The Mistress Of Normandy (34 page)

“Nay!” Rand yelled. “I’ll not let you go. I’ll not face Bonne’s wrath when she learns you died fighting my battle.”

Jack dragged his eyes open, and a long shadow crossed his agonized face. He squinted up, past Rand. Turning, Rand spied King Henry several yards away. Behind the king ran a French soldier. The man wore battered armor but no helmet. In his hand he swung a death-spiked mace.

A warning leaped from Rand’s throat. The mace came about in a lethal arc, driving toward the young king’s head. Just as Henry’s death became a certainty, his pursuer stopped, stiffened, and crumpled boneless to the ground. The hilt of Jack’s dagger protruded from his throat.

Rand turned in disbelief to Jack. Propped on one elbow, Jack smiled weakly. “Took my fingers,” he said in a thready voice, “but not my aim.”

Rand looked up to see the embattled figure of the King of England. Recognition blazed in Henry’s dark eyes. He stared coldly at Rand, then at Jack. “What is your name?” he asked.

“Jack...Jack Cade.”

“You saved my life, Jack Cade. I would to God I could offer you something of meaning for that.”

“Victory,” breathed Jack. “Meaning enough, sire.”

Henry lifted his sword and touched the flat of the bloodied blade to Jack’s shoulders. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of St. George, I dub thee knight.”

Jack twisted his head in Rand’s lap. “I thought,” he said faintly, “I told you...remind me never to become a knight. Can’t take...all that goddamned honor....”

“Jack.” Tears streamed down Rand’s face. “Oh, God, Jack, if ever knighthood were deserved...” He looked up and met Henry’s gaze. Rand knew why the king had made the gesture. Common soldiers were buried in mass graves; knights were transported to England for burial in hallowed ground.

“So you’ve come to fight, Longwood,” said Henry in an icy voice. “But for whom, I wonder, do you do battle?”

“The traitor has turned to France,” bellowed a furious voice. The Duke of York lumbered up. He snatched the crown from Rand’s belt. “Longwood stole this from the baggage cart.”

Henry’s face drained to white. “Jesu, Rand, I did fear you’d betray me.”

The king’s fury bit at Rand. “I betrayed you not. Mondragon took the—”

A herald came running toward them. “Sire!” Spying Jack, the herald sobered and made the sign of the cross. “Sire, the Duke of Brabant is mounting another assault.”

Cursing, York hurried toward the prisoners.

Henry glanced at the woods, then back at the French captives at the baggage park. Rand followed the king’s gaze over the wealth of discarded weapons on the field.

“Sweet Mary,” said Henry, “the prisoners outnumber their guards. If they revolt and take up arms, we’ll be surrounded.”

A litter arrived; tenderly Rand laid Jack upon the canvas bed. “Jesus, I’m a knight,” Jack muttered. Unexpectedly, a hint of color had returned to his face, a glimmer of brightness to his eyes. Rand started toward the hospital pavilion, but a stir at the baggage train stopped him short. The prisoners had begun to harass their guards.

“Surrounded,” Henry repeated. Determination hardened his gaunt face. “All prisoners are to be slain.” Glancing at Rand, he read the shock on his face. “What choice have I?” he asked defiantly. “We are outnumbered, and Brabant is moving.” He hurried off to give the dreadful order.

The command echoed through the ranks. The English soldiers showed disbelief, then resentment at losing their battle prizes, and finally a wild bloodlust as they began to carry out the order.

The idea of slaughtering the disarmed prisoners filled Rand with disgust. Then he thought,
Lianna.
Shock waves rang through his mind. Lianna was a prisoner of the Duke of York.

Surely the order didn’t extend to a woman, and yet...Who could say how far this madness would go? He raced back to the baggage park.

Calling up every bit of his soldier’s hardness, he armed his heart and his mind against the pleas for mercy, the growls of vengeance, the grinding of weapons thrust through armor, through bone. Blood filled the air with bitter scent and slicked the ground beneath his feet. Shoving aside an archer poised above a French knight, Rand found the cart where he’d left Lianna.

She was gone. In terror he scanned writhing bodies and halted running men. No one had seen her. Oh, God, had Gervais captured her after all?

“My lord.” Rand turned to see the young son of Lord Cornwall. “I heard you asking about the woman.”

