The Last Knight

by Candice Proctor

  “My lady.” Wolf dropped to his knees before her and bowed his head. “I fear Walter Brie's wound proved to be more severe than we thought.”

  A tense silence hung over the garden, broken only by the buzzing of bees and a distant hammering from the smithy. Then Yvette's breath exploded out of her in a savage curse. “God rot you, Wolf, you've killed him.”

  Wolf trembled and wisely kept his head bowed. “I do think he told us the truth, my lady. That the lady Attica asked him to escort her to Laval, and the knight came upon them by chance, when they were attacked by a band of routiers.”

  Yvette pursed her lips and blew out a huff of annoyance. “Did he tell you this knight's name?”

  “No, my lady. He said he did not know.”

  Yvette swung away, dismissing the man with a wave of her hand.

  “So? So? What do you think?” Gaspard asked as soon as Wolf had taken himself off.

  She stared thoughtfully at the gentle hills falling away toward the east. “I think Walter Brie knew more than he would admit,” she said slowly. “He was very devoted to Attica.”

  “Yes, but where has she gone? To Laval, as we thought? Or has she simply run away to meet this strange knight?”

  Yvette glanced at her husband. “Don't be a fool, Gas-pard. Attica is a d'Alérion, not some village maiden. She would never bring shame upon her house by seeking to avoid a marriage arranged by her father. She has gone to Laval.”

  “Then the men we sent might already have overtaken her,” he said hopefully.

  Yvette shook her head. “According to the porter at Saint-Sevin, Walter Brie was left in their care by a knight traveling in the company of his squire and a well-dressed youth. A tall, slim youth with dark hair. Riding a white-blazed chestnut.”

  Gaspard's elegant forehead puckered in confusion. “I don't understand.”

  Yvette turned to stroll slowly through the tunnel arbor, her silken skirts swishing about her feet. It was dark in here, and cool. She lingered for a moment, her hand caressing the velvety petals of a rose, her thoughts far away.

  “Yvette,” said Gaspard again. “I don't understand.”

  She brought her gaze back to her husband's face. “Attica has dressed herself as a boy, of course. That is why she took de Harcourt's clothes. It sounds as if she's cut and dyed her hair as well. Our men would simply have passed her unknowingly on the road.”

  “Then shouldn't we send a message to warn Renouf Blissot to be on the lookout for a lad?”

  Yvette laughed softly. “Think, Gaspard. She will be in Laval herself long before another messenger could reach there. Don't worry; she will hardly fail to reveal herself to her uncle.”

  “Then we do nothing?”

  “No, we pack,” said Yvette, swinging toward the keep.

  “Pack?” Gaspard stood staring after his wife in open-mouthed astonishment, then hurried to catch up with her.

  “But … where do we go?”

  Yvette's voice drifted back over her shoulder. “To Laval, of course.”

  Self-consciously aware of her bony knees and long, narrow feet, Attica scooted quickly to the edge of the rock. In the golden sunlight of the afternoon, the skin of her legs shone almost indecently pale. She poised her feet above the surface of the water only for an instant before plunging them in.

  An icy shock tore through her body. “Aahh,” she yelped, and jerked her legs up. She heard de Jarnac's low, throaty laugh as she held her feet, dripping, above the pond. She glanced up accusingly to discover him treading water only an arm's span away from the rock shelf where she sat. “You didn't tell me it was this cold,” she said, and he laughed again, his dark eyes flashing.

  The slanting rays of the afternoon sun sparkled on the rivulets of water that ran down the planes of his face and dripped from his dark hair onto his bare shoulders. She stared at him, and her world sharpened and grew more vivid until it seemed as if she had never seen the clouds billowing so white and high in such an achingly blue sky. Never known the warm caressing whisper of the wind, so rich with the scents of deep forest glades and sunlit water meadows. Never felt so aware of herself as a woman—the strange fullness of her lips, the swell of her breasts beneath the unfamiliar male clothing.

