Brodeur’s grin widened. “You’re right, as always, milord.”
Alex strode purposefully through the piles of canvas. It was indeed a rich hoard. They’d be hard pressed to find a storage place with all the extra provisions Bonhomme had gathered, and every tent would have to be reopened and allowed to dry.
While these thoughts tumbled through his head, his eyes remained fixed on the desolation beyond. He slowed his pace as he entered the ruined orchard, pierced to the heart at the sight of the blackened stumps. The once rich brown soil had been reduced to powdery grey dust. The eerie silence was deafening. Not a creature stirred in this wilderness.
Generations of Montbryces had strolled through these trees, picked the apples, listened to the chirping of birds, watched the leaves turn golden and fall, then savored the fragrant spring blossoms. As a boy he’d run with his brothers and sisters, kicking up mounds of crisp brown leaves. He closed his eyes, recalling the rustling, the laughter. Had his father been with them?
The task ahead was daunting. It would take years to reestablish the orchard to its former glory. Other changes would have to be made. Montbryce had never come under attack before; no one had dared challenge one of the most powerful families in Normandie. But they had relied on the castle’s elevated position to discourage potential enemies. This had left the orchards vulnerable. Montbryce’s defense perimeter would have to be widened, a rampart put in place.
Despite the challenges he faced, a weight lifted from his shoulders. He was confident he could successfully manage all of it. Being the comte was his destiny.
If only he had Elayne as his Comtesse. With her at his side he could have moved mountains.
Lynx
EVERY PART OF ELAYNE’S BODY ACHED. She eventually mastered the spooked horse, but not before several hours of bone-jarring travel on uneven terrain in the dark. Henry never uttered a word of complaint and she suspected he’d fallen asleep hunched against her back. She pressed her arms against his to make sure he didn’t fall off. She could barely move her stiff shoulders and her hands were numb from gripping the reins, her jaw permanently clenched.
It was mid-morning when Dugald called a halt deep in a wood of conifer trees. “We’ll camp here and continue into Caen at dusk. Too dangerous to travel in daylight. I’ll go in search of water for the horses. Dinna take out the salt pork until I return. There may be wolves in these forests.”
She slid awkwardly from the horse, but her feet failed her and she collapsed in a heap. Henry jumped from the beast as if he hadn’t just ridden for hours in the dark and helped her rise.
Dugald toted the iron trunk to the middle of the clearing, then pulled the horses to a tree and tethered the reins to a low hanging branch. She was taken aback when he unbuckled the sheath of his dagger and handed it to her after peeling off his padded gambeson. “Here, just in case. And ye’ve the dog.”
For the first time in her married life, she was dismayed to watch Dugald swagger away, a water skin slung over his shoulder. Despite the early morning chill, the hilt of the weapon grew slick in her sweaty palm as she and her children huddled beneath a tree as far from the stink of the horses as possible. Claricia traced a fingertip over the pattern tooled on the leather sheath.
Faol paced back and forth, uncharacteristically alert.
The horses shifted, sniffing the air, twitching their tails.
Birds chirped and trilled, welcoming the day. She leaned her head back against the tree and closed her eyes.
“Sing for us, Maman,” Henry whispered.
She gritted her teeth. Singing for her children had come naturally whenever their lives were clouded with uncertainty. She cleared her throat, hoping her voice would produce sounds that resembled music.
Gu robh neart na cruinne leat, 'S neart na grèine.
“May ye indeed have the strength of the universe, and the strength of the sun, my angels,” she crooned softly.
Henry grinned, trying hard to hide his fear. “’Tis my favorite.”
Faol paused to study them for a moment as she sang, then resumed his march back and forth, ears pricked.
Claricia cuddled into her. “Even the birds stopped to listen to ye, Maman.”
Elayne smiled, but an icy dread crept into her belly when she realized the birds had indeed stopped singing. Faol stood stock still, long tail rigid, ears alert, looking out in the direction Dugald had taken.
It was eerily silent, except for the stomping hooves of the wild-eyed horses as they strained at their tethers.
