Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
The Last Knight (19 page)
Blissot shook his head. You are no innocent pilgrim. Although I might be persuaded to allow your family and friends to ransom you.
Damion bared his teeth. Well, we both know that the members of my family aren't likely to take you up on any offers. But I do have friends. And some personal resources, if you're not too greedy.
Don't worry, said the castellan of Laval, coming to stand in front of Damion beyond the range of his feet. The price won't be excessive. Say, five hundred livres? And one small piece of information.
Damion met the other man's gaze steadily. I can't imagine what I could possibly know that you don't.
Flattering. But unfortunately inaccurate. You see, a book has gone missing. A Sainte-Foy breviary that Attica by chance brought away with her in Olivier de Harcourt's saddlebags. Attica claims she knew nothing of the importance of the breviary and that she has no idea what has become of it. And do you know what? I'm inclined to believe her.
Well, I'm glad to hear you're such a trusting fellow, because I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about either, said Damion.
Blissot sighed. We could play these games all evening, de Jarnac, but I have other things to do with my time. So let us say simply that I know you have joined Henry's household, I know you have been to Brittany and Ireland, and I even know why. Which leads me to the inevitable
conclusion that if the breviary and its incriminating documents have disappeared, then you are probably the one responsible.
With effort, Damion kept his face impassive. There should have been only three, perhaps four people outside of King Henry himself who knew the true purpose of Damion's recent travels. Yet someone had told Renouf Blissot, and Damion was suddenly quite sure he knew who that person was. Slowly, he smiled. Documents, you say? Now that is interesting. Do you mind if I ask whom they are for?
Blissot tssked. Monsieur le chevalier, if you continue in this vein I shall be forced to order my men to apply certain persuasive techniques that are both unpleasant and permanent in their affects. And in that case, I fear there may not be much left of you for your friends to ransom.
Damion had seen men tortured. Smelled the sickening stench of burned flesh. Heard their unending screams of terror and unbearable agony as the knife cut, destroyed, took from a man everything he held most dear
He tilted back his head to look at Blissot through slitted eyes. He felt light-headed from the beating, his mouth dry from blood loss and a range of emotions held in check by willpower alone. Would that be wise? he said, somehow managing to keep his voice level. I mean, no one is likely to be willing to pay much for a blind eunuch lugging about bloody misshapen stumps instead of the usual hands and feet.
What might have been a reluctant gleam of admiration lit the other man's pale eyes. I would prefer to ransom you whole, said Blissot, walking to the door. But I will have that breviary, and I will do whatever is necessary to obtain it.
Damion tightened his jaw. I'm afraid I still don't know what you're talking about.
Blissot paused to look back, a bemused expression on his fine-boned, handsome face. Why? Why persist? How could Henry possibly compensate you for what I will do to you?
Damion said nothing. Blissot shrugged and reached for the lantern. I'll give you the rest of the night to reconsider.
He turned toward the door again, the light playing across his face. Damion said provocatively, Get too close to a cat?
My niece, said Blissot, his fingertips going selfcon-sciously to his scratched cheek. I always thought Robert d'Alérion betrothed her to Fulk unwisely. Now I know it. That boy will never be able to handle her.
Does she know you've turned traitor to your liege lord?
What an ugly word that is, traitor. Blissot smiled. I prefer to say I've altered the direction of my loyalties.
To Philip?
The smile hardened. No. To Richard. He will be the next Duke of Normandy and King of England, you know.
I know, said Damion. I simply have problems with his impatient attempts to hurry the process along, that's all.
Indeed? I should think rather that you and he had much in common. But no He paused, as if struck by a thought. It was your brother you killed, not your father, was it not? Or was it?
With a snarl, Damion lunged forward, to be pulled up by the fetters digging painfully into his wrists.
He expected Renouf Blissot to smile again, but he didn't. He simply turned and left Damion there, with his memories of the past and his fears for the future.
It won't be for long, he said, his hand still on the door as she stood alone in the center of the bare floor, her gaze quietly surveying her surroundings.
Why, Uncle? she asked, her brows drawing together as she turned to face him. She felt such an ache in her chest, the pressure of so many emotionsfear, betrayal, and a fierce, determined angerthat she wondered that her heart could contain them all without ripping apart. Why have you joined the rebellion against Henry?
His jaw tightened. Henry is old.
Not so old.
Too old to win against Richard. And I plan to be on the winning side, Attica.
Is that what's important? Winning? What of honor? Her voice cracked. And loyalty?
Honor and loyalty? He smiled wryly. They're words, child. Pretty words, beloved of troubadours and fresh-faced, eager young knights. But still only words.
She thought she caught a faint timbre of regret in his voice, a trace of the young man he had once been. They were more than words to you once. They were part of the code by which you lived.
Perhaps. When I was young. His face looked strained, and she saw the lines left there by all the years that had passed since he had been that laughing young knight, bringing
sugarplums and ribbons to the innocent little girl she once had been. I'm not so young anymore, Attica. And in my experience, there is no honor. Anywhere. So that a man is wise if he is loyal only to himself.
The sentiment was bitter. Bitter and angry, and it so closely echoed something de Jarnac had said to her that she knew a swift rush of what she thought might be despair. She had the most peculiar sensationas if her entire world, everything she believed in, was collapsing around her. What kind of world would we live in, if all men thought thus? she said scornfully.
His head reared back, his nostrils quivering, his hand tightening on the edge of the door. You're a woman, Attica. You should be seeing to your bride clothes and preparing to take your vows, rather than concerning yourself with these matters.
