Valentine (19 page)

The wall leading to the abbey’s main repository swung inward, and the opening was filled with the massive bulk of Roman Berg, Lou perched on his shoulder as usual. Father Victor glided in behind them and then secured the door.

“Good morn, gentleman,” Victor said, making his way around the table to take his usual seat near Constantine.

“Father,” Constantine replied. Adrian only grunted and sipped at his drink.

Roman deposited Lou on his perch and adjusted the bird’s hood and tie. He fished in his robes for a piece of desiccated meat and gave it to the falcon before turning toward the table.

“What’s got Adrian into his cups so early?”

Constantine glanced over his shoulder again and then looked back at Roman. “He’s worried about Val.”

“Worried he won’t come back and will send the bounty hunters to our doorstep for a coin,” Adrian muttered.

“Valentine has more honor than you give him credit for,” Roman said, leaning back in his own chair. Constantine heard the wood creaking under the Norseman’s huge frame and saw Victor’s slight wince at the sound. Roman was hard on even the abbey’s sturdy furniture. “He would never betray us.”

Victor leaned his forearms onto the table. “Let us pray that Roman is correct in judging Valentine’s integrity, for I have just this morning received news that may place Glayer Felsteppe directly in his path.”

Constantine looked up, but the old abbot had everyone’s attention now.

Glayer Felsteppe. Second in command to King Baldwin, after only Constantine himself. The traitor of Chastellet.

Constantine shook himself. “Where?”

“He was tourneying with the English king in Normandy. A month ago, any matter.”

“That’s not good,” Adrian said. “In bed with Henry now.”

Victor nodded. “It would seem so. My source says that Felsteppe planned to separate from the king and go north before returning to England.”

Roman tapped his fingers on the table in a rapid staccato, then seemed to catch himself and laid his palm flat. “Forgive my saying so, but ‘north’ is very general, Victor.”

Constantine dropped his eyes back to the map, locating Normandy and tracing the larger routes north from the region while he listened to the conversation.

“The rumor is that Felsteppe has aligned himself with a reputable noble and now has the financial backing to enlarge his search for the four of you. The English king has given him leave to assemble the most talented of trackers and scatter them across the map. The rewards for your capture have increased.”

“How much?” Adrian asked, dark humor and wine thickening his words.

“One thousand pieces of English silver on each of your heads,” Victor replied.

Roman whistled, but Adrian gave a shout of outrage. “One thousand pieces? I’m worth at least two, if only so that my brain may be studied.”

Roman laughed. “It would take that many oxen alone to transport your massive head.”

Adrian saluted Roman with his cup and a black smile. “Or one rock-headed Norseman.”

Constantine was in no mood to participate in the jesting. “A month ago. It’s probable they will miss each other entirely. And if not, Val would hear of such a gathering, were it to take place anywhere around him. His compatriots are . . . knowledgeable about new means to gain a large sum of coin.”

“His compatriots are all criminals,” Adrian clarified.

“That’s what I said.” Constantine thought for a moment and then mused aloud. “Even if Valentine and Felsteppe should be in the same room together, neither would likely know it—Val is the only one of us who would not recognize him on sight, nor has Felsteppe laid eyes upon Val.”

Roman rhythmically tapped his thick forefinger on the tabletop again, like a hammer on a tiny chisel. “You reckon that’s an advantage, Stan?”

Adrian spoke before Constantine could form an answer. “It’s not an advantage at all. Should Felsteppe ply just the right criminal with just enough coin, he could be led directly to Valentine, and Valentine would never see him coming.”

“Adrian’s right,” Constantine admitted. “But I do think that Valentine will refrain from fraternizing with his usual contacts. After all, one thousand pieces of silver would sorely test most friendships.”

“But,” Roman argued, “Valentine doesn’t know the stakes have risen.”

Adrian added, “And there is no way to get word to him in time to warn him of Felsteppe’s potential proximity, even if we knew exactly where he and his little English bride are.”

