And wanders here to wail and weep.
With woe I hereby vigil keep,
Beneath thy pale, unwarming beam;
And mourn, in lamentation deep,
How life and love are all a dream.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air, making her gag. She’d never felt so utterly alone. Though she hadn’t loved Dugald, she would mourn him, fervently hoping love was not just a dream.
The flames burned hotly for a while, then dwindled. The men seemed ready to leave. “Hurry, we have time to get back to camp before it’s fully dark,” the monk urged her. “The fire will burn itself out.”
Is that all there is to a man’s life—and death?
A glint of movement in the trees caught her attention, the last of the flickering flames glowing in the eyes of some creature. She shuddered, fearing another lynx lurked in the shadows.
The animal crept forward, still barely visible.
“Faol,” she breathed.
“What?” the monk said.
She cleared her throat loudly. “Nothing, only the smoke making me cough.”
The dog cocked his head to one side. She’d assumed the wolfhound had followed Henry, but here he was.
“I must attend to the call of nature before we leave,” she said, edging towards the dog.
The monk shrugged and continued gathering his supplies.
In the shadows, she fumbled to attach Dugald’s brooch to Faol’s collar. The cat had scratched the animal, but there was no evidence of bleeding. She hoped he’d be equal to the task she was about to entrust. “Alexandre,” she whispered in the dog’s ear. “Find Alexandre.”
The hound sniffed the air and bounded off into the darkness.
To Caen
“YOU MUST GO TO CAEN,” Romain urged.
Alex shifted his weight in his favorite chair by the hearth in his solar, feeling none of the heat of the hearty fire. The notion of traveling to Caen chilled him to the bone.
“For what purpose?” he asked, sounding petulant even to his own ears. Gallien’s message had made it abundantly clear why he had to go to the town he’d sworn never to enter.
Romain rose to the challenge. “Laurent and Gallien are both en route to Caen with King Stephen. It’s our duty to be there to pledge our fealty in person. It will also send a strong message to other Norman barons who may be wavering.
“You will be letting our cousin and our brother down if you refuse, and Stephen will doubt your loyalty.”
Alex grabbed the poker, hunkering down to stir the fire. “What’s wrong with this flue? It’s not drawing.”
Romain had reason to look at him as if he’d lost his wits as the flames roared up the chimney. He eased the poker out of Alex’s hand. “Listen. Why are we arguing? You will go to Caen, even though you want to avoid seeing Elayne.”
Alex bristled, annoyed that there might be more truth to his brother’s remark than he wanted to admit. “There’s more to it than that.”
Romain thrust the poker back into its holder. “But you were born there.”
“Exactly.”
Whatever Romain’s retort was to be, it was cut off by the sudden appearance of young Fernand Bonhomme, the steward’s son, who skidded in, breathless. “Mes seigneurs, forgive me.” He pointed to the corridor. “The dog.”
Alex’s heart stopped beating for a moment as he leapt to his feet. “Faol?”
He was in the corridor running for the bailey before Fernand could answer. Bonhomme knelt beside the wolfhound. The dog lay on his side, tongue lolling, panting hard.
“He’s nearly run himself to death, milord,” Bonhomme said, smoothing his hand along the dog’s coat, “and he’s been in a fight with an animal, a cat I’d wager.”
Alex couldn’t imagine any cat that would get the better of Faol, until he saw the scratches in the dog’s skin. He touched them gingerly. “A wild cat, I think.”
Bonhomme held out a brooch. “This was fixed to his collar.”
The blood drained from Alex’s head then rushed back. Was it Elayne’s brooch? He took it, relief sweeping over him when he recognized it as Dugald’s. But then the significance hit him. “Something has happened to them,” he rasped to his brother, now breathless at his side. “The Scot would never willingly give this up. Elayne sent the dog. She needs our help.”
Romain nodded, stroking the wolfhound’s head. “Good boy, Faol.”
Alex turned to Bonhomme, but the steward held up his hand. “I know, milord, prepare for your departure to Caen.”
