A cruel laugh rumbled in his throat.
“Better still, I’ll make to you the same offer I did him. If you cooperate,” he swung under another barrel, spat a vile curse. “I’ll let both of you live. Did you think he wanted to marry you to me? Of course not. He wants you for himself. Some brother! You must have been very convincing to make a man forget his God. I’ll know soon enough, won’t I?”
Charlotte nearly exclaimed her shock aloud. Gautier had married her to Guilabert to protect her? A great lump of emotions choked her. All that time, she thought the man was only doing his duty, albeit reluctantly. But no, he had done it so Guilabert would let her live. How mistaken she had been about Gautier. Warmth spread from her heart to her entire being, chasing away cold, misery and self-doubt. She was important enough to Gautier for him to put his vocation aside, to want to marry, even to perform a forced marriage and now he wandered somewhere on her property, bleeding and alone. If her overseer Armand found him, Gautier would not make it to morning.
Enough.
Fear crystallized into resolve. Resolve hardened into rage. This had to stop. Now.
Clutching the dagger along her forearm so he would not see it, Charlotte stood, peeled her shaking frame from the wooden beams. She stepped into the middle aisle and Guilabert heard her. As he faced her, his handsome face split in a smile.
“How happy I am to see you, charming wife. Come embrace your husband.”
When she stepped forward, his smile turned into a hideous grimace of triumph and greed. Behind him, flames licked at the rafters, giving the impression a halo of flames surrounded his head.
With her guts twisting into a quivering knot, Charlotte drew near. Along her wrist, the hidden blade felt light and secure.
“Just like old times,” Guilabert said, raising a hand.
She agreed with a nod. “Like old times.”
* * * * *
Gautier spotted the orange glow just as he neared the mansion. People were out in the gloom, running up the hill, carrying buckets, pitchers, even mugs. A fire…
Then he understood. The distillery.
The livelihood of many was threatened, hence the populace outdoors at this time of the evening. Charlotte had seen the fire and rushed for it. Sweat slicked his back. Foolish woman!
He clicked his tongue to urge his beast into a faster canter but the panting animal could give no more. It walked with uneven gait into the thick of things. Pressing his numb hand hard against his hip, he waited until he had reached the dirt path then gingerly lifted his good leg over the saddle. With a growl of pain, he slid off his mount. Turning, he came face to chest with the giant, who put a very large, very heavy hand on his shoulder. Gautier’s knees buckled.
“You did this?” the giant demanded, driving his fingers into Gautier’s shoulders, crushing muscles and tendons. A nasty bruise encompassed both of the giant’s eyes and the bridge of his nose. Gautier recognized his handiwork there.
Gautier tried to shake his head but could not move a single muscle above his chest. “No,” he snarled, trying to shake the iron grip loose. He failed. “It was that knight, Guilabert. He’s after Charlotte. She’s about here somewhere. She’s in danger.”
“What’s he doing here?” another man asked from behind.
The elderly overseer strode up to Gautier. He looked furious. Without waiting for an answer, he delivered a backhand which made stars pop at the periphery of Gautier’s vision. When he tried to stand, the giant forced him back on his knees. God, his hip hurt! Searing pain flared along his side when he felt the wound reopen.
“It’s all your fault,” the overseer snarled, slamming a meaty fist into Gautier’s face. “She’s gone because of you.”
He cringed when the older man gave him another round of his anger. Tiny suns fizzed in his eyes. Through the haze of blood loss and ache, Gautier managed to tell part of his story. After a couple more punches, the old man stopped.
“She’s here,” Gautier said before spitting blood. He did not even try to appear calm and instead let his emotions show right through the rampart he had built about his heart. “And so is Guilabert. Please, she’s in danger.”
Something must have rung true for the overseer cocked his head. “She’s here? Let him up.”
Hissing in pain, Gautier let the giant hoist him back to his feet. He could stand but barely. Blood, caked dry and some of it new and wet, glistened on his hands.
