Whist! He chided himself with a big smile. Stop it.
He took his horse from the stables and rode.
When he had set out, he had no plan in mind. However, he started to concoct one on the way. Enter the castle at Evreux disguised as a beggar. Then he would try and find out from the servants there if the Lady Claudine was in residence. From there, he would find a way to get a message to Bernadette. She had helped him once and he was fairly sure that she would help him again.
“Right. Now I need to find a disguise.”
The plan took shape as he headed past the abbey. He stopped, catching sight of Brother Raymond in the stables. A friendly, smiling monk, he had always been willing to participate in games with Francis when he was young. He knew he'd help him out now if he asked.
“Brother! Greetings,” he called. “A fine day.”
“Lord Francis!” the monk grinned. “Indeed it is. What brings you to us? Stopping to refresh yourselves?” he asked, taking the bridle of Francis' horse and leading him into the stable.
“Uh, no, Brother,” Francis said thoughtfully. “I didn't mean to stay long. I wanted to ask your aid.”
“Oh?” the monk's eyebrows lowered and he leaned forward conspiratorially. “With what?”
“Well,” Francis paused. “It's like this. I need to make my way somewhere in disguise. Could you mayhap lend me the habit of a monk?”
Brother Raymond's eyebrows went up. “Impersonating a monk is no light matter, young man,” he said. “You would have to have a very sound reason to do so.”
Francis felt embarrassed. However, he decided it would be best simply to come out with it. “I need it for a matter to do with a girl. I have to see her.”
Brother Raymond looked shocked a moment. Then he chuckled. “Lord Francis! I must admit I admire your cheek. Just coming out with a thing like that. Well! I can't say I'm averse to such matters...I had another life before I was a monk. Come on.” He led him round the side of the abbey, and then paused. “Now, then. I trust you'll use this in pursuit of love, not mischief. Here we are,” he added, handing Francis a bundle of coarse brown cloth.
Francis stared. This was his ticket into the castle. It was also in his grasp. Quite literally. He couldn't quite believe it. “Thanks, Brother.”
The monk went red. He chuckled. “Not at all. Now, off you go. May the Lord be with you. I'm quite sure you'll need Him to keep you from temptation.”
Francis laughed. “I hope so, Father.”
Brother Raymond grinned and waved him on his way.
It took half an hour until Francis was in sight of Evreux. When he reached it, he started to feel his palms sweat with anticipation and nerves.
The anticipation outweighed the nerves, however. He rode up and then dismounted, feeling stupid. He'd come out on his battle charger. Why? No humble monk would own a horse so fine!
They'll take one look at the horse I'm leading and know I'm no monk. Francis! How can you be such a fool?
He thought rapidly. By the time he'd reached the gate, he was ready.
“Who goes there?” the sentry challenged him. He saw the man's eyes narrow and knew he was thinking exactly what he himself would think. This was a brigand who'd stolen a monk's robe from a wandering hermit and then stolen a knight's horse.
“Brother Franc, sir,” he said quickly. “I'm here with Lord Francis' horse. He threw a shoe and would brook no argument that we should have it shod.”
The man frowned. “What's wrong with your own smith, Brother? Why come to Evreux?”
Francis looked at the ground, trying to maintain a humble posture. “He's off duty, sir. Wrist's plaguing him sore. The storms make it worse. Always worsen the ache in the bones, so they do.”
The sentry looked skeptical, but he grunted and jerked his head. “Right then. In you go.”
Francis let out what he hoped was not an audible sigh. He was so relieved! They were in.
He followed the horde of people milling about at the gate. They were going to the marketplace. When he reached the market, Francis looked around. It was a small village, Evreux. The houses were neat and thatched, the fronts whitewashed and the windows picked out in black. He saw bakers and leather-workers, carvers and weavers and fruit-sellers setting out their wares. He also saw guardsmen from the castle, there to keep an eye on things.
“Hey, monk!” one of them said. “You selling that horse?”
“N...no!” Francis said, alarmed. “I'm not. It belongs to Lord Francis!”
