by Cathy MacRae
He pulled the neck of the pack closed and tied it with a piece of leather. I must speak to Bertrand. I willnae desert, but I cannae stay. With one last glance around the tiny tent, he stepped outside.
The aide he’d cold-cocked stood rigidly before him, flanked by two armed soldiers. Already his jaw bore a dark red mark, purpling nicely and beginning to swell.
“Bertrand commands your presence,” he said, rolling his mouth uncomfortably around the words.
“Aye. I wish to speak with him as well.” Kinnon eyed the man who cast a surly look his way. With a shrug, he tossed his bag over his shoulder and strolled across camp to meet with The Eagle of Brittany.
Chapter 4
The bucket slipped from her grasp and bounced once on the cobblestone path. Melisende scrambled to keep the pail upright as frothy milk splashed over the worn edge, spattering in lacy trails between the stones.
“Merde!” she muttered under her breath. She carefully placed both buckets on the ground and wiped her palms down the rough fabric of her apron. Flexing her tired fingers, she met Lucienne’s gaze.
“I am sorry, petite soeur. I should not say such things.” She kept her voice carefully neutral, not revealing how much her sister’s sudden appearance startled her.
“You should use the yoke to carry the heavy buckets.” Placing her hands on her hips, Lucienne smiled sweetly. Pulling her shoulders back, she stretched, flattening her hands as she slowly slid them down her hips. Shocked, Melisende noted the sensual movements and the way the fabric of Lucienne’s dress pulled taut across the bodice, accentuating breasts Melisende had not noticed before. But the movements were gone in an instant and her sister’s angelic face lit with excitement. “We had a visitor?”
Melisende motioned for her sister to assist with the buckets. With eager compliance, Lucienne grabbed a wooden handle and hefted the bucket before her, bracing it against her legs with all the grace of a child. Melisende let the question pass.
“Jean-Baptiste seems to like him.” Walking backward, Lucienne grinned, her eyes alight. “Why will you not tell me about le bel homme?” She tilted her head slyly. “Do you like him?”
“Oh, Lucienne, you are such a goose. I do not know why you would think such a thing. He is merely a soldier purchasing supplies for his commander, nothing more.” To her consternation, heat crept into her cheeks. She ducked her head. “Take that bucket to the house. Pour it into the crocks so the cream will rise. I will be inside shortly.”
Lucienne let out peals of laughter. “You like him! I knew it!”
Melisende glared at her sister. “Hush! You do not understand.”
Lucienne halted, the bucket swinging carelessly from one hand. “What do I not understand? Does he not think you are pretty? Does he not make you want to touch him?”
“You are too young to ask such questions, Lucienne,” Melisende scolded. “Your time is better spent considering how to make the cheese we sell in the village.”
For a long moment Lucienne regarded her with a puzzled gaze. Then she shrugged. “If you do not want him, mayhap I do.”
Alone in the cheese room, Melisende shoved her cuffs to her elbows, still reeling from her sister’s matter-of-fact statement an hour earlier. What am I to do? She has been fearful of men—of other people—for so long, I did not consider such a change. Her body does not care that her mind does not age apace with it. I see the child she was—and the woman she is becoming. At seventeen, she is nearly a woman grown. What will be her future?
Turning to the job at hand, she poured the milk from her bucket into two smaller pots set within a basin of heated water. Adding just the right amount of goat’s milk to each pot, she stirred carefully.
Picking up a broad wooden spoon, she moved to the next step. A line of pots whose contents had been curdling for nearly two days sat on the next table, the clear whey glistening on the surface. She broke the curd into smaller pieces, releasing more of the whey.
How to talk with her? I scarcely know what happens between a man and a woman. How do I explain what I do not know to a child? She reached for a clean crock and ladled the curds into it, placing it over another pot to collect the whey as it drained through small holes in the bottom of the crock. She repeated the process until all the curds were in their forms, then checked the cheeses she’d moved to molds the day before. With a sigh, she noted everything was proceeding as normal, oblivious to the chaos in the region, uninterested in the upheavals in her own life.