Someone rushed by and yelled they needed more men. The giant, after a nod from the overseer, rushed away and helped the thick line of men trying to douse the inferno. One entire side of the distillery’s front was engulfed in flames. Someone had had the presence of mind to close the doors so the fire would not spread. He would have helped had he been able to stand properly. The loss of blood was beginning to seriously weaken him.
After he had barked a quick series of orders to his men, the old overseer turned back toward Gautier and scowled. “What happened to you?”
“Guilabert attacked me after I pulled him off Charlotte. There’s no time for this—she’s here somewhere. We must find her before it’s too late.”
A man hollered that he could see someone inside the burning building.
Gautier’s heart skipped a beat. Good God, she was inside? He pushed the old overseer aside and limped past the startled line of men dousing flames with bucketfuls of water, and would have rushed for the door had the giant not seized him by the collar and held him back.
“You can’t go in there. It’s no use.”
“It has to be her! Let me go!”
The force of Gautier’s voice rocked the giant back on his heels. Just as the overseer was catching up to them, Gautier managed to pull away and hobbled toward the front doors.
“You’ll only get killed! Come back!”
Gautier ignored them. If it were indeed Charlotte trapped inside the burning building, he would get her out if it cost him a limb. If it were instead Guilabert, Gautier would make sure the knight never came out…even if it meant he would have to stay as well.
A couple of paces before he reached the doors, one of them slid back. Out of it stumbled a man engulfed in flames. He cried out incoherently as he flailed and bounced off the wall. Gautier recoiled from the heat and the stench. Armor could be seen gleaming on the burning man.
“It’s Sir Guilabert,” a woman said behind Gautier.
Some men put him out with a couple of bucketfuls but too late. He collapsed on his front. The overseer, flanked by the giant and another worker, approached Gautier and stood over the smoking remains of Guilabert.
“Jésus, what an end,” the overseer murmured as he crossed himself.
The giant leaned over slightly. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a small protuberance near the knight’s lower back, right under the back of the breastplate.
Gautier knew at once what it was—the hilt of his dagger. The small cross on its golden pommel was easily recognizable. “It’s my blade,” he replied in hushed tones. Did it mean…?
A murmur grew through the crowd. Out of the flames licking the timber and masonry doorway emerged a narrow silhouette haloed in orange flames and floating ashes.
“It’s the mistress,” traveled the murmur amidst the assembled crowd.
True, it was Charlotte stepping out of the burning building with the regal air of a queen in her court. Her hair was a tangled jumble, her face one completely streaked mess, yet she walked out into the glowing night without undue haste, her face set in a stoic mask of supreme self-control. She nodded at the gathered workers.
Until then, he could only watch in mute awe and not a little fear of the woman for whom he had risked everything. She looked so formidable, so breathtaking, framed there with fire and smoke. He wanted to bow to the powerful vision before him. The raw strength emanating from her singed his whole being. God, he loved her so much!
Charlotte scanned the faces before she made a straight line for him. As she drew near her countenance changed fr
om poise to utter despair and she spread her arms wide, collapsing against his chest. Gautier pressed her head against his breast and heaved a great sigh when she hugged him as no one had ever done before. About them, people stared in silence.
“Don’t just stand there!” roared the overseer. “Put that fire out!”
Gautier noticed how the old man gave him a penetrating look before pushing the gaping giant toward a reforming line of workers. Buckets changed hands with rapidity and method.
Looking down at Charlotte, Gautier pressed her harder against him. He had almost lost her. He guided her a few steps sideways so she would not see Guilabert’s still-smoking body lying on the ground ten feet away.
She returned his embrace with a low moan. Tremors shook her wiry frame and he knew she had begun to cry. With a trembling hand, he stroked her hair and said soothing words in her ear. Eternity would feel short if he could spend it this way.
