by Lily Blake
“James!” she yelled. “Stop!” He squinted up at her, a flicker of recognition passing over his face.
But it was too late. The first guard drew his arm back until the bowstring was taut, then let the arrow fly. His aim was perfect. It whizzed toward her, the feathered tail making a whoosh sound.
There was no time to move. Mary threw her arm up in front of her neck, trying to shield herself. The arrow was coming toward her at an unimaginable speed. She screamed as it struck her, burying its tip in the soft flesh of her forearm.
Mary couldn’t breathe. Her vision suddenly went red. The pain was so great, so all-consuming, that it wiped everything else out. Thoughts… emotion… there was nothing but the white-hot burning in her arm.
Mary took a step, trying to steady herself. Her eyes were squeezed shut. She couldn’t see, couldn’t hear the guards calling out below her. She stumbled to the side, losing her balance, and that one small step in the wrong direction was enough.
She fell, the ground rising up to meet her. There were only the bushes below to soften the landing. Thorns clawed at her skin. Then she was on the stone patio, rolling on her side, her head colliding with something hard.
The pain was gone. There was only darkness.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Just a stone in his shoe,” Francis said, dropping the horse’s hoof. He turned back to Lola, meeting her eyes for only a moment before stepping up into the stirrup. “I’m glad it wasn’t more serious.”
“That’s good,” Lola said, keeping the conversation polite. “I’m relieved as well.”
He took the reins, urging Champion back on. They had gotten an early start that morning, but the horse hadn’t gone more than an hour before his gait grew uneven, his steps erratic. Francis had dismounted to investigate, praying as he lifted Champion’s hoof that he hadn’t thrown a shoe. They didn’t have the luxury of taking a slow and meandering journey back to the palace. He needed to get back to Mary.
He kept thinking of the night before, the sound of Lola’s breaths in the quiet room, how he could smell the lilac soap on her skin. Then he’d done it… he’d leaned in and almost kissed her. He’d lingered there for a moment, his lips just inches from hers, considering the consequences. She had almost kissed him back.
They both knew the truth. If it happened again, it wouldn’t be like the first time, when they were unattached and far from home. This would mean something else. It would be betrayal, from both sides, and Francis didn’t know how he could live with that. The fact that he’d come so close…
Back at the palace, there would be unspoken rules. It would be better for them, he could see that now. There would be none of this ambiguity. No playing house together, pretending there was a future in it. Last night, sitting at the table with her, their son in her arms… it was far too alluring. It’s not real, he reminded himself. This isn’t your real life.
Real life was Mary, whispering to him as he fell asleep. It was finding her crying in her dressing chambers, her eyes swollen and pink, him consoling her when she had worried about bearing an heir. She was the one who had comforted him the night his father died. When he returned, they’d sit together in the throne room, a unified front, deciding the fate of France.
“It shouldn’t be long, then,” Lola said.
“Right,” Francis said as he gave Champion a tap with his heel. “Shouldn’t be long at all. Champion is tired, though. He’s slower than usual, but he’ll get us there.”
“I’m glad we sent that letter,” Lola added. “Mary must be concerned about both of us.”
“Yes, I don’t want her to worry,” Francis said. He’d had to give the messenger all his rings to get him to take it all the way to the palace, then a bit of gold from the reins for him to bribe the guards to take it inside.
“It’s good we let her know everything is all right.”
The mention of Mary’s name was a relief. Lola had brought her up in the morning, and he’d insisted they write her. He’d scrawled a quick note when they passed through one of the smaller villages, this one untouched by the plague. He’d given a rider one of his silver rings, hoping the man would arrive at the palace before them.
The message had been simple: I love you, I miss you, we’re all right. We’re returning to the palace as soon as we can. Once he’d written the words he felt better, as if he’d made a pledge of loyalty. He would not, he could not, betray his wife. No matter the feelings between him and Lola, no matter the circumstances. That letter was a reminder of what was waiting at home.
“Very good,” Lola added, somewhat awkwardly. “She’ll be very relieved.”
Lola held the baby tight as the horse galloped through the woods, winding through the trees. She was not in nearly as much pain today, and she closed her eyes for just a moment, feeling the cool breeze on her face. They were getting closer to the palace. With every hour, with every mile… getting closer to what their lives should be. Lola would return to her role—steadfast friend to the queen, loving widow of Lord Julien, taken from her too soon. Francis would go back to being king. Only Mary would know that this baby, their son, was a secret they shared.
She adjusted her grip on his waist, shifting so she wasn’t pressed against Francis’s back. Even now, being this close to him was hard. Last night she had shut the door of the bedroom and just stood there, waiting for her heart to slow, her cheeks hot. She had made the only decision that she could. She had done the right thing. But she still remembered that feeling when he touched her face, when he leaned in. Those piercing blue eyes… that look.
She put the baby up higher on her shoulder and gripped a fistful of Francis’s shirt. The woods around them were quiet. Trees spread out in every direction, not a person in sight for miles. They hadn’t spoken of it, but she was still haunted by the day before, the utter despair and devastation in that village. She could still see them—the children lying on that pile. Please, those boys had begged. Please help us.