Well, I should have plenty of time to meditate on my womanly obligations while I wait for you to release me from my prison, shouldn't I, Uncle?
The room shook as he slammed the door behind him.
She stood quite still, listening to the grating of the bolt being drawn across the door and the brisk tramp of his receding footsteps. She forced herself to count very slowly to fifty before she eased the mace and poniard from her sleeves and went to hide them beneath the thin straw-filled mattress on the bed.
She was surprised to see that whoever had cleaned the room had also brought her saddlebags from the ladies chamber. She tore them open, a smile touching her lips at the sight of the courtier's clothes carefully folded within.
Setting them aside, she hurried to the room's single window. She pulled the pin from the shutters and gasped as the
wind whistled through a rent in one of the old, oiled parchment windowpanes and practically whipped the wooden panels from her grasp.
Biting her lower lip, she carefully braced back the shutter, then eased open the window, holding the frame tightly against the howl of the incoming storm. The room overlooked not the bailey itself but a narrow, noisome alley running between the timber building and another structure, made of stone, that she thought was probably the kitchen. The smell of roast meat and old woodsmoke hung heavy in the air, and she could hear a confusion of voices and the rattle of pots and pans in the big barrels used for washing. As she listened, someone began to sing a silly ditty about a lovesick pig, which made the knaves and pages laugh.
The wind gusted again, bathing her face with fresh air and the smell of coming rain. She said a small prayer and looked down.
The timber-framed building had been constructed over a stone undercroft, probably used for storage, so that the drop to the muddy path below was one of at least fifteen feet. She could never jump so far. She twisted around to look back at the bed. She couldn't jump, but dressed again in the courtier's clothes and with the aid of a rope, she could climb down. Later, after the castle had settled into sleep.
Renouf would never have locked up a male prisoner so carelessly, she thought, refastening the window and shutters before turning to the task of ripping up her coarse, stout sheets. He considered her a mere woman, a mistake Damion de Jarnac would never have made.
The thought brought a faint smile to her heart as she set to work.
He found himself oddly aware of small things. The sharp links of the chains, digging into the palms of his hands as he clutched the fetters as if clinging to them for support. The rising roar of the storm, sweeping in on the city. The pounding of his own heart, beating loudly in his ears. He could not think of what was about to happen to him. He could not risk tapping into the dangerous well of emotions that lurked within him.
It wasn't that he particularly feared death, although he had always hoped that his death, when it came, would be quick and painless. It was obvious, now, that it would be neither. But what bothered him more than anything was the sense of incompleteness, of unfulfillment. He was not ready to die.
He thought of all the things he had wanted to accomplish in his life and now never would. The grand ambitions, the determination to win for himself both land and titles, to prove that he didn't need the birthright he'd discovered he never really had. But what cut him even more was the realization that his restless, futile search for relief would never end, that he would die still tortured by the all-consuming guilt and anger that had tormented him since that dark and deadly night fourteen years ago.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, a long, low reverberation that seemed to shake the very walls of the tower. Dam-ion smelled dust and the promise of rain upon the restless wind. He pulled the damp air into his chest and pushed it out again, aware of a sharper sense of regret as his thoughts turned to Attica. He knew he could never have had more with her than what they had shared together these past two
days, and yet the sense of loss he felt when he thought of her was bitter and tragic. He wondered if she realized yet that her brother had most likely turned traitor to the king he served, and he thought with pain of how the disillusionment would shatter her, when she did learn the truth.
Thunder boomed again, louder this time. So loud that for a moment it drowned out the sound of quick footfalls on the steps, a low voice, a thump.
Damion's gaze flew to the small square of black sky that showed through the window, his breath coming shallow and rapid in his throat. It was too soon, surely? It couldn't possibly be dawn yet. Not yet. He heard the grating of the heavy bolt being drawn back, the creak of the door swinging inward, and he tightened his grip on his chains, his grip on himself.
And then, out of the darkness, came a whisper. A woman's voice, cultured, husky with strain, saying, Damion? Are you there? You must come away quickly.
Attica.
The relief he felt was so total that for one intense moment, it obliterated all thought. Then he gave a hoarse laugh that came out almost like a groan and said, Unless you have the keys to these fetters, my valiant little lordling, I'm afraid I'm not going anywhere.
Fetters? she said, the words echoing hollowly in the stony emptiness. You are chained?
His voice came to her from out of the storm-blackened void, along with the clank of metal, as if he had given his shackles an angry yank. To the wall. A time-honored and highly effective means of preventing prisoners from wandering off into the night.
A flash of lightning sliced through the darkness to show her a bare prison room with dirty rushes on the floor and a man hanging in chains against the damp stone wall. Blood matted his head and trickled down one side of his face, while his clothes hung in tatters on his leanly muscled frame.
Mon Dieu
, she whispered as thunder rumbled in the distance. She went to him, close enough that she could have touched him, although she did not. Are you badly hurt?
Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the blackness of the room. She could see a square of wind-tossed sky through
the high, barred window, and the quirk of Damion's swollen lips that might have been a smile. Bruised and battered, but whole. So far. Your uncle plans to start carving up bits of me in the morning.
The thought of what had been done to himof what would be done to him if she couldn't get him away from here, tore savagely at her heart. She heard herself make a strange sound, almost like a whimper, deep in her throat. And then she was touching him, her fingertips coursing lightly over his forehead, his cheeks, hovering over his mouth for one intense moment.
I'm all right. Truly, he said softly, pressing his lips to her palm.