It occurred to Gautier her explicit partiality to him made him proud and sad at the same time. There was no room for him here. Not after what had happened, what he had caused. He had much to beg forgiveness for. Not that he had a right, far from it. Charlotte would refuse her forgiveness and he would still leave a happy man knowing she was safe from Guilabert’s greed. Nonetheless, her eventual pardon would mean a lot should she choose to grant it.
Soon, the flames dwindled to smoldering coals then to smoking ashes. The smell of it hung thick in the air and Gautier coughed. His hip burned so much he feared collapse any moment. Still, Charlotte did not let go of the bear hug she had about his shoulders. After resting his head on top of hers for a while, he leaned forward.
“Please forgive me,” he murmured in her ear.
For the first time since she had emerged like an angel from fiery heavens, she looked up at him. Her beautiful face placated his breath. He meant to repeat his plea but lost his voice. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Forgive you?” she asked, sounding confused. “For what?”
He stared at her to sear her face into his memory just as it was then. The image would have to sustain him for the years of solitude to come. “For forcing this on you. For losing you your distillery.”
She looked back at the smoking building. “You didn’t do this. Guilabert did.”
“With my help.”
She shook her head and drew back. After she rubbed her eyes and nose with the sleeve of her loosely hanging tunic, she let her dark gaze settle on him. He would have looked away but forced himself to endure. She had a right to say what she was about to. He had to be man enough to take it graciously.
“For whatever wrong you think you did, I forgive you. As for this,” she replied, hooking her thumb over her shoulder, “Guilabert would have found another way all the same.”
With tears welling up her eyes, Charlotte shrugged awkwardly and leaned back against his chest. As if his hands had been created for this, they moved up her arms of their own accord and squeezed her tight. Gautier’s heart ached with the thought of parting but at the same time would savor this moment for the rest of his days.
Chapter Eleven
She had spent her whole life trying to convince everyone their “Ice Princess” was a rock against which all could lean. And now, she was the one leaning for support. Gautier’s heart pounded against her ear. The rhythmic sound comforted her, soothed her. She could have stayed this way forever.
When he asked for her forgiveness, she thought she would cry. As if she needed to forgive the man who had saved her life.
The last months and all the misery they had brought finally bore down on her. Guilabert, her childhood friend, was naught but a thief and a murderer. Her brother was dead, killed by his best friend, a man whose embrace she had often dreamed about. And now, she may stand to lose the distillery. On top of things, the only man she ever truly loved had chosen to serve God and been ordered to kill her.
The irony, the sheer madness of it all made her eyes well. She had lived such a quiet life until then, safe in her tower of detachment, secure behind battlements built with years of loneliness and distrust of men. Now when her cool mind was most needed, she could not work her way out of this misery crushing her. That she could do nothing against it did not mean she could not identify it. She did. Charlotte Bourbon-Condé was in love with a man she could never have, despite all her fortune and power. Gautier would forever be beyond her reach. It was this that made tears burn down her cheeks. What she would do to cling to this one moment, right here and now. Already, she felt he wanted to withdraw.
Looking up into his eyes, she gasped. His pallor startled her. The poor man was practically unconscious from loss of blood.
“Armand.”
“I’ll be fine,” Gautier replied, shaking his head. His eyes rolling in the back of his head, he began to lean to one side.
She motioned for the old man to come quickly. He did, readily assessing the situation. Renaud emerged from among the rest and came over to help.
Gautier complained weakly when Renaud slid a thick arm about his torso and held him tightly.
“Let’s go home and get you treated,” Charlotte said.
With Armand’s help, she made her slow way down the hill toward the mansion. Several times, she saw Armand open his mouth to speak only to snap it closed again. Finally, she turned to him.
“Say it now, Armand, or don’t, but for God’s sake, don’t look at me this way.” Her curt tone surprised even herself.
He blanched. “It was Constance. She’s the one who told Brother Gautier where to find you. I knew she’d done something…she was afraid we’d lose everything. I don’t know what to say, Mistress Charlotte.”
