She had caught a glimpse of straight-backed posture, wide shoulders, and narrow hips.
It could have been Francis, except for the fact that Francis was miles away. Why should he be here, logically speaking, when she needed him? Defending her coach from vagabonds.
So far, the only vagabond was the horseman himself. Now he's gone, we can continue on. At least, that was true if the coach could move once again.
“Fabian?”
“Yes, milady?” the coachman asked roughly. He sounded badly shaken. She couldn't blame him.
“Are we repaired yet?”
“Almost, milady,” he confirmed. “I've collected pebbles and stones and branches under the wheel. As soon as the men come back, we'll take the coach back over the pile and see if we can't coax the wheel lose.”
“Whew,” Claudine felt the tension drain away. “Good. My thanks for that welcome news.”
He chuckled, sounding tense. “Hope so, milady. Now get back in before you collapse. Your uncle would murder me himself if I let aught happen now.”
Claudine smiled gently and thanked the man. When she was in, she turned to Bernadette, who frowned.
She was white with fear, her skin in such sharp contrast to the rest of her that Claudine felt an instant alarm for her condition.
“What, milady?” Bernadette frowned.
“I...”she paused hesitantly. Should she tell Bernadette what she had thought? That Francis had been there watching over them? She shook her head.
Bernadette will think me full of fancies. I think the same myself. How could it be him?
All the same, as the coach rocked back on its wheels and the men without grunted, strained, and then yelled jubilantly, she had to wonder.
If it was not Francis, she mused, who might it have been? A man on a warhorse, armed with a steel sword, out in the countryside at night near Evreux. If there was some sort of bandit on the loose of that description, they would most certainly have heard more about him. Why would he seem so similar to Francis? So upright and so skilled?
“My lady?” Bernadette interrupted her thoughts.
“Oh, Bernadette. Sorry, what was that?” she asked as the coach lurched back and then rocked forward, heading slowly ahead.
“I was just thinking, thank Heaven that we were so close to home when it happened. We're almost there, I reckon. Those hills look like the hills just out of Annecy.”
“Annecy?” Claudine stared. She wanted to laugh. Of course! How could she have been so stupid!
Annecy was ten miles from Evreux. Annecy was the home of the count of Annecy. The home, presumably, of the parents of Francis McNeil.
She felt her cheeks flush with wonder and joy. The horseman could have been Francis! For the first time since leaving the northern lands near Paris, she felt her heart blossoming with hope.
MAKING NEW PLANS
The ride to the monastery took more time than Francis would have liked. Weary and tense following the fight, skin slaked in sweat, he took some time to rest in the woodlands, letting both himself and his horse regain their equilibrium.
“I can't believe I did that.”
He sighed. He had engaged the swordsman of his neighbor's guard – two of them, no less. Two, against one, in the storm's light. He was lucky he wasn't dead.
He chuckled, shaking his head. His blood still fizzed from the fight, his heart light, his head drifting. It was not just the fight that had made him feel so amazing.
It was the sight of a head of pale blonde hair.
He couldn't be sure it was her. Could have been a trick of the light, he reasoned, quelling the wild joy that leaped and raced and skittered in his blood vessels.
All the same, there was the merest thread of possibility that he was right.
Francis felt his cheeks lift in a grin. He was wet, cold, and elated. He still had a good half hour's ride back to the monastery.
“At least it'll be dry when we get there.”
The storm had lifted, giving way, as it always did, to a torrential downpour. Francis was soaked to the skin, shivering and grinning like a wild man.
He chuckled. “Stop being fanciful, Francis.”Sighting – the real or imagined – t Lady Claudine had ignited him. It had been that which had fueled him and made him do his best against the horsemen that were the enemy.
Francis chuckled to himself, feeling his cold, damp cheeks lift in a lopsided smile. He was soaked through, wet and water-logged. Yet he was happy.
