The Last Knight (12 page)
Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
He broke through to the air above and tossed his head, shaking water and a tumbled lock of hair out of his eyes. He found her watching him, a wistful, almost envious expression on her face. The heat had flushed her cheeks until they
were almost as red as her burned nose, and as he watched, a bead of sweat formed to trickle down beside her ear.
You look hot, he said, bobbing lazily amid the waves of his own creation.
He was surprised to see a wry smile curl the edges of her lips. I am.
So, come in, he invited, rolling forward to swim back to her.
She shook her head.
He laughed. Then take off those boots and put your feet in the water. Monks wear sandals, don't they? Even Jesus Christ wasn't averse to baring his toes.
Surely that's blasphemy, she said, still smiling. But she must have been hot indeed, because she hesitated only a moment before reaching down to grasp one boot and tug it off.
Which was a good thing, he thought, watching her kick off the other boot and then, more shyly, her chausses. Because he knew damned well she didn't have a spare pair of shoes in her bags.
And she was about to get wet.
There had been no garden in the old motte and bailey castle in Normandy, where Yvette grew up. Just a dark, dank wooden tower on a windswept hill and a muddy, manure-filled yard crawling with scrawny chickens and squealing pigs and the three-dozen scrambling, half-wild children her father had got upon his succession of seven wives.
People used to whisper about old Alain Pardue, about the wives he'd buried. He'd been a brutish man, her father; short but stocky and thickly muscled, with a flowing gray-brown beard and great, bushy eyebrows.
He knew what people said about him, but it only made him laugh. God's bones, he used to say, pounding the dais table with one meaty fist while throwing back his head
to roar for more ale. Why would I need to murder the bitches? I just breed them to death. And then he'd laugh, and the rough men-at-arms he liked to surround himself with would laugh, too. Only Yvette, who'd been the death of her own mother, Alain's third and shortest-lived wife, never joined in the laughter.
She'd been a serious child, Yvette, and never pretty or winsome, even when small. She'd never won the favor of any of that succession of ill-fated and often surly stepmothers, which meant she'd had to grow up fast, dodging kicks and blows, and hungry, always hungry. Not just for a good, filling meal but for other things, elusive things she yearned for even before she learned their names. Things like solitude and beauty.
Especially beauty.
There was little solitude and even less beauty at Alain Pardue's castle, but Yvette still managed to find it. She could stand alone in the middle of a wheat field after harvest and marvel at the grandeur of the clear blue sky, or the graceful arc of a sparrow's wing, or the vivid, unexpected brilliance of the beech tree near the crossroads after the first frost had touched it.
Of her father, she saw little. Alain was proud of his sons my own private army, he liked to call themand he trained them well in the arts of war. But he had no use for his daughters, didn't know half of their names, and scarcely noticed when one or the other of themthose less stubborn and determined than Yvettewould simply give up and die.
Most of Alain's daughters knew well enough that they had little to live for. Alain didn't have enough land for his sons. His daughters had to see to their own futures, and without dowries, they had no hope of ever securing knightly
husbands. The best any of them could look forward to would be to find herself married off to some peasant, who would work her like a mule and get her quick with his sons, year after year, until he killed her the way her father had killed all of his wives.
By the time Yvette was thirteen, she had already seen four of her older sisters suffer that fate, and she'd made up her mind that it wasn't going to happen to her. She wasn't exactly sure how she was going to avoid it, since she certainly had no intention of spending the rest of her days as an unpaid drudge to her father and brothers. She didn't know enough yet to know what she wanted; she only knew what she did not want.
And then Gaspard Beringer came into her life.
She'd been out picking strawberries on the hill that brilliant May morning when she walked into the yard, her pail swinging at her side, and saw him. He was mounted on his big white destrier, and although only eighteen, already he was taller by far than any of her brothers, broader in the shoulder, longer in the leg. The sun shone golden on his silken fair hair and kissed his handsome cheeks with a healthy flush, and she knew, in that moment, that she had never seen anything so fine. It wasn't until she'd beheld the subtle hues of Gaspard's expensive woolen surcoat and tunic, until she'd discovered the intricate workmanship of his saddle, the delicate metalwork of his rings and brooch, that it even occurred to Yvette that beauty could be found not just in nature but in things made by man. In the
person
of a man.