Trembling, she let her hands slide along his arms to where the irons bit into his wrists. How can I get you out of these?
He pressed his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her cheek. It won't be easy without the key. And unless the guard has it, it's with your uncle.
She took a quick step back. The guard? Of course. Whirling about, she stumbled across the uneven floor. From the base of the tower, a tight spiral of worn stone steps curved up toward a glimmer of light and a fresh gust of night wind. She ran up the stairs to where a bunch of keys lay on the stone lintel of the doorway, beside the curving, still hand of the guard. She snatched up the ring without looking at the man's face, or at the dark patch of blood she'd left on the back of his head. Her heart pounding in her chest, she raced back down the steps and hurried across the cell.
I hope these are the right ones, she said, reaching to try one of the keys in the fetters.
It didn't fit.
Stifling a small gasp of dismay, she shifted to try another key. Her breasts pressed against Damion's chest as she leaned into him, the heat of his body rising up to her, close and intimate.
She heard the swift, hissing intake of his breath, and for a moment, she froze. I'm sorry, she said, her voice unusually husky as she moved again to struggle with the lock. I can't reach otherwise.
He murmured something incoherent that sounded halfway between a laugh and a groan. Then the key clicked home, and the iron band at his wrist sprang open.
He lowered his free arm, his teeth clenching against the pain as blood rushed back into his numb hand. She reached quickly to unlock his other wrist. Where is Sergei? How can I find him?
You needn't worry about Sergei. He winced as his second wrist came free. He's already on his way to La Ferté-Bernard.
He bent forward, rubbing his sore wrists, so that he didn't see her hand coming until her open palm caught his cheek with a sharp crack that sent his head jerking sideways under the impact. Sweet Infant Jesus, Attica! What was that for? he demanded, his hair tumbling over his eyes as he stared at her.
For not telling me about you and Henry.
He straightened. Then, to her surprise, he laughed. Let's get out of here, he said, and grabbed her hand.
The air was fresher in the stairwell. He paused at the foot of the steps, his back to the curved wall, his hand still in hers as he sucked in great, gasping breaths. Is there a guard? he asked, his left arm pressed to his ribs as if they hurt.
Not anymore.
A faint, wavering patch of moonlight broke through the windblown clouds to reveal the dark bulk of her uncle's man-at-arms sprawled half on the entry landing, half on the steps that continued up into the darkness of the tower. Is he dead? de Jarnac asked in wonder, inching carefully up the stairs with Attica behind him.
I do sincerely hope not. Although I fear I hit him hard.
Exactly what did you hit him with?
A mace. I borrowed it from my uncle's collection.
He grunted, turning to study the yard beyond the narrow doorway. How well do you know this castle?
There's a sally port between the stables and the armory. It has but one guard.
He brought his still, intense gaze back to her face. Do you come with me?
Yes, she said simply, holding his gaze. I can't trust my uncle. He may be my kinsman, but that didn't stop him from imprisoning me tonight. I don't know what he would do to me for helping you escape.
She thought, for a moment, he meant to say something. Instead, he swung abruptly away, his head falling back as he cast an appraising glance up at the sky.
The rain still held off, but dark clouds hung low overhead, massive and thick and turbulent above the jagged crenellations of pale sandstone towers and walls. The darkness of the night rendered the details of the castle indistinct, the various buildings ringing the yard showing only hazy, muted shades of charcoal and lead and ash. Then the wind gusted up, scouring the bailey, sending dried leaves and a scared, white-tailed cat scuttling across the hard-baked ground as boot heels clicked on the wall walk above.
De Jarnac's hand tightened on her arm, drawing her further back into the shadows as the helmet of a guard appeared,
silhouetted against a flash of lightning as he moved along the wall walk. The castle might be asleep, but it was still guarded. And escaping from the castle itself would only be the beginning, Attica thought. Once they were clear of the castle, they would still need to traverse the city and find some way through its high walls and locked gates.
She watched Damion reach instinctively to put his hand on his dagger, then heard him swear softly, because the guards had of course taken it from him before flinging him into the tower. Christ, he muttered under his breath. What I wouldn't give for a sword right now.
She slipped the poniard from her sleeve and held it out to him. I brought you this.
His teeth flashed in a smile. More of Uncle Renouf 's collection? he asked, strapping the dagger to his belt.
She caught his arm, drawing him around to face her when he would have moved. I would ask that you avoid using it, if at all possible.
He grunted. Do you bring your mace?
No.
His gaze lifted once more to the guard approaching on the wall walk.
She held on to his arm. Promise me?
He let his breath out in a long sigh. I'll try. He took her hand in a tight grip and leaned forward until his lips almost touched her ear. They watched the guard above pause, then swing about. Now, De Jarnac whispered, and darted through the doorway.
They kept to the shadows of the wooden buildings that lined the castle wall, their movements smooth and wraithlike, their soft boots noiseless on hard earth and rounded cobbles, on straw and soft, squishy things neither of them
cared to identify. In the darkness of the night, they navigated mainly by sense of smell, recognizing the fermenty tang of the alehouse, the lingering scents of charcoal and raw metal that marked the blacksmith's, until at last they came to the mingling odors of warm horseflesh and hay and manure that told them they had reached the stables.
Damion could see the sally port now, a small arched opening set at the base of a square tower, its heavy, iron-banded oak door barred fast against the night. A flambeau thrust into a nearby bracket on the wall smoked badly, its dancing yellow light revealing a man-at-arms, his helmeted head tilted back as he anxiously surveyed the jumbled clouds above.