“Come on, Nightshade,” he whispered to the horse. He had borrowed one of the monks' three horses, used mainly for messengers. The poor creatures were named for different herbs in the monastery garden: Nightshade, Betony and Aconite. “We need to reach home soon, before we freeze.”
When he reached the monastery, he was greeted by Brother Luc. The man's eyes went wide with horror. Evidently seeing the son of the count, boots thick with mud, red hair plastered to his head, was too much for the poor fellow.
“My lord!” he stammered. “You're...come inside, before you catch your death of chill!”
Francis let himself be led inside. He took a seat by the fire. He was soon shivering uncontrollably as his blood started to flow faster again, his body warming up. The monks didn't say anything but wordlessly fetched him a bowl of broth and left him to thaw out. Speech beyond the necessary was forbidden after Compline. While he sat there, Francis found himself making his plan.
He had to go to Evreux as soon as he could. Had to find out more. Perhaps he could disguise himself, infiltrate the manor...
He sighed.
Francis, you fool. How could you? You are acquainted with the count.
It wasn't like he looked like anyone else, either. Disguising himself as one of the servants was out of the realm of possibility. How many tall, strong, red-haired and green-eyed servants could the count possibly have?
None. He knew that answer already.
There was no hope for it.
But, he decided, as the warm broth restored his sense of hope, he wasn't going to just give up.
Early the next morning he left the monastery. The ride back was faster than the ride there had been, and he reached his home in high spirits.
“Francis!” His mother exclaimed as he appeared. “Oh! There you are. You must have got soaked through in this storm. I was worried...”
Francis kissed her scented cheek fondly. “Oh, Mother! I took shelter at the abbey near Bois. You shouldn't have been worried. I am hard to kill.”
His mother chuckled, but her eyes were serious. “I would that were so. But no one is, my son.”
Francis had to nod at the truth of that. People could be brought to death distressingly easily. The thought made him all the more concerned for Claudine.
Later, he sought out his father.
“Son! There you are. You found shelter from the storm?”
Francis grinned. “Or I'd be in a sorry state, Father.”
Yves looked up from the book. “You are in a...”
“Yves?” His father interrupted the old steward's comment. “Don't you have accounts to add up?”
Yves grinned. “I'm just going, my lord.”
The two of them waited while he went out. He was still chuckling to himself as he departed.
“You wanted to ask me something, my son?” the count asked softly.
“Yes. Father, I may need to be away for a few days.”
His father raised a brow. “Very well, Son. I'm staying here until the jousting season. By all means, take time away. Do you need to go far?”
Francis grinned. He loved his father's ready acceptance. “No, Father.”
“Well, then. If you need an escort, do tell me. I'm sure we could spare two of the household guard.”
Francis shook his head. “I'm not going that far, Father.”
“Well, then. ”
Francis grinned. “Thanks, Father. Is there anything I can do to help with the accounts?”
His father made a face. “I do
n't think so, Son. As you know, I wouldn't take that job from Yves if my life depended on it.”
Francis laughed. “Exactly.”
He headed out.
Upstairs, he packed a saddle pack and then headed to the stables.
When he had set out, he had no plan in mind. However, he started to concoct one on the way. Enter the castle at Evreux disguised as a beggar. Then he would try and find out from the servants there if the Lady Claudine was in residence. From there, he would find a way to get a message to Bernadette. She had helped him once and he was fairly sure that she would help him again.
“Right. Now I need to find a disguise.”
The plan took shape as he headed past the abbey. He stopped, catching sight of Brother Raymond in the stables. A friendly, smiling monk, he had always been willing to participate in games with Francis when he was young. He knew he'd help him out now if he asked.
“Brother! Greetings,” he called. “A fine day.”
“Lord Francis!” the monk grinned. “Indeed it is. What brings you to us? Stopping to refresh yourselves?” he asked, taking the bridle of Francis' horse and leading him into the stable.
“Uh, no, Brother,” Francis said thoughtfully. “I didn't mean to stay long. I wanted to ask your aid.”
“Oh?” the monk leaned forward conspiratorially. “With what?”