He was the fourth son of the viscomte de Salers, and Yvette couldn't begin to understand why he had been sent as squire to such a poor, out-of-the-way castle as Château Pardue, until later, when she heard her father say, He's as
close to being an idiot as a man can come without actually
being
one. Which is why the old viscount sent him here, of course. I mean, he could hardly send him to court, now could he?
But Gaspard didn't fit in well at Château Pardue, either. It wasn't that Alain's sons were so much brighter than Gaspard, because most of them weren't. But they were harder and cruder, as well as being sly and vicious and mean.
Less than two weeks after his arrival at the castle, Yvette came upon the young viscount's son quietly sobbing in a dark corner of the hay barn. Until then, she'd found him simply too magnificently beautiful to approach. But after she'd held his hand in comfort and dried his tears, she discovered that he was just a boya shy, malleable boy, who looked at Yvette Pardue and saw not a plain, worthless female but a clever, strong person who could guide him and protect him and care for him.
It wasn't long before Yvette discovered other things about Gaspard. She discovered that his skin was as smooth as it looked, and that when she touched him, her breath hitched and her own skin felt all warm and tingly, as if she'd stood too close to the kitchen hearth.
Gaspard stayed at Château Pardue for three years. With each passing year, he grew both closer to Yvette and more dependent upon her. So that when word came one day that he must return to his family's principal estate at Châteauhaut-sur-Vilaine, he ran straight to her to pour out the terrible tale he'd just heard: that his father and eldest brother George had both fallen victim to a deadly fever, just days after learning of the death of his brothers Louis and Francis in a shipwreck off the coast of Marseilles.
Gaspard was now the viscomte de Salers.
But what shall I do, Yvette? he wailed, his head buried
in her lap as she stroked his heaving shoulders. I don't know how to be a viscomte. No one ever taught me to be a viscomte. I was never meant to be a viscomte. How shall I manage? I won't even have you there to tell me what to do.
Yvette sat on a stool beside the bubbling cauldron of wash she'd been boiling in the yard, her red, work-roughened hands clutching his broad, wonderful shoulders, her heart aching almost unbearably, as if someone were trying to rip it out of her chest.
And then it came to her, how she could both keep Gaspard and at the same time grasp at everything she'd always dreamed of. You can take me with you, Gaspard, she said, hearing her own words as if they were coming from a long ways off. Marry me, and then I'll be able to go to Châteauhaut with you. I'll help you learn to be a viscomte.
He raised his head, so that she was looking into his anxious blue eyes, shining now with hope and gratitude.
You can do it, Gaspard, she told him. With me there beside you, you can do it.
And so Yvette Pardue, the plain, dowerless daughter of a poor Norman baron, became the viscomtesse de Salers.
Except that when the new viscomte and viscomtesse arrived in Brittany several weeks later, it was to discover that Gaspard's second brother, Louis, hadn't died in the shipwreck, after all. He was alive, although suffering from a crushed leg, which had made the journey home both slow and painful. Gaspard was overjoyed to see his brother, and more than happy to abandon his claim to the family's titles and estates.
Gaspard's new sixteen-year-old wife had different ideas.
Louis might have died anyway; he was so weak, and his wound refused to heal. But Yvette had to be sure. So one night she fixed him a warm drink, sweetened with poppy
syrup, to help him sleep. And later, when the castle was quiet, she crept into his chamber, covered his handsome face with a pillow, and held it there until he died.
After that, she never went near a sickroom again.
Yvette?
Awaking with a start, Yvette opened her eyes to the sight of Gaspard weaving his way toward her through the intricately planted beds of lavender and dianthus and stocks, of hemlock and henbane and nightshade, the late afternoon sun casting a bronze sheen across his damp handsome face.
Yvette, he said again with a gasp, for he'd obviously run the length of the castle compound. I've just heard from one of the men-at-arms that you've taken Attica's groom, Walter Brie.
Yes. Pushing up from the thyme bench, she bent to pluck an aphid from the stem of a nearby white rose. I found him at the monastery of Saint-Sevin, she said, and squashed the insect between thumb and forefinger.
But you
took
him, Yvette. Gaspard's voice trembled with the horror of it. You had the men seize him. With violence. From a monastery.
She swung about, the soft leather soles of her slippers hissing over the stone flagging of the garden path as she walked up to rest her hand on his arm and pat it lightly. He was in the infirmary, Gaspard. Not the church. There is no question of a violation of sanctuary. Besides, Saint-Sevin has no powerful protector. The monks might sputter and complain, but no one will pay them much heed.
