“Which, unfortunately, he is not,” Malcolm said.
“Do you have a plan?” Laurien asked nervously.
Looking at her, Darach nodded to the pack on his horse. “Take whatever you may need, milady. We go on foot from here.”
“W-we are simply going to walk past de Villiers’s armed guards?” She untied the half-empty leather pack and slung it over her shoulder. At her request, Yolande had put some of the healing herbs and roots in it, and Laurien was not going to leave them behind.
“The south gate seemed the least crowded,” Darach explained, removing his horse’s saddle and bridle, “and it is closest to the pier.”
Malcolm quickly gathered his supplies and weapons, and the men set the horses free. Darach stayed at Laurien’s side as the three of them set off toward the city. He reached to take the pack from her.
She shrugged him off. “I am strong enough to carry it, milord. What sort of ship is it that will be carrying us across the sea?”
“Hardly the entire sea, milady. Merely a channel. Our vessel is a merchant cog. A bit weathered but seaworthy enough.”
“Rather like me,” Malcolm jested.
Darach gave his friend a pained look. “None of the crew were aboard except for the mate, and he was agreeable to taking passengers—once I gave him a generous handful of our silver.”
“Fortunate to find another ship headed for Scotland,” Malcolm said.
“Nay, she is bound for Hull.”
“Hull?” Malcolm stopped in his tracks, staring at Darach as if the younger man had lost his mind. “Hull is in England. If you will recall, we are not on the best terms with them at the moment.”
“’Twas the only vessel sailing anywhere near Scotland for a se’nnight at least. The rest are bound for Dover, Southampton, Cadiz, Morocco—”
“So we are going to Hull. Where the sentinels will give us a warm welcome—just before they toss us in the darkest dungeon they can find.”
“They will never know we are there, morair. The ship’s mate said they sometimes encounter trouble bringing their goods into port, so they are cautious to avoid the king’s men.” He turned and resumed walking. “We will land in Hull and ride up the coast for home before anyone knows we are there.”
“What kind of trouble?” Malcolm persisted as they walked on. “What sort of goods might these be?”
“The markings had been rubbed off most of the casks and crates I saw, so… I would wager they are carrying choice trinkets lifted from traders all over France.”
“A ship of thieves?” Laurien exclaimed, halting in place.
“Smuggling their booty out of the country.” Malcolm stopped beside her.
“Milord, I have no desire to get killed on this mad voyage.” Laurien dropped her pack on the ground.
“If the two of you would prefer,” Darach bit out, scowling at them, “we can stay here a se’nnight—or more—in the hope of finding a ship bound for Scotland. Then we can hope they are agreeable to taking passengers. I am certain De Villiers’s men would be happy to provide us with accommodations while we make our inquiries.”
Not waiting for further comment, he turned and walked on.
Laurien looked at Malcolm. He returned her gaze. There were very few choices at the moment—all of them dangerous.
She picked up her pack and they both followed Darach.
A short time later, they reached the edge of the forest. Staying concealed in the shadows of the trees, they could see the southern gate below, at the bottom of a hill.
Because it was a port city, Calais had elaborate defenses. The curtain wall was several feet thick, the gate actually a tunnel, with an iron portcullis at either end. A steady stream of travelers pushed through it, dispersing on the far side into the markets and streets. At the edge of the city, where white gulls dotted the sky, a line of masts marked the wharf.
A score of men lingered near the curtain wall—sailors recruiting new crewmen, traders selling food and trinkets, beggars, merchants. It would be impossible to tell which were de Villiers’s guards.
“Well, then.” Malcolm sighed. “How do we get through?”
“They seem most interested in those traveling in pairs or threes,” Darach explained. “We will go through one by one—”
“We could try a ruse of some kind,” Laurien suggested. “Start a fire, or some sort of trouble, and while they attend to that, we could sneak through—”
“Or we could stand atop the wall and wave a large flag to tell them we have arrived.” Darach shook his head. “They would be after us like a pack of wolves. Nay, we will make a quiet entrance, and be gone before they even know we were here.”
