Fatal Truths (The Anarchy Medieval Romance) (15 page)

ALEX TOSSED AND TURNED
, wondering why he’d bothered to go to his chamber where Elayne’s lingering scent taunted him.

Resigned to a sleepless night, he got out of bed, dressed quickly and went where his feet led him—up to the
battlements—grimacing at the fine grey ash that seemed to have settled everywhere, coating the castle.

Heavy cloud
s obscured the half moon and there was barely a breeze to stir the air. He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the enemy tents. It puzzled him that there was no movement in the camp. He’d expected to hear loud carousing.

A
t first he thought the faint sound in the distance was the croaking of frogs, but then decided it was a nightjar, chunnering about the lack of mice now the orchards were gone.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he scanned the thin
wisps of smoke hanging in the air over the camp.

He counted;
then counted again.

Six.

He beckoned a sentry from his post nearby. “Have you been watching since nightfall, Gaston?”

“
Oui, milord Comte
.”

“Has it been this quiet all night?”

“
Non, milord Comte
. Earlier there was shouting and what sounded to me like a lot of drinking going on. Then it fell quiet.”

Alex stroked his chin. Perhaps
Dugald’s plan had worked. “And earlier, when they were drinking, were there more fires?”

The sentry scanned the horizon for a minute or two. “
Non, milord
. Same as now.”

“Tell me, Gaston, when you’ve been in a camp with other soldiers, how many men usually gather around one fire?”

Gaston was pensive. “
Bien, milord
, on a chilly night like this, I’d say six, maybe seven.”

Alex peered out into the night again, excitement bubbling in his chest. His earlier suspicion had been correct. There were nigh on five score tents, which one might assume meant in the range of six hundred men. But there were only six campfires. It didn’t add up.

He inhaled the crisp night air. There was still the problem of protecting Elayne and her children if he launched an attack. It would have to be done stealthily, leaving no time for enemy soldiers to harm their hostages.

He
tilted his chin and looked to the sky. Had the wind picked up slightly? As he watched, the clouds parted briefly. Moonlight bathed the enemy camp and the devastated orchards beyond. It was an eerie sight.

Suddenly
he sensed rather than saw movement. “There,” he said to Gaston, pointing. “On the edge of the orchards. What do you see?”

The sentry peered out. The clouds rolled back, smothering the moon.

Gaston scratched his beard. “Not sure,
milord
. Mayhap a horse, or a wolf?”

“Whatever it is, it’s following the line of the orchards towards the road north. Keep your eyes peeled
in the event the clouds clear again.”

They stared into the blackness for so long, Alex’s eyes
ached. Then the moon peeked out from behind a cloud. He slapped Gaston on the back as elation filled his heart. “Not a wolf, my friend. That’s Faol. Dugald has got them away.”

He looked back
quickly towards the camp. There was no cry of alarm, no pursuit. He gritted his teeth as relief turned to determination. There was no need to delay the attack now.

“Rouse
Brodeur,” he commanded. “Tell him to meet me in the Chart Room. We’ve waited long enough to send these dogs packing.”

Gaston rushed off,
whistling.