Reaching out, Damion put his hand on Attica's shoulder and whispered softly in her ear. Walk up to the guard and talk to him.
She jerked her head around to stare at him.
Me?
He threw her a reckless grin. Simply act as if you have a right to be where you are. I'll take him from behind.
Her wide, solemn eyes, black as the night around them, gazed back at him. You won't kill him?
Damion pursed his lips and shook his head.
She eyed him a moment longer. Then she sucked in a deep gasp of air, as if to steady herself, and crept to the corner of the stables. Damion watched her hesitate, visibly throwing off the skulking furtiveness of a shadows-bound figure. Chin up, her shoulders back, she strode forward with an arrogant masculine strut that was such a caricature that Damion smiled softly into the night.
Do you think it will rain? she asked, throwing her already husky voice low as she sauntered up to the guard.
The guard swung about, his hand tightening on his pike as he stiffened, then visibly relaxed at the sight of Atticus's
fine clothing and friendly, smiling face. What the devil are you doing here, lad?
Meeting Juliana. Attica edged closer to the port. You do know Juliana, don't you? she asked, drawing the guard around to face her. Leering suggestively, she cupped her hands a good foot in front of her chest and thrust her hips back and forth in a rudely suggestive motion that made the guard chuckle and led Damion, watching her, to wonder where she got
that
from. The new dairy maid with the big tits?
No, said the guard, sounding interested. Juliana, you say?
Attica nodded. She promised to meet me in the square, by the fountain. Her smile faded suddenly, and she dropped her hands in a gesture of despair. Except she said she wouldn't come if it was going to rain. Do you think it's going to rain?
The guard, his back now to Damion, squinted up at the night sky and growled, It always rains when I'm on guard duty.
Damion crept forward. A swift, lethal twist of the neck or a knife blade expertly drawn from behind across the throat would have been quick and quiet. But Damion had promised. Setting his jaw, he brought the heavy jeweled pommel of his borrowed poniard down on the back of the guard's helmet with a thumping
clang
that echoed around the yard like a kitchen dinner gong. The guard collapsed at Damion's feet, just as someone shouted an inquiry from out of the darkness.
Shit, said Damion, leaping forward to yank back the bolts on the portal. He threaded his hand through the iron grip and yanked.
The door swung inward with a betraying shriek of grinding hinges that seemed to fill the night. Swearing again, he ducked through the doorway, one hand curling around the stone frame as he reached back for her. Attica?
She hesitated, the wind whipping the hem of her surcoat and fluttering the curls at her cheek, her eyes huge in a pale face, as if she had only now realized the enormity of what she was about to do.
Another shout went up, this one from the wall walk above. A torch flared hot and bright; running feet pounded toward them across the yard. Attica, he said, his gaze shifting away from her, then back again, if you're coming with me, my love, now would be a good time.
She came at him in a rush. He caught her hand, and they ran together through the open portal and into the darkened city beyond.
Her feet flying over the hard-packed ground, her heart pounding painfully in her chest, Attica clung to the strong, capable hand of the man beside her and ran.
A wild wind whipped the hair across her face as lightning shattered the dark sky and the earth shook with the rumble of thunder. They fled through the storm-charged darkness, down a steep, curving street of tightly packed timber and stone merchants houses, past windows shuttered now in sleep. The patter of their running feet echoed hollowly through the deserted space, the sounds of shouting growing fainter behind them until she thought for one brief, hopeful moment that they might actually get away.
Then a shrill clang rang out over the sleeping houses, the first deafening stroke followed by another and another as the alarm bell sent its warning to all the guards of the city. A dog somewhere up near the castle began to bark,
then another and another. A man's sleepy voice called out, his words lost in the bang of a shutter being thrown open against the house wall over their heads.
I think, said de Jarnac, his teeth flashing in a devil-damn-the-world smile, that they've found your mace-felled friend.
Huh. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder, half expecting to see the dark armor and menacing pikes of the guard pouring out the castle gate in pursuit. But the jagged rooftops of the curving rows of stepped houses had already hidden the castle from her sight.
My compliments to your uncle, said Jarnac softly. His men are quick.
She swung her head back around and bit off a gasp of dismay at the sight of a coppery glow wavering over the upper stories of the houses below. A shower of sparks flickered up into the night, and she knew it came from the windblown torches held high by the hands of hurrying men.
Glancing about wildly, she saw the black mouth of an alley yawn enticingly up ahead on their left, and knew it was too far away. Already the bobbing helmets and thrusting pikes of the first line of men-at-arms rushing up the hill in answer to the castle's alarm were visible around the bend in the street.
There! One of the men drew up momentarily in surprise, his fist tightening on his pike. See them there? he cried, his sweat-sheened face highlighted in orange by the flaring light of a flickering torch as he charged forward again.
Seize them
.
Attica's step faltered, her feet stumbling over the lip of the foul-smelling, stone-lined gutter that ran down the center of the street. We're trapped.
Not yet, said de Jarnac. He caught her before she fell,
yanking her arm as he dragged her into the darkness of a deep porch that turned out to be not a porch at all but an arched passage piercing the facade of the merchant's establishment beside them.
The stone tunnel closed in around them, dark and dank and close, then emptied into a long, narrow yard flanked on one side by the long ell of the house, on the other by the high wall of its neighbor. The yard itself was a mosaic of dark, mysterious shapes that soon identified themselves as de Jarnac tripped with a clatter over the pole of an unhorsed cart and Attica catapulted, arms outflung, into a huge pyramid of empty barrels. She careered sideways, scraping her elbow, losing her footing to land on her backside with a teeth-rattling thump as the barrels wobbled precariously beside her.