They kept going, moving through the trees. It was a long while before Francis spoke. “We’re making decent time,” he said. “Let’s just hope the weather holds.”
“Yes, let’s hope,” Lola said. He could hear the relief in her voice. “I just—”
She stopped, her arm tightening around Francis’s waist. Something in the forest had caught her attention. He turned his head, trying to see what she was looking at.
Ten yards off, to his right, there was a group of pagans. They’d been shielded by a thick wall of brush, but now he could see them clearly, standing there in a circle. There were three of them. One held a rope, pulling something up into a nearby tree.
It was a man, not much older than Marcel was, his gray hair wavy and long. His mouth was stuffed with a rag, his hands tied behind his back. He struggled against the restraints.
“Is that what I think it is?” Lola whispered.
“Pagans,” Francis said. “They’re about to sacrifice him.”
“Your hood,” she whispered, speaking even more softly than before. “Francis, put it up, quickly. They could see us.…”
Francis pulled the hood low over his eyes, hiding most of his face. He looked back at them, wondering if they’d turn, hearing the horse pass, but their heads were bent. They joined their hands as they chanted prayers.
Francis leaned forward, nudging Champion with his heel. The horse kept a slow, steady pace, as if he somehow understood that he had to move quietly. They went a few yards, then a few more. They were almost past the sacrifice when Francis looked back at the man. His face was blood red. He twisted and squirmed, still trying to break free. Were they really going to leave him here like this? To die in fear?
The pagan in the center of the circle unsheathed his knife. He grabbed the man’s hair at the crown, yanking his head back to expose his throat. The man screamed against the gag. He fought harder than before, but the man raised the blade, about to cut his neck.
“Francis…?” Lola asked, looking at the men, then back to hi
m. The horse had slowed, then stopped.
“Wait there! Stop!” Francis yelled, not able to keep the words in any longer. The three pagans turned, their eyes narrowing. Francis dismounted from the horse, making sure to keep the hood pulled low over his face.
“What are you doing?” Lola whispered. “There are three of them.”
“I can’t leave him,” Francis said, turning back to her. “Stay here.”
“Be careful,” she said as she drew the baby close. She looked down at her son, his eyes closed, unaware of the peril that surrounded him. Her shawl was big enough that it wasn’t obvious he was there. She only hoped he could stay quiet.
“Who are you?” the pagan with the knife yelled. He was a burly man, with a large gut that hung over his belt buckle. He tilted his head, trying to get a better view of Francis.
“Just a traveler,” Francis said as he approached the group, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace.
“This is sacred ground,” one of the other pagans said, glaring at Francis. He was pale and gaunt, with a missing front tooth. “We’re performing a ritual for our gods. It’s a necessary rite. We need to cleanse these woods.”
“The plague is spreading,” the pagan in the center chimed in. “And only a blood sacrifice will stop it.”
Francis tried to look up at him, but it was impossible without letting his hood fall back—the third man was easily twice the size of the others, with a thick neck and huge, muscular arms. What did Francis expect to do now? Fight all three of them, one of whom was twice his weight? He suddenly realized he had no real plan.
“Ahhhh,” Francis said with a nod. He thought back to all those lectures on diplomacy Henry had forced on him. It was usually not might that won wars, but leverage and cunning. “I see. A blood sacrifice…”
He met the eyes of the man who was tied up, and tried to communicate—silently—that he was there to help. “But why like this? Blood taken unwillingly from an unbeliever is no gift at all. I saw a fine herd of deer on my way in. Perhaps we should sacrifice them instead.”
Francis inched closer to the tree where the man was strung up, trying to seem calm, casual. The three pagans just stared at him. “Why would we offer a deer sacrifice when we have a human ready to bleed for the gods?” The fat man let out a chortling laugh.
“You must have come far, traveler,” the skinny one said. “You don’t understand the way things are done around here. It is the way things must be done.”
There was a cry from the baby; everyone turned to look at Lola. She sat on the horse just a few yards away. She ducked her head, trying to hide her face.
“I see,” Francis said quickly, stepping forward to draw the focus back to him. “Sorry… I didn’t understand that, that it was a necessity. My apologies.”
The tallest man managed a small smile. “No harm done.”
“But now you must join us in this sacrifice,” the one with the knife said. “You came onto our ground. Besides, it makes the sacrifice that much stronger when more join in the bloodletting.”
“I would be honored,” Francis said, keeping his eyes on the knife in the man’s hand. Behind him, the old man tried to yell. He fought against his bindings, twisting on the rope like a caught fish. “May I draw first blood?”
The pagan nodded, a smile spreading across his face, then placed his knife in Francis’s hand. “Do it slowly,” he said. “Ear to ear. It makes it easier for them to bleed out.”
Francis nodded, then took a step closer to the man. The pagans started their chanting again. As they closed their eyes, going deeper into the prayer, he raised the knife, bringing it across the rope.
With just a few quick slashes, the man fell, rolling across the dirt. Francis knelt down, clipping the bindings at his feet and hands. He pulled the man to his feet, saying, “Go now! Run!”
The smallest pagan lunged forward, but it was too late. The man took off, tearing through the trees and quickly disappearing from sight.