Constance. Of course. The old head servant knew where Charlotte had gone to hide. She had told the brother though and not Guilabert—the one redeeming detail in the otherwise distasteful situation. She would deal with it later. Right now, all Charlotte wanted was to see Gautier treated.
“We’ll see to that later, Armand. If I don’t rest and get something to eat, I’ll collapse in a sobbing heap.”
Their strange party arrived at the mansion and caused quite a stir with the servants, who did not look too sure who to treat first, the bleeding man of God or the muddy and stumbling mistress.
“See to him,” she said to Armand. “He’s been stabbed in the hip and lost a lot of blood. All I need is food and some water.”
As soon as she crossed the doorway to the library, the largest room in the mansion and only one to accommodate their present need, she spotted a familiar figure.
Father Simon turned and rushed to them. “My dear, you look awful.”
“My thanks, Father,” she replied with a forced smile.
How good it felt to see her old friend there, his wispy white hair just as she remembered. As though he had been gone for years when in fact, only a few weeks had elapsed. He stared hard at Gautier.
To her great relief, Father Simon took complete control over who did what to whom. All that was required of her was she recline on a couch and watch Gautier be lowered onto another one close by. She would have held his hand but feared being in the way. She thanked the young maid who brought her food and wine and dove right in. As she ate, she watched Gautier’s treatment like a hawk.
“Be careful,” she blurted out when the old priest tugged a bit too hard on his younger colleague’s habit.
Gautier cringed but said naught as he avoided the old man’s gaze.
“Perhaps a bit of bother will help him see beyond his nose next time.”
“Be careful,” she repeated, her tone much harder this time. Feeling guilty, she added a gentle “please”.
A smirk lifted the corner of Father Simon’s mouth. “As you wish then, but if you ask me…” The rest of his sentence was muttered too low for her to hear.
Gautier did not appear to be dying—for which she could have crawled about on her knees and thanked the Lord—but his pale face worried her. He looked so much younger this way. Simon lifted the h
em of his uniform high over his knees so he could have a look at the wound then nodded and winked at the younger man, commenting how his stitching was the best in the province. Gautier tried to smile but only grimaced.
Servants trooped in and out as per the old priest’s commands, bringing this, taking out that. Soon only the three of them were in the library. Gautier would occasionally glance at her but lower his gaze every time she would try to meet it.
When Father Simon had treated Gautier and helped servants feed him, he sat near her. Letting a gnarled hand rest over her knee, he stared hard at Gautier. “Quite the hardy lad, you are,” he said. “And I’m told you were sent here for a…special task.”
Charlotte wanted to spare Gautier from replying by raising a hand to silence the old man but Gautier shook his head. “No, Charlotte. He has a right to know what kind of man replaced him.”
Gautier told the old father everything, beginning with his assignment from Cardinal Lanteigne, to his trip to France and his meeting with Guilabert. To her knowledge, he left out only their intimate encounters. His frankness touched her. He could have spared himself the grief and none would have been the wiser. Instead, he told everything. When he finished sharing how he had married Charlotte to Guilabert, Father Simon’s usually benevolent eyes turned hard.
“God doesn’t need mindless tools, Brother Gautier. He needs thoughtful guides, attentive pupils. Your conduct is inexcusable.”
Charlotte’s heart squeezed painfully at the harsh tone. A look of pain crossed Gautier’s face but he said nothing.
“You should beg for this woman’s forgiveness.”
“He has, Father Simon, and I willingly gave it.”
The old man turned to her in apparent surprise. He looked at both Gautier and her in turn then back again. His mouth relaxed and he leaned back in his chair. “I see.”
Charlotte caught herself twisting the ring on her thumb. She stopped right away. Words failed her. She wanted to explain what had happened, how Gautier had had no choice really and cleared her throat to speak but found no words could squeeze past the lump. Finally, she managed to cough and stared at some point above the old father’s head.
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