  She looked at him and saw the laughter slowly fade from his face until he regarded her with a still, intense expression that made her shiver. Slowly, she eased her feet back into the water and kept them there.

  “Throw me the soap, would you?” he asked, his voice rough.

  She had left the soap farther back on the rock, so that she had to stretch, twisting sideways and tottering, to reach it. She just managed to close her hand over the ball when she felt the hard strength of his fingers grip her ankles.

  “What are you—” She whipped back around, trying to regain her balance, but it was too late. He gave a sharp tug, and she shot off the edge of the rock and hit the pond with a splash that sent water spraying up into the air.

  Attica yelped but quickly shut her mouth as the cold water closed over her head, and she plunged into a billowing green world that bubbled and swirled around her, silent and slow.

  When she was a little girl, she had spent long, lazy summer days with her brother Stephen, swimming in the ponds and streams that abounded near her father's various castles and manor houses. She hadn't been in anything deeper than a tub for years, but she still moved naturally, kicking out, aiming toward the light above. Her head broke the surface, and she drew a quick gasp of air, laughing. Then she saw de Jarnac's face. Saw his narrowed eyes and the hard, uncompromising line of his lips. She knew a quick stab of uneasiness, so that when he reached for her, she jerked away from him—just as the water-sodden weight of the thick velvet surcoat she wore pulled her under again.

  She opened her mouth to let out a cry of alarm and took in water instead as the pond swallowed her. She clawed wildly at the weight of the surcoat to try to free herself from it, but it clung to her like a dead man, dragging her down.

  Panic exploded inside her, cold and paralyzing. She felt de Jarnac's strong arm close around her waist, felt him pull her back against his big, strong body, felt him lift her up, up. Her head reared into the air, and she sucked in great, choking breaths.

  “Hellfire,” he said, his deep voice close to her ear, his hard arm still around her, digging into her ribs as she sagged against him. “You're not supposed to try to scream under water.”

  She realized her feet could now touch bottom. She pushed away from him and swung about, staggering clumsily in the waist-deep water. “You—you … salaud!” she spat, hunching over as she coughed up water. “You tried to drown me!”

  His fist closed on the shoulder of her surcoat, hauling her upright as he leaned into her, his dark face dripping, his wet, naked chest heaving as he sucked in air. “If I wanted to drown you, lordling, you'd be dead. All I wanted to do,” he said, bringing up his other hand to tangle his fist in the short crop of hair that hung wet and ragged against her cheek, “was to see what color your hair really is.”

  She jerked her head back, drawing her hair through his fingers, fingers now stained dark with the dye she had used to blacken her hair. She raised her gaze, slowly, to his face.

  He stared at her, accusation sharpening every feature. “It's brown, Atticus. Not black but brown. Light brown. But then, Atticus isn't your real name, is it?”

  In the sudden stillness, she could hear the water lapping around their legs, hear herself breathing. She backed away from him, backed away from the purpose she read in his hard green eyes. Her bare feet sank into the deep sand that edged this part of the pool and she stumbled, the wet weight of the sodden velvet hanging about her legs, tripping her, as she swung around and waded into shallower water. With an exclamation of annoyance, she tore off her girdle and the surcoat and flung them both onto the bank.

  “I think,” de Jarnac said, his voice as soft and dangerous as a silk garret, “that you and I need to have a little talk.”

  “We have no
thing to talk about,” she said, her voice shaky as she bent to try to squeeze some of the water from the hem of her tunic.

  “Don't we?”

  She heard the splash and slap of water from behind and spun around just as his weight slammed into her.

  He bore her down into the sandy, grass-strewn bank and covered her with his big, naked man's body. “Unhand me,” she cried, rearing up against him, suddenly frantic as she realized his intent. She twisted sideways, pushed against his water-slicked bare chest, tried to claw his face.