Damion bared his teeth. Well, we both know that the members of my family aren't likely to take you up on any offers. But I do have friends. And some personal resources, if you're not too greedy.
Don't worry, said the castellan of Laval, coming to stand in front of Damion beyond the range of his feet. The price won't be excessive. Say, five hundred livres? And one small piece of information.
Damion met the other man's gaze steadily. I can't imagine what I could possibly know that you don't.
Flattering. But unfortunately inaccurate. You see, a book has gone missing. A Sainte-Foy breviary that Attica by chance brought away with her in Olivier de Harcourt's saddlebags. Attica claims she knew nothing of the importance of the breviary and that she has no idea what has become of it. And do you know what? I'm inclined to believe her.
Well, I'm glad to hear you're such a trusting fellow, because I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about either, said Damion.
Blissot sighed. We could play these games all evening, de Jarnac, but I have other things to do with my time. So let us say simply that I know you have joined Henry's household, I know you have been to Brittany and Ireland, and I even know why. Which leads me to the inevitable
conclusion that if the breviary and its incriminating documents have disappeared, then you are probably the one responsible.
With effort, Damion kept his face impassive. There should have been only three, perhaps four people outside of King Henry himself who knew the true purpose of Damion's recent travels. Yet someone had told Renouf Blissot, and Damion was suddenly quite sure he knew who that person was. Slowly, he smiled. Documents, you say? Now that is interesting. Do you mind if I ask whom they are for?
Blissot tssked. Monsieur le chevalier, if you continue in this vein I shall be forced to order my men to apply certain persuasive techniques that are both unpleasant and permanent in their affects. And in that case, I fear there may not be much left of you for your friends to ransom.
Damion had seen men tortured. Smelled the sickening stench of burned flesh. Heard their unending screams of terror and unbearable agony as the knife cut, destroyed, took from a man everything he held most dear
He tilted back his head to look at Blissot through slitted eyes. He felt light-headed from the beating, his mouth dry from blood loss and a range of emotions held in check by willpower alone. Would that be wise? he said, somehow managing to keep his voice level. I mean, no one is likely to be willing to pay much for a blind eunuch lugging about bloody misshapen stumps instead of the usual hands and feet.
What might have been a reluctant gleam of admiration lit the other man's pale eyes. I would prefer to ransom you whole, said Blissot, walking to the door. But I will have that breviary, and I will do whatever is necessary to obtain it.
Damion tightened his jaw. I'm afraid I still don't know what you're talking about.
Blissot paused to look back, a bemused expression on his fine-boned, handsome face. Why? Why persist? How could Henry possibly compensate you for what I will do to you?
Damion said nothing. Blissot shrugged and reached for the lantern. I'll give you the rest of the night to reconsider.
He turned toward the door again, the light playing across his face. Damion said provocatively, Get too close to a cat?
My niece, said Blissot, his fingertips going selfcon-sciously to his scratched cheek. I always thought Robert d'Alérion betrothed her to Fulk unwisely. Now I know it. That boy will never be able to handle her.
Does she know you've turned traitor to your liege lord?
What an ugly word that is, traitor. Blissot smiled. I prefer to say I've altered the direction of my loyalties.
To Philip?
The smile hardened. No. To Richard. He will be the next Duke of Normandy and King of England, you know.
I know, said Damion. I simply have problems with his impatient attempts to hurry the process along, that's all.
Indeed? I should think rather that you and he had much in common. But no He paused, as if struck by a thought. It was your brother you killed, not your father, was it not? Or was it?
With a snarl, Damion lunged forward, to be pulled up by the fetters digging painfully into his wrists.
He expected Renouf Blissot to smile again, but he didn't. He simply turned and left Damion there, with his memories of the past and his fears for the future.
*
It won't be for long, he said, his hand still on the door as she stood alone in the center of the bare floor, her gaze quietly surveying her surroundings.
Why, Uncle? she asked, her brows drawing together as she turned to face him. She felt such an ache in her chest, the pressure of so many emotionsfear, betrayal, and a fierce, determined angerthat she wondered that her heart could contain them all without ripping apart. Why have you joined the rebellion against Henry?
His jaw tightened. Henry is old.
Not so old.
Too old to win against Richard. And I plan to be on the winning side, Attica.
Is that what's important? Winning? What of honor? Her voice cracked. And loyalty?
Honor and loyalty? He smiled wryly. They're words, child. Pretty words, beloved of troubadours and fresh-faced, eager young knights. But still only words.
She thought she caught a faint timbre of regret in his voice, a trace of the young man he had once been. They were more than words to you once. They were part of the code by which you lived.
Perhaps. When I was young. His face looked strained, and she saw the lines left there by all the years that had passed since he had been that laughing young knight, bringing
sugarplums and ribbons to the innocent little girl she once had been. I'm not so young anymore, Attica. And in my experience, there is no honor. Anywhere. So that a man is wise if he is loyal only to himself.
The sentiment was bitter. Bitter and angry, and it so closely echoed something de Jarnac had said to her that she knew a swift rush of what she thought might be despair. She had the most peculiar sensationas if her entire world, everything she believed in, was collapsing around her. What kind of world would we live in, if all men thought thus? she said scornfully.
His head reared back, his nostrils quivering, his hand tightening on the edge of the door. You're a woman, Attica. You should be seeing to your bride clothes and preparing to take your vows, rather than concerning yourself with these matters.
Well, I should have plenty of time to meditate on my womanly obligations while I wait for you to release me from my prison, shouldn't I, Uncle?
