Fatal Truths (The Anarchy Medieval Romance) (16 page)

THE NEXT FEW HOURS
passed in a blur. Geoffrey insisted on taking Henry and Claricia back to his main camp, which Elayne assumed wasn’t far away. Though she’d wanted to argue, doing so would arouse suspicion, and her place was with her husband.

If they were as close to Caen as Dugald had indicated, she wondered what the Angevin was doing in the vicinity of Stephen’s stronghold.

But she didn’t have time to dwell on the question long as she and the healer from the Angevin camp worked to save her husband’s life. The man was a monk who had no hesitation letting her know what he thought of women, especially when she adamantly refused to let him cut off Dugald’s mangled fingers.

Though he was delirious with pain and
had begun to sweat, Dugald’s nod of approval and the desperate cast in his one good eye told her he approved of her decision.

He knows he’s dying.

She was grateful for the cleric’s help, however, when it came to dealing with the destroyed eye. He summoned four burly soldiers who’d remained with them and they pinned Dugald down while he shoved the eye back in its socket then bound his head with a linen bandage.

Her husband’s screams would haunt her for the rest of her life. She squeezed his
hairy forearm, hoping he understood her anguish for him.

“You seem to care a lot about this man,” the monk observed.

Panic surged in her breast. “It’s hard to see a proud man so mutilated,” she murmured.

She gently unpinned his clan brooch and eased his
torn
playd
off his body. The monk busied himself cutting off the ruined clothing. She was confident he didn’t notice her slide the brooch into the deep pocket of her bloodied
bliaut
.

Dugald shivered as his massive body was exposed to the chill air, though he was drenched in sweat.
As she sponged the ghastly wounds that refused to stop pumping blood, she offered a silent prayer of thanks that her children weren’t witnessing this gory sight.

She glanced up to see the four soldiers dragging the cat’s carcass into the woods. “What will they do with it?” she asked the monk.

He shrugged, continuing to bandage Dugald’s hands. “Leave it in the forest. Nature will soon dispose of it.”

She shuddered, looking down again at her doomed husband. Would he too be left in the forest to be devoured by animals and vermin? He hadn’t been a good husband, but he was the father of her children and the son of a king. She would insist on the proper rites, and surely the monk would support her.

The cleric handed her a salve. “Smear it on only the deepest gouges. No use wasting it. Nought we can do about the puncture wounds in his neck except pad them and hope they stop bleeding.”

Icy dread gripped her innards. The monk
too doubted Dugald would survive.

She dipped her fingers in the jar of ointment, uncertain of its aroma, but its cooling properties seemed to ease
the pain momentarily as she trailed her fingers carefully over his body.

He was a
well made man, yet she’d never felt attracted to him, never experienced the same rush of desire that sparked when she was with Alex.

Guilt crept up her spine. Only a harlot would allow her wayward thoughts to roam to another man while
she tended her dying husband.

But the
Comte
de Montbryce was an honorable Norman who’d been willing to give every part of himself to her.

If Dugald were to die—

Her throat constricted and tears welled in her eyes. She reached to smooth her husband’s tangled and bloodied hair off his face, horrified by the deep gouges in his neck oozing blood. What little food there was in her belly threatened to surge up her throat. She leaned over and gently kissed her husband’s scarred cheek.

He blinked open his good eye and whispered something through dry lips. She frowned and leaned her ear closer to his mouth.

“Imagine,” he croaked. “Me, a warrior, bested by a
fyking
cat. Caught me unawares at the river.” A coughing spasm racked him. He gritted his teeth as a strangled chuckle emerged from his throat. “If I’d had my dagger—”

His eye rolled back in his head and he breathed his last.

If she’d hoped for words of regret for the years of indifference and brutality, for her children losing their father—twice—they wouldn’t come now.

