In any case, it wasn’t his job to worry about the pots. His job was to get his strike team over the walls without having a rain of arrows falling on them from the castle Guard above, then get to Phoebe as quickly as he could.
He blotted out the flash image of her breast in his mouth. He had felt so sick afterward, even vomiting in the stable when he grabbed the Commander’s old nag to flee the castle. He still didn’t understand what had happened. He had never treated a girl like that. Leave aside Tempeste – who wouldn’t have let him if he had tried – any girl that he captured on a raid he always treated gently. It just made sense. They could hear the screams of the others being raped around the campfire by some of the more ruthless members of the band. That made his girl all the more enthusiastic to please him. Besides, there was always that voice in his head that had said that Phoebe would never approve if he ever mistreated a girl.
Talk about irony, he thought, feeling sick again. He cast that thought out of his mind and decided again to swear off girls for a while. Let the others have them. He didn’t trust himself anymore. And, once again, so swiftly following that thought that he almost expected it, he heard Tempeste’s chuckle. Saint Denis, he thought, clear out your head!
Gaspard nudged him. Tristen darted a glance at him, seeing his friend’s visor up, watching the night sky. He looked up himself. It was mostly clear. Gaspard was noting that a cloud would soon pass before the moon. They both tensed, knowing from experience the Commander would likely fire the signal at such a moment.
Tristen had to reflect that he had learned a good deal of highly skilled warfare from the Commander these last years. How to use distraction to minimize your losses. How to take advantage of nature, using the terrain or the weather to increase your chances of success. How to manage men, the hard type of men needed to score such victories. Learning when to reward them, when to punish them, and when to look the other way. How to score your own victories in battle and still ride away without being haunted for months afterward. Even right down to where to invest your loot. Let the others dice away their coin. The Commander never did. He had the best war armor and equipment Tristen had ever seen. As soon as he could, Tristen had purchased a better saddle, stronger stirrups and some mail for Destrey’s nose. You could try to scavenge that kind of equipment from the battlefield – like you could a better shield or sword or helm – but the pickings were few and, typically, badly worn by the time you found them. No, they cost large coin and some long conversations with a good blacksmith to get his best work, the kind of work that lasted for years, like the Commander’s.
His horse was neighing now, pawing the ground with a thrilling energy. Destrey could feel the excitement. He was a true war charger and best taken care of in a highly valued fashion.
As for someday? Gaspard swore that the Commander owned partnerships in a few taverns. That was Tristen’s next goal. For now, though...
And there it was. Three booms followed by several arcs of fire tracing their way through the dark sky. Tristen’s hand was already raised, his sword cutting forth through the air to unleash his strike team’s own fusillade. When had he drawn his sword, he wondered? Who knew? This was what he was made for, he thought, a happy grin spreading across his face as he watched his team’s arrows disappear into the night only to, scant breaths later, trigger the fall of the two lookouts on his side of the Keep. That they died screaming, he was certain, but he couldn’t hear it. He could hear the loud thunks of the pot-de-fer bolts hitting the castle wall above the gate, even from here. Just as he could hear the solemn Dong! Dong! Dong! of the Keep’s bell ringing out alarm that would quickly grow into panic within the chateau. Just as he could hear the twangs of his team’s bows firing wave after wave of arrows at the Guard manning the walls below the Keep. These were already taking shelter, but it wouldn’t matter. Surprise was everything. This battle was half won in the first heartbeats.
“Forward!” Tristen shouted, spurring Destrey, letting his war charger loose to unleash hell on the castle that had caused him so much pain. Sheathing his sword to keep both hands free, he galloped headlong to the walls, feeling his team fall back, but not caring. Before long, he sensed, rather than hearing or seeing, the thunk of arrows hitting the ground all around him. On the outer walls ahead, he could see the Guard milling around, trying to get a sense of order. Four or five weren’t bothering. They had simply started firing arrows with whatever they had to hand. Of course, they quickly became the first to die, by design. The Commander had trained his band that way. And Tristen had made sure to go over that part of the plan in detail, repeating it until his strike team began looking like they wanted to put an arrow or two in him! Nevertheless, it was paying off now, he almost shouted with joy as two of these better warriors of the Guard died screaming, falling back simultaneously within the walls from arrowshot.
