The Last Knight (20 page)
Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
Juste ciel
. It would be a wine merchant, she heard de Jarnac say in soft amusement, as if they didn't have a troop of armed men hard on their heels, as if the insistent peal of the alarm bell wasn't still ringing out to rouse the entire city against them.
I think I prefer a wine merchant over a pig farmer, she said, pushing herself up onto wobbly legs. She heard the low huff of his laugh as she groped her way toward him. He seemed to be doing something with the barrels. She had only just grasped what he was about to do when a low, throaty growl brought her spinning around.
Sharp canine teeth gleamed white and deadly from a large, furry shadow that crouched menacingly beside a nearby shed. De Jarnac, Attica whispered, just as the huge mastiff growled again and hurtled itself forward.
Christ, said de Jarnac, grabbing her arm as he kicked loose a carefully positioned lever that sent a shudder through the looming pile of wine caskets. She didn't see the chain
until the dog hit the end of its tether with a blessed clang of metal links and a snarling, frustrated fury that was all but lost in the thunderous roar of the barrels as the pyramid collapsed.
Leaping forward, the great casks bounded and rattled across the courtyard, a rolling, charging cylindrical army of dark oak to the rescue. She heard a quickly cut off crude expletive and a startled yelp from two of the men-at-arms who had just burst through the passage from the street only to disappear in a confusion of upflung arms and smashing staves and burst iron bands.
Ha, said de Jarnac, his laughing voice close to her ear as they ran together toward the back of the yard. You're right: much better than a pig farmer.
They pelted over the uneven paving blocks, past a startled, white-headed goat and a squawking, ruffle-feathered aviary, before they came upon the outside corner stair that they followed up and up, to the house's third-floor gallery. From there, it was an easy matter for Attica to follow de Jarnac's lead and swing her legs over the gallery's wooden railing for the leap to the gently sloping roof of the two-story workshop that abutted the back of the house.
Balanced on the top of the railing, she hesitated, her head jerking toward the sound of heavy feet pounding up the steps behind them. One of the soldiers, quicker than his fellows, was closing on them fast. Glancing about in a panic, she seized one of the pots of scraggly geraniums that decorated the railing and sent it hurtling downward to shatter with a cascade of dirt on the crest of the helmet that had just appeared on the steps below her. The helmet abruptly disappeared.
Got him, said Attica, pushing off the railing into de Jarnac's waiting arms.
You have a talent with blunt objects. He laughed as he caught her. But then the laughter faded from his face to be replaced by a strange intensity she'd never seen there before as he held her close to him. This is getting dangerous, Attica. I'd rather you'd left me in that prison room to die than that something happen to you because of me.
She watched, her head thrown back, as the wind ruffled the sweat-dampened hair at his temples. Against the darkness of the storm-driven night sky, his face shone pale, the flaring bones of his cheeks, the strong line of nose and chin striking her as both achingly beautiful and oddly vulnerable. She looked at him and felt deep within her the heavy beat of her heart as it seemed to slow and then stop for one momentous, unforgettable instant of revelation.
I love him, she thought with quiet, piercing wonder. That is why I am here, running through this storm-filled night, my heart light with a wild excitement that can find a source for laughter even in the face of death. Because I love him, and I cannot bear to let him leave without me.
She reached up to touch his cheek, her hand trembling. Whatever the outcome, she said softly, I could never regret what I did.
Unexpectedly, his smile flashed, wide and cocky and stealing her heart all over again. The outcome is still ours to make. He seized her hand in his sinewy grip. Come, my mace-and flower-pot-wielding lordling; the sky at least is open before us.
Hand in hand they ran, across the slippery, slanting slate roofs of the houses that descended the hill of Laval Castle like a series of giant, ragged steps so tightly wedged together that the short distances between them could be leapt, the differences in height not so great she couldn't scramble up
them with the aid of jutting gargoyles and de Jarnac's strong, helping hand.
Their progress was not quiet. Ever conscious of the pounding feet and hoarse shouts of their pursuers, they moved with no thought to stealth but seized whatever could be enlisted in their defense: loose tiles snatched and thrown on the fly, unripe plums plucked from a big old overhanging tree, yesterday's washing, carelessly left drying across some upper gallery, now cut free to whip through the air and momentarily blind and trip the men who slogged determinedly after them.
Stumbling and cursing, the men-at-arms plowed on through the wind-whipped, lightning-charged night, only to blunder into the clutches of outraged townspeople awakened by the ruckus. To the missiles of the fugitives, the good citizens of Laval unwittingly added their own impediments as they took their fury out on those nearest at hand. Renouf 's faithful soldiers found themselves splashed with the contents of slop buckets and dodging flying boots as they fended off broom-wielding middle-aged matrons in flowing white shifts and night caps whose shrieks redoubled in intensity when the cloud-filled skies above parted and the rain came pouring down.
The rain fell in big, hard drops that filled the air with the sharp scent of wet earth and stone. The slates and tiles underfoot, already dangerous, now became wet and deadly. The wind sent the rain driving into Attica's face, blinding her. She fell to her hands and knees, creeping along slowly, her heart in her throat. And then the long, curving row of houses they followed ended abruptly at a triangular plaza cobbled in gleaming, rain-washed gray stones toward which the wall of the last house dropped a straight three stories. There was no way down.
They stood together at the edge of the tiles, Attica's breath coming so hard and fast, her chest ached. Rain ran down her face, dripped off her hair, soaked her torn, filthy clothes. She felt as if she were drowning in failure and despair.
I can try to lower you over the edge, said de Jarnac, his own breath ragged. Or we can jump together.
Through the driving, roaring rain, she looked up into his strained face and thought for one tormented moment that he must have decided to choose death on the cobbles below over inevitable capture. But then his hand tightened in hers, and he was dragging her along the wet slates, and she saw what he had already noticed: a lean-to barn built in a shadowy corner against the house wall.