He shook his head. “Departure, oui, but I doubt they reached Caen.”
ELAYNE WAS RELIEVED to be allowed to join Henry and Claricia in the tent they’d been given, but dismayed at the large number of tents and pavilions that stretched as far as the eye could see in the dwindling light. There were soldiers everywhere. Why was Geoffrey amassing an army here?
Claricia ran to embrace her when she entered. She knelt to hug Henry, noting thankfully his scratches had been cleansed and dressed. “Ye were very brave, my son. A true warrior,” she whispered.
His face reddened as he smiled.
She reminded them in Gaelic. “Now, more than ever, we must be careful.”
Henry nodded. “Geoffrey believes I am my cousin. He’s been bragging about my bravery and prowess. I took advantage and insisted our nursemaid be allowed to serve us in our tent. Now, if my sister would stop wailing about her dadaidh—”
Her son seemed to have matured years in the space of a few hours. He even looked taller. He wore his father’s dagger tucked in the sheath belted around his waist. The end of the belt had been sawn off. The huge weapon looked incongruous on a small boy, but Henry patted it proudly. He had earned the right to wear it.
“Yer dadaidh didna survive his wounds,” she whispered.
To her relief, both children only nodded. They’d probably expected the news.
“I’d already got accustomed to the idea of him being dead before,” Henry said. “Grandpapa told me.”
So much for the falsehood about the Crusades.
Henry brightened. “I’ve told them to bring ye food and clothing as well.”
Though she hadn’t eaten all day, Elayne doubted if she could digest anything, and where would they find women’s clothing? “Thank ye, Henry. That was thoughtful.”
A soldier entered bearing black bread, a chunk of yellow cheese and a flagon of ale. “Nothing fancy,” he said sheepishly.
Elayne recognized him as the man who’d helped her drape the playd over Dugald. She took the food and drink from him. “Thank you,” she said, hoping he understood. He nodded, bowed to Henry and beckoned to someone loitering in the entryway.
A sullen woman with long black hair that looked as if it hadn’t been washed for months strode into the tent, carrying a bundle of clothing. Elayne’s surprise must have been evident.
“Suppose you’re wondering who I am?” the woman asked.
Her manner of speaking indicated she wasn’t a Norman. She dropped the clothing in a heap. “Bianca, from Genoa. I cook.”
“You stay in the camp?” Elayne asked. “Isn’t it dangerous?”
Bianca shrugged, patting her thigh. “I have a weapon, and we are three, so we stick together. No fancy garments. Not much to spare.”
Elayne wasn’t sure she wanted to touch the unkempt woman’s cast offs, never mind wear them, but her own were bloodied. “I thank you. I’ll return them as soon as I’m able.”
The soldier took Bianca by the elbow. “Off with you. Back to your pots.”
As they left, Elayne bit into the stale bread.
The Angevin comte chose that moment to enter the tent.
She chewed hard as Geoffrey greeted the children, asking after Claricia and explaining to Henry his understanding of how distressing the sight of gruesome events could be for delicate females. Her dislike of him grew and she noted with satisfaction that the sprig of broom in his cap had wilted.
“Mistress Elayne, my men have told me of
Dugald’s death. I’m sorry to lose him. Did you know him before? In Scotland?”
She came close to choking as she tried to swallow the bread. “I’d seen him. He was the bastard son of my king.” She prayed Henry and Claricia had said the same thing.
“How did you and these royal hostages come to be close to Caen, when you were supposed to be in Montbryce Castle?”
Had he asked the children the same question? What had they said? She locked eyes with Henry for the briefest of moments, then looked back at the wolf skin rug that covered the grass. At least the pompous man had made an effort to make her children more comfortable. “The Comte de Montbryce handed us over to Dugald, who took us to your army’s camp outside the castle.”
This much was true. Now for the lie.
“The Montbryces attacked and overran your men. We were fortunate Dugald was able to spirit us away to safety.”
She felt his eyes boring into her. “The Montbryce brat destroyed my camp? Routed my army?”
