Defiant (7 page)

The guards looked up the hill. It was empty but for the
silhouette of a cat crossing at the crest, a slim, dark shape with a narrow, waving standard of a tail.

“Oh, but he will be coming,” she said in a warning tone. “And he has a great deal of money. Loaded with it like a pack pony. Pennies.
Of gold.
”

They grinned and she felt a small pang for Jamie, who would be stopped, even if temporarily, while the porters tried to sort this out, with the assistance of the helmed crossbowmen on the catwalk above.

She could not worry on Jamie now. She must worry on getting her small band of loved ones out of England before they were discovered.

S
ILVERY
moonlight shone down through the spring leaves, illuminating Father Peter and his brown robes in a glowing silvery aura. It was all very pretty, and irritating while one hurried through the woods in great danger.

“Eva,” called a voice softly, from back in the trees.

Father Peter turned sharply. Roger, her fifteen-year-old charge and devoted companion for these last ten years, stepped out from the trees, lanky and tall as a young tree himself.

Father Peter turned back to her with one of the sternest looks she’d ever received, and there had been a great many stern looks over the years, so this was no small claim.

“You brought Roger,” he said flatly.

“I tried to leave him behind, but he would have none of it.”

Father Peter’s look darkened, if that was possible. “I am familiar with the feeling.”

“Pah, all your double and triple meaning,
curé,
they are lost on one such as me. I am as dull as a rusty ax. With me, you must say what you mean, or you will die a frustrated old man.”

Despite all the darkness of the night and the times, Father Peter laughed. This was always the thing Eva could do for him,
make him laugh. But just now, the laugh made him cough, and it became a bit hard for Eva to breathe, as if she had the cough herself, which was what happened when your heart was being pressed upon by great worry.

“We are a wagon train of peril, Eva,” he said when he was done coughing.

“You are so astute, these observations of yours. Next time, I promise, I shall leave you behind.”

He looked sad, and this was frightening, for Father Peter was relentlessly stalwart and forward-facing, like a shield or the sun. “All you needed to do, Eva, was allow me to leave
you
behind.”

They looked at each other through a silence that had so many layers it simply could not be filled with words; then she took his arm and began leading him over the wet, crunching sticks down to where Roger and the horses stood.

A lock of blond hair fell forward over Roger’s forehead as he stepped forward to greet Father Peter, smiling as he took his hand. They embraced swiftly but warmly.

“I thought you’d ne’er come, Eva,” Roger murmured as he helped Father up on one of the horses.

“Indeed, and were most pleased, thinking you’d have more adventures that way,” she chided, keeping her voice light, as she always had for Gog, light and airy even when they were stumbling through the woods in the dark, all those years ago.

Gog swung up behind Father Peter. Eva took a second to pat his knee. “Fortunately, I am returned and can keep you from this dangerous mischief.”

He looked down. “Eva, when I am
with
you is when danger and mischief occur.”

Well.

She scrambled up on the other horse. “She is quite perfect,” she murmured. They did not find much opportunity to ride; horses were a luxury, and their lives did not tend that way.
Once, Roger had stolen her a pinch of scented soap from a fair stall, and now there was this beautiful, snorting, powerful, confusing animal, who had certainly cost more money than she’d given him.

She looked over sharply. “Did you steal this horse?”

“What happened?” said Gog by way of reply. He was looking at Father, but she was fairly certain the query was for her.

She pushed her bottom down farther into the seat, and they started off at a swift walk. “There was a small delay.”

“A delay, as in a fight?”

“Why?” she complained, greatly put-upon. “Why do you say these things to me?”

“Eva—”

She gave a sigh of exasperation. “A small one.”

“A small what?”

“Fight.”

Roger shook his head. “Come.” He nudged his horse off the main road onto a dim, dun-colored path. She followed, feeling slightly safer knowing Jamie’s furious gaze would not alight on her back immediately if he somehow made it through the gates.

“I knew it,” Gog muttered.