She stared down at the barn's thatched roof, some fifteen feet below, then glanced over her shoulder at the men rushing across the roof toward them through a swirling blaze of torches. An arrow whizzed through the night, so close she felt the wind of its passing. She met de Jarnac's questioning gaze and said, Jump.
They jumped hand in hand, the thatch absorbing much of their momentum before giving way to spill them through rough-hewn rafters into the straw-strewn bed of a very startled cow.
Scrambling up, winded but unbroken, they erupted out the barn door into the empty plaza, straw plastered to their wet clothes, the cow interested, ambling behind as they considered the rain-washed darkness before them.
Three streets, two wider than the other, opened off the small plaza. They chose the narrow lane that wound around the base of the hill toward the river, and set off again at a run.
But they had lost the freedom of movement they'd found on the rooftops, and Renouf Blissot's men had had more than enough time to spread out over the twisted network of streets and alleyways around the castle. Within twenty-five paces, the reddish glow of torchlight gleaming through the rain up ahead showed them the dim silhouette of armed men, blocking the lane.
Too late, now, to turn back, for a stream of curses and pounding feet announced the imminent if limping arrival of their caprioling companions of the rooftops. Damion spun round in the narrow, muddy rue, searching for a way out, but this was an old street and a poor one, with ancient houses leaning drunkenly against one another and no friendly dark archways to welcome them into hidden courtyards.
Swearing, Damion began to throw himself first against one door, then the next, pounding on the locked, metal-studded panels until, to his surprise, one gave way before him, and he found himself stumbling down a shallow flight of stone steps, with Attica yanked in behind him.
A swirl of soapy steam enveloped them in warm wisps that floated away between row after row of stone columns and drifted up in a golden, lamp-lit mist to hover beneath round arched stone vaults that reminded him vaguely of the ancient ruins he had seen half-buried in the hot shifting sands of eastern deserts.
The baths were old, very old, and once, doubtless, respectable. They were not respectable now. Perhaps by day the poorer citizens of Laval still came here to wash away the dirt of their honest labors. But by night the place was obviously given over to the kind of activities that had made bagnios and stews bywords for brothels all across Europe.
A second look showed him that paint darkened both the
lush lips and the pertly bared nipples of the woman who had opened the door to them and now stood gape-mouthed with surprise, staring at them. Beyond her, the whirls of steam floating over the lapping surface of the large central pool parted to reveal the brawny back and thrusting naked buttocks of a man who coupled openly with a white-limbed woman he held pinned to the marble steps descending languidly into the waters.
What is this place? Attica whispered, her eyes wide and round.
Don't look, Damion told her. He grabbed her hand and ran with her around the foggy edge of the pool, just as the first man-at-arms burst through the open doorway.
Unprepared for the stairs, the soldier somersaulted down the ancient steps to crash into the Lady of the Painted Breasts, who recovered her voice and her wits at the same time and fled screaming.
Shit, said Damion, ducking between a row of secluded alcoves. It was here that those too modest to expose themselves in the public pool bathed instead, in wooden troughs set upon raised stone platforms and curtained with heavy silks and brocades rather the worse for age and long exposure to damp air and careless frolicking.
The sound of boots pounding across the tiles behind them echoed through arching stone vaults already ringing with the panicked splashes of bathers and staccato bursts of sodden female shrieks. I do not think, said Attica, as Damion yanked down a moldy blue velvet curtain to throw into the path of their nearest pursuer, I do not think these gentlemen came here simply to bathe.
I told you not to look, said Damion, whirling to confront a slim, dark-haired soldier whose sword was already
singing free of its scabbard to flash naked and sharp through the misty air.
Leaping out of the way, Damion caught the still swinging sword with a looped towel plucked from the waist of an indignant bather. The bather fled, pink bottom waddling, as Damion jerked the towel-wrapped blade and sent it arcing through the air to land with a ringing crash on the tiles. Grim-lipped, the soldier reached for his poniard, just as Attica hit him from behind with a three-legged stool.
I wondered where you were, said Damion, breathing heavily.
She was better with flower pots and maces than with stools. The soldier only staggered, grabbing for support at the splashing edge of the recently vacated trough. With a splintering rip, the old wood gave beneath his weight. Eyes widening, he pitched over backward, still clutching the side of the trough, which tore loose in his grip.
Like a steaming miniature tidal wave, the hot, soapy water poured forth, washing over the tiled floor to knock the next soldier off his feet and send another skidding across the slippery tiles to crack his forehead against a column.
It's getting crowded in here, said Damion. There must be a way out to the yard.
I thought I saw a door at the end there, said Attica, tossing away her stool as she ran down the curtained corridor.
She
had
seen a door, only it was now blocked by a white-robed wraith of a woman with a pointed chin and improbable red hair, who said calmly, The yard is already full of soldiers. You can't get out that way. Follow me.
Damion's gaze met Attica's for one significant moment. At some point during that long, danger-filled night, they had moved beyond the need to communicate with words.
Their minds had leapt together, just as their bodies had moved in concert across the rooftops and alleyways of Laval.
And so he knew her thoughts, even though she did not speak them. He knew that she realized, as he did, that their options were rapidly being reduced to nothing. This strange woman with her diaphanous gown and overbright hair and beckoning candle had no reason to help them, and they had no reason to trust her. Yet they followed her.
They followed her down a mean passage grimy with the debris of untold centuries carelessness with overflowing coal scuttles. The woman's translucent gown seemed to glow ethereally in the darkness, the faint, golden light of the candle she carried throwing their shadows, long and grotesque, across the soaring walls.
At the end of the passage, she stopped abruptly to raise the flickering candle and say simply, Behind the chest.
Damion leapt to put his shoulder to a large coffer that stood against the ancient ashlar wall. Made of oak and strapped with iron, the chest moved more easily than he had expected, sliding noiselessly over a surprisingly clean stone floor to reveal a low gap in the masonry.
The sound of hurried footsteps, growing closer, left no time for hesitation. Attica scooted through the dark hole on her hands and knees, her head bent. Damion pelted in after her, pulling the chest in place behind him as best he could.