Constantine looked up with a sigh. “We will just have to trust that Valentine’s cunning will get him across the Channel safely. After he has freed himself from his connection with Lady Mary Beckham, he will be much more agile, and perhaps quicker to return.” His eyes went to Victor. “When and where is this convening of mercenaries to take place?”

“Two days from now,” Victor supplied. “In Hamburg.”

V
alentine likely would have kept sailing until the Elbe dumped them out into the sea or the raft finally fell apart completely had it not been for the flashes of lightning that lit up the distinct outline of Hamburg’s four castles. Thunder rumbled, temporarily deafening him to the roar of water on the river, both the current and the sheets of rain crashing into the Elbe, creating the illusion that Valentine was trying to steer the raft through a waterfall.

It had been raining for the past two days—pouring, storming so that day was barely discernable from night. He had navigated in a perpetual wet dusk, inhaling water like a fish. There had been no way to get out of the river, swollen and churning, pushing the raft along at such a pace that it was all he could do to keep the rickety wooden square to the closest approximation of the middle of the river as he could guess. And the entire time, Maria had slept on, the dreams that entertained her unconsciousness sometimes causing her to thrash and call out. Valentine was soaking wet, exhausted beyond measure, and the raft was beginning to disintegrate under the stress. If he didn’t find a place to tie off soon, he feared he would look around and see that the narrow planks that made up the vessel had widened, allowing Maria to slip through the gap and into the black water to drown.

He knew the inn straddling the land between one of the main trade routes into Hamburg and a branch of the Elbe had to be close. He could see the black masts and inky hulks of the cog ships along the shore, lit up intermittently by the menacing lightning. Hamish kept a dock behind his inn for seagoing patrons and merchants, and if Valentine could find it . . .

No sooner than he’d thought it, Hamish’s dock found Valentine, the wooden planks of the pier catching the cusp of his shoulder before the raft ploughed under the dock. Valentine was thrown from his feet, and as he lunged for the spindly mast and missed, the lower half of him plunged into the icy Elbe. The raft listed as Valentine caught the rough lashing between the planks with one hand and threw his other arm around a thick piling. He realized a moment later that the raft’s steep angle was stopped by the vessel on the far side of the dock, and so he cried out with effort as he pulled on the lashings with all his strength, kicking his feet beneath the water and using the thick piling for leverage.

He was rewarded with a shuddering scrape of wood on wood, and the raft went horizontal once more.

“Maria!” he shouted, and his voice was amplified in the tunnel created by the pier above. “Maria, wake up!” The lightning flashed again, and he could just make her out in the lines of white light that flickered through the boards over them. He thought she might have stirred, but then again, it could have been nothing more than a trick of the shuddering light.

The rotten lashing began to loosen in his hand. “Maria!” He was afraid to throw his leg over the side and pull himself up, fearing the planks would begin to separate against the failing ties. He couldn’t reach her from here, and he couldn’t let go of the raft, lest it spin out from beneath the dock on the wild current and into the Elbe, washing Maria out to sea like a corpse at a Viking funeral.

He had only one choice.

“Maria!” he called out as he loosened the lashings with quick, jerking movements, letting go of the raft only for the few seconds it took to pull the ropes loose from the boards. Then he gripped the far plank again, pulling the raft straight once more. The loosened end of the decking floated toward him briefly, and then scissored against the rest of the raft as Valentine moved his way up the board to the next lashing.

Two boards, three, five—all loosened and set floating into the swollen Elbe like twigs, until nearly half of the raft was gone and Valentine seized the center mast. He would have only seconds, he knew, to make his move. Once he released the raft, it would immediately start to spin, crashing into the pier or the ship beyond before being spit out into the river. The lower half of his body was nearly numb with cold, his left arm aching with the strain of holding on to the pier, the fingers of his right hand felt frozen.

“Maria!” he shouted again as the lightning gave him the briefest glimpse of her lying atop the limp sacks. The food was gone, but he didn’t know how much else he would be able to save, if anything.

“Valentine?” she at last answered.