“Lord Francis?” the guardsman frowned. “He from these parts, hey?”
“At Annecy,” Francis said quickly. He had a hood covering his hair, fortunately, or he was fairly sure he'd stand out as Francis for anyone who knew anything about his family. Fortunately, the guardsmen here in Evreux were unknowing.
“Ah. Well, I suppose you can't sell him, then,” the guardsman said amiably. “On your way, then. Farrier's over there. On the street round the corner.”
Francis looked in the direction where they pointed and headed to it with resignation. If he was here pretending to be Brother Franc, he might as well take his horse to the farrier. Or people would get suspicious. The man might have information.
“Hey!” a big man called as he approached the place. “You've a fine horse, Brother!”
Francis sighed. This was getting wearisome. “Yes, Master Smith. It's Lord Francis' horse.”
“Ah. He some fancy fellow, eh?” the smith grinned, revealing big peg-like teeth. He was a vast man, tall with a broad chest and rippling shoulders that made even Francis – who was vastly built himself – feel like he faced competition.
“He's the son of the count of Annecy,” he explained.
“Ah. Well, bring the horse in then. Let's get him shod to the satisfaction of some spoiled nobleman.”
Francis bridled a little at that, but he followed the man quickly into the stall. He waited as the man checked Dusk Shadow's shoes with a grunt. Francis felt his heart sinking, as he knew perfectly well they had been replaced last week and were perfectly good for a month at least. Then he suddenly had another good idea.
“What's troublesome?” he asked, seeing the blacksmith frown.
“There be nothing wrong with these shoes,” the smith said, absolutely bewildered. “You quite sure he sent you here to have his horse shod, hey?”
Francis nodded. “I am. But this wouldn't be the first time he'd done something like this. He's a bit odd, Lord Francis. Touched.” He tapped his brain suggestively.
“Ah.” The smith chuckled. “That explains it then. Mad, these noblemen sometimes. Comes from the air.”
“From the air?” Francis was genuinely interested now. This was something he'd never heard anyone say before.
“Aye. Those castles, so high up, see? They spend too much time breathing high air. It's not good for you. Just ask anyone. You go up in the mountains, you can't breathe so good. Too much being high in the air's bad for you.”
Francis was surprised. “Well! That'd explain it,” he said with a grin. “Fancy that! Turns the mind, hey?”
“Like vinegar does cream, Brother. Vinegar in cream.”
“Yours are also mad?” he asked, raising a brow in the direction of the castle.
The blacksmith laughed. “Sure they are, sir. That feller's mad, or I reckon.”
“Feller?”
“Him. The count of Corron. He and the duke both. They both come here in the summer – some sort of residence of theirs. Mostly we just have old Brissot, the overseer. But when they's here...the fuss!” he spat.
Francis waited a moment, interested to see if the fellow would say more. He didn't, though, so he prompted him.
“Mad. How?”
“Oh, just 'cos of the fussing. Nothing's ever right for them. Fancy being like that, eh? Mad.”
Francis nodded. He wasn't sure he was going to learn anything more so he thanked the smith and headed out.
“What'll you tell this fellow, eh? When you return?
” the smith shouted out after him. He was grinning wryly and Francis felt his annoyance replaced with a grudging amusement.
“I'll tell him you repaired the shoes,” Francis grinned. “How'd he ever know? Nothing wrong with them, yes? I'll tell him you replaced them.”
“Ha!” the smith nodded. “A fine response. You've got a quick head on your shoulders. Brother. A fine one.”
Francis smiled. “Thank you, Son. Peace be with you.”
“And you, Brother. Good luck with the crazies.”
Francis headed out leading his horse. By the time he was heading towards the castle, he was still feeling more than a little annoyed. Madmen, indeed! The air in the castles made one mad! He felt quite affronted.
At least he seemed to think I had a good enough head on my shoulders as a monk. But as a nobleman, I'm mad, or so he thinks. Strange. He had, however, learned that the duke came here. As well as his brother, the count. Also that they had complaints.
