Authors: Jennifer Horsman
"By thy witness, I did not mean to offend your Grace! No, mon Dieu, never that. A thousand and one pardons, your Grace. 'Tis just that, oh, God . . . well, Lady Roshelle. She owns our hearts, she does—the beautiful lady hath always owned the heart of the townspeople. Not that it means disobedience. I mean, our alliance is with . . . well, oh, God, you must see, I meant no disrespect—"
"Indeed," Vincent interrupted when the man had rambled long enough and appeared a hairbreadth from falling faint. "I am pleased to hear this good news. However,. ah, Saul, is it? Yes? I only meant to inquire where in this charming town"—his gloved hand swept to the side and he leaned casually forward in his saddle—"might I get a new pair of boots made?"
The man stared with a dumbfounded stupor into a less-than-innocent dark gaze of the Duke of Suffolk. Wilhelm, mounted at Vincent's side, laughed first and perhaps longest. A near violent wave of relief swept the crowd; without so much as a drop of blood spilled, no one would ever mock the Duke of Suffolk with the lady's name again.
Only Phillips shrank back in terror, his mind racing between the idea of the duke's innocence and the idea that he knew full well what his brother had done to Reales' only shoemaker.
Many people pointed to Phillips' modest shop to save Saul the difficulty of answering with a mute tongue. With a plainly sardonic thanks, Vincent turned his mount back around and the march resumed. Yet now the famous English marching song replaced the chant of Roshelle de la Nevers's name.
John of Suffolk and the five carefully dressed officers behind him dropped to their knees as Vincent and his personal guard rode into the camp. "Ah, a good day to you, Captain and fellows. Please dispense with the formalities, since they are neither welcome nor necessary," Vincent said as he, Wilhelm and young Gregory dismounted. Reins were handed over to waiting grooms, the horses quickly led away.
"Wilhelm, see to the men. Suffolk guards may have a one-hour rest. All others are to assemble in that field, lances in hand."
"Aye, at once." Wilhelm left to do his bidding.
"Water, please," Vincent said to no one in particular, causing three nearby servants to jump. He began to remove his thick riding gloves as his gaze carefully swept the castle and surrounding landscape, its towers and battlements and its position near the river.
"A most welcome sight, milord!" The captain looked nervously about, feeling inexplicably slighted. "I trust all went well with your journey?"
"Relatively speaking. As with all things."
"Good, good." John of Suffolk could not be solicitous enough. "Please, your Grace, this way." He motioned to the large tent where supper and wine were being readied for serving. "Allow me the honor of hosting your first supper in Reales. I have the best wine and my chef is preparing—"
Vincent waved his hand in dismissal of the invitation; he had other plans. "I want this thing over. Tonight."
John looked nervously at his officers as if they might know what their Grace wanted, but only found blank faces reflecting his own confusion. He looked back at the duke. "What thing is that, your Grace?"
Gloves tucked into the thick black belt, hands on hips, Vincent looked surprised. "Why, the siege, my good Captain, the siege. I want to be inside that castle by nightfall."
The captain looked for a long moment stunned before glancing again at his officers. He decided this was a jest. Grinning, he rocked back on his heels. "Ah, well—"
He stopped as Vincent continued to search the countryside as if looking for something. At last he turned back to the nervous captain, accepting the goblet as a servant poured the water. This was drained, held out for more. "I need a table here. Get me all maps made of the castle and the area—I hope there are maps? Good. And this foul odor? The moat, I presume?"
"Aye. The moat—"
"Now the measures you've taken, Captain. I understand they've withstood two attacks, am I right? Yes? And that both times you led our archers to the moat to challenge the cross fire as men attempted to fill it in to get a belfry up to the wall. Where is that belfry?"
"Armory is kept there, behind the corral."
"Yes, very well. How many catapults?"
"Three, your Grace."
"I shall want to see these, though one look at those battlements and I can guess how this failed. The only thing made well at that castle is the battlements; I'd be surprised if you saw a single of the bowmen firing at you."
The captain looked at his officers, amazed at how quickly his Grace perceived the difficulties here. "Aye, the sky rained with their arrows—"
"And Greek fire?"
The reference was to arrows lit with flames fueled by a poison, naphtha. "Aye!" The captain nodded. "They took down the only thatched roof in the castle, leaving the animals stabled beneath the night sky as a roof."
"One would hope the French were at least smart enough to prefer chilled stable animals to burned ones." He drank another gobletful of water, his gaze still searching his surroundings. "What other defense measures have they, Captain?"
The question sounded rhetorical, and the captain hesitated as his mind raced to keep up with the duke's inhuman speed. "Well, they have their archers and oil bins and, of course, the foul moat. The men complain bitterly of that moat—"
"Leaving you with the two choices: sacrifice your men's lives or starve the French out. You have chosen the latter, a wise choice if only it worked. Apparently the problem is no one in there is starving, am I right?"
"There you have it, milord, there you have it—"
"Indeed? Quite the contrary, Captain. I have nothing; my plan is to get it. Now, how many horses have you here, Captain?"
John of Suffolk stood for a long moment mute as his mind struggled to keep up with the rapid-fire questions.
"Captain?"
"Ah, over fifty."
"Corralled over there, I see. Is that it?"
"Another corral on the west side, just behind those trees there."
"Yes, I see." He started toward the corrals. "See that those maps are arranged by my return. Captain, if you will."
Abruptly realizing he was to follow, the captain leaped forward and rushed to fall in step behind the duke. He had of course seen the duke before but had never worked a campaign with him. Naturally, the man's reputation reached legendary proportions; everyone knew of his decisiveness, speed, the efficiency and effort he demanded from all those around him, especially in battle.