Not a breath of wind stirred the trees.
A screeching wail shattered the silence. The hairs on her nape stood on end. No human could make such a noise.
Then there was grunting, scuffling, cries of distress—Dugald.
Claricia screamed.
Elayne clamped her hand over her daughter’s mouth as they scrambled to their feet. “Hush.”
Faol took a step forward, one paw raised.
The horses jostled each other, clearly panicked.
Henry held out a hand. “Give me the dagger, Maman.”
She shook her head, but he insisted, his young eyes narrowed. “Ye and Faol take care of Claricia. I’ll be ready for the wolf.”
The wolfhound glanced back at her as if he understood. Trembling, she handed the knife to her courageous son just as the wailing stopped. No one breathed.
Henry’s shoulders stiffened when the noise began again. He drew out the knife. The ridiculous thought flitted into her brain that little boys shouldn’t play with sharp objects.
She frowned, trying to identify the screeching sounds. She’d heard something similar before. “I dinna think ’tis a wolf, Henry. ’Tis more like the cats fighting in Grandpapa’s castle, at night.”
He nodded, his face ashen. “Aye, but this is louder. Must be a big cat.”
Elayne’s mind careened through a host of memories of tales her father had told of forest creatures in the hills and valleys of Scotland. What kind of cat—
The image appeared behind her eyes. She was ten. A large creature with brown fur, its enormous paws lashed to the poles her father’s hunters bore on their shoulders, its head hanging backwards. She’d never seen such long black whiskers. It was dead, but its tufted ears pointed as if listening still.
Her lungs stopped working. “’Tis a lynx.”
At that moment, Dugald staggered into the clearing, his torn and bloodied face unrecognizable. One eye hung from its socket. He held out a mangled hand to Henry. “Give me the dagger,” he croaked.
Henry thrust the weapon into his father’s hand as a streak of brown and grey sprang out of the trees onto her husband’s back. Faol barked wildly, nipping at the haunches of the big cat. Dugald struggled to dislodge the creature. Huge paws gripped his shoulders as he flailed with the dagger, striking air. He fell to his knees, dropping the weapon. He looked up, one hand grasping towards her, mouthing something as the cat sunk its fangs into his neck.
The certainty they were going to die held her in its thrall.
With a blood curdling yell that belied his tender years, Henry rushed forward.
“Nay,” she screamed, burying her keening daughter’s head in her breast, but unable to look away.
Henry grabbed the dagger and without missing a stride thrust it up into the cat’s neck. The animal jerked and hissed at him, its long bloodied fangs bared.
Faol launched himself onto the lynx’s back and bit into its head.
Dugald collapsed to the ground as the cat turned its fury on Faol. Elayne didn’t know where her son found his strength, but he yanked the dagger out of the maddened creature and thrust again. The lynx swiped at his shoulder, sending him staggering backwards, but blood spurted from the deep neck wound that had clearly weakened it.
It spun around, catapulting the wolfhound into a tree, but the dog regained his footing quickly. The two animals faced each other, Faol growling loudly, teeth bared, the hound from hell. The cat reared up on its powerful hind legs, h
issing and spitting, front paws raised like a drunken serf spoiling for fisticuffs.
Still holding Claricia to her body in a death grip, Elayne’s eyes darted from Dugald, prostrate on the ground, to her son holding his bloodied shoulder, to the courageous dog, to the desperate lynx. She prayed the cat had no mate nearby.
The stench of blood filled the air. Henry still gripped the dagger. Did she have the courage to lunge for it and attack the lynx?
As she wavered, willing her wooden legs to move, a whistling sound caught her attention.
The lynx screeched, leapt into the air and fell dead at her feet, transfixed by an arrow.
A DOZEN MEN armed with bows, arrows and swords poured out of the forest, shouting loudly. Faol sniffed the dead cat, then slunk off into the trees as the newcomers gathered around the carcass. One braced his foot on the animal’s shoulder and heaved the arrow out of its neck, holding it aloft to the cheers of others. Blood flowed from the wound.