Rand grabbed his shoulders. “Have you seen her, lad?”

The boy’s bruised face paled. His lip trembled. Fleetingly Rand wondered what scars this carnage would leave on the youngster’s tender heart. “The men of York,” said the boy. “They took her....” He jerked his head toward the wasted village of Maisoncelles.

His heart hammering with fear, Rand raced down the ridge.

Lianna shrank against a half-ruined building. Face white, eyes wide, she looked like a ghost as she recoiled from two men whose emblazoned tabards bore the white rose of the House of York.

A bellow of rage tore from Rand’s throat as he lunged forward. Swords drawn, the knights spun to face him.

“Let her go,” Rand ordered.

“She’s a prisoner. The king said—”

“My blade says leave her be!”

“They but carry out a royal command.” The Duke of York arrived, his corpulent body clumsy beneath the weight of armor.

“Churls! Varlets!” Rand yelled. “Think you the king’s order extends to women?”

“It extends to all prisoners hale enough to wield a weapon. Begone, Longwood. My men have a duty to perform.”

“You’ll slay me first.” Rand thrust at one of the men.

“Hold! Hold, I say!” Shouts rang through the ranks. “The king has rescinded his order. Brabant is down. His men are retreating!”

Lianna’s breath whooshed out as she sagged against the building. “Uncle Antoine...”she breathed. Rand cast off his basinet and scooped her into his arms. Trembling and cold, she lay limp in his embrace. Over the top of her head he spied York’s angry face.

“So,” said Rand. “You’ve been cheated out of revenge.”

“Be not so certain,” Edward spat. “I’ll see you slain for a traitor, and your French wife burned as a witch.”

Lianna’s trembling abated. Gently Rand set her down. He had much to say to this wife of his, but not now, not with the battle still raging and this angry noble glaring at them.

“Why don’t we settle both charges right now, Your Grace?” he asked. “By personal combat.”

Lianna gasped. York’s face darkened. A flash, pale as the underbelly of a fish, flickered in his eyes. Fear, thought Rand. He’s afraid.

“I’ll see you in hell, Longwood, before I sully my blade with your flesh,” said York. Calling for his knights, he hurried off to join the last of the skirmishes. Almost immediately the portly Duke of York engaged the weary Charles d’Albret in hand-to-hand combat.

“Coward,” Rand spat. “He’s a fat buzzard picking over the remains of a carcass.”

“Rand, come away,” Lianna whispered urgently. “We are both in danger here.”

“I’ve run long enough,” he said. Still angry, still confused, and still numb with the horror of almost losing her, he kept his voice flat and emotionless. Drawing his dagger, he began to pick at the lock on her wrist. “Take one of the captured horses,” he ordered. “You’re to go to your uncle in Liège.”

“But I can’t—”

“For once you’ll do as I say, damn you!”

She bit her lip. “Is Jack...?”

“He was still alive when they took him off to the hospital pavilion.”

“Thank God. Rand—”

Shouts rippled through the ranks. York was dead, unwounded but smothered in his own armor.

Rand felt relieved that his budding enmity with York had never had a chance to flower. Then he felt ashamed of that relief, for York would be mourned as a man who had marched, and fought bravely, and died a hero. While Rand...

“In the name of the king, I arrest you.”

Rand and Lianna turned. Facing them were four burly, battered knights, all wearing the white rose of York. One of them wept freely, his face streaked by blood and dirt and tears. Another bore a wilted plume in his helm, marking him as a sergeant-at-arms.

Rand gave a half smile. “What’s this? The battle draws to a close, and from all angles it appears I’ve fought for the winning side.”

“From all angles it appears you’ve been a timeserver.”

“Your brazen taunts sent our lord to his death,” said the weeping man.

“You’re to be taken to Agincourt castle, and there placed under arrest.”

Rand felt Lianna stiffen beside him. Dread reared high in his heart. He had a swift, vivid memory of King Henry’s cold stare. “On what grounds?” he demanded.

“Treason.”

Twenty-Four

“I
don’t believe this.” Rand let his head drop back against the stone wall of the cell. Finding the surface cold and beslimed, he jerked forward. The iron shackles binding him to the wall tore at his wrists. “By God, I don’t believe this.” Footsteps sounded outside,

“Nor does King Henry, I trow,” came a familiar voice. The door hinges grated. Robert Batsford stepped into the room. A torch in his hand illuminated his ravaged features.