He saw a drift of white gauze. Then the coffer thumped back solidly against the wall, eclipsing the last faint glimmer of light thrown by the woman's single candle and plunging them into total darkness.
Damion crouched on his haunches, his gaze assessing the dim outlines of a surrounding jumble of barrels and crates before settling on the faint, distant line of gray light that outlined what looked like a door. He decided they were probably in a cellar or storage shed of some sort. The floor was of packed earth, the air around them damp and unused, the walls thick enough that he could hear nothing except the pounding of the rain and their own strained breathing.
Attica's low voice came to him out of the darkness. What do we do now?
He reached out to her, his fingers closing over the delicate bones of her wrist. Her flesh felt cold and wet and trembling beneath his grasp, and he drew her to him, shifting his weight as she settled into the V of his spread thighs. We can't stay here, he said. When they don't find us in the baths, they'll start searching the surrounding area.
He felt a shudder pass through her, and put both his arms around her thin frame to draw her closer to his chest and envelop her with his warmth. She let out a long sigh,
her hands clutching the wet cloth of his torn tunic as she leaned into him, her face buried in his shoulder, her voice muffled as she said, I suppose this means we take to the rooftops again?
She said it lightly enough, but he heard the tight thread of fear in her voice, and he knew what she was thinking, knew she was remembering the brutal lashing of cold wind and driving rain, the treachery of steep, slippery slates, the dizzy, heart-stopping, body-smashing distances to pavements below.
He laid his cheek against the wet tangle of her hair, breathed in the scent of rain and woodsmoke and this woman, knew again a bitter sense of regret at the danger she now faced because of him. Attica, he said softly, his heart aching in his chest, I swear before God, if there's a way to get you out of this safely, I will. I never should have
He felt her shift within the circle of his arms, her head falling back as she pressed the tips of her fingers against his mouth, silencing him. I did this because I wanted to. Don't make me say why.
The touch of her fingertips to his lips shocked them both into sudden, quivering awareness. In the darkness her profile was only a faint shadow, delicate and fine-boned and strong. He felt something catch deep inside him, something so sweet and rare as to be almost unbearable.
You do realize, he said, his lips moving against her fingers, that there could be a dozen men-at-arms waiting for us on the other side of that door? That we could walk out of here and die?
I realize it.
He felt the deep trembling going on inside her, felt her
chest lift against his as she sucked in a quick breath. Damion?
The question in her voice hung in the stillness between them. He didn't need to ask what she wanted, and in that moment, all the reasons that made it wrong didn't matter.
He drew her to him. She opened her mouth to him, her slim young body pressing wholly against his, her hands bracketing his head, drawing him closer, closer, as if she would make them as one. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, and she met him in an endless, gasping, aching kiss, a kiss driven by fear and need of a raw passion that went beyond carnality to a total immersion of body, mind, and spirit such as he had never known.
Attica, he murmured, his mouth still moving against hers. He kissed her trembling eyelids, her hair, her throat. Then he took her hands in his and pulled her to a stand with him. We must go.
He saw the sweet curve of her smile in the faint gray light. I still don't regret it, she said, her eyes wide and shining. No matter what happens, I'll never regret knowing you.
He looked down at her shadowed features and felt his chest tighten. He could have told her he'd lost his heart to her that first day, when he'd looked across a crowded common room and recognized her for what she really was. He could have told her she'd always been his heart, his fire, even before he'd met her, perhaps even before he'd been born. But some things were better not said, could never be said between them. He kissed her fingers where they entwined with his and said simply, Nor will I.
And then, her hand in his, they turned together to face whatever awaited them on the other side of that door.
She found herself staring out at an overgrown garden filled with the roar of the rain teeming down in great slashing silver sheets. A garden filled with rain and wind and nothing more.
Weak with relief, she followed him, creeping up a short flight of broken stone steps and into the storm-racked darkness. The rain pelted them with oceans of water that cascaded down their faces in blinding streams as they splashed their way to the back of an old, half-tumbled-down dwelling barely visible through the gloom.
How do we get up? whispered Attica, staring up at the low roof. There's no steps, not even a ladder.
No. But there is an old grapevine. He tested his weight on the weathered trellis and grunted when it snapped in his hands. The wood is rotten, so make sure you use the vine itself.
But I haven't climbed a tree since I was She broke off as his hard hands closed on her waist, hoisting her up into the wet foliage. She found the thick central trunk of the vine and clung to it.
Sharp twigs snagged her clothes and scratched her skin as she scrambled up, moving stealthily from one foothold to the next, de Jarnac behind her. Craning back her head, she could see the line of roof tiles thrusting out above her. She reached for them, her fingers closing over the edge.
And then the tile she grasped crumbled within her grip, just as her left foot shot off the slippery trunk of the vine.
She let out a small gasp, her fingers clutching frantically for the vine again as she felt herself begin to fall. Christ, said de Jarnac, his big body lunging upward in a rush that
slammed her to the wall, holding her there, surrounded by his strength and warmth.
Oh, God, she whispered shakily.
Wait here.
She pressed her face into the wet leaves and branches, her fingers gripping the vine as he clambered past her. Give me your hand, she heard him say, and somehow she found the courage to let go of the vine and let him pull her up.
She rolled onto the wet, mossy tiles, her breath coming in quick pants as she lay pressed facedown on the sloping roof, the rain beating down on her back. He touched his hand to her cheek in a butterfly caress, then moved on. She forced herself up onto her hands and knees and crawled after him.
He stopped just below the point of the roof. She inched up beside him to peer down through the smoke of hissing torches at the men-at-arms filling the streets below. The men stood with their backs hunched against the rain, their attention still focused on the bathhouse. No one even bothered to glance up.
Damion touched her elbow, and she turned her head to look at him. The rain ran down his cheeks, dripped off his nose, plastered his dark hair to his head. His once fine clothes, already torn from her uncle's rough handling, now hung in rags, smeared with moss and mud. It suddenly occurred to her that she must look the same, and the thought brought a smile of unholy amusement to her lips.