Elayne didn’t know who these men were, but they had saved her children’s lives. They wore helmets and surcoats with a vaguely familiar devise. Soldiers, not brigands.
She ran to Henry, still clutching Claricia to her side. Dropping to her knees beside her son, she sat her daughter on the ground, but the girl immediately scrambled over to her father.
Henry winced with discomfort, gritting his teeth. To her relief the scratches were not deep and he hadn’t lost a lot of blood. But the wounds would have to be cleansed and bound. “Yer doublet is ruined, young man,” she jested, her voice quivering.
Henry smiled weakly, looking around. “Where is Faol?”
“I dinna ken but ye and that brave dog just saved our lives.”
Satisfied her son was in no danger, she looked to her husband. Several men had gathered round, gaping at the weeping child.
Elayne rose and hurried to her daughter, gasping at the sight of Dugald’s ghastly wounds. She knelt beside her husband and coaxed Claricia into her arms.
“Dadaidh, dadaidh,” the girl sobbed into Elayne’s breast, unmindful of the blood staining the front of her gown.
The men turned Dugald over carefully. If possible the livid wounds to his face and neck were worse than his mangled and punctured back. Elayne pressed her hand gently to the back of her daughter’s head so she wouldn’t look up and see her father’s face.
“Jésu,” several men whispered, making the sign of the crucifixion across their bodies. They argued what the best course of action might be until she could stand it no longer. “Enough! I will tend him. Fetch water.”
They sneered, seemingly on the verge of ignoring her when a tall man with red hair strode out of the forest. They stood to attention immediately, heads bowed.
“Do as the demoiselle asks. Get water for the wretch. Send to the camp for the healer.” He glanced at Dugald. “Parbleu, it’s the Prince of the Scots. How did he come to be here?” He turned his piercing eyes to Elayne. “And who are you?”
A pulse began its throb, throb, throbbing at the base of her throat as she espied the sprig of broom on the front of the cap he wore. It was a plant she knew well from the hills and dales of Scotland. A suspicion of this man’s identity seeped into her heart. Keeping her eyes on the ground as befitted a servant, she prayed Claricia’s sobs wouldn’t give them away. “I am Elayne, nursemaid to their Highnesses,” she said, pointing to Henry.
The man arched his brows and approached Henry who had managed to sit up. “You are Henry, grandson of King David of Scotland?”
Henry glanced at his mother then thrust out his chin, looking like the teenager he was supposed to be. “I am.”
The man went down on one knee, doffing his cap. “Your Highness, I am Geoffrey Plantagenet, Comte of Anjou.”
Pyre
THE NEXT FEW HOURS passed in a blur. Geoffrey insisted on taking Henry and Claricia back to his main camp, which Elayne assumed wasn’t far away. Though she’d wanted to argue, doing so would arouse suspicion, and her place was with her husband.
If they were as close to Caen as Dugald had indicated, she wondered what the Angevin was doing in the vicinity of Stephen’s stronghold.
But she didn’t have time to dwell on the question long as she and the healer from the Angevin camp worked to save her husband’s life. The man was a monk who had no hesitation letting her know what he thought of women, especially when she adamantly refused to let him cut off Dugald’s mangled fingers.
Though he was delirious with pain and had begun to sweat, Dugald’s nod of approval and the desperate cast in his one good eye told her he approved of her decision.
He knows he’s dying.
She was grateful for the cleric’s help, however, when it came to dealing with the destroyed eye. He summoned four burly soldiers who’d remained with them and they pinned Dugald down while he shoved the eye back in its socket then bound his head with a linen bandage.
Her husband’s screams would haunt her for the rest of her life. She squeezed his hairy forearm, hoping he understood her anguish for him.
“You seem to care a lot about this man,” the monk observed.
Panic surged in her breast. “It’s hard to see a proud man so mutilated,” she murmured.
She gently unpinned his clan brooch and eased his torn playd off his body. The monk busied himself cutting off the ruined clothing. She was confident he didn’t notice her slide the brooch into the deep pocket of her bloodied bliaut.
