Claire Delacroix (44 page)

Rodney lifted a hand and pointed to the right fork in the road ahead. “To Ceinn-beithe!” he cried and the horses thundered in that direction.

They had much time to make up, for Simon had a lead upon them of the better part of a day. Bayard prayed that the older man’s entourage traveled as slowly as such groups often did and urged Argent to greater speed. He led the group even as the fog closed around them like a cloak, careless of the risk to himself in this endeavor.

For there was no telling what peril Esmeraude had already faced this day.

* * *

They reached Esmeraude’s home at sunset the next night, riding without halt, and not a one of their party had eyes for the glorious hues painting the western sky. The fog had lifted not far from Airdfinnan and they had ridden in clear, dry weather, which had lent speed to their steps. But they had not passed so much as a peasant en route and Rodney insisted the path they took was the sole road to this place.

The bewildered response of Esmeraude’s parents told Bayard more than he needed to know.

Simon had not ridden for Ceinn-beithe.

And they had lost precious time.

But if Simon had not come to Ceinn-beithe, then Esmeraude had not departed with him willingly. Bayard had been a fool to not guess the truth sooner. Simon had deceived her somehow, and ridden south, no doubt to France and the security of Leyrossire.

Esmeraude was more endangered than Bayard had guessed. And an entire day had been lost, a day in which any number of crimes could have been committed against his lady.

Dame Fortune had indeed abandoned him! Thoroughly vexed by this uncommon run of poor fortune, Bayard flung down his helm and tipped back his head to roar.

“By Saint Ebrulfus of Bayeux, if this is a penance for my invocation of Dame Fortune, I foreswear her influence!” he cried. “By Saint Trechmor of Carhaix, my lesson is learned! By -” Lost for the name of another saint, he glanced to Amaury for aid.

“By Saint Stephen of Antioch!” Amaury cried. “We shall find her!”

“By Saint Thomas of Farfa!” added Nicholas. “We shall ensure that she is uninjured.” The assembly cheered even as one man stepped forward, his gaze fixed upon Bayard. ’Twas Burke, Bayard’s own father, and his expression was more compassionate than Bayard ever recalled it being.

“By Saint Andrew of Baudiment, you shall win Esmeraude as your bride,” he softly declared.

Bayard closed the distance between them, astounded by his father’s show of support. His father had aged slightly since he had last truly looked at him five years before, but his voice resonated with the confidence he had always shown in his eldest son. And he had the same ability to draw every eye in the hall.

Bayard had missed him, his surety and his counsel, and missed him sorely.

Burke smiled slightly when he stood toe to toe with Bayard. He touched Bayard’s shoulder, his voice falling low. “You shall find her, for ’tis your sole desire to do so. You have always had a gift for seeing your own course won.”

“Oft at too high a price.” Bayard gripped his father’s hand. “I owe you many apologies, Father, and there is much we must yet discuss. I would have your forgiveness, for I challenged you rashly many years past.”

Burke bowed his head. “There was truth in your accusation. I protected you both too much, fearful to lose you needlessly at war.” He shook his head. “In the end, I might have lost you even more needlessly, over harsh words and misunderstandings.”

Bayard smiled at his father. “’Twas an error wrought of love, whereas mine was wrought of folly. On this day, know that I understand far better than once I did the choices you have made.

“Because of Esmeraude?” his father guessed and Bayard nodded.

“Aye.” He met his father’s gaze and his voice turned hoarse. “Ride with me.”

Burke grinned. “I will.” Then he pulled his son into a tight embrace.

“We shall return with Esmeraude!” Amaury thrust his fist into the air and the company applauded wildly.

“You had best hasten yourselves,” someone declared imperiously. Bayard stiffened in recognition of that voice, even as the company parted before his grandmother. She was more stooped than she had been just weeks before, but still she refused all offers of aid. Margaux of Montvieux hobbled forward on her cane, her incisive glance making even the most intrepid soul step backward.

She halted before Bayard and rapped her cane upon the floor.

“Greetings,
Grandmaman
.” Bayard bowed before her, not missing the way his father’s eyes narrowed. He might be the only one who knew Margaux’s intentions regarding Montvieux, but his father at least was suspicious. “I did not expect you to journey this far.”

“Of course I came,” she snapped, her eyes cat-bright. “To see you triumph shall be one of the last pleasures of my days.”

“You could not have known that Bayard would win Esmeraude’s heart,” Burke said quietly, as if daring his mother to reveal the truth.

Margaux chortled. “Could I not, then? Could I not? ’Tis said that a man needs only the proper incentive to see a task completed.”

Burke glanced to Bayard, who shook his head and turned away. “My apologies,
Grandmaman
, but we must retrieve Esmeraude with all haste.”

“Of course you must,” she responded with uncharacteristic gaiety. “I might not live so long in this foul clime and I would see this victory. Hasten yourselves!”

Bayard felt his father’s assessing gaze upon him as he stepped back but ’twas not the time to argue this matter. ’Twas of greater import to see Esmeraude safe than to refuse his grandmother and face her recriminations. He would have called for the company to depart immediately, but Eglantine stepped forward, raising her hands for silence.

“You will achieve naught if you depart hungry on tired steeds,” she said with firm practicality. “Linger long enough to eat and see your horses refreshed.”

“But Esmeraude -” Bayard began to protest.

His lady’s mother smiled. “Is more resilient and inventive than yet you know. ’Tis either already too late, or she turns matters to her own advantage.” She shook her head. “I would wager upon the latter.”

“As would I!” declared Célie, though they did not linger over their meal.

For Bayard knew more of Simon than either of these women. He and his father exchanged a glance of understanding and between the two of them, they hastened the party without making the women more fearful. Duncan declared his intention to join them and Bayard liked that their company would be formidable indeed.

