Chateau of Desire (Chateau of Love Book 1)

by Monica Bentley

  When you lead, those hands had better be empty.

  Oh. Not completely empty, of course. The point was the leader had to be largely free enough to think because everyone else was too busy to.

  He stopped, trusting the men to take care of themselves and, instead, asked himself what the Master would do. The bell. Looking up, he saw several villagers running toward him through the gate’s archway. He grabbed the first, a woodsman who supplied the Hall with its fragrant cedar logs and ordered him up to the bell. Ring it if no one was there. He grabbed the second he could, turned him around, even slapping him once to work through the panic he saw on those middle-aged features and ordered him to help the Guard close the gate once all the villagers were through.

  Where was the headman, he wondered savagely, until he saw the man fumbling with the laces on his breeches, the brewer’s large-breasted wife running alongside him. The headman, responsible for the quality of crops the fields produced, upon reaching Louis looked him straight in the eye. Just the faintest of blushes passing across the brow. The brewer’s wife, however, was burning as bright as a light and looking down. No matter. Louis quickly ordered him to take charge of the villagers: the elderly and infirm gathered in the Hall, the rest outside ready to man bucket brigades for the inevitable fire arrows. The headman looked off to the right, his features screwed up as if he would object.

  But Louis wasn’t having it. Not after the Guard, even Harcourt, refused Phoebe’s warning that afternoon. He grabbed the sod by the shoulders, shouting, “Just do it, man! Or face the Master’s wrath when he returns.” That did the job.

  No time for rejoicing, however. He ran for the stairs. He needed to see what was happening. The lookouts! He stopped, ran back down the steps and craned his head way back to see to the top of the Keep. Nobody. Probably shot down already, he swore and resumed his climb.

  At the top of the outer wall, he didn’t pause to look down over the gate, he just asked himself east or west. The forest’s edge was closer to the west walls, so he ran for that edge. Running along, he cast a glance down along the foot of the wall, interior side. Sure enough, he saw two bodies lying like wreckage far below. The lookouts. Even the arrows that had taken them had broken off in the fall. Looking up along the west wall, he saw two more Guardsmen fall, clutching arrows in their chests as they died. He also saw what he had feared most, grappling hooks just landing on the stone abutments. The attackers would be climbing.

  He had a brief image of sitting on the floor of the Master’s hut. He was just learning to edge a rapier. The Master insisted that he learn with a hand stone, no matter how many cuts he earned in the process. It was winter, and freezing outside, but snugly warm inside by the fire with the kitchen’s stew for their bellies. The Master was telling him about the sacking of a castle outside of Antioch in the Holy Land. The Saracens had thrown grappling hooks along the top to climb the walls. The Master had waited a few moments for them to get high enough then calmly walked along the wall’s edge slicing through each rope with a dagger, dodging arrows fired at his head, not really watching the attackers fall, but definitely hearing them.

  In a flash, Louis knew what to do. He grabbed a Guardsman who seemed petrified with confusion and, not having his own dagger, plucked the man’s out of its sheath.

  “Follow me!” he ordered. Then, he ran along the wall to the first grappling hook and began slicing through it, careful to keep his eye out for an arrow. All too swiftly one came, he ducked while continuing to saw his way through the thick rope, hearing his mate tumble to the ground. He darted a glance down and saw the man struggling with an arrow through his throat.

  Shaking his head, knowing there was nothing to do for him, he looked at the other Guardsmen who were milling around, confused, some firing arrows back, others trying to help somehow. All waiting for the Master. As he had trained them to. All waiting for orders.

  Fine. He saw the last tendrils of the rope part, heard the frightened screams just the other side of the wall, dodged one more arrow. Then fired off his commands as he had seen the Master do. Pointing at three Guardsmen, he shouted at them to slice through the ropes. Three others were to stand, rapiers at the ready to thrust through any attacker who made it over the wall. The rest? “Follow me!”

  He burst his way along the wall, to the rear of the castle being followed by four Guardsmen. He had to know what was happening back here. As he ran, he briefly considered sending more lookouts to the top of the Keep soaring high above them. But why? There were being attacked, he chided himself. They didn’t need lookouts to know that! And as for the original lookouts, who would have been punished for not warning anyone... Well. They had been the first to die.

