Defiant (6 page)

“Ah. Not many men see this in their future.”

“Not many men have you in their future,” he said grimly, straightening. The unconscious bodies revealed nothing except that these men did not know how to fight. “Come. Help me with their pants.”

She crouched down at once and started untying the laces that bound hose to braies, remarking, “I would not have suspected this of you, Jamie.”

He grunted, yanking at boots. “What?”

“This, with the hose. I would have thought you the sort to make pretty women swoon, not undress insentient men in alleyways.”

He paused in his work and looked over, his palm on his thigh. “Should the need arise, Eva, I can make a pretty woman swoon. And undress.”

What happened next was worth the brief pause his reply had cost: she blushed, high on her cheekbones and across her forehead. On her delicate features, pale and practically glistening from the rain, it was like a pink flower turning toward the sun.

That,
he thought sternly,
is ridiculous.

The rain began falling harder. It fell in wind-gusted waves, soaking the hay-strewn streets and slick buildings and crouching humans undressing insentient men in alleys.

“And what do you want we should do with these terrible things?” Eva asked, holding a pile of hose, leather straps, and boots as far from her body as she could.

He got to his feet. “There are orphans here, as in every other town.”

And indeed, even now, behind them, were the swift shiftings that heralded small heads and skinny bodies lurking in the distance.

“Look, urchin,” he called out quietly. “Here.” He tossed the expensive boots over. They rolled with flat, dull thunks over the packed earth and cobbles.

She did the same. “
Attendez,
pretty urchin,” she called in a whisper. A head poked out, then disappeared.
“Ici. Bonne chance.”

“In France, the boots alone would earn enough for the entire warren to eat for weeks.” She turned, tucking loose strands of hair back inside her hood. Slick, knotted, and in utter disarray, it was like black gold disappearing into the billowing dark tunnel of her hood.

He looked away.

They strode swiftly back around the corner, out of the alley, back to the hill. Jamie peered down at the quay. The captain was pointing back up the hill with an angry gesture, whether feigned
or real, Jamie didn’t know. Nor did it matter. The two squints exchanged a suspicious glance, then one stepped forward and gave the captain a violent shove backward.

He shouted, his arms windmilling through the air, then he toppled backward into the dangerous, dark river.

The other man began climbing aboard, dragging the priest behind him, just as a head popped up from belowdecks, then another, and two deckhands came rushing up, shouting, wielding hooks and a mallet.

Jamie gave Eva one grim look. “This time, upon your life,
stay here.
”

Then he stepped out into the road and strode down the hill to the quay.

T
O
Eva, it felt as though the world slowed down. Jamie moved with utter purpose, and the men at the boat turned to him, one by one.

He drew closer, never slowing, no hitch in his focused, relentless charge. One of the deckhands stepped forward but Jamie blew past him like the wind. One of the kidnappers fumbled at his belt and unhooked a small hatchet, but Jamie simply unsheathed his sword, still on the move, and, gripping it with two hands, smashed it flat-sided against the man’s skull. It knocked him into the dark waters, where he splashed in beside the captain.

Jamie turned to stand in front of Father Peter, not only preventing anyone from grabbing him but protecting him from assault, and lifted his sword.

Loud shouts and cries exploded from everywhere along the long quay, bouncing off the stone and wet wood of the buildings fronting the river. As if from the sewers, men started pouring forth, some clamoring, some silent, all with eager, mean faces and all bearing weapons.

Jamie would be slaughtered.

Eva started running down the hill. Then she started yelling.

Slowly, as if in a dream, everyone turned to her. Then, still in that languid, otherworldly state, everyone turned back to Jamie.

She reached into her skirts for the pouch of Jamie’s money and started throwing coins, wild arcs of them, all over the wet streets.

L
ocked in mortal combat, Jamie heard her coming. Dead men could have heard her coming. She’d surely awakened the priest, who was now standing of his own volition behind Jamie, shaking his head, stumbling clumsily.

“’Ware the water,
curé,
” Jamie said.

Most of the thugs who’d been coming turned like a flock of birds at the sight of coin, and chaos descended with wings. Shouting, hollering, cudgels and fists, coin and cold steel, it was mayhem on cobblestones. Jamie sliced through it, his attention narrowed and lethal. He knew the moment someone stepped up behind him.

“What took you so long?” he snapped without turning.

“My apologies, Jamie.” The man he’d spoken to swung his sword, making an onrusher howl in pain and drop back. “It took me a moment to comprehend the man I saw going into a tavern half an hour back was you, seeing as we had not spoken about you
stopping for a drink.
Why are we
in
battle? I was certain we were about a job this evening.”

“This is the job.”

“Did you not vow to me we were done with sword fights in the streets?”

Jamie spun, sweeping his sword before him. A cutthroat
about to launch at Jamie’s back went flying and slammed into a few others. They rolled into a third group, and a new miniature riot broke out to their left.

“There are a great many rank, villainous men interested in you tonight,” Jamie’s friend muttered as they swung their way through the crowd, backs together. “More than is usual. Is there some cause for that?”

“Aye. They asked where you lived and I wouldn’t tell them. Have you seen the priest?” Jamie demanded, kicking someone out of his way. The buildings on either side hemmed the fight in, ensuring it wouldn’t lessen in intensity anytime soon. They made their way to the far edge of the circle of fighting.

Jamie swept his gaze over the riot. “Where the devil is he?”

Ah, there. With Eva, at the other end of the block. Her cape rippled in the gusts of wind, her hair swept out in dark, ribbony streamers. She caught a handful and trapped it against her temple, staring across the sea of fighting until she caught sight of him.