Hands on her hips, she stretched her back, gazing about the stone-walled room. Here in the front, where the warm summer breezes kept the area at the perfect temperature to start the cheese-making process, mis-matched pots and crocks filled every available surface. The hut was built against a large stone outcrop, and in the dark depths of the room the temperature fell. It was there her grandfather’s secrets came to life.
She checked the bottles and jars lining the shelves. Coarse salt for brining, herbs, ash, dried berries and paprika to create flavor for the rinds. We are getting low on a few of these. I must make a list for the market. A frown crossed her face. How can I leave Lucienne alone, knowing she is no longer a child at heart? What if soldiers come whilst I am gone?
She removed the apron she’d donned for the cheese house and replaced it with the one she usually wore, then gathered the empty milk pails for scouring. And what will she ask me to bring home this time? Lucienne-the-child wanted candy. Lucienne-the-woman-child will likely want velvets and ribbons and perfume. Crossing the yard, she hurried to the house.
Intent on her inner unrest, she marched through the door, her voice unintentionally sharp. “Lucienne, take these and wash them.” She halted as odors of supper cooking assailed her. “It smells very good in here. What are you cooking?”
Lucienne’s face lit with happiness. “I am sorry I teased you earlier. We had extra eggs today and I made an omelet with some fresh herbs from the garden.”
Melisende couldn’t help smiling at her sister’s obvious eagerness to please. “You did what any annoying little sister would do,” she quipped, tweaking Lucienne’s nose to soften her words. “And you have made a nice choice in apology.” She set the buckets by the door. “I will help you wash up after dinner. I certainly do not want our supper to get cold.”
With childish exuberance, Lucienne poured them each a mug of milk, rich with froth, as Melisende scooped the eggs into a wooden bowl. They sat together and ate their simple meal, finishing it with sharp cheese and bread left from the morning.
Melisende perused her sister. Lucienne licked her fingers like a child, unselfconsciously, as though her earlier foray into young womanhood had merely been a dream. Ma petite soeur will be fine alone for a day. Deep inside she still carries her scars. They will protect her for now. She touched the golden curls, and Lucienne glanced up, question in her eyes.
“I need to make a trip to the market in the village, Lucienne. If I leave this evening, mayhap I can return before dark tomorrow. Will you be comfortable here alone?”
Lucienne bobbed her head, curls bouncing, as she wiped her fingers on her skirt. “Jean-Baptiste will stay with me?”
“Of course he will.”
Lucienne waved her finger airily. “Then I will be fine.” Her tone turned wheedling. “Would you bring me some sweets?”
* * *
Kinnon shuffled his feet impatiently as he waited for Bertrand to finish reading a dispatch. Tension in the tent choked the air, making his nerves tingle. Or was it his imagination? He glanced at the two impassive guards facing the tent opening. Backs straight, their shoulders were, however, relaxed. Kinnon felt some of his apprehension fade.
Bertrand wiped his face and Kinnon caught the movement from the corner of his eye. A fine sheen of sweat marked the man’s brow, and though the tent was warm and sweat dampened Kinnon’s leine, curiosity stirred. Bad news, or is he ailing? But his commander’s stern gaze as he lifted troubled eyes from the document before him, doused Kinnon’s concern for
his health.
“De Ros has refused me for the last time.” Bertrand’s face crumpled into a snarl, startling Kinnon.
“I thought the English commander—”
Bertrand cut off his words with an agitated wave of his hand. Shoving back his chair, he rose. He laid a palm on his stomach as if in pain, but the gesture was quickly gone. “Damné De Ros! I have fought the length and breadth of France, chasing down the ‘free companies’, the merciless swine, as they plunder les gens, leaving them starving and beaten.” His step pounded the carpet-strewn dirt floor and he ran stubby fingers through his cropped, already abused hair. “De Ros should have emptied the area of brigands, but seems to find them useful to keep the citizenry in order.”
“Paying for protection,” Kinnon scoffed.