  “God damn it,” he swore, catching her wrists and pinning her arms to her sides as he leaned into her. She felt the weight of him, felt the power of him, felt the anger in every taut line of his hard body pressing her down. She stared up into dark green eyes, as cold and empty as a primeval sea. And she knew a terror that seemed to incapacitate every muscle, so that she couldn't move, couldn't even speak.

  “Now,” he said, his warm breath washing over her as he brought his wet face down until it hovered less than a hand's breadth above hers. “I think it's time you tried telling me the truth for a change.”

  She gazed up at him, at the creases beside his mouth that deepened as he pressed his lips together into a hard line. “I have told you the truth,” she whispered.

  “Have you?”

  She saw a muscle jump along his jaw. His fists clenched tighter, and she let out a sharp cry as he yanked her arms high over her head and brought them together so that he could encircle both her wrists with one hand. She felt the back of the knuckles of his other hand brush down her neck and press into the base of her throat as his fingers tightened around the neck of her tunic and shirt.

  “Have you?” he said again, his own breath coming hard and fast. “And if I rip this cloth, what shall I find beneath?”

  Attica felt her heart slam up against her ribs with a resounding thump-bump. “I don't know what you mean,” she said, her voice catching on a tremble.

  “Don't you?” He leaned into her, so close that she could see herself reflected in the dark pupils of his eyes. “Don't you, demoiselle?”

  She licked her suddenly dry lips, then regretted it when she saw his gaze fasten onto her mouth. “No,” she whispered. “You're wrong.”

  “Am I?” He shifted his weight. “Let's see, shall we?”

  She felt the beat of her pulse, tight against the heel of his hand, read the purpose in his eyes, saw the tightening of his jaw. “No,” she said with a gasp, lunging up against him, twisting her hands in his grip. “No. Don't. Please, don't.” She swallowed convulsively, twisting wildly beneath him. “Oh, God. I'll tell you. Just—please don't.”

  He stared down at her. She was agonizingly aware of him as a man, of the weight of his wet, naked body, bearing down on her, his hips pressing intimately against hers, his knees thrusting between her spread thighs. He seemed to loom over her, a black, dangerous silhouette against the sunlit pond. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Attica.” His face was so close to hers, her mouth almost brushed his when she spoke. “My name is Attica. Attica d'Alérion.”

  His lips curled into a mean smile. “You would have me believe you're the natural sister of Stephen d'Alérion?”

  “No.” She sucked in a deep, ragged breath. “I am his full sister. Lawfully born of the marriage of Blanche Blissot and Robert d'Alérion.”

  “You are sister to Elise d'Alérion?”

  Attica shook her head. “I once had a sister named Elise, but she died as a young child. Many years ago now.”

  “So who is betrothed to the future viscomte de Salers?”

  “I am.”

  The silence hung between them, filled with the slap of water against the bank and the sibilant hiss of the breeze through the marsh grasses. A heron flew by overhead, croaking harshly, its shadow knifelike and swift.

  “You are hurting me,” Attica said, feeling suddenly crushed beneath his weight.

  “Huh. You deserve it.” He shifted in a way that took some of the pressure off her hips even as it seemed to nudge her thighs farther apart. He gazed down at her, his expression hard and unreadable, and she knew a new rush of fear that seemed to radiate up like a slow heat from the depths of her belly.

  “Do you honestly expect me to believe you?” he said.

  She stared up into his shadowed eyes. “No. But I swear before God and all the saints that it is true.”

  He brought his other hand up to her wrists, letting his fingers slide along her arms in a movement that was almost a caress. “Then why all the lies?” he asked, his face still set. “Why didn't you simply tell me the truth from the very beginning?”

  “Tell you what? That I am a woman? I was afraid you would—” She broke off, her gaze shifting uncomfortably away from him.

  He spanned her jaw with one hand, forcing her head around and bringing his face so close to hers she had no choice but to look at him. “Afraid I would—what?” His brows drew together in a dark frown.

