsman
Roshelle swung her feet to the ground and rose, cautiously approaching the door to peer out. As if waiting for the moment her consciousness returned, tears immediately formed in her eyes, threatening to overwhelm her once again. Potiers was dead, dead, and she would be without his strength and support for the rest of her days and how, dear God, how could she carry on without him? After Louis and Papillion? When she realized she couldn't, emotions swirled, bursting through her—
Nay, not now! Not now!
Roshelle drew a deep breath. With all the force of her will, she pushed the emotions back. She had to get out of here. Now, before 'twas too late! That lord's kindness depended wholly on his ignorance of her name. "He placed me at court?"
"Aye. He thinks that you must be one of your women. They are for the moment distracted, their backs to the house. See them down by the road?"
"Aye.'' She nodded as she stared at the horses, tied at the fence post. The sound of a rooster spoke of the imminence of dawn's light. The quiet whispers of men conversing came from far away. A horse neighed, a horse-
She needed a horse.
As if she had survived a holocaust—and she had—weakness racked her each and every limb. She clasped her hands together to stop the trembles that shook through her. Chilled and the worst kind, from the inside out.
"Do ye think ye can slip past them?"
"Aye, I am well trained in such. I must take a horse, too. Stay quiet inside until I am gone, then slip back outside so as not to be blamed." Her blue eyes filled with unspoken gratitude, she took his hands and held them tightly. "One day I shall return to give you proper thanks." She kissed his forehead. "God be with you."
"May God keep ye safe, milady."
She forced herself up and to the door, the slight movement causing a wild thumping of her heart. The gray light of dawn spread over the landscape. It was quiet; not a breeze stirred. The rooster crowed again. From the distance, she heard the quiet whispers of men conversing. Her gaze swept the darkened landscape, stopping at an old cart, where the knights were gathered round. She made out his tall shape and that of his man Wilhelm; both their backs were to her.
Papillion had taught her how to disguise her scent with clover and then move in the near perfect silence of the night, forcing her to practice over and over until, like a cat stalking prey, she could approach almost any creature in the utter quiet of the dark without rousing its keen senses. She exercised the hard-learned lesson now. Her feet made not a crack or a creep, her breathing sounded low arid still and only she could hear the steady pounding of her overworked heart as she crept alongside the house, then passed swiftly out from its side before coming to the half circle of horses tied to a tree post.
There he was, the stallion she had ridden. Through the gray light she saw his dark eyes watch her with interest. He tossed his head back as if in greeting, and in the way that Papillion had taught her to commune with the creatures, she closed her eyes, focused her consciousness and tossed it to the horse, a trick that required, among other things, a leap of faith undreamed of by the most pious theologians—a leap few rational mortals could make. In the wink of an eye, the familiar queer numbness overcame her body, as she became only a consciousness that focused entirely on the creature. Focused with the express demand of his cooperation and calmness as she untied the reins.
The beast did not move. Indeed, he seemed to have stopped even his breath as she brought him out from between two others, then silently led him over the rocky terrain behind the house. At the top of the hillside and out of sight, she pulled the reins over his head, leaped onto his back, and in that moment, she and the creature became the wind.
Not much later Wilhelm stepped inside to check on the lady. A soft, vicious curse sounded as he shouted, "Vincent, the lady hath fled!"
The Duke of Suffolk's gaze shot to the horses, where he saw the missing stallion. Nothing would have frightened Roshelle more than the impressive sound of his amusement, laughter that said he was hardly surprised and certainly not alarmed. For the Duke of Suffolk had absolutely no doubt he would be laying eyes upon the girl again, and soon. Only too soon.
The sun had not yet reached the meridian when Roshelle dismounted a safe distance from the army camp. She slapped the beast's back. Hooves lifted into the air and the spirited animal galloped off toward the camp. She quickly disappeared into the forest, heading through the thick brush and the cover of the trees toward the passageway.
Anxious blue eyes peered through the bushes at the bustling camp activity as the men prepared for the imminent arrival of the duke and his army. Three men carried fresh water to the troughs, four others cleaned the corral, a handful of others raked the ground in preparation of erecting new tents. Another large group went through the paces of a drill. No one looked her way, and while usually she and Potiers would never dare to slip down the hatch in broad daylight, she had no choice now. She must return at any cost.
Careful not to displace too much dirt, she lifted the wood door and, as quiet as a mouse, her lithe body disappeared. The latch shut the light out. She threw the bolt. A complete darkness surrounded her and its security made her knees weak. Suede boots touched the cold, wet stones of the ground as she oriented herself. No light ever shone here. The dank passageways had been boarded up for decades, but it had been a simple matter of two weeks' work to open them up again. The English had never found them.
With one hand on the wall like a blind person, she ran along the tall and narrow corridor for several minutes, tripping when she at last came to the short flight of stairs going down beneath the moat. The tiny patter of rodents' feet and the steady drip of water sounded in the wet and narrow passageway, louder than her labored breaths. A chill raced up her spine. She slowed her pace just a bit until at last the stairs went up again. The passageway widened beneath the great hall. She ran until she reached the long stairs.
*****
Cisely stared in terror at the bright light streaming through the window and abruptly jumped to her feet from where she had been kneeling in prayer. "Merciful Mother, where is she? Tis almost noon! Mon Dieu, why has she not returned?"
Joan smiled. "Roshelle is coming."
Cisely's anxious gaze shot to Joan, sitting peacefully on the bed with that cat she loved so, smiling at her with neither a care nor a thought. Roshelle was right: God breathed His spirit into the simpleton's heart. All Joan ever knew was love and simple joys: the splash of sunshine on her face, a warm winter fire near her feet, the delicious scent of Roshelle's fresh-picked roses, a new colt or lamb in the stables, a slide leading to a cushioned pile of hay. Worse than a child, she was only ignorance and bliss.