“It was beyond my ability to prevent. They filled Father with a terrible tincture. They were dragging him to a boat.”

Roger looked over sharply. “What did you do?”

“Clearly, I stopped them.”

“How?” persisted Gog, always wise to her ways. Did every mother feel this slippery hillside, the terrain between the truths you thought they could manage and the lies you could carry? Not that Eva was a mother, of course. Not the rightful sort.

“How did you stop them?” Gog pressed.

“Eva and the knight stopped them,” Father Peter put in helpfully.

She passed him a discouraging look. She ensured he could see it even through the darkness enveloping the world, which she was trying desperately to ignore, as darkness frightened her.

Gog nodded, but his jaw tightened. “A knight. What sort of knight?”

“The sort who was very dangerous and not at all chivalrous,” she said sharply.

“And he helped save Father Peter?”

She shifted her discouraging gaze to Gog. “Do not think pretty thoughts about this knight. He is not decent. He is the antithesis of decent. Indecent, dangerous, unseemly. He was a necessary tool along the way, that is all, like a scythe or a hammer.”

Gog flicked her a glance from where he rode behind Father Peter, his arms around the aging priest to support him. “Those are very dangerous things, Eva.”

“How astute of you, Roger. Now, all we need to do,” she continued brightly, “is go a little ways, then a little ways more, and in these little ways, we’ll soon be at an inn by a river,” she said in a cheerful voice. “And in the morning, on a boat for France.”

Father Peter looked over. “That will not end this, Eva.”

“Nothing will end this,” she rejoined briskly, looking away. But of course, one thing would end it entirely. Unfortunately, that was an impossible task.

How could one ever get close enough?

J
AMIE
stood before the town gates, holding his fury in check. The guards had not yet laid a hand on him or Ry, but that was only because they were wary. Wisely so, but even Jamie’s unchecked fury would be ineffective against five armed porters and the additional crossbowmen on the ramparts above, their quarrels aimed at his eyes.

“Now, sir,” the gate guard said, his hand out, palm facing forward, as if holding Jamie at bay, “if ’tis just as you’re sayin’, this won’t be but a minor happenstance. We’ll just turn out your pockets, easylike, and see what you’ve got inside. Pennies, the dark-haired lass said.” Ry gave a muted curse. Jamie said a full-on nothing. “And if not all o’ it is your own, why then, mayhap some of it can be mine.”

The porter gave a small, coarse laugh that stuttered into silence as Jamie snapped his gaze down from the crossbowmen.

The porter cleared his throat, his hand up in a defensive way. “We’ll wait for the Watch, and it’ll be but a night in a cell for you both. You’ll be the only ones there—all the rest were hanged or loosed last week, to join the rebels in their marching. Come morningtide, you’ll be on your way, now, right? Go easy, man,” he added, starting to sounding moderately frantic, although Jamie had not moved. But the crossbowmen were still above, so a frantic porter was a vulnerability Jamie could not exploit.

He moved his gaze back to the wall, saying nothing. He felt as if his rage might burn a hole through the stone.

At his side, Ry was murmuring something, but Jamie couldn’t hear it over the pounding of fury in his head.

Eva was a dead lass.

L
ong after the fighting had ceased, a man approached the alley by the Red Cock Tavern and stared at the naked men finally coming to life in the gray predawn light.

They were giving little shakes to their heads, stumbling in circles, gaining their wits enough to realize they were neither booted nor armed nor clothed. It was difficult to know which was the most pressing issue. Then they saw him.

All three snapped straight. “Sir!”

“You never arrived with the priest.” He took in their naked bodies. “Who did this?”

They looked uncomfortable. “Jamie Lost.”

He gave the smallest smile. “Of course.” A small crowd was starting to form. He ignored it. “I have sent the others west with the bishop. I do not like using the bishop, as he is very expensive. Get dressed and come with me.”

“But, sir—,” one protested. He gestured all around him. Clearly, no clothes were anywhere in sight.