“Well,” Francis paused. “It's like this. I need to make my way somewhere in disguise. Could you mayhap lend me the habit of a monk?”
Brother Raymond's eyebrows went up. “Impersonating a monk is no light matter, young man,” he said. “You would have to have a very sound reason to do so.”
Francis felt embarrassed. However, he decided it would be best simply to come out with it. “I need it for a matter to do with a girl. I have to see her.”
Brother Raymond looked shocked a moment. Then he chuckled.
“Lord Francis! I must admit I admire your cheek. Just coming out with a thing like that. Well! I can't say I'm averse to such matters...I had another life before I was a monk. Come on.”
He led him round the side of the abbey, and then paused. “Now, then. I trust you'll use this in pursuit of love, not mischief. Here we are,” he added, handing Francis a bundle of coarse brown cloth.
Francis stared. This was his ticket into the castle. It was also in his grasp. Quite literally. He couldn't quite believe it. Impersonating a monk was no light matter. The fact that Brother Raymond trusted him was moving.
“Thanks, Brother,” he coughed.
The monk went red.
“Not at all. Now, off you go. May the Lord be with you. If I know what young men are – and I do, make no mistake – then I'm quite sure you'll need Him to keep you from temptation.”
Francis laughed. “I hope to get the opportunity for it to be so, Father.”
Brother Raymond grinned. “Off with you,” he chuckled. He waved him on his way.
It took half an hour until Francis was in sight of Evreux. When he reached it, he started to feel his palms sweat with anticipation and nerves.He rode up and then had a thought. He dismounted, feeling stupid. He'd come out on his battle charger. Why? No humble monk would own a horse so fine!
They'll take one look at the horse I'm leading and know I'm no monk. Francis! How can you be such a fool?
He thought rapidly. By the time he'd reached the gate, he was ready with an idea.
“Who goes there?” the sentry challenged him. He saw the man's eyes narrow and knew he was thinking exactly what he himself would think. This was a brigand who'd stolen a monk's robe from a wandering hermit and then stolen a knight's horse. Well, he was ready for that.
“The name's Brother Franc, sir,” he said quickly. “I'm here with Lord Francis' horse. He threw a shoe and would brook no argument save that we should have it shod. At once.”
The man frowned. “What's wrong with your own smith at the abbey, Brother? Why come to Evreux?”
Francis looked at the ground, trying to maintain a humble posture. “He's off duty, sir. Wrist's plaguing him sore. The storms make it worse. So they do.”
The sentry looked skeptical but he grunted and jerked his head. “Right then. In you go.”
Francis let out what he hoped was not an audible sigh and followed the horde of people milling about at the gate. They were going to the marketplace.When he reached the market, Francis looked around. It was a small village, Evreux. The houses were neat and thatched, the fronts whitewashed and the windows picked out in black. He saw bakers and leather-workers, carvers and weavers and fruit-sellers setting out their wares. He also saw guardsmen from the castle, there to keep an eye on things.
“Hey, monk!” one of them said. “You selling that horse?”
“N...no!” Francis said, alarmed. “I'm not. It belongs to Lord Francis!”
“Lord Francis?” the guardsman frowned. “He from these parts, hey?”
“Annecy,” Francis said quickly. He had a hood covering his hair, fortunately, or he was fairly sure he'd stand out as Francis for anyone who knew anything about his family.
“Ah. Well, I suppose you can't sell him, then,” the guardsman said amiably. “On your way, then. Farrier's over there. On the street round the corner.”
“Hey!” a big man called as he approached the place. “You've a fine horse, Brother!”
Francis sighed. This was getting wearisome. “Yes, Master Smith. It's Lord Francis' horse.”
“Ah. He some fancy fellow, eh?” the smith grinned, revealing big peg-like teeth.
“He's the son of the count of Annecy,” Francis explained.
“Well, bring the horse in then. Let's get him shod to the satisfaction of some spoiled nobleman.”