He saw it and, as if recognizing the source of her amusement, flashed her his rogue's grin. Then the smile faded and he mouthed, Let's go.
They slithered down the sloping tiles to the next roof, then the next, then the next. They moved stealthily, the
cold, wind-driven rain enveloping them in a protective darkness even as it turned slate and tile into slippery death traps.
Attica moved through a hazy agony of grazed palms and bruised shins, of aching muscles and gasping lungs as they leapt from house to house, working their way around the base of the castle hill toward the river. Three times they had to flatten themselves against a sloping roofline as a troop of soldiers passed by below. When they came to a narrow street, they didn't dare climb down but used overhanging balconies and jutting dormer windows to cross the yawning gap.
At the edge of the city, the houses grew small and mean and so scattered that they were finally forced to come to earth. There were gardens here, and an orchard, and the low, solid bulk of the church of Saint Suplice, overlooking the River Gate. When her feet touched the soft, spongy earth, Attica sagged forward, trembling with exhaustion, her hands braced on her knees, her head bowed as she sucked in air.
Wait here, de Jarnac said, gently pressing her back into a protected corner where a decrepid wattle-and-daub house and some half-ruined outbuilding came together. I'll see if I can find someplace dry and out of the wind where we can spend what's left of the night.
Her head came up with a sudden fear that if she let him out of her sight, something might happen to him and she'd never see him again. She caught his arm when he would have turned away, her hand tightening on his sleeve. I'll come with you.
He swung back to face her. A blue streak of lightning cracked through the dark sky, followed quickly by the boom of thunder. The wind whipped at his torn tunic, exposing
the edge of his white shirt and the dark, bare flesh beneath. Rain dripped from his hair.
I'm not leaving you. His features were drawn with a strange kind of intensity that left him looking wild, almost brutal. I'm not leaving you, Attica, he said again, and vanished into the rain-washed night.
She leaned her shoulders against the rough wall, her arms crossed as she hugged herself, trying to keep warm. Away from the crowded houses at the center of the city, the wind seemed stronger, howling through the eaves of the hovel and thrashing the surrounding trees until the shadowy canopies of their leaves whipped frantically back and forth in the storm.
She had to grit her teeth and fight down a shiver. The windblown night had always unsettled her; it was so wild, so uncontrolled, so unpredictable and irrationally, dangerously exciting. It seemed to call to something within her, something she always fought to hold down. Yet here she was, abandoned to it. Lost to it.
She hugged herself tighter, her gaze drifting past the trees to where the hulking tower of the church thrust up boldly against the roiling sky. Beyond that, the city walls loomed, an ominous, silent reminder of the fact that they weren't safe yet. They might have managed to escape the castle and evade her uncle's men-at-arms tonight, but they were still in Laval, still trapped behind the city's high walls and locked gates. When the gates swung open tomorrow with the dawn, every portal would be watched, every person passing through carefully scrutinized. There was no way out.
She squeezed her eyes closed and let her head fall back against the rough hovel wall, hating herself for the sick
fear and despair that surged through her. She wished de Jarnac would come back.
The sound of careful footsteps, dangerously close, brought her to instant, quivering attention. She jerked her eyes open to discover the misshapen outline of a man's body moving stealthily through the night toward her. But then she relaxed, for there could be no mistaking de Jarnac's catlike grace. The strangeness of his silhouette came from the objects he carried: a lute, a bundle of clothing, and something else. Something long and thin and vaguely familiar.
She pushed away from the wall to meet him. What is it? What have you found?
The soft huff of his laugh came to her out of the darkness. A way through the city gates.
She stared at him.
A lute?
He handed it to her, along with a bundle of gaily colored clothes. You can play, can't you?
Yes, but I don't understand. What else is that you're carrying?
She saw his smile flash white in the storm-darkened night. It's a pair of stilts.
Attica stood beside the squat western tower of the church of Saint Suplice, the pilfered pile of cloaks and colorful tunics clutched to her chest as she stared down into the dark, yawning void before her. You want me to hide in there?
With the dead?
De Jarnac's voice floated up to her, along with the echo of his footsteps receding down the stairs before her. It's a crypt, Attica. Which might be similar to but is not exactly the same as a grave. Besides, which are you more afraid of ? The malevolent spirits of the unquiet dead or your uncle's very alive men-at-arms?
She threw an anxious glance across the dripping churchyard to the empty streets beyond. The rain had slowed to a thin drizzle, but the wind that buffeted her was still cold, and it carried to her the faint but unmistakable sound of tramping boots and curt, raised voices. She tightened her grip around the stolen clothing and ducked through the low archway.
Don't forget to shut the door, said that disembodied voice from below.
She gave the heavy, iron-banded plank door a hard push that drew a shrill shriek from its hinges. Mother of God, she whispered as the door slammed into place, plunging her into an echoing darkness so total, she felt for one hideous moment that it might smother her.
Want to ring the bell in the tower while you're at it? said de Jarnac dryly. They might not have heard you.
Hmph. She groped along the cold stone wall until her hand closed over the scratchy rope of the banister, then worked her way carefully down the stone steps.
It was not completely dark down here, she realized as her feet reached the base of the staircase. She traced a faint graying of the gloom to a series of arched light wells, set high on the rough stone walls. The crypt seemed to run the length of the central nave, although it looked old, older even than the church above it. The double rows of fat columns supporting the low vaulted ceiling were plainly carved of sandstone and fretted with age. Yet the crypt appeared surprisingly little used, the regular square sandstone paving blocks that covered the floor being interrupted only here and there by a long funerary slab or the few flat-topped stone tombs she could faintly see scattered at random among the columns.
Couldn't you find a nice, warm barn? she asked, her voice echoing away into the darkness.
De Jarnac's low chuckle came back to her. I'm afraid that in this part of town, lordling, the houses are the barns. Besides, the soldiers will never look for us in here. Not tonight, at any rate.
Why not? she asked, leaning against the cold, hard edge of the nearest tomb.