“I said get dressed and join me. I do not care how you arrange to do it. Take his,” the man suggested, gesturing to a gap-toothed bystander, who did not appreciate the suggestion. “I do not care how, but if you cannot figure your way out of this, I have no use for you.”

He turned on his heel and walked off.

“Who the hell does he think he is anyhow?” muttered the gap-toothed bystander as soon as the object of his derision was out of earshot.

One of his men grumbled, “The Hunter.”

The bystander spit derisively through his gap, a bravado to regain any masculinity that might have been compromised. “Aye? Well, there ain’t no deer here in these city walls.”

The naked soldier looked at him derisively. “You idiot. He don’t hunt deer. He hunts heirs. Now give me your clothes.”

“N
OT
here?”

Eva stared at the growly, wide-girthed innkeep named Roland. Equipped with three chins and two angry eyes, he glared back.

Late-afternoon sunshine poured through the grimy, salt-splattered windows in the common room behind him, making for a glaring, blaring light in the equally grimy entry vestibule.

“But he was to be here by yestereve,” she said, not so much as an explanation as an attempt to reverse her current, dire reality. The man who was to sail them back to France was not here.

“Aye, well, he’s not,” the innkeep returned curtly. “Leastwise, not so he’s announced himself to me. No fisherman named William, no fisherman’s disfigured daughters. And,” he added in his growly way, “you’d best have coin enough to recompense for that room you’re using private, when it ought to be sleeping six.”

She went back upstairs. Gog was pacing the room, Father Peter watching him, saying something in a low murmur. A miniature inkpot was on the table—Father Peter never went anywhere without the implements of his trade—but Roger was not interested in Father’s letters this day.

He looked over the moment the door creaked open, but Eva shook her head, and he turned sharply away.

His boots rang hollowly on the plank floor as he paced to the window. She resisted the urge to push back the lock of blond hair that inevitably fell forward over his eye as he shoved the shutters wide, revealing a view of a winding path that led to the highway road. Pretty spring flowers grew alongside it, glowing golden and pink in the late-afternoon light.

It was a great misfortune that these pretty flowers lined a path that led to the very inn Jamie had directed her to last night, when he was lying and kissing and doing all manner of disreputable things.

But what were the chances he would come here? He would race like the wind after her, of course, but she could have taken many, many routes. He’d never think she’d be so foolish as to come to the very place he’d suggested.

Would he?

No matter. She had no choice. William the fisherman was to meet them, use his little boat to take them to a bigger boat, which would sail them to St. Malo. Then they would flee to the wilds of southern France, where no one would ever think to look for them.

“The fisherman is not coming,” Gog muttered. His hands curled over the ledge, squeezing it. He would not last long cooped in this little room like a chicken.

“Perhaps this is so,” she said quietly. “Gog, go to the little village, find poor William the fisherman, and inquire as to his delay.”

As if she’d unleashed a small arrow, Gog shot to the other end of the room and snatched up his things: sword belt, an old, half-rusty hatchet, a pair of thick gloves. She crossed over and rested her hand lightly on his arm.

He paused in strapping on his sword belt, his head tilted up to look at her. The lock of blond hair fell forward over his eye. This time, she indulged herself and pushed it briskly back behind his ear.

“Whether poor William the fisherman keeps faith or no, we must leave England at once. If you find no sign of him, arrange passage with someone else. Use the horses as barter.”

Their eyes met. No need to explain aloud; each of them could guess various reasons William the fisherman might no longer be willing to transport fugitives across the English Channel.

Or no longer be able to.

“Be careful.”

He put his hand on her shoulder, as if
he
were reassuring
her,
silly boy, and left. Father Peter paused in packing his writing instruments in a soft leather bag, watching her silently.

“Think you can move your stubborn bones one last time,
mon père
?”

“I am tired, woman, not enfeebled,” he retorted. She hid her smile. “And I am not getting on any boat. Although I will see to it you and Roger do.”

“We shall see who will get on any boat,” she replied mildly.