“Batsford!” Rand sat forward; the chains rattled. “What of Lianna?” he asked urgently. The last he’d seen of her, one of York’s men had knocked her, screaming, to the ground.

“She is unhurt, though they still detain her. They know of her skill, her cunning, and will not risk setting her free until...” The priest seemed loath to finish the thought.

Rand asked, “Jack...?”

“In the hospital pavilion. His wound was not so grave as it appeared. No vitals were cut.”

Relief gusted from Rand in a great sigh. “The others?”

“Gone, my lord. I know not where. There is such confusion in battle. All have scattered.”

Rand sat silent for a moment. “I still don’t believe this,” he said.

“King Henry is deeply dismayed by the turn of events. In his heart he knows you well, knows you’d not turn traitor.”

“Then why the devil am I shackled here in the dark, when the others are celebrating victory and counting their ransoms?”

“The evidence, my lord. The king wants to believe you innocent, but the evidence tells a different story, especially with York’s embellishments. His lackeys add their tales of treason to what is already known.”

“What are they saying?”

Batsford set his torch in a brattice, squatted beside Rand, and rocked back on his heels. “York claimed he saw you on the battlements of Bois-Long, driving his advance guard away.”

“Undoubtedly Gervais, wearing my
cotte d’armes.
”

The priest nodded. “Would that we’d had time to bring your martial colors when we fled Bois-Long.”

“Would that you’d let me stay and keep the French devils out,” Rand said darkly.

Batsford cleared his throat. “Then there’s the issue of the amulet Henry gave you.”

“The accursed thing fell into Gervais’s hands months ago.”

“We might have discounted York’s accusations, but for today. The incident at the baggage park was truly damning.”

“Gervais again,” Rand growled out, remembering. “He wore my colors when he led the peasants in that attack.”

“One of York’s men recognized the tabard and swears you were the perpetrator.”

“But the king himself saw me on the battlefield.”

“Others say when you realized Henry would win the day, you shed your colors to hide the deed. And when York gave Henry the crown from your belt—”

“Jesu, I took the damned thing back from Gervais!”

“The Yorkists swear this is not so. The king must heed them or risk losing their support.” Batsford sighed. “Duke Edward lived dishonorably, but died a hero’s death. His kinsmen are clamoring for your blood, my lord. They say you drove him to that last charge against d’Albret.”

“He had just ordered my wife to be slain, damn it!”

“You are the only one who seems to recall that.” Batsford lowered his eyes. The flame of the torch bathed his stooped figure in smoky light. “There has been bad blood between the Houses of York and Lancaster ever since Bolingbroke took the throne. Henry can ill afford to offend the Yorkists.”

“And the next Duke of York is sure to oppose Henry if he feels his father has been dishonored.” It was beginning to make hideous sense to Rand.

“Aye.”

“And Henry will forfeit the life of a minor noble to appease the Yorkists.”

“Aye.” The priest’s faint whisper wavered like a wind-bitten flame.

Coldness welled inside Rand, but the chill had nothing to do with the dank, mildew-laden air of the cell. “Father,” he said, eyeing the slumped, shaking figure of the priest, “why have you been sent to me?”

Slowly Batsford lifted his head. Tears streamed down his face and sobs racked his chest. “Almighty God, Rand, you know, don’t you?”

Rand’s teeth began to chatter. He clamped his jaw. “Tell me.”

“I’ve come to see you shriven,” Batsford whispered. “And to see to your last request.”

“Now? Tonight?”

“Aye. You’re to be...” Batsford moistened his lips. “The execution takes place on the morrow. It’s to be carried out before the march to Calais.”

* * *

“You’ve been drinking,” Lianna said, glaring accusingly at the priest.

Robert Batsford shook his head and glanced over his shoulder at the guard who lurked nearby. Batsford reeled forward. Something thudded on the ground near Lianna’s hemp-bound feet. Unable to see the object in the moonless dark, she scowled. “You stumble about like a sot,” she said, lifting her hands to point at him. Like her ankles, her wrists were bound with rope, and she was tethered to the same baggage cart on which she’d ridden to the battlefield. Her iron manacles had been removed and placed upon some hapless French prisoner.