“I will go first,” Malcolm offered.
“Be careful, morair. Lady Laurien and I will be just behind you. Once you are inside, make straight for the wharf and find the ship. ’Tis a Venetian. You will know it by the triangular sails. We sail at high tide.”
Malcolm flashed him a teasing grin. “Simple.” Giving Laurien a nod, he slipped away, heading down the hill. They spotted him moments later, moving into the crowd, walking slowly as if he were enjoying a pleasant afternoon stroll. They lost sight of him as he went into the gate.
Silent and tense, they waited several anxious moments… and finally saw him again, emerging safely on the far side of the tunnel.
“Our turn.” Darach turned toward her. “Milady, if you are thinking of trying to run once you are through that gate—”
“Have no fear of that, milord. Much as I may dislike my present company, I have no desire to find myself in the hands of de Villiers’s guards.”
“Then for once, follow my orders. Keep your head down. Keep moving. And by all the saints, keep silent.” He pulled her hood well forward and helped her to her feet, holding fast to her hand.
They stepped out of the forest shadows, moving down the hill to join the crowd of peasants, nobles, traders, and sailors jostling into Calais.
“I will be right behind you,” he promised. With that, he let go of her hand, sending her ahead of him into the throng.
Her heart beating unsteadily, Laurien shuffled toward the gate, carefully keeping her eyes on the road beneath her boots. Billowing clouds of dust made her cough and stung her eyes. The squeaking of cartwheels competed with the screeching of the noisy gulls overhead, and the patter of many foreign tongues. From all sides, she could hear the cries of vendors calling attention to their wares and swearing at the little thieves that swooped from the sky. The smells of salt and fish hung heavy in the air.
Everyone pushed closer together as they neared the entrance, prodding and bumping one another in their impatience at the slow pace. Every little nudge made Laurien flinch in fear that one of de Villiers’s guards was grabbing at her. She made sure to keep her head bowed. Her pack felt heavy on her back.
It seemed to take a lifetime to reach the entrance, but at last daylight turned to shadow and the throng pushed its way into the tunnel. A steady roar echoed strangely in the crowded passage. It sounded like a waterfall, except that it ebbed and swelled. Laurien realized with a twinge of foreboding that it was the sound of the sea. She was listening intently when she suddenly bumped into the woman ahead of her.
The line had come to a stop.
Within moments, those around her began grumbling at the delay and cursing in several languages, shouting at those in the front to move forward. Laurien’s throat went dry. What was happening? She longed to look up, but did not dare. She was only partway through the tunnel, closed in on all sides. If the guards recognized her now, she would be trapped.
Those behind kept trying to shove forward and Laurien found herself squeezed up against a plump peasant woman in front of her. She chanced a quick look over the woman’s shoulder.
That single glance made her heartbeat double. Three men were questioning someone at the front of the line.
And one of those men had been among her escorts in the wedding procession in Chartres.
F
rozen for an instant by a rush of fear, Laurien hunched over and pulled her hood closer about her face. She tried to push backward into the crowd, but could not move against the crush of people. She started to elbow her way through when the line began to move forward again.
Helpless, she was swept along—directly toward de Villiers’s guards.
She huddled deeper into her cloak, trying to appear as small and unworthy of notice as possible. She stared wide-eyed at the ground, so frightened she could hardly breathe. Please, please, please, she prayed, look at someone else. Do not look at me. Not at me.
The darkness in the tunnel began to lighten as they neared the exit.
“Arretez!”
The barked command was accompanied by a pair of dusty black boots that stepped into view, blocking her path. The river of people parted around them and continued forward. Her mind seemed to go blank. She needed to escape. Run. Fight.
But her little knife was gone.
“Regardez-moi.”