Bertrand narrowed his gaze. “It is inacceptable. And it is time to end it. You will help.”
Kinnon’s chin jerked backward in surprise. “Me? Ye have loyal commanders to call upon.”
Bertrand snorted. “Are you not loyal? You and Hervé will take two score men, search out the bâtards brigands and make sure they do not interfere with me again.”
Hervé? The hair on the back of Kinnon’s neck bristled and the tent flap billowed as the man in question entered the already crowded chamber. Stepping past Kinnon, Hervé halted before his leader. His shoulders jutted back as he came to attention, and dread pooled in Kinnon’s gut.
I have lost my chance to leave, and he pairs me with this arse? St. Andrew preserve my hide for a carpet, for there willnae be aught else left if Hervé gets his hand in this pot. Kinnon took a step forward, ignoring Hervé’s bristle.
“Bertrand? Might I have a word with ye?” Kinnon sighed heavily. “Alone?”
Again Bertrand’s hand drifted to his abdomen as he leaned across his desk. Fisting his scarred hands, he propped himself on whitened knuckles, his brows bunched together furiously. “I do not have time for disagreements among my staff. I entrust you with leading this venture.” He cast a quelling look at Hervé’s sputter of protest. “But your French is not perfect, and Hervé will go as your second.”
Stab me in the back now and be done with it! Kinnon winced as he regretted taking a moment too long to pack his bag.
“I have the higher rank, Commander!” Hervé’s nose quivered in protest.
Bertrand motioned around the room. “In case it escaped your notice, mon ami, the advancements in this army have little to do with rank. The nobles have largely ignored my commands, and yet the king rewards my efforts.”
Hervé sniffed, his tone aggrieved. “The last time Scots were entrusted with French command, they turned tail and ran.”
Kinnon longed to wipe the arrogant sneer from Hervé’s face, but controlled his temper, bringing his weight to bear on the balls of his feet, his fingers flexing as they anticipated the grip of his sword. It wouldn’t take much more to entice him to put an end to the man’s insufferable attitude—or the man either, for that matter. He wondered if he would be rewarded for his forbearance or for his decisiveness.
Bertrand scowled. “That was four and twenty years ago. The Scots did not abandon the field until all was lost, and I do not recall Kinnon Macrory’s name on the roster in any case.” He shook a forefinger once at Hervé. “Do not continue to try my patience, for it is at an end. I have other matters to discuss.” He seated himself carefully, and Kinnon again wondered if he was the only one who noticed the commander’s hesitancy, the hint of pain in his movements.
Bertrand assured himself of everyone’s full attention and continued. “As I said, De Ros has again declined my request for the English garrison’s surrender—however courteously worded—and he must be dealt with. The men are being readied for an assault, and we depart just after dusk, before the moon is up.” He shifted his gaze to Kinnon. “You must locate the brigands’ camp and destroy it. Doing so will divide De Ros’s men, denying him the unprincipled louts he relies on for their force of arms. Can I count on you?”
Once free of this siege, ’twill be easier to seek severance from the army. To do so with Bertrand’s blessing will likely be a boon. The weight of Kinnon’s bag suddenly increased, and he absently shifted it to the opposite shoulder. He gave his commander a decisive nod.
“Aye. We will track down their camp. They will be either dead or too busy to answer De Ros’s call. They will not bother ye.”
Bertrand gave a short nod. “Good man. You will not regret your success.”
Chapter 5
Melisende patted her pocket, reassuring herself of the coins she’d placed there. A dagger, small but with a honed blade, hung heavy beside the coins. Taking stock of the room one last time, she shouldered the battered leather satchel. “I will return tomorrow, ma petite. Remember to check the cheeses.”
“And milk the goats and cows and tend the garden…” Lucienne’s voice trailed into long-suffering silence. She hugged her sister. “Do not worry about me. Jean-Baptiste and I will be fine. It is you who needs be careful.”
Melisende smoothed the curve of Lucienne’s cheek with her palm. “I know these hills and paths well and expect to reach the village quickly. But I must leave now—you know ’tis safer before dark.”