She smoothed her sweaty palms over her bloodied skirts, her eyes downcast, longing to rake her nails along his arrogant face for his disparaging remark. Let him believe it true. “Oui.”
“But why was the Scot taking you to Caen?”
She adopted the attitude of an ignorant peasant. “I don’t know where Caen is, so I cannot answer, milord. He did not explain things to me.”
A half truth. She had no idea of the geography of Normandie, and he would readily believe the warrior Dugald would not have divulged his plans to a woman, a servant to boot.
Without another word he thrust open the flap and stormed out. She sank to her knees, biting off another chunk of bread. “Fetch me the ale,” she said to Henry, her dry mouth full of food. “I need a drink.”
Secret Weapon
ALEX AND ROMAIN TRAVELLED TO CAEN with a handful of Montbryce men, their horses’ hooves churning up the road that had turned to mud after a heavy morning rain. Faol ambled along beside them like a puppy, showing no signs of the ordeal he’d undergone, except to pause from time to time to furiously lick his wounds.
Whenever they came to a fork or crossroads, Faol chose without hesitation, and they followed without question.
After several hours, the wolfhound suddenly raced off into a forest of evergreens. The men dismounted, tethered their horses and went in pursuit, immediately aware of a whiff of decay in the air.
“Dieu,” Romain exclaimed. “That’s unpleasant! It’s making my eyes water.”
“It’s the stench of death,” Alex agreed, his voice muffled by his hand over his nose and mouth.
They came upon Faol, sitting by the carcass of an animal.
Romain peered at the mess. “Maggots and perhaps rodents have begun their work, but it doesn’t appear any large predators have stumbled on it yet.”
Alex knelt, fearing he might spew the bile rising in his throat. “Definitely a lynx,” he said, pointing to the tufted ears. “A magnificent specimen. By the look of the terrain, it was dragged here. That would take strength.”
Faol barked.
“Brave dog,” Romain said, “to tangle with such a wild beast.”
Alex stood, picked up a stick and poked it into a hole in the neck. “He was defending people he loved, but he didn’t kill the cat. See the wound that goes right through? An arrow, I suspect.”
Faol barked again.
“What else can you find for us, Faol?”
The dog sniffed the air then ran off deeper into the wood. The men followed to a clearing where they found the ashes of a large fire. Foreboding crept up Alex’s spine.
“Too big for a campfire,” Romain observed, scratching his head.
They both hunkered down next to the blackened earth. Alex poked at the ashes with the stick. “Wait,” he exclaimed, making the sign of the crucifixion across his body. He nudged at a blackened bone in the ashes, then spotted a charred brown skull next to a thick log that hadn’t burned through. “This is a funeral pyre.”
He reached for a small piece of scorched fabric, blowing off the ash that clung to it. “Dugald’s, if I’m not mistaken. This is a remnant of his playd.”
“What do you think went on here?” Romain asked. “And where are Elayne and the children?”
A thousand possibilities whirled in Alex’s head, but he held steadfastly to the hope they were still alive. And with her husband dead—
“As I recall, Dugald had no bow, and I’d think it unlikely he kept one in the camp. Scots are not known as bowmen.”
Romain nodded. “Not like the Welsh.”
“Dugald didn’t kill the cat. There seems to be no other fabric in the ashes and only a Scot would take the trouble to wrap a man in his playd for his funeral.”
“So how did he die?”
Alex walked slowly around the clearing, unwilling to consider the possibility Elayne had done away with her husband. Dugald was a poor excuse for a man, but at least he afforded protection. A woman and two children alone wouldn’t last long in these woods. “There was a contingent of men. See how the grass is trampled here? Probably one of them killed the lynx and his comrades helped him drag it into the forest.”
“Perhaps they killed Dugald and took Elayne and the children? Brigands, do you think?”
“They had horses, so I’d wager soldiers. Brigands wouldn’t bother with a funeral.”
“But whose army would be so close to Caen?”
Alex scanned the environs, trying to get his bearings. “Especially since the tracks lead away from Caen,” he replied, an awful suspicion growing in his heart.