Juste ciel
. It would be a wine merchant, she heard de Jarnac say in soft amusement, as if they didn't have a troop of armed men hard on their heels, as if the insistent peal of the alarm bell wasn't still ringing out to rouse the entire city against them.
I think I prefer a wine merchant over a pig farmer, she said, pushing herself up onto wobbly legs. She heard the low huff of his laugh as she groped her way toward him. He seemed to be doing something with the barrels. She had only just grasped what he was about to do when a low, throaty growl brought her spinning around.
Sharp canine teeth gleamed white and deadly from a large, furry shadow that crouched menacingly beside a nearby shed. De Jarnac, Attica whispered, just as the huge mastiff growled again and hurtled itself forward.
Christ, said de Jarnac, grabbing her arm as he kicked loose a carefully positioned lever that sent a shudder through the looming pile of wine caskets. She didn't see the chain
until the dog hit the end of its tether with a blessed clang of metal links and a snarling, frustrated fury that was all but lost in the thunderous roar of the barrels as the pyramid collapsed.
Leaping forward, the great casks bounded and rattled across the courtyard, a rolling, charging cylindrical army of dark oak to the rescue. She heard a quickly cut off crude expletive and a startled yelp from two of the men-at-arms who had just burst through the passage from the street only to disappear in a confusion of upflung arms and smashing staves and burst iron bands.
Ha, said de Jarnac, his laughing voice close to her ear as they ran together toward the back of the yard. You're right: much better than a pig farmer.
They pelted over the uneven paving blocks, past a startled, white-headed goat and a squawking, ruffle-feathered aviary, before they came upon the outside corner stair that they followed up and up, to the house's third-floor gallery. From there, it was an easy matter for Attica to follow de Jarnac's lead and swing her legs over the gallery's wooden railing for the leap to the gently sloping roof of the two-story workshop that abutted the back of the house.
Balanced on the top of the railing, she hesitated, her head jerking toward the sound of heavy feet pounding up the steps behind them. One of the soldiers, quicker than his fellows, was closing on them fast. Glancing about in a panic, she seized one of the pots of scraggly geraniums that decorated the railing and sent it hurtling downward to shatter with a cascade of dirt on the crest of the helmet that had just appeared on the steps below her. The helmet abruptly disappeared.
Got him, said Attica, pushing off the railing into de Jarnac's waiting arms.
You have a talent with blunt objects. He laughed as he caught her. But then the laughter faded from his face to be replaced by a strange intensity she'd never seen there before as he held her close to him. This is getting dangerous, Attica. I'd rather you'd left me in that prison room to die than that something happen to you because of me.
She watched, her head thrown back, as the wind ruffled the sweat-dampened hair at his temples. Against the darkness of the storm-driven night sky, his face shone pale, the flaring bones of his cheeks, the strong line of nose and chin striking her as both achingly beautiful and oddly vulnerable. She looked at him and felt deep within her the heavy beat of her heart as it seemed to slow and then stop for one momentous, unforgettable instant of revelation.
I love him, she thought with quiet, piercing wonder. That is why I am here, running through this storm-filled night, my heart light with a wild excitement that can find a source for laughter even in the face of death. Because I love him, and I cannot bear to let him leave without me.
She reached up to touch his cheek, her hand trembling. Whatever the outcome, she said softly, I could never regret what I did.
Unexpectedly, his smile flashed, wide and cocky and stealing her heart all over again. The outcome is still ours to make. He seized her hand in his sinewy grip. Come, my mace-and flower-pot-wielding lordling; the sky at least is open before us.
Hand in hand they ran, across the slippery, slanting slate roofs of the houses that descended the hill of Laval Castle like a series of giant, ragged steps so tightly wedged together that the short distances between them could be leapt, the differences in height not so great she couldn't scramble up
them with the aid of jutting gargoyles and de Jarnac's strong, helping hand.
Their progress was not quiet. Ever conscious of the pounding feet and hoarse shouts of their pursuers, they moved with no thought to stealth but seized whatever could be enlisted in their defense: loose tiles snatched and thrown on the fly, unripe plums plucked from a big old overhanging tree, yesterday's washing, carelessly left drying across some upper gallery, now cut free to whip through the air and momentarily blind and trip the men who slogged determinedly after them.
Stumbling and cursing, the men-at-arms plowed on through the wind-whipped, lightning-charged night, only to blunder into the clutches of outraged townspeople awakened by the ruckus. To the missiles of the fugitives, the good citizens of Laval unwittingly added their own impediments as they took their fury out on those nearest at hand. Renouf 's faithful soldiers found themselves splashed with the contents of slop buckets and dodging flying boots as they fended off broom-wielding middle-aged matrons in flowing white shifts and night caps whose shrieks redoubled in intensity when the cloud-filled skies above parted and the rain came pouring down.
The rain fell in big, hard drops that filled the air with the sharp scent of wet earth and stone. The slates and tiles underfoot, already dangerous, now became wet and deadly. The wind sent the rain driving into Attica's face, blinding her. She fell to her hands and knees, creeping along slowly, her heart in her throat. And then the long, curving row of houses they followed ended abruptly at a triangular plaza cobbled in gleaming, rain-washed gray stones toward which the wall of the last house dropped a straight three stories. There was no way down.
They stood together at the edge of the tiles, Attica's breath coming so hard and fast, her chest ached. Rain ran down her face, dripped off her hair, soaked her torn, filthy clothes. She felt as if she were drowning in failure and despair.
I can try to lower you over the edge, said de Jarnac, his own breath ragged. Or we can jump together.
Through the driving, roaring rain, she looked up into his strained face and thought for one tormented moment that he must have decided to choose death on the cobbles below over inevitable capture. But then his hand tightened in hers, and he was dragging her along the wet slates, and she saw what he had already noticed: a lean-to barn built in a shadowy corner against the house wall.