Almost there! Just another furlong! Without looking he could feel Gaspard at his right shoulder, having caught up somehow. Others had caught up on his left. Tristen would have smiled, but there was no time now. The thundering of the hooves echoed back at him from the walls as they drew nearer. He could also hear the shouts above as the Guard struggled to organize themselves. And the shouting inside the castle that would quickly become screams of horror. He grinned.
There! He was off Destrey in a running dismount, slapping his horse on the flank to ride off to safety while sliding the rope and grappling hook off his shoulder. Gaspard had dismounted and notched an arrow in one smooth movement, covering him, Tristen could see out of the corner of his eye. He twirled the grappling hook three times and – smiling at all those fucking hours spent in the forest hooking the highest branches possible, shoulders aching from the exercise – he watched his hook sail neatly up the wall and grab. He was already climbing, Gaspard and the others of his rope unleashing arrow after arrow at any head that dared show itself. Down the wall, in order, Rolf, Acel and Vail were doing the same, climbing while their units covered them from below. Hearing a cry, Tristen darted a glance to see Vail take a large stone right in the face. He fell with a loud shout. Looking up, Tristen could hear Vail hit with a loud thud. He won’t be getting up fast, he thought. He had never liked Vail anyway. For the way he treated captured girls. But, with all that ferociousness at hand, Tristen hadn’t hesitated a second at giving him the next rope.
The higher they climbed, the louder the twinge in his belly. The greater the chance that he would take a stone in the face, too. He didn’t fear boiling oil, not even boiling water. The Guard hadn’t been prepared. It didn’t matter. A stone in the right place could do enough damage. And, the higher he got, the less coverage he had on the ground protecting him, since Gaspard had shouldered his bow and begun climbing as soon as Tristen had gotten a quarter’s way up the wall, as soon as there was enough room to climb without getting knocked off the rope if Tristen should fall. Tristen could feel Gaspard’s weight on the rope. As he did the others as soon as there was enough room for them, too.
The top was the most dangerous. Just one man covering from below and Tristen at the greatest height for a fall. Saint Denis, he loved this, though!
Several cries screamed aloud in horror. Looking over, he saw a Guard slicing through Acel’s rope with a dagger, dodging arrows coming at him from below. Feeling nothing as the rope parted and all those men went to their deaths, he barely registered anything other than recognizing the Guardsman as that golden-haired boy. A boy who wouldn’t be alive much longer he thought, willing his aching shoulders and arms to move faster, pull him higher. Just a few more feet...
There! At the top, a Guardsman appeared with a knife in hand to pull the same trick. Tristen drew his sword and thrust it through the man’s neck, blood spurting out both sides. He blinked the stickiness out of his eyes as he tucked his sword under his shoulder and jumped over the wall. Made it! Not even bothering to look down, he made for the boy Louis.
Who was gone!
Coward! Tristen thought, then seeing another Guardsman closi
ng in on him, he turned and made battle. One two-handed thrust that sliced through the Guardsman’s rapier, breaking it like a sapling’s branch, a punch to the man’s throat to stun him and he was throwing the fucking sod over the walls to die a screaming death in his fall. So much for the high and mighty Guard of Chateau Brionde!
Saint Denis, he really loved this! There was nothing like the thrill of battle. Blood-stained, yes, blood-soaked even at times and always, always so damn loud you could barely hear. Metal striking metal, stones being heaved and falling, the clunk of a myriad of other heavy objects being thrown aside or at someone else, horses neighing, bells tolling, flames crackling then roaring later, the shouts, the screams, the outrage, the fear, the joy.