  No, he needed every Guardsman possible on the outer walls to keep the attackers out. Turning the corner at the rear, he stopped and looked down. Nothing. Just a dark, peaceful night over the river running into the distance, all the way to the sea. No attack from the rear, he said a prayer of thanks to Saint Denis for this small blessing, then continued running. Halfway along the rear wall, he stopped because he wasn’t hearing pounding feet behind him. He turned, fearing what he already knew. Sure enough, the four Guardsmen he had ordered to follow him were halfway down the stairs to the ground below. Probably to check on their valuables and prepare for the inevitable, as they saw it, sacking of the castle.

  Whatever it was, one thing was clear, he swore. They wouldn’t take orders from a beardless boy.

  Clenching his fists in rage, he cast all distracting thoughts aside, including the sight of Phoebe’s light green eyes, threw out another prayer to Saint Denis to protect her and continued running. He had to stop any grappling attack on the east side from succeeding.

  Nearing the corner, wishing there was a clearer line of sight, at least along the interior lines, he had the ridiculous thought that, should they all live, he would suggest to the Master that they take out some of the stones or build some sort of inner lookout or something. At one vantage, he saw what he was already starting to accept. There were fighters milling around in a mass on the wall. Too many to be just Guardsmen. Swearing, cursing, he sprang forward to the attack. Then, he heard the Master’s voice again.

  When you lead, those hands had better be empty.

  God’s tears! He screamed out in rage but forced himself to stop. Think! He forced himself to sit. Then, just as his butt touched the stone, his eye caught a movement and, in a flash he was on his feet. He ducked under the swing meant to kill him, neatly stepping in and thrusting straight into the attacker’s armpit, then stepping through and moving to the attacker’s mate, just a few steps behind. He quickly dispatched him as well. It was so routine, he had the surreal notion of standing in the practice yard.

  m’Lord! That was the Master’s first duty when the walls have been breached. To keep them safe. He swore. How could he be so stupid? He darted for some stairs leading below, thinking that – all things considered – his first sword fight turned out to be easier than the practice yard. In battle, if you screwed up you died. In the practice yard, if you screwed up, you had to deal with the Master’s anger. He grinned, a savage grin he knew, as he rounded a corner in the steps.

  Phoebe!

  He had to get to her. Had to know that she was safe! Duty came first, however, he reluctantly allowed to himself. It wasn’t like Harcourt would defend m’Lord. He hated him. Well, everybody hated m’Lord, Louis smiled. Running, down, down, down. He wondered if this elated singing in his head, some tune that he couldn’t follow, was what the Master called “the joy of battle.”

  Probably.

  If only he could know that Phoebe was all right.

  Swearing at his lack of loyalty, hitting the ground level, he crossed the rear yard straight for the kitchen’s archway, telling himself he just wanted to know she was safe.

  Running through, he saw Adalene in front of the stove, two large cauldrons of oil on the boil to dump on attackers climbing the wall. He laughed. Too late! Instead, he simply shouted, “
Where is she?”

  Adalene turned, her eyes frantic with fear.

  He forced himself to slow down. “Phoebe. Where is she?”

  Adalene swallowed nervously, then jerked out an arm pointing to the front of the castle.

  Without wasting the time to nod, he ran that way. Straight into a face full of smoke. They couldn’t have set fire to the castle already, he agonized, his throat seizing up from the smoke, making him choke. Of course, when being sacked, from the Master’s many tales about it, Louis knew that all bets were off. You had your training, and you used it or you died.

  Is that what was wrong with the Guard today? He wondered as he ran through a smoke growing thicker to burst out onto the stairs of the castle overlooking the practice yard. He saw her. She was helping lead the bucket brigades to put out huts that had been lit on fire. The village headman was strutting back and forth directing the toss of every bucket on his side, making the process too slow to save the Master’s hut, Louis could see. Sod. Across the way, Phoebe was up on a ladder at the front of Maryl’s team saving the tavern’s roof as well as the surrounding huts. And doing a pretty good job of it, too, it looked like. Still...