She stared down at the barn's thatched roof, some fifteen feet below, then glanced over her shoulder at the men rushing across the roof toward them through a swirling blaze of torches. An arrow whizzed through the night, so close she felt the wind of its passing. She met de Jarnac's questioning gaze and said, Jump.
They jumped hand in hand, the thatch absorbing much of their momentum before giving way to spill them through rough-hewn rafters into the straw-strewn bed of a very startled cow.
Scrambling up, winded but unbroken, they erupted out the barn door into the empty plaza, straw plastered to their wet clothes, the cow interested, ambling behind as they considered the rain-washed darkness before them.
Three streets, two wider than the other, opened off the small plaza. They chose the narrow lane that wound around the base of the hill toward the river, and set off again at a run.
But they had lost the freedom of movement they'd found on the rooftops, and Renouf Blissot's men had had more than enough time to spread out over the twisted network of streets and alleyways around the castle. Within twenty-five paces, the reddish glow of torchlight gleaming through the rain up ahead showed them the dim silhouette of armed men, blocking the lane.
Too late, now, to turn back, for a stream of curses and pounding feet announced the imminent if limping arrival of their caprioling companions of the rooftops. Damion spun round in the narrow, muddy rue, searching for a way out, but this was an old street and a poor one, with ancient houses leaning drunkenly against one another and no friendly dark archways to welcome them into hidden courtyards.
Swearing, Damion began to throw himself first against one door, then the next, pounding on the locked, metal-studded panels until, to his surprise, one gave way before him, and he found himself stumbling down a shallow flight of stone steps, with Attica yanked in behind him.
A swirl of soapy steam enveloped them in warm wisps that floated away between row after row of stone columns and drifted up in a golden, lamp-lit mist to hover beneath round arched stone vaults that reminded him vaguely of the ancient ruins he had seen half-buried in the hot shifting sands of eastern deserts.
The baths were old, very old, and once, doubtless, respectable. They were not respectable now. Perhaps by day the poorer citizens of Laval still came here to wash away the dirt of their honest labors. But by night the place was obviously given over to the kind of activities that had made bagnios and stews bywords for brothels all across Europe.
A second look showed him that paint darkened both the
lush lips and the pertly bared nipples of the woman who had opened the door to them and now stood gape-mouthed with surprise, staring at them. Beyond her, the whirls of steam floating over the lapping surface of the large central pool parted to reveal the brawny back and thrusting naked buttocks of a man who coupled openly with a white-limbed woman he held pinned to the marble steps descending languidly into the waters.
What is this place? Attica whispered, her eyes wide and round.
Don't look, Damion told her. He grabbed her hand and ran with her around the foggy edge of the pool, just as the first man-at-arms burst through the open doorway.
Unprepared for the stairs, the soldier somersaulted down the ancient steps to crash into the Lady of the Painted Breasts, who recovered her voice and her wits at the same time and fled screaming.
Shit, said Damion, ducking between a row of secluded alcoves. It was here that those too modest to expose themselves in the public pool bathed instead, in wooden troughs set upon raised stone platforms and curtained with heavy silks and brocades rather the worse for age and long exposure to damp air and careless frolicking.
The sound of boots pounding across the tiles behind them echoed through arching stone vaults already ringing with the panicked splashes of bathers and staccato bursts of sodden female shrieks. I do not think, said Attica, as Damion yanked down a moldy blue velvet curtain to throw into the path of their nearest pursuer, I do not think these gentlemen came here simply to bathe.
I told you not to look, said Damion, whirling to confront a slim, dark-haired soldier whose sword was already
singing free of its scabbard to flash naked and sharp through the misty air.
Leaping out of the way, Damion caught the still swinging sword with a looped towel plucked from the waist of an indignant bather. The bather fled, pink bottom waddling, as Damion jerked the towel-wrapped blade and sent it arcing through the air to land with a ringing crash on the tiles. Grim-lipped, the soldier reached for his poniard, just as Attica hit him from behind with a three-legged stool.
I wondered where you were, said Damion, breathing heavily.
She was better with flower pots and maces than with stools. The soldier only staggered, grabbing for support at the splashing edge of the recently vacated trough. With a splintering rip, the old wood gave beneath his weight. Eyes widening, he pitched over backward, still clutching the side of the trough, which tore loose in his grip.
Like a steaming miniature tidal wave, the hot, soapy water poured forth, washing over the tiled floor to knock the next soldier off his feet and send another skidding across the slippery tiles to crack his forehead against a column.
It's getting crowded in here, said Damion. There must be a way out to the yard.
I thought I saw a door at the end there, said Attica, tossing away her stool as she ran down the curtained corridor.
She
had
seen a door, only it was now blocked by a white-robed wraith of a woman with a pointed chin and improbable red hair, who said calmly, The yard is already full of soldiers. You can't get out that way. Follow me.
Damion's gaze met Attica's for one significant moment. At some point during that long, danger-filled night, they had moved beyond the need to communicate with words.
Their minds had leapt together, just as their bodies had moved in concert across the rooftops and alleyways of Laval.
And so he knew her thoughts, even though she did not speak them. He knew that she realized, as he did, that their options were rapidly being reduced to nothing. This strange woman with her diaphanous gown and overbright hair and beckoning candle had no reason to help them, and they had no reason to trust her. Yet they followed her.
They followed her down a mean passage grimy with the debris of untold centuries carelessness with overflowing coal scuttles. The woman's translucent gown seemed to glow ethereally in the darkness, the faint, golden light of the candle she carried throwing their shadows, long and grotesque, across the soaring walls.
At the end of the passage, she stopped abruptly to raise the flickering candle and say simply, Behind the chest.
Damion leapt to put his shoulder to a large coffer that stood against the ancient ashlar wall. Made of oak and strapped with iron, the chest moved more easily than he had expected, sliding noiselessly over a surprisingly clean stone floor to reveal a low gap in the masonry.
The sound of hurried footsteps, growing closer, left no time for hesitation. Attica scooted through the dark hole on her hands and knees, her head bent. Damion pelted in after her, pulling the chest in place behind him as best he could.