“Do no move!”
he shouted as the light stuttered again and he saw her trying to raise herself up. If she leaned toward him suddenly, she would go over the edge and into the river. “Maria, sit up slowly—can you sit up,
mi amor
?”

“Yes.” Her voice was like a whisper.

“Good girl. Can you find my satchel? Grab it, Maria; put it high up on your arm.”

“I think I have it. Valentine, where are we?”

“Everything is fine. Can you grab your own bag? Maria?”

The thunder shot holes in her words. “I don . . . know. I have so . . . can’t see.”

“Just get what you can,” he shouted. “I am going to grab you in a moment, Maria. You have to come into the river with me.”

“No!”

“Do no be afraid,
mi amor
,” he said. “Can you swim?”

“No!” she repeated, and this time Valentine could clearly hear the fear in her words.

“It is fine,” he said, trying to make his voice calm and sure. “Once you are in the water, there is a piling to hold on to. And me, you will hold on to me. I will find a way up.”

“Valentine, no! I can’t—”

“We have no choice, Maria,” he interrupted. “When the lightning flashes again, I move.” He waited a breath. “Maria?”

She said something, but the thunder stole her words.

“What?” he shouted.

In the next instant, the lightning flashed. Valentine released the mast of the raft and swung his body through the water as the starboard edge spun toward him and the port side—where Maria crouched—twisted away. His right arm went round her waist with some force, doubling her over his elbow, and he dragged her toward him as the raft scraped away beneath her legs.

The weight of the satchels and her soaking gown dragged her under the water immediately, and Valentine gave a mighty roar as he pulled her up once more. She sputtered and coughed and gasped, and he felt her legs kicking in the blackness beneath them. She flailed against him, trying to turn, and at last flung one arm around the piling, her other arm swinging up to snake around his neck.

“Are you all right?” he asked into her ear.

She continued to cough but managed to nod.

Valentine looked up; a pair of wooden pegs jutted out of the piling perhaps three feet above his head.

“Gracias a Dios,”
he whispered. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Maria’s cold, wet cheek. “Hold on,
mi amor
—I will have us out of this river in only a moment.”

 

Mary wrapped both arms around the slick and smelly piling, as Valentine instructed, and when he moved away from her abruptly, taking his warmth and solidness and leaving her in the cold, dark, swirling waters, she knew true terror. She gripped with her knees as best she could, her skirts feeling like frozen iron around her thighs. If she slipped, she would go under the water, and Valentine would never find her.

A fall of water poured over her head and face as he tried to launch himself away from the river two, three times, his gasps and curses growing with each attempt. She stifled her scream of panic but would not close her eyes. When he rose the next time, he did not descend again, and she felt the air before her face open up as he vanished above her.

The thick pillar was coated with a wide band of slime at the waterline, and Mary felt herself sliding with each push of the current. It seemed a lifetime passed as Mary clung to the piling, her chin tilting farther and farther up to keep her face above the water, but in reality it was only a moment.

“Maria!” came Valentine’s shout from above.

Lightning flashed, and she saw the outline of his hand, his fingers spread wide.

“Reach up!”

“I can’t,” she cried, and as if to reinforce the idea, she slipped farther into the water, the current pulling at her skirts. She spat out a mouthful of foul water. “It’s too far!”

“You must,” Valentine argued. “Reach up as high as you can. I will grab you.”

“No!”

“I will!” he insisted. “I will no let you go. On three, now. One,” he began.

In her mind, Mary could already feel her fingers sliding out of Valentine’s cold, wet grasp.

“Two,
mi amor
.”

Mary decided then that, if she was going to die, it would be while reaching for Valentine.

“Three!”

She let go of the piling entirely and dove at the memory of where his hand had been. For one terrifying instant, she feared she had missed, for her fingers clawed at nothing but rain. And then a steely band clamped around her wrist.

“Help me, Maria,” Valentine called out as he pulled. “The pegs!”

Mary floundered at the slick wood, her body twisting in the air, and at last she found the short grip. She could not raise her legs, trapped within the crushing weight of her skirts.