Dugald
would never rise from the dead again.

~~~

IN THE EVENT, there was no argument about the funeral. As he unwound the bloodied bandages from Dugald’s lifeless hands, the monk quickly commanded the soldiers to build a pyre. Her belly churned, but it was what the Viking blood in Dugald would have wanted.

It came to her that his
tattered
playd
still lay at her feet.

Ignoring the sounds of axes chopping tree limbs, s
he scooped it up, dipped her hand in the river water they’d used to cleanse him and scrubbed. She had little time to render the
playd
as clean as possible. It was all she had to offer him as a shroud, and no Scot wanted to meet his Maker without his
playd
.

Satisfied she’d done as much as
possible, she wiped her bloodied hands on her own
playd
and walked over to the pyre.

They
’d laid Dugald’s body atop a very large pile of sturdy branches under which sat a thick mat of kindling. The monk was reciting something in Latin, arms raised as if in supplication, the edges of the bloodied bandages peeking out of the deep pocket of his robe. The soldiers stood ready with smoking bundles of brushwood.

“Wait,” she shouted.

The monk turned a disdainful eye to her, but she ignored him and reached to spread the
playd
over her husband’s body. To her surprise one of the soldiers handed his torch to his comrade, leaned forward and helped her tuck the wool around Dugald. She lay a hand briefly on his chest, said a silent goodbye, then stepped back.

“May we proceed now?” the monk asked haughtily, obviously dismissing her actions as some heathen Scottish custom.

“Aye,” she nodded.

As the flames of the torches bit into the kindling, she began her lament
in Gaelic, fixing her gaze on the watery moon just now appearing in the darkening sky, unable to watch as the crackling fire took hold and consumed her husband, the smoke bearing his soul heavenward.

O pale orb that silent shines

While care-untroubled mortals sleep!

You see
a wretch who inwardly pines.

And wanders here to wail and weep!

With woe I hereby vigil keep,

Beneath thy
pale, unwarming beam;

And mourn, in lamentation deep,

How life and love are all a dream!

The
smell of burning flesh filled the air, making her gag. She’d never felt so utterly alone. Though she hadn’t loved Dugald, she would mourn him, fervently hoping love was not just a dream.

The flames burned hotly for a while,
then dwindled. The men seemed ready to leave. “Hurry, we have time to get back to camp before it’s fully dark,” the monk urged her. “The fire will burn itself out.”

Is that all there is to a man’s life—and death?

A glint of movement in the trees caught her attention, the last of the flickering flames glowing in the eyes of some creature. She shuddered, fearing another lynx lurked in the shadows.

The animal
crept forward, still barely visible.

“Faol!” she whispered.

“What?” the monk said.

She cleared her throat loudly.
“Nothing, only the smoke making me cough.”

The dog cocked his head to one side.
She’d assumed the wolfhound had followed Henry, but here he was.

“I must
attend to the call of nature before we leave,” she said, edging towards the dog.

The monk shrugged and continued gathering his supplies.

Once in the shadows she fumbled to attach Dugald’s brooch to Faol’s collar. The cat had scratched the animal’s skin, but there was no evidence of bleeding. She hoped he’d be equal to the task she was about to entrust. “Alexandre,” she whispered in the dog’s ear. “Find Alexandre.”

The hound
sniffed the air and bounded off into the shadows.

“YOU MUST GO TO CAEN,”
Romain urged.

Alex shifted his weight in his favorite chair by the hearth in his solar, feeling none of the heat of the hearty fire.
The notion of traveling to Caen chilled him to the bone.

“For what purpose
?” he asked, sounding petulant even to his own ears. Gallien’s message had made it abundantly clear why he had to go to the town he’d sworn never to enter.

Romain rose to the challenge. “Laurent and Gallien are both en route to Caen with King Stephen. It’s our duty to be there to pledge our fealty in person. It will also send a strong message to other Norman barons who may be wavering.

“You will be letting our cousin and our brother down if you refuse, and Stephen will doubt your loyalty.”

Alex grabbed the poker
, hunkering down to stir the fire. “What’s wrong with this flue? It’s not drawing.”

Romain had reason to look at him as if he’d lost his wits as the flames roared up the chimney. He
eased the poker out of Alex’s hand. “Listen. Why are we arguing? You will go to Caen, even though you want to avoid seeing Elayne.”

Alex bristled, annoyed that there might be more truth to his brother’s remark than he wanted to admit. “There’s more to it than that.”

Romain thrust the poker back into its holder. “But you were born there.”

“Exactly.”

Whatever Romain’s retort was to be, it was cut off by the sudden appearance of young Fernand Bonhomme, the steward’s son, who skidded in, breathless. “
Mes seigneurs
, forgive me.” He pointed to the corridor. “The dog.”

Alex’s heart stopped beating for a moment as he leapt to his feet.
“Faol?”

He was in the corridor running for the bailey before Fernand could answer. Bonhomme knelt beside the wolfhound. The dog lay on his side, tongue lolling out, panting hard.

“He’s just about run himself to death,
milord
,” Bonhomme said, smoothing his hand along the dog’s coat, “and he’s been in a fight with an animal, a cat I’d wager.”

Alex couldn’t imagine any cat that would get the better of Faol, until he saw the
scratches in the dog’s skin. He touched them gingerly. “A wild cat, I think.”

Bonhomme held out a brooch. “This was
fixed to his collar.”

The blood drained from Alex’s head into his toes and then rushed back. Was it Elayne’s brooch? He took
it, relief sweeping over him when he recognized it as Dugald’s. But then the significance hit him. “Something has happened to them,” he rasped to his brother, now breathless at his side. “The Scot would never willingly give this up. Elayne sent the dog. She needs our help.”

Romain nodded, stroking the wolfhound’s head. “Good boy, Faol.”

Alex turned to Bonhomme, but the Steward held up his hand. “I know,
milord
, prepare for your departure to Caen.”

He
shook his head. “Departure,
oui
, but I doubt they reached Caen.”