Alex looked back out into the blackness that had swallowed those he loved.
He put his hand over where the braided token lay hidden. “
Au revoir
,” he whispered to the night sky. “Until we meet again.”

~~~

ALEX SCOWLED HALF HEARTEDLY at his giddy soldiers, his forefinger tapping his lips. If their laughter got any louder they’d waken the score or so of drunken sots who’d snored on while the Montbryce men had struck most of the empty tents in the enemy camp.

They’d deemed it advisable for Romain to
remain in command of the soldiers who’d stayed in the castle. No sense two Montbryces risking their lives. But his brother would be peeved when he found out what he’d missed.

He understood their glee, indeed could barely restrain his own
urge to chuckle. A man embarking on military action never knew if he’d be dead or alive at the end of it. Not a single life had been lost in this farcical raid, on either side.

Just before dawn, the
y’d crept stealthily to the enemy camp, on edge, weapons at the ready, not knowing what to expect. Not only had they encountered no opposition, there were even fewer men in the besieging “army” than he’d thought.

It irked. Geoffrey had successfully pinned him down in his own castle with a ragtag collection of men who’d proven themselves idiots with the near destruction of their own carefully constructed ruse.

It made him wonder just how much support Geoffrey and Maud had truly gathered in their frantic journeys back and forth across Normandie. As far as he could see, there appeared to be no obvious leader among the sleeping mercenaries.

Suddenly, one man rolled onto his back, bending his knees. He sat up quickly, reaching for the helmet at his side.
Scrambling to his feet, he jammed the helmet on his head with a groan.

A loud guffaw sounded from the Montbryce ranks lined up to watch.

The mercenary looked about in confusion, eyes narrowed. His mouth fell open when he espied his enemies arrayed around him. He drew his sword, but the action tipped him off balance. He staggered to one side, and fell over.

Peals of laughter ensued, waking the other mercenaries, most of
whom couldn’t even get to their feet, apparently struck dumb.

Brodeur
chuckled beside Alex. “In this dim light, they mayhap think it’s the devil’s army surrounding them.”

Alex turned to
him. “I trust you can manage to disarm this lot and escort them to the cells?”

Brodeur
grinned. “
Oui, milord
. I’ll organize a contingent to take down the rest of the tents. I reckon Montbryce is richer by a hundred good quality war tents and pavilions. I’ll wager the Angevin won’t be happy.”

Alex
nodded towards the prisoners. “Why not get them to dismantle the tents? Seems only fair.”

Brodeur’s
grin widened. “You’re right, as always,
milord
.”

Alex strode purposefully through the piles of canvas. It was indeed a rich hoard.
They’d be hard pressed to find a storage place with all the extra provisions Bonhomme had gathered, and every tent would have to be reopened and allowed to dry. Folding them while they were damp with dew hadn’t been easy or pleasant.

While these thoughts tumbled through his head,
his eyes remained fixed on the desolation beyond. He slowed his pace as he entered the ruined orchard, pierced to the heart at the sight of the blackened stumps. The once rich brown soil was powdered grey dust. The eerie silence was deafening. Not a creature stirred in this wilderness.

Generations of Montbryces had strolled through these trees, picked the apples, listened to the chirping of birds, watched the leaves turn golden and fall,
then savored the fragrant spring blossoms. As a boy he’d run with his brothers and sisters, kicking up mounds of crisp brown leaves. He closed his eyes, recalling the rustling, the laughter. Had his father been with them?

The task ahead of him was daunting.
It would take years to reestablish the orchard to its former glory. Other changes would have to be made. Montbryce had never come under attack before; no one had dared challenge one of the most powerful families in Normandie. But they had relied on the castle’s elevated position to discourage potential enemies. This had left the orchards vulnerable. Montbryce’s defense perimeter would have to be widened, a rampart put in place.

Despite the challenges he faced, a weight lifted from his shoulders. He
was confident he could successfully manage all of it. Being the
Comte
was his destiny.

If only he had
Elayne as his
Comtesse
. With her at his side he could have moved mountains.

ELAYNE’S BACKSIDE WAS RAW
. She’d eventually mastered the spooked horse, but not before several hours of bone jarring travel on uneven terrain in the dark. Henry hadn’t uttered a word of complaint and she suspected he’d fallen asleep hunched against her back. She’d pressed her arms against his to make sure he didn’t fall off. Now she could barely move her stiff shoulders. Her hands were numb after gripping the reins, her jaw permanently clenched.

Shortly after dawn, Dugald called a halt deep in a wood of conifer trees. “We’ll camp here and continue into Caen at dusk.
Too dangerous to travel in daylight. I’ll go in search of water for the horses. Don’t take out the salt pork until I return. No use attracting animals. May be wolves in these forests.”

She slid awkwardly from the horse, but her feet failed her and she collapsed in a heap. Henry jumped from the beast as if he hadn’t just ridden for hours in the dark and helped her
rise.

Dugald
toted the iron trunk to the middle of the clearing, then pulled the horses to a tree and tethered the reins to a low hanging branch. She was taken aback when he unbuckled the sheath of his dagger and handed it to her after peeling off his padded gambeson. “Here, just in case. And you’ve the dog with you.”