Dugald shivered as his massive body was exposed to the chill air, though he was drenched in sweat. As she sponged the ghastly wounds that refused to stop pumping blood, she offered a silent prayer of thanks that her children weren’t witnessing this gory sight.
She glanced up to see the four soldiers dragging the cat’s carcass into the woods. “What will they do with it?” she asked the monk.
He shrugged, continuing to bandage Dugald’s hands. “Leave it in the forest. Nature will soon dispose of it.”
She shuddered, looking down again at her doomed husband. Would he too be left in the forest to be devoured by animals and vermin? He hadn’t been a good husband, but he was the father of her children and the son of a king. She would insist on the proper rites, and surely the monk would support her.
The cleric handed her a salve. “Smear it on only the deepest gouges. No use wasting it. Nought we can do about the puncture wounds in his neck except pad them and hope they stop bleeding.”
Icy dread gripped her innards. The monk too doubted Dugald would survive.
She dipped her fingers in the jar of ointment, uncertain of its aroma, but its cooling properties seemed to ease the pain momentarily as she trailed her fingers carefully over his body.
He was a well made man, yet she’d never felt attracted to him, never experienced the same rush of desire that sparked when she was with Alex.
Guilt crept up her spine. Only a harlot would allow her wayward thoughts to roam to another man while she tended her dying husband.
But the Comte de Montbryce was an honorable Norman who’d been willing to give every part of himself to her.
If Dugald were to die—
Her throat constricted and tears welled in her eyes. She reached to smooth her husband’s tangled and bloodied hair off his face, horrified by the deep gouges in his neck oozing blood. What little food there was in her belly threatened to surge up her throat. She leaned over and gently kissed her husband’s scarred cheek.
He blinked open his good eye and rasped through dry lips. She frowned and leaned her ear closer to his mouth.
“Can ye imagine?” he croaked. “Me, a warrior, bested by a fyking cat. Caught me unawares at the river.” A coughing spasm racked him. He gritted his teeth as a strangled chuckle emerged from his throat. “If I’d had my dagger—”
His eye rolled back in his head and he breathed his last.
If she’d hoped for words of regret for the years of indifference and brutality, for her children losing their father—twice—they wouldn’t come now.
Dugald would never rise from the dead again.
IN THE EVENT, there was no argument about the funeral. As he unwound the bloodied bandages from Dugald’s lifeless hands, the monk quickly commanded the soldiers to build a pyre. Her belly churned, but it was what the Viking blood in Dugald would have wanted.
It came to her that his tattered playd still lay at her feet.
Ignoring the sounds of axes chopping tree limbs, she scooped it up, dipped her hand in the river water they’d used to cleanse him and scrubbed. She had little time to render the playd as clean as possible. It was all she had to offer him as a shroud, and no Scot wanted to meet his Maker without his playd.
Satisfied she’d done as much as possible, she wiped her bloodied hands on her own playd and walked over to the pyre.
They’d laid Dugald’s body atop a very large pile of sturdy branches under which sat a thick mat of kindling. The monk was reciting something in Latin, arms raised as if in supplication, the edges of the bloodied bandages peeking out of the deep pocket of his robe. The soldiers stood ready with smoking bundles of brushwood.
“Wait,” she shouted.
The monk turned a disdainful eye to her, but she ignored him and reached to spread the playd over her husband’s body. To her surprise one of the soldiers handed his torch to his comrade, leaned forward and helped her tuck the wool around Dugald. She lay a hand briefly on his chest, said a silent goodbye, then stepped back.
“May we proceed now?” the monk asked haughtily, obviously dismissing her actions as some heathen Scottish custom.
“Aye,” she nodded.
As the flames of the torches bit into the kindling, she began her lament in Gaelic, fixing her gaze on the watery moon barely visible as the shadows lengthened, unable to watch as the crackling fire took hold and consumed her husband, the smoke bearing his soul heavenward.
O pale orb that silent shines
While care-untroubled mortals sleep.
You see a wretch who inwardly pines.
Jeopardy (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 10) Page 15