“You’re not a believer,” the tallest pagan growled. He took a step forward, his face twisted in anger. “You dare come on sacred ground and free our sacrifice?”
“You’ve stolen from the gods, and the gods must be repaid,” the second pagan hissed, circling behind him.
“Which means we need a new sacrifice,” the burly one added.
Francis held out the knife—the only thing he had to defend himself. “I volunteer one of you,” Francis said. “Since you’re so eager to spill blood for your gods.”
The three pagans tried to grab him. Francis dodged out of the way of the skinniest one and the man fell, skidding across the dirt. But he was no match for the other two. He held out the knife, but the burly one grabbed it from his hand, twisting the handle free.
Lola sat on the back of the horse, watching in horror as the two men grabbed his arms. The huge pagan struck Francis across the face. Blood spilled from his nose. The other one hit him in the jaw, the force of it knocking his hood off.
Francis blinked and raised his head, trying to think clearly through the pain that was blooming above his right eye. They grabbed his hands and yanked them behind his back. The skinny one held them there as Francis looked up at the other two pagans—both of whom were staring at him.
“You’re the dauphin,” the burly man said, pointing at him. “I’d know your face anywhere. I saw you marching back from the victory at Calais.”
“The dauphin outside the palace walls,” the huge one said, raising his eyebrow. “The dauphin without his guards and men to protect him… The ultimate sacrifice…”
“The gods are merciful, the gods are kind,” the skinny one said. He kept whispering it, repeating the words behind Francis’s back as the burly one grabbed his other arm.
“This is a mistake,” Francis said, trying to talk his way out of it. “I’m not the dauphin. I’m just a traveler, a merchant.…”
“With boots like that?” the tall one sneered. “Don’t lie to us, Dauphin. It angers the gods.”
“I’m not lying,” Francis said, looking him right in the eyes. “The king is dead. I’m not the dauphin anymore—I’m the ruler of this land, your country. I’m the King of France, and as such, I command you to let me go.”
“These are our woods. This is our land. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s even better,” the tall one said, spitting on the ground by Francis’s feet. “Never had much use for kings, anyway.”
“Lola!” Francis yelled toward her. “Get out of here! Take the horse and go, now!”
Lola watched as the two pagans held Francis, each one taking an arm. The leader grabbed the knife and moved toward him, closing in. They had him now—she knew they did. There was no way he could fight or talk his way out of it. But they wouldn’t hurt him… they wouldn’t even come close.
As the pagans started chanting, Lola used the shawl to tie the baby to her chest. She inched forward in the saddle. “Come on, Champion,” she said, clutching the reins in her hands. She took a breath and snapped them, sending the horse racing toward the clearing.
She kept her head down as Champion broke into a gallop, heading toward the pagans. Soon they were moving at full speed. When they reached the group, Champion reared up, scaring the pagans out of the way. Francis was the only one who stood his ground, knowing the horse would never trample him.
“Quick,” Lola said, offering him her hand. “Pull yourself on.”
Francis grabbed her arm, wedging one foot into a stirrup. He kicked his leg up and over the horse’s back. He’d barely gotten onto the saddle when Lola wheeled Champion around and kicked him into a gallop once more.
“Are you all right?” Lola said, glancing back at him. She steered Champion through the trees as the men yelled after them.
“I’m all right… I think I’m all right.…” Francis watched the scene unfold. The pagans running as far as they could. The large one brandishing the knife, his face a deep red. They gave up after only a few yards, though, knowing they could never ca
tch them.
It wasn’t until the men had disappeared from view that Francis felt his breathing slow. He settled into the saddle, holding on to Lola. “Thank you,” he gasped, his head falling forward, resting on her back. “Lola, you saved me.…”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bash gripped the bars of the cell. He pushed his face between them, trying to look out into the corridor. It was empty. No guards, no servants. When he and Pascal had first arrived in the dungeons, the two men had slid a tray of food under the door, afraid of getting too close. But aside from that small act of kindness, they had been completely abandoned. Bash would sometimes see servants pass by the very end of the corridor, taking the narrow staircase that connected the storage cellar to the kitchen. They’d glance in his direction, then hurry on.
We’ve been here at least eight hours, Bash thought, staring at Pascal, who was curled up on the cot in the corner. We’ve made it through half the day, maybe more. The boy, exhausted by his ordeal, had fallen asleep right away, leaving Bash alone with his thoughts in the dank dungeon. The place was a small step up from the last cell he’d had when he was imprisoned. There was a washbasin against the wall, a large tin can to use as a latrine. Bash couldn’t help but wonder if these would be the last things he’d ever see—this mildewed room, this wooden chair, the cot where Pascal lay.
He walked over to the boy and looked down at his calm face. His pale skin was clear except for some mud spattered across his neck and cheek. His fingernails looked normal. His breaths were even, his lips puttering in sleep.
How long would it take? How long before the telltale signs of the plague showed up? Before the dark circles appeared under his eyes, before the cough started, sending thick, bloody clumps from his lungs? Bash wanted to believe the window had passed. He needed to believe it. Otherwise he’d doomed them both.