She dipped her head forward, her eyebrows raised in silent query.
Are all your limbs still attached?

He nodded. She smiled, which felt surprisingly warm, considering how far apart they were. Then she gave a small wave and mouthed something. It looked like,
Bonne nuit.

Good night.

Then she disappeared around the corner and took the blessed damned priest with her.

H
ave you coin?” Father Peter asked as they hurried through the city streets.

Eva shifted her arm to support him a little more as they hurried over the slick cobbles. “A bit.”

“Enough to get through the gates?”

“One can hope.”

“Do not flash it about.”

“You should not know such things as how to bribe gate porters,” she scolded. “You, a man of God.”

“If I were a proper man of God, Eva, you would not be alive.”

She glanced over. “Did they bash your head in?” she asked in concern.

“They tried.”

She patted his arm and said briskly, “I should not worry much; it is terribly hard.”

“Not so hard as yours. Why are you here in England? I do not want you here.”

“In this way, we are alike,
padre.
Being in this cold, wet land is not something I enjoy like wine. It is much more like ale.”

“You should not be drinking ale, Eva,” he scolded in the familiar affectionate tone that would have brought tears to her
eyes if she had not vowed never to allow tears to befoul her eyes again. But it was astonishing how one fell back into the old ways with an old friend.

Father Peter’s brown robe swirled against his ankles as they hurried toward the town gates. “Now answer me, Eva: why have you come to England?”

“I should think that would be remarkably clear, as we creep down this street like criminals. I came for you.”

“I left a message that bid you run. You and Roger.”

In the moonlight reflected off the slick cobbles and squelching mud, Father Peter looked pale. She swallowed her worry like a tincture and said lightly, “It did not tell me to run, just so.”

“It said, ‘Fly south.’ That has always meant
run.
”

“I know very well what it means.”

“And yet here you stand. ’Twas a simple message, Eva, three lines long.”

“I know precisely how long it was. ‘They have called for me, and this time, I must go. Take Roger and fly south for the spring. Do not delay.’”

He looked over, impressed with her perfect recitation. Or perhaps irritated; it was difficult to tell, in the dark.

“And so, instead, you came north,” he said curtly.

“But without delay, if that is in any way impressive.” She tugged on his arm, stopping them for a moment of rest. “I came with news, Father. The French king, Philip, is in negotiations with the English rebels. He is planning a little visit, he and his army. These rebels have as much interest in this ‘charter of their liberties’ as I do in shearing sheep. Calling you over to assist in their negotiations was but a ruse.”

“And that is why you are here? To tell me there are politics involved in this matter of kingship?”

“To tell you you were called here under false pretenses.”

He eyed her. “And the brothers sent you all the way to England with this news?”

She hesitated. “I sent myself.” He shook his head and she held up a hand. “
Curé,
these good friends of yours and mine, they are men of God. All the people who have helped keep us hidden all these years, the ones who would travel through danger and sea storms to assist you—and they are many—they are priests and monks. They are
helpless
in this. They fuss over sheep and write down the things other men do, but this?” She waved her hand at the dark city streets. “They are not so good at this. Whereas I am very good at it. Although not so good as you,” she added in a fit of flattery.

He frowned more deeply. She took his arm and they began walking, stepping carefully over a gutter teeming with rain and small, dark floating things.

“
Mon père,
if I made a mistake in coming to England, ’tis only on the heels of yours. We have stayed away from England with great devotion for many years, yet now you come, at the height of civil war? Why is this?”

He looked ahead with great purpose. Perhaps with the great purpose of not looking at her. “I had something to do.”

“This, I think, is mad. You have been knocked about the head more than is good for you.”

“Regardless, I have business that has naught to do with you, Eva.” His brown robes swirled as they took another corner.

“Has it aught to do with those men who stole you like a chicken?” she inquired briskly. “Having been insentient, you may not recollect this occurrence, but I do, as I watched in great heaps of horror as they dragged you down the street.”

He looked over levelly. “Eva, you must get out of England.”

She nodded as they began to descend the hill. “That is just why I am here. To get you out of England, you and all your pretty pictures that frighten angry men so much.”

“No, Eva.
You.
They are whispering again.”

“Men whisper about many things,” she said lightly, but inside, she felt cold. People did not whisper about many things. People whispered about only one thing: secrets.

“They have remembered.”

Fear, like a cold river, washed down her spine. “Who?”

“Everyone, Eva. Every one of them.”

It ran down her legs, this cold fear. “Roger.”

Father Peter looked at her, and she realized her stalwart protector for all these years could not protect her anymore.

“No, Eva. I think they’ve remembered you.”

S
he had to pay dearly to get them through the gates. The cobbles in front were littered with the flotsam of human and animal traffic—spilled leeks, a lost glove, a plethora of goat droppings. The pointed crest of the gates towered above their heads, twelve feet of thick hewn oak banded with iron.

A much smaller arched door was cut within the large gates. Its bottom edge was knee-high off the ground, the opening quite narrow. One had to sidle through it. This not only was uncomfortable but prevented anyone wearing armor or swords or other dangerous killing instruments from coming rushing into the town. And after
courve-feu,
it was the only way in and out.

Tonight, the porters appeared positively gleeful as they pocketed the handful of coin Eva pressed into their dirty gloved hands. She hurried Father Peter through the opening, then wrapped her fingers around the sides of the small door and hauled herself up.

“There will be a man coming,” she announced, thrusting one leg through. “Dark hair, dark blue eyes, dark everywhere. He will be in a great hurry. He must be stopped, he and his companion. The hue-and-cry has been called on them. The Watch will be close on their heels.”