He saw a drift of white gauze. Then the coffer thumped back solidly against the wall, eclipsing the last faint glimmer of light thrown by the woman's single candle and plunging them into total darkness.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Damion crouched on his haunches, his gaze assessing the dim outlines of a surrounding jumble of barrels and crates before settling on the faint, distant line of gray light that outlined what looked like a door. He decided they were probably in a cellar or storage shed of some sort. The floor was of packed earth, the air around them damp and unused, the walls thick enough that he could hear nothing except the pounding of the rain and their own strained breathing.
Attica's low voice came to him out of the darkness. What do we do now?
He reached out to her, his fingers closing over the delicate bones of her wrist. Her flesh felt cold and wet and trembling beneath his grasp, and he drew her to him, shifting his weight as she settled into the V of his spread thighs. We can't stay here, he said. When they don't find us in the baths, they'll start searching the surrounding area.
He felt a shudder pass through her, and put both his arms around her thin frame to draw her closer to his chest and envelop her with his warmth. She let out a long sigh,
her hands clutching the wet cloth of his torn tunic as she leaned into him, her face buried in his shoulder, her voice muffled as she said, I suppose this means we take to the rooftops again?
She said it lightly enough, but he heard the tight thread of fear in her voice, and he knew what she was thinking, knew she was remembering the brutal lashing of cold wind and driving rain, the treachery of steep, slippery slates, the dizzy, heart-stopping, body-smashing distances to pavements below.
He laid his cheek against the wet tangle of her hair, breathed in the scent of rain and woodsmoke and this woman, knew again a bitter sense of regret at the danger she now faced because of him. Attica, he said softly, his heart aching in his chest, I swear before God, if there's a way to get you out of this safely, I will. I never should have
He felt her shift within the circle of his arms, her head falling back as she pressed the tips of her fingers against his mouth, silencing him. I did this because I wanted to. Don't make me say why.
The touch of her fingertips to his lips shocked them both into sudden, quivering awareness. In the darkness her profile was only a faint shadow, delicate and fine-boned and strong. He felt something catch deep inside him, something so sweet and rare as to be almost unbearable.
You do realize, he said, his lips moving against her fingers, that there could be a dozen men-at-arms waiting for us on the other side of that door? That we could walk out of here and die?
I realize it.
He felt the deep trembling going on inside her, felt her
chest lift against his as she sucked in a quick breath. Damion?
The question in her voice hung in the stillness between them. He didn't need to ask what she wanted, and in that moment, all the reasons that made it wrong didn't matter.
He drew her to him. She opened her mouth to him, her slim young body pressing wholly against his, her hands bracketing his head, drawing him closer, closer, as if she would make them as one. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, and she met him in an endless, gasping, aching kiss, a kiss driven by fear and need of a raw passion that went beyond carnality to a total immersion of body, mind, and spirit such as he had never known.
Attica, he murmured, his mouth still moving against hers. He kissed her trembling eyelids, her hair, her throat. Then he took her hands in his and pulled her to a stand with him. We must go.
He saw the sweet curve of her smile in the faint gray light. I still don't regret it, she said, her eyes wide and shining. No matter what happens, I'll never regret knowing you.
He looked down at her shadowed features and felt his chest tighten. He could have told her he'd lost his heart to her that first day, when he'd looked across a crowded common room and recognized her for what she really was. He could have told her she'd always been his heart, his fire, even before he'd met her, perhaps even before he'd been born. But some things were better not said, could never be said between them. He kissed her fingers where they entwined with his and said simply, Nor will I.
And then, her hand in his, they turned together to face whatever awaited them on the other side of that door.
*
She found herself staring out at an overgrown garden filled with the roar of the rain teeming down in great slashing silver sheets. A garden filled with rain and wind and nothing more.
Weak with relief, she followed him, creeping up a short flight of broken stone steps and into the storm-racked darkness. The rain pelted them with oceans of water that cascaded down their faces in blinding streams as they splashed their way to the back of an old, half-tumbled-down dwelling barely visible through the gloom.
How do we get up? whispered Attica, staring up at the low roof. There's no steps, not even a ladder.
No. But there is an old grapevine. He tested his weight on the weathered trellis and grunted when it snapped in his hands. The wood is rotten, so make sure you use the vine itself.
But I haven't climbed a tree since I was She broke off as his hard hands closed on her waist, hoisting her up into the wet foliage. She found the thick central trunk of the vine and clung to it.
Sharp twigs snagged her clothes and scratched her skin as she scrambled up, moving stealthily from one foothold to the next, de Jarnac behind her. Craning back her head, she could see the line of roof tiles thrusting out above her. She reached for them, her fingers closing over the edge.
And then the tile she grasped crumbled within her grip, just as her left foot shot off the slippery trunk of the vine.
She let out a small gasp, her fingers clutching frantically for the vine again as she felt herself begin to fall. Christ, said de Jarnac, his big body lunging upward in a rush that
slammed her to the wall, holding her there, surrounded by his strength and warmth.
Oh, God, she whispered shakily.
Wait here.
She pressed her face into the wet leaves and branches, her fingers gripping the vine as he clambered past her. Give me your hand, she heard him say, and somehow she found the courage to let go of the vine and let him pull her up.
She rolled onto the wet, mossy tiles, her breath coming in quick pants as she lay pressed facedown on the sloping roof, the rain beating down on her back. He touched his hand to her cheek in a butterfly caress, then moved on. She forced herself up onto her hands and knees and crawled after him.
He stopped just below the point of the roof. She inched up beside him to peer down through the smoke of hissing torches at the men-at-arms filling the streets below. The men stood with their backs hunched against the rain, their attention still focused on the bathhouse. No one even bothered to glance up.
Damion touched her elbow, and she turned her head to look at him. The rain ran down his cheeks, dripped off his nose, plastered his dark hair to his head. His once fine clothes, already torn from her uncle's rough handling, now hung in rags, smeared with moss and mud. It suddenly occurred to her that she must look the same, and the thought brought a smile of unholy amusement to her lips.