Romain understood immediately. “We must warn King Stephen.”
Alex put his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “Take the men and ride to Caen.”
Romain shrugged his hands away. “Non! We must go together. It’s our duty.”
Alex held firm. “Brother, Elayne and her children are my destiny. You know it as well as I. That’s where my duty lies. They may be hurt. Who knows what happened with the cat?
“If Gallien and Laurent have arrived in Caen, enlist their aid to muster a force and follow me. We’ll show Geoffrey of Anjou what a real army looks like.”
Alex may have sent the men off with Romain, but he wasn’t alone. He had a secret and stealthy weapon and was confident the dog would lead him to Elayne.
He followed the wolfhound out of the copse, through acres of flat grasslands, and into rolling hills. He could have followed the trail of the mounted men himself, but Faol’s obvious certainty that they were on the right track reassured him.
He left traces of his passage for his brothers to follow, a bent twig here, a line of stones there, a strip torn off his shirt tied to a tree—things they’d been trained to do as boys when playing games of war.
He became concerned when the dog unexpectedly bounded out of sight, but then breathed again when he caught sight of him, sitting at the base of a small hillock, waiting. The animal cocked his head, listening. Alex did the same.
The faint but unmistakable sounds of men and horses reached his ears. He dismounted, tethered his steed and joined his faithful companion. The dog crept up the side of the hillock on his belly. Alex followed, crawling to the top on his forearms and shins.
What he saw astonished him. About a league away, tucked into a valley, scores of military tents sat clustered together. “Where is the Angevin getting all these tents?” he whispered to Faol.
The dog looked at him curiously, his pink tongue lolling to one side of his mouth.
Elayne and her children were in one of those canvas shelters, but how to find her?
The dog could do it without difficulty.
It was vital he let her know he was nearby.
He rolled onto his back and retrieved Elayne’s braided token from his gambeson, inhaling her scent. He kissed it, then beckoned Faol to his side. “Take this to Elayne,” he said firmly. The dog sniffed the braid, then sat patiently while Alex carefully tied it to his collar with the twisted piece of Dugal
d’s playd.
He rubbed the dog’s ears. “Allez!”
Faol licked his face then scampered off.
Lix Loves Ye
ELAYNE WAS NERVOUS, and ill at ease in the borrowed clothing that fitted poorly and smelled worse. She suspected Geoffrey didn’t believe her story about the flight from Montbryce, and it wouldn’t take long for the lie to be exposed.
But her greater anxiety came from rumors passed onto her by the soldier she’d befriended that Maud was expected to arrive in the camp any day.
The aspiring queen would recognize instantly that Henry and Claricia were too young to be who they claimed to be, having been familiar with the Scottish royal family before her second marriage to her much younger husband, Geoffrey.
Though Elayne and the children weren’t under guard, she was aware they were being watched.
Geoffrey invited Henry to observe the soldiers training with their swords and other weapons. Elayne and Claricia were left to spend time together alone. She was glad of the chance to hold her grieving daughter in her arms and console her. “Yer father died bravely,” she whispered, “and he loved ye.”
“I ken,” Claricia sighed, twirling her finger in her mother’s hair, “but he didna love ye. He beat ye.”
Elayne rubbed her daughter’s back. “’Tis sad, my darling, but few men love their wives, and many treat them no better than cattle.”
“Lix loves ye,” Claricia whispered, smiling. “He would never treat ye like a cow.”
Tears pricked her eyes, and she felt the flush spread across her breasts and up her neck. “And he loves ye and Henry too.”
Claricia sat up, looking indignant. “Nay, I mean he loves ye,” she insisted impatiently.
Elayne shifted her weight, settling them into a more comfortable position. “Do ye like Alex?” she asked tentatively.
“Aye,” her daughter replied, yawning. “He smells better than dadaidh.”
Elayne couldn’t help but chuckle as she kissed the top of Claricia’s head, but she quickly set the girl on her feet and scrambled to rise when Faol loped into the tent.
Jeopardy (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 10) Page 16