Laurien shook her head as if unable to comprehend the man’s order. If she looked up, she was finished. Where was Darach? Her blood rushed in her ears. If she tried to flee, the guard would seize her. In another instant he would lose patience and seize her anyway—and shout to the others that Lady Laurien d’Amboise had been found.
They would take her back to the comte.
There was no way out.
Dazed, unable to stop herself, she began to raise her head. And found herself facing the guard from the wedding procession. His eyes widening in recognition, he reached for her. She recoiled, only to see his expression of triumph turn to one of horror—as Darach’s sword flashed into view and felled the man with a single stroke.
Laurien heard a scream and realized the voice was her own. The other two guards spun toward them. Another pair appeared from out of the crowd, drawing gleaming swords from beneath the ragged garments of their disguises. Chaos broke out. The throng of people dissolved into panic, trying to squeeze through the narrow passage and flee the violence that had erupted in their midst.
Buffeted by the frenzy, Laurien was carried almost out of the tunnel. She fell and would have been trampled, but suddenly Darach was there, pulling her into the open air and sunlight beyond the gate. The guardsmen were almost on them.
“Run!” Darach pressed a knife into her hand and pushed her in the direction of the wharf. “Run for the ship! Save yourself!”
Laurien stumbled away as he turned to face de Villiers’s guards. The four swordsmen split up to come at him from two sides. With neither shield nor armor, hampered by his wound, she knew he could not hope to defend himself from all of them at once. Not even thinking, she started to run—not away from the men, but toward them.
Their attention fastened on Darach, they did not notice when she raised her hand and sent the knife flying. She only hit one of the warriors in the leg—but it was enough to make him stumble and fall.
She slung the heavy pack off her back and threw it at the feet of another man, tripping him as he charged at Darach.
Darach lunged toward the other two, slashing out and badly wounding one, then turning on the other, killing him in two strokes. Laurien was stunned at the speed and ferocity of his attack. With a flick of his wrist, the knife in his hand ended the life of the man she had tripped.
But the battle had barely begun.
The fourth guardsman was already on his feet, yanking the knife she had thrown at him out of his thigh. And a shout came from further along the wall as a dozen men ran toward them, all brandishing arms.
“So much for our quiet entrance.” Darach grabbed her hand and they fled into the panicked crowd, racing toward the jumble of hovels that made up the city of Calais.
Dodging in and out of the flood of people, they ran past mud-and-wattle buildings, skirted the market square, and finally approached the wharf. They hurried toward the ships.
Laurien felt as if her lungs would give out before they finally slowed to a fast walk, trying to blend in among the throngs of travelers and sailors.
Darach tugged on her hand and pulled her into a narrow passageway between two of the small wooden buildings that lined the wharf. They stopped for a moment.
“Have we lost them?” Laurien was shaking, her voice a harsh rasp in her throat. She bent over, trying to catch her breath.
“Not for long.” Darach sheathed his sword, rubbing at his left shoulder and wincing. “We have to get to that ship.”
“W-where is it?”
“There.”
They had come all the way to the water’s edge. She looked up and saw it for the first time: the sea, stretching away before her eyes, dark blue without end, only a darker line where the water met the sky. The sight made her dizzy. Mercy of Mary, she could see no land at all on the other side. Looking among the dozens of ships that crowded the piers, she spotted the one with triangular sails.
“That ship?” she gasped. “We are going to sea in that?” Smaller than the others, the boat Darach pointed to seemed more like a pinecone bobbing in a pond than a vessel fit for traveling upon that vast expanse of water.
He took her hand again. “Aye, and we need to reach it before—”
Suddenly he halted and stepped in front of her, pressing her back into the shadows. Following his grim gaze, Laurien saw a group of men running along the wharf. The weapons in their hands and the angry looks on their faces told her they were more of de Villiers’s guards, despite their disguises.
Reaching the first ship at the end of the pier, they forced their way aboard and began to search it, ignoring the outraged complaints of the crew.