But what has happened to Attica?
Yvette wrinkled her nose at the sight of a drop of sweat cascading down his hard cheek. Gaspard. You are perspiring.
He swiped his silk sleeve across his face. I ran. Fulk has heard, you see. The man-at-arms said Fulk was very upset when he found out about some knight Attica seems to have met
Yvette frowned. This man-at-arms of yours has a loose tongue that needs fixing. Which one is he?
Gaspard's soft blue eyes shifted to a sight in the distance.
I I am sure I could not say. They all look alike to me.
Never mind, said Yvette, looping her arm through Gaspard's to draw him up the path beside her. I shall find him.
But this knight with Attica Gaspard swallowed. Do you think in truth that she might have run away with him? That perhaps we were wrong when we thought she had learned something from that courtier
No, I do not think I was wrong. Yvette lifted her gaze to the South Tower. But I shall know more, soon. I told Wolf to report to me here.
Wolf ? echoed Gaspard, following her gaze. You've given the groom to Wolf to question?
Yvette picked a spray of rosemary, her nose quivering at the pungent scent it released. And why not, pray tell?
The last man you gave to Wolf to question died before he had a chance to say anything.
Yvette frowned. She would like to have denied it. Except that Wolf could sometimes be unfortunately heavy-handed in his methods.
She saw the door at the base of the South Tower swing open. The tower was old, square-built and little-used, for it had stood on this bluff overlooking the Vilaine for a hundred years or more, since before the viscomtes de Salers had come here and built Châteauhaut. A man filled the darkened entrance. A big man with an enormous head, as square and thick as a battering ram, and a body as solid and
forbidding as the tower behind him. He had stripped down to his braies, his naked torso gleaming with sweat, as if he had been standing beside a hot fire. Yvette's frown darkened as she watched the man visibly hesitate. But Wolf knew better than to avoid her, and after a moment he cut across the ward to where she stood, waiting for him, beside the tunnel arbor at the entrance to her garden.
My lady. Wolf dropped to his knees before her and bowed his head. I fear Walter Brie's wound proved to be more severe than we thought.
A tense silence hung over the garden, broken only by the buzzing of bees and a distant hammering from the smithy. Then Yvette's breath exploded out of her in a savage curse. God rot you, Wolf, you've killed him.
Wolf trembled and wisely kept his head bowed. I do think he told us the truth, my lady. That the lady Attica asked him to escort her to Laval, and the knight came upon them by chance, when they were attacked by a band of
routiers
.
Yvette pursed her lips and blew out a huff of annoyance. Did he tell you this knight's name?
No, my lady. He said he did not know.
Yvette swung away, dismissing the man with a wave of her hand.
So? So? What do you think? Gaspard asked as soon as Wolf had taken himself off.
She stared thoughtfully at the gentle hills falling away toward the east. I think Walter Brie knew more than he would admit, she said slowly. He was very devoted to Attica.
Yes, but where has she gone? To Laval, as we thought? Or has she simply run away to meet this strange knight?
Yvette glanced at her husband. Don't be a fool, Gaspard. Attica is a d'Alérion, not some village maiden. She
would never bring shame upon her house by seeking to avoid a marriage arranged by her father. She has gone to Laval.
Then the men we sent might already have overtaken her, he said hopefully.
Yvette shook her head. According to the porter at Saint-Sevin, Walter Brie was left in their care by a knight traveling in the company of his squire and a well-dressed youth. A tall, slim youth with dark hair. Riding a white-blazed chestnut.
Gaspard's elegant forehead puckered in confusion. I don't understand.
Yvette turned to stroll slowly through the tunnel arbor, her silken skirts swishing about her feet. It was dark in here, and cool. She lingered for a moment, her hand caressing the velvety petals of a rose, her thoughts far away.
Yvette, said Gaspard again. I don't understand.
She brought her gaze back to her husband's face. Attica has dressed herself as a boy, of course. That is why she took de Harcourt's clothes. It sounds as if she's cut and dyed her hair as well. Our men would simply have passed her unknowingly on the road.
Then shouldn't we send a message to warn Renouf Blissot to be on the lookout for a lad?
Yvette laughed softly. Think, Gaspard. She will be in Laval herself long before another messenger could reach there. Don't worry; she will hardly fail to reveal herself to her uncle.