Francis bridled a little at that. The fellow was insulting him to his face, in a round about way. He wanted to protest, but he followed the man quickly into the stall. He couldn't very well upbraid him for insulting him in disguise!
He waited as the man checked Dusk Shadow's shoes with a grunt. Francis felt his heart sinking, as he knew perfectly well they had been replaced last week. This was where his plan fell down badly. There was nothing wrong with the horse's shoes. They were perfectly good for a month at least.
As he watched the man check each one and become more surprised each time, he thought. Then he suddenly a bolt of inspiration hit.
“What's troublesome?” he asked The frowning blacksmith.
“There be nothing wrong with these shoes,” the smith said, absolutely bewildered. “You quite sure he sent you here to have his horse shod, hey?” He gave him an odd look.
Francis nodded. “I am. But this wouldn't be the first time he'd done something like this. He's a bit odd, Lord Francis. Touched.” He tapped his brain suggestively.
“Ah.” The smith chuckled. “That explains it then. Mad, these noblemen sometimes. Comes from the air.”
“From the air?” Francis was genuinely interested now.
“Aye. Those castles, so high up, see? They spend too much time breathing high, fresh air. It's not good for you. Better to breathe closer to the ground, where the smoke and stuff hangs more. Just ask anyone. You go up in the mountains, you can't breathe so good. Too much fresh air's bad for you.”
Francis was surprised. “Well! That'd explain it,” he said with a grin. “Fancy that! Turns the mind, hey?”
“Like vinegar does cream, Brother. Vinegar in cream.”
“Yours are also mad?” he asked, raising a brow in the direction of the castle. “Your count's lot, I mean?”
The blacksmith laughed. “Sure they are, sir. That feller's mad, or I reckon.”
“Feller?”
“Him. The count of Corron. He and the duke both. They both come here in the summer – some sort of residence of theirs. Mostly we just have old Brissot, the overseer. But when they's here...the nobles, I mean...the fuss!” he spat.
Francis waited a moment, interested to see if the fellow would say more. This was Claudine's family he was speaking of, after all. He
waited He didn't offer any more information about the madness, though, so he prompted him.
“Mad, you say they are. How?”
“Oh, just 'cos of the fussing. Nothing's ever right for them. Fancy being like that, eh? Mad.”
Francis nodded. He wasn't going to learn anything more. He thanked the smith and headed out.
“What'll you tell this fellow, eh? When you return?” the smith shouted out after him. He was grinning wryly.
“I'll tell him you repaired the shoes,” Francis grinned. “How'd he ever know? Nothing wrong with them, yes? So how about I'll tell him you replaced them.”
“Ha!” the smith nodded. “A fine response. You've got a quick head on your shoulders. Brother. A fine one.”
Francis smiled. “Thank you, Son. Peace be with you.”
“And you, Brother. Good luck with the crazies.”
Francis headed out leading his horse. By the time he was close to the castle, he was still feeling more than a little annoyed. Madmen, indeed! The air in the castles made one mad! He felt quite affronted.He had, however, learned that the duke came here. As well as his brother, the count. At the castle gateway, he stopped.
He was looking straight into a face. It was a face he recognized.
It was the count of Corron.He had been bent down looking at something being presented to him by some local officer. When he looked up, his eyes went straight to Francis.
Francis stood still. Maybe he wouldn't notice him. And even if he did, why would he think of him being Francis, son of the count of Annecy? He was dressed as a monk. The count probably looked straight through people with lower rank. No such chance. His eyes focused. He was looking straight at Francis. A strange look passed across his face.
Francis was left standing at his horse's head as the man mounted smoothly, then turned and rode away. Francis watched him leave, riding briskly. He stayed where he was, his breath tight and his whole mind in turmoil. He reached up and touched the hood of the habit. It had fallen back. His hair was showing.
It must have been no more than a glimpse of it, but it was late afternoon and it must have shone like a beacon in the sunlight. There was no doubt about it. The count knew he was here.
Adventures of a Highlander Page 53