“
Oh, what do you know, Joan? Why is she not back yet? The sun is high and oh, Dieu!" She felt the unnatural pounding of her weak heart, and it frightened her. "What if she does not return to us?"
Joan stroked the cat's head. "Roshelle is coming."
Fear seized Cisely's pretty face, and ignoring Joan, she clasped her hands tightly together to stop their trembling. She was four years Roshelle's senior, and a distant second cousin by marriage on Roshelle' father's side. Cisely had known Roshelle since the day Roshelle was born and she was Roshelle's favorite; she had always been Roshelle's favorite. They had been raised in the Orleans court, and except for the time Roshelle had spent in the forest cottage with the old man, Papillion, the two young women had shared the same life: the same guardians and tutors, history and friends. With the exception of Roshelle's sojourns with Papillion to the university in Paris and to Basel, in all her life she had been separated from Roshelle only once, and it had taught her an important lesson.
Upon coming of age, Cisely had married her betrothed, Count de la Soissons, and moved to his household, a fine chateau in Limoges. Two short months later, he died in the famous battle of Agincourt, along with nine-tenths of the nobility. Secretly, shamefully, she had been relieved by her husband's death—so much so that she had considerable trouble concealing a burst of joy upon receiving the news. Not just because her greatest fear was childbirth, or even because her relationship with her husband had been cold, distant and painfully formal—his mistress had actually lived in the chateau with them—but mostly because the two months she had lived in her husband's house were the most unhappy of her life.
For she had missed Roshelle with every breath.
Nothing had prepared Cisely for the contrast between life with Roshelle and life without her. Despite her ongoing complaints about the hair-raising anxieties and constant catastrophes of Roshelle's life, about Roshelle's relentless energies, her never-ending ministries and alms to the needy, the curse, the rebellions and battles against ills and the terrible effect all this had on Cisely's fragile health, despite all this and much to her surprise, life without Roshelle had been empty. As worthless and hollow as a house without walls. She still didn't quite understand it. All of Roshelle's love, she supposed—Papillion had always said love was as essential to human beings as food and drink and what if that were true, then she would die without Roshelle—
The thought made her panic. "She has died! I know she has died—"
"Roshelle is coming."
Joan's very pronouncement sounded as the slight creak of the latch opening brought Cisely's head around in the instant. Wide amber eyes flew to the spot and Cisely took one look before collapsing with her relief. "Roshelle! Oh, Roshelle. Merciful Mother in Heaven—"
The sight of Cisely's pale, pretty face surrounded by a halo of tight dark curls brought Roshelle a swift swell of emotion. She collapsed half in and half out of the trapdoor opening. Gathering her poor skirts, Cisely dropped to the floor and using all her strength, she pulled Roshelle through. Or tried to. Cisely's slight, reed-thin frame left her hopelessly weak of limb.
As dependable as the sun rising on darkness, Joan came quickly to help. She knelt beside the latch door, the neat plaits of her knee-length blond hair—like spun gold, it was—coiling beside her. Strong hands came under Roshelle's arms, lifting her into the room. "You have come." Seeing Joan's treasured smile brought another surge of emotion, as if Roshelle had been gone a year.
For Joan was Papillion's gift to her life.
The latch door fell with a thud.
Roshelle tried to catch her breath as Joan's loving hands went to smooth her tousled hair. Yet as Cisely took in the shock of Roshelle's appearance, her eyes widened. "Look at you, milady! You look terrible! Why, you are as, as filthy as a penned pig and, and, dear Lord, what, what in heaven's name are you doing wearing those, those awful—achoo!"
Cisely sneezed, removing a mouchoir from her sleeve. Roshelle tried to catch her breath as her friend sneezed again. Horses made Cisely sneeze, and after the long ride, Roshelle had enough hair and sweat on her person to cause the same effect.
Daintily Cisely wiped her nose. But as soon as she saw the blood covering Roshelle's tattered clothes, her joy disappeared. Oh, dear God. Roshelle was wounded, Roshelle was bleeding—
Her delicate hands went clammy; her face drained of color. She tried to scream, but no sound issued from her throat as with some small wonder she abruptly realized she had stopped breathing…
"Cisely! Cisely—no, do not faint—"
Too late. Like a sheet dropped to the ground, the young lady folded into a neat pile on the floor. Joan stared at the spectacle with mild interest. "Cisely is not well."
Dismay and, perhaps unkindly, irritation lifted in Roshelle's grief-stricken face. That girl dropped at the sight of blood with the same regularity that a rooster crowed! "No, she is not well," Roshelle said breathlessly, stumbled up, with Joan's help. "Thank the heavens for you, Joan."
Thank heaven indeed. Papillion had sent Joan—the third of his loves, he always said, after her mother and herself—to ease the pain and anguish of these past long years, not knowing how much more the sanctity of this golden love would cost. How she cursed and blessed the rain-washed night so long ago when Papillion had awakened her from a deep, dream-filled sleep. "Up, up! Get dressed, Roshelle. Hurry—"
"Dressed? What? Why? 'Tis raining; Nay, nay, pouring-"
"She is calling to you. She is awash in a sea of distress, more frightened than we can know. Potiers and four other knights will go with you—"
"Where? Who? Papillion, I do not—"
"Hurry, Roshelle. Outside. Somewhere—no, wait, she's outside the cathedral in—oh, God, 'tis worse than I thought. Hurry on!"
And so, with Potiers and four knights, she marched out into the driving rain of a dark night. Rain pounded the two-story-high stone houses that lined the street. Thinking her quite mad, the good knights waited for her instructions and she felt a good deal more than foolish as she pointed to the cathedral. Yet she could not move; her boots had sunk so far in the river of mud that Potiers had to literally lift her out.