“I have it!” she shouted and strained upward with her arms, desperate to be out of the water.

She felt his other hand clamp above her elbow. Mary folded her forearm over his fingers and used his support to leverage herself up higher against the piling. His hand around her wrist released and she felt him grab a fistful of her gown between her shoulder blades, and Valentine hauled her from the river.

He fell backward, pulling Mary with him, and she landed atop him, her head low on his chest, her fingers gripping his sodden tunic. His breathing was labored enough to cause Mary’s head to bounce on his muscled abdomen, but she hardly noticed through her own relieved gasps. The rain still pelted them, the lightning still flashed, but she was alive, and so was Valentine.

Once they were both sitting up, Valentine gathered Mary to him. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice raspy and thick.

“I think so,” she said. “Just cold. You?”

“I have never felt better,” he said, and Mary could hear the smile in his voice. He gained his feet before helping her to stand.

Mary let the two satchels she had grabbed—she didn’t know yet which ones—slide from her frozen arms to the pier. “Where are we?” she asked.

“On the edge of Hamburg, at the house of a friend.” Valentine squatted down on his haunches and gathered big handfuls of her skirts, trying to wring the water from them. “Look across the river, Maria.”

Mary turned her head and gasped. Perhaps it was only the lingering effects of the potion, but the lights of the city and from the lanterns hanging on the moored ships sparkled in the rain like starbursts, and lit the surface of the river like fairy fire. From her position on the dock, the Elbe seemed deceptively calm—not even a ripple could be seen on its black surface, belying the raging torrent they’d just come out of. One could only guess at its tumult by the deep bobbing of the cog ship moored on the far side of the dock.

Mary turned her head quickly the other way, toward the solid shore they had at last achieved, and saw a very different landscape—one of darkened forest and sloping field, of rough-hewn fencing like skeletal bones in the flashing lightning; squat outbuildings ringing a tall, square structure with two low wings to either side.

“What sort of friend?” she asked. “This appears to be an inn.”

Valentine stood, picking up the bags as he straightened and swiped at his eyes with his forearm. “It is. For travelers who do no desire to stay in the city.” He took her arm and started up the pier toward the crest of the hill. “Mostly those traveling with large parties—many horses and belongings, or much to trade. Hamish caters to the nobility—and a certain kind of criminal, it is true—so we should be quite comfortable here.”

“I think I would be comfortable in a cave right now, so long as it was dry,” Mary quipped, struggling to move her legs against the weight of her skirts. “Are we to play at being someones we are not?”

“Not with Hamish,” Valentine said. “He owes me a favor or three.”

“Ah, a fellow criminal from your colorful past,” Mary said. “Why am I surprised?”

“No, no,” Valentine said, helping her up the slippery grass. “His reputation in Hamburg is beyond reproach.”

Mary couldn’t help her laugh. Valentine always knew how to twist situations into the most favorable light.

“What of his reputation elsewhere?” she pressed.

Valentine shrugged in the darkness. “Perhaps slightly less. But I assure you, there would be few men who dared test his identity, lest they wished a quick death.”

Mary winced. “I see. I simply can’t wait to meet him.” Valentine laughed as he led Mary to the rear of one of the low wings of the inn. He released her hand to rap on the door with the backs of his knuckles.

Mary could have sworn she felt the ground beneath her feet vibrate with the loud stomps coming from beyond the door. She turned her head to look nervously at Valentine, but he was smiling. He glanced over at her and gave her a wink and a reassuring nod.

Unintelligible shouts grew louder as the stomping approached the other side of the door.

“—laggin’ peasantry! Can’t even read a flaggin’ drawering, can ye?” The door swung open with a whoosh, emitting kind, golden light and delicious-smelling warmth into the wet night. “Th’inn’s closed for a private party, ye flaggin’ bast—
Valentine!”

The man standing in the doorway was no taller than Mary herself, and slender, with a full head of wavy golden hair that rose in a wave from his forehead. He wore a handsome, tooled leather apron over his creamy white shirt, and his boots gleamed black in the light of the room behind him.