~~~

ELAYNE WAS RELIEVED to be allowed to join Henry and Claricia in the tent they’d been given, but dismayed at the large number of tents and pavilions that stretched as far as the eye could see in the dwindling light. There were soldiers everywhere. Why was Geoffrey amassing an army here?

Claricia
ran to embrace her when she entered. She knelt to hug Henry, noting thankfully his scratches had been cleansed and dressed. “You were so very brave, my son. A true warrior,” she whispered.

His face reddened as he smiled.

She reminded them in Gaelic. “Now more than ever we must be careful.”

Henry nodded. “Geoffrey believes I am my cousin
. He’s been bragging about my bravery and prowess. I took advantage and insisted our nursemaid be allowed to serve us in our tent. Now if my sister would stop wailing about her
dadaidh
—”

Her son seemed to have matured years in the space of a few hours.
He even looked taller. He wore his father’s dagger tucked in the sheath now belted around his waist. The end of the belt had been sawn off. The huge weapon looked incongruous on a small boy, but Henry patted it proudly. He had earned the right to wear it.

“I have to tell you that your Papa did not survive his wounds,” she whispered.

To her relief, both children only nodded. They’d probably expected the news.

“
I’d already got accustomed to the idea of him being dead before,” Henry said. “Grandpapa told me.”

So much for
the falsehood about the Crusades.

Henry brightened. “
I’ve told them to bring you food and clothing as well.”

Though she hadn’t eaten all day, Elayne doubted if she could
digest anything, and where would they find women’s clothing? “Thank you, Henry. That was thoughtful.”

A soldier entered bearing black bread, a chunk of yellow cheese and a flagon of ale. “Nothing fancy,” he said sheepishly.

Elayne recognized him as the man who’d helped her drape the
playd
over Dugald. She took the food and drink from him. “Thank you,” she said, hoping he understood. He nodded, bowed to Henry and beckoned to someone loitering in the entryway.

A sullen woman with long black hair that looked as if it hadn’t been washed for months strode into the tent, carrying a bundle of clothing. Elayne’s surprise must have been evident.

“Suppose you’re wondering who I am?” the woman asked.

Her manner of speaking indicated she wasn’t a Norman. She dropped the clothing onto the ground.
“Bianca, from Genoa. I cook.”

“You stay in the camp?” Elayne asked. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

Bianca shrugged, patting her thigh. “I have a weapon, and we are three, so we stick together. No fancy garments. Not much to spare.”

Elayne wasn’t sure she wanted to touch the unkempt woman’s cast offs, never mind wear them, but her own were bloodied. “I thank you. I’ll return them as soon as I’m able.”

The soldier took Bianca by the elbow. “Off with you now. Back to your pots.”

As they left, Elayne bit into the stale bread.

The Angevin
Comte
chose that moment to enter the tent.

Perfect!

She chewed hard as Geoffrey greeted the children, asking after Claricia and explaining to Henry his understanding of how distressing the sight of gruesome events could be for delicate females. She disliked him instantly, noting with satisfaction that the sprig of broom in his cap had wilted.

“Mistress Elayne, my men have told me of
Dugald’s death. I’m sorry to lose him. Did you know him before? In Scotland?”

She came close to
choking as she tried to swallow the bread. “I’d seen him. He was the bastard son of my king.” She prayed Henry and Claricia had said the same thing.

“How did you and these royal hostages come to be close to Caen, when you were
supposed to be in Montbryce Castle?”

Had he asked the children the same
question? What had they said? She locked eyes with Henry for the briefest of moments, then looked back at the wolf skin rug that covered the grass floor. At least the pompous man had made an effort to make her children more comfortable. “The
Comte
de Montbryce handed us over to Dugald, who took us to your army’s camp outside the castle.”

This much was true.
Now for the lie.

“
The Montbryces attacked and overran your men. We were fortunate Dugald was able to spirit us away to safety.”

She felt his eyes boring into her. “The Montbryce brat destroyed my camp? Routed my army?”

Some army!

She smoothed her sweaty palms over her
bloodied skirts, her eyes downcast, longing to rake her nails along his arrogant face for his disparaging remark. Let him believe it true. “
Oui
.”

“But why was
the Scot taking you to Caen?”

She adopted the attitude of an ignorant peasant. “I don’t know where Caen is, so I cannot answer,
milord
. He did not explain things to me.”

A half truth.
She had no idea of the geography of Normandie, and he would readily believe the warrior Dugald would not have divulged his plans to a woman, a servant to boot.

Without another word he thrust open the flap and stormed out. She sank to her knees,
biting off another chunk of bread. “Fetch me the ale,” she said to Henry, her dry mouth full of food. “I need a drink.”