The room shook as he slammed the door behind him.
She stood quite still, listening to the grating of the bolt being drawn across the door and the brisk tramp of his receding footsteps. She forced herself to count very slowly to fifty before she eased the mace and poniard from her sleeves and went to hide them beneath the thin straw-filled mattress on the bed.
She was surprised to see that whoever had cleaned the room had also brought her saddlebags from the ladies chamber. She tore them open, a smile touching her lips at the sight of the courtier's clothes carefully folded within.
Setting them aside, she hurried to the room's single window. She pulled the pin from the shutters and gasped as the
wind whistled through a rent in one of the old, oiled parchment windowpanes and practically whipped the wooden panels from her grasp.
Biting her lower lip, she carefully braced back the shutter, then eased open the window, holding the frame tightly against the howl of the incoming storm. The room overlooked not the bailey itself but a narrow, noisome alley running between the timber building and another structure, made of stone, that she thought was probably the kitchen. The smell of roast meat and old woodsmoke hung heavy in the air, and she could hear a confusion of voices and the rattle of pots and pans in the big barrels used for washing. As she listened, someone began to sing a silly ditty about a lovesick pig, which made the knaves and pages laugh.
The wind gusted again, bathing her face with fresh air and the smell of coming rain. She said a small prayer and looked down.
The timber-framed building had been constructed over a stone undercroft, probably used for storage, so that the drop to the muddy path below was one of at least fifteen feet. She could never jump so far. She twisted around to look back at the bed. She couldn't jump, but dressed again in the courtier's clothes and with the aid of a rope, she could climb down. Later, after the castle had settled into sleep.
Renouf would never have locked up a male prisoner so carelessly, she thought, refastening the window and shutters before turning to the task of ripping up her coarse, stout sheets. He considered her a mere woman, a mistake Damion de Jarnac would never have made.
The thought brought a faint smile to her heart as she set to work.
*
He found himself oddly aware of small things. The sharp links of the chains, digging into the palms of his hands as he clutched the fetters as if clinging to them for support. The rising roar of the storm, sweeping in on the city. The pounding of his own heart, beating loudly in his ears. He could not think of what was about to happen to him. He could not risk tapping into the dangerous well of emotions that lurked within him.
It wasn't that he particularly feared death, although he had always hoped that his death, when it came, would be quick and painless. It was obvious, now, that it would be neither. But what bothered him more than anything was the sense of incompleteness, of unfulfillment. He was not ready to die.
He thought of all the things he had wanted to accomplish in his life and now never would. The grand ambitions, the determination to win for himself both land and titles, to prove that he didn't need the birthright he'd discovered he never really had. But what cut him even more was the realization that his restless, futile search for relief would never end, that he would die still tortured by the all-consuming guilt and anger that had tormented him since that dark and deadly night fourteen years ago.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, a long, low reverberation that seemed to shake the very walls of the tower. Dam-ion smelled dust and the promise of rain upon the restless wind. He pulled the damp air into his chest and pushed it out again, aware of a sharper sense of regret as his thoughts turned to Attica. He knew he could never have had more with her than what they had shared together these past two
days, and yet the sense of loss he felt when he thought of her was bitter and tragic. He wondered if she realized yet that her brother had most likely turned traitor to the king he served, and he thought with pain of how the disillusionment would shatter her, when she did learn the truth.
Thunder boomed again, louder this time. So loud that for a moment it drowned out the sound of quick footfalls on the steps, a low voice, a thump.
Damion's gaze flew to the small square of black sky that showed through the window, his breath coming shallow and rapid in his throat. It was too soon, surely? It couldn't possibly be dawn yet. Not yet. He heard the grating of the heavy bolt being drawn back, the creak of the door swinging inward, and he tightened his grip on his chains, his grip on himself.
And then, out of the darkness, came a whisper. A woman's voice, cultured, husky with strain, saying, Damion? Are you there? You must come away quickly.
Attica.
The relief he felt was so total that for one intense moment, it obliterated all thought. Then he gave a hoarse laugh that came out almost like a groan and said, Unless you have the keys to these fetters, my valiant little lordling, I'm afraid I'm not going anywhere.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Fetters? she said, the words echoing hollowly in the stony emptiness. You are chained?
His voice came to her from out of the storm-blackened void, along with the clank of metal, as if he had given his shackles an angry yank. To the wall. A time-honored and highly effective means of preventing prisoners from wandering off into the night.
A flash of lightning sliced through the darkness to show her a bare prison room with dirty rushes on the floor and a man hanging in chains against the damp stone wall. Blood matted his head and trickled down one side of his face, while his clothes hung in tatters on his leanly muscled frame.
Mon Dieu
, she whispered as thunder rumbled in the distance. She went to him, close enough that she could have touched him, although she did not. Are you badly hurt?
Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the blackness of the room. She could see a square of wind-tossed sky through
the high, barred window, and the quirk of Damion's swollen lips that might have been a smile. Bruised and battered, but whole. So far. Your uncle plans to start carving up bits of me in the morning.
The thought of what had been done to himof what would be done to him if she couldn't get him away from here, tore savagely at her heart. She heard herself make a strange sound, almost like a whimper, deep in her throat. And then she was touching him, her fingertips coursing lightly over his forehead, his cheeks, hovering over his mouth for one intense moment.
I'm all right. Truly, he said softly, pressing his lips to her palm.
Trembling, she let her hands slide along his arms to where the irons bit into his wrists. How can I get you out of these?