“Believe me, my lady,” said Batsford, “I have never been more sober in all my life.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “How fares my husband?”

Batsford swallowed. “He’s not been harmed. But he stands accused of treason.” Briefly the priest related the evidence against Rand. “The king fears losing support in the north, and so he must appease the Yorkists.”

Disbelief and fear washed over her. “But Rand once saved Henry’s life. My husband shadowed and distracted the French army all during the march from the Somme. He fought with valor today. Henry loved Rand well.”

“But he loves peace in his kingdom more.”

“So much that he’ll credit the vengeful lies of York’s partisans?”

“The unity of York and Lancaster means much to him.”

“But it’s all a mistake. I’ll go to Henry myself and tell him so.” She turned to address the guard.

Batsford raised a hand, stopping her. “I have tried already, my lady. But if Henry wouldn’t listen to an English priest, why would he heed a Frenchwoman?”

“Because I speak the truth.”

“Speaking the truth cannot refute the hard evidence of the amulet, the
cotte d’armes,
the crown found on your husband’s person.”

Panic rose like bile in her throat. She set her jaw and forced herself to calmness. “What of Cornwall’s son? He saw Gervais.”

Batsford shook his head. “The lad went on to Calais with an advance party. Besides, do you think the Yorkists would allow him to speak freely?”

Thinking suddenly of her uncle of Burgundy, she nodded in agreement. “Nay, they’d keep the boy from telling the truth.” Touching her finger to her chin, she murmured, “I must do something to convince the king. I need irrefutable evidence.” Then, snapping her fingers, she said, “Gervais.”

Batsford stared. “My lady?”

“Gervais holds the key. If we bring him forth, with the
cotte d’armes
and the chancery seal he stole...” She pounded her thigh with her bound hands. “That’s it, Batsford! ’Tis simple. The tabard even has a distinctive tear. Johnny stabbed Gervais during the struggle.”

Batsford brightened, but only for a moment. He studied the ground. “We’ve no time, my lady.”

She barely heard his hoarse whisper; her mind was racing ahead. “Why not?”

“Your husband is to be beheaded at noontide tomorrow.”

Horror rose in her breast. She brought her hands to her mouth, stifling a scream. “Nay,” she breathed. “Oh, God!”

Batsford nodded miserably. “At dawn, a guard will come to conduct you to Rand’s cell in Agincourt castle. He asked—” Batsford gulped “—to see you one last time.”

She began to tremble violently. Oh, Rand, she thought. She remembered the coldness in his eyes, the bitterness in his voice, when he’d come to save her from York’s men. His hatred had been real, yet she recalled his defense of her, his willingness to die protecting her.

“I never had the chance to tell him I loved him.” Tears streamed from her eyes. “He...he always said I...I’d tell him about it.”

Batsford spread his arms and enclosed her in the rough warmth of his woolen robes. She poured her sorrow and despair into his shoulder.

The guard cleared his throat. “Father,” he said gruffly but not unkindly, “you’re needed at the hospital pavilion.”

Batsford squeezed Lianna hard. “You’re shaking, my lady.” He stared at her with an intensity she didn’t understand.

“Think you I’d bear the news calmly?” she demanded.

He placed his hand under her chin and lifted her face. The guard’s torch flickered over the priest’s features. Batsford looked stern and beautifully holy.

“Father.” The guard’s pikestaff thumped impatiently.

“I come anon,” said Batsford over his shoulder. “Only...you’ll have to help me to the hospital pavilion. I’ve a rheumy ankle, and this damp weather plagues me to the bone.”

The guard shrugged. “As you wish.”

Batsford made the sign of the cross over Lianna. “Remember, my lady,” he intoned formally. “If your knees knock, then kneel on them.”

Vaguely, absurdly, she thought it an odd time for the sportsman-priest Batsford to suffer a sudden attack of piety. As he and the guard walked away she wondered why he’d lied about his ankle. Though spry, he walked as slowly as an old man. The thoughts flitted through her mind, insubstantial as the night mist that lowered over the field.

Realty barreled into her heart. Rand was going to die tomorrow.