Darach swore. Laurien counted the ships: there were ten between that one and theirs. But they could not get to the Venetian boat without being noticed.
Suddenly another man appeared on the wharf and began yelling at the guards. Though he carried no weapon, he was apparently their leader, because the guards stopped ransacking the ship long enough to heed him. Tall and thin, he was dressed as a beggar, but he had an imperious attitude and an almost elegant bearing, his graying hair swept back from his face. The group of de Villiers’s men left the ship, gathered in front of him on the dock, and were soon engaged in a heated disagreement with him.
Darach grabbed Laurien’s hand. “We will not have a better chance.” Before she could reply, he raised her hood and his own, then walked straight toward the pier.
Moving quickly, they threaded their way through the sailors and merchants working in and around the time-worn vessels. Laurien thought her heart must give out, it was pounding so hard. De Villiers’s men were only yards away. She could no longer feel anything except the cold knot of fear in her stomach, and the warm strength of Darach’s hand clasping hers.
Then all at once they were past the guards and hurrying toward the Venetian ship. She saw Sir Malcolm waiting near it, his way blocked by a burly man garbed in faded green homespun.
As they approached, the man turned his attention to Darach. He gestured at the ship, his pointed cap bobbing over his forehead as he spoke.
“Cannot take three. The cabin, it is not big enough.”
“I told you there were three,” Darach said tightly.
Laurien glanced toward the guards at the far end of the pier. For some reason, the leader had split the group, sending some of them elsewhere. But the remaining four had resumed searching, ship by ship.
“We have no time to barter,” Darach snapped. “We have paid more than enough.”
“M’hap your francais is not so good.” The ship’s mate shrugged and turned to board the ship. “I thought you said two. No room for three.”
Darach grabbed the man’s arm. “Will this clear more space?” Reaching into his tunic, he withdrew a small pouch and opened the strings.
The mate smiled at the flash of silver in the late afternoon sun. He scratched at his grizzled jaw. “All of it?”
Darach placed the pouch in the man’s hand. “You will have more when you deliver us safely
to our destination. We have friends awaiting us.”
The ship’s mate quickly pocketed the silver. “For passengers, I have room only for two.” He held up two fingers, then regarded Malcolm with a critical air. “But m’hap I can tell mon capitaine that you are a new crew member, mon ami. An old salt of the sea.” Apparently pleased with his plan, he urged them toward the thin wooden plank that served as a bridge between ship and pier. “Vite, vite, eh? Hurry! The rest of the crew, they are returning soon.”
Malcolm walked across, then the mate pushed Laurien forward. Halfway across the moving plank, she made the mistake of glancing down. She stopped short, transfixed by the waves that lapped at the wooden hull a goodly drop below. Her next step wobbled.
The sailor placed a hand at her back. “Move, garçon. Vite!”
He gave her a shove that sent Laurien tumbling headlong onto the deck. Her knee smacked into a crate, drawing a yelp of pain from her lips that did not sound boyish in the least.
Their host stepped nimbly aboard and pulled her to her feet. “Alors, what is this?”
Darach was too late to stay the man’s hand as he grasped her hood and pulled it back.
“A woman!” The mate turned toward Darach. “You said nothing of a woman. They are bad luck on a ship. Mon capitaine, he will skin me if he finds her! You and the old salt can go, but not this one.”
Laurien protested as he poked at her, trying to shoo her back toward the plank. “Allez, demoiselle. Off, off!”
She could see—and hear—that de Villiers’s men were engaged in an angry discussion with the crew of a ship just six boats away from theirs.
Darach stepped in front of her and grabbed the aumoniere hidden beneath her cloak. “Might this help balance your bad luck?” He poured her coins into the thief’s quickly extended palm. “And do not forget, you will receive more when we arrive safely.”
The mate examined the coins, grinning. He looked from his full hand to the empty aumoniere. “Tres bon. Very good. You and the demoiselle, come with me.”
His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0) Page 15