Then we do nothing?
No, we pack, said Yvette, swinging toward the keep.
were almost as red as her burned nose, and as he watched, a bead of sweat formed to trickle down beside her ear.
You look hot, he said, bobbing lazily amid the waves of his own creation.
He was surprised to see a wry smile curl the edges of her lips. I am.
So, come in, he invited, rolling forward to swim back to her.
She shook her head.
He laughed. Then take off those boots and put your feet in the water. Monks wear sandals, don't they? Even Jesus Christ wasn't averse to baring his toes.
Surely that's blasphemy, she said, still smiling. But she must have been hot indeed, because she hesitated only a moment before reaching down to grasp one boot and tug it off.
Which was a good thing, he thought, watching her kick off the other boot and then, more shyly, her chausses. Because he knew damned well she didn't have a spare pair of shoes in her bags.
And she was about to get wet.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
There had been no garden in the old motte and bailey castle in Normandy, where Yvette grew up. Just a dark, dank wooden tower on a windswept hill and a muddy, manure-filled yard crawling with scrawny chickens and squealing pigs and the three-dozen scrambling, half-wild children her father had got upon his succession of seven wives.
People used to whisper about old Alain Pardue, about the wives he'd buried. He'd been a brutish man, her father; short but stocky and thickly muscled, with a flowing gray-brown beard and great, bushy eyebrows.
He knew what people said about him, but it only made him laugh. God's bones, he used to say, pounding the dais table with one meaty fist while throwing back his head
to roar for more ale. Why would I need to murder the bitches? I just breed them to death. And then he'd laugh, and the rough men-at-arms he liked to surround himself with would laugh, too. Only Yvette, who'd been the death of her own mother, Alain's third and shortest-lived wife, never joined in the laughter.
She'd been a serious child, Yvette, and never pretty or winsome, even when small. She'd never won the favor of any of that succession of ill-fated and often surly stepmothers, which meant she'd had to grow up fast, dodging kicks and blows, and hungry, always hungry. Not just for a good, filling meal but for other things, elusive things she yearned for even before she learned their names. Things like solitude and beauty.
Especially beauty.
There was little solitude and even less beauty at Alain Pardue's castle, but Yvette still managed to find it. She could stand alone in the middle of a wheat field after harvest and marvel at the grandeur of the clear blue sky, or the graceful arc of a sparrow's wing, or the vivid, unexpected brilliance of the beech tree near the crossroads after the first frost had touched it.
Of her father, she saw little. Alain was proud of his sons my own private army, he liked to call themand he trained them well in the arts of war. But he had no use for his daughters, didn't know half of their names, and scarcely noticed when one or the other of themthose less stubborn and determined than Yvettewould simply give up and die.
Most of Alain's daughters knew well enough that they had little to live for. Alain didn't have enough land for his sons. His daughters had to see to their own futures, and without dowries, they had no hope of ever securing knightly
husbands. The best any of them could look forward to would be to find herself married off to some peasant, who would work her like a mule and get her quick with his sons, year after year, until he killed her the way her father had killed all of his wives.
By the time Yvette was thirteen, she had already seen four of her older sisters suffer that fate, and she'd made up her mind that it wasn't going to happen to her. She wasn't exactly sure how she was going to avoid it, since she certainly had no intention of spending the rest of her days as an unpaid drudge to her father and brothers. She didn't know enough yet to know what she wanted; she only knew what she did not want.
And then Gaspard Beringer came into her life.
She'd been out picking strawberries on the hill that brilliant May morning when she walked into the yard, her pail swinging at her side, and saw him. He was mounted on his big white destrier, and although only eighteen, already he was taller by far than any of her brothers, broader in the shoulder, longer in the leg. The sun shone golden on his silken fair hair and kissed his handsome cheeks with a healthy flush, and she knew, in that moment, that she had never seen anything so fine. It wasn't until she'd beheld the subtle hues of Gaspard's expensive woolen surcoat and tunic, until she'd discovered the intricate workmanship of his saddle, the delicate metalwork of his rings and brooch, that it even occurred to Yvette that beauty could be found not just in nature but in things made by man. In the
person
of a man.
He was the fourth son of the viscomte de Salers, and Yvette couldn't begin to understand why he had been sent as squire to such a poor, out-of-the-way castle as Château Pardue, until later, when she heard her father say, He's as
close to being an idiot as a man can come without actually
being
one. Which is why the old viscount sent him here, of course. I mean, he could hardly send him to court, now could he?