For the first time in her married life,
she was dismayed to watch Dugald swagger away, a water skin slung over his shoulder. Despite the early morning chill, the hilt of the weapon grew slick in her sweaty palm as she and her children huddled beneath a tree as far from the stink of the horses as possible. Claricia traced a fingertip over the pattern tooled on the leather sheath.

Faol paced back and forth, uncharacteristically alert.

The horses shifted, sniffing the air, twitching their tails.

Birds chirped and trilled, welcoming the day. She leaned her head back against the tree and closed her eyes.

“Sing for us,
Maman
,” Henry whispered.

She gritted her teeth. It had been a long time since she’d sung for her children, something that had come naturally before whenever their lives were clouded with uncertainty. She cleared her throat, hoping her voice would produce sounds that resembled music.

Gu robh neart na cruinne leat, 'S neart na grèine.

“May you indeed have the strength of the universe, and the
strength of the sun, my angels,” she crooned softly.

Henry
grinned, trying hard to hide his fear. “That’s my favorite.”

Faol paused to
study them for a moment as she sang, then resumed his march back and forth, ears erect.

Claricia cuddled into her. “Even the birds stopped to listen to you,
Maman
.”

Elayne smiled, but an icy dread crept into her belly when she realized the birds had indeed stopped singing. Faol stood stock still,
long tail rigid, ears alert, looking out in the direction Dugald had taken.

It was eerily silent
, except for the stomping hooves of the wild-eyed horses as they strained at their tethers.

Not a breath of wind stirred the trees.

A screeching wail shattered the silence. The hairs on her nape stood on end. No human could make such a noise.

Then
there was grunting, scuffling, cries of distress—it could only be Dugald.

Claricia screamed.

Elayne clamped her hand over her daughter’s mouth as they all scrambled to their feet. “Hush.”

Faol took a step forward, one paw raised.

The horses jostled each other, clearly panicked.

Henry
held out a hand. “Give me the dagger,
Maman
.”

She shook her head, but
he insisted, his young eyes narrowed. “You and Faol take care of Claricia. I’ll be ready for the wolf.”

The wolfhound glanced back at her as if he’d understood.
Trembling, she handed the knife to her courageous son just as the wailing stopped. No one breathed.

Henry’s shoulders stiffened when the noise began again.
He drew out the knife. The ridiculous thought flitted into her brain that little boys shouldn’t play with sharp objects.

She
frowned, trying to identify the screeching sounds. She’d heard something similar before. “I don’t think it’s a wolf, Henry. It’s like the cats fighting in Grandpapa’s castle, at night.”

He
nodded, his face ashen. “Aye, but this is louder. Must be a big cat.”

Elayne’s mind
careened through a host of memories of tales her father had told of forest creatures in the hills and valleys of Scotland. What kind of cat—

The image
appeared behind her eyes. She was ten. A large creature with brown fur, its enormous paws lashed to the poles her father’s hunters bore on their shoulders, its head hanging backwards. She’d never seen such long black whiskers. It was dead, but its tufted ears pointed as if listening still.

H
er lungs stopped working. “It’s a lynx.”

At that moment, Dugald staggered into the clearing, his
torn and bloodied face unrecognizable. One eye hung from its socket. He held out a mangled hand to Henry. “Give me the dagger,” he croaked.

Henry thrust the weapon into his father’s hand as
a streak of brown and grey sprang out of the trees onto her husband’s back. Faol barked wildly, nipping at the haunches of the big cat. Dugald struggled to dislodge the creature. Huge paws gripped his shoulders as he flailed with the dagger, striking air. He fell to his knees, dropping the weapon. He looked up, one hand grasping towards her, mouthing something as the cat sunk its fangs into his neck. She knew in that moment they were all going to die.

With a blood curdling yell
that belied his tender years, Henry rushed forward.

“No!” she screamed, burying her
keening daughter’s head in her breast, but unable to look away.

Henry
grabbed the dagger and without missing a stride thrust it up into the cat’s neck. The animal jerked and hissed at him, its long bloodied fangs bared.

Faol launched himself onto the lynx’s back
and bit into its neck.

Dugald collapsed to the ground as the
cat turned its fury on Faol. Elayne didn’t know where her son found his strength, but he yanked the dagger out of the maddened creature and thrust again. The lynx swiped at his shoulder, sending him staggering backwards, but blood spurted from the deep neck wound that had clearly weakened it.

It spun
around, catapulting the wolfhound into a tree, but the dog regained his footing quickly. The two animals faced each other, Faol growling loudly, teeth bared, the hound from hell. The cat reared up on its powerful hind legs, hissing and spitting, front paws raised like a drunken serf spoiling for fisticuffs.

Still holding Claricia to her body in a death grip, Elayne’s eyes darted from
Dugald, prostrate on the ground, to her son holding his bloody shoulder, to the courageous dog, to the desperate lynx. She prayed the cat had no mate nearby.

The stench of blood filled the air. Henry still gripped the dagger. Did she have the courage to lunge for it and attack the lynx?

As she wavered, willing her wooden legs to move, a whistling sound caught her attention.

The lynx
screeched, leapt into the air and fell dead at her feet, its neck transfixed by an arrow.