He pressed his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her cheek. It won't be easy without the key. And unless the guard has it, it's with your uncle.
She took a quick step back. The guard? Of course. Whirling about, she stumbled across the uneven floor. From the base of the tower, a tight spiral of worn stone steps curved up toward a glimmer of light and a fresh gust of night wind. She ran up the stairs to where a bunch of keys lay on the stone lintel of the doorway, beside the curving, still hand of the guard. She snatched up the ring without looking at the man's face, or at the dark patch of blood she'd left on the back of his head. Her heart pounding in her chest, she raced back down the steps and hurried across the cell.
I hope these are the right ones, she said, reaching to try one of the keys in the fetters.
It didn't fit.
Stifling a small gasp of dismay, she shifted to try another key. Her breasts pressed against Damion's chest as she leaned into him, the heat of his body rising up to her, close and intimate.
She heard the swift, hissing intake of his breath, and for a moment, she froze. I'm sorry, she said, her voice unusually husky as she moved again to struggle with the lock. I can't reach otherwise.
He murmured something incoherent that sounded halfway between a laugh and a groan. Then the key clicked home, and the iron band at his wrist sprang open.
He lowered his free arm, his teeth clenching against the pain as blood rushed back into his numb hand. She reached quickly to unlock his other wrist. Where is Sergei? How can I find him?
You needn't worry about Sergei. He winced as his second wrist came free. He's already on his way to La Ferté-Bernard.
He bent forward, rubbing his sore wrists, so that he didn't see her hand coming until her open palm caught his cheek with a sharp crack that sent his head jerking sideways under the impact. Sweet Infant Jesus, Attica! What was that for? he demanded, his hair tumbling over his eyes as he stared at her.
For not telling me about you and Henry.
He straightened. Then, to her surprise, he laughed. Let's get out of here, he said, and grabbed her hand.
The air was fresher in the stairwell. He paused at the foot of the steps, his back to the curved wall, his hand still in hers as he sucked in great, gasping breaths. Is there a guard? he asked, his left arm pressed to his ribs as if they hurt.
Not anymore.
A faint, wavering patch of moonlight broke through the windblown clouds to reveal the dark bulk of her uncle's man-at-arms sprawled half on the entry landing, half on the steps that continued up into the darkness of the tower. Is he dead? de Jarnac asked in wonder, inching carefully up the stairs with Attica behind him.
I do sincerely hope not. Although I fear I hit him hard.
Exactly what did you hit him with?
A mace. I borrowed it from my uncle's collection.
He grunted, turning to study the yard beyond the narrow doorway. How well do you know this castle?
There's a sally port between the stables and the armory. It has but one guard.
He brought his still, intense gaze back to her face. Do you come with me?
Yes, she said simply, holding his gaze. I can't trust my uncle. He may be my kinsman, but that didn't stop him from imprisoning me tonight. I don't know what he would do to me for helping you escape.
She thought, for a moment, he meant to say something. Instead, he swung abruptly away, his head falling back as he cast an appraising glance up at the sky.
The rain still held off, but dark clouds hung low overhead, massive and thick and turbulent above the jagged crenellations of pale sandstone towers and walls. The darkness of the night rendered the details of the castle indistinct, the various buildings ringing the yard showing only hazy, muted shades of charcoal and lead and ash. Then the wind gusted up, scouring the bailey, sending dried leaves and a scared, white-tailed cat scuttling across the hard-baked ground as boot heels clicked on the wall walk above.
De Jarnac's hand tightened on her arm, drawing her further back into the shadows as the helmet of a guard appeared,
silhouetted against a flash of lightning as he moved along the wall walk. The castle might be asleep, but it was still guarded. And escaping from the castle itself would only be the beginning, Attica thought. Once they were clear of the castle, they would still need to traverse the city and find some way through its high walls and locked gates.
She watched Damion reach instinctively to put his hand on his dagger, then heard him swear softly, because the guards had of course taken it from him before flinging him into the tower. Christ, he muttered under his breath. What I wouldn't give for a sword right now.
She slipped the poniard from her sleeve and held it out to him. I brought you this.
His teeth flashed in a smile. More of Uncle Renouf 's collection? he asked, strapping the dagger to his belt.
She caught his arm, drawing him around to face her when he would have moved. I would ask that you avoid using it, if at all possible.
He grunted. Do you bring your mace?
No.
His gaze lifted once more to the guard approaching on the wall walk.
She held on to his arm. Promise me?
He let his breath out in a long sigh. I'll try. He took her hand in a tight grip and leaned forward until his lips almost touched her ear. They watched the guard above pause, then swing about. Now, De Jarnac whispered, and darted through the doorway.
They kept to the shadows of the wooden buildings that lined the castle wall, their movements smooth and wraithlike, their soft boots noiseless on hard earth and rounded cobbles, on straw and soft, squishy things neither of them
cared to identify. In the darkness of the night, they navigated mainly by sense of smell, recognizing the fermenty tang of the alehouse, the lingering scents of charcoal and raw metal that marked the blacksmith's, until at last they came to the mingling odors of warm horseflesh and hay and manure that told them they had reached the stables.
Damion could see the sally port now, a small arched opening set at the base of a square tower, its heavy, iron-banded oak door barred fast against the night. A flambeau thrust into a nearby bracket on the wall smoked badly, its dancing yellow light revealing a man-at-arms, his helmeted head tilted back as he anxiously surveyed the jumbled clouds above.
Reaching out, Damion put his hand on Attica's shoulder and whispered softly in her ear. Walk up to the guard and talk to him.