Bayard’s mother Alys brought the stirrup cup to her spouse and two sons herself, her eyes filled with an awareness of the adversary they faced.

“See him dead,” she whispered fiercely as Bayard drank deeply of the herbed mead. She, too, knew Simon’s repute. “Not just for Esmeraude but for all the women of Christendom.”

Bayard bent to return the cup, then kissed his mother’s brow, easing her frown of concern with a fingertip. “I will,” he pledged. “You need have no fear of it.”

Alys smiled with pride as Bayard gathered his reins. She blew a kiss to the three men, her figure silhouetted before the entire company as the party departed. Eglantine stepped forward to stand with Alys, the two women’s straight figures touched by the silver of the moonlight. The men rode out, their horses galloping from the peninsula of Ceinn-beithe like thunder passing along the road.

And with every step, Bayard feared that he would find Esmeraude too late.

* * *

Fortuna regarded the new arrivals upon her cloud with disgust. She had been rather enjoying herself, matching wits and innuendo with Martin and now all these other saints impinged upon the situation. They were radiant, each and every one of them, and greeted Martin with such delight and reverence that her teeth would have ached, had she had any.

Indeed, this might have been a party for all their merriment and shine, not the scene of a lesson being granted to a cocksure knight.

Fortuna turned away from their chatter in disgust, feeling a little less lustrous than she would have preferred. She peered down to watch the knights ride forth and wrapped her arms about herself in undisguised dissatisfaction. She did not like that Bayard had foresworn her, though ’twas more than his newfound favor for saints.

Nay, she had always had an affection for fighting men. She slanted a glance at Martin, now busily debating the arguments for transmogrification with Saint Stephen, and sighed.

“Mortals,” she declared to none in particular (and indeed, none were listening to her.) She mustered her voice and spoke more loudly. “Mortals, ’tis clear, will invoke anyone at all.” She cast a scathing glance across the astounded company, noting only that Martin smiled at her in a decidedly unsaintly manner.

* * *

Esmeraude, true to her mother’s expectation, had discerned her sole advantage quickly. She had no sooner been released from the trunk than Simon revealed his awareness that she bore a child.

Esmeraude was filled with disgust that he meant to take the child of herself and Bayard for his own. She was determined that he should not succeed, but she knew she must lull him into trusting her if she meant to escape. There was not a doubt in her mind that Bayard would lend chase and she was resolved to be prepared for whatever opportunity he might make.

So she demanded to be able to ride upright for the sake of the babe, and that upon the finest palfrey in Simon’s possession. Though she said the beast had the most comfortable saddle, the fact was that ’twould be the fastest if she found an opportunity to flee. Simon had her surrounded each day as she rode, making it impossible to ride at any pace other than the one he set, but Esmeraude had confidence that his distrust would ease.

After all, she pretended to be delighted to be wedding him. She even tolerated his kiss upon her cheek, though if he touched her further, she retreated, citing her fears for the babe.

Esmeraude insisted upon meat twice a day, and a warm pallet in an inn every night. She commandeered a cloak and warm gloves, she called for a hot bath each evening. She hampered their progress with as many delays as she could imagine, even to the point of feigning an unsound stomach several times a day. She spent time then in the woods, pretending to heave even while a good dozen servants milled around her.

Whenever Simon challenged her, she fixed him with a glare and asked whether he intended for her to lose her child.

Her ruse worked, with remarkable consistency. The man knew naught of pregnant women, and wanted that babe hale beyond all else. Clearly Bayard had spoken the truth when he decried Simon’s assertion that his wives had died in childbirth.

Esmeraude did not imagine that Simon’s solicitous behavior would continue once her babe arrived. Aye, he undoubtedly intended to claim the babe then see that she - having outlived her usefulness - joined the other wives in Leyrossire’s churchyard.

She would escape, for herself and for her unborn child.

But Esmeraude was beginning to lose hope by her sixth day in Simon’s company. Though she strained her ears, she heard no sounds of pursuit. As she rode surrounded by servants forbidden to talk to her, she had much time to conjure doubts and uncertainties.

And Esmeraude was coming to have a thousand of them. What if she had been but a pleasant diversion for Bayard? What if he had no desire to pursue her, if it required considerable inconvenience to himself? What if he had found another wench to sate him?

What if her declaration of love had done naught but persuade him that she was not the woman for him?

If she was to be left to save herself from Simon’s clutches, that man seemed determined to offer no such opportunity. Esmeraude was glum despite the merry sunlight of May that shone upon them. She was despondent when Simon commandeered the hunting lodge of a local lord and sent both his own servants and those in residence to make ready for their night there. She splashed in her bath with disinterest and glared at the trio of maids left to tend her. Simon had told all that pregnancy had made his fiancée quarrelsome so even the local women kept their counsel to themselves.

She was particularly demanding at the board that evening, determined to have some compense from Simon for the disaster he wrought of her life. “Careful, my love,” he whispered beside her. She looked up to find his gaze cold. “Push me overmuch and I shall ensure that you die in the delivery of this child.”

Esmeraude lifted her chin and spoke harshly, for she was sorely vexed. “Push my overmuch, my lord, and I shall ensure the child dies rather than surrender it to you.”

Simon blanched. “You would not!”

“You know not what I would do to protect mine own,” Esmeraude retorted and pushed her trencher aside with force. She would not injure her own child, of course, but she was irked with Simon’s control of her fortunes.

“My lord.” The resident
châtelain
appeared before them and bowed low. He was a portly man, tanned from his days at the hunt, and looked kindly. “A troubadour has come to the portal, seeking a meal in exchange for a song. Shall I admit him?”

“Are you accustomed to welcoming troubadours in this distant corner of the world?” Simon asked in surprise.