“If we only still had our pony, Pierre…” Lucienne’s voice faded and her face grew sad.
“The road is too rocky. I would spend half my time repairing the wagon. I am sure Pierre has a good home.” She refused to chide herself for the lie. The soldier who had stolen the sturdy pony had likely ridden him into battle, and who knew his fate now? At least it was unlikely he met his end spitted over a campfire.
Giving the enormous dog a stern admonition to guard, Melisende slipped out the door, resisting the impulse to remind Lucienne to latch the door. Within a few steps, she heard the firm snick of wood as the bolt slid home, and Melisende nodded. ’Tis good she remembers such things. Ma petite soeur is growing up. We must have a talk when I return.
Her hurried steps made little sound on the thick layer of last winter’s leaves that clogged the wooded trail. The sun’s long afternoon rays pierced the tree branches, marking her way among the rocks. It was well known that brigands had a camp not far from town, far enough away from the village to stay out of De Ros’s way, close enough to maintain their reign of terror over the villagers. It was equally well known that De Ros received a monthly stipend from the brigands to turn a blind eye on their activities.
As if the English soldiery is not problem enough, she groused to herself, keeping a sharp eye on the shifting shadows around her. She worried the citizenry grew weary of the two-sided assault. Memory of her father’s defiance and death rose to the surface.
Out of work since the Traité de Brétigny, mercenaries and French soldiers alike had formed bands of “free companies”—free from law and order—to make their living from the citizens they once fought for, claiming food, rights and loot as they willed. Particularly beset by these brigands, the people had petitioned the Constable of France, the great Bertrand du Guesclin himself, to rid the countryside of the free companies invading the Languedoc region, and the village of Châteauneuf-de-Randon where the English, led by De Ros, held the garrison.
Dieu soit loué, Lucienne and I have not been overly beset by the brigands. A matter of time, only, before they decide that confronting a large dog, no matter how fierce, is worth the effort to exploit more from our small farm. The care I have taken to show our poverty will not protect us forever.
She frowned and pulled her cloak about her more closely, casting a sharper look around. I must find someone trustworthy to sell our cheeses, or Lucienne and I will be forced to travel together when I go to market. Suddenly, she regretted leaving her sister behind. The garden would have survived the loss of a day’s care. But the daily milking of the goats and cows was another matter. I cannot leave the farm unattended—the village is too far to travel and return the same day. Add the chores at home and sales and shopping in town… Weariness settled over her with the weight
of indecision.
Mayhap Kinnon had the right of things. Even if Bertrand drives the brigands and the English out, our remote farm is no place for two lone women. A glimpse of life with a man—or men, should Lucienne ever marry and remain on the farm—flashed through her mind. Curiously, the man in her imaginings boasted the dark hair and powerful physique of a particular Scotsman she had come to know. In her mind, he turned his deep blue eyes on her, and heat rushed beneath her skin.
Melisende gasped and shook her head, dispelling the intriguing thought. What an impossible dream that would be! Though he seems to enjoy his trips to the farm, he is only a soldier with time on his hands, not a man looking to marry so far from home. And I know so little of him. He likely has a family and duty waiting for him in Scotland.
But for a moment she let her imagination wander, recalling the pull of cloth across his broad shoulders, his impertinent comments softened by a smile that would charm the very angels down to earth to bask in its warmth.
Will I ever find such a man as he? Someone who listens to me, who admires me. She twisted a fold of her cloak between her fingers as a smile played across her lips. Marrying only to bring help to the farm would be a far cry from sharing my life with someone like Kinnon. And sharing my body.
A rush of warmth infused her with a happiness she had never known before. Her heart lightened as anticipation of Kinnon’s next visit welled up inside. She quickened her step. Ahead, lights twinkled in the darkness.
* * *
Cold mist shrouded the camp, the torches a dull red glow that afforded no real light beyond a strangled circle. But even on a night like this, the faint glimmer would be enough to catch the eye of an alert guard.