He was still pondering his madness when he reached the castle gate. There, he stopped.
He was looking straight into a face. It was a face he recognized.
It was the count of Corron.
Tall and fair-haired, his hand on the bridle of his horse, the count was at the entrance to the castle courtyard. He had been bent down looking at something being presented to him by some local officer. When he looked up, his eyes went straight to Francis.
At that point, the count blinked. His eyes focused. He was looking straight at Francis. He saw him. He seemed to recognize him too. A strange look passed across his face. Then he turned to his entourage and rode briskly away.
Francis was left standing at his horse's head, his breath tight and his whole mind in turmoil. He reached up and touched the hood of the habit. It had fallen back. His hair was showing. It must have been no more than a glimpse of it, but it was late afternoon and it must have shone like a beacon in the sunlight. There was no doubt about it. The count knew he was here.
For some reason that filled Francis with foreboding.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A BIG SURPRISE
A BIG SURPRISE
Claudine opened her eyes. She was lying on her back on the familiar bed in the upstairs room she always used when she was at Evreux. Her head ached less, which was good. She tried to sit up.
“Bernadette?” she called.
When there was no answer, she screwed her eyes shut against the burning ache in her head and swiveled sideways, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. She stumbled to her feet and headed out into the hallway.
She leaned on the wall, feeling wretched. What was the matter with her? Memories of the day before came back to her. She had been in her chambers, taking her medicine. Then she had stood and suddenly collapsed.
The physician came to see me and gave me more. It made me feel even worse.
She felt her heart thumping and rested a hand on her chest, leaning on the wall, the world swaying around her.
“Niece!”
Claudine blinked, finding herself face-to-face with her uncle. He had a drawn, weary expression and she had the feeling he had been awake all night. “Uncle,” she said.
“You're walking! Oh, thank Heavens. I was so worried.”
Claudine smiled weakly. “Thank you, Uncle. I...I'm getting better, I think.”
Her uncle smiled. “Good. Good! I'm so glad to hear that, Claudine. The physician said you should stay abed for longer, though. And don't forget to take your medicine. I understand he has increased the dose.”
Claudine raised a brow. “Oh?” Why did she feel so wretchedly unsteady? The hallway dipped and swayed as she tried to focus on her uncle. “Uh...sorry, Uncle. I think I should lie down...”
Her uncle's strong wrists gripped her hand. “Of course, Niece. Let me help you back to your room. You shouldn't exert yourself. Where is that maid of yours? She should be helping you more!”
“I was just looking for Bernadette when I found you,” Claudine whispered. Wretched malady! Why did it have to strike her now, so badly? Now, when she thought Francis might be close at hand.
“I'll call her. Which reminds me. That girl is a concern in herself...she doesn't know her place.” He sounded vexed.
Claudine sighed. “Uncle, no,” she said softly. “It's not Bernadette's fault...” She felt her heart thumping hard in her chest and rested a hand on it, feeling the pain grip her in its fist.
“Now don't distress yourself,” her uncle said softly. His voice seemed to come from miles away above her head. “It's all well. I'll fetch her.”
“Thank you,” Claudine whispered. She let him lead her to her rooms and lay down on the bed.
A few hours later she was woken by the sound of Bernadette mixing something in a glass.
“Your medicine, mistress.”
She passed the goblet to Claudine, who took it and sipped. Then she pulled a face.
“I...I can't drink it, Bernadette. I feel too ill.” Just the smell of the familiar blackcurrant juice with its noxious undertone made her feel sick right now.
Bernadette's voice seemed to come from a long way away. “Oh, milady. You should take it...well, never you mind. We'll set it aside while you rest some more.”
“Don't want...rest. Want to walk. Go...outside,” Claudine whispered. Why was even speaking so hard for her?
She heard Bernadette sit down at her bedside. She wanted to look at her but opening her eyes made her head hurt even worse.
“Oh, mistress,” she said softly. “I understand. Well, we can walk slowly in the garden for a while...I'll have Henri carry you downstairs.”
“Thank you,” Claudine whispered.