She jerked her head around to stare at him.
Me?
He threw her a reckless grin. Simply act as if you have a right to be where you are. I'll take him from behind.
Her wide, solemn eyes, black as the night around them, gazed back at him. You won't kill him?
Damion pursed his lips and shook his head.
She eyed him a moment longer. Then she sucked in a deep gasp of air, as if to steady herself, and crept to the corner of the stables. Damion watched her hesitate, visibly throwing off the skulking furtiveness of a shadows-bound figure. Chin up, her shoulders back, she strode forward with an arrogant masculine strut that was such a caricature that Damion smiled softly into the night.
Do you think it will rain? she asked, throwing her already husky voice low as she sauntered up to the guard.
The guard swung about, his hand tightening on his pike as he stiffened, then visibly relaxed at the sight of Atticus's
fine clothing and friendly, smiling face. What the devil are you doing here, lad?
Meeting Juliana. Attica edged closer to the port. You do know Juliana, don't you? she asked, drawing the guard around to face her. Leering suggestively, she cupped her hands a good foot in front of her chest and thrust her hips back and forth in a rudely suggestive motion that made the guard chuckle and led Damion, watching her, to wonder where she got
that
from. The new dairy maid with the big tits?
No, said the guard, sounding interested. Juliana, you say?
Attica nodded. She promised to meet me in the square, by the fountain. Her smile faded suddenly, and she dropped her hands in a gesture of despair. Except she said she wouldn't come if it was going to rain. Do you think it's going to rain?
The guard, his back now to Damion, squinted up at the night sky and growled, It always rains when I'm on guard duty.
Damion crept forward. A swift, lethal twist of the neck or a knife blade expertly drawn from behind across the throat would have been quick and quiet. But Damion had promised. Setting his jaw, he brought the heavy jeweled pommel of his borrowed poniard down on the back of the guard's helmet with a thumping
clang
that echoed around the yard like a kitchen dinner gong. The guard collapsed at Damion's feet, just as someone shouted an inquiry from out of the darkness.
Shit, said Damion, leaping forward to yank back the bolts on the portal. He threaded his hand through the iron grip and yanked.
The door swung inward with a betraying shriek of grinding hinges that seemed to fill the night. Swearing again, he ducked through the doorway, one hand curling around the stone frame as he reached back for her. Attica?
She hesitated, the wind whipping the hem of her surcoat and fluttering the curls at her cheek, her eyes huge in a pale face, as if she had only now realized the enormity of what she was about to do.
Another shout went up, this one from the wall walk above. A torch flared hot and bright; running feet pounded toward them across the yard. Attica, he said, his gaze shifting away from her, then back again, if you're coming with me, my love, now would be a good time.
She came at him in a rush. He caught her hand, and they ran together through the open portal and into the darkened city beyond.
Her feet flying over the hard-packed ground, her heart pounding painfully in her chest, Attica clung to the strong, capable hand of the man beside her and ran.
A wild wind whipped the hair across her face as lightning shattered the dark sky and the earth shook with the rumble of thunder. They fled through the storm-charged darkness, down a steep, curving street of tightly packed timber and stone merchants houses, past windows shuttered now in sleep. The patter of their running feet echoed hollowly through the deserted space, the sounds of shouting growing fainter behind them until she thought for one brief, hopeful moment that they might actually get away.
Then a shrill clang rang out over the sleeping houses, the first deafening stroke followed by another and another as the alarm bell sent its warning to all the guards of the city. A dog somewhere up near the castle began to bark,
then another and another. A man's sleepy voice called out, his words lost in the bang of a shutter being thrown open against the house wall over their heads.
I think, said de Jarnac, his teeth flashing in a devil-damn-the-world smile, that they've found your mace-felled friend.
Huh. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder, half expecting to see the dark armor and menacing pikes of the guard pouring out the castle gate in pursuit. But the jagged rooftops of the curving rows of stepped houses had already hidden the castle from her sight.
My compliments to your uncle, said Jarnac softly. His men are quick.
She swung her head back around and bit off a gasp of dismay at the sight of a coppery glow wavering over the upper stories of the houses below. A shower of sparks flickered up into the night, and she knew it came from the windblown torches held high by the hands of hurrying men.
Glancing about wildly, she saw the black mouth of an alley yawn enticingly up ahead on their left, and knew it was too far away. Already the bobbing helmets and thrusting pikes of the first line of men-at-arms rushing up the hill in answer to the castle's alarm were visible around the bend in the street.
There! One of the men drew up momentarily in surprise, his fist tightening on his pike. See them there? he cried, his sweat-sheened face highlighted in orange by the flaring light of a flickering torch as he charged forward again.
Seize them
.
Attica's step faltered, her feet stumbling over the lip of the foul-smelling, stone-lined gutter that ran down the center of the street. We're trapped.
Not yet, said de Jarnac. He caught her before she fell,
yanking her arm as he dragged her into the darkness of a deep porch that turned out to be not a porch at all but an arched passage piercing the facade of the merchant's establishment beside them.
The stone tunnel closed in around them, dark and dank and close, then emptied into a long, narrow yard flanked on one side by the long ell of the house, on the other by the high wall of its neighbor. The yard itself was a mosaic of dark, mysterious shapes that soon identified themselves as de Jarnac tripped with a clatter over the pole of an unhorsed cart and Attica catapulted, arms outflung, into a huge pyramid of empty barrels. She careered sideways, scraping her elbow, losing her footing to land on her backside with a teeth-rattling thump as the barrels wobbled precariously beside her.
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