He saw it and, as if recognizing the source of her amusement, flashed her his rogue's grin. Then the smile faded and he mouthed, Let's go.
They slithered down the sloping tiles to the next roof, then the next, then the next. They moved stealthily, the
cold, wind-driven rain enveloping them in a protective darkness even as it turned slate and tile into slippery death traps.
Attica moved through a hazy agony of grazed palms and bruised shins, of aching muscles and gasping lungs as they leapt from house to house, working their way around the base of the castle hill toward the river. Three times they had to flatten themselves against a sloping roofline as a troop of soldiers passed by below. When they came to a narrow street, they didn't dare climb down but used overhanging balconies and jutting dormer windows to cross the yawning gap.
At the edge of the city, the houses grew small and mean and so scattered that they were finally forced to come to earth. There were gardens here, and an orchard, and the low, solid bulk of the church of Saint Suplice, overlooking the River Gate. When her feet touched the soft, spongy earth, Attica sagged forward, trembling with exhaustion, her hands braced on her knees, her head bowed as she sucked in air.
Wait here, de Jarnac said, gently pressing her back into a protected corner where a decrepid wattle-and-daub house and some half-ruined outbuilding came together. I'll see if I can find someplace dry and out of the wind where we can spend what's left of the night.
Her head came up with a sudden fear that if she let him out of her sight, something might happen to him and she'd never see him again. She caught his arm when he would have turned away, her hand tightening on his sleeve. I'll come with you.
He swung back to face her. A blue streak of lightning cracked through the dark sky, followed quickly by the boom of thunder. The wind whipped at his torn tunic, exposing
the edge of his white shirt and the dark, bare flesh beneath. Rain dripped from his hair.
I'm not leaving you. His features were drawn with a strange kind of intensity that left him looking wild, almost brutal. I'm not leaving you, Attica, he said again, and vanished into the rain-washed night.
She leaned her shoulders against the rough wall, her arms crossed as she hugged herself, trying to keep warm. Away from the crowded houses at the center of the city, the wind seemed stronger, howling through the eaves of the hovel and thrashing the surrounding trees until the shadowy canopies of their leaves whipped frantically back and forth in the storm.
She had to grit her teeth and fight down a shiver. The windblown night had always unsettled her; it was so wild, so uncontrolled, so unpredictable and irrationally, dangerously exciting. It seemed to call to something within her, something she always fought to hold down. Yet here she was, abandoned to it. Lost to it.
She hugged herself tighter, her gaze drifting past the trees to where the hulking tower of the church thrust up boldly against the roiling sky. Beyond that, the city walls loomed, an ominous, silent reminder of the fact that they weren't safe yet. They might have managed to escape the castle and evade her uncle's men-at-arms tonight, but they were still in Laval, still trapped behind the city's high walls and locked gates. When the gates swung open tomorrow with the dawn, every portal would be watched, every person passing through carefully scrutinized. There was no way out.
She squeezed her eyes closed and let her head fall back against the rough hovel wall, hating herself for the sick
fear and despair that surged through her. She wished de Jarnac would come back.
The sound of careful footsteps, dangerously close, brought her to instant, quivering attention. She jerked her eyes open to discover the misshapen outline of a man's body moving stealthily through the night toward her. But then she relaxed, for there could be no mistaking de Jarnac's catlike grace. The strangeness of his silhouette came from the objects he carried: a lute, a bundle of clothing, and something else. Something long and thin and vaguely familiar.
She pushed away from the wall to meet him. What is it? What have you found?
The soft huff of his laugh came to her out of the darkness. A way through the city gates.
She stared at him.
A lute?
He handed it to her, along with a bundle of gaily colored clothes. You can play, can't you?
Yes, but I don't understand. What else is that you're carrying?
She saw his smile flash white in the storm-darkened night. It's a pair of stilts.
Attica stood beside the squat western tower of the church of Saint Suplice, the pilfered pile of cloaks and colorful tunics clutched to her chest as she stared down into the dark, yawning void before her. You want me to hide in there?
With the dead?
De Jarnac's voice floated up to her, along with the echo of his footsteps receding down the stairs before her. It's a crypt, Attica. Which might be similar to but is not exactly the same as a grave. Besides, which are you more afraid of ? The malevolent spirits of the unquiet dead or your uncle's very alive men-at-arms?
She threw an anxious glance across the dripping churchyard to the empty streets beyond. The rain had slowed to a thin drizzle, but the wind that buffeted her was still cold, and it carried to her the faint but unmistakable sound of tramping boots and curt, raised voices. She tightened her grip around the stolen clothing and ducked through the low archway.
Don't forget to shut the door, said that disembodied voice from below.
She gave the heavy, iron-banded plank door a hard push that drew a shrill shriek from its hinges. Mother of God, she whispered as the door slammed into place, plunging her into an echoing darkness so total, she felt for one hideous moment that it might smother her.
Want to ring the bell in the tower while you're at it? said de Jarnac dryly. They might not have heard you.
Hmph. She groped along the cold stone wall until her hand closed over the scratchy rope of the banister, then worked her way carefully down the stone steps.
It was not completely dark down here, she realized as her feet reached the base of the staircase. She traced a faint graying of the gloom to a series of arched light wells, set high on the rough stone walls. The crypt seemed to run the length of the central nave, although it looked old, older even than the church above it. The double rows of fat columns supporting the low vaulted ceiling were plainly carved of sandstone and fretted with age. Yet the crypt appeared surprisingly little used, the regular square sandstone paving blocks that covered the floor being interrupted only here and there by a long funerary slab or the few flat-topped stone tombs she could faintly see scattered at random among the columns.
Couldn't you find a nice, warm barn? she asked, her voice echoing away into the darkness.
De Jarnac's low chuckle came back to her. I'm afraid that in this part of town, lordling, the houses are the barns. Besides, the soldiers will never look for us in here. Not tonight, at any rate.
Why not? she asked, leaning against the cold, hard edge of the nearest tomb.
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