  He ran down the steps, spotting Etienne in Maryl’s brigade passing a bucket to...Louis might have guessed. Marguerite. And Etienne’s rapier hung uselessly in his sheath.

  The sight angered him so much that he flung himself at his friend and hit him square in the jaw. Etienne went sprawling.

  “Louis!”

  Phoebe’s voice cried out to him from the top of her ladder. He didn’t care. He stalked over to Etienne who was already starting to back away scuttling his way on his hands, butt and feet. Louis grabbed him up, tore his friend’s rapier out of its sheath and held it to Etienne’s throat.

  “Are you a Guardsman or not?” he snarled.

  Etienne’s soot-stained features squinted at him for a moment, then he nodded.

  Abruptly feeling foolish about his outburst, sensing others’ eyes on him, he bellowed out an order. “Take Phoebe...and her” he added, pointing to Marguerite to make sure Etienne would do it, “to the kitchen. Protect them as they help Adalene make us some boiling oil to scald the attackers.”

  He blushed as he thought of what a useless lie he just made up. He didn’t care, though. He couldn’t protect m’Lord and Phoebe both.

  Phoebe was opening her mouth to protest, but he didn’t let her.

  “Look!” he pointed at the roof, he shouted to her. “You saved it. Now go get us some boiling oil!”

  She looked at him. He could tell that she knew he was lying. Damn the girl!

  “Please,” he mouthed at her.

  She looked at him a moment longer. Maryl shouted something up to her. Then, all at once, Phoebe jerked out a nod and climbed down. Grabbing Marguerite by the hand, she fled into the castle.

  Feeling a bit easier now, Louis paused to survey the yard. A woodsman had taken Phoebe’s place at the top of the ladder on the tavern’s roof. The fire there was drowned to a smoking, he could see. There was no chance for the Master’s hut now, he could also see. Annoyed with the headman, he grabbed Maryl and put her in charge of the headman’s bucket brigade overriding the man’s objections by shouting he needed his counsel to save the castle.

  That did the trick.

  Hurriedly, he gave the headman a sketchy rundown of what was happening, getting only so far as the attackers were within the walls, when the headman held out a hand to stop him from speaking, then made as if to run within the castle.

  “No!” Louis cried out.

  The headman turned with a snarl. “Who are you, boy, to give orders to me?”

  Switching tacks at speed, almost like spinning on his toe in a sword fight he thought, Louis went on. “I mean, yes, sir! Please take charge of the villagers in the Hall. They are our most vulnerable.”

  The headman took a deep breath, then pompously gathered himself, saying, “Yes, I think m’Lord would want that at this time, now that I have vanquished the fires.”

  Louis rolled his eyes, inwardly. Outwardly, he nodded, saying, “And I will check on m’Lord.” He didn’t wait for an answer, however. He just turned to run.

  “The Master!” he heard the cry and, looking up, saw a village boy pointing down beyond the gate. Louis scrambled for the outer wall stairs, taking them three at a time. Gaining the top he ran to the edge and looked out. He could see four riders down the road among the chateau fields, galloping full tilt, the moonlight glinting on the points of their harness tack. At the edge of the village, in the road between the huts, he could see a small body of men on horseback, their more heavily armored bodies and steeds glinting from the fires all around them. Three pot-de-fers sat in their trestles, clearly visible even from here.

  So that’s what had made the loud crash at the beginning, Louis thought. The Master had told of them, how useless they were unless fired straight into a crowd of foot soldiers. And how useful they were at scaring the wits out of everyone who didn’t know what they were. Well, Louis grinned, happy to see the Master coming at a gallop, they had scared him!

  In the group of attackers gathered around the cannon he could see one short, squat heavily armored man. That must be the condottiere Bertrand du Guesclin, he guessed. Gauging the distance with his eye, he knew it was doubtful he could get from here, down, out the gate and into the fight to make a difference. Still...

  He tried to guess how many of the attackers there were. At this distance, who could say? And it was only the Master and three Guardsmen. Admittedly the four most ferocious of the Guard, he knew.