But Gaspard didn't fit in well at Château Pardue, either. It wasn't that Alain's sons were so much brighter than Gaspard, because most of them weren't. But they were harder and cruder, as well as being sly and vicious and mean.
Less than two weeks after his arrival at the castle, Yvette came upon the young viscount's son quietly sobbing in a dark corner of the hay barn. Until then, she'd found him simply too magnificently beautiful to approach. But after she'd held his hand in comfort and dried his tears, she discovered that he was just a boya shy, malleable boy, who looked at Yvette Pardue and saw not a plain, worthless female but a clever, strong person who could guide him and protect him and care for him.
It wasn't long before Yvette discovered other things about Gaspard. She discovered that his skin was as smooth as it looked, and that when she touched him, her breath hitched and her own skin felt all warm and tingly, as if she'd stood too close to the kitchen hearth.
Gaspard stayed at Château Pardue for three years. With each passing year, he grew both closer to Yvette and more dependent upon her. So that when word came one day that he must return to his family's principal estate at Châteauhaut-sur-Vilaine, he ran straight to her to pour out the terrible tale he'd just heard: that his father and eldest brother George had both fallen victim to a deadly fever, just days after learning of the death of his brothers Louis and Francis in a shipwreck off the coast of Marseilles.
Gaspard was now the viscomte de Salers.
But what shall I do, Yvette? he wailed, his head buried
in her lap as she stroked his heaving shoulders. I don't know how to be a viscomte. No one ever taught me to be a viscomte. I was never meant to be a viscomte. How shall I manage? I won't even have you there to tell me what to do.
Yvette sat on a stool beside the bubbling cauldron of wash she'd been boiling in the yard, her red, work-roughened hands clutching his broad, wonderful shoulders, her heart aching almost unbearably, as if someone were trying to rip it out of her chest.
And then it came to her, how she could both keep Gaspard and at the same time grasp at everything she'd always dreamed of. You can take me with you, Gaspard, she said, hearing her own words as if they were coming from a long ways off. Marry me, and then I'll be able to go to Châteauhaut with you. I'll help you learn to be a viscomte.
He raised his head, so that she was looking into his anxious blue eyes, shining now with hope and gratitude.
You can do it, Gaspard, she told him. With me there beside you, you can do it.
And so Yvette Pardue, the plain, dowerless daughter of a poor Norman baron, became the viscomtesse de Salers.
Except that when the new viscomte and viscomtesse arrived in Brittany several weeks later, it was to discover that Gaspard's second brother, Louis, hadn't died in the shipwreck, after all. He was alive, although suffering from a crushed leg, which had made the journey home both slow and painful. Gaspard was overjoyed to see his brother, and more than happy to abandon his claim to the family's titles and estates.
Gaspard's new sixteen-year-old wife had different ideas.
Louis might have died anyway; he was so weak, and his wound refused to heal. But Yvette had to be sure. So one night she fixed him a warm drink, sweetened with poppy
syrup, to help him sleep. And later, when the castle was quiet, she crept into his chamber, covered his handsome face with a pillow, and held it there until he died.
After that, she never went near a sickroom again.
Yvette?
Awaking with a start, Yvette opened her eyes to the sight of Gaspard weaving his way toward her through the intricately planted beds of lavender and dianthus and stocks, of hemlock and henbane and nightshade, the late afternoon sun casting a bronze sheen across his damp handsome face.
Yvette, he said again with a gasp, for he'd obviously run the length of the castle compound. I've just heard from one of the men-at-arms that you've taken Attica's groom, Walter Brie.
Yes. Pushing up from the thyme bench, she bent to pluck an aphid from the stem of a nearby white rose. I found him at the monastery of Saint-Sevin, she said, and squashed the insect between thumb and forefinger.
But you
took
him, Yvette. Gaspard's voice trembled with the horror of it. You had the men seize him. With violence. From a monastery.
She swung about, the soft leather soles of her slippers hissing over the stone flagging of the garden path as she walked up to rest her hand on his arm and pat it lightly. He was in the infirmary, Gaspard. Not the church. There is no question of a violation of sanctuary. Besides, Saint-Sevin has no powerful protector. The monks might sputter and complain, but no one will pay them much heed.