~~~

A DOZEN MEN armed with bows, arrows and swords poured out of the forest, shouting loudly. Faol sniffed the dead cat, then slunk off into the trees as the newcomers gathered around the carcass. One braced his foot on the animal’s shoulder and heaved the arrow out of its neck, holding it aloft to the cheers of others. Blood flowed from the wound.

Elayne didn’t know who these men were, but they had saved her children’s lives. They wore helmets and surcoats with a
vaguely familiar devise. Soldiers, not brigands.

She
ran to Henry, still clutching Claricia to her side. Dropping to her knees beside her son, she sat her daughter on the ground. The girl immediately scrambled over to her father.

Henry
winced with discomfort, gritting his teeth. To her relief the scratches were not deep and he hadn’t lost a lot of blood. But the wounds would have to be cleansed and bound. “Your doublet is ruined, young man,” she jested, her voice quivering.

Henry smiled
weakly, looking around. “Where is Faol?”

“I don’t know but
you and that brave dog just saved our lives.”

Satisfied her son was in no danger, she looked to her husband. Several men had gathered round him
, gaping at the weeping child draped across his body.

Elayne
rose and hurried to her daughter, gasping at the sight of Dugald’s ghastly wounds. She knelt beside her husband and coaxed Claricia into her arms.

“
Dadaidh, dadaidh
!” the girl sobbed into Elayne’s breast, unmindful of the blood staining the front of her gown.

The men turned
Dugald over carefully. If possible the livid wounds to his face and neck were worse than his mangled and punctured back. Elayne pressed her hand gently to the back of her daughter’s head so she wouldn’t look up and see her father’s face.

“
Jésu!” several men whispered, making the sign of the crucifixion across their bodies. They argued what the best course of action might be until she could stand it no longer. “Enough! I will tend him. Fetch water.”

They
sneered, seemingly on the verge of ignoring her when a tall red haired man strode out of the forest. They stood to attention immediately, heads bowed.

“Do as the
demoiselle
asks. Get water for the wretch. Send to the camp for the healer.” He glanced at Dugald. “
Parbleu
, it’s the prince of the Scots himself. How did he come to be here?” He turned his piercing eyes to Elayne. “And who are you?”

A pulse began its throb, throb, throb
bing at the base of her throat as she espied the sprig of broom on the front of the cap he wore. It was a plant she knew well from the hills and dales of Scotland. A suspicion of this man’s identity seeped into her heart. Keeping her eyes on the ground as befitted a servant, she prayed Claricia’s sobs wouldn’t give them away. “I am Elayne, nursemaid to their Highnesses,” she said, pointing to Henry.

The man arched his brows and approached Henry who had managed to sit up. “You are Henry, grandson of King David of Scotland?”

Henry glanced at his mother then thrust out his chin, looking like the teenager he was supposed to be. “I am.”

The man went down on one knee, doffing his cap. “Your Highness, I am Geoffrey Plantagenet,
Comte
of Anjou.”