  Still...

  He waited, breathing. du Guesclin was organizing his small band for the attack, forming two columns. Louis tensed. Breathing hard. They were getting close. He could see the Master’s rapier held aloft, picking up the the gleam of the fires, looking like a flaming sword itself from this point. As was du Guesclin’s, Louis realized. The two were squaring off in the middle of the road, the Guardsmen and the condottiere all holding back, presumably because ordered to. What to do, Louis agonized. He desperately wanted to watch this fight, but something was nagging at him.

  Think!

  He chided himself. It was obvious. He was inside the castle, the Master was outside. Whatever else he did, however he organized whatever of the Guard that would actually follow his orders, he had to get to m’Lord to ensure his safety first. The Master would order him to.

  That last thought stung him into action. With a last look, catching the fiery swing of the Master’s rapier on its first slice, Louis turned and ran down the stairs.

  *****

  Climbing the stairs to the second level within the castle, he looked down the hallway with a groan. Outside m’Lord’s chamber, he could see two Guardsmen lying like broken dolls. Beyond them he could see the bodies of three others strung along the way, as were several thrown stools, fallen candlesticks and torn tapestries. The wreckage told its own tale. He raced to m’Lord’s chamber wondering how many of the attackers he would find, fearing that m’Lord was already dead.

  “Take her!” Louis suddenly heard m’Lord screech. Louis didn’t even want to think of what that meant as he rushed the final steps, hearing a loud slap and a cry followed by a thud. He turned the corner to see m’Lady hitting the floor, her brown hair strewing all about her ruby red gown. Standing over her, an attacker – only one – was just backing his arm for a swing to kill m’Lord. Only one!

  “Stop!” Louis cried out. But it was too late. The sword slashed across m’Lord’s throat as the attacker stepped away from the splashing blood.

  Turning.

  To face him.

  Remi.

  “You!” Louis murmured.

  “You,” Remi replied.

  Somewhere, Louis thought he heard a chuckle. He darted glances all around him. A woman’s chuckle. But he couldn’t see another in the room. Beyond him, m’Lord was clutching his throat, falling to the floor, his purple gown riding up to reveal his puny legs and
the pot belly above them. The blood was quickly spilling out, creating a puddle as m’Lord’s last breaths rattled out. There was no saving him. Not with a swordfighter of Remi’s caliber standing between them.

  Louis wondered what punishment the Master would devise for him. It would be awful, he was certain. At the least, he would be cut from the Guard. It didn’t matter, he abruptly realized looking into Remi’s eyes. This fighter knew the Master’s dictum: forget the endless slash and parry of tournaments, true sword fights ended in the blink of an eye.

  He swallowed. He pushed the thought of Phoebe’s eyes out of his head, blanked his mind as the Master would have him do, and let his training take over.

  Remi blinked at that, then smiled.

  “Okay, boy. We’ll even the odds. If you’ll guarantee me safe passage.”

  In a surreal haze, Louis nodded.

  Remi laid his sword on m’Lord’s strongbox and simply said, “Help me.”

  Feeling as if he were in a dream, he helped Remi unbuckle his breast plate, then his shoulder plates, his arm plates, stacking them neatly on the floor next to the strongbox. As Louis realized he had never before seen m’Lord’s bedchamber, he idly wondered what the strongbox was doing there. It was supposed to be in the day chamber. Kneeling before Remi and feeling every inch his opponent’s squire as he unbuckled a thigh plate, he asked himself why so many Guard had been in the hallway instead of on the walls, as they should have been. Just as he was laying the last of the plates and leathers neatly on the pile, the answer presented itself: m’Lord had ordered them to. Then, without consulting one another, they both stripped down to the chest, according to the old ways, so no fabric could be used as a feint to trap a rapier’s point.

  Remi threw him a mocking salute. “A rapier?”

  Louis nodded and, still feeling like walking through a dream, he went outside the chamber and fetched one. It was Thibault’s, he realized, looking at the boy’s still face on the floor. Thibault shouldn’t have been here. He wasn’t skilled enough a fighter.