Characteristics presently reflected in the speed of his even gate; the captain found he had to practically run just to keep up with him. Vincent inspected the horses. "Yes, there he is." To the captain's utter amazement, the duke pointed to his very own prized stallion. His chest swelled with pride; now they were on a footing he understood. "Pardon my boldness, milord"—he smiled broadly—"but ye do have a fine eye for the beasts. He's my prize stallion, no finer horse lives in the whole of this wretched country—" He laughed. "You won't believe it, but I was hoping to present him to you—"
"You are aware the horse was stolen last night?"
"Stolen? What? Why, how could that be? The horses are kept under guard the whole night long—" He broke off as at last the darkly intelligent gaze came to his person, stopping his blood cold.
"Exactly the problem."
"Oh, God Almighty." The captain swallowed a sick dread rising from the pit of his stomach, worsening as he thought of the miraculous appearance of four barrels of wine. "I begin to believe the lady is bewitched."
"Aye, the lady is bewitched, and the power of her bewitchment lies in the unpleasant fact that a mere girl hath made fools of an entire English garrison!"
With that Vincent turned back and marched off to the captain's tent. There he found his officers gathered around the table, where the maps were spread out like a tablecloth. Vincent made a brief study of them. He kept looking up at the landscape before returning to the map. "One hour of light left. Very well. We can safely eliminate the entire east side of the river—the ground is too soft and wet to support an underground tunnel. We might be equally assured of eliminating all open space here and here—I daresay they would have been spotted by now. Even with the vigilance of the captain's guards." The captain's face reddened with the implied criticism. "I eliminate this area for no other reason than my intuitive power—we will explore it last. My guess is that the tunnel's exit hatch lies somewhere in here." A long finger circled the wooded area near the corrals. "I want six dozen men to surround the area in a circle, shoulder to shoulder, lances raised two hands to the front."
Wilhelm shouted out the order. Within ten minutes over sixty men assembled in a perfect circle around the area. Vincent and Wilhelm rode mounted in a circle around them, the duke's clear voice sounding loud in the hour of twilight. "We are looking for a trapdoor covered by brush. No man may step out of alignment; each must march with his fellows, lances pounding to the ground." And then revealing one of the many reasons he was so popular with his men, he added, "Five pounds silver to the first man who finds it."
A happy shout sounded well before the sun had sunk over the hills.
She was running for her life down an endless dark tunnel, desperate to find the ring. If only she had the ring, she would be safe. Where was it? Faces watched from the side as if her terror were an amusing show. Rats scurried unseen from her path; spiderwebs brushed her hot skin. She stopped suddenly, gasping and terrified, but the foot steps still chased after her. A wicked laugh sounded behind her. She swung around with a startled scream. Only darkness greeted her vision at first. Then she saw Rodez. He reached out to her. She backed up in horror, then pivoted around to go the other way. She hit a black wall, screaming as a dark shape emerged from the blackness, then another and another and the hands came upon her. She swung wildly, trying to fight them off—"
Roshelle bolted up in bed. Her heart pounded and her pulse raced as her eyes darted about the unnaturally still and quiet room. A gentle breeze blew through the open window, ruffling the gold tassels hanging from the tapestry above the bed and flickering the light in the brass lantern on the hand-carved trunk. Her falcon, Greyman, slept soundly on his perch there. Two cats slept as well in the alcove.
'Twas a dream. The predictable night terrors brought by last night's horror. Oh, Potiers! Grief swelled in her chest, and for a moment, she could hardly breathe. How could she go on without him? He had been at her side since she was twelve. She depended on him for everything; they all did. "Oh, Potiers!"
She drew a deep, even breath before tossing back the thick quilt covers and placing her bare feet on the cold stone floor. Dazed, she made her way to the chamber pot behind the partition, stepping over a half-finished puzzle of the great Cathedral of Chartres, a pack of cards from a game played and won by her maids the other night and a rolled-up tapestry they had been working on.
The solar chambers reflected the unfair competition between two competing forces: the wide scope of Roshelle's interests and her servants' somewhat limited energies, resulting in a wall-to-wall menagerie of finished and half-finished projects. Clarice, one of her maid's little girls, had a little wooden doll house and its three dozen pieces sitting in the corner, arranged to occupy the child as her mother and Roshelle worked to finish the tapestry-- they needed yellow thread from Flanders, the only color Roshelle could not make. Three sewing boxes lay in the alcove, threads and cloth spilling from each, while one of her huge trunks opened to reveal a modest assortment of folded woolen gowns and night clothes. A caul lay discarded on the floor alongside the boy's clothes. Her saber—lighter than a sword, easier for her to wield—and her dagger leaned against the wall, her maids never knowing just where to set these weapons.
A long, carefully made wooden working table stood along one side of the far wall, and this area was scrupulously neat and clean. Here sat all manner of strange and wonderful things in glass jars: spices, fragrant herbs, plants, dozens of roots, flower petals, waxes, all kinds and various carefully marked mixes of things, all of it producing a fragrance so sweet and enticing as to have all the servants want to attend Roshelle in the privacy of her solar. This room alone escaped the foul air of the moat. Another trunk sat locked against the wall; the tools in there were worth far more than gold, while a wooden rack held over a dozen scrolls above Roshelle's small, fine writing desk. Five priceless, gold-trimmed, leather-bound books—all of these on the use of herbs—stood in a neat row there, while dozens of scrolled parchments sat on a bookshelf nearby, each a treasured gift from Papillion. Without exception, each and every thing in her room was a treasure to her, and so the only thing she feared more than an English king on the French throne was fire. Five buckets of water sat in a neat row outside her chamber doors at all times.