But what has happened to Attica?
Yvette wrinkled her nose at the sight of a drop of sweat cascading down his hard cheek. Gaspard. You are perspiring.
He swiped his silk sleeve across his face. I ran. Fulk has heard, you see. The man-at-arms said Fulk was very upset when he found out about some knight Attica seems to have met
Yvette frowned. This man-at-arms of yours has a loose tongue that needs fixing. Which one is he?
Gaspard's soft blue eyes shifted to a sight in the distance.
I I am sure I could not say. They all look alike to me.
Never mind, said Yvette, looping her arm through Gaspard's to draw him up the path beside her. I shall find him.
But this knight with Attica Gaspard swallowed. Do you think in truth that she might have run away with him? That perhaps we were wrong when we thought she had learned something from that courtier
No, I do not think I was wrong. Yvette lifted her gaze to the South Tower. But I shall know more, soon. I told Wolf to report to me here.
Wolf ? echoed Gaspard, following her gaze. You've given the groom to Wolf to question?
Yvette picked a spray of rosemary, her nose quivering at the pungent scent it released. And why not, pray tell?
The last man you gave to Wolf to question died before he had a chance to say anything.
Yvette frowned. She would like to have denied it. Except that Wolf could sometimes be unfortunately heavy-handed in his methods.
She saw the door at the base of the South Tower swing open. The tower was old, square-built and little-used, for it had stood on this bluff overlooking the Vilaine for a hundred years or more, since before the viscomtes de Salers had come here and built Châteauhaut. A man filled the darkened entrance. A big man with an enormous head, as square and thick as a battering ram, and a body as solid and
forbidding as the tower behind him. He had stripped down to his braies, his naked torso gleaming with sweat, as if he had been standing beside a hot fire. Yvette's frown darkened as she watched the man visibly hesitate. But Wolf knew better than to avoid her, and after a moment he cut across the ward to where she stood, waiting for him, beside the tunnel arbor at the entrance to her garden.
My lady. Wolf dropped to his knees before her and bowed his head. I fear Walter Brie's wound proved to be more severe than we thought.
A tense silence hung over the garden, broken only by the buzzing of bees and a distant hammering from the smithy. Then Yvette's breath exploded out of her in a savage curse. God rot you, Wolf, you've killed him.
Wolf trembled and wisely kept his head bowed. I do think he told us the truth, my lady. That the lady Attica asked him to escort her to Laval, and the knight came upon them by chance, when they were attacked by a band of
routiers
.
Yvette pursed her lips and blew out a huff of annoyance. Did he tell you this knight's name?
No, my lady. He said he did not know.
Yvette swung away, dismissing the man with a wave of her hand.
So? So? What do you think? Gaspard asked as soon as Wolf had taken himself off.
She stared thoughtfully at the gentle hills falling away toward the east. I think Walter Brie knew more than he would admit, she said slowly. He was very devoted to Attica.
Yes, but where has she gone? To Laval, as we thought? Or has she simply run away to meet this strange knight?
Yvette glanced at her husband. Don't be a fool, Gaspard. Attica is a d'Alérion, not some village maiden. She
would never bring shame upon her house by seeking to avoid a marriage arranged by her father. She has gone to Laval.
Then the men we sent might already have overtaken her, he said hopefully.
Yvette shook her head. According to the porter at Saint-Sevin, Walter Brie was left in their care by a knight traveling in the company of his squire and a well-dressed youth. A tall, slim youth with dark hair. Riding a white-blazed chestnut.
Gaspard's elegant forehead puckered in confusion. I don't understand.
Yvette turned to stroll slowly through the tunnel arbor, her silken skirts swishing about her feet. It was dark in here, and cool. She lingered for a moment, her hand caressing the velvety petals of a rose, her thoughts far away.
Yvette, said Gaspard again. I don't understand.
She brought her gaze back to her husband's face. Attica has dressed herself as a boy, of course. That is why she took de Harcourt's clothes. It sounds as if she's cut and dyed her hair as well. Our men would simply have passed her unknowingly on the road.
Then shouldn't we send a message to warn Renouf Blissot to be on the lookout for a lad?
Yvette laughed softly. Think, Gaspard. She will be in Laval herself long before another messenger could reach there. Don't worry; she will hardly fail to reveal herself to her uncle.
Then we do nothing?
No, we pack, said Yvette, swinging toward the keep.
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