  She swallowed. “I saw what the routiers did to the women of that village yesterday.”

  He let go of her wrists and reared back, his thin nostrils flaring as he breathed in. “Splendor of God, what do you take me for?”

  She propped herself up on her elbows. “You said yourself that you acknowledge no rules but your own. That the codes of chivalry are nothing more than poetic inventions. You even threatened to kill me. Why shouldn't I think you capable of anything?”

  His eyes narrowed down into two unpleasantly glittering slits. “Because, unlike the routiers, I do have some rules I live by, even if they happen to be my own. Because— Oh, hell.”

  He pushed away from her and sat up. She lay still, staring at the blue sky above, her heart pounding, her breath coming in great, catching gulps. But after a moment she swung her head and looked at him.

  He sat turned half away from her, his forearms resting on his bent knees, his man's body naked and splendid. And even though she burned with angry resentment over the way he had treated her, even though she knew it was wrong, she let her gaze rove over him, over the tight cords of his strong neck, the muscular curves of shoulder and chest, the lean line of waist and hip, the shadowy recesses now hidden from her gaze.

  She jerked her head away, staring out over the shining, undulating surface of the pond. The silence between them twanged out, became tense.

  “I only lied to you about who I am,” she said softly. “And I think you can understand why. Everything else I told you was true.”

  She felt him staring at her but kept her gaze firmly fixed on the cool, shifting water before her.

  He grunted. “About what? The courtier your sister Elise cared for?”

  “Yes.” She curled into a sitting position, bringing her knees up to her chest so that she could wrap her arms around her legs. “Except, of course, that I was the one who tended him in his fever.”

  She paused, but this time de Jarnac didn't even grunt. She had to force herself to go on. “After he died, I didn't know what to do. I was desperate to get some kind of warning to Stephen, but there was no one at the castle I could trust. I realized the only way I could be certain that Stephen would receive my message would be to go myself.”

  She bent her head to rest her cheek on her knees. “When I heard about Philip and Richard's plans for the conference, I was so afraid for Stephen, afraid he'd be killed trying to defend his lord. But when I thought about what it would mean, riding all the way to La Ferté-Bernard by myself …”

  Her voice quavered. “I was even more afraid. For myself.”

  She sighed. “Then I realized that I only had to go as far as Laval, to my uncle, and I thought, I can do that. So I took the courtier's clothes, and once I got away from Châteauhaut, I cut and darkened my hair.”

  The wind blew over the surface of the pond, filling the silence with the rustle of leaves and the fluttering of her damp hair against her cheek. She turned her head to find him regarding her, his expression dark and unreadable.

/>   “Do you believe me?”

  “I might,” he said. “Except for one thing.”

  He stood abruptly and walked, naked and beautiful, to where their horses grazed beside the pond. She watched as he pulled something from his saddlebags. Then he swung back to face her, and she jerked her gaze up and kept it focused on the treetops swaying against the blue sky until a sudden flick of his wrist sent something spinning through the air toward her.

  She jumped as a book thumped onto the grass beside her, a small book, its green leather binding now ruined by a long slit. She stared at it, then raised her gaze, slowly, up the long line of his naked body to his face. “Where did you get this?” she asked.

  “From your bags. Last night.”

  She reached to pick up the slim volume and turn it in her hand. “Why have you slit the binding?”

  “Why do you think?”

  She shook her head. “I don't know.”

  “You don't know that Philip's courtiers use breviaries such as this to transport the king's secret correspondence?”

  She swallowed. “No.”

  “Then why did you bring it?”

  She lowered her gaze to the ruined breviary in her hands. “I brought Olivier's saddlebags because I needed his clothes. It was with them.”

  His voice came to her, harsh, threatening. “And you knew nothing of what it contains?”

  She fingered the slit in the leather. “Does it contain something?”

  He grunted. “Letters patent. From Philip to John, promising that the French king won't make peace with Henry until John receives what he seeks in the settlement.”