She couldn’t have stayed on her feet if she’d tried. Her shaking legs gave way, and she sank to the ground. Her knee struck a hard, sharp object.

Recalling that Batsford had dropped something—probably a vial of holy water or oil—she groped about in the dark.

Her fingers closed around the iron hilt of a small dagger.

Her heart started to pound. “Sweet Jesu,” she breathed. Now she understood Batsford’s cryptic words, his lie to the guard. “Thank you, Father,” she breathed.

Her fingers and toes ached as she furtively cut her tight bonds. She ignored the pain, crouched beside the baggage cart, and studied the trampled terrain. Darkness shrouded the battleground from view. But the rank smell of blood and spilled entrails wafted on the night breeze, ghastly evidence of the slaughter that had taken place that day. The rhythmic rasp of gravediggers’ shovels grated on her taut nerves.

Firelight flickered in the distance, illuminating the pavilions and tents where King Henry and his army celebrated their stunning victory. Resentment welled in Lianna. When the French heralds had surrendered the day to Henry, he’d named the battle Agincourt and proclaimed triumph for God and England. He might well celebrate, but did Rand’s unjust fate weigh on the royal conscience?

She tore her gaze from the fires of victory and studied the black silhouette of Agincourt keep. Rand was in there, awaiting death. She yearned to go to him but resisted. Her own path lay behind, to the south. In darkness.

At the edge of the abandoned village of Maisoncelles, horses seized from captured and fallen Frenchmen were corralled. A guard sat indolently at the gate of a crude pen built of rubble, broken timber, even some of the bloodied stakes the archers had used in their chevaux-de-frise.

She gulped a deep breath of the misty night air and stepped from the shadows.

The guard jumped up and angled his pikestaff at her. “Who are you, boy?”

She studied him briefly. Doubtless he was not a favored soldier; elsewise he’d not be relegated to guarding the horses while his comrades drank the night away.

“Please,” she said softly. “I’ve come to buy back my husband’s horse.”

The guard eyed her skeptically. “Such matters are to be settled with the king’s sergeant of ransoms.”

She tried to quell her impatience. “But wouldn’t you rather settle the matter of the horse right now, sir?” She opened her palm. A pair of gold angelots glinted dully. Seeing his fingers clench and his eyes narrow, she hastened to add, “Aye, you could well overpower me and steal my coin, sir. But I could just as well scream accusations. Your king does not approve of unregulated thievery.”

The guard snatched the coins. He tested the temper of one between his teeth. “I don’t give my complicity cheaply.”

Fighting a pounding sense of urgency, she produced a silver franc.

He took this as well, opened the gate, and led her into the pen. She moved silently among the horses, measuring the assets of the various mounts. This one had a bit-hardened mouth; that one had lost an ear in the battle. Scanning quickly, she saw a familiar high-arched neck, a distinctive blaze on a noble face. “Charbu,” she breathed, and hurried to the percheron.

“This be your husband’s horse?” the guard asked.

Tears welled in her eyes. She’d been prepared to lie, to lay claim to any likely-looking beast that could take her to Bois-Long. She hadn’t dared hope to find Rand’s horse among the captured animals. Charbu nuzzled her shoulder.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, this is my husband’s horse.”

“Still got his trappings.” The guard eyed the tooled leather of the saddle, the finely carved wooden stirrups.

She slapped a last coin in his hand. “That should take care of the saddle.” And keep you in fine wine for years, she added silently.

“Go quietly,” he warned. “If an alert sounds, I’ll deny all knowledge of our exchange.”

She nodded, led Charbu out of the corral, and shortened the stirrups to accommodate her height. Resisting a reckless impulse for haste, she mounted and set the percheron to a quiet walk, entering the shadowy, river-fed forest.

Only when the swishing current of the river Ternoise masked the noises of the woods did she dig her heels into Charbu’s sides. The war-horse surged forward, his long strides eating up the army-trampled road. She bent low over the thick, stretching neck. The wind rushed over her and blew her hair.

Thoughts of Rand pounded through her head. His last request had been to see her. To forgive her, or to lay a final curse on her? She wouldn’t be there to find out. What would he think of her absence? Bitter and betrayed, he would doubtless suppose she’d abandoned him once again. But she had to risk hurting him this time, for his life hung in the balance.