Gaspard was at his side, heaving with loud pants, sword in hand. They looked around them. Rolf was on the wall, too, just dispatching a Guardsman the same way. Slicing right through his puny rapier. Gaspard tried to laugh, but wound up coughing from being out of breath.
From the shouting heard below them, they could tell that the tenor of the castle was still defiant. The screams hadn’t turned panicky. Yet. Well, Tristen grinned, give that a few moments.
Still... Where was the Guard?
This was odd. They couldn’t have killed that many so quickly. In any case, orders were orders. Shouting in Gaspard’s ear, Tristen dispatched him and the remaining of his strike team to the castle gate to let in the Commander. Gaspard blinked with confusion at him a moment, waiting.
“Just go!” he shouted at his friend. “I have an errand to run for the Commander.”
Gaspard shrugged and led the team to the stairs near the front of the castle walls and down.
What errand? Tristen grinned that he would have to make up something. Anyway, there was time for that. Now to find Phoebe.
*****
Making his way down the stairs at the castle’s rear, below him he could see the kitchen yard stretching between the wall and the Keep soaring up into the sky above him. There wasn’t anyone in the yard. She would be sheltering in the kitchen, he thought. Find her, carry her out, go due north along the river banks until the outer walls shrank in height to the point that a simple vault would clear them, and they would be over. The castle was so poorly guarded, he didn’t expect to find any more than one or two Guardsmen of dubious quality being stationed so far out. He could deal with them quickly. Then over the wall and a whistle to Destrey and...
He hadn’t gotten past that point in his mind, he suddenly realized. Well, whatever happened, he needed to get her away from the likes of Rolf tearing her skirt off her and...he shuddered at that thought. Then, he reminded himself that Gaspard and Rolf and the others were quickly making their way to the castle gate. No, it was the other strike team, East, that he to had worry about. All in good time, he thought, trotting down more stairs. Part of his mind wondered again where the Guard was, just as he ran into one.
This one fought better. He ducked under Tristen’s two-handed swing and took a step – not back, but forward! In fact, he was stepping into Tristen’s space, his right arm pulled back to thrust his rapier’s point deep into Tristen’s armpit. What the hell? Why? His mind raged as he stumbled back feeling the point take him in the shoulder, instead. He used his fall to bounce off the stone wall and back-swung a deep cut into the Guardsman’s neck, blood spurting like a fountain on the wall, on Tristen’s breast plate and in his face.
He blinked and shoved the body, quickly becoming a corpse, aside. Then kept trotting down the stairs. Down, down, down. Part of his mind wondered why the Guard was leaving the rear steps undefended. Another part wondered at the strange swordwork, though he had to admit that all his plans for getting Phoebe had suddenly taken an almost disastrous turn. A third part wondered what he would do if she were not in the kitchen.
Which was good, because she wasn’t. Adalene was, though. All his hatred for Chateau Brionde flared up in an instant. This! This, he thought, was what he hated most. Looking in her eyes, seeing a dawning recognition color them with the first hints of confusion and fear giving way to anger at the sight of him.
He gave it not another thought. With one hand held out to balance him, he sprang neatly across the cutting block and thrust straight through her. She grabbed him, her hands like talons, struggling to find a grip on the edges of his plate mail, blood bubbling at the corners of her mouth already as she struggled to breathe, struggled to say something. He watched the light fade from her eyes. Even then, he hated her. He hated her for the way she had treated him. Had treated Phoebe right down to giving her that stupid nickname. He hated her for every tear that Phoebe had shed, in fear, in terror, in sadness, in depths of sorrow. God, he hated this bitch. Bracing her body with his free hand, he withdrew his sword from the sheath of her chest.
“Remi!”
Thank god, he thought. He turned, the words “Time to go” forming in his mouth, when he saw the tanner’s daughter with her – Marguerite was her name, he finally recalled – and a laughably fat Guardsman nervously fingering his rapier. Defiance struggling to overwhelm the fear in the boy’s eyes. All in a day’s work, Tristen thought and moved toward him.
“No!” Phoebe cried out, her hand reaching up to stop him as the boy stepped in front of Marguerite, his rapier in a helpless parry. That didn’t last longer than Tristen’s quick two-handed slice through it and his chest. The boy fell back on Marguerite, then toppled to the ground.
They stood looking at him, appalled, his blood leaking out onto the floor.
Tristen made to speak to Phoebe, when suddenly she was on him, scratching at his eyes. He dropped his sword at his side as they went down, his head banging against the edge of the cutting block, making him see stars as his arm, already, was instinctively cushioning Phoebe’s head to protect it from the same blow. He thought the stars would keep him disoriented, confused, except his eyes were screaming in pain from her tearing nails.
“Stop it!” he shouted and thrust her away from him. Cat-like, he rolled to his feet to hear Marguerite’s shrieks as Ricard grabbed her in a tight embrace. Fontaine was at his side, his eyes already greedily fastening on Phoebe. Strike team East had made it to the kitchen, swords in hand, Tristen gritted his teeth in a fierce grin. Knowing without taking the time to frame the thought that he had little more than the blink of an eye available, he waited for Fontaine to take a step toward Phoebe. At the move, Tristen stunned Ricard with a sharp thrust to the throat just above Marguerite's head, not enough to kill, then spun on a heel and sliced Fontaine through the neck, then spun back to take Ricard in the throat as Marguerite was already dropping to her knees to get away.
Time froze as both members of the band toppled to the floor. He barely had time to register that he had just killed two of his own band. The Commander’s band. He blinked.
He turned to look at Phoebe. She looked at him with horror and – to his own horror – he saw dislike. Those sweetly beautiful eyes were screwed up in disgust and defiance as she looked at him. Her lips, that he had kissed, were now curling into a snarl.
Knowing without thinking it, he realized that any plans of taking Phoebe away from the chateau were gone. Taken away with a sword thrust.
Or slice, he corrected, following her eyes to Marguerite on the floor holding the fat boy, tears streaming down her round cheeks.
He grunted, “That’s not a kill.”
He looked at Phoebe. Saw no understanding in her eyes.
He pointed at the boy. “You stopped me. It’s not a kill stroke. He’ll live.”
Then, just as understanding was dawning in those beautiful soft green eyes that he had dreamed about for years, wondering if he was ever going to see them again, he turned from their sight and left.
Running through the halls of the castle he was reminded of how he had felt in the Hall when first talking with her, when they were gathering the meat pies and he was stunned to realize how ridiculously overblown with grandeur the Hall pretended to be. He had realized that he didn’t feel any more
hatred for the chateau. Now, with the excitement of battle trickling out of him, knowing this was a danger sign because he was still in the middle of a sack and could easily die tonight, he knew that feeling again. All his hatred was gone. It had left him.
He paused to lean against an archway, catch his breath and clear his wits. He listened.
There was nothing. Odd. The smell of smoke. But his nose told him it was from fires that were being quenched, not growing larger. Also odd.
At the least, he should be hearing the sound of swords ringing against one another somewhere. Somewhere...at the lord’s day chamber on the floor above. Where the strongbox should be, the Commander had said, when Tristen had reported his intelligence saying, with a shamed face, that he had not been able to learn that one piece.
Well, time to make that up, he thought.
Orders were orders.
* 11 *
Louis had been sitting on the Master’s bench outside his hut when he heard the opening salvo hit the castle wall above the gate with a shattering crash. Leaping to his feet, he ran forward the few steps that enabled him to see down the archway of the gate. The two Guardsmen manning the watch outside the gate were rolling on the ground flinging burning masses off of themselves. He sprinted forward a few steps to help, wondering what in Hades could have made such a crash, then suddenly heard the Master’s voice in his head.
Chateau of Desire (Chateau of Love Book 1) Page 10