Henri – her uncle's manservant – arrived. A vast, muscled man, he lifted Claudine easily and carried her down to the garden. Claudine was barely conscious as they went down into the wan afternoon sunlight. She was in pain and half-asleep.
What is wrong with me?
Ever since they arrived, her malady seemed to worsen. She could not recall ever having such a bad attack of it. She could hardly sit up now. Whatever it was that choked the life out of her, it was getting worse.
“My lady?” Bernadette's voice broke in on her reverie.
“What's wrong with me?” Claudine asked faintly. “I don't understand.”
Bernadette sighed. “I don't know, milady. The physician said perhaps it is seasonal. The storms in summer...mayhap they worsen the condition.” Bernadette asked.
Claudine sighed. “Mayhap,” she agreed tiredly. “I want to sit in the sun, Bernadette.”
“Very well, milady.”
Bernadette called Henri, who moved the chair into the afternoon warmth. Claudine lay back, letting the afternoon light seep into her bones. She was drifting in and out of wakefulness when she heard voices. Bernadette's voice reached her first.
“I know. However, I cannot. What if...no! It's too dangerous.”
She sounded desperate. Another voice replied. Claudine could barely discern it. She tried to listen but the words eluded her. She felt her heart thumping with alarm. What if Bernadette was betraying her somehow? She trusted her, but who was to say that her trust was not misplaced? She couldn't hear the other person and almost drifted off to sleep again, jerked back to wakefulness by Bernadette's harsh reply.
“Well, very well,” Bernadette said wretchedly. “But only once, mind. Aught else is too risky. You must know that.”
What is risky? Bernadette, what are you doing?
Claudine let her mind drift in the sweet memories of Francis – the most deliciously risky thing she had ever done was having him in her bedchamber. Now she recalled those memories with a delicious tingle deep within her. The way his hand felt, clasping her wrist. The sweet warmth of his mouth on her. The way his tongue probed into her mouth so gently, so searchingly.
She fell slowly back into sleep.
“My lady!” Bernadette was beside her again, shaking her gently awake. Claudine stirred and opened her eyes. Her
friend was flushed and looked agitated.
“Mm? Yes, Bernadette?”
“You must come inside now. You will take too much sun. The physician is here to see you.”
“What?” Claudine felt her heart jolt in panic. “Not again. Bernadette, why? I'm quite fine. Just sleepy. So very sleepy...” she trailed off, yawning.
“I know, dear,” Bernadette said. Her voice was tense, thrumming through with some new urgency Claudine hadn't heard before. “I understand. But you must come.”
“No,” Claudine said crossly. For the first time in her life, she tried to fight as Henri bent to pick her up. Why was she like this? She didn't know. All she knew was that she'd had enough of secrecy.
“My lady, please...” Bernadette soothed. She struggled but soon tired and Henri carried her upstairs to her chamber. He laid her on the bed. Claudine kept her eyes shut but some of her defiance was building inside her.
“Bernadette, I hope you know that I don't approve of this,” she said softly. “If you treat me with such disregard for my person, I'll have you know I...” she stopped, hearing her own voice slur.
“Oh, milady. I understand. But look! Here is the physician.”
“Don't want...” Claudine protested softly. Then she felt a hand over her arm.
“Claudine?”
The voice vibrated in her bones. She knew it as she knew the warm, insistent fingers on her wrist, the gentle hand that touched her neck.
“Francis?”
She shot upright, eyes opening. Her head ached swimmingly and she closed her eyes.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “I am Father Alexandre for now,” he whispered. “Best if we both remember it. But yes, it's me. How are you, my dearest?”
Claudine felt her heart melt as he said those words. “Oh, Francis,” she whispered. “I...you should not be here.”
He laughed. “I know. But I am. In addition, I am so worried for you. My sweetling. How long have you been so ill?”
“Not...long,” she whispered. “Since yesterday.”
Francis was stroking her hair. She felt his hand slide into hers, squeezing her own. The warm vitality of him seemed to seep into her and she opened her eyes, looking into his